yuyu1024

[yuyu1024]

This made me cry 😭

ANGST arranged marriage San please 😖 like so angsty my heart drops but also please like allude to comfort at the end otherwise my heart might stop

the contract husband || choi san || request

| genre: angst with comfort. husband! choi san. | mentions: marriage of convience. mean san but he will be soft soon. mention of san has a lover before he got married.

word count: 5.7k

The rain didn’t stop the day you married Choi San.

It didn’t drizzle or soften into something romantic—it poured, relentlessly, as though the sky itself was mourning. The clouds had wept from morning until now, thick and heavy sheets hammering the earth like sobs no one dared to speak aloud. The wedding bells rang, but their sound—meant to symbolize joy and new beginnings—was hollow, clanging like distant echoes in a tunnel you couldn’t escape. What was supposed to flutter your heart only worsened the pounding in your head.

This wedding wasn’t a celebration. It was a performance.

The reception had long begun, though you felt like a guest in your own life. You wore a second dress—something lighter, shinier, stitched with elegance—but no amount of fabric could hide how stiff your smile felt. Your cheeks ached from holding it up, a porcelain doll carved into place. You wanted to peel the day off your skin like a costume that clung too tight.

Weddings were supposed to be unforgettable—a core memory carved into the heart. But this one, you knew, would haunt you instead. A memory that would replay in your mind like a scratched record—over and over again, even when you begged for silence.

Outside, guests huddled under umbrellas, their hems soaked and shoes squelching against the marbled floors. They filed in one by one, murmuring polite congratulations with smiles more rehearsed than heartfelt. These weren’t your friends. These weren’t even strangers. They were your father’s loyal employees—people who bowed more to power than to people.

You remembered standing at the altar, the garden outside drowned in grey, the flowers you chose weeks before now beaten down by rain. You had looked out at that storm and thought, “How fitting.” The heavens cried louder than either of you could.

You glance down now at the ring on your finger—a thin gold band that shone with cruel clarity under the reception lights. It gleamed like a joke. A promise without a heart behind it. Your happily ever after had been reduced to ink on a contract. San’s signature, your signature. Two strokes of a pen and a lifetime of pretending.

This wasn’t love. It was logistics.

A union not of souls but of stocks and legacy. It had always been this way—your life negotiated by others, your future traded like currency for someone else’s security. You were the daughter. The heir. The bargaining chip.

You sighed, quickly catching it and smoothing your features again as another guest approached. A man with a wrinkled smile and distant eyes—the type of man who shook hands with your father in boardrooms, not the kind who remembered your name. You nodded, playing the part. You always did.

But then—amidst the blur of suits and champagne flutes—you heard a voice that pulled you back to something real, “I last remember you—you still had pigtails and two broken teeth.”

You turned, and there she was. Your old neighbor. The woman who used to exchange fruits with your mother over the fence, who slipped you candies and told you fairy tales with wrinkled hands and kind eyes. The only one who ever showed up without asking for something in return.

She didn’t know the full story—didn’t need to. She could feel it. The falseness of this day. The absence of the groom. The ache behind your smile.

She sat beside you, settling quietly in the chair where San should have been. You didn’t even flinch. The word husband still didn’t sit right on your tongue. Not when the boy you once adored had become a man you barely recognized—distant, unreadable, hollowed out by expectation just like you.

Your grandmother figure patted your arm gently, her touch warm and grounding, “Happy endings don’t always wait at the end,” she said softly.

You looked down, brows drawn, the corners of your lips tight. Your voice cracked beneath the weight of everything you weren’t allowed to say, “I won’t even have that… not even in my other lives.”

She only chuckled softly, a knowing warmth in her weathered eyes, “Oh, dear… it’ll just be today. But I promise you—it will get better. Look…” Her wrinkled fingers lifted, pointing across the ballroom. You followed the direction of her gesture and your gaze landed on a small group of men.

Choi San. Your contract husband.

He looked unfairly perfect today. That tailored gray vest hugged his torso like it had been sewn by the gods themselves—crisp lines, subtle sheen, every button carefully done except for the rolled-up sleeves of his striped shirt, betraying a casual arrogance that somehow made him even more irresistible. The pale blue stripes added this quiet, intellectual edge, and don’t even get me started on that black tie—slim, elegant, like he was trying to behave but kept forgetting he was a trouble incarnate.

And those glasses? Please. Wire-thin, perfectly perched on his nose, making his sharp jawline and dark hair look even more devastating. He was talking with his colleagues so easily, tilting his head with that little smirk that said he knew exactly how good he looked, voice low and teasing, like silk over gravel.

He wasn’t just handsome. He was composed, magnetic, impossible to ignore. The kind of man who made you forget what you were saying mid-sentence. The kind of man who could make the whole room feel smaller just by glancing in your direction. And the worst part? You were in love and he doesn’t.

And the pain of one-sided love didn’t begin on your wedding day. No, it started long before—when you first learned who your contract husband would be.

Choi San. A name you hadn’t uttered in years, but one that had never truly left your heart. You’d buried those feelings six years ago during your college days, back when love was just a passing ache and not the lifeline you clung to now.

He had been a friend of a friend. You only met him a handful of times, usually when Seonghwa brought you along to small gatherings, campus events, late-night dinners. But even then—just from those few brief moments—you knew. It was love at first sight, or something terrifyingly close to it. You’d find your thoughts drifting back to him for days after, replaying the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, how his laughter seemed to echo louder than the rest.

He had been warm then. Kind. Effortlessly charming. The kind of person who made you want to believe in timing and fate.

And when the announcement came—when you were told you were to be married for the sake of your family’s legacy—you hadn’t expected it to be him. But the universe, in its twisted irony, had chosen San. You had stood there, stunned, the name echoing in your ears like a whisper from the past. But when you turned to face him, he didn’t even flinch.

There was no surprise in his eyes. No softness. It was just silence, the mere thought of bringing up about your bond back then would only increase the emotions swirling inside his chest, so you kept it to yourself and be more vigilant on your choice of words.

It was as if every memory you’d clung to—every soft smile, every shared laugh—had been erased from his heart. Like they had meant nothing. His features were composed, unreadable. But his eyes were different now—hard, cold, as if they'd forgotten how to look at you the way they once had. From that moment on, he became someone else. A stranger draped in the skin of someone you used to know. The warm boy you fell for was gone. In his place stood a man who kept his distance, who answered with clipped words and silent glances. He was polite when necessary, detached when possible. Cold—almost deliberately so.

And still, you loved him.

A quiet, stubborn kind of love—the kind that didn’t make sense to anyone but you. Those who knew would only shake their heads, whisper behind closed doors about how naive you were. Gullible. Foolish. Blind to the way he treated you. They said you clung to a fantasy, to a man who barely looked at you, who left you with silence and half-hearted gestures.

And maybe they were right. But even so, you stayed. You hoped. You held onto the fragile belief that one day—someday—your feelings would be returned. That beneath all his cold distance, there might still be a part of him waiting to love you back.

When the day of the wedding came, the venue was everything out of a fairytale. Floral arches, soft lights, strings of pearls, and an aisle meant for dreams. A little girl’s fantasy—but a bride’s quiet nightmare.

Because not everything magical is meant to feel real. San stood at the altar like a statue—stone-faced, still. He didn’t turn when you approached. Didn’t smile. He didn’t reach for your hand until the officiant gestured for it, and even then, his touch was mechanical—gentle, but empty. When he slid the ring onto your finger, his jaw was locked tight, his shoulders strained beneath his perfectly tailored suit.

There was no love in his eyes. No pride nor hesitation. Only duty, an obligation he has to fulfil. A role he was forced to play.

And when it came time for the ceremonial kiss, his lips merely brushed your cheek—a formality more than a gesture. Fleeting. Hollow. A ghost of affection that never quite arrived. Then, later that night, he sealed your fate with a single line. “Don’t wait up for me,” he said coolly, loosening his tie with practiced indifference. “This room is yours. I’ll stay in the study.”

And that was three months ago. Three months of pretending. Three months of cold dinners and colder silences. Three months of separate rooms, separate lives, and separate hearts. And yet, somehow, your love for him still lingered—quiet and uninvited, like the echo of a dream you couldn’t forget.

The mansion was too big for silence—and yet, somehow, it echoed with it.

Every footstep felt like it traveled forever, swallowed by the polished floors and tall, hollow ceilings. Even the ticking of the antique clocks seemed louder than your own voice. The halls were pristine, untouched, like a museum of a life that wasn’t being lived. The air was cold, not from the weather, but from absence. It was a house built for grandeur—yet all you could feel in it was emptiness. The loneliness didn’t scream. It settled quietly into your bones.

You passed like ghosts—brushing past each other in the mornings, shoulders nearly grazing, eyes barely meeting. Sometimes you wondered if he even saw you at all. Breakfasts shared in silence. Evenings spent in opposite corners of the same room. You lived parallel lives that never intersected—like two actors stuck in different plays, sharing a single stage. You shared a last name, but not a life. A bed in title only. A love story that never started.

It wasn’t hatred. Not exactly. Hatred, at least, was loud. Hatred burned. This was something colder, something quieter—like fog that never lifted and the clouds of gray stayed still, covering what is left of the blue sky. It wasn’t even indifference, because sometimes he looked at you like he wanted to say something but swallowed it instead.

And that was worse. Because it meant there was something there, something unspoken. But never enough.

When his eyes met yours, there was always a flicker—something sharp and unreachable. Was it guilt? Regret? A memory he didn’t want to hold? Or worse, did he blame you? Did he see you as the lock on the door he never wanted to enter? Every time you searched his face for something—anything—you found only that wall. Cold stone, smooth and impassable.

But you tried. God, you tried—over and over again—to make things lighter, softer, bearable for the both of you. You smiled when he didn’t. You spoke when the silence stretched too long. You left the door open, just in case he ever decided to walk through it.

But every time you took a step forward, he took three back. And nothing echoes louder than the silence of a breaking heart.

Still, you stayed. Still, you hoped. Because you were stubborn—foolishly, fiercely so. Because love, real love, doesn’t die easily. Not when it began so softly. Not when it bloomed from something innocent, untainted by bitterness. Not even when it was one-sided.

Not even when it hurts.

And you were determined to make a change.

You knew you weren’t the strongest emotionally. You weren’t made of steel, and you never pretended to be. But this—this—was where you drew the line. Where you faced the very thing you’d always struggled with: fighting for what you wanted. For what you deserved.

You had loved Choi San since your senior year of college—quietly, patiently, from the sidelines. And though your love had never been loud, never demanding, it had lasted. And now, for the first time, you were ready to try. Not for validation. Not for approval.

But for him.

You were reaching out. You made breakfast once—his favorite, remembered from years ago. You had gotten up before the sun, the mansion still draped in blue shadows. The kitchen light flickered softly above you, casting a golden glow on your quiet effort. Eggs, rice, and seaweed soup. Just like he liked it back in college—when things were simpler, lighter, when the distance between you hadn’t yet turned into a wall. The kitchen smells like comfort food—but it’s not comforting at all. It’s heavy, oppressive. The steam clings to the walls like it’s trying to fill the silence between you, but the silence is too wide. Too cold.

He comes in without a word. Doesn’t even glance your way.

The door clicks softly behind him, and he walks like he’s already miles ahead—his hair still damp, swept back neatly, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw, the resolute cut of his cheekbones. He looks every bit the Grand Duke—polished, powerful, untouchable. His vest is pressed, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal expensive cufflinks. The suit jacket slung over his arm completes the picture. Ready for meetings. Strategy. A future that doesn’t seem to include you.

You hear your own heartbeat before your voice even comes out.

“San-ssi… wait.” It’s barely a whisper, but it’s enough to make him stop—just long enough to glance over his shoulder. A flicker of acknowledgment. That brief second is all you need, and yet it still takes effort to pull the next words from your throat.

“Please…” You swallow. “Please have breakfast before you go.” The silence stretches between you like a taut thread. His gaze shifts—finally—not to you, but to the table. You’ve laid everything out: a warm soup still steaming, fried eggs arranged neatly, fresh rice, a small plate of pickled radish, even a slice of orange peeled just the way he used to like it. Like muscle memory.

He turns his back to you, “I don’t eat breakfast.” He starts toward the door again, and your fingers twitch—instinctively reaching out, though you don’t move.

“At least,” you say softly, “have the soup. Just a few bites. It’s… it’s cold outside. Your stomach will hurt if it’s empty.”

You curse yourself for the way your voice shakes at the end. You didn’t mean to push. You know better—this is a contract marriage, just ink on paper. Expectations were never part of the deal. But still… you couldn’t help it. You didn’t want to be strangers under the same roof.

There’s a pause—heavy, uncertain. Then, a slow exhale, “…Fine.” He turns and walks toward the table. Shrugs off his coat and drapes it neatly over the chair before sliding into the seat. You hold your breath as he picks up the spoon and lifts it to his lips. A faint puff of steam. One sip. Another. And then… he stops. His hand lowers.

“Now stop pestering me.” The spoon clinks against the bowl as he places it down with surgical precision. He rises to his feet, collects his coat without looking at you, and walks out. No thank you. No acknowledgment. Not even a glance. Only the sound of the front door slamming shut behind him, loud enough to jar the silence he left behind.

You stand there, rooted to the floor. “Take care…” you whisper. You try to smile—try to be the version of yourself who could pretend—but your lips won’t cooperate. The corners tremble. The effort tastes like iron.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to press the ache back into place. The room is still warm from the soup, but you’re freezing from the inside out. It feels like frost coats your ribs with every shallow breath you take. You don’t know what hurts more: the sting behind your eyes or the hollow in your chest that grows heavier with every morning like this. All you wanted was for him to look at you—really look—and remember who you were to him once. Friends. A bond forged before title and duty and distance hardened his heart.

But now there’s only a shadow in his eyes.

And you’re left standing alone in your own kitchen, holding your heartbreak like something fragile you don’t know how to set down. Loving a ghost who doesn’t know you’re haunting him too. The room is so quiet you can hear it—your own heart breaking. And somehow, you wonder if he hears it too. 

If he does… would he even care?

The second time you both shared the same space and time was during a thunderstorm—the kind that blanketed the sky in slate gray and rolled thunder deep enough to rattle the floorboards. Rain lashed against the windows like it had something to say. The power had already flickered twice, the fireplace barely holding its glow. A single book lamp clipped to the spine of your novel cast a soft halo of light onto the page, the only other source of warmth in the room besides the slow-breathing embers.

You were curled on one end of the couch, lost in the unfinished book you bought a few days ago. Words blurred and sharpened between each flash of lightning. Across from you, he sat with his laptop open, glasses slipping down his nose, eyes flicking between email replies and graphs you didn’t pretend to understand. The storm hummed between you—constant and low, a pressure in the air that made your skin buzz.

A bolt of lightning tore through the sky so violently it lit the entire living room like a snapshot—bright and blinding. A second later, the thunder cracked. Sharp. Immediate.

The power cut out. Silence rushed in.

Your breath caught, and instinct took over. You reached out, without thinking—just a small touch, the barest brush of your fingers against his. Not even a full gesture. Just… closeness. Humans. Unspoken. Comfort in the dark. But he flinched. Hard. Pulled away so fast it startled you more than the thunder. It wasn’t loud—but it felt loud. Like something inside you had been exposed and immediately dismissed.

Like your touch had burned. You stayed frozen, hand still halfway between you. The air felt colder somehow, heavier. The rejection sat between your ribs, thudding louder than the storm itself. He didn’t say anything—no apology, no look back.

“I’ll check the fuse box,” San murmur before standing up and disappearing down the hallway, laptop still humming faintly with its battery light. 

And you sat there. Alone again. The storm outside felt smaller compared to the one brewing quietly in your chest. You let your hand drop into your lap, your fingertips tingling from a touch that hadn’t even happened. You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself you were being dramatic. But the thing about loneliness is that it feels louder in the dark. 

The last words you heard — so simple, so unintended — were what finally shattered whatever fragile thread had been holding you together.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. It was just dinner. His birthday. You had spent the entire afternoon trying to make it feel special, to soften the growing distance that settled like a wall of glass between you. You told yourself it didn’t need to be perfect — just enough to remind him that you were still here, still trying, even when it felt like he wasn’t.

So you climbed the stairs to his study with every step, you rehearsed your lines: something light, something kind. Maybe he'd smile. Maybe he'd look at you the way he used to. Or maybe consider being acquainted instead of being completely strangers.

But right as you reached the door, knuckles hovering mid-air, his voice bled through the wood — low, muffled, but unmistakably his.

“I didn’t want this.”

You froze. At first, your heart knocked louder than your fist ever could. Then silence fell heavy in your chest, as if your ribs had caved in to keep it from breaking. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You never wanted to know like this. But curiosity, or maybe desperation, kept your feet nailed to the floor. Your hand dropped limply to your side as you leaned in, barely breathing.

“I didn’t want any of this,” he said again, voice rough and frayed, like someone who had been holding something in for far too long. There was a tremble in it — not from anger, but from exhaustion. Like he’d been carrying too much for too long, and now it was spilling out in a room where you weren’t meant to hear.

“I didn’t choose this marriage.” The words fall like a blade, slicing through the quiet — and through you. There’s a pause, one that stretches too long, too heavy. Your eyes flick around the hallway as if looking for something to hold on to, anything to make this moment less real. But nothing comes. And when the next words land, it’s like your heart tears straight from your chest.

“Every time I look at her, I think of what I gave up — what I lost. I lost her because of this marriage. She told me to focus on my wife, but I know she’s hurting because of this!”

The breath stutters out of your lungs.  Not like a gasp. Not like a cry. But like something breaking — something vital that doesn’t come back. You don’t wait to hear more. You can’t. Not when the silence that follows feels like it’s cracking open your ribcage, spilling everything you were holding onto.

Who was she? The one he gave up for this marriage?

The thought alone sends a sick, twisting feeling through your gut. Did she come before you? Was she someone he still held in his heart during the vows, the dinners, the nights you tried so hard to believe were real?

You thought you had time. You thought, maybe, love would come eventually.

But now it all feels like a lie wrapped in routine. Your throat tightens. Your vision begins to swim, and your legs start to move — more from instinct than thought. You stumble backward, the hallway suddenly too narrow, the walls too close, like they’re closing in on your every breath.

You don’t know how you make it to the bedroom — or if you even make it fully inside. Maybe you collapse just past the doorframe. Maybe your knees give way the moment your fingers curl around the doorknob. But you hear the soft click of the door shutting behind you, and then—

Your body caves in like it’s been waiting for this moment to fall apart. 

And then the tears came. Not in sobs—no. You gasp, like you’re drowning on dry land. Each breath feels like a battle. Each cry, a jagged thing caught in your throat. It’s the kind of heartbreak that makes you fold in on yourself, arms around your ribs as if you could somehow hold the pieces together. The kind of pain that feels physical, like grief itself is clawing its way through your chest, trying to tear something loose.

You loved him.

God, you loved him. Quietly. Stubbornly. Painfully. For years.

You cradled that love like it was sacred, something worth waiting for. Something that might finally bloom if you just held on long enough. You memorized the shape of his silence, learned how to live in the shadows of his indifference. You reached for him a hundred times with trembling hands, never once asking for more than he was willing to give—and yet, you kept reaching.

Maybe that’s the cruelest part of all. That even now—even after hearing him say he didn’t want this, after realizing he had never truly seen you as someone worth choosing—some part of you still held on. Some part of you still hoped. You cry until your throat is raw, until your body feels hollow, until there’s nothing left but the eerie quiet that follows a storm. And in that silence, the truth settles in like dust on a forgotten shelf.

It all makes sense now.

The early mornings. The late nights. The way he barely looked at you across the dinner table, the way he seemed to flinch when your fingers brushed. It was never you. It was never going to be you. Maybe there was respect—some shred of duty he tried to honor. But love?

No. That had always belonged to someone else. And the worst part isn’t just that he loved another. It’s that while you were trying, giving, hoping—he had already been comforted in someone else’s arms. And that made you sick as your attempts were probably making him uncomfortable while he is still with someone. 

And in that moment, you wished — God, you wished — you had stayed downstairs. Stayed safe in ignorance. Because now you know. This day… this birthday, it wasn’t a celebration. It was either your release — the final sign to let go of whatever love you were still foolish enough to hold — or a curse, proof that no matter what you did, no matter how much you gave, Choi San would never choose you.

And you were alone and a fool this whole time.

When the moon was high and the tears had finally run dry, you found yourself turning toward the window, where pale moonlight spilled across the floor like a silent witness to your grief. Your heart no longer ached—it simply felt... numb. Hollowed out. Every breath you took now came with a subtle stagger, the kind that lingered in the chest long after the sobs had stopped.

You wanted to stay. God knows you did.

But the thought of him loving someone else—being devoted to someone else—settled into your bones like frost. And suddenly, staying felt more like cruelty than courage.

After all, this was never a love story. Just a contract signed in convenience, not affection.

You closed your eyes, took one last breath, and stood.

Your gaze drifted toward the top shelf of the closet, where your luggage waited—untouched, collecting dust like the parts of yourself you had set aside for him. With a heavy heart and steadier hands than you expected, you pulled it down and began to pack. Quietly. Carefully. One piece of clothing at a time, as if folding away the life you never got to fully live.

By the time the first traces of dawn kissed the sky, your feet were already moving—carrying you down the grand hallways of the mansion you once shared. The silence echoed around you like farewell.

Outside, the air was cool. Crisp. Still unfamiliar.

You glanced up toward the bedroom window one last time, heart tightening—but not breaking. Not anymore.

A sigh escaped your lips as your driver hoisted your luggage into the trunk. You apologized softly for waking him up so early. He only offered a tired smile, “It’s my duty to give you proper service.”

You were gone before San ever stirred from bed. Not that he’d notice. Not that he ever truly had.

Three days passed. Not a single word from San. No calls, no messages, not even the faintest sign of worry or regret. The silence on his end said more than any explanation could, and it solidified the truth you had been avoiding: there was no space left in his heart for you. Whatever hope you had clung to was now nothing more than a delusion, one that withered the moment you realized someone else had already claimed what you had been quietly, desperately fighting for.

The only person who showed any concern was Seonghwa, the only friend who had always tried to stay neutral in the middle of your fragile marriage. He stopped by your apartment once, gently asking if you were okay before leaving behind a bag of groceries and a look of quiet sympathy. His presence felt like closure—a soft but firm reminder that you no longer belonged in the world you once shared with San.

That evening, you returned from the convenience store dressed in baggy sweatpants and an oversized sweater, the soft cotton doing little to warm the cold that settled deep in your bones. In your hand was a black plastic bag filled with snacks and two bottles of soju you planned to finish before the night was over. It was a far cry from the delicate dresses and soft perfumes you used to wear around the mansion. There, you adorned yourself with hope, with effort, with the constant wish that maybe, just maybe, he would notice. Here, alone, you wore exhaustion—both emotional and physical.

As you climbed the narrow stairs toward your apartment, your heart jumped when you spotted a sleek, familiar car parked near the curb. It looked just like his—same model, same color, same quiet presence. For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. But just as quickly, you forced yourself to exhale and shook your head in bitter self-mockery.

"Not every car with the same brand is his, stupid," you murmured to yourself, pushing down the flicker of foolish hope that rose uninvited.

You punched in your code, stepped inside, and were met with the dim hum of the apartment light flickering on. The space around you was quiet, almost painfully so. It wasn’t home, but at least it didn’t lie. You took off your shoes, dropped your bag on the floor, and settled onto the carpet, unpacking your snacks one by one with the heavy detachment of someone just trying to pass time.

Scrolling through Netflix, you chose the first series that didn’t remind you of him. You weren’t watching to enjoy anything—you just needed noise to fill the silence. But before the opening credits could even begin, a soft knock interrupted the quiet hum of the TV. You frowned, eyes darting toward the security screen, which had lit up automatically at the sound. You stood up, walking towards the small screen attached to the wall next to the dining area. And there he was.

San.

Soaked from the rain, hair clinging to his forehead, breath uneven, eyes shadowed with something unreadable. For a heartbeat, you stared, trying to convince yourself that maybe it was a glitch. Maybe he had the wrong apartment. Maybe—God help you—he had come here by mistake, looking for her.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You were ready to turn away, to let the unanswered knock echo into the silence, when his voice came through the speaker, soft and raw.

"I'm sorry..." You froze. Your heart clenched painfully in your chest as you stood in the middle of your apartment, unsure whether to stay or ignore. "I just..." he exhaled, voice barely holding together, "I was in love before we got married. And I lost her. Not because of you—just... time. Life."

You are listening now intrigued with the sudden confession—not just hearing, "I resented everything after that,” he continued, his voice shaking. “Especially the things I couldn’t choose. The things I couldn’t control.”

He paused, and the silence that followed carried more weight than all the words that came before, you saw how his eyes shook as if they were looking for your eyes or if you were , listening the whole time, "But I never meant to hurt you."

You move silently towards the door, your heart had taken control of your moves after hearing his side, your fingers twisting the knob as you pushed it slightly open for him to catch a sight of you— out of your normal dresses. You ignore the way his eyes shine, your voice was quiet, not accusing—just tired. “Why now?”

“Why come here now?”

He swallowed thickly, stepped closer, and though he made no move to reach for you, there was something unsteady in his posture, like even standing there cost him more than he’d admit, “Because for the first time, whenever you weren’t in the house,” he whispered. “And it was unbearable.”

Your heart squeezed. It was cruel, how much you still wanted to believe him. But the wounds were still fresh, and your trust was buried somewhere beneath the debris of all the days he chose silence over you, “That doesn’t mean anything,” you said, voice quivering. “You told me you never wanted this.”

He looked down, rain still dripping from his lashes. “I didn’t choose the marriage,” he admitted. “But... I’m choosing you now.”

There was no grandeur in his words. No desperation. Just quiet truth, spoken by someone who finally understood what it meant to lose something they didn’t take the time to see.

His gaze to yours was soft and honest, and this time, there was no wall between you—only the weight of everything left unsaid, “I’m not saying this because I feel guilty. Or because I think I deserve anything from you,” he said slowly. “I came here because somewhere along the way, you became a part of me. And if you’ll let me… I want to stay. This time, for real.”

You didn’t run into his arms. Not tonight. Not yet. The ache inside you hadn’t magically vanished, and the rain outside hadn’t fully stopped. Quietly. Carefully. You opened the door—not all the way, just enough. Enough to let him in from the rain. And in that small moment, something shifted between you. The silence didn’t disappear, but it softened. The space between you didn’t close entirely, but it no longer felt impossible to cross.

The rain stopped not long after.

And this time, as San stepped over the threshold, he wasn’t here because of a contract. He was here because he finally chose to be your husband.

i'm so so sorry, my loves if it's late!!

[yuyu1024]

Ughhh my yuyu 😭

this is now the hottest yunho fancam YOU DONT UNDERSTAND

[yuyu1024]

I LOVE THIS. MY HEART MELTED LIKE 10000X 😭😭😭😭

No one saw it coming — not the quiet girl in the back of the lecture hall, not the loud boy with the bad reputation, and especially not the people watching from the sidelines. But when Wooyoung sits at her library desk one evening, curiosity blooms into something much deeper. What starts with flustered glances and slow conversations soon grows into a soft, genuine love neither of them expected.

Pairing: Wooyoung x Female Reader (Y/N)

Trope(s):Bad boy x shy girl, Unexpected romance, Campus gossip & found love, Friends-to-lovers energy (slow progression into couple), Mutual pining, Protective male lead, Emotional vulnerability, First love energy

Genre: University AU, Romance, Soft angst, Slice of life, Smut, Fluff with depth

Featuring: ATEEZ as side characters / Wooyoung’s friend group, OC Best Friend Jisoo (Reader’s childhood bestie)

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

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Something was off with Wooyoung.

She noticed it the moment he sat down across from her during their usual study session in the library. His hoodie was slightly rumpled—normal. His hair, a little messy—also normal. But the energy was different.

Quieter.

He didn’t immediately launch into a dramatic monologue about his professor. He didn’t insult her choice of font. He didn’t even smirk when their knees brushed under the table.

Instead, he flinched.

Just a tiny jerk of the leg, but she felt it. And that alone was enough to make her look up from her screen, eyebrows pulling together.

His eyes were on his laptop, but he wasn’t typing.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard like he’d forgotten how to use them.

She tilted her head slightly, studying him.

Usually, when he went quiet, it was deliberate—setting up for a joke or a tease or a dramatic exaggeration. But now? He just looked distracted. Uncertain. Almost… nervous?

Was she making him nervous?

No. That didn’t make sense.

Except—it kind of did.

Because he barely met her eyes all session. He laughed too quickly at nothing. And when he stood up to stretch, he muttered something about walking her home before she’d even packed up her things.

Now, the two of them strolled slowly across campus, streetlights flickering to life around them.

Their footsteps were soft on the pavement, the buzz of distant traffic humming in the background. Her bag hung lightly off one shoulder, and her fingers fidgeted with the zipper as she walked.

Wooyoung had his hands in his pockets. Shoulders a little tense. Mouth set in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

She glanced at him again.

Okay, enough.

She took a quiet breath. “Are you… alright?”

He blinked, clearly startled. “What?”

She hesitated. “You’re acting weird.”

His eyebrows shot up. “I am not—”

“You flinched earlier,” she said softly, cutting him off. “When I bumped your leg. You haven’t said anything sarcastic in over thirty minutes. And you haven’t called me ‘Whisper’ once.”

Wooyoung opened his mouth. Closed it.

Then looked ahead again.

“…That’s illegal,” he muttered after a pause.

She blinked. “What is?”

“Calling me out with facts.”

That made her smile, just a little. “Seriously, though. Is something wrong?”

He exhaled, slow and unsteady, then stopped walking.

She stopped too, turning to face him.

Wooyoung scratched the back of his neck and let out a half-laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Okay, this is going to sound weird, but… have you ever had a boyfriend?”

Y/N stared at him.

“What?”

He looked suddenly very interested in a nearby bush. “Like—before. In high school. Or now. Or ever. I just—wondered.”

Her pulse picked up. “Why?”

His eyes flicked back to her face, as if he was checking for danger.

She hesitated.

Then shook her head once. “No. I haven’t.”

Silence.

The kind that buzzed between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just… charged.

“Oh,” Wooyoung said.

Then again, softer. “Oh.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Why are you asking?”

He looked at her—really looked at her this time.

And for a second, she could’ve sworn he was about to say something real. Something important.

But instead, he just smiled, soft and crooked.

“No reason,” he said. “Just curious.”

But his voice was different.

And so was the look in his eyes.

They started walking again after the strange pause.

The air felt thicker somehow—like the space between their words was filled with something heavier than just silence.

She could feel Wooyoung glancing at her occasionally, like he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how.

“Okay,” he said after a long beat. “This might be a very inappropriate follow-up…”

She raised a brow. “Go on.”

He hesitated. Then said it in one breath, like ripping off a bandage.

“Have you ever had sex?”

Y/N blinked.

She didn’t stop walking, but her steps slowed just a little. He wasn’t looking at her, like he knew how bold the question sounded—but his tone wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t crude. Just curious. Careful.

Surprisingly, she didn’t feel uncomfortable.

Just… surprised.

She tilted her head, thinking about how to answer. “Is it mandatory to have a boyfriend first?”

That got his attention.

He turned toward her, surprised, lips tugging up like she’d thrown him off his rhythm. “No,” he admitted. “I guess not.”

“Then…” she looked at him sideways. “Have you only had sex with girlfriends?”

He laughed once—dry and almost embarrassed. “Plot twist—I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

She blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “Really?”

He nodded. “Not once.”

A pause.

Then, without thinking too hard, she smiled and asked, “But you’ve definitely had sex, right?”

It slipped out before she could stop herself.

She bit her lip as soon as she said it, shocked by her own words.

Wooyoung, for his part, stopped walking for half a second and stared at her like she’d grown a second head.

Then—

He laughed.

Loud, sharp, and delighted.

“Oh my god,” he said, eyes wide. “Did you just call me out?”

She tucked her chin down, embarrassed but also trying not to laugh. “Maybe.”

“Whisper got jokes now,” he muttered, shaking his head like the world had been flipped upside down. “I’m living for this character development.”

She shrugged lightly and tucked her hair behind her ear. Her cheeks were burning, but it felt… okay. Not overwhelming. Not too much. Just… okay.

Then she answered his original question.

“I’ve… done it once,” she said softly. “In high school.”

He didn’t interrupt. Just listened.

“It wasn’t… bad. But it wasn’t good either. Just kind of… there? Like I was waiting to understand what the hype was about, and then it ended.”

She didn’t look at him while she spoke, but she could feel him listening. Not judging. Just… being there.

When she finally turned toward him again, he was watching her carefully.

“Why are you asking me this?” she asked.

He shoved his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets and gave her that half-smile—the one that didn’t quite reach his eyes when he was trying to be chill.

“I’m just curious.”

She didn’t push him further.

Because for once, she understood that not all questions needed an answer right away.

The walk home stayed with her long after she closed the door to her apartment.

Wooyoung’s question had been unexpected—but the way he asked it wasn’t invasive. Just… human. Like he was trying to understand her, piece by piece. No agenda. No pressure.

Still, her mind wouldn’t let it go.

She sat on her bed, legs crossed, sketchbook resting on her lap. But the page remained blank, pencil idle.

Have you ever had sex?

She hadn’t expected to answer him so honestly.

She hadn’t expected him to answer so honestly either.

No girlfriend. That surprised her. For someone so bold, so shamelessly flirty, he had a reputation she’d assumed came with a long list of past relationships. But instead—he’d had none.

And she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not just the question.

Him.

His hands. His voice. The way he looked at her sometimes—like she’d caught him mid-thought and he didn’t know how to hide it. Like he saw more than she meant to show.

She bit the end of her pencil and leaned her head against her headboard.

What would it be like…?

With him?

Would it be different than before? The one time in high school hadn’t been traumatic—just… forgettable. It hadn’t hurt, but it hadn’t felt good either. It was like watching something happen from outside her body, disconnected from whatever it was supposed to mean.

But with Wooyoung?

He was attentive. Playful, yes—but perceptive. He noticed when she flinched. When she went quiet. When her fingers curled too tightly around her sleeves. He pulled back when he needed to. Stepped closer when she let him.

She closed her eyes.

What would it feel like to have his hands on her? To hear his voice right at her ear, whispering something meant for her alone?

Her stomach flipped.

She imagined his fingers brushing the side of her face. His body pressing into hers. The heat of his skin, the weight of him above her.

Would it feel good?

Would her breath catch for the right reasons this time? Would she want it?

Would she want him?

The thoughts came fast, sudden, unfiltered. Not shameful—but intimate in a way that surprised her. She pressed her palms to her cheeks, cheeks burning

She wasn’t used to thinking about anyone like this.

But the image of Wooyoung—smiling softly, hands in his pockets, asking quiet questions like he really wanted to know her—lingered long after the thoughts faded.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t try to shut it down.

She just… let it be there.

It took her over a day to decide she wanted to talk about it.

She never talked about things like this. Not out loud. Not even with Jisoo. But the thoughts hadn’t stopped swirling. Not since the walk. Not since the question. Not since Wooyoung.

So, now, she sat on the edge of Jisoo’s bed, hands clasped tightly in her lap, staring at the floor while Jisoo painted her toenails bright pink and talked about absolutely nothing important.

Until Y/N interrupted.

“…Can I ask you something?”

Jisoo looked up, immediately alert. “You’re using your real voice. What’s up?”

Y/N hesitated.

Then: “Do you think it’s… bad… to think about someone like that when you’re not even dating them?”

Jisoo blinked. Then slowly set the nail polish down.

“‘Like that’ as in… ‘let me bake him cookies’ or ‘let me climb him like a tree’?”

Y/N made a sound that could only be described as a muffled squeak and buried her face in her hands. “Forget it.”

Jisoo laughed and scooted closer. “Nope. We’re talking about this now. Spill.”

Y/N peeked through her fingers. “I just… I keep thinking about him.”

There was a pause.

Then Jisoo lit up like a firecracker. “Him as in Wooyoung?!”

Y/N groaned into her palms. “Yes.”

Jisoo squealed. “FINALLY.”

“It’s not like that,” Y/N said quickly. “I mean—it kind of is—but I don’t know. He asked me this question and now I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Jisoo raised an eyebrow. “What kind of question?”

“…If I’ve ever had sex.”

Jisoo blinked. “Oh.”

Y/N shrugged helplessly. “It wasn’t weird. He didn’t say it in a creepy way. It just made me think.”

“About sex with him, I’m guessing?” Jisoo asked, completely unfazed.

Y/N gave her a look. “…Yes.”

“Babe,” Jisoo said, sitting back dramatically. “You’re human. He’s hot. Of course you’re thinking about sex with him.”

Y/N fidgeted. “But it’s not just that. I’m wondering if it would… feel different. With him. If it would actually be… good.”

Jisoo softened instantly.

“That makes sense,” she said gently. “Your first time wasn’t exactly fireworks.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “But the way he looks at me… it’s different. I feel like he sees me. Not just as someone to mess with or flirt with. And that makes the idea of… that… less scary.”

Jisoo bumped her shoulder. “That’s because he does see you. And it’s okay to want that kind of connection. Physical and emotional.”

Y/N hesitated again. “Do you think he’s just playing around?”

Jisoo smirked. “Honestly? I think if you looked at him for two seconds while he thinks you’re not watching, you’d get your answer.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, but her lips twitched into the hint of a smile.

Maybe she would start looking more.

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It was a simple question.

Not a confession. Not a dramatic gesture. Just an invite.

“Hey, I’m doing something this weekend for my birthday. You should come.”

Easy. Normal. Something a guy would say without a second thought.

Except Wooyoung had been pacing in the dorm hallway for the last ten minutes, muttering the words to himself like he was about to deliver a TED Talk.

“‘You should come.’ No, too casual. What if she thinks I’m joking? Okay—‘I want you to be there.’ Wait, no, that sounds like a proposal. Shit.”

He ran a hand through his hair.

He wasn’t nervous. He was never nervous. He’d asked people out before. He’d invited strangers to concerts, parties, weird street food crawls—

But this was Y/N.

Which meant it mattered.

Which meant he was currently losing his mind over seven words.

He spun on his heel again and nearly crashed into a human wall.

San.

“What the hell are you doing?” San blinked. “Is this a summoning ritual or are you finally having a breakdown?”

Wooyoung groaned. “Go away.”

“Oh no, no,” San grinned. “You’re muttering to yourself in full sentences. This is gold.”

“Who’s muttering?” Mingi asked, sticking his head out of the kitchen. “Oh my god, is he pacing?”

“I’m not pacing!” Wooyoung said, completely pacing.

Jongho wandered in, looked at the situation, and immediately turned around. “Nope. Not emotionally available for this.”

Seonghwa emerged from his room, sipping tea. “He’s nervous about asking Y/N to his birthday thing, isn’t he?”

“I’m not—!” Wooyoung paused. Deflated. “Okay, yeah, I am.”

San threw an arm around his shoulders. “Buddy. Bro. She’s already halfway in love with you.”

Mingi nodded. “She texted you first last night. That’s relationship-level intimacy.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Wooyoung muttered.

Seonghwa gave him a patient smile. “You named your playlist after her. Just ask.”

Wooyoung sighed. Then muttered, “I was gonna say she could bring Jisoo, too.”

“Good,” San clapped. “Built-in moral support. For both of you.”

Mingi held out his phone. “Do you want to practice on me? I can pretend to be her.”

“Absolutely not.”

But fifteen minutes later, he was standing outside the library, heart in his throat.

She walked out with her tote bag slung over one shoulder, earbuds still in, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. She looked up when she saw him, blinking like she wasn’t expecting it.

She smiled. Just a little. But it hit like a sledgehammer anyway.

Wooyoung cleared his throat. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she said, pausing. “What are you doing here?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “So, uh. My birthday’s this weekend. And the guys are dragging me to this bar downtown. Nothing big. But I wanted to see if… you wanted to come?”

She blinked.

“And—uh—” he rushed to add, “you can totally bring Jisoo if you want. No pressure. I just thought… you might wanna be there.”

Silence.

Then she smiled again, softer this time.

“I’d like that.”

His heart definitely skipped a beat.

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Wooyoung was not okay.

He tried to look like he was okay—leaning casually against the high table near the bar, sipping his drink, laughing when Mingi made dumb faces at San’s playlist choices—but inside?

It was pure static.

“She said she was coming,” he muttered for the fifth time, eyes glued to the door.

“She also said you should relax,” Yeosang reminded him flatly. “Ten minutes ago. When you texted her. Again.”

“Maybe she changed her mind,” Wooyoung said, tugging on his sleeves. “Maybe she got here, saw me through the window, and decided I looked like a dehydrated squirrel—”

The bar door opened.

Wooyoung snapped to attention like a meerkat.

Only to deflate instantly. “Nope. Not her.”

Seonghwa handed him a glass of water. “Drink this before your brain slides out of your ears.”

“I’m fine,” Wooyoung grumbled.

“You’ve checked the door thirty times,” San said with a grin. “You look like you’re waiting for your bride to walk down the aisle.”

“She’s not coming to marry me, she’s just—”

The door opened again.

And this time—

His breath caught.

She walked in.

With Jisoo beside her, both of them brushing off the cold. But Wooyoung’s eyes didn’t leave her. Not even for a second.

She wore a simple black skirt that fell just above the knee, paired with a fitted top that hugged her waist. Nothing flashy. Nothing overdone. But it made his mind short-circuit. Her hair was loose and wavy, makeup soft, subtle—but enough to make him stare like he was seeing her for the first time.

He forgot how to stand.

“Holy shit,” Mingi muttered under his breath.

Wooyoung didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

His heart was too busy breakdancing in his chest.

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Getting ready with Jisoo was always part therapy, part tornado.

Y/N sat on the edge of Jisoo’s bed while her best friend held up two tops in each hand. “This one says, ‘I’m sweet and mysterious,’ and this one says, ‘I’m mysterious but I have legs.’ Thoughts?”

Y/N tried not to laugh. “That’s the same shirt.”

“Exactly.”

In the end, they settled on something simple but polished. A black skirt, a fitted soft mauve top, and just a little mascara and lip gloss. Jisoo curled her hair with gentle waves and grinned like she’d just won a makeover show.

“You look hot, babe.”

“I look like… me,” Y/N said softly. “But less… hidden.”

“And that’s why you’re hot.”

Before they left, Y/N tucked a small wrapped box into her bag. A keychain she’d hand-designed: a little chibi cartoon of Wooyoung making his infamous dramatic face. He probably didn’t expect a gift—but she wanted to bring one anyway.

When they stepped into the bar, she felt the warmth hit her instantly—music, chatter, low light, and—

Eight boys near a table by the wall, all dressed in varying degrees of cool and chaotic.

San spotted them first.

“YOOO, look who’s here!” he hollered.

Several heads turned. Grins broke out.

“Damn,” Jongho muttered under his breath.

“Why do they look like main characters?” Mingi added.

Jisoo nudged her gently. “We kinda do.”

Y/N’s eyes found Wooyoung’s.

He was already staring. Like he hadn’t blinked since she walked in.

She made her way over slowly, offering a small smile. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” he said, voice slightly higher than usual. “You, uh… look…”

He trailed off.

She tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

He coughed. “Yeah, totally. I just—didn’t know you owned that skirt. Or, like. Legs.”

Y/N blinked.

Then, to his visible horror, smiled.

“You’re acting weirder than usual.”

“I’m not— okay, maybe a little.”

She reached into her bag and handed him the tiny wrapped box.

His hands fumbled slightly as he took it.

“What’s this?”

“A gift. Don’t open it now.”

He stared at the wrapping like it was a live wire. “I didn’t think you’d—”

“I wanted to.”

Their eyes met.

And in that flicker of a moment—surrounded by music and teasing and lights and chaos—everything between them felt warm and very, very real.

She never thought she’d find herself sitting in a bar with eight of the loudest boys on campus and feel… safe.

But here she was—squeezed between Jisoo and San in a half-circle booth, legs tucked under her, fingers curled around a cold bottle of beer that she’d only taken three sips from so far. She wasn’t a big drinker, but something about the hum of music and the warmth of everyone’s laughter made her loosen up just enough to let it happen.

Jisoo was in her element, laughing at something Mingi said with her head thrown back dramatically.

Y/N smiled quietly and took another sip.

She didn’t speak much, but no one seemed to mind. They talked to her like she was already part of the group—nudging her for her opinion on movie plots, pulling her into arguments about pizza toppings, asking what Jisoo was like as a kid (to which she replied, “A tiny gremlin with glitter.”)

Even Wooyoung was different tonight.

Not in a bad way. He was still loud, still teasing, still pulling dramatic faces every time San said something outrageous—but she kept catching him glancing her way. Like he was checking in. Making sure she was okay.

She didn’t say anything when their eyes met across the table for the third time.

But she did smile.

He grinned back, and something fluttered in her stomach.

Then he laughed at something Yeosang said, throwing his head back, hand clapping against his thigh—and her eyes followed the motion automatically.

His hands.

She’d noticed them before, sure. Always moving, expressive, loose in the way only confident people could be. But now, with his sleeves pushed up and a few bracelets catching the low light, they felt dangerous.

Her gaze drifted from his wrist to his forearm—defined lines, veins barely visible, the smooth flex of muscle when he adjusted in his seat.

She took a longer sip of beer.

Oh no.

Because suddenly, her brain wasn’t thinking about the conversation anymore.

It was thinking about his hands. On her hips. Sliding under her shirt. Pushing her back gently against the mattress.

She swallowed hard.

What is wrong with me?!

She shifted slightly in her seat, flustered, heart thudding too loudly for the soft setting.

She wasn’t used to this.

Not the group setting, not the alcohol—not even the physical attraction.

But there it was.

Undeniable.

She wanted him. Not just to flirt with or daydream about in vague, quiet terms.

She wanted him.

The realization made her breath catch.

She snuck another glance at him—this time, catching the way his hand brushed over the back of his neck while he laughed.

Heat rose behind her ears.

Jisoo leaned in close and whispered with a sly smile, “You’re staring again.”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Was not.”

“Were too.”

“…Shut up.”

Jisoo only grinned and bumped her shoulder.

Wooyoung caught the movement and gave her a lazy little wink across the table.

And just like that, the flutter in her stomach turned into something deeper.

Something slower.

Something real.

The night had settled into her skin like a warm buzz.

Not drunk, just… softer around the edges. Words a little looser. Thoughts drifting.

She’d had one beer and half a cider, and that was enough to leave her head pleasantly fuzzy by the time Jisoo nudged her with a mischievous grin.

“Hey,” she said, “I live in the opposite direction—and Wooyoung’s going your way, right?”

Y/N blinked. “Oh… right.”

Jisoo wiggled her eyebrows and whispered, “You’ll be fine, babe. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—which, you know, isn’t much.”

“Jisoo.”

But her best friend was already bouncing off with Mingi and San, laughing too loud and throwing peace signs over her shoulder.

Which left Y/N standing in the doorway of the bar… next to Wooyoung.

“Looks like I’m your bodyguard for the night,” he said with a soft grin.

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. “Guess I’m safe, then.”

They walked in the quiet hum of the late night, the streetlights casting golden halos on the pavement. The world felt slower, like it had exhaled with them.

Wooyoung talked most of the way—about the bartender’s weird playlist, how Jongho almost arm-wrestled a stranger, and how Seonghwa apparently knew the words to every 2000s girl group anthem. His hands moved as he spoke, cutting through the air like he couldn’t help it.

Y/N listened, laughed softly at his commentary, and kept stealing glances at the lines of his jaw in the passing streetlight.

When they reached her apartment, the silence wrapped around them again, warm and easy.

She turned to him. “Hey… do you want to open your present now?”

He blinked. “Wait—really?”

She nodded, reaching into her bag and pulling out the small wrapped box.

He took it like it was something sacred.

Carefully tore the paper.

And when he opened the lid, his face lit up.

Inside was a custom keychain—a chibi version of him, wide-eyed, mid-rant, with a tiny cartoon storm cloud over his head and a little “dramatic™” label stitched in comic sans at the bottom.

“You did not,” he whispered, turning it over in his hands. “This is… this is me. Oh my god. You made this?”

She nodded, suddenly shy again. “I thought it would make you laugh.”

He stared at it for another second.

Then looked at her.

And before she could react, he leaned forward and hugged her.

It wasn’t awkward or forced—just instinct. Like he couldn’t not hug her after that.

His arms were warm. His hoodie smelled faintly of cologne and something sweet, like vanilla and woodsmoke.

But the second he realized what he’d done, he began to pull back.

“Sorry, I just—”

Y/N didn’t let go.

She leaned into him instead, arms sliding up gently around his middle.

Wooyoung froze for a beat.

Then his arms came back around her, slower this time. Tighter.

They stood there for a long moment—no jokes, no nerves, no music.

Just her cheek resting lightly against his shoulder.

Just his hand carefully splayed at her back, not moving.

And something unspoken settling between them.

She could’ve stayed in that hug a little longer.

She wasn’t used to warmth like this—deliberate and soft and wrapping her up without asking anything in return. She wasn’t used to people holding her gently, like she was something to be treasured and not just tolerated.

And somehow, Wooyoung… just knew how to do it.

Neither of them spoke as they stood there outside her apartment, the sound of distant cars buzzing through the silence. Her cheek rested lightly against his chest, where his heartbeat thudded slow and strong beneath his hoodie.

Then—

The rain started.

Not a gentle drizzle.

A sudden, heavy downpour.

Like the sky had decided enough silence was enough.

Y/N startled slightly and pulled back, blinking up at the sudden rush of water. Fat drops soaked through her top almost instantly. Wooyoung laughed—a sharp breath of surprise—and tried to pull his hoodie up over his head.

Thunder cracked above them, sharp and loud.

She flinched again instinctively—and without thinking, she turned to him.

“Do you… want to come in?” she asked, voice soft but clear.

He looked at her for a heartbeat longer than he needed to.

And then he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

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Her apartment was quiet—warm, but dimly lit. She flicked on the hallway lamp and slipped off her shoes, her clothes sticking uncomfortably to her skin.

“Wait here,” she said, padding toward the hallway. “I think I still have some of my dad’s clothes in storage. They might fit.”

Wooyoung stayed near the door, dripping slightly on the mat, hands awkwardly at his sides.

When she returned, she handed him a folded black t-shirt and a pair of joggers. “They might be a little big, but at least they’re dry.”

He smiled. “You’re a lifesaver.”

She nodded and gestured down the hall. “Bathroom’s the first door on the left.”

He disappeared down the hallway, and she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

Then she changed, too—grabbing a pair of fitted cotton shorts and pulling on an oversized pullover that hung off one shoulder. It was old and worn soft from too many washes, sleeves a little long. She towel-dried her hair quickly, letting it fall in damp waves down her back.

When she walked back into the main room, Wooyoung was standing there in the dry clothes she’d given him, rubbing his hair with a towel.

She stopped.

He looked… different.

Casual. Real. Barefoot, damp-haired, t-shirt a little loose but still clinging to his chest.

He turned when he noticed her.

And for a second, they just stared at each other.

Not awkward.

Just quiet.

Charged.

Then Wooyoung cleared his throat. “You look… warm.”

She smiled faintly. “Better than soaked.”

Thunder rumbled again in the distance, softer now. The sound of rain against the windows filled the room like a heartbeat.

Neither of them moved to speak right away.

Because sometimes closeness didn’t need words.

Sometimes being dry in a storm, in someone else’s borrowed clothes, was enough to change everything.

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He was trying to be a gentleman.

Really.

The kind that respected boundaries. The kind that didn’t immediately short-circuit because a girl wore shorts in her own apartment.

But the moment Y/N walked back into the living room — barefoot, wearing that worn pullover and those shorts that hugged her thighs — he forgot how to breathe like a normal person.

She looked… unreal.

Hair damp and loose down her back, sleeves half-covering her hands, collar of the sweatshirt slipping casually off one shoulder like it didn’t know what kind of damage it was doing.

He looked away.

Then looked back.

Then looked away again when she bent over to pick up her laptop.

“Oh my god, stop,” he muttered under his breath, eyes fixed on a plant in the corner like it held the secrets of inner peace.

He felt like a creep.

He was a creep.

Because no matter how hard he tried not to look — his eyes kept dragging back to her. Not just her body. Her. The way she moved. The way she quietly hummed under her breath while setting up the movie. The way she fussed with two blankets, muttering that one wasn’t cozy enough.

It was like watching a version of her he didn’t usually get to see. Not the girl curled up in an oversized hoodie on campus. Not the shy one who barely looked at anyone when walking across the quad.

But this.

This soft, sleepy, private version of her.

It wrecked him.

They settled onto the couch, sitting with a polite space between them at first. She pulled her knees up under the blanket, and he threw one casually over his lap. The movie started — some indie drama she’d mentioned liking — and he tried to focus on the plot.

He really did.

But about twenty minutes in, something shifted.

She inched closer.

Not dramatically. Just… a subtle lean. Then her sock-covered foot brushed his shin under the blanket. And when she didn’t move away — neither did he.

His heart started doing weird things.

Another ten minutes passed.

Her shoulder bumped his arm.

Then stayed there.

His brain was no longer processing anything happening on screen. All he could think about was how warm she was. How close. How she kept shifting just enough that he could feel the heat of her thigh next to his.

He wanted to reach for her hand.

He didn’t.

But god, he wanted to.

And then—

He said something. Some sarcastic comment about the movie’s pacing.

And she turned to look at him.

He turned to look at her.

And that’s when he realized—

Her face was right there.

Right there.

Her nose barely a few inches from his. Her lips parted slightly. Her eyes wide — surprised, sure, but not backing away.

They both froze.

The screen flickered behind them.

The rain was still tapping softly at the windows.

And suddenly, breathing felt like a conscious act.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

He wasn’t planning on kissing her.

Not then.

Not like that.

But when she looked at him — really looked — with her lips just barely parted and her eyes so close, so open…

Something inside him cracked wide open.

And he leaned in.

Slow. Careful. Like she might vanish if he moved too fast.

His lips brushed hers, hesitant at first. Soft, barely there.

But she didn’t flinch.

She didn’t pull away.

She leaned in.

Kissed him back.

Wooyoung’s heart slammed against his ribs.

Her mouth was warm and yielding, a little shy — but there, meeting him in a way that sent static up his spine.

He pulled back just enough to see her — lips slightly kiss-bruised, breath a little uneven, cheeks pink.

His chest tightened at the sight.

He didn’t even think before leaning in again.

This time it was different.

Hungrier.

His lips pressed to hers with more urgency, more intent — as if he’d been holding this back for too long and couldn’t anymore. His hand found her waist, fingers curling lightly in the soft fabric of her pullover as he pulled her closer.

And then—

She kissed him back with the same hunger.

No hesitation.

No confusion.

Like she’d been waiting, too.

Her fingers gripped the blanket between them. Her lips parted under his, letting him deepen it, letting him taste the quiet ache that had been building between them since the very beginning.

He felt dizzy.

Like maybe he was still soaked in rain and dreaming this.

His other hand came up instinctively to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing her skin with a tenderness that nearly undid him.

She tilted into his touch.

Their kiss slowed, then deepened again, slow and languid this time, like they had nowhere else to be — like they were learning each other one breath at a time.

When he finally pulled back — barely — their foreheads rested together, breaths shallow.

Neither spoke.

Because there wasn’t anything to say yet.

But everything had changed.

His forehead rested against hers.

Breaths shallow. Lips still tingling. The space between them barely more than a thought.

She didn’t want him to pull away.

Didn’t want the warmth of his mouth gone from hers.

So she leaned in again.

Kissed him.

This time with a little more pressure. A little more purpose. No more wondering if it was okay. No more holding back.

And to her quiet surprise — he moaned.

A low, shaky sound that vibrated against her lips and sent something hot curling through her belly.

Her hands slid up his chest, heart thudding so loud she could barely hear the rain anymore.

He kissed her deeper. Slower. More possessively, like he couldn’t get close enough. His hand slid to her waist again — firmer now, fingers bunching the fabric of her pullover.

Y/N shifted instinctively.

Her thigh brushed his.

Then his hips.

And when she moved again — slower, this time — she felt the pressure of his body, the sharp inhale he took, the way his hands flexed against her sides.

The heat in her lower stomach deepened.

It was like something clicked between them — no longer gentle curiosity, but something pulsing, alive, hungry.

Wooyoung shifted slowly, leaning her back against the couch cushions, body hovering just above hers now, braced on his forearms. His mouth kissed down the corner of hers, to her jaw, then paused — waiting.

She turned her face slightly, gave him access, gave him permission.

When his lips met the skin beneath her ear, she exhaled — shaky, honest, full of need.

Her hips moved again without thinking.

Grinding gently.

Soft friction.

His hand slid up, slow and reverent, brushing the curve of her ribs beneath her sweatshirt — and then he froze when his fingertips grazed the edge of her bra.

They both stilled.

She looked up at him, eyes wide, heart racing.

He looked down at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

And in that moment, there was no fear.

Only want.

And it was mirrored perfectly in the hunger she saw in his eyes.

She barely registered the way her sweatshirt lifted until it was already sliding over her head.

She let it go — let it fall to the floor somewhere behind her — and when she looked up at him again, there was no mistaking what she saw reflected in his eyes.

A pause.

A flicker of hesitation.

But when he looked at her, really looked — and saw only encouragement, only want — his breath caught.

His gaze dropped, tracing the soft edges of her pastel bra, a muted blush pink against her skin.

Something about it seemed to undo him. Not because it was revealing. Not because it was meant to tempt.

But because it was her — soft, real, vulnerable, here with him.

Wooyoung leaned in, his mouth warm and open at her collarbone, then lower, his lips dragging across fabric, through the gentle pressure of his touch. His breath hitched as he kissed her through the cotton, and her back arched instinctively beneath him.

A sound left her — not loud, but impossible to mistake.

His hands were careful, but greedy in the way they mapped her ribs, traced the curve of her waist. When he shifted the fabric aside just enough to see her bare skin, his own breath stuttered.

He leaned down, reverent, lips brushing the curve of her chest — a slow, aching kiss that made her stomach tighten and her fingers grip the back of his shirt.

She couldn’t believe this was happening.

Couldn’t believe how good it felt.

How safe. How right.

His hands, his mouth, the way he murmured her name like it was something sacred.

And the sound she made when he kissed lower?

That made him groan against her skin, deep and quiet and unraveling.

They weren’t rushing.

But they weren’t holding back either.

And in the silence between heartbeats, in the press of skin and breath and unspoken permission —

She knew everything had changed.

She didn’t feel nervous.

She thought she might — had always imagined she would when she did it again with someone.

But now, here, with Wooyoung’s hands on her and his eyes searching hers like she was something precious — all she felt was warmth.

And trust.

He kissed her again, slow and deliberate, as if trying to memorize every inch of her mouth before trailing downward, his hands sliding gently beneath the remaining layers between them.

Her breath caught as he slowly, reverently, removed her clothing — piece by piece — until the air touched places no one else had touched in this way. She felt his shirt leave his body a moment later, and when their skin met, the heat between them felt like something alive.

Wooyoung kissed her again, then lower — across her ribs, the curve of her waist, her hips. His hands moved with care, brushing over her thighs, anchoring her.

And then he looked up at her.

His voice low. Gentle.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, his thumb grazing slow, soothing circles into her skin. “If we don’t go further tonight, that’s more than okay.”

Y/N blinked down at him, heart pounding in her chest — not from fear, but from the enormity of what she felt in that moment.

He wasn’t just asking.

He was offering.

Safety. Patience. Her choice, entirely.

She reached for him — fingertips brushing his cheek, lips parted, voice soft but certain.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

He exhaled like a weight had lifted from his chest.

Then his mouth pressed to her again — lower, slower.

And her world tilted.

Every breath came harder now, every shift of his hands and lips sending sparks through her body she hadn’t known she was capable of feeling. Her fingers tangled in the fabric beneath her, in his hair, in nothing at all — because everything she was became wrapped around him.

He moved with focus, with devotion, like making her feel good was the only thing that mattered. And with each soft moan that escaped her lips, he responded in kind — groaning softly like the taste of her, the sound of her, was driving him wild.

Heat built low in her stomach.

Her thoughts scattered.

And all that was left was the sound of rain still hitting the windows and the way Wooyoung held her like she was something holy.

He sat there for a moment, just looking at her.

Laid out beneath him, skin glowing in the soft lamp light, her hair fanned across the pillow like a halo. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, her eyes locked on his with something between nervousness and trust.

And desire.

God, that look made it hard to breathe.

He reached for his wallet and retrieved the small foil packet, pausing before he moved. His fingers curled tightly around it as he looked back at her.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice low, roughened with the strain of holding himself together.

She nodded.

But more than that — she reached for him. Her hand on his wrist, her touch steady.

That’s all the answer he needed.

He kissed her once — deep and slow — then gently settled between her legs. The warmth of her thighs bracketing him pulled a low groan from his chest before he even moved.

His hands found her hips.

Hers found his shoulders.

And when he pushed into her slowly, carefully, every thought in his brain short-circuited. Her body welcomed him with softness and heat that he didn’t know how to handle. He buried his face in her neck, a gasp falling from his lips as her fingers clenched against his skin.

She whispered his name like a secret.

And he kissed her again. Not to muffle sound. Not to distract.

But to feel her.

To hold her breath against his.

They moved together, slow at first — testing, learning — until the rhythm found them. Each movement, each moan, made his pulse stutter and his heart thrum harder. Her body arched to meet him, her mouth trailing across his shoulder, and every brush of skin against skin felt like it lit something new inside him.

He couldn’t stop looking at her.

The flush of her cheeks. The way her lashes fluttered. The way her lips parted every time he thrust deeper.

It overwhelmed him.

And somewhere between the way she whispered his name and the way her hands clung to him like she didn’t want to let go —

It hit him.

He wanted to stay.

Not just for the night.

Not just for this.

He wanted her.

With every part of him.

And when her body tensed and her breath caught and she cried out his name — he followed her, falling into her warmth, into the rush and pulse and wave of everything they were becoming.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

He should’ve been asleep.

After everything — the heat, the closeness, the ache in muscles he hadn’t used like that in months — his body should’ve shut down.

But his mind wouldn’t.

Not with her curled up beside him, one bare leg thrown loosely over his, her breathing soft and steady against his chest.

The room was dark now. Only the faint glow from the hallway nightlight lit the edges of her skin, casting her in that same soft light she always seemed to carry without trying.

She’d fallen asleep not long after they really wore each other out — their third time that night, when she’d taken control and moved above him like she was trying to burn herself into his soul.

Which, he was pretty sure… she had.

Because he was wrecked.

Utterly and completely ruined for anyone else.

He looked at her now — eyes sweeping the delicate curve of her face, her slightly parted lips, the slow rise and fall of her chest.

She looked peaceful.

And for a moment, he was afraid to touch her.

Afraid that the second he did, she’d wake up and everything that happened between them would vanish — like a dream they’d both made up to cope with too many weeks of built-up tension.

But he couldn’t help himself.

He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face, fingers barely ghosting her cheek.

Then he leaned in, pressing the softest kiss to her temple. Another to her cheek.

And finally, to her lips.

A kiss full of quiet, aching awe.

„You’ve destroyed me,“ he whispered against her skin, voice barely a breath. “For every other woman. No one else even comes close.”

He pulled back slightly, letting his eyes trace the way she breathed, still warm and relaxed.

And then, even softer: “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

She stirred.

Wooyoung froze.

Her eyelashes fluttered, lips parting slightly. “…Did you say something?”

Shit.

His heart jumped into his throat. “I—uh—I didn’t mean to wake you.”

She blinked, sleep still heavy in her eyes. But there was something else there now.

Clarity.

“…Did you mean it?” she asked quietly, voice thick with sleep but serious in the way only truth can be.

Wooyoung swallowed.

And then nodded.

“…Yeah. I meant it.”

A pause.

She smiled — soft, small, utterly real.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I think I’m falling too.”

And with that, she nestled closer against him again, head tucked under his chin like it belonged there.

Wooyoung stared at the ceiling for a full minute, heart in chaos.

Then he let his arms wrap around her fully.

And for the first time in what felt like forever… his mind was blank and he didn’t feel the need to talk.

So he slept.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The first thing she registered was the absence of warmth.

The side of the bed where Wooyoung had been — warm, full, safe — was now empty. The sheets were cool.

Her heart lurched.

Was this a mistake?

Had last night meant less to him than it did to her?

She sat up slowly, pressing the blanket to her chest, breath caught in her throat.

Then she heard it.

A soft clatter. A low hum. The unmistakable sound of cabinets closing and… was that eggs cracking?

She pushed the blanket off and tiptoed toward the door, peeking her head out of the bedroom.

And there he was.

In her kitchen.

Cooking breakfast.

Wearing only a pair of black boxers and a bedhead that made her knees weak.

He looked utterly, dangerously domestic — pan in one hand, spatula in the other, a slight frown of concentration on his face as he checked the toast.

And she melted.

Every anxiety from five seconds ago? Gone.

He looked up at the sound of her footsteps — and his face broke into a grin so wide it made her chest hurt.

“Morning,” he said, voice still scratchy from sleep. “Hope you’re hungry.”

She blinked, still taking in the bare chest, the soft curve of his smile, the way his entire presence filled her tiny kitchen like he belonged there.

“I thought you left,” she murmured.

He looked genuinely confused. “Left? Without saying goodbye to you? You really think I’d do that?”

“I… didn’t know,” she admitted softly.

His expression softened immediately. He set the spatula down and walked over to her, taking her face in his hands like she was something fragile and infinitely precious.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.

Then he kissed her — slow, sweet, like he was sealing the promise on her lips.

When he pulled back, he looked into her eyes and said, “Y/N?”

Her breath caught again.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

There was no hesitation in her heart.

Just warmth. Full and certain.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He beamed.

Like she’d just given him the sun.

And then he kissed her again.

And again.

And again — laughter spilling between kisses as he picked her up just slightly, spinning her in the middle of her tiny kitchen, both of them half-dressed, barefoot, completely ridiculous and completely theirs.

Breakfast would wait.

But right now?

This was everything.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

He walked into the dorm like he had a secret.

Well—technically, it wasn’t a secret. Not anymore.

It was more like a victory lap.

He was still humming under his breath as he kicked off his shoes and padded into the kitchen, grabbing a water bottle. He hadn’t even reached the couch before Mingi raised an eyebrow.

“You’re glowing.”

San looked up from his phone. “Yeah, what happened to you?”

“I don’t glow,” Wooyoung scoffed, trying to sound annoyed—but the grin tugging at his lips gave him away instantly.

“You so do,” Seonghwa chimed from the hallway. “You’ve had the same dumb smile since yesterday.”

Jongho leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me you finally kissed her.”

Wooyoung took a long sip of water. Dramatically.

Then, with a smirk that could split his face:

“I have a girlfriend now.”

Three beats of silence.

Then—

“WHAT?!”

“You what—”

“YOU DIDN’T EVEN TEXT US?!”

Wooyoung cackled as San nearly launched a couch pillow at him. “I was busy,” he said, shrugging. “Being in love. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“I hate you,” Mingi muttered, grinning wide.

“Wait,” Seonghwa said, still stunned. “So… Y/N is your actual girlfriend now?”

Wooyoung beamed. “Officially off the market.”

San shook his head, laughing. “Bro. You really pulled the quiet girl who used to flinch when someone sneezed near her.”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung said, a little more quietly now. “And she kissed me back.”

That shut them all up for a second.

Until Jongho grinned. “You’re in deep.”

“Ridiculously deep,” Wooyoung admitted, and for once—he didn’t try to downplay it.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Jisoo had just taken a bite of her toast when Y/N told her.

“So… he asked me to be his girlfriend.”

Crumbs fell from her mouth mid-gasp. “What?! Wait—what? Like, officially?”

Y/N nodded, biting her lip.

“In your kitchen? While shirtless?!”

Y/N blinked. “…Yes?”

Jisoo squealed. “That’s better than fanfiction. Oh my god, you’re dating Wooyoung. Campus menace turned golden retriever. This is huge.”

Y/N flushed. “It’s not that huge.”

“Y/N, he made you breakfast half-naked. You’re doomed.”

She smiled into her tea. “He said he’s not going anywhere.”

Jisoo’s grin softened. “And do you believe him?”

Y/N didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. I really do.”

And that was the scariest, sweetest part of all.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

It had been a few weeks since Wooyoung asked her to be his girlfriend, but the gossip still hadn’t stopped.

Everywhere she went — campus cafés, art studio lounges, the library — people whispered.

“Wooyoung? With her?”

“She’s the quiet girl from design, right?”

“She literally never talks—how did he manage that?”

“I saw them holding hands near the quad. She didn’t even look scared.”

Y/N had never liked being the center of attention.

But with Wooyoung next to her — brushing his pinky against hers, slinging an arm around her shoulders in casual protection, shooting a glare at anyone who looked too long — it felt manageable.

Because while she’d never imagined being seen like this… she also never thought it could feel so safe.

And weirdly?

It worked.

The dark, sarcastic guy with a bad reputation and the quiet girl with too many oversized sweaters and headphones. Somehow, in the mess of it all, they found each other.

That Saturday, their friend groups finally managed to collide properly — a plan Jisoo and Mingi had somehow orchestrated over bubble tea and ten too many emojis.

Y/N didn’t know what to expect.

But what she got was this:

Jisoo and San bonding over their mutual love of spicy ramen and chaotic memes.

Seonghwa being overly polite to everyone and somehow ending up babysitting Jongho, who was definitely not drunk, just energetic.

Yeosang quietly helping her and Mingi pick out snacks while Wooyoung snuck up behind her at every opportunity just to make her squeak.

They’d taken over a corner of the park, laying out blankets and drinks and snacks as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

Y/N sat with her knees pulled to her chest, laughing at something Jisoo whispered, when Wooyoung plopped down beside her and leaned against her shoulder dramatically.

“I’m tired,” he muttered, nuzzling into her neck. “You’re comfy. Be my pillow.”

“You’re heavy,” she said, trying not to laugh.

“You’re warm,” he countered, sliding an arm around her waist.

Jongho made a mock gagging noise from somewhere to the left.

“Do you ever not cling to her?” he teased.

“Nope,” Wooyoung replied lazily. “She’s mine now.”

Y/N turned, face warm, expecting him to smirk.

But when she looked at him, he was just… smiling.

Soft. Content. Eyes closed.

Her heart fluttered.

This was real. This was hers.

And even with the whispers still trailing her across campus, nothing mattered more than the boy beside her who looked at her like she hung the moon.

Later the night was still.

A soft breeze slipped through the slightly open window of her tiny apartment, carrying the faint hum of city life — far away, distant. Everything inside felt slow and calm.

Wooyoung lay beside her on the couch, head tilted back, his arm behind her as she curled into his side. Her fingers lazily traced a pattern along the hem of his shirt, both of them half-listening to the movie playing in the background.

It wasn’t even that interesting.

But neither of them moved to turn it off.

They didn’t need to talk.

They never really did.

That was one of the surprising things about being with him — how easy the silences were. Everyone else saw noise when they looked at Wooyoung. Laughter. Chaos. Energy that bounced off every surface.

But with her?

He settled.

And that stillness felt like ist own kind of closeness.

She shifted slightly, resting her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady thump beneath her ear. His hand came up without a word and gently stroked her hair, fingers moving so softly she barely felt them.

Minutes passed.

Maybe more.

Then, without warning — no build-up, no fanfare — he whispered, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard:

“I love you.”

She froze.

Not because she didn’t want to hear it.

But because it landed like something sacred.

She tilted her head slowly, eyes rising to meet his.

He was looking at her already.

There was no smirk. No joke. Just him — raw and vulnerable and entirely, utterly real.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he added quietly, thumb brushing her cheek now. “I just… couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

Y/N stared at him.

And for once, the quiet didn’t protect her. It didn’t shield her or make her invisible.

Because he saw everything.

And he still said it.

“I love you too,” she whispered.

The smile that spread across his face was soft and full and brighter than anything she’d ever seen.

He leaned in and kissed her, sweet and slow — no urgency, no hunger.

Just love.

The gossip never stopped.

Even weeks later — even after it was common knowledge that Wooyoung was hers and she was his — people still talked.

They whispered in hallways. They stole glances when they thought she wasn’t looking. Some were surprised. Some were skeptical.

But she wasn’t.

Not anymore.

Because here she was — sitting at her usual library desk, the exact one she’d been at the first time he ever noticed her — and he was across from her, looking like trouble in all black again… except this time, his shoe nudged hers every few minutes and his smile was soft.

Familiar.

Home.

“Stop staring at me,” he muttered without looking up from his notes.

She blinked. “I’m not staring.”

“You definitely are.” He raised an eyebrow. “You do this thing when you’re staring. Your head tilts and your lips kind of—yeah. That.”

Y/N felt her face flush. “Maybe I was thinking.”

“Thinking about me?”

“…Maybe.”

He grinned. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“Am not.”

“Babe.” He leaned closer across the table, dropping his voice. “You’re in love with me.”

She rolled her eyes. “So are you.”

“Exactly,” he said proudly, then tapped her pen with his. “Perfect match.”

A beat of silence passed.

Then he said, in that low, teasing voice that still made her heart trip:

“Wanna skip the second half of the library date and go get ice cream?”

She looked at him — at his ridiculous confidence, his soft smile, the way his hand reached for hers under the table like it always belonged there.

She nodded.

And when they walked out into the afternoon sun, fingers laced and hearts full, the world still buzzed around them.

But it didn’t matter.

They had each other.

And that was always enough.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

[yuyu1024]

Ahhhhh Choi San

[yuyu1024]

I have a dilemmmaaaa

I've been writing one shots/short drabbles but none of them gets posted 😅 (for my ateez and seventeen)

Coz i delete them. I get an idea... write it and then get lost...

🫠 the struggle... im so bad at this...

[yuyu1024]

I was scrolling thru X and saw this video..

I was like... awwww what a Wooyoung and Yeosang moment...

Not until I saw Woo's hand 🤣🤣🤣

EXPLAIN YOURSELF!!!

[yuyu1024]

Okay. Okay.

This is for everyone who loves San (meaning all of us)

(Warning: ready your heart for whats underneath the cut)

I can't attached the both videos here so I will just link the twts for you guys to view

Black suit

White top

P.S cant wait for all the oneshots/fanfics that ya'll be making from theseee

[yuyu1024]

Seonghwaaaaaaaaaaa

[yuyu1024]

Aaahhhh... THIS ANGLE OF JEONG YUNHO....

Doing THAT choreo

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

im fine. Yes. im fine.

(Warning under cut 💀)

My brain is GOING somewhere... (sorry) but i cannot unsee it or imagine it 😭 im weak.

Yunho... just one chance (in my dreams 😭😭😭)

My gosh... this fancam is not for the weak.... (the weak... is meee)

Help

[yuyu1024]

I love this

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ don't get it twisted ୨ৎ ( myg. )

✸⠀⠀PREMISE ⠀⠀፧⠀⠀ after their late-night studio hookup, yoongi wakes up still feeling her — under his skin, in his mouth, everywhere. she’s not his, not officially, but she’s everywhere. and when he sees her again at work, dodging his eyes and pretending nothing happened, he starts to realize just how badly he wants more than just her body. when she shows up with food, teasing smiles, and that fucking scent that doesn’t belong to him… it spirals. there’s jealousy, confessions whispered into lips, and a whole lot of filthy, possessive sex that tastes suspiciously like love.

featuring⠀idol!yoongi x producer!f!reader⠀・ themes⠀friends with benefits turned into messy feelings ending in emotional smut fest, heavy tention, angst, smut, fluff ・ wc⠀11.4k⠀・ lu's note⠀part two is finally here and it’s filthy and tender all at the same time. brace yourself, bc this is basically porn with a little bit of plot at the beginning. it took me forever to decide whether to just write this as a quick follow-up or stretch it into two more parts, but honestly? i think i love the way it turned out like this. likes, comments or anything to let me know you’re enjoying the content i make are so very appreciated. so pls pls pls let me know how you liked this follow-up to “too good at pretending.” your support means the world⠀・ navi

warnings⠀・explicit sexual content, oral sex (f + m receiving), unprotected penetrative sex (she's on the pill but still risky behavior), cum play / cum on skin (thighs), cum eating kink, facial / swallowing kink (reader shows him before swallowing), dirty talk, vocal yoongi, praising + slight degradation, public-ish sex (after-hours at hybe), overstimulation, grinding, soft edging, eye contact kink, intense intimacy, possessiveness, jealousy, soft dom!yoongi energy, subtle sub!reader moments (begging, obedience, oral fixation, emotional conflict in the form of "is this still casual?" (spoiler: is not), confessions masked as dirty talk, mutual longing, soft aftercare, gentle teasing, fwb arrangement falling apart in the most delicious way

he wakes up with the taste of her still on his tongue.

the early morning light cuts sharp through the blinds in his apartment, painting pale, angular lines across the rumpled sheets tangled around his legs. it’s quiet — too quiet — the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty, like it’s carrying all the things left unsaid from the night before. yoongi blinks against the brightness, one arm slung over his forehead, already aware that sleep’s long gone.

she’s not in his bed. she never was.

he’s alone, and it’s fine. it’s normal. this is how it works.

but his brain is still playing it all back like a track stuck on loop — the way she whimpered into that blanket, how her hands trembled against his chest, how her voice cracked when she said his name like it meant something. the lace still bunched around her thighs. her hoodie barely covering the flushed skin underneath. the mess she made of him — in more ways than one.

he shifts onto his side with a quiet exhale, staring at nothing, jaw ticking slightly. she’s not yours, he reminds himself. not really. never was. but last night?

last night, she felt like it.

it wasn’t supposed to be like that. not with her half-sprawled over the couch, face pressed to the cushions, sweat cooling against her spine while he held her like something he’d miss in the morning. not with the way her voice got all soft and half-sweet when she mumbled “that’s gonna be hard to top,” and he pretended to roll his eyes even though his chest felt too tight.

yoongi sighs and drags a hand over his face. his phone’s somewhere on the floor, probably dead, and he knows he should get up. shower. check in with the team. respond to emails. exist. but all he can think about is her — how calm she looked when he zipped up his hoodie over her bare skin, how easily she smiled like none of it complicated things.

he gets up eventually. shuffles to the kitchen, makes coffee he doesn’t really want. leans against the counter in just his sweats and scratches at the back of his neck like it’ll do something about the heaviness sitting between his ribs.

it wasn’t just the sex. it never is with her. it’s the way she moves, the quiet moments in between, the way she’s the only person who can pull a fucking laugh out of him when his head’s a mess. she’s loud and chaotic and takes up so much space — and still, he always wants more of her. even when it drives him insane.

he doesn’t know what he expected. that she’d call? text? pretend they didn’t spend half the night wrapped around each other trying to pretend it wasn’t emotional?

maybe.

instead, there’s nothing.

and that’s fine. it’s how they operate. no strings. no promises.

except now she’s everywhere in his head — her voice, her breath, her body, the way she looked back at him with that glassy, wrecked expression like he’d ruined her. like she wanted him to.

he leans over the sink, watching steam curl from the mug in his hand, and exhales slowly.

this is dangerous.

he knows it.

he always did.

but something about last night — the way she let him hold her afterward, the way she curled into him like she trusted him with the quiet — it hit somewhere deeper than it was supposed to.

yoongi presses the mug to his lips and doesn’t drink.

just stares out the window, wondering if she’s awake.

wondering if she’s thinking about him too.

probably not.

she’s got deadlines. demos. an inbox full of producers waiting to work with her. he’s just the guy who showed up when she was stressed. who made her come so hard she couldn’t speak. who left handprints on her hips and walked out like it didn’t change everything.

he should shake it off. he will.

eventually.

he finds his phone under the edge of the bed after returning to the room, face-down and clinging to life with 7% battery. the screen lights up with a soft buzz as it registers movement, a handful of unread messages — none of them from her. he tells himself that’s a good thing. a relief. means they’re both on the same page. detached. unaffected. not thinking about the way her voice cracked when she came apart in his hands.

his thumb hovers over her contact anyway. he doesn’t even have her saved under her name — just a nickname from a stupid inside joke they made when she first started working at the label, something only she would understand. something that feels a little too fond now.

what would he even say?

“how’s the mix coming along?” “good seeing you last night.” “you okay?”

no. too obvious. too boyfriend.

and yoongi — god, he’s not her boyfriend. not even close. he’s the guy she calls when she needs to let go. when her brain’s too loud and her body’s too tense and she needs someone who won’t ask questions. he’s the guy who knows what kind of wine she likes but not who she was before she came to seoul. he’s the guy who kisses her like he means it but never stays past 3am.

except he did stay. last night. or at least long enough to make it complicated.

he locks the phone screen with a sigh and tosses it onto the bed.

his hand runs through his hair as he stands in the hallway, eyes unfocused, still half-stuck in memory. she had her hoodie halfway on, hair a tangled mess, skin flushed, panties ruined. she was leaning over the couch, eyes glassy, mouth open — her fingers clutching the cushion like she was holding on for dear life. he was buried in her, hips snapping forward, sweat dripping down his neck, and she was looking back at him like she fucking owned him.

and maybe she did. maybe she still does.

yoongi huffs out a breath through his nose and heads toward the bathroom, muttering something under his breath that sounds dangerously close to fuck’s sake. the moment the cold water hits his skin, it shocks his system, draws a sharp inhale from between clenched teeth — but it’s better than the alternative.

because his dick? yeah. still hard. again.

it’s been like this since the friends with benefits deal started — this recurring morning wood that feels more like a symptom of her than anything physiological. it’s her voice in his ear. her hands under his shirt. her scent still lingering on his fingers hours later. it’s her.

and sure, yeah, he could jerk off. he has. he does. but it never hits the same. because his body doesn’t just want release — it wants her. her warmth. her weight. her voice when she says his name like it’s a secret.

he stands under the water longer than he needs to, hands braced against the tile, jaw clenched like he’s trying to ground himself in anything but the feel of her nails dragging down his spine. pathetic, he thinks. this isn’t what you signed up for.

but it’s already too late.

because yoongi — quiet, guarded, impossibly private yoongi — is starting to want things. dangerous things. like the sound of her laugh when she’s tired. like the way she hums when she’s deep into a track. like waking up to her beside him instead of a memory.

he shuts off the water, the silence hitting heavy around him again.

maybe she’s not thinking about him at all. maybe she’s already buried in her work, earbuds in, sipping iced coffee and dissecting vocal layers like last night never happened. like she didn’t fall apart on his lap, whispering yes against his mouth like it wasn’t just about the high.

he dries off in silence, towel slung low on his hips, steam still curling in the mirror.

he won’t text her. not yet.

he’ll wait. he always does.besides — she’s not his.

he’s just the one who keeps pretending that doesn’t hurt.

yoongi sees her before she sees him.

he’s walking down the hall on autopilot, barely paying attention to anything around him — not the interns rushing past, not the sound of muffled bass leaking out of a rehearsal room down the corridor, not the endless buzz of HYBE in its usual quiet chaos. but the second his eyes catch on her frame — leaned slightly against the wall outside one of the smaller editing suites — his body tenses like it knows. like it’s already reacting before his brain can fully catch up.

and she looks… different.

not bad. never that. but off. not in the way her hoodie hangs half-off one shoulder, or in how her sweatpants are cuffed unevenly like she dressed in a rush. no — it’s something in her face. her posture. the way her arms are crossed too tightly over her chest, phone clutched in one hand like she forgot she was even holding it. she’s not scrolling. not listening to anything. just… standing there.

thinking. spiraling, maybe. exactly like he was this morning.

yoongi slows his pace, considers walking past like he didn’t see her, like he’s busy or distracted or actually trying to stick to the five things he said he needed to get done today. but then she shifts — leans her head back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed for just a second — and the urge to go to her overrides whatever pride he has left.

he clears his throat gently as he approaches, hands stuffed in his pockets, expression calm. detached. casual.

don’t act weird. don’t ask anything you don’t want the answer to.

“yo.” his voice comes out low and steady, like he hadn’t spent all morning overthinking her moans. “you alive?”

her eyes snap open, and for a split second — just one beat — he sees it.

the flicker of panic, or maybe surprise, something unguarded in her face before she pastes on a quick, sheepish smile.

“barely,” she says, shifting her weight, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “you know how it is. deadlines, caffeine dependency, existential dread.”

yoongi lets out a quiet hum of acknowledgment, but he doesn’t miss the way she fidgets — the way she avoids looking directly at him at first, eyes darting back to her phone even though it hasn’t lit up once.

he doesn’t ask. doesn’t press. but he notices.

and that alone is enough to twist something tight in his chest.

“you waiting on a studio?” he asks instead, nodding toward the door beside her.

she shrugs. “yeah. i think there’s a mixing session still going on. should be out any minute.”

a pause stretches between them — not awkward exactly, but not easy either. and yoongi hates that. hates how he can feel the difference, how something unspoken hangs between them like a draft neither of them wants to acknowledge.

but then — just like that — she softens.

maybe it’s the way he’s watching her. maybe it’s the way his tone never changes, never pushes. or maybe she just missed him too.

because she lets out a quiet breath, eyes finally meeting his, and says, “by the way… you still owe me for the trauma of almost getting caught by some poor intern last night.”

yoongi blinks, caught off guard for a second — then he huffs a soft laugh through his nose.

“you mean you owe me,” he counters, tilting his head slightly. “i had to walk out with your fingerprints all over me. i looked like i’d been jumped by a very determined groupie.”

she bites back a grin, eyes twinkling just a little. there she is.

“well,” she says, voice lilting now, flirtation curling at the edges of her words, “i am pretty determined.”

yoongi raises an eyebrow at that, his smirk sharp but slow, blooming like smoke across his face. his heart’s doing something annoying in his chest, but he plays it cool, lets the silence settle a beat before he leans in just slightly — not too close, but enough to make her breathe a little slower.

“yeah?” he murmurs, eyes flicking from her lips back up. “i noticed.”

she looks away, laughing under her breath, and it’s subtle, it’s small — but it’s there. that shift. the thaw. her arms uncross, her body leans just a fraction closer to his without realizing.

and yoongi — well. he still doesn’t know what’s going on with her. why she was so dodgy at first. why her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes until just now.

but he knows this:

whatever she’s avoiding, it’s not him.

not yet.

and for now, that’s enough to make him stay a little longer.

yoongi leans his shoulder against the wall beside her, his posture easy but his eyes anything but. he’s studying her — not obviously, not in a way anyone else would notice, but she’s never really needed the full weight of his stare to feel it. it’s in the way he turns slightly toward her, how his fingers drum lightly against his thigh like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something he shouldn’t. he glances down the hallway, then back at her, voice smooth, unbothered.

“you end up doing anything with the track?”

she pauses. and he notices that, too — the half-second delay before she answers. like she’s sorting through all the possible ways to respond before landing on the one that gives away the least.

“uh…” she exhales a small laugh, tilting her head. “not really. i was kinda distracted yesterday.” her mouth twitches like she might smile, but she doesn’t let it land fully. “haven’t had the time to change anything else.”

yoongi raises an eyebrow, lips twitching just slightly. “distracted, huh?”

she shoots him a side glance — quick, but not defensive — the kind of look that says don’t start. but her cheeks give her away, that faint flush just beneath her skin that she pretends doesn’t exist. she shifts again, now more relaxed, fingers brushing through her hair like she’s trying to give her hands something to do.

“yeah, you know,” she says, voice a little too casual. “just… things.”

yoongi hums. it’s low, amused, maybe just a little smug. he can still hear her voice in his head — soft and breathless, whispering yes, right there like it was meant only for him. the idea that she couldn’t finish the track because she was too busy falling apart in his lap makes something dark and satisfied curl in his gut.

but he doesn’t push it.

not directly, anyway.

“well,” he says, glancing at the closed door beside them like it owes him an answer, “let me know if you need help finishing it. i’ve got a few... ideas.”

the way he says ideas — slow, a little rough, the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth — it’s not exactly appropriate for a hallway conversation. but she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t roll her eyes or walk away or pretend she doesn’t know what he’s implying.

instead, she presses her lips together, like she’s fighting a grin, and leans just slightly closer.

“do your ideas come with another fire hazard warning?” she asks, tilting her head like she’s teasing — but her voice is lower now, softer, the flirtation deliberately buried beneath layers of fake innocence. “because that couch might still be drying, min yoongi.”

yoongi exhales a laugh, not loud, but real. it catches him off guard a little, how easily she can do that — drag him out of his head, make him forget he spent the morning trying not to miss her.

you’re not supposed to miss her, he reminds himself again. this isn’t that kind of thing.

but it’s hard to remember that when she looks up at him with those eyes, when she says shit like that with a straight face, when she acts like she’s not dragging him deeper into something they never named.

and still — he doesn’t say anything else.

not about the night before.

not about how quiet she looked when he found her.

not about how good it feels to make her laugh.

he just pushes off the wall, hands back in his pockets, head tilting slightly.

“just saying,” he murmurs, eyes still on her, “you could probably sample some of those sounds you made. turn it into a synth line or something.”

she scoffs, but it’s breathless — and her smile this time? yeah. it lands.and yoongi walks away with the ghost of it still clinging to him.

yoongi’s studio is cold when he steps in — not in temperature, but in that still, slightly hollow kind of way that lingers when it’s been empty too long. the air’s stale from last night, a faint echo of synths still ringing in the silence. he doesn’t bother turning on the main lights. the blue LEDs lining his monitors are enough, casting the room in that familiar low glow that always made it feel like a world apart. separate from reality. quiet enough to breathe in.

he drops into his chair with a sigh, spinning slowly once before leaning forward, elbows on the desk. the song on the screen isn’t new. not even close. it’s one he started months ago, maybe longer — moody and slow and layered with too many half-formed ideas. it’s got no destination, just a vibe. it reminds him of rainy nights and restless fingers and things left unsaid. basically, it reminds him of her.

he doesn’t say that out loud, of course. wouldn’t even say it to himself if it weren’t already a fact clawing at the edge of his thoughts.

he queues the project up anyway and starts fine-tuning a few synth patches. adjusts the EQ. nudges a vocal sample an eighth note forward. it’s all mechanical, methodical — a distraction. a half-hearted one.

and then the door opens with a soft knock that’s already halfway pushed open, because only one person enters like that.

“yo,” hoseok calls, his voice the same warm, light tone it always is — like sunshine pouring into a dim room. “you alive in here?”

yoongi barely glances back. “physically.”

hoseok lets out a chuckle and steps inside, already dropping into the second chair like he owns it. his hair’s messy, face fresh, dressed down in sweats and a too-expensive hoodie that only looks effortless. days like this — in between releases, tour planning still months off — they get to breathe. kind of. stretch their limbs, catch up, check in on old projects and worse habits.

“working on anything new?” hoseok asks, peering at the screen.

yoongi shrugs, clicking aimlessly through the stems. “just polishing old shit.”

“gonna release it?”

yoongi hums. “probably not. just… filling space.”

hoseok’s quiet for a moment, just watching him. the air shifts slightly — not tense, not heavy, but perceptive. yoongi knows that silence. knows hoseok’s thinking something but giving him time to get there first.

he doesn’t. so hoseok does it for him.

“so… you and (y/n), huh?”

yoongi pauses. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look over. just drags the waveform a little to the left and hits play.

a low synth hums through the room, heavy with bass. atmospheric. slow burn. just like him.

“what about us?”

“don’t play dumb, hyung. i saw you two in the hallway earlier. i’ve heard you two. you think walls here are soundproof? please.”

yoongi exhales through his nose, lips twitching. “should’ve worn headphones.”

“should’ve kept it in your pants,” hoseok says, grinning.

that earns a full laugh — low and brief, but real — and yoongi leans back, finally meeting his eyes.

“it’s not like that,” he says.

“yeah?” hoseok quirks an eyebrow. “looked a lot like something.”

yoongi goes quiet again, eyes flicking back to the screen. the waveform’s looping now, the beat repeating every few seconds. he doesn’t hear it.

he hears her.

“yeah, well… i was kinda distracted yesterday.”

he presses his thumb into his lower lip, jaw tight.

“it’s complicated.”

hoseok nods slowly, more serious now. “you like her.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

yoongi doesn’t answer. because he does. more than he wants to admit. and it’s not just the sex. it’s her voice in the booth. the way she fights for her mixes. the way she can go from shouting across the room to whispering something filthy against his throat in the span of ten minutes. it’s how she always makes things harder — and somehow easier, too.

“you’re not exactly good at hiding shit,” hoseok says after a beat. “not with her. you look at her like… like you’re trying not to fall in love and failing miserably.”

yoongi’s heart lurches, but his face doesn’t move.

“and what if i am?”

hoseok shrugs. “then maybe stop pretending it’s casual before she walks away for real.”

that gets him.

yoongi swallows thickly and doesn’t answer.

just stares at the screen again.

like the waveform might give him a reason to do something before it’s too late.

the music’s long stopped, but he’s still sitting there — hunched slightly in his chair, eyes fixed on the screen like it’ll offer up an answer he hasn’t already dissected a thousand different ways in his head. the studio has sunk into that kind of deep stillness only late hours can create. no voices in the halls. no random knocks. even the building’s subtle mechanical hum feels distant, dulled under the weight of everything he isn’t saying.

yoongi doesn’t realize how much time has passed until his stomach lets out a low, sharp growl that physically pulls him out of his spiral. it echoes in the silence, ridiculous and needy, and he exhales a dry laugh through his nose, rubbing his face with both hands. fuck. how long has it been? eight hours? ten?

he glances at the time and winces. of course.

he pushes back from the desk slowly, spine stiff, legs numb from being curled under him too long. everything feels a little off-kilter — his body, his thoughts, even the way the air sits in the room. it’s like time’s been suspended in here, and the second he steps out that door, it’s going to catch up to him all at once.

his stomach growls again and he grumbles under his breath, rummaging half-heartedly through the snack drawer he always forgets to restock. nothing decent. just a crushed protein bar and gum that’s long expired. he considers ordering food, but even that feels like a decision he’s not ready to make. like his brain’s too preoccupied chewing on something else.

hoseok’s words won’t stop looping.

“you look at her like… like you’re trying not to fall in love and failing miserably.”

he thinks about the way she looked in that hallway earlier. how she tried not to meet his eyes at first. how her voice dipped low when she flirted. how her smile faltered for half a second when she thought he wasn’t looking. and he thinks about the night before — how natural it felt to be around her, even when her moans were echoing off the studio walls. even when he was saying shit he wouldn’t say to anyone else. even when he kissed her hair like he meant it.

because he did. and he’s not sure how long he’s been meaning it, but now that he’s realized it, there’s no unknowing it.

yoongi leans against the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest, eyes on the floor but not really seeing it. would it really be that bad if he wanted something for himself, just this once? if he stopped pretending that whatever the fuck is happening between him and her isn’t turning into something real?

it’s a dangerous question. he knows the answer already. it’s yes. it’s always yes.

because this thing they’ve got? it was built on boundaries they both agreed to. no labels. no expectations. just fun, she had said, eyes lit and smile mischievous the night it started. and he had nodded, quick to agree. because why the hell would someone like her — loud and electric and alive in all the places he’s muted — ever want someone like him?

but still. there are moments. fleeting ones. like the way she lingers after they fuck, half-tucked against him, eyes glassy and unreadable. or how she always plays him the real version of her demos, even the unfinished ones. or the time she reached for his hand in a crowded elevator and didn’t let go until they hit the lobby.

yoongi drags a hand through his hair and lets out a low, frustrated sound.

she’s not in love with you, he tells himself. she would’ve said something by now. ended it. laughed in your face.

except… maybe she wouldn’t. maybe she’s just as scared of ruining it as he is.

and suddenly everything starts to feel confusing. like the lines are blurring faster than either of them can keep up with. like they’ve both been balancing on a wire stretched too thin, pretending not to look down.

he swallows, throat dry. maybe it’s the hunger. maybe it’s the exhaustion. or maybe he’s finally just sick of lying to himself. but right now — in this empty room, with his heart pounding harder than it should — all he can think is:

what if i already lost her and didn’t even realize it?

and worse —

what if i haven’t lost her yet, but i will… if i don’t do something soon?

he grabs his phone. his fingers hesitate over her name again.

but this time — this time, maybe he doesn’t want to wait.

the knock is soft at first — more of a tap, really — but in the silence of the studio, it sounds almost like thunder. yoongi’s head lifts, eyebrows tugging together, not expecting anyone this late. he sets his phone down, heart in his throat for no good reason, and crosses the studio in slow, measured steps. when he opens the door, it takes everything in him not to let that sharp, startled smile break too wide across his face.

she’s standing there, hoodie zipped up halfway, a takeout bag dangling from one hand, and that familiar, irritatingly smug smirk playing on her lips like she already knows what he’s thinking.

“look at you,” she says, brushing past him before he can even get a word out, “alive but barely, i assume.”

he doesn’t stop her — never does — just closes the door and watches as she makes herself at home like always. she drops the bag on the tiny coffee table he’s never used for actual coffee and then turns to face him, hands on her hips.

“you didn’t answer your texts, you haven’t eaten, and you look like you’ve been brooding about god-knows-what for at least eight hours straight. so,” she says, lifting the bag with a flourish, “your savior has arrived. congratulations. your digestive system won’t fail you today.”

yoongi lets out a laugh, low and genuine, dragging a hand over his face as he moves to join her. “you’re so dramatic.”

“and you’re one stomach cramp away from passing out,” she shoots back, already unpacking the containers. “i should start charging you for emotional labor.”

he raises an eyebrow. “this is emotional labor?”

“you have the social awareness of a houseplant,” she says, grinning. “yes. it is.”

they settle onto the floor, knees bumping as they sit side by side in that unintentional kind of closeness that always seems to happen between them. like no matter how big the room is, they always end up in each other’s orbit. he watches her unbox his favorite dish without needing to ask what he wants — like she knows. like she’s wired to know.

and for a moment, it’s easy. too easy. the jokes, the way their arms graze, the way her voice softens a little when she hands him chopsticks. it should be mundane, but it isn’t. it never is with her.

but then it hits him.

a scent — subtle but undeniable. something unfamiliar. it cuts through the usual notes of soy and ginger and her shampoo, and it’s not hers. it’s cologne. a man’s.

yoongi goes still for a second, eyes narrowing just slightly as he breathes it in again, trying not to overreact but already spiraling. it’s not strong, but it clings to her — on the sleeve of her hoodie, near her neck. and it’s not his.

she doesn’t miss the way he stiffens. she never misses anything about him. her eyes flick to his face, then down to her own clothes like she already knows what he’s picked up on.

“oh — that?” she says, nudging his knee gently with hers, tone light but cautious. “it’s not what you think.”

he looks at her, expression unreadable, but the jealousy’s already burning somewhere low and sharp inside him, like a slow boil he doesn’t know what to do with.

“been working with yeonjun,” she continues, fingers playing with the edge of the takeout lid. “on one of the tracks i told you about. you know how he is. touchy, all over the place, dramatic as hell. hugged me like four times in an hour and spilled coffee on my hoodie, so i borrowed one of his. it’s nothing.”

she’s watching him now — carefully. like she’s waiting for a verdict. like she’s not entirely sure he believes her.

yoongi doesn’t say anything at first. he looks down at the food in front of him, then at the edge of the sleeve she’s tugging at absentmindedly. it’s stupid. he knows it. it’s ridiculous how fast the thought of her with someone else can unravel him.

but still — that voice in his head won’t shut up.

you’re not her boyfriend. you don’t get to care.

except he does. even if he shouldn’t. even if it hurts.

“he’s loud,” yoongi mutters finally, picking at the edge of the takeout container. “and he wears too much cologne.”

her lips twitch, just a little. “yeah,” she says. “i like yours better.”

he looks up then, eyes catching hers in that heavy, too-long way they always do when things start to slip between the cracks. she’s smiling, but her gaze is steady. honest. and maybe a little nervous.

she nudges his knee again.

“don’t get weird about it.”

yoongi exhales slowly, something unspoken loosening in his chest.

“not weird,” he says, voice soft. “just hungry.”

but they both know what he really means.

they eat mostly in silence, the kind that isn’t awkward — more like lived-in quiet, something gentle that exists between people who know each other too well to need constant talking. the food is warm, comforting, grounding in a way that makes the chaos in yoongi’s head slow to a manageable hum. for a while, the only sounds are the rustle of containers, the soft clink of chopsticks, and the occasional, lazy sip from shared soda cans.

she’s cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves pushed up, her wrist brushing against his every time she reaches for something near the middle. she’s focused, for the most part, but her eyes keep flicking toward him — little glances that say she’s thinking something, maybe a lot of things, but doesn’t know how to start saying them.

yoongi’s sitting back against the couch now, long legs stretched out, one arm resting across the seat cushions behind him. he’s not touching her, technically — but it would take the slightest movement for his fingers to find her shoulder, or her hair, or her hoodie collar. and he’s watching her, openly, a lazy half-smile playing on his lips that he doesn’t bother hiding. because she said something stupid. ridiculous, really. something about how the drums in her demo sounded like “a washing machine having a panic attack” and how she was going to “maybe rebrand as an experimental laundromat composer.”

“what the fuck does that even mean?” he asks, still grinning.

“don’t act like you wouldn’t stream it,” she says, chewing the last bite of dumpling. “i know your niche little taste.”

he scoffs lightly. “i’d stream it just to clown on you in the comments.”

“exactly,” she says, pointing a chopstick at him like she’s proved a point. “engagement.”

he snorts, shakes his head, leans a little heavier against the couch. “so the demo?”

she shrugs, wiping her fingers on a napkin. “i mean... it’s still a mess. but kind of a beautiful one? i think i needed last night, actually. i was stuck. in my head. needed to… get out of it.”

he hums at that, a quiet acknowledgment, but his eyes flick away for a second. because yeah, she did get out of it. she got under him, over him, and inside his fucking brain. and now they’re here again, sitting close, joking like nothing about it cracked anything open. but it did. he knows it. and maybe — maybe she does too.

he opens his mouth to say something — maybe another joke, maybe something a little more honest — but he never gets the chance.

she kisses him.

not in that frantic, breathless way that usually comes after too much tension and too little distance. not the way she does when she’s climbing into his lap or tugging at his hoodie, all teeth and heat. this is... different.

it’s soft. casual, almost. like a pause in a conversation, like punctuation. like she just wanted to shut him up for a second — or maybe just needed to feel him without all the buildup.

her lips press gently against his, warm and slow. her hand settles on his thigh, thumb brushing absently against the fabric of his sweats, not suggestive, not teasing — just there. grounding. familiar. and it catches him off guard because there’s no real hunger in it, not yet. just intimacy. quiet affection disguised as a throwaway moment.

he doesn’t move, not right away. just lets it happen. lets her kiss him like it’s normal. like it means nothing. like it means everything.

when she pulls back, barely, her face hovers close — her breath still mingling with his. her fingers still resting on his leg. and for a second, neither of them says anything.

yoongi just looks at her, the smile slow to return this time, eyes soft and half-lidded.

“that was random,” he murmurs.

she shrugs like it’s nothing, like her heart isn’t beating out of her chest. “you looked too smug. it was annoying.”

he chuckles, eyes still on her lips. “sure.”

“don’t get ideas,” she adds, reaching for another dumpling like she didn’t just change the temperature of the whole room.

but he does.

he has.

and now he’s stuck with them.

she's licking soy sauce off her thumb when she asks, too casually, “do you have plans when you go home?”

yoongi’s mid-chew, eyes flicking up at her like he’s trying to decide whether she’s joking or baiting him — both, probably. always both with her. he swallows slowly, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and leans back again against the couch, stretching out like a cat settling into warm sun. his arm slides higher along the cushion, closer to her shoulder now, and he smirks, head tilted just slightly.

“you know it’s late, right?”

she shrugs, unbothered, lips twitching as she looks sideways at him. “best things happen when it’s late,” she says. “yesterday’s a good example.”

the words hit like a loaded trigger, pulling a visible shift in the air between them. the quiet settles differently now — thicker, slower. her voice has that edge again, that deliberate softness that sounds like innocence but hides all kinds of trouble beneath it. and yoongi? yeah, he’s already moving closer.

he props one elbow on the back of the couch now, turning fully toward her. his knees bend just a little, thighs open. the way he looks at her is heavy, something simmering behind his lashes as a slow grin stretches across his face — a smile that says i know what you're doing. and i’m not stopping you.

“so what,” he says, voice roughening just a notch, “you bring me dinner, make me laugh a little, kiss me like that, and now i’m just supposed to fuck you again?”

she giggles — that little gasp-hiccup sound she only makes when she’s been caught red-handed but still refuses to play innocent. her eyes flick down to his mouth, her hand trailing back to rest on his thigh again, fingertips just barely digging in through the fabric of his sweats. she’s not answering. doesn’t have to.

yoongi leans in — lips ghosting just over her cheek, the shell of her ear — close enough to make her skin prickle.

“you get needy when the sun goes down, huh?” he murmurs, breath hot. “always showing up with excuses. food. fake concern. pretending you’re here to babysit me when you know damn well you just want me to lay you out again.”

her breath hitches, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.

his mouth finds hers again, but this time there’s no hesitation — none of that soft in-between from earlier. it’s hungrier now, like they’re picking up where they left off last night. like he’s been thinking about this since he watched her walk away, sweat-stained and glowing and satisfied. his hand moves instinctively, resting on her hip, thumb dragging just under the hem of her hoodie, lazy and unhurried.

he breaks the kiss to murmur against her lips, “you’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?”

her eyes flutter, but she nods, biting her bottom lip just to keep from moaning at how good his voice sounds when it dips like that — low and secret, like a promise.

“what part are you stuck on?” he asks, eyes heavy, his free hand now dragging up her thigh with just enough pressure to make her shift. “me pulling your hair? or when you came all over my fingers before i even got inside you?”

she exhales hard, laughing through it, but she’s flushed now, knees turned inward like she’s trying to contain the heat blooming low in her belly. it’s no use. he already knows. he can read her like a language he’s memorized in every form.

he kisses her again, slower this time, then pulls back just enough to whisper:

“say please, baby. i’m still full from dinner — but if you ask real nice... maybe i’ll still have you for dessert.”

and just like that —

yoongi’s night is no longer his.

it’s hers. always has been.

“please,” she breathes, voice smaller than before — not playful, not sarcastic. real. the kind of soft that only surfaces when the guard drops, when want curls up from her belly and takes the reins of her mouth. “yoongi, please. i’ve been thinking about you all day… couldn’t stop. couldn’t—” she exhales, eyes fluttering, “i can’t wait anymore.”

and that—god, that—does something to him.

yoongi’s breath stutters, his fingers tightening where they rest on her thigh. there’s a fire building slow and low in his stomach, the kind that doesn’t rush — the kind that simmers, burns, because it’s not just about lust. it’s about the way she looks at him when she says things like that. like he’s the only one who’s ever been able to pull her apart in just the right way. like she needs him to be the one to get her there, every time. like she’s already unraveling from the idea alone.

he shifts as she climbs between his legs, her hands working slow, deliberate, never breaking eye contact — her gaze warm, serious, a little bit mischievous. she presses a kiss to his jaw first, featherlight, then down to his throat, her lips brushing his pulse point.

“you always take care of me,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “let me take care of you.”

yoongi groans low in his chest, head dropping back against the couch with a dull thud, already undone by the idea before she’s even touched him. his hoodie bunches slightly as she tugs at the hem of his shirt, her fingers grazing over his skin in teasing strokes. she moves lower, slower — kisses trailing down like breadcrumbs, soft and hot, until she settles where he needs her most.

and then—

then, her mouth is on him, slow and warm and devastating, like she’s trying to memorize the taste of him. like she’s saying thank you with every breath, every drag of her tongue. she wraps one hand around the base of him, the other braced lightly on his thigh, grounding herself as she works. the sounds she makes are quiet, eager, reverent. she takes her time. she wants to. because yoongi’s always been so careful with her — always patient, always knowing exactly how to touch her, how to ruin her in all the right ways.

and now it’s her turn.

yoongi’s hands bury in her hair, not rough — more like he’s anchoring himself. his lips part around a curse he doesn’t finish, his whole body going taut with restraint. because she knows what she’s doing, knows exactly how to undo him. and she does it with intention. with purpose.

with care.

and maybe that’s what breaks him most —

not the pleasure, not the heat, not the slick sounds and the pressure building too fast to hold —

but the fact that it means something.

even when they’re pretending it doesn’t.

his fingers slide through her hair, gentle at first — reverent, almost — before curling tighter at the nape of her neck. he brushes the strands back from her face so he can see her, the way her lips stretch around him, eyes glossy and half-lidded, her cheeks flushed with heat and want. she looks wrecked already, mouth full of him, but still so fucking pretty it almost hurts.

yoongi bites down on a groan, hips twitching the slightest bit, restraint clawing at every muscle in his body. fuck, she looks good like this. like she belongs there, between his legs, sinking deeper into whatever quiet madness they’ve been building for months.

“look at you,” he mutters, voice a slow drag of smoke, deep and rough in the back of his throat. “fuck, baby… always so eager for it.”

her eyes flick up at him, and that’s when he knows—knows—she’s loving this just as much. he can feel it in the way she shifts, subtly squeezing her thighs together, in the soft, messy sounds she’s making around him. muffled whimpers that melt against his skin. she’s getting off on it. on the way he talks to her. on the way she knows he’s watching every movement, every hollow of her cheeks, every trembling inhale.

“you like being my good girl, huh?” he breathes, thumb grazing her jaw, the corner of her lips as she bobs her head slowly. “bet you’re soaked already. fuck—are you?”

she whines low in her throat, the sound vibrating through him, and yoongi’s eyes flutter closed for a second, overwhelmed. he’s not gonna last if she keeps making noises like that. but god, he loves it. he loves knowing she needs the filth just as much as the touch. that she’s getting wet just from his voice, from the weight of his hands in her hair, from the control he gives and takes in the same breath.

“wish you could see yourself,” he grits out, voice low and hungry. “so fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth. like you were made for it.”

her rhythm falters slightly, a soft shiver coursing through her as she presses closer, takes him deeper — because of what he said. and yoongi groans again, the sound ragged now, falling apart.

“yeah… that’s it. just like that, baby. just like that.”

and somewhere deep in his chest, it twists — not just lust but something else, something more dangerous. something that says this is more than what we said it would be.

but he doesn’t say that.

he just watches her fall apart for him, mouth full, eyes glazed, and knows —

she’s his.

even if neither of them has dared to say it yet.

she doesn’t move right away when he finishes — just stays there for a moment, breathing through her nose, eyelashes trembling, lips parted around him like she’s trying to leave a mark that’s more than just physical. and when she does finally pull back, it’s slow, teasing, her tongue dragging along the head of him like she’s savoring the last taste.

then she looks up — really looks up — and opens her mouth slightly, showing him what he gave her, a wicked little smile curling at the corners of her lips before she swallows without breaking eye contact.

it’s filthy. it’s devastating. it’s so her.

yoongi feels his whole body jolt at the sight, like the tension that’s been coiling up inside him has found a new place to spark. he lets out a rough, breathless laugh — low and disbelieving — before pulling her up by the jaw, not roughly but with a kind of urgency that surprises even him.

he kisses her. hard.

no hesitation, no space between them. he kisses her like he wants to memorize the taste on her tongue. like he wants to remind her that it’s not just about what she did, but how she did it — the way she gave it to him, the way she always does, without asking for anything back but still deserving everything.

and he gives it.

his hands are already sliding beneath her hoodie, palms warm and greedy against her back. the fabric rides up as she shifts closer, climbing into his lap without a word. he doesn’t ask — he doesn’t need to. she’s already moving how he wants her, like she knows. like she feels it.

he tugs the hoodie over her head in one smooth motion, letting it fall somewhere behind them, forgotten. her bra’s simple — soft black cotton, no lace, no shine — but fuck, it fits her perfectly. the kind of thing that isn’t made to seduce but ends up doing exactly that anyway.

his hands pause for a second. he just… looks.

she’s straddling him, bare above the waist except for that small piece of fabric, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. her fingers are in his hair now, slow, thoughtful, threading at the roots like she’s not sure if she wants to ground herself or pull him closer.

and her eyes — they’re searching his face. not teasing, not playful. serious. soft. like she’s trying to memorize him too.

yoongi swallows thickly, his hands sliding up her sides, thumbs brushing just beneath the underwire.

“you’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, quiet, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.

she doesn’t say anything. doesn’t have to.

the way she leans in to kiss him again, slower this time — deeper — says it all.

yoongi’s hands are all over her now — slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to map her body from memory even though he already knows it better than his own. he palms the curve of her ass through her sweats, fingers spreading, squeezing, grounding her onto his lap. her body responds instantly, instinctively — hips rolling once, twice, like her muscles remember the rhythm before her mind can catch up.

he groans into her mouth when she does it again, this soft grind that presses her right against where he’s growing hard all over again. his fingers dip lower, sneaking beneath the waistband of her sweats, and it’s like she melts right into his hands. like her body wants to be held there.

"fuck," he mutters into her mouth, "you know what you do to me, don’t you?"

she breathes a shaky little laugh, forehead pressed to his, her hands still in his hair, nails grazing his scalp just right. “you sound surprised.”

he doesn’t answer — not out loud. instead, he helps her shift back just enough for him to start tugging her sweats down. she lifts herself slightly, letting him ease them over her hips, down her thighs. her underwear’s a delicate scrap of fabric, damp and clinging and completely in his way. he doesn’t waste time — peels them off with a practiced ease, sliding both pieces down her legs, letting them get tangled around one ankle like they always do when they get too impatient to bother properly.

she sits back on his lap, now bare from the waist down, still in that soft black bra, and he exhales hard through his nose — not even trying to hide the way his eyes drag down her body.

“jesus, you’re—” he starts, then just groans, pulling her into him again like he needs her closer, like even skin to skin isn’t enough.

he kisses her deep — messier now, open-mouthed, hungry. one hand cups the back of her neck while the other returns to her ass, squeezing hard as he rocks her against him, making her gasp into his mouth.

it’s not rushed. it’s not frantic. it’s just them — steady and knowing and hot with everything they haven’t said yet.

and god, he could lose himself in it.

maybe he already is.

their bodies are flushed, sweat starting to gather in the small spaces where skin meets skin — under her thighs, his hands gripping the back of them, her chest pressed to his, her breath warm against his jaw. she’s moving in slow circles on his lap, bare and wet and leaving a mess on him, that slick, sticky evidence of how much she wants him — how long she’s wanted him.

yoongi can’t stop watching her face.

she’s breathing heavy, lips parted, eyes locked on his like she’s balancing between control and surrender. and she’s doing this thing — this fucking thing — where she grinds just right and then pulls back the second he thinks he might slide into her. the tip of him keeps slipping through her folds, catching for a second, teasing that sweet ache of friction, and then she rolls her hips up and away again, dragging a whimper from both of them.

“you’re playing a dangerous game,” he grits out, voice dark, jaw tense.

her nails trail up his shoulders, one hand slipping around the back of his neck, the other flat on his chest, steadying herself. she leans in close, close enough that her lips brush his, her breath shaky. “i want you to need me,” she whispers, barely audible. “like i do.”

and that sentence? that one sentence nearly undoes him. because fuck does he.

he's needed her in every version she’s shown him — loud and teasing, quiet and wrecked, undone in his hands or breaking him apart with just a glance. he’s needed her since the first time she kissed him and acted like it didn’t mean anything.

his hands move instinctively — one sliding up her back, the other unclasping her bra like he’s done it a hundred times before (because he has). he tosses it aside without looking, eyes never leaving hers.

and then he kisses her again.

not like before — not teasing, not playful. this kiss hurts. it’s full of things neither of them are brave enough to say. it’s heavy with the weight of all the feelings they’ve kept buried under sweat and moans and half-laughed excuses.

his tongue slides against hers, and she gasps, moving faster now, grinding harder. he grabs her hips and guides her, dragging her down against him, and they both groan — heads tipping back for a second before they look at each other again.

and fuck, the eye contact. it’s too much.

their foreheads touch, noses brushing, panting into each other’s mouths. they’re so close to breaking. so close to letting it all spill out.

but neither says it.

not yet.

not out loud.

so instead, they stay here — teetering on the edge, breathless and desperate, wrapped in each other’s silence.

pretending it’s still just physical.

pretending they’re not both already in too deep.

her fingers wrap around him, slow and sure, and it’s like the room holds its breath.

yoongi’s chest stutters as she lines him up, her forehead pressing to his, and for a second they’re still — just breathing, both of them trembling with restraint. she doesn’t look at his face. not right away. her eyes are locked down, staring between them, watching how he disappears into her inch by inch, slick and hot and so fucking close it sends a shudder through her entire body.

her brows twitch upward in a soft, desperate kind of pain — not from discomfort, but from overwhelm. her mouth falls open around a quiet, strangled sound, something raw and completely real that slips out before she can stop it. it’s not the first time he’s been inside her — not even close — but something about this time feels different. maybe it’s the silence. the eye contact. the tension they've been choking on for weeks. months. maybe it’s the way neither of them’s bothering to pretend anymore.

because she’s shaking, and he’s gripping her hips like a lifeline, and then—

then she says it.

“i don’t want anyone else to have you like this,” she whispers, voice thin and cracking at the edges. her breath ghosts over his lips as she moves, the words punctuated by the slow rise and fall of her body. “i’m done pretending, yoongi. i don’t—fuck, i can’t.”

the confession splinters through him, sharp and blinding.

his hands slide up her back as she moves — slow at first, then faster, her hips snapping down in short, messy bursts. there’s nothing graceful about it. it’s frantic. possessive. like she’s trying to stake her claim on him with every wet slap of skin against skin. like she’s branding him with her body, letting him feel what she hasn’t had the nerve to say until now.

yoongi groans — guttural, broken — and digs his fingers into her waist as she starts to ride him harder, pace faltering with every moan she swallows back. her eyes flicker to his then, glassy and dark, and he can barely hold her gaze without falling apart.

“mine,” she says again, almost like a warning, like a plea. “you’re mine.”

he nods — fuck, he’d do anything for her right now — and brings his forehead to hers, their noses brushing as they move together in this messy, electric rhythm. every push, every drag, every breath feels like a vow neither of them has the guts to say out loud in plain language.

but it doesn’t matter.

because her body says it for her.

and his, god help him, answers back like it’s been waiting this whole time.

yoongi’s mouth finds the curve of her neck — hot, open-mouthed kisses dragging along her pulse as he pants against her skin. she’s still moving on him, slower now, deeper. every roll of her hips making his breath catch, making his hands grip tighter at her waist like he’s scared she might slip away despite what she just said.

he groans against her skin, the sound raw and low in his throat. needy, in a way he hasn’t let himself be — not until now. his teeth catch her earlobe, a soft bite that makes her shudder, and then he says it:

“fuck—i’ve been wanting to hear you say that.” his voice is wrecked, voice box vibrating against her neck, and his arms wrap tighter around her like he’s trying to fold himself into her, bury all the things he’s never admitted. “for so long, baby… you have no idea.”

she breathes in sharply, head tipping back, and he uses the opportunity to kiss down her throat, to press his lips to the hollow of her collarbone, to feel the way she trembles from the inside out.

and then he pulls back — just enough to look at her.

really look at her.

his hands slide up her back, fingertips tracing her spine, and their eyes lock again in that heavy, charged silence. her hips keep moving — slower now, drawn-out, grinding deep like she wants him to feel all of her. like she’s memorizing the way he fills her. her chest brushes his with every shift, and she’s still watching him. like he’s the only thing anchoring her.

“say it again,” he whispers, voice low but clear.

she leans in, mouth brushing his as she moves, as she grinds with purpose now, deliberate, claiming every inch of him.

“you’re mine,” she breathes, barely audible.

“all yours,” he answers without thinking.

and fuck, the way they move after that?

it’s not about getting off anymore.

it’s about knowing.owning.

holding each other in the most vulnerable way they ever have — naked and honest and right on the edge of something they can’t undo.

her forehead presses to his, and she doesn’t stop moving — slow, grinding, so deep it’s like she’s trying to carve him into herself, like she wants to memorize every ridge and throb, the way his breath catches, the way his lashes flutter when she tightens around him just right.

and then she whispers it.

into his lips.

into his soul.

“say i’m the only one,” she pleads, voice trembling. “please.”

and she is. she is. he doesn’t even hesitate.

his mouth crashes into hers — desperate and full of heat, his hands splaying across her back like he doesn’t want to let a single part of her go. he kisses her like it’s the only way he can say what he’s feeling without unraveling. not soft, not teasing. hungry. raw.

and then he moves — not away, never away — but with her.

he shifts, gently guiding her down onto the rug that cushions the floor below them, the tiny coffee table shoved just far enough to give them space. she’s blinking up at him, wide-eyed, lips swollen from his kisses, chest rising and falling like she’s about to break. he strips off the last of her clothes — her bra already gone, but her socks, her hoodie tangled around her arms, still in the way. and his — his shirt’s gone in a second, and his sweats follow, tossed somewhere into the growing pile around them.

“you’re the only one,” he says against her skin, voice thick, reverent. “the only one i think of. when i touch myself. when i wake up. when i hear a fucking melody that sounds like you.”

he grabs her ankle, lips brushing over the thin skin there, and starts kissing his way up — slow and reverent at first, then hungry when he reaches the bend of her knee, the inside of her thigh. she gasps, her legs twitching around him, and he hooks his arms under them, pulling her closer like she belongs wrapped around him.

“you’re it, baby,” he murmurs, kissing higher, closer, nearly to her core. “no one else. no one fucking touches me like you do. no one knows me like you do.”

and maybe it’s the way she trembles when he says it. maybe it’s the way she looks at him now, like she believes him.

maybe it’s the truth in his voice that finally makes her body let go of the tension she’s been carrying since the moment they met.

because now?

it’s not about pretending.

it’s about claiming.and he’s more than willing to let her do the same.

he doesn't rush it—no, not at first. he hovers there, above her, between her legs, one hand splayed across her waist like it’s anchoring him to the present, to her. their eyes meet, and there’s a beat of stillness, thick and charged and warm, where neither of them says a word. their bodies are flushed, skin tacky with heat, but it’s the emotion in the air that makes it almost unbearable.

then, with a soft breath and a quiet, reverent kind of groan, he sinks into her again.

and it’s everything.

she gasps, arching up to meet him, her hands flying to his back, her nails dragging across his shoulder blades, not to hurt—but to hold. to keep him right there. and yoongi… yoongi moves. faster than before, a little harder, but still tender. every thrust is measured but needy, like he’s trying to burn this version of her into memory.

his mouth finds her ear again, his breath hot and uneven. “you feel like heaven,” he whispers, voice cracked and low. “like you were made for me.”

and then his hips snap forward, deeper this time, dragging a strangled moan out of her lips that has his head spinning.

“so fucking tight,” he growls, one hand slipping up her ribs to cup her breast, thumb grazing over her nipple. “you always take me so good… no one else gets this. no one gets this from me but you.”

she cries out at that, clinging tighter, and he kisses her—open-mouthed, messy, not even pretending to be composed anymore. she’s unraveling beneath him, her legs wrapping around his waist, locking him in like she needs him to stay, like she doesn’t want to risk even a second of separation.

his forehead falls to hers again, noses brushing, sweat dripping at the temple. “you’re it for me, baby,” he murmurs. “you hear me? all this—" he rolls his hips again, and she keens, "—only for you. only ever been for you.”

and there’s a truth in it that tastes like something permanent.

like something they've both been too afraid to say.

her hands cradle his face now, and he kisses her again. again. like it’s the only language that’ll carry everything he means.

and as their bodies move in sync, as the rhythm builds and the heat coils, the words he keeps spilling into her skin blur—between filthy and loving, between “you’re so fucking wet” and “you’re everything,” between want and need.

because for yoongi, with her, there’s never been a line.

just her. only her.

she comes undone with his name on her lips — not yelled, not screamed, but breathed out like a secret, like a confession she’s been carrying in her chest for weeks. her back arches, fingers digging into his biceps, eyes squeezing shut as her thighs tremble around his hips.

yoongi watches her fall apart, watches the way her body stutters and spasms, the way her mouth falls open in a shaky gasp. and that’s it for him — the breaking point. the way she looks when she finishes, all flushed and ruined and clenching around him like she doesn’t want to let go.

he pulls out just in time, jaw tight, breath shallow, barely choking out a curse before he releases thick and hot across her inner thigh, hips still twitching as he grinds against her skin. he could’ve come inside — he knows she’s on the pill, they’ve had that conversation — but there’s something so primal about this. about seeing her messy and wrecked, painted in him, like he marked her.

he stares at the mess for a beat — her legs trembling, her chest heaving, the slick between them sticky and raw — before leaning down without a word, mouth open, tongue dragging slow across her thigh to clean it.

and fuck, she jolts.

her eyes snap open, still hazy with the aftershocks, only to find him there, on his knees, licking himself off her like it’s nothing. like it’s everything.

the sight alone makes her throb all over again.

yoongi finishes what he started, kisses up her thigh, across her hip, then her stomach. and when he makes it back to her mouth, she’s already reaching for him, already tugging him closer.

and when she kisses him this time, it’s dirty and sweet all at once, her hand sneaking between them to wrap around both of them — his length, still slick, still sensitive, and hers, her arousal still warm on his skin.

she kisses him again, deeper now, still catching her breath — and her hand moves between their bodies, slipping down to wrap around him, slow and deliberate. he twitches under her touch, still sensitive, still slick from everything. and then, with a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, she slides her fingers lower, brushing through her own arousal, their mess mixing on her skin.

yoongi watches, breath caught in his throat, as she lifts her hand between them. her fingers glisten, coated in both of them, and then—

then she brings them to her mouth.

her tongue flicks out, slow and purposeful, licking across her fingers like she’s savoring every bit. tasting them both. tasting this — whatever they just crossed into.

his groan is instant, guttural, completely wrecked.

and she just grins, lips slick and eyes wild, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him.

“we’re fucking insane,” she whispers, lips brushing his.

and they both crack then, laughing — not hard, not loud — just breathless and loose and wrecked, tangled up in something that feels like relief.

like they finally let something out they didn’t even know they were holding.

he kisses her again, grinning against her lips. “yeah,” he murmurs. “but that was so worth it.”

and it was.

god, it was.

he doesn’t let her go. not after that.

his arms wrap around her again, pulling her flushed against his chest like he's afraid she’ll evaporate if he loosens his grip. his lips brush her temple, his breath still uneven, but his voice—his voice—comes out soft. low. vulnerable in a way he hasn’t allowed himself to be in so long it almost feels foreign.

“say that you meant it,” he whispers, his thumb stroking the curve of her spine. “please.”

he swallows, presses his nose to her hair. “because i don’t think i could take it if that was just… a weird kink. or some fucked-up moment of too much intimacy.”

she’s quiet at first. her fingers are tracing slow circles over his ribs, and then she shifts just enough to look up at him — really look. her cheeks are flushed, lashes damp, eyes so sincere it knocks the wind out of him.

“i do,” she says, voice steady but soft. “i have for a while.”

yoongi's breath catches.

and then he’s kissing her. everywhere. her cheeks, her nose, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. all of it. frantic, relieved, grinning. like he just found out the universe wasn’t playing a joke on him after all. like it’s real now. and she’s just laughing softly, tangled in his lap, letting him love on her without saying anything else.

until she leans her head on his shoulder, still kind of sticky and disheveled, her bare legs wrapped around his waist, and mumbles—

“so… what now?”

he exhales a breath of a laugh, kisses the side of her head again.

“now,” he starts, glancing at the door like it might fly open at any second, “we clean up before someone like hoseok comes through that door and finds us like this—” he gestures vaguely to the pile of clothes, the mess, them on the floor, still glowing like a pair of sinners caught in the sun.

she groans, face burying into his neck, giggling like she knows it’s a close call.

“—then,” he continues, more seriously this time, “you let me take you out on a breakfast date tomorrow.”

that gets her. she lifts her head, blinking at him like he’s said something profound. “breakfast?”

he nods. “yeah. like pancakes, coffee, awkward first date questions we already know the answers to.”

her smile softens into something that makes his chest feel too small.

“okay,” she says. “yeah. i’d like that.”

and for once, yoongi’s not thinking ahead.

not worrying.

not pretending.

he just nods and holds her tighter, like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

quietly , always cigarettesuga . ୨ৎ

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove @rpwprpwprpwprw @annyeongbitch7 @namgimini @princesstiti14

[yuyu1024]

Jeong Yunho.......In all black.....A suit....

And..... forehead exposed....And THAT hand 😶

🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠

Warning below cut if your a yunho biased like meeeeeee... 😭

[yuyu1024]

The spread

The neck

I'm sitting in my Fantasy. Yep.

🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️

[yuyu1024]

Guys.... GUYS!!!! As a Yunho bias. THIS IS TOO MUCH FOR ME.

(Credit to owner of the edit and clips)

The VOICE

The "innocence" like why are we affected 👀

The laugh

The HAND

YUNHO. YOU ARE MY LOVE. 😭

Forgive me pls of being delulu but... you are what im into... my type... and no need to be gent------- ooooops 😶

[yuyu1024]

I'm on the FLOOOOOOOR

Maybe im the flooor... idk but DAAAAAANG

SEONGHWAAA

Just imagine thissss maaaan... BEING YOUR MAN.

[yuyu1024]

Anyone alive after the MV drop of In Your Fantasy????

Coz bruuuh... the lyrics.... the way they look at you when they sang it....

Feeding into my delulu....

Especially this MAN!!!

Imagine being the girl they be singing forrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

[yuyu1024]

These TWO....

Too much to handle

[yuyu1024]

im not okay

Yunho singing "Yeah I could be gentle but that ain't what you like" while looking and sounding like this... Stop the damn show