Hii How Are You? I Hope You've Had An Amazing Day!

hidden was soooo good I was STRESSING girl

AAAA TYSM😭 it’s honestly my fav out of everything i’ve written, and i spent so much time on it it’s insane… it makes me so happy to see ppl are enjoying it as much as i did while writing it🥹💗

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can we get a spoiler of hidden 2?

i posted a sneak peek a few asks down!! ;)

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is there a tag list for hidden if so could i be added to it 💔

yes ofc!!!💗 just added you :)

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HIDDEN || Choi Seung-Hyun (T.O.P)

summary: when you land an internship on the dearMoon project, you’re just trying to keep your head down, do your job, and survive under the watchful eye of your mother—the mission’s lead director. falling for someone is not part of the plan. especially not choi seunghyun. but that doesn’t stop him from wanting you. and it doesn’t stop you from letting him. you thought you could handle the consequences—you didn’t expect to lose everything else along the way.

warnings/this story contains: 18+ (reader discretion is advised). female reader. age gap (reader is 22, seunghyun is 35 and they’re very dramatic about it!). smut (oral sex m+f, p in v, public sex, unprotected sex, phone sex, praising, degradation, rough sex, dirty talk, soft dom!seunghyun, he freaky freakyyyyyy). reader has absolutely no self-preservation. seunghyun has zero restraint. secret relationship situation. fwb situation for a bit. seunghyun blocking people like it’s a hobby, as usual, and being extremely paranoid. reader’s mom being a pain in the ass and the biggest opp in this fic. crazy tension. reader is down BAD and frequently delusional. angst (miscommunication, troubled past, bickering, reader is passive-aggressive sometimes, name-calling, emotional repression, unresolved trauma, heartbreak, guilt, public exposure and fallout, timing never being right, love not being enough). seunghyun has huge trust issues and should probably work on himself. reader sacrifices way too much and deserves better. this story doesn’t have a happy ending. sorry in advance.

a/n: this is my interpretation of seunghyun. it’s totally okay if it doesn’t match the version you have in your head, but please be respectful! (or i’ll cry) this fic doesn’t sugarcoat anything, and there are moments where seunghyun is put in a bad light. if that’s not something you’re comfortable reading, it’s okay to skip this one. also: i did research (or at least i tried to), but there were moments where i simply didn’t know what the hell i was yapping about and i stand by it anyway lmaoo. this is LOOOONG (it’s a whole fic). english isn’t my first language. seunghyun’s texts are in blue, reader’s texts are in orange. reader’s dialogue is in bold.

songs: the abyss — the weeknd, lana del rey || no one noticed — the marías || champagne coast — blood orange

you remember your mother’s words clear as day: “do not approach the crew. do not talk to them unless strictly necessary. you’re an intern.” like you needed the reminder. you press your lips together, trying not to roll your eyes as you clutch the flimsy cardboard tray in your hands, ten coffees deep into a task that feels more like humiliation than help. hazelnut latte, two oat milk cappuccinos, black americano, iced matcha, double espresso, vanilla cold brew, two caramel macchiatos, and some complicated mocha monstrosity you didn’t bother memorizing—you just wrote it down and prayed for forgiveness. because god forbid you mess up the orders. this wasn’t what you signed up for. technically, you’re an intern under mission integration, shadowing one of the highest-ranking officers on the dearmoon project. realistically? you’re the designated errand girl—her errand girl. your mother’s name holds weight in every room, and you’re still stuck delivering caffeine like a professional barista.

the crew lounge is too loud. laughter bounces off the walls, layered over music and the hiss of a nearby espresso machine that makes your entire trip feel even more pointless. you hover awkwardly by the entrance, tray in hand, waiting for someone to notice you, because you’re under strict instructions not to call attention to yourself. you catch glimpses of them. the crew. the artists. the chosen ones. and then you spot him. choi seunghyun. t.o.p. he’s sitting alone near the back of the room, half-sunk into a chair with one leg crossed over the other, sunglasses on indoors. he’s scrolling through something on his phone, ignoring everyone around him. you recognize the haircut first—faint lavender under the artificial lights. it’s faded since the official crew announcement, but it still stands out in the crowd. just like he does. you’ve been intrigued by him from the start—since the very first time you saw him during a crew briefing your mom dragged you to. there’s something about him. you’ve never had a real conversation with seunghyun—just exchanged the occasional good morning or evening when you passed him in the hall, polite. but that hasn’t stopped your brain from doing what it does best… fantasizing.

sometimes, it makes you feel seventeen again. that stupid kind of crush that creeps in—the one that makes your chest tighten when you see him and has you overthinking every time you accidentally make eye contact. you’re twenty-two. you know better. and he’s—what? thirty-five? thirty-six? a world away from you in age, experience, in every possible sense. he’s lived a thousand lives. performed in front of stadiums. disappeared from the spotlight. flown halfway around the world to join a mission that’ll orbit the moon. meanwhile, you’re here, fighting off heart palpitations because he once held the elevator door for you. kinda pathetic! you know there’s no point. you’re not delusional (right?). he probably doesn’t even know your name. but that doesn’t stop your chest from doing that annoying fluttery thing every time you see him.

you shift your weight from one foot to the other. no one’s acknowledged you yet—too busy talking, laughing, moving through the room. and then someone glances over—a crew assistant, you think—and waves you in with a casual, “you can just bring them in.” you take a deep breath and step forward, gripping the tray tighter than necessary. your palms are already clammy, your heart annoyingly aware of the fact that he’s still sitting right there, probably not even noticing you. except… you feel it. his gaze. not full-on staring—he’s more subtle than that. but it’s there, following you quietly as you move through the room, delivering each cup of coffee with a forced smile and careful hands. you don’t look at him, but you can sense it—like the heat from sunlight on skin. it makes your hands shake more than they should.

you finally reach the last cup. the mocha monstrosity. no one’s claimed it yet, and you’re standing there like a glitch in the system, eyes scanning the room. you’re about to set it down on the edge of the counter and make your exit when a voice cuts through the noise. “that one’s mine.” you glance up. seunghyun’s standing a few steps away now, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, sunglasses gone and… his eyes are on you. you freeze for a beat too long. then, carefully, you pass him the cup, praying your hands aren’t shaking the way they feel like they are. he takes it with one hand, glances at the label, then back at you. “thanks,” he says, his voice low and smooth, with that same faint rasp you’ve heard in old interviews. and that sexy accent… you nod. “sure.” “i was starting to think you got lost.” “what?” there’s a flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “you’ve been standing there for a while.” oh. right. you consider saying something witty, or at least normal, but all that comes out is a flat, “yeah. sorry.” smooth. very professional. he doesn’t seem bothered, though. he just hums and takes a sip of the drink. you shift the tray in your arms, suddenly too aware of how out of place you feel. you should leave. but before you can, he speaks again. “you’re the intern,” he says. and you’re surprised when he pronounces your name. “you—you know my name?” you feel so ridiculous the moment those words slip past your lips. oh, god. you want to crawl into the nearest air duct and vanish forever. “it’s in your tag,” he replies, eyes flickering to the member card you have hanging from your neck. right. of course it is. you’re wearing the stupid lanyard like a badge of shame—the word intern in big block letters. “oh. right.” your cheeks burn. “still,” he adds, after a beat, “i remembered it.” that makes it worse. or better. you can’t decide. you nod again. “your mom’s the one who runs this whole thing,” he says. you hesitate. nod. why can’t you stop nodding? “unfortunately.” “must be weird.” “what, getting coffee for people my mom outranks?” he laughs, soft and short. “i was gonna say working under her. but yeah. that too.” you smile, despite yourself. it slips out before you can catch it. “next time, you should bring one for yourself.” “hm?” “a cup of coffee.” “oh! oh, no,” you shake your head, flustered. “i—i’m working. and my mom wouldn’t allow it.” great. now you sound like a teenager whose mom still grounds her. if you didn’t want to remind him of the age gap, you’re definitely not doing a good job. he raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “she doesn’t let you drink coffee?” “she doesn’t let me sit and drink coffee with the crew,” you clarify quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. “not professional. her words.” “mm.” he hums, sipping his drink. “sounds strict.” you nod, exhaling slowly. “yeah”

and then—just your luck—you hear it. the distinct click of heels and the firm, clipped tone of your mother’s voice entering the room. “can i have everyone’s attention for a quick update?” shit. you don’t even look back. instinct kicks in before you can think—before she can see you standing here, talking to one of the crew. “i—i should go,” you mumble, gripping the tray like a shield again. “duty calls.” he doesn’t stop you. just gives you the faintest nod. “see you.” you slip out of the room before your mom can scan the space and realize you were standing way too close to choi seunghyun, having a conversation with someone technically under her jurisdiction. the door clicks shut behind you, and only then do you let out the breath you’ve been holding.

that is the only exchange of words you have with seunghyun for around two more weeks. you see him around, of course. it’s hard not to. he’s always somewhere on the edge of things—quiet in briefings, off to the side during training simulations, headphones on and eyes somewhere far away. you pass each other in the halls sometimes. a quiet good morning. a nod. once, a half-smile you’re not sure was meant for you. and then—one night, you’re still at headquarters long after most people have gone home. you’ve been buried in a mess of schedule revisions—crew rotations, simulation prep, meal timings, pr appearance blocks—all things that should probably be handled by someone more qualified. but when you’d tried to point that out, your mom just handed you a list and said, “if you want to learn, start doing.” so you did. and you’re still doing it, hours later, eyes bleary from staring at spreadsheets, cross-checking calendars, rescheduling something that had already been rescheduled four times because someone didn’t check with the engineers. you’re tired. starving. and the last few edits you made are starting to blur together in your brain. you save the file. close your laptop. tell yourself you’re just taking a break. wander down the hall toward the crew lounge, hoping to steal a minute of quiet—and maybe one of the energy bars someone always stashes near the fridge.

the lights are dim, the room mostly empty. you think it’s quiet until you hear it. music. low, distant. piano or strings—you can’t tell. then you see him. seunghyun’s sitting on the floor in the far corner, back resting against the couch, long legs stretched out in front of him. hoodie on, hair messy, phone beside him playing something soft and slow, a notebook open in his lap, pen twirling in his fingers. he doesn’t notice you at first. or maybe he does and doesn’t show it. you hesitate. not because you’re not allowed here, but because it feels private. like you’ve stumbled into something you shouldn’t have. and then, without even glancing up, “you always haunt the halls at this hour?” his voice cuts gently through the quiet. casual, like he’s known you long enough to joke with you, even though he hasn’t. you blink, caught off guard. “what?” he finally looks over, eyes flicking up from the notebook resting on his knees. “you’ve got that vibe,” he says. “ghost girl with a clipboard.” you huff a quiet laugh before you can stop yourself. “i could say the same to you.” he shrugs, lips twitching. “i was here first.”

you drift toward the fridge, grabbing the nearest snack you don’t even want anymore. just something to do with your hands. you feel weirdly self-conscious under his gaze—like he’s seeing too much. he taps the end of his pen against his knee. “you can sit,” he says after a moment. “i don’t mind.” you hesitate. then cross the room and sink into the couch behind him, keeping enough space between you. you rest your head back against the cushions, listening to the soft music coming from his phone. something instrumental, slow and kind of sad. after a minute, he speaks again, “does she make you stay this late?” you glance over. “my mom?” he hums. you sigh. “she says if i want to be taken seriously, i need to prove i can handle real responsibility.” he pauses, then mutters, “like coffee runs and color-coded spreadsheets.” you let out a small laugh. “exactly.” he doesn’t smile, but there’s something in the way his shoulders relax that tells you he meant it as a joke. or maybe not a joke… maybe just the truth. “what about you?” you ask, voice quiet. “why are you here so late?” “i usually stay around for a bit after things wrap up,” he says. “didn’t check the time tonight, i guess. my bad.” you huff softly. “you say that like anyone’s going to tell you off.” he glances at you, the faintest trace of a smile in his eyes. “well, i’m sure your mom would if she thought i was distracting her intern.” you roll your eyes. “you think everything i do gets reported back to her?” “doesn’t it?” you pause. fair point. he leans his head back against the couch, then glances over at you. “so,” he starts, voice casual, “you just finished school?” “yeah. last spring.” he hums, almost like he’s filing that away. “twenty-one, then?” “twenty-two,” you correct. “hm. college?” he asks, like he’s double-checking. “or grad?” “graduated.” you pause, then add, “aerospace management.” “impressive.” you shrug. “it sounds fancier than what i actually do here. i’m still in that awkward trial period.” that makes him laugh—quiet, under his breath. “how old were you when you started? in your… path.” “eighteen. bigbang debuted in 2006. after that, things moved fast.” “you were already acting by twenty-two, right? iris?” he looks at you, a little surprised. “you’ve seen it?” “not when it aired, clearly,” you admit. “my mom did. she rewatched it a few months ago.” he raises an eyebrow, amused. “of course she did.” “she has opinions, by the way,” you add. “on your acting.” “do i want to hear them?” you laugh. “probably not.” he snorts. “i was seven when ‘iris’ came out.” “seven,” he repeats, like he needs to hear it again to believe it. he lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “you were a literal child. great,” he says. “now i feel ancient.” “you are,” you tease, then immediately regret it. “i mean—not ancient, just—” “no, no, it’s fine.” he waves a hand, still grinning. “i’ll start bringing a cane with me.” you laugh, the sound slipping out easier than you expect. and he laughs too—a low, real laugh that feels more genuine than anything you’ve heard from him in before.

“do you like it?” he asks. you glance at him. “what?” “being here.” you pause, caught off guard by the question. you could lie and say it’s exciting, that you’re grateful, that you’re learning a lot. it would all be technically true. but instead—“i don’t know,” you admit. “i think i thought i’d feel more useful by now.” he nods like he gets that, but doesn’t say anything, giving you space to go on. “most days, i just run errands. print things. fix schedules that get messed up again an hour later.” you huff a laugh, dry. “i haven’t done anything that couldn’t be done by a very motivated toddler.” his mouth twitches, like he wants to laugh but doesn’t. “but you still stay late,” he says. “that’s not really optional when your mom runs the show.” seunghyun watches you for a beat. thoughtful. “you don’t talk much,” he says. you blink. “what?” “around the others,” he clarifies. “you’re always there. you just don’t say a lot.” you shrug, suddenly unsure where to look. “they don’t really notice me.” he tilts his head a little. “i noticed.” the words hit in a weird, soft way. they don’t sound like a line. they don’t even sound like he meant to say them out loud. you laugh, light and a little breathless. “well… thanks.” he nods, and the way his eyes linger on you just a little longer than usual makes your heart race.

your phone buzzes. you fish it out of your pocket, and there it is—mom. one notification. three words. where are you. you don’t even open it, you already feel the heat of the guilt radiating through the screen like she implanted a microchip in your soul at birth.“i should go. she’s probably wondering why i’m not home yet.” “you heading home?” “yeah.” you stand up, brushing invisible crumbs from your jeans because you suddenly feel like you’ve been sitting too comfortably close to him for too long. “i still have to catch the late bus.” his eyebrows lift. “the bus?” “yeah. glamorous, i know.” he checks the wall clock, then glances toward the hallway. “my driver’s out front. i can give you a ride, if you want.” you freeze for a millisecond. maybe less. long enough to process all the possible realities in which your mother finds out you accepted a ride from one of her crew members and personally launches you into orbit. “thanks, but—i can’t.” you smile, apologetic. “my mom would kill me if she found out i left with one of the crew.” “worth a shot.” your stomach does that stupid little flip again. “see you tomorrow?” you ask, indirectly declining the offer again, already taking a step toward the door. “yeah.” he leans back on the couch. “goodnight.” “goodnight.” and for the rest of the walk, all the way out of the building, through the quiet parking lot and onto the freezing bus bench, you replay the conversation in your head on a loop.

the following month is… weird. not bad-weird. just the kind of weird that makes your stomach flutter at completely inappropriate times and your brain question everything. because suddenly, choi seunghyun is around. not constantly, but enough for you to start wondering if the universe is messing with you. it starts with the coffee. he catches you yawning in the break room one morning. you mumble something about caffeine being the only thing keeping your soul tethered to your body. the next day, he’s already there when you walk in. he doesn’t say anything. just slides a cup across the counter in your direction. “you like it like that, right?” you freeze. nod. take it. try not to die. “thanks,” you manage to say, very calmly and professionally, like you’re not actively going crazy inside. “don’t mention it,” he says. and goes back to his phone like this is a normal thing he does now. then there’s the time you’re hunched over your laptop in one of the shared workspaces, surrounded by notes and three different color-coded schedules because someone decided to change the entire week’s layout again. he walks by, glances at the chaos in front of you, and casually drops a protein bar on the desk without stopping. “you skipped lunch.” you stare at it for a full minute before touching it. how did he know that? why does he know that? you do not recover. and it keeps happening. he starts asking for your help with things that don’t make sense. “what time is this briefing again?” … “you made that chart, right?” … “can you double-check this?” you’re not even on the same team half the time. but you help him, because… what else are you supposed to do? maybe you’re reading too much into it. maybe he’s just nice. maybe this is just what he’s like with everyone. maybe he sees you as a little sister or god knows what… you’re definitely overthinking it. probably.

it’s a thursday night and you’re already in bed. face washed, teeth brushed, oversized t-shirt on—officially clocked out of both your shift and your social battery. you’ve just gotten under the covers, wrapped yourself in a blanket burrito, about to turn on do not disturb when your phone buzzes. weird. no one ever texts you this late. you check it, assuming it’s one of your friends or some scheduling update from the team chat. but it’s not. unknown number.

Hey. You left this in the conference room.

photo attachment: your notebook, half-open on a table, very clearly yours.

I figured it was yours. It’s the one you always carry.

sorry, who’s this?

Seung-Hyun

Choi Seung-Hyun

your heart lurches in a way that feels unreasonable. first of all—yes, it is your notebook. and second of all—how does he have your number. you sit up a little in bed, suddenly very awake.

oh, hey. thank you :) how did you get my number?

I asked comms.

you blink. comms. like it’s not completely insane that he went out of his way to ask someone for your contact info because of a notebook. another message comes in:

Didn’t think you’d want to show up tomorrow and panic about it.

you assumed correctly! hahaha, i would’ve freaked out🥲

I’ll leave it at your desk.

Unless you want to come get it now.

your breath catches. you’re in pajamas. your hair’s a mess. your face is 50% moisturizer. you reread the message three times. he’s joking probably. but still.

i’ll survive until tomorrow. but thanks again, seriously :))

Anytime👍🏼

you think that’s it. except it’s not. because when you’re back to lying in bed, staring at your ceiling like a maniac, heart thumping for absolutely no reason, your phone buzzes again. you scramble to check it so fast you nearly drop the phone on your face.

Love the doodles in the margins.

please don’t judge my little planets…🙃

I only judged the one that looks like a sad potato hahaha

rude... jokes! that’s jupiter

Sorry, Jupiter.

Do you always stay up this late?

sometimes! usually because i’m overthinking everything i said that day or regretting the amount of caffeine i had at 4pm💔

We have that in common😅

you smile again, this slow stupid grin that refuses to leave.

You should sleep. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long one.

okay, i will🫡 you too!

Goodnight🌙

they organize a crew hangout on a friday night. something casual, they say. the place they picked is one of those trendy, semi-industrial spots with exposed brick walls and edison bulbs hanging from long wires. there’s a giant neon sign on one wall that says something vague, and music is playing just loud enough to make you question whether or not someone said hi to you or just sneezed nearby. you’re standing at the entrance, half-rethinking your outfit choices and half-contemplating if turning around and pretending you got lost is still a viable option. you’re in jeans—the good pair that fit right every time—white sneakers that aren’t brand new but still pass as clean, and a navy blue sweater. it’s casual, but cute. very different from what you wear to work. you scan the room. there’s a crowd already gathered around one of the tall tables—people from different teams, laughing, sipping drinks, leaning in like they’re all lifelong friends. you spot your teammates near the bar—one of them waves you over, and you exhale, shoulders dropping slightly in relief as you walk toward them. “you made it!” one of the engineers grins, raising a drink. “barely,” you say with a smile. “i spent fifteen minutes arguing with myself about whether to show up.” “glad you did!” someone adds. you laugh, already relaxing. and then you hear her voice. “i didn’t know you were invited.” you turn, and of course—your mom. she’s standing there, drink in hand, eyebrows slightly raised. she’s not being openly hostile—just… mom-ing. disapproval wrapped in polite interest. she’s in her work blazer, still dressed like she just walked out of a meeting. which, knowing her, she probably did. “they extended the invite to support staff,” you say, keeping your voice neutral. “figured i’d show up.” “just remember,” she says, “this isn’t a college mixer.” you smile tightly. “noted.” she gives you one more lingering look—the kind that says i’m watching you without actually saying it—then steps away, probably to go judge someone else from the comms team.

you turn back toward your group, and before you can go to order a drink, you feel it—someone approaching. “hey,” comes that familiar low voice. you glance over. seunghyun’s standing a few feet away, drink in hand, dressed in black jeans and a slate-gray button-up. you offer a smile. “hey.” “wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he says. his gaze flicks over you for a beat—brief, subtle, but very much a look. “you look nice, by the way.” “thanks,” you manage to reply, trying to smile like your skin isn’t buzzing and you aren’t immediately aware of your mother’s presence somewhere nearby, probably developing a sixth sense for this exact interaction. “you want a drink?” he asks, nodding toward the bar. your hesitation must show, because his gaze flicks down and then back to your face. “it’s just a drink,” he says. your lips part, and for a second, all you can think is that’s easy for you to say. “uh…” your eyes flick automatically toward your mom—deep in conversation, but still there. you can feel her existence like it’s a rule you’re breaking just by thinking about accepting a free drink. “i mean, i… i don’t know if i should—my mom’s here,” you mumble, gesturing vaguely. he follows your glance, nods, then looks back at you. “we work together,” he says simply. “i’m offering you a drink, not hard drugs.” you snort, caught off guard. “okay, true.” “so?” “yeah. sure.” “what do you want?” “surprise me,” you say, voice softer than you meant. he nods once and heads for the bar.

he rests one arm on the bar, waiting for the bartender to finish mixing. lets the noise of the room bleed into the background. he could’ve talked to someone else tonight. easily. there are three girls—maybe more—who’ve been circling him since he walked in. laughing a little too loud at things he didn’t say. brushing their hands against his arm. like that assistant with red lipstick and a habit of leaning too close. he could’ve given her attention and shut off the part of his brain that keeps dragging you to the front of it. but here he is… buying you a drink. he’s not sure what the fuck he’s doing. he wraps his fingers around the glass the bartender sets down, cold against his palm. he should walk away. he should hand you your drink, nod politely, make small talk, and blend into the crowd again like nothing’s ever crossed his mind. like he didn’t clock every inch of you when you walked in—those jeans hugging your legs, the way your sweater hangs just loose enough to be soft but not enough to hide the shape of you beneath it. you’re twenty-two. and that number rattles around in his skull like something radioactive. you’re too young. too off-limits. he knows what people would say. and yet, the image of you standing there, makes his mouth dry.

he’s had easier women. older than you. confident. women who know what to do with their hands, with their mouths. one of them, barely two weeks ago, had him up against the wall of his bathroom—lipstick smeared, hand down his pants, telling him she didn’t care if he had to be back at starbase by sunrise... it was good. but he doesn’t think about her now. he thinks about you. he thinks about how soft your skin looked when he brushed past you earlier that day, and how long it would take for you to open up for someone—for him. how your voice would sound whimpering his name. how you’d taste. if you’d let him talk you through it. if you’d get flustered when he touched you. if you’d beg. and he knows it’s fucked up. it’s not just unprofessional—it’s dangerous. you’re her daughter. and again, you’re young. bright-eyed, too smart for your own good, still trying to figure yourself out young. he wonders if that’s part of it. the age difference. he wonders if some awful, hungry part of him is drawn to the soft energy you carry around like a scent. and he hates himself for even thinking it, but it doesn’t stop him. maybe it’s the worst part of him—the part that’s already ruined good things before and never learned his lesson. because this? you? you are a terrible idea.

he exhales slowly, shuts his eyes for half a second, tells himself to keep it together. then turns and walks back to you. drink in hand. you smile when he hands it to you. “thank you.” “figured you’d like it,” he says. “you seem like the type to order something sweet.” you glance down at the drink—soft pink, citrusy, chilled. “you’re not wrong,” you say, sipping. “it’s good.” he gives you a small nod. “glad.” and then he just stands there. not close, but not far either. you’re not sure what to say. or if you should say anything. there’s no reason for him to be here, talking to you. no real benefit. “this place is nicer than i thought it’d be,” you offer, trying to fill the silence. “honestly assumed it’d be a sad buffet and corporate music.” that earns a quiet laugh. “you haven’t seen the karaoke room yet.” your eyebrows lift. “karaoke room?” “mhm.” “i’m curious now.” you look away, sipping your drink. he hums, and you both fall into silence again, not uncomfortable—but not quite easy, either. you glance at him from the corner of your eye. he’s scanning the room, eyes lingering briefly on a group near the back. then he looks back at you, calm as ever. “glad you came,” he says, quietly. your throat goes dry. “yeah?” “yeah,” he nods. “it’s good to see more than the same ten faces outside the station.” right, right. that’s what he meant. you’re part of the group. just another familiar face. you take another sip of your drink, mostly just to have something to do with your hands. “what do you do when you’re not fetching reports and dodging your mom?” “like… outside of work?” he nods, lifting his glass. “assuming you’re legally allowed to have a life.” you snort. “that’s debatable.” he hums like he figured. “i write sometimes,” you say. “i hang out with my friends and i read when i have time.” he lets out a quiet laugh. “so you’re secretly a writer.” “no, i’m a disaster with a notes app.” he chuckles. “what kind of stuff do you write?” you hesitate. “honestly? mostly like… like romance novels.” why does saying that out loud make you feel stupid? you try to advert the attention, asking, “what about you? what do you do in your free time?” “paint,” he answers. “listen to music... make music. i also train at home. and sleep, when the universe allows.” “i feel like your sleep schedule is fucked up.” “that’s generous. it’s dead.” you laugh again, softer this time.

you’re mid-conversation—finally relaxed enough to enjoy the drink he brought you, answering some question he asked about your music taste—when you hear her voice. “sweetheart, there you are.” you turn and see her weaving through the crowd toward you. your mom. her smile is tight, practiced. she glances at seunghyun, and it immediately softens by about 40%. classic. “hello, seunghyun,” she says, calm and professional, like she didn’t spend all of last week sighing at you for mixing up launch logs. “i didn’t realize you two were chatting.” you force a smile. “yeah, we were just talking.” “mm.” she nods, then turns her attention fully to you. “can i borrow you for a moment? someone from comms had a question about the event schedule, and i thought you could walk them through your edits.” your drink is still halfway to your lips. your stomach sinks. “…sure,” you say, already stepping back. she glances once—just once—at the glass in your hand. “you’re drinking?” it’s not judgmental. just… pointed. “it’s one drink.” she hums again—noncommittal, but loaded. “i’ll be right there,” you mutter, and you turn to seunghyun with a tight smile. “thanks for the drink. i’ll… see you around.” he nods once. “yeah. of course.”

seunghyun has realized that it’s impossible to talk to you when your mother is around. so he stops trying to talk to you when she’s near. what’s the point? but that doesn’t stop him from finding other ways. he texts you more now. nothing inappropriate. just little things, one message every couple of days. something about a malfunctioning printer, or a meeting that could’ve been an email. but then it doesn’t stop. he texts you at weird hours—never too late, but always just late enough that you know it’s deliberate. the kind of times where you’d normally be scrolling aimlessly or lying on your bed staring at the ceiling. and you find yourself answering. every time.

You still at Starbase?

leaving now :) are you?

No, I left a while ago.

oh okay, need anything?

Nothing important.

How was your day?☀️

good! not too busy :)) yours?

Good. I didn’t see you.

oh, so that’s why it was good?😭😭💀💀help

No! No, no. Sorry, I should’ve written that differently🤦‍♂️I didn’t mean it like that.

ik, i was joking! :)

Ohh😅😂 hahaha

i was with the engineers today, on the other side of the building. we had an issue with monday’s schedule

Ah, it’s alright👍🏼

you wanted to see me?

I did🙂

hahaha i’ll be back with my team tomorrow :)

Good🫰🏼

I’m going to sleep. You should too.

Good night🌙

good night!

it keeps happening. you’re finally home, still in your work clothes, hair a mess from the wind and your brain fried from trying to stay alert during seven hours of logistical chaos. they had you shadowing part of a field integration check today—some outdoor systems test with one of the ground teams, all wires and temp sensors and someone yelling over a radio every five minutes. you spent most of it holding a clipboard and pretending you weren’t fucking freezing. now, you’re on your bed, one shoe off, jacket still on, face buried in your pillow, debating whether or not you have the energy to shower. your phone buzzes somewhere near your hip. you reach for it without looking, an instant smile on your face when you see it’s seunghyun.

Hi. I didn’t see you today.

hey! :) ik, i was outside doing checks. how are you?

Good😄 You?

i’m fine!! but very very tired, i think i’ll be going to sleep a bit earlier today

Yes, you should rest.

you too tho, don’t you have a test tomorrow?

We have a systems failure simulation.

ik i scheduled it… whoops

Hahaha, I know😉

you’re gonna do great tho :)

You think so?

of course! will you let me know how it goes?

You won’t be there?

no, i have to help the integration team tomorrow

we’re reviewing hardware compatibility for one of the supply modules, helpme😭

it’s gonna take all day probably :(

Ohhh busy girl.

hahaha could say the same about you! no but it’s only this week! then i’ll be back to making coffee lol, you’ll see🥲

They should hire you! I’ll text you after the test🙂

yayyyy okay!!

Also, I’m hosting a small dinner on saturday night. Just some of the team. Would you like to come?

oh!! yes, i’d love to :)) thanks for inviting me!🩷

Of course. It’ll be relaxed.

do you want me to bring anything?

No need, just yourself.

okay :) i’ll be there

I’ll send you the address tomorrow. I’m glad you’re coming🫰🏼

saturday night rolls around. and for once, the universe is on your side: your mom can’t go. apparently, she made plans to have dinner with friends she hadn’t seen in ‘literal decades’ (her words), and when you’d asked if she was still planning to stop by the dinner at seunghyun’s afterward, she just said, “i’ll be too tired. and you shouldn’t stay there for too long.” you nodded. smiled. pretended like your entire nervous system didn’t do a backflip of pure relief. because going to his place—his place, as in choi seunghyun’s penthouse—is already enough of a mental minefield. the last thing you need is your mother there, hovering in the corner like a threat in heels. you change clothes three times before settling on something that doesn’t make you want to implode: a light denim skirt that hits mid-thigh and your favorite white knit sweater—the one that tucks in just right at the waist. so now you’re alone in your room, standing in front of your mirror, staring at yourself. you remember reading the list when it was first announced—devin, the photographer from ireland. yemi a.d., the creative director. karim, the documentarian. steve, tim, rhiannon, t.o.p… it felt surreal even then. and now you’ve been invited to dinner with them. by t.o.p himself. which is… funny. and terrifying. and funny again. you’ve spoken to devin maybe twice. yemi once. tim nodded at you in the hallway last week—crazy. you’ve seen these people every day for months, and seunghyun is the only one you actually talk to. you try not to think about how you’ll be the only intern there, too.

the elevator is glass-walled and completely silent, which only makes it worse. you stare at your reflection in the metal trim, fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater like that’ll somehow distract you from the fact that you’re currently ascending to choi seunghyun’s penthouse like this is a normal saturday. your stomach is tight. it doesn’t help that the building itself is beautiful—cool, polished, expensive in the quiet, intimidating way. you try not to think about how weird this is. how out of place you’ll feel the second those elevator doors open. how this is his home. his actual space. where he lives and sleeps and keeps things like toothpaste. where he probably masturbates as well—okay, pause. you need to calm down.

the elevator dings softly. top floor. and then the doors slide open—he’s already there, leaning casually against the wall across from the elevator. he’s in a dark sweater—deep navy with a subtle pattern stitched through it, something geometric and barely noticeable unless you’re looking closely (which you immediately are). the beige cargo pants are a surprise, cuffed just above a pair of sleek black sneakers that definitely weren’t cheap. “hi,” he says. you smile, a little shy. “hi.” his eyes scan you for a second—he doesn’t say anything about how you look, but his gaze lingers a little longer than necessary. “you found it okay?” he asks, stepping forward. you nod. “yeah. almost rang the wrong apartment though.” you joke and he chuckles. “i was waiting for you.” he steps aside, gently motioning for you to come in. you do.

the place is beautiful. of course it is. it’s not flashy—just quiet luxury, the kind of space that whispers money without needing to shout. clean lines, warm lighting, furniture that’s probably custom-built and doesn’t squeak when you sit on it. paintings line the walls and they all have the same effect: making you feel like you’ve just stepped into a gallery instead of someone’s home. one abstract piece near the hallway practically buzzes with color. another—something monochrome and moody—hangs over a sideboard with crystal decanters and tiny, absurdly aesthetic glass cups. your eyes move across the walls slowly, taking it all in. “did you bring all this from korea?” you ask, voice soft. he glances over at you. “not all of it,” he says. “but most. the ones i didn’t want to leave behind.” you nod, eyes still drifting. “i would’ve assumed they came with the penthouse.” he smiles faintly. “no. this place was nearly empty when i moved in. i just… filled it the way i wanted.” you hum quietly. “well, you’ve got taste.” “i’d hope so,” he says. “i spent enough time hunting half of this down.” he gestures down the hallway. “they’re in the living room. come on. i’ll walk you in.” you follow him, your footsteps almost too loud on the hardwood floors. you can hear voices now—someone laughing, music playing softly from somewhere, a low hum of conversation that means you’re the last one here. “are they gonna think it’s weird?” you ask quietly. “who?” “everyone. that i’m here.” he pauses mid-step, glancing over his shoulder. “do you think it’s weird?” you open your mouth, then close it again. “i don’t know. maybe a little.” he turns fully to face you now, the soft murmur of the living room fading into the background. “why?” you hesitate, eyes flicking to the floor for a second. “because i’m… the intern. and i’m young.” his gaze moves over your face like he’s trying to decide something. “you’re not that young,” he says eventually. “i’m twenty-two.” “i know.” you can hear your own heartbeat. “and you’re…” you trail off. “thirty-five,” he finishes for you. you nod once, small. “right.” there’s a pause. his eyes are still on you. you can feel the weight of them on your skin, like the room’s gotten warmer, like the sweater you’re wearing is suddenly too much. then he tilts his head a little. “does that bother you?” you swallow. you want to say no. you want to say yes, obviously, look at me losing my mind over a man who’s over ten years older than me and worldwide famous. but instead, you just look up at him and say, “should it?” he doesn’t answer right away. and maybe that’s the answer. “come on,” he says, gently, gesturing to the living room with his head. and you follow.

the night goes better than you expect. you recognize more faces than you thought you would—some of your own teammates are there, including two engineers from your floor who wave when they see you. everyone’s friendly and no one makes you feel out of place. good! you’re fine. you’re actually more than fine. no one questions your presence. no one even raises an eyebrow. and somehow, being invited has turned you into someone people want to talk to.

the lights are dim, the music soft, and the wine is doing that thing where it goes straight to your legs. you’re perched on a low couch with a drink in one hand and a tiny, overpriced-looking tart in the other, nodding along as one of your teammates goes on about a recent systems bug with the attitude of someone who has clearly had three beers and no fear. you’ve been careful not to drink too much—just enough to keep your nerves dull around the edges.

seunghyun is across the room—but every time your eyes drift to him, he’s already looking at you. the first time it happens, you think: oh, okay. coincidence. the second time, you think: he’s probably making sure i’m okay and having a good time… that’s so kind of him! but by the third glance—the one where your eyes catch across the room and he doesn’t look away—you have to admit it. at least to yourself… oh, wait. is he checking me out…? then, immediately—no, he isn’t. you’re reading into it. how could he be interested in a twenty-two year old? are you crazy? calm down, girl. drink water. he’s older than you, what are you even thinking? he would never.

he is, in fact, checking you out. there’s no noble excuse left. he’s barely registered half the conversation happening beside him because your legs are in his line of sight and he’s somehow forgotten how to be normal about it. that skirt should be illegal. it rides just high enough when you shift in your seat and that has him clenching his jaw and thinking about pacing his own hallway. he should be mingling, engaging in conversation. pretending he’s not entirely too aware of the curve of your thigh and the way you tuck your hair behind your ear like you’re not absolutely wrecking his concentration. god. he’s being so fucking obvious.

the dinner hang out winds down slowly. guests begin to trickle out of seunghyun’s penthouse, leaving behind the comfortable hum of a gathering well-enjoyed. you wave at people as they leave, sipping the last of your drink. at some point, it’s just you, seunghyun, and tim dodd, who’s perched near the window talking about… what was he talking about? you’re not entirely sure. the wine has worn off just enough to make you aware of how warm your cheeks are again. tim finishes whatever story he was telling, laughs at his own joke (you love that for him), then glances at his phone. “alright,” he says, standing up with a slight groan. “if i don’t leave now, i’ll end up sleeping on your couch, and nobody wants that.” seunghyun chuckles, following him to the door. “thanks for coming.” tim waves at you on his way out. “you’ve got a good energy,” he says, vaguely. “i like your vibe.” “thanks!” you say with a smile. and then—it’s just you and seunghyun. you look around. the apartment is dimmer now, the music is still playing. he turns toward you. “you heading out too?” he asks, voice soft. you blink. “oh. um—no. i was gonna stay a bit. help you clean up?” he tilts his head, brow lifting slightly. “you don’t have to do that.” “i know, but i want to.” you shift your weight from one foot to the other, glancing down at your shoes, suddenly uncertain again. “unless…” you say, trying to sound casual, “you’d rather be alone or something. i don’t want to overstay—” “you’re not,” he cuts in. you glance up and his eyes hold yours. “you can stay,” he says. “i don’t mind.” you nod, cheeks warming. “okay. cool.” cool? you internally scream. COOL? girl...

he turns, and you trail after him into the kitchen, the two of you slipping into the leftover mess together. you start picking up glasses from the table while he stacks empty bottles near the sink. the music is still going, and the hum of the fridge fills in the blanks between clinks of glass and footsteps on hardwood. you grab a plate and start stacking it with a few stray forks. he’s at the sink now, already rinsing out the wine glasses, sleeves rolled. focused. you’re halfway through wiping down the counter when he speaks. “did you have fun?” “hm?” he looks over, mouth tugging into a smile. “tonight. did you enjoy it?” “yeah,” you say. “i did. surprisingly.” his brow lifts slightly. “surprisingly?” you shrug, smiling a little. “i thought i’d be a lot more out of place. or awkward.” your shoulders bump lightly when you try to move past him. “sorry,” you mutter. he steps back slightly. “don’t worry.” then, after a pause, he says, “you didn’t seem out of place.” “well, thank you for lying!” you laugh softly. “i’m not,” he says, rinsing a glass. “you were fine.” you glance over at him. and, because you’re feeling a little bold, you test the waters. “you looked over at me a few times.” he doesn’t deny it. he pauses mid-motion, glass still in hand, and you catch the way he swallows before he sets it down and reaches for the towel to dry it off. “i was checking to see if you were okay.” “and?” he finally looks at you, eyes a little softer now. “you looked like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.” you shouldn’t be affected by that. it’s a nice thing to say. but it lands low in your stomach anyway. you swallow, suddenly aware of how close you’re standing to him—how the counter behind you keeps you from stepping back, and how there’s barely space between your bodies. “so you’ve been observing me, huh?” you huff a laugh. “it’s hard not to.” is he flirting? no, he isn’t. he isn’t, right? wait… maybe he is. you laugh, not sure what to do with yourself anymore. “is that a compliment?” “depends,” he says, glancing over again. “do you want it to be?” you open your mouth but he cuts in before you can speak. “mind if i smoke?” “oh. no, no. i mean… sure go ahead, it’s your house.”

he chuckles as he steps away from the sink. he opens a drawer near where you stand and pulls out a new pack of cigarettes. a lighter, a soft click, and then he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, cigarette between his fingers, exhaling slow. he watches you for a beat, then lifts the pack slightly in your direction. “want one?” you snort. “what part of me gives off cigarette energy?” he laughs softly. “you’re right.” he watches the smoke rise before he looks at you again. “your mom would kill me for this,” he says, not sounding all that sorry. “for offering me a cigarette?” “for letting you stay this long.” you lean against the counter, arms folded. “i’m off work, technically.” he raises a brow. “and,” you add, “i don’t think my mom gets to control what i do after 8 p.m.” he exhales a short laugh through his nose, dragging once more from the cigarette. “that’s a dangerous thing to say out loud.” “she can’t ground me anymore.” he glances sideways at you, something soft playing at the edge of his expression. “still,” he says, tapping ash into the ashtray, “feels like you’re using your after-hours freedom on something pretty boring.” “helping clean up your house is peak thrill-seeking, what do you mean?” he really laughs at that—head tilted slightly back, cigarette between two fingers, the kind of laugh that sounds like it surprised even him. you grin, pleased with yourself, but try not to make a big deal out of it.

the conversation between you and seunghyun flows like you’ve known each other forever. it’s weird. because how is it this easy? how did you go from awkwardly handing him coffee to laughing on his couch with a full glass of wine like you hang out all the time? the cleaning is fully abandoned now. dishes? what dishes? he’s funny, you learn. genuinely funny. kind of loud when he wants to be, in a way that catches you off guard—like you weren’t expecting him to throw his head back and laugh that hard at your story about your first week at starbase. when you were nervously trying to make a good impression and walked into what you thought was an empty conference room, only to find it occupied by the entire senior staff. in your panic to exit gracefully, you somehow managed to walk straight into the glass door. you don’t remember what hurt more—your nose or your pride. there’s something about the way he tells his own stories, too—animated, but not performative. relaxed. he talks with his hands. he smiles while he speaks, like whatever he’s remembering is still happening somewhere in the back of his mind. and maybe it’s the wine—because there’s definitely a slow warmth in your chest and your cheeks—but you’re pretty sure that’s not all of it. he doesn’t look buzzed. no flushed cheeks, no stumbling over words. which means… he’s just comfortable. with you. and if he’s comfortable, then maybe you’re not imagining the way he keeps leaning a little closer when he talks. or how his eyes linger when you laugh. or how he hasn’t checked the time once.

you take another sip of wine just as he starts talking about high school—and it’s not some lighthearted, nostalgic ‘back in the day’ story. no. he jumps straight into it with a half-laugh and a “i was the kind of kid teachers warned other kids about,” like he’s letting you in on a private joke. except it doesn’t really sound funny. he talks about how he didn’t care about school. at all. how he’d hang around with the other so-called ‘problem kids,’ the ones who were always skipping class or standing too long in the halls. he shrugs when he mentions getting kicked out. glosses over it like it’s not worth unpacking. “i transferred a few times,” he says, casual. “got really good at packing.” he makes it sound like he’s joking, but his hand tightens slightly around the wine glass when he says it, and you notice that. every now and then, he’ll drop something heavier—like how he hated the way adults looked at kids like him, like they were broken parts to be thrown out. but he never lingers. he moves past it fast. throws in a sarcastic comment, changes the subject slightly, makes fun of himself. you get the sense that he’s had this script for a while now—polished just enough that it doesn’t sound like a cry for help. and yet, it still kind of is. you think: he’s been through more than he lets on. but you don’t say anything.

he leans back a little, swirling what’s left of his wine like he’s mulling something over. then he glances sideways at you, eyebrow raised, voice light. “what about you?” he says. “since, you know… high school wasn’t that long ago for you.” you make a face. “wow. age shaming now?” he grins. “i’m just saying. and if i remember correctly, you shamed me for mine first. called me ancient.” “hey!” you laugh. “you called yourself ancient, i just agreed!” he laughs and you roll your eyes, sinking deeper into the couch. “i was… i was one of the good kids.” he raises both eyebrows. “good? how good?” “like… sat in the front row, color-coded notes, cried when i got a b+ kind of good.” he tilts his head, deeply impressed. but he jokes, “wow. so… the annoying type.” you snort. “don’t act like that’s not exactly the kind of person you would’ve copied homework from.” “yeah,” he admits, smirking into his glass. “but i would’ve made fun of you for it first. kept you humble.” “you would’ve bullied me?” he grins. “no, of course not. i’d have sat behind you, tapped your chair with my pen until you snapped, and then made you feel bad about yelling at me.” “oh my god, you’re that guy.” “absolutely.” you stare at him, and he’s trying so hard to keep a straight face, but you can see the corners of his mouth twitching. you’re still smiling. your cheeks hurt a little. “i’m joking,” he says “you were probably the kid i’d avoid in high school.” you raise your brows. “why? because i did my homework?” “because you would’ve made me feel like i was already behind.” you smile, even though your heart stutters a little. “and you would’ve scared the hell out of me.” “yeah?” he leans his elbow on the back of the couch, turning slightly toward you. “why’s that?” you gesture vaguely at him. “the whole… mysterious brooding hot guy thing.” did you just call him hot? yeah, you did. the wine’s starting to do its magic. he laughs, and it makes you laugh, too. “i was not hot in high school.” “i don’t believe you,” you say immediately, grinning over the rim of your glass. “you definitely pulled. probably had girls lining up for you in the hallway.” he snorts. “no. i had terrible eating habits. no confidence. zero social skills. girls didn’t want anything to do with me.” you stare at him, unconvinced. “and yet…” he smirks, doesn’t look at you when he says it. “my first girlfriend was five years older.” your jaw drops. “what?” “yeah.” “okay, so you say you weren’t pulling, but you’re out here dating older women?” he laughs, loud and unfiltered, and you have to bite back your own. you shake your head, grinning. “so much for not being hot.” he shrugs. “maybe she just felt bad for me.” “sure. she was just doing charity work.” he chuckles again, a little quieter this time, gaze drifting back to his glass.

a beat of silence stretches between you. you finish the last sip of your wine and lean forward to set the glass down on the small table in front of the couch, suddenly very aware of how warm your cheeks are. then, like he’s been thinking about it for a minute, he asks, “have you ever dated older guys?”your brain lags. like—hello? your heart skips in that very specific, very annoying way it does when something sounds innocent but feels… not. because the way he says it isn’t just curiosity. it’s something else. you glance at him, trying to read his expression, but he’s still looking at his glass. like maybe he didn’t mean for it to come out that way. or maybe he did, and just doesn’t want to make it worse by looking at you while your soul leaves your body. you clear your throat, trying to play it cool. “um… a few. like, two years older. max.” your mouth moves before your brain can stop it. “why?” that gets him to glance over. the corner of his mouth twitches. “just curious.” you tilt your head slightly, studying him for a beat. “have you dated younger?” his lips twitch like he was expecting the question. like he knew it was coming the second he asked you. “yeah.” “how much younger?” he shrugs, swirling what’s left in his glass before finishing it. “a few years.” “define a few.” “less than six.” you hum, swirling your own glass now. “so… younger, but not that young.” “young enough.” your lips twitch. “you mean not as young as me.” if it wasn’t obvious before that you had a crush on him, it is now! wow, good job! his mouth lifts at the corner—like he hears the shift in your tone. like he notices that you didn’t say it as a joke. “no,” he says, quiet. “not as young as you.” it hangs there, weirdly loud.

you’re immediately aware of how quiet the room has gotten. or maybe it’s just your brain going absolutely still, like it’s buffering. like it’s realizing, a little too late, that yes, you did just say that. and yes, he definitely caught it. you let out a weak laugh—your go-to defense. “well,” you mumble, looking anywhere but at him, “guess i’m out of the running then.” he hums, low in his throat. “who said that?” you freeze. okay. that didn’t sound like a joke. not entirely. you turn your head slowly, and he’s already looking at you—one eyebrow slightly raised, that tiny not-quite-a-smile playing on his lips like he knows exactly what he just did to you. “are you flirting with me right now?” “depends,” he says, leaning back just slightly. “would it be a problem if i was?” you open your mouth. close it. open it again. “i mean—yes. no. maybe. i don’t know.” you groan. “don’t ask me complicated questions when i’ve had wine.” he laughs again, softer this time, and that only makes it worse because it’s so genuine. like he’s enjoying watching you scramble. you shift slightly. “i’m thirteen years younger than you, you know?” it’s barely above a whisper, but it lands like a confession. there’s a pause. he doesn’t laugh this time. “yeah,” he says, just as quiet. “i know.” you nod, like that settles it. it doesn’t. seunghyun runs a hand through his white hair, like he’s trying to scrub the thought from his head. “you don’t have to remind me.” “someone should,” you say, attempting to lighten the moment, but your voice wavers, betraying you. “in case you forgot.” “i didn’t forget.” his voice is lower now. “i haven’t forgotten once.” “then maybe you should,” you murmur. “i’ve tried.” his eyes drop to your lips—long enough to make your pulse pick up. enough that your breath falters slightly in your chest. “it’d be easier,” you say, quieter now, like speaking any louder might break whatever this is turning into. “so much easier,” he agrees, voice rougher than before as he leans closer. your knees are brushing, and he doesn’t move. his hand’s on the couch cushion now, just beside your thigh. the space between your faces is shrinking, inch by inch, like neither of you’s quite aware you’re moving. “this is a bad idea,” he says, barely above a whisper, like he’s trying to convince himself. “the worst,” you breathe. but your voice cracks halfway through it, and he hears it. you know he does, because that’s when his gaze flickers to your eyes, then back to your lips. again. he lets out a breathy laugh. “so we agree.” you nod. “we agree.” but your faces are so close now, you can feel the warmth of his breath. his hand brushes your jaw first—light, like he’s still giving you time to pull away. and when you don’t—when your lips part and your breath catches—he kisses you.

he kisses you like he’s been holding back for weeks. because he has. all teeth and lips and breathless noise as his mouth slants over yours, deeper, hungrier. your hand fists in the fabric of his sweater almost instantly, anchoring yourself, because your whole body jolts with it—like every nerve’s been waiting for this exact thing. he groans into your mouth, low and rough, and the sound shoots straight through you. he kisses you like he’s angry about it—about wanting you this much, about how good it feels to finally stop pretending. you gasp when his knee pushes between yours, nudging your thighs apart just enough to press in closer. his weight follows, shifting over you until you’re half beneath him and your back hits the cushions. your skirt rides up with the movement, denim bunching at your hips, and his hand trails down over the exposed skin of your thigh like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. he breaks the kiss just long enough to look down at you, breathing hard. his eyes are blown wide, mouth slightly parted, and there’s a kind of stunned silence between you—like neither of you can believe you let it get this far. like you’re both trying to decide if you care. you don’t. he leans in again, mouth catching yours in another kiss, slower this time but no less intense. your hands slide up beneath his sweater, fingers grazing over the heat of his skin, and his breath stutters as he presses closer—hips against yours. his thumb brushes over the inside of your thigh, inching higher, dragging fire along your nerves with every soft pass. you arch slightly into him, and that’s all it takes—his hand glides up, knuckles grazing the edge of your underwear.

you don’t even hear it at first—the vibration somewhere near your head, buried in the couch cushions, muffled by the blood rushing in your ears. but then the buzzing cuts through again, insistent. you break the kiss, breathless, dazed, lips swollen. “wait—my phone…” he shifts off of you just enough for you to reach back, fumbling between the cushions until you find it. and there it is. your mom’s name glowing across the screen. “shit,” you whisper, sitting up fast. your skirt’s bunched up your thighs, his sweater is crooked, your heartbeat is in the stratosphere. “it’s my mom.” he straightens up too, running a hand through his hair, as you swipe to answer. “hello?” “where are you?” she asks. “it’s four in the morning.” you blink. “wait—it’s what?” you glance at the time. 4:02 am. you shoot seunghyun a wide-eyed look, which he returns with a raised brow and a small, almost apologetic shrug. “i’m—i’m sorry,” you say quickly into the phone, trying to stand and fix your clothes at the same time. “i lost track of time. i’m fine. i’ll head home now.” “we’ll talk tomorrow,” she says, clipped. “get home safe.” the line goes dead. your hands are shaky as you smooth down your skirt, still very aware of how flustered you must look—and how recently his mouth was on yours. “i—i have to go,” you say, still catching your breath. “she’s gonna kill me.” seunghyun lifts an eyebrow, mouth twitching. “didn’t you say your mom doesn’t control what you do past 8 p.m.?” “yeah, well. that rule apparently doesn’t apply when i disappear until four in the morning.” he chuckles under his breath. “sorry,” you say, voice small. “i didn’t mean to just—run off like this.” he shakes his head. “don’t be sorry.” “i’ll call a cab—” “don’t,” he says, already pulling his own phone from his pocket. “i’ll call my driver. he’s on standby.” you hesitate. “at 4 a.m? you really don’t have to—” “i’d rather not end the night worrying if you made it home okay.” “…okay.”

you wake up at 12:47 p.m. the next day. sunday. your pillow is on the floor, your phone’s tangled in your sheets, and you’re still wearing last night’s eyeliner, which has now officially migrated to your left eyebrow. cute. you stare at the ceiling for a beat, blinking. okay, okay… last night wasn’t a dream. you kissed seunghyun. no—you made out with him. on his couch. he was on top of you. there was hand placement. breathy sounds. you exhale, then sit up straight, remembering your jacket. your favorite one, the denim one with the little patch on the sleeve… you left it at his place. you groan softly, flopping back against the pillows. of course you did. it was on the couch, folded beside you at some point, probably got shoved aside when he—when you—yeah. you reach for your phone, already smiling like an idiot, fingers tapping open your messages. you type out:

hey! :) morning, i hope you slept well, i think i left my jacket at your place lol

and hit send. the message bubble appears. green. what? you stare. flip your phone face down like that’s going to fix something. what the hell…? did he block you? no, it can’t be. why would he? you open instagram, heart rate slowly climbing, and search his profile. user not found. you blink. refresh. nothing... blocked. oh wow. okay. cool cool cool. almost fucked you on his couch yesterday and now he’s blocked you everywhere. totally normal adult behavior! you flop back on your bed, phone on your chest, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer an explanation. is he stupid? like genuinely? because there is no point in blocking you if he still has to see your face every day at starbase. like… hello? you didn’t meet on tinder, you work in the same goddamn building. what’s the plan here, exactly? pretend you don’t exist? nod politely while you hand him his schedule and just never acknowledge the fact that his hands were up your skirt? sure. yeah. seems sustainable. you open the old message thread, scroll through a bit. you groan. you swipe out of messages. close instagram. reopen messages again. you sigh dramatically and throw your phone across the bed. why did he do it? he literally kissed you the night before. wait… did he block you because you didn’t sleep with him? what the fuck is his issue? you’re angry now.

so of course, when monday comes, you wake up before your alarm. not because you’re well-rested. you’re not, you barely slept. your brain spent the whole night playing an endless loop of what the fuck was that and how dare he and was i actually that bad of a kisser? followed by a mental rewatch of the kiss from five different angles, followed by another loop of seriously, what the actual fuck is wrong with him. you get out of bed like a woman on a mission. shower, skincare, outfit—everything is crisp. you look like someone who wouldn’t even know what a block button is because you’ve never been rejected in your life. you get to the station early. normally, someone from your team will poke their head into your desk area and ask, “hey, can you grab coffee for the crew again?” and you’ll sigh and nod and go along with it because—well, intern. but not today. today, before anyone even opens their mouth, you’re already on your feet. you don’t even need the order list. you know the order list. you’ve practically tattooed it to your brain.

when you walk into the crew room, he’s already there, scrolling through his phone. you straighten your shoulders and walk in. a few people notice you, offer lazy smiles and tired thank-yous as you pass out coffees like usual. like your entire ego hasn’t just been crushed and set on fire by the man currently pretending very hard not to see you. you make your rounds and, last but absolutely not least—seunghyun. he doesn’t look up when you stop in front of him. just keeps scrolling, like the light of his phone is more interesting. coward. you smile. and very, very gently—you tilt the cup. just enough for a soft splash of coffee to spill right onto his thigh. he jerks slightly. eyes snap up. “shibal—” “oh my god!” you gasp, completely fake, already reaching for tissues from the center table. “i am so sorry.” you’re not. you immediately bend over and start dabbing at the spot on his pants like your life depends on it. “hey—” he shifts in his seat, trying to back away, but you keep pressing the tissues to his leg, overly focused. “i’m really, really sorry—“ “stop. seriously, it’s fine.” “no, i feel awful,” you say, voice still sugary sweet. “these pants must be expensive.” you hope they are, just out of spite. “stop. now.” “just let me—” he curses in his mother tongue before he grabs your wrist—not hard, but enough to make you pause—and leans in slightly. no one else is paying attention. the crew is too busy chatting, arguing about something across the room. “what the hell are you doing?” he mutters, jaw tight. you blink up at him, innocent. “helping.” “helping,” he repeats under his breath, eyes narrowing. “mhm.” you press the napkin to the damp spot on his pants one more time before finally pulling back and tossing the now coffee-stained tissue into the trash. “by the way,” you add, “did you find my jacket? i left it at your place, i texted you about it yesterday. or at least, i tried to. but then i realized you blocked me… crazy! if you could bring it tomorrow, that’d be great! i really liked that one.” “can you not do that?” “do what?” he exhales through his nose like he’s trying very hard not to lose his temper in front of a room full of people. “this,” he says, voice still quiet. “right now.” you blink, all faux confusion and polite concern. “sorry, you’ll have to be more specific.” he lowers his voice even more. “we can talk later.”

you wonder what his perception of ‘later’ is, because a week has gone by and he still hasn’t talked to you. great. seven entire business days of nothing. he hasn’t given you your jacket back either which, frankly, is insulting. because that was a nice jacket. and you’re starting to think he’s keeping it on purpose. like a hostage. probably folded in his closet next to his designer sweaters. but that’s not all. he’s not staying late at the station anymore—not like he used to. no more mysterious 10 p.m. coffee breaks or pretend meetings that just happened to line up with yours. no more loitering by your desk asking you questions he already knows the answer to. no. he’s been the first to leave every day, like he’s allergic to your existence. like he’s on a tight schedule now that doesn’t include pretending you didn’t almost hook up in his stupid penthouse. and you—you’re overthinking everything more than you should. but what did you expect, really? he’s him. choi fucking seunghyun. a literal celebrity. he’s stadium-filling, broke-the-internet-level famous. and you’re you. a twenty-two-year-old intern with an overused tote bag and anxiety. he’s probably entertaining another girl by now. someone older. someone hotter. someone who’s currently giving him the sloppiest head imaginable while you spiral alone on your mattress floor-camping because you’re too sad to do laundry.

it’s just a briefing. that’s what you tell yourself when you walk into the small mission room with your tablet tucked under your arm, already scrolling through the latest schedule revision. it’s just a technical review—twenty, thirty minutes, tops. you’ve done dozens of these. what’s not fine is that it’s just you, one guy from systems, and seunghyun. and seunghyun’s the one who asked for this. specifically requested someone from the integration team walk him through the final verifications on the updated protocol for emergency launch procedures—redundancy checks, automated override responses, eva lockdown sequencing. stuff he’s already been briefed on before. twice. but sure. you’re the intern, you show up when asked. you sit at the far end of the table and pull up the files. the systems engineer arrives a minute later and nods to you. “he should be here in a sec,” he says, setting down his tablet. you nod, trying to stay focused. and then the door opens. seunghyun walks in like he didn’t ruin your entire week, barely glancing at you, taking the seat across the table. the systems guy starts walking you both through the revised plans—delays in the pressure stabilization sequence, last-minute adjustments to the backup thruster commands. you’re expected to confirm how the integration team’s handling the adjusted timeline. what redundancy tests are still running. whether everything will be clean by launch. and then—halfway through discussing the comms systems auto-failover—the systems engineer’s phone buzzes. he checks it. grimaces. “sorry,” he mutters, getting up. “i’ve got to take this—it’s about the diagnostic we kicked off this morning. i’ll be right back.” and just like that, you’re alone with seunghyun.

“i have your jacket,” he says after a beat of uncomfortable silence. you scoff. “oh wow. an entire week later. should i thank you for the honor?” his lips press into a thin line. “i’m sorry.” you stare at him for a second, deadpan. “for the jacket? or for blocking me after making out with me?” “for all of it.” “why’d you do it?” you press. “because i didn’t sleep with you? because—” “no,” he cuts in quickly, offended. “of course not. it wasn’t that.” you cross your arms, waiting. “you’re… young,” he says finally. “and i’ve been through too much shit.” you roll your eyes. “please.” “i’m serious.” “what are you—” “you know what happened,” he cuts in. “everyone does.” and you do. the articles. the headlines. the trial. the overdosing. the netizen comments that called him a disgrace. the years of silence and exile that followed. “i’ve been dragged through every headline in korea,” he adds. “and people still follow me around, waiting for me to fuck up again. i thought—i thought it’d be better. for you. for me.” he rubs a hand across his jaw. “you think anyone would let me get involved with someone like you? twenty-two? i’d be dragged again. you’d be dragged with me. i can’t afford that.” “why? famous men date younger girls all the time and—” “and how many of them are hated by their entire country?” you shake your head, not even angry now—just tired. “then you shouldn’t have kissed me.” he looks at you for a long time. “i know.” silence. you look down at your hands. “you didn’t even talk to me. i just woke up the next day and… poof, gone.” “i know. i panicked.” “did you think i wouldn’t notice?” “i knew you would. but i—” the door creaks open again. “alright, sorry about that,” the systems engineer says, walking back in. “they’re pushing the diagnostics briefing to wednesday, so we’re good to move forward here.” you and seunghyun both sit a little straighter, shifting back into neutral, like flipping a switch. “where were we?” the engineer asks, tapping his tablet.

the day was long. the lights over your desk flick off with a soft click, and you rub your eyes as the screen fades to black. everything’s packed—tablet in your bag, notes tucked under your arm, keycard clipped to your sweater. your body’s tired in that slow, heavy way it always is after too many hours spent double-checking timelines no one will remember until something goes wrong. you grab your keys and head for the door, already thinking about what leftovers you’re going to microwave for dinner—your phone buzzes. you check it, thumb swiping without thinking—until your brain catches up with what you’re looking at.

Hi. Like I said earlier, I’ve got your jacket. Driver’s outside the main gate for a few more mins.

you freeze in the middle of the hallway. oh. okay, so he unblocked you. you consider ignoring it. letting it rot in his backseat for eternity. but… it’s your favorite jacket. and, well, fine. maybe part of you wants to see him again. just for a second. so you head for the front gate. his car’s there—same sleek, black, low-key pretentious sedan, parked like it’s never known a traffic ticket in its life. you spot him through the tinted window before you’re even close. and of course, he sees you coming. as you approach, the back door swings open from the inside. you stop just outside the door. “you could’ve just left it with your driver,” you say. “didn’t want to.” “fine. then give it to me.” a pause. he hesitates. your eyes narrow. “don’t tell me you forgot it.” “i don’t have it with me.” “are you serious?” you scoff. “i needed to talk to you,” he says. you laugh. like actually laugh. “oh, that’s rich. now you want to talk?” you shake your head. “we talked this morning,” you remind him. “not like that,” he says quietly. “and what exactly is that supposed to mean?” he doesn’t answer immediately. just glances toward the front seat. and that’s when you realize: the driver’s still there, eyes locked straight ahead, hands resting on the wheel. he hasn’t moved, but he’s absolutely listening. you and seunghyun both know it. so when he turns back to you, voice lower now, and says, “somewhere private,” it lands different. you exhale. your hand tightens around the strap of your bag, glancing around before sliding in the backseat.

the ride is silent. but it doesn’t feel silent. you’re sitting close—closer than necessary—and his stupid long legs are taking up all the damn space. one of his knees brushes against yours and your skin burns with the contact, like your body hasn’t moved on from last week. you shift slightly, glancing at him. god. he’s so fine. so fine it makes you mad. ugh and his lips were so soft against yours… his hand was so warm… his weight, the way he—nope. enough. you shake your head like that’ll do anything to stop the thoughts. you try to focus on anything else. the road. the seatbelt indentation on your thigh… you should have a little more dignity. you really should. but honestly? you are mentally restraining yourself from throwing yourself at him and kissing him again right there in the damn car.

apparently you have more self-control than seunghyun. because the moment you both step into his penthouse, finally alone, he kisses you. you barely register the sound of the door shutting before he’s turning to you—hand already finding your waist, and then suddenly his mouth is on yours. your brain trips over itself, trying to catch up with what the fuck is happening. your hands are still clutched around your bag, your body stiff, too surprised to do anything but stand there like you’ve just been struck by lightning. because—what? but then his fingers tighten at your side, warm through your clothes. his lips part slightly against yours, like he’s about to pull away, and that snaps you out of it. you drop your bag to the floor and your hands find the back of his neck, pulling him closer as you kiss him back. the second your lips move with his, it’s like something clicks into place. he groans quietly against your mouth, and then he’s moving—walking you backwards through the foyer like he doesn’t care where you end up, as long as he can keep touching you. your back hits the wall and his body follow, pressing against yours. his mouth moves with yours, hungry and rough now. he shifts again, slotting a thigh between yours, and your back arches—body chasing the pressure before your brain can even catch up. his hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing beneath your chin as he tilts your face to kiss you harder. deeper. and for a moment, you let him. you let yourself fall into it. but then you pull back. your heart is racing, lips swollen as your hands find his chest. you hold him there, a few inches away, eyebrows furrowed. “what are—” you whisper, breathless. “what are you doing?” his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, mouth parted like he wants to dive right back in. but he stills, hands lingering on your waist. your eyes flick up to meet his. “you said you couldn’t do this. that i’m too young, and it would ruin you, and—” “i know what i said,” he interrupts. “i shouldn’t want you. but i do.” he means it.

it lives in his gut, coils low in his spine, this itch he’s never been able to fully kill. this need for things he knows damn well he shouldn’t touch. the more off-limits something is, the more his body seems to reach for it. the more it feels like gravity. he knows this. he’s aware of this. his therapist would probably applaud him for the insight. but apparently, all that self-awareness still hasn’t translated into impulse control. because you’re standing in front of him right now with your lips parted and your eyes searching his, like you don’t fully understand the war happening inside his head—and instead of backing away, instead of doing the decent, adult, responsible thing… he wants to kiss you again. worse than that—he wants to ruin you. he wants to have you, in every way he’s not supposed to. and then he wants to go back in time and erase the part of him that thinks like that.

you shift your weight, heartbeat loud in your ears. he’s watching you like he’s looking for a sign—some kind of clear answer written on your face that’ll make it easier to do the right thing. but there’s never been anything easy about this. “so… so what do we do?” you ask. “if we do this…” his voice drops even lower. “you’ll need to sign an nda.” you exhale, a half-laugh slipping out. “jesus. an nda?” “i know how that sounds—” “like you don’t trust me?” “it’s not about trust,” he says sharply, then softens. “it’s about protection. mine, mostly.” you watch him. he looks like he’s been thinking about this for a long time. like he’s been trying to talk himself out of it and just lost the argument. “this—” he gestures between you two. “this can’t come back to me.” he says. “i got involved with the wrong girl once and it ruined my life… i can’t let that happen again.” you swallow, throat dry. “so you want me to sign something that says i won’t tell anyone we slept together.” “yeah. that’s what i want.”

you should say no. the thought floats to the surface like a stubborn bubble, persistent even through the thick fog of heat in your chest. you should say no and leave with what little pride you’ve got left. you might be young but you’re not naive, you’ve seen how this kind of thing plays out—older man, younger girl, too many power imbalances to count, and a whole minefield of feelings that only one of you will have to deal with afterward. it doesn’t end well. and still—there’s this stupid part of you that wants to say yes anyway. because you’ve spent the last few months orbiting this man like a fucking satellite (ironically enough) and now he wants you. and he’s handing you the terms of your own undoing like he’s done the math and decided you’re worth the risk only if you’re kept quiet about it. one of the most beautiful men in the industry—hell, in the entire world—wants you. maybe not for the right reasons. maybe not in the way you’ve dreamed about late at night, face buried in your pillow, replaying every brush of his hand. but still. he wants you. and you’re just a girl, after all. a girl with a big fat crush, the kind that makes you feel a little sick and a little stupid. do it for the plot, says the voice in your head. because you could get something out of this too, right? probably good sex—great sex, even—with a man people would kill to even breathe next to. so, inevitably… you exhale, feeling the weight of the moment settle over your shoulders before finally looking up at him. “okay. i’ll sign it.”

your hand hovers over the first page for a second too long—long enough to register the bold, all-caps title: NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT — PERSONAL RELATIONS. you skim the rest, though it’s all the usual corporate-sounding nonsense dressed up in legalese: ‘i, the undersigned, agree to refrain from discussing, disclosing, hinting at, or vaguely subtweeting any private or intimate interactions with choi seunghyun […] including, but not limited to, verbal exchanges, physical contact, romantic entanglements, and/or sexual activities, whether in person or via social media, messaging apps, podcasts […]’ there’s even a clause about not sharing screenshots. of course there is. your fingers tighten around the pen. and in one neat, traitorous motion, you sign your name at the bottom like you’re checking into a hotel. and that’s how you end up in his bed. half of your body naked, top forgotten somewhere on the wooden floor, jeans tugged halfway down your thighs before he got impatient and shoved them the rest of the way off. his mouth is on your right breast, closing around your nipple, sucking gently as his teeth graze the sensitive peak. your bare back arches off the bed, pressing more of your breast against his mouth. the sight of him is amazing, there’s something powerful about having an older man sucking on your tits like a damn baby. you almost laugh at the thought—till you feel his knee nudge between yours, parting them, and your breath catches.

he leans over you, bracing himself with one hand pressed into the mattress near your head, the other slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, and the look on his face is pure hunger. his fingers find your clit and you can feel him smile against your skin before pulling away from your breast. “can you feel it, hm? can you feel how wet you are for me already?” he asks. his fingers move slow on purpose, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make you twitch. and the way you moan for him damn… it goes straight to his cock. he tells himself to go slow, to be careful. but it’s getting harder by the second. “you’ve been waiting for this ever since you saw me, haven’t you?” he murmurs. you’re barely holding yourself together—pussy dripping, hips rolling into his touch, every nerve frayed—but somehow you manage to smirk, just a little. “you should say that to yourself,” you whisper, biting back a moan. “you’re the one who’s been waiting.” seunghyun chuckles. because you’re right, he has been waiting. and you’re so cocky and smug in your wrecked little state… soaked and trembling under his hands, still mouthing off like you’ve got the upper hand. he fucking loves it. “you’re a fucking brat,” he mutters. his fingers don’t slow. they speed up. like he’s punishing you for opening that pretty little mouth and pushing his buttons. your back arches. your thighs start to shake. “mhm,” you pant. “and you love it.” “oh, i do. trust me.” he leans in, lips barely brushing your ear as he murmurs, “but what would your mom think if she saw you like this, though?” you freeze for half a second and seunghyun smiles. “all needy for me. squirming under my fingers. begging for someone almost twice your age to fuck you stupid.” and then he plunges his fingers deep, curling them hard, dragging them against that spot inside you that makes your whole body jerk. “fuck! s-seunghyun!—” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut, mouth falling open like you can’t keep anything in anymore. he groans at the sound of his name on your lips, filthy and desperate. it’s the first time you’ve said it like that. his thumb finds your clit again, circling tight and fast, and you’re already so close it’s pathetic—hips bucking up into his hand, fingers clawing at the sheets like you need something to anchor you. “you like that?” he murmurs, watching you. “knowing how wrong this is? knowing she trusts me and here you are, letting me finger you like a little slut in my bed?” you moan so loud you’re pretty sure the neighbors heard, your entire body clenching, everything snapping.

he fucking feels it—how close you are, how your walls flutter around his fingers like they don’t want to let him go. he wants to make you cum on them, then again on his cock, then maybe once more just because he can. “yeah,” he smirks. “you like that.” you nod, frantic, breath catching on every stroke of his fingers. your thighs are shaking now, walls clenching around his fingers, hips stuttering like you can’t decide whether to push against his hand or pull away from how intense it is. he drags his mouth across your cheek, your jaw, your neck—biting down when you moan again. “so fucking desperate,” he murmurs against your skin. “look at you. you wanna cum for me, baby?” you nod again, breathless. “please—” “yeah?” he thrusts his fingers harder, faster. “shit! please! p-please, seunghyun!” “cum for me, pretty girl.” and you do. your whole body seizes under him—back arching, mouth falling open around a ragged moan that sounds like his name but doesn’t come out fully formed. your thighs clamp tight around his wrist, your cunt pulses around his fingers, wet and hot and so fucking tight he almost loses it just watching you. he slows his hand, finally easing you down, then pulls his fingers out and brings them to his mouth sucking them clean. “you taste so good,” he says.

you’re still catching your breath, chest rising and falling in uneven waves, your body limp and spent against his sheets. his hand smooths over your stomach, up your chest, until he wraps it gently around your throat—not rough (yet…) he leans down, lips barely an inch from yours. “you think i’m done with you?” you blink up at him, still hazy, still trying to come down. but you already know the answer. you feel the answer, actually—pressed against your hip, hard and aching under the fabric of his black jeans. he shifts his hips just enough for you to feel it clearer, grinding against your skin like punctuation. “i’m still dressed,” he whispers. “haven’t even taken my fucking belt off.” you smirk. “then what the fuck are you waiting for?” he lets out a low, humorless laugh, then pulls back to look down at you, his eyes dark. “careful,” he mutters, voice rough now. hoarse. “you keep talking like that, and i’m not gonna be gentle.” “i don’t want you to be.” fucking hell... you want it rough? you’re gonna get it. “i’m gonna fuck you now,” he says. “and you’re gonna take it, all of it, like the good girl i know you are.”

his hand moves to his belt. “eyes on me,” he says. the sharp clink of his belt buckle makes your breath hitch. he’s watching you—eyes locked on your face, like he’ll know if you even think about looking away. your heart pounds. you can’t look anywhere else even if you tried. he unthreads the belt slow, letting it drag through the loops of his jeans with a quiet, deliberate sound. he drops it onto the floor without looking. your eyes follow his hands, the way they move to his waistband. the way he undoes the button, then lowers the zipper. he knows exactly what he’s doing. he leans in, kisses you again, rougher this time. his hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip as he pulls back to look at you while he pushes his pants and briefs down just far enough to free his cock. and fuck, he’s thick, hard, and leaking at the tip. seunghyun catches your gaze when your eyes flick down and smirks. lord jesus. your mouth parts like you might say something but nothing comes out. “you can take it,” he mutters. “you’re gonna take every inch for me, yeah?” you nod as he puts a condom on, then he strokes himself twice, just to line up—guiding the thick head to your entrance, dragging it through your slick folds. you whimper at the feeling, legs falling open again, hips lifting. “fuck me,” you beg, voice desperate. “please.” his hand grips your thigh, and then he pushes in, stretching you inch by inch, filling you so much you forget how to breathe. his jaw clenches. his brow furrows. seunghyun lets out a broken sound as your cunt pulls him in, hot and tight. “fuck,” he gasps. “you feel—shit! you f-feel better than i even imagined.” and he did imagine it. way too many times. late at night, hand wrapped around his cock, thinking about this exact moment—your legs around him and your pussy swallowing him whole.

he stays still for a second, buried to the hilt, breathing hard through his nose like he’s fighting for his life. “jesus christ,” he mutters,“you’re so tight… so fucking warm—” you whimper underneath him, fingers scrambling across his back, nails digging into the soft fabric of his shirt. “move,” you breathe. “please, seunghyun, move.” his hips pull back an inch. maybe two. then he pushes back in slow, dragging every inch through you until you’re arching off the bed with a broken moan. and that’s it. because after that first thrust, he loses the last bit of control he was holding onto. he starts fucking you hard and deep—so hard the headboard starts knocking against the wall. your body jolts with every thrust, your mouth open, eyes glassy, completely ruined beneath him. “that what you wanted?” he pants, pulling back to slam into you again. “you wanted—fuck!—you wanted me to fuck you like this? huh?” you nod frantically, but it’s not enough, he wants to hear you say it. “answer,” he snaps, thrusting even harder. “say it, baby.” “y-yes!” you gasp, voice needy. “wanted this—mmmh!—wanted this so m-much.” he groans like he’s in pain, dropping his head to your chest, mouth latching onto the curve of your breast, sucking a bruise into your skin. your hands tangle in his hair, your legs wrap tighter around him, and the sound of his balls slapping fast against your ass fills the room. seunghyun’s gripping your hips, pulling you toward him with every thrust, burying himself so deep you swear you can feel him up in your stomach.

he’s been fucking you for what feels like forever, like he’s trying to carve the shape of his cock into your body. he shifts your legs higher around his waist, changes the angle, and fuck, you feel it deeper, rougher, somehow even better. he groans when your pussy clamps down around him, and slams into you harder, more desperate now. he’s soaked in sweat, drenched. his forehead is dripping, beads sliding down his temple, catching on the curve of his neck. even his shirt—still on, clinging to him like a second skin—is plastered to his back and chest, soaked through. you don’t know why he hasn’t taken the damn thing off. either way, he looks wrecked, and it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. your skin’s slick with sweat too, voice hoarse from moaning his name, and your thighs are already trembling. you’re going to cum again. and judging by the way his mouth drops open, his thrusts growing erratic—so is he. his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling it fast, in time with his thrusts. “that’s it,” he says. “be my good little s-slut. cum—cum all over my cock. show me… show me how good this pussy gets, baby. i know you want to.” “fuck—s-seunghyun!” you cry out, unable to say anything else. and as your back arches off the mattress, mind going white with it, the one absurd thought that flashes through your head is: well, the nda’s paying off! he thrusts through it, chasing his own high now, gritting his teeth as your walls milk his cock so tight he sees stars.

he made you cum three times that day. because, yes, he still had enough stamina to go for a second round after that one! and somehow, he’d been even filthier the second time. you hadn’t expected it to be like that. you figured it’d be good—obviously. it’s choi seunghyun. but this was something else. you thought this would be a one time thing, just to shake the tension off. you know… sign the nda, fuck it out, move on… but no. it starts with text messages. the next morning, you’re back at the station, pretending to focus on your intern checklist, sipping coffee with trembling hands and sore thighs, when your phone buzzes.

Nice skirt.

you like it?

I do. Very much.

i’m glad ;)

Still sore?

a little

Poor you😉

you shouldn’t be texting me at these hours yk? we’re working, sir!!!

I know.

But I was thinking about how tight you were and I couldn’t resist. Sorry.

liar… you’re not sorry lmao

Not even a little.

You looked so good when you walked past me earlier, I almost stopped you.

almost?

Wasn’t sure if you could take it again.

aw, so thoughtful of you, always looking out for my wellbeing!

Someone has to! You looked wobbly on the stairs🙂

shut up, you’re not funny

I think I am.

sigh… sigh, sigh, sigh… sassy men apocalypse

Where are you?

third floor, why? :)

Because I’m on my way.

um, i’m working👎

You won’t be in about two minutes.

you’re crazy, old man

And you’re probably already wet under that little skirt. Could slide in so easily.

well… guilty ;) five minutes is all i have, take it or leave it

Oh, I’ll take it.

hurry up then😚

and just like that, you find yourself standing, pressed up between the wall and his chest, as he fucks you—skirt shoved up around your waist, panties pushed to the side and his fingers digging into your ass to keep you in place while your body rocks with every thrust. you don’t even make it to five minutes. he makes you cum in three.

it becomes a habit. and before you realize it, months have passed. you’ve lost count of how many times it’s happened—bent over the bathroom sink at the launch site before a morning briefing, your lanyard still around your neck, trying not to make a sound while seunghyun fucks you from behind with his hand over your mouth, whispering, “you better keep quiet. door’s not even locked.” … tucked between rows of astronaut suits in the integration lab storage, pressed up against a shelf while he hikes your dress up and fingers you—the sound of your wetness obscene in the quiet, sterile room … perched on the edge of a conference table after hours, legs spread, his mouth between your thighs while your laptop is still open next to you, some unfinished spreadsheet glowing on the screen—your ankles over his shoulders, his tongue circling your clit, making you moan … riding him in your desk chair during a remote call with your mom—his boss—on speaker. she’s going over deadlines. you’re pretending to listen while his cock’s buried inside you and his hand is wrapped around your throat, whispering, “don’t let it show, baby. be good.” … underneath that same desk, the office dimly lit, his fingers tangled in your hair while you take him down your throat—slow, because he told you to … pressed up against the window of his penthouse with the city glittering behind you, knees weak and breath fogging the glass as he fucks you from behind, one hand over your mouth just in case the neighbors can hear how loud you get when he hits that spot … even through the phone, he finds ways to get to you—one hand on the phone, the other between your legs, moaning into the quiet while he talks you through it “rub your clit, baby. slow. i want you begging by the time you cum.” and then, “wish i was there to watch you. you’d be so loud for me, right baby?”

you’ve learned a lot about seunghyun during these months. and let’s just say—he’s not the easiest person to deal with. he has his moments. days where he completely shuts down, needs space, and disappears for hours without saying a word, leaving you on read even when you’ve asked him something important, something that required an answer. at first, it drove you a little crazy (you’re not gonna lie) but eventually you learned to stop expecting him to be someone he’s not. you tell yourself it’s fine, that it’s not like you’re his girlfriend or anything, that he doesn’t owe you an explanation. you remind yourself that he’s older and usually a lot busier than you, that he probably has a million other things to think about, and that you’re just… there. just a part of his life he visits when he wants to. not the center of it. and yeah, that stings a little sometimes, but you get it. you understand him. you want to give him his space, even when it makes your chest feel weird and tight for a bit. you won’t deny it—you’ve done your research. let’s not call it stalking because that feels a little too accusatory (it is stalking 100%) , but you’ve definitely looked into him more than is strictly necessary for someone you’re not officially dating. you knew stuff about him before, of course, but now it’s different. there’s this aching need to figure him out, like if you just look hard enough, pay close enough attention, you’ll finally understand what’s going on in that beautifully fucked-up head of his. so, yeah! you’ve watched all the interviews, the documentaries, the films and shows and guest appearances. you’ve read every article, even the ones that feel like they were written by a fan with too much time and zero critical thinking skills. you’ve stayed up at night scrolling through reddit threads like a lunatic, trying to connect dots that probably aren’t even there. he doesn’t know about this, obviously, and he never will, because you’re pretty sure he’d block your number for stalker behavior real fast. which is fair. but honestly? you’re doing it with good intentions. you’re not trying to be creepy, you’re just trying to get him. decode him. understand how someone like him works. and more importantly, where the hell you fit into all of it. but eventually you realize it’s kind of pointless. because the seunghyun you see when you’re alone with him doesn’t match any of the versions of him you find online. the public version of him feels like a character he plays—perfectly curated.

you don’t really realize when it stops being about sex. maybe it stopped being only about sex when you started spending full weekends at his penthouse, lying to your mom about crashing at a friend’s place while you were actually curled up on his couch—only when he was in the mood for cuddling, of course—watching movies or playing board games while his unreleased tracks played in the background. sometimes he’ll play you something he’s working on and sit quietly beside you, waiting for your reaction. and when you tell him it’s beautiful—because it always is—he just shrugs and says, “it’s not done yet.” but there’s something in the way he says it. something that sounds a lot like thank you. he never says why he shows you, he just does. or maybe it was when he started buying you things out of nowhere. thoughtful things. unnecessary things. like that matching silk pajama set he picked up ‘for sleepovers’ so you’d have something to leave at his place—never mind the fact that matching with his own wasn’t required and he absolutely could’ve gotten you something completely different. or the shoes you’d been eyeing for weeks but didn’t buy because they were way too expensive, and then suddenly they just… showed up. in your size. in his hands. and now you have to explain to your mom how a broke intern magically afforded designer footwear. there was the cartier bracelet. the van cleef earrings. both of which you now casually refer to as ‘dupes’ because the truth would raise more than a few eyebrows. he’s even emptied a drawer in his bedroom just so you can put your things when you stay over. he pays for your manicures too. picks the design himself. says it’s to “decorate the hand that’s going to wrap around my dick.” which is… charming?

maybe it stopped being just sex when you got sick and he took care of you for three days straight. made you hot meals, brought you medicine, insisted you sleep in his bed instead of going home. the food was mostly inedible—he’s a terrible cook—but you were too congested to taste anything anyway, so it worked out. maybe it was how he started saving things for you. a piece of cake from a crew celebration you missed, a keychain from a trip, a book he thought you’d like… or when he let you see him on his worst days—the ones where he barely talks, where he gets lost in his own head, where the silence feels heavy. the days he doesn’t touch you at all, just lets you sit there next to him on the couch in quiet solidarity (and sometimes snapping at you for no reason as well…). or maybe it was when he started taking you out. quietly, of course. always in private rooms, always through back entrances, always with that underlying sense of this can’t be seen. but still. that has to mean something, right? or when he looks at you when you’re lying next to him after sex, with your hair messy and his hand resting on your bare stomach like he forgot to move it. those are the moments that make your chest ache. because it’s in those looks, that you start to realize he might actually feel something for you.

everything kinda solidifies when he takes you on vacation to barbados. you tell your mom you’re taking a break for your mental health, which isn’t technically a lie, but also not… the whole truth. her reaction is immediate and skeptical. “you’re off this week?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “isn’t that when the rest of the crew is off too?” you pause. try to remember the script you came up with two days ago. “yeah,” you say, nodding way too fast. “thought it’d be smart to, like… rest at the same time.” she stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. eventually, after enough vague hand gestures and forced yawns about how ‘burnt out’ you’ve been, she buys it. saying, “well, good luck with whatever mess you get yourself into. i’ll be too busy working.” rude, as usual. you throw in something about needing to be alone and she backs off, probably thinking you’re going through a breakup you’ve failed to mention. which is ironic. but let her believe that. it’s easier than explaining the reality. you don’t tell her that you’ll be on a beach in barbados, drinking overpriced cocktails out of a coconut while choi seunghyun rubs sunscreen on your back and pretends not to look at your ass every five seconds. the trip itself is… surreal. private flight, of course. he’s casual about it, in a way that makes you feel casual, until you’re halfway across the world and he’s feeding you bites of tropical fruit on a balcony with the ocean stretched out behind him. you stay in a beachfront villa with a private pool and views that look like they were pulled off a screensaver. you spend the days doing absolutely nothing. you paddleboard, laugh too much, make questionable bets over mini-golf, drink things with too many garnishes, get sunburned, sneak kisses when no one’s watching, and fuck like it’s a limited-time offer and neither of you plans on wasting a single second.

but even here, you have to be careful. no photos, no being seen in the wrong place at the wrong time. when you go out to explore—because you’re in barbados and you should at least try to act like tourists—he dresses like he’s on the run from interpol. sunglasses, a mask, and a cap pulled low enough to practically blind him. long sleeves too, because apparently discretion is more important than not passing out from heatstroke. you walk through the historic streets of speightstown, visiting art galleries and tiny bookstores, and he’s dripping sweat but pretending everything is fine. you offer him water and he refuses out of pride. and when you point out that he’s two degrees away from spontaneous combustion, he tells you to keep walking. you go to harrison’s cave and take one of those little trams underground, and he keeps his head down the entire time like the rock formations might recognize him. you tour animal flower cave, stand at the edge of the cliffs while the wind tries to rip your hat off, and he holds your hand the entire time. you take photos of the view, but not of him. you stop at a roadside stand to try fish cakes and roasted breadfruit, and he stands awkwardly behind you like your very tall, very sweaty security guard, occasionally pulling you back by the waist when someone walks too close. he complains about the heat once—just once—and immediately tries to pretend he didn’t. you don’t let it go for the rest of the day.

on your second to last night in barbados, there’s a local festival happening near the beach—a community event with food stalls, live music, people dancing barefoot in the sand, and fireworks scheduled after sunset. the kind of thing tourists stumble into and locals grow up loving. you hear about it from the bartender while ordering two margaritas, and you’re already smiling halfway through the conversation, already imagining how nice it would be to go. seunghyun isn’t thrilled. you bring it up while the sun’s still low in the sky, and he’s sitting on the edge of the bed with damp hair (that he had dyed black just before the trip) and a towel around his neck. you mention the fireworks, the food, how it’s walking distance from the villa, and he barely looks up. “crowds,” he says. “we can stay in the back,” you offer, trying not to sound too hopeful. “just to watch the fireworks. it won’t be that busy.” he lifts an eyebrow. “it’s a festival. it’ll be busy.” “okay, but you’ll be in a mask and a hat and sunglasses like usual. no one’s going to recognize you.” he exhales, leans back on his hands, and watches you for a moment. he knows there’s no real point in arguing with you once you’ve got an idea stuck in your head. “you really want to go?” he asks eventually. you nod without hesitating. “yeah. i want to see fireworks with you.” he closes his eyes for a second like he’s pretending to weigh the pros and cons, and you stand there watching him with that little smile you know he hates because it means you’re about to do something mildly manipulative and very effective. “please?” you say, voice soft and teasing as you step closer, hands sliding up his bare back. “i really want to go,” you say, voice soft, lips brushing the side of his neck, your body pressed against his. “but if you need extra motivation…” your hand drifts to his front, dragging slow over his waistband, and you feel the way his breath catches even though he doesn’t move. “let me suck your dick,” you whisper. his jaw flexes. you let your nails scrape lightly along the front of his briefs, just enough pressure to make him grunt. “you’re bribing me with head?” “well… yeah. is it working?” he doesn’t need to reply. you can feel the way his cock is already hard beneath the thin fabric. he’s trying so hard to keep it together. and you love watching him try. you press a kiss to his jaw, just below it. your mouth trails down his neck. “c’mon, old man…” you tease, laughing softly against his skin. “i’ll let you fuck my throat, if that’s what you want.” he swallows hard, still pretending to think it over like he has any self-control left at all. so you press your hand between his legs, palm firm, rubbing over the bulge in slow, lazy strokes that make his breath catch again. “you’re lucky i’m weak.” “i know.”

and you do. because a few minutes later, you’re on your knees with his cock deep in your throat, spit slicking your chin, eyes watery, mascara smudged, and he’s fucking into your mouth—both hands tangled in your hair, hips snapping forward in rough, desperate thrusts that make your throat burn and your cunt throb all at once. he’s cursing under his breath, looking down at you like he can’t fucking believe this is real, like the sight of you gagging around him is too good to be true, praising you through gritted teeth. “fuck, just like that! f-fuck yeah, baby, you’re s-so fucking good.” you moan around him, choking on the sound, tears slipping down your cheeks. his rhythm stutters and he groans, deep and ragged, coming hard down your throat while your lips stay wrapped tight around him, swallowing like a good fucking girl, not stopping until he finally pulls back, panting.

you really must have been good, because even though you’ve already given him what he wanted and already got him to agree, he doesn’t let you leave it there. instead, he pulls you up with both hands and tosses you onto the bed with zero ceremony, and says,“now spread your fucking legs. i’m not going anywhere ‘til i taste this pussy.” before you can say a word, he’s got your legs over his shoulders, your panties peeled off and discarded somewhere on the floor, and his mouth on your pussy like he’s starving for it—tongue dragging through your folds, lips wrapping around your clit, hands gripping your thighs, holding them open, keeping you still while he devours you like it’s his goddamn mission. his tongue moves in slow circles before flattening out and licking up every drop of slick dripping down your cunt. your fingers dig into his hair, your hips grinding against his face on instinct, and he just lets you, groaning like your desperation only makes him more focused. he doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, moaning, cumming all over his tongue—soaking his mouth, your thighs shaking against his grip.

seunghyun was right. it is crowded. way too many people, too much noise, too many phones in the air, and someone’s already spilled something sticky near his shoe. it’s hot, and the humidity has turned the inside of his shirt into a damn sauna. he wants to complain. he really, really does. but your fingers are laced through his, and your eyes are glowing like you’ve been waiting for this exact night your entire life. you look so cute he bites his tongue and toughs it out for you. “come on, we have to find a good spot!” you say over your shoulder, tugging his hand. “somewhere we can actually see when the fireworks start!” he nods, even though the idea of standing still in the middle of all this chaos isn’t exactly appealing. you don’t seem to care. you’re on a mission—darting between couples and vendors and wide-eyed kids with glowing bracelets, scanning the shoreline for the perfect stretch of beach. and all he can do is follow.

you find a spot eventually—a quiet stretch of sand tucked behind a cluster of food stalls, far enough from the main crowd that it feels almost private. it’s not perfect, but you can see the sky, and the ocean’s just close enough that the waves drown out the worst of the noise. you sit first, legs curled in the sand, already scanning the sky for the best angles. seunghyun doesn’t sit right away. he’s hovering beside you, looking over his shoulder like he’s waiting for someone to yell hey, aren’t you— followed by his full government name. “that lady keeps staring at me. i think she recognized me,” he mutters under his breath. you’re sipping some sugary drink out of a plastic cup, legs stretched across the sand, completely unbothered. “what lady?” he tilts his chin discreetly toward a woman near a vendor cart, halfway through a beer, holding a paper tray of something fried. “red shirt.” you squint. “she isn’t staring at you, she’s just drunk, seunghyun.” “i’m serious.” “so am i.” he doesn’t look convinced. he adjusts his cap, shifts his weight like he’s about to go and relocate for the third time. “hey,” you say softly, tugging his hand. he glances down. “breathe. you’re fine. she’s probably just wondering why there’s a six-foot-tall man wearing sunglasses at night, and a surgical mask on a tropical island.” he glares at you through his sunglasses. you smile at him. “or maybe she just thinks you’re hot. which is very true,” you add. he exhales a short laugh, looks away like he’s trying not to let your words soothe him—but they do. you pat the spot next to you and eventually, after one more suspicious glance toward the woman, he sits. his hand stays close to yours in the sand, fingertips brushing like he’s grounding himself without meaning to.

the first firework goes off—bright and loud, lighting up the sky in a burst of silver and blue. you gasp, eyes lighting up instantly as you look up, totally transfixed. he doesn’t look at the sky. he looks at you. and in that second, nothing else matters. everything fades into background noise, swallowed up by the sound of your laughter and the glow of your face, painted gold and blue and violet as the fireworks burst in waves above you, lighting you up in flickers like someone’s holding a candle behind stained glass. you’re looking up at the sky, mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and full of something he hasn’t let himself feel in a long time—something soft and open and painfully alive—and all he can do is stare at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

it should be nothing. just a warm night on an island, tucked far enough from the rest of the world that he convinced himself he could keep this thing between you light and quiet, separate from the parts of himself that are still recovering. but here you are, smiling like you’re in love with the whole damn sky, your knee touching his in the sand, your fingers brushing his hand… and something in his chest pulls tight. he knows that feeling. he’s felt it before. and he thought—genuinely believed—that he’d buried it. years ago. deep enough that it couldn’t crawl its way back to the surface. but now it’s here again, rising like it never left, like it’s been waiting quietly in the corners of his ribs for the right person to walk in and shake everything loose. and it’s you. you, with your bad jokes and your ability to make him feel safe in a body that’s spent years trying not to be seen. you, with your stubbornness and your quiet kindness and the way you make space for him without asking for anything in return. you, who never demanded more, who never pushed, who kept letting this be whatever it needed to be—even when it started turning into something else entirely. he thought this was just sex. but now, he realizes he’s been wrong. he feels it in the way his chest won’t stop aching, in the way his throat feels tight even though he hasn’t said a word, in the way he wants to reach out and touch your face, like it would help him understand how he ended up feeling this much for someone he didn’t mean to let in like that. he didn’t think he could do this again. didn’t think he’d ever want to. but he does. he wants this. you. and that truth settles into him so quietly, so completely, it almost scares him.

the next day is quiet. you’re both at the villa, sun-drunk and still soft from the night before, lounging on the deck after falling asleep tangled together with sand in your hair. he’s lying on a lounger in swim trunks, sunglasses on, head tilted back toward the sun. you’re beside him in one of his shirts and a bikini bottom, legs stretched out, knees up. lazily flipping through a book you haven’t actually read a word of in the last thirty minutes. not when he looks like that. you pretend to be focused, but really, you’re watching him. the line of his jaw. the rise and fall of his chest. the way he licks a drop of condensation off his lip like he doesn’t know you’re dying a little bit every time he moves. you don’t say anything for a while. it’s easy not to. the breeze is warm, the air smells like salt, and your skin is buzzing from too much sun and too many feelings you’re pretending not to feel. but eventually, the question slips out. a question that’s been annoying you since the second you woke up, you say, “so. how many girls have you brought here?” he doesn’t even look up. “what?” “here,” you repeat. “or vacations in general. just wondering.” he snorts. “you’re not wondering. you’re overthinking.” he pushes his sunglasses up onto his head and turns to face you more fully, propping himself up on one elbow. “why do you want to know?” you shrug. “i’m just curious.” “curious? you sound insecure.” “oh, wow. okay.” “you asked.” “i was being chill.” “you were being nosy,” he retorts. “and weirdly passive-aggressive about it.” you scoff, grabbing your drink and taking a long sip just to avoid responding. he lets the silence hang there a moment, then shifts in his chair. “if you want to know something, just ask,” he says. “i’m not gonna lie to you. but i’m also not going to play into this kind of shit—i’m too old for it.” you glare at him over your glass. “what kind of shit?” he shrugs, like it’s obvious. “you know exactly what i mean.” he pauses, then adds, “and no. i haven’t brought anyone on vacation before. or done this—whatever this is—with anyone else.” “really?” he raises a brow. “you think i fly across the world to sneak around with girls i don’t give a fuck about?” you blink. the words hit, but it’s not even that. it’s the tone. the way he says it like you’re being ridiculous, like the whole conversation is beneath him, like your feelings are something he doesn’t have the patience for. and maybe you were being a little insecure. maybe you were poking at something just to see how much it could hold. but still—he didn’t have to talk to you like that. he didn’t have to say it like he was teaching you a lesson you should’ve already learned. “okay,” you mutter, setting your glass down a little too firmly. he glances over, confused. “what?” you stand up, brushing sand off your thighs, heart pounding in that specific, bitter way it does when you’ve just been embarrassed by someone you didn’t think had the power to embarrass you. “nothing. forget it.” “hey—“ “you don’t have to be such a dick about it, seunghyun,” you say, grabbing your towel and turning toward the villa. he sits up straighter. “i wasn’t—” “you called me insecure like i’m some fucking child.” you don’t wait for a response. you just go across the deck, then through the open doors. you don’t slam them, but you think about it.

he doesn’t move right away. just sits there, staring at the space where you’d been, your glass still sitting half-full next to his, the door swinging shut behind you like punctuation. and for a second, he lets himself wonder if maybe he should just stay out here, give you space, let it cool off—because that’s what he usually does when things get tense. but no, he stands. mutters a quiet fuck under his breath, runs a hand through his hair, and follows you inside. he’s not even sure what he’s going to say. you’re in the bedroom, standing by the window with your arms crossed and your back to him, stiff and silent. you don’t turn when he walks in, but you know he’s there—he can see the way your shoulders shift slightly, like you’re bracing for something. “i was an asshole,” he says finally. “i shouldn’t have talked to you like that.” you don’t answer, and he deserves that silence. he does. but he keeps going anyway, slowly stepping closer. “you asked me something that clearly mattered to you, and i got defensive.” he exhales through his nose, drags a hand down his face. “i wasn’t trying to call you insecure, i didn’t mean it like that—i really didn’t. but it came out like shit.” “yeah,” you mutter, voice tight. “it did.” “i don’t know—i don’t know how to do this,” he says. “but i care about you. and maybe that’s why i handled it the way i did, because it freaks me out how fast this has turned into something i don’t want to fuck up.” you turn then. eyes sharp, but softer around the edges now. “then why do you talk to me like i don’t matter the second you get uncomfortable?” that one lands. because it’s true. “i don’t mean to,” he says, quieter now. “i just don’t always know how to be close to someone without pushing them first. but you didn’t deserve that. and i know that. i’m sorry.” you exhale. some of the tension in your shoulders starts to slip away. you turn to look at him. “it’s okay.” “you asked if i’d brought anyone else on vacation before,” he says. “and the answer’s no. just you.” he’s standing here, scratching at the back of his neck, trying to decide if he should leave it at the apology or say the thing that’s been sitting in the back of his head for weeks now, annoying the hell out of him every time you smile at him from across the room. “i’ve been thinking,” he says finally. “for a while now.” you glance up at him, hesitant. “about what?” he shifts his weight, like the floor just got a little less stable. “about us. this thing. whatever we’re doing.” he pauses, shrugs a little. “i mean—we’re basically together already. it just doesn’t have a label. i’m not—i’m not saying we go public or start holding hands in front of the press,” he adds quickly. “i just mean… i’d like it if you were mine. officially.” he scratches at his jaw. “i want to call you my girlfriend.” he looks at you for a beat. he’s being honest, laying it down so you know where he stands. “but only if you want that too.” and then, after a second, with a slight smirk, “we’ve been fake-honeymooning in barbados all week. figured it’s only fair to start calling you that.” you blink at him once, then again, like you’re double-checking he actually said what you think he said. but he’s not messing with you. and you smile—wider than you mean to—because suddenly your whole chest feels warm and buzzy. “yeah,” you say, and it comes out lighter than expected. a little breathless. “of course.” his brows lift slightly. “yeah?” “don’t act surprised,” you say. “you’ve had me in a chokehold for months.”

when you get back from barbados, everything feels stupidly perfect for a while. you’re still technically sneaking around, still careful at work, still lying to your mom when you sleep over—but something has shifted. the label’s there now. and every night ends the same: you in his bed, wrapped in one of his shirts, brushing your teeth side by side in the mirror like this has been your life for years. you’re in that stage where everything feels light. it’s easy… until it isn’t. he gets the call on a thursday. his phone buzzes and he frowns down at it, stands up from the table like the name alone has changed the air in the room. you’re in the kitchen, making tea, half-listening to him talk to someone on the phone with his usual flat tone, saying, “yeah,” and “right,” and “i’ll think about it”. until he hangs up and stands there for a beat too long, hand still on the counter, like he’s processing something in real time. “that was my agent,” he says eventually. “they offered me something.” “yeah?” “squid game season 2.” you actually laugh at first. like a full, surprised laugh, because what the fuck? “wait, seriously? like—the squid game?” he nods once, slowly, like he’s still not sure if this is something to be excited about. “yes. well, they didn’t technically offer it, but hwang donghyuk asked for me. wants me to read for it.” “who?” “the director. he brought me up first. said he thinks i’d get it… they want me to play one of the new players.” and at first, you’re thrilled. you react like any reasonable person would—with excitement and some very high-pitched noise you don’t entirely recognize as your own. your face lights up without you even meaning to. “that’s insane! seunghyun, that’s huge!” “mhm,” he says. and that’s when you realize—he’s not smiling. you step closer, watching him carefully now. “what’s the role?” he hesitates for a second, then exhales through his nose. “player 230. he’s a rapper who uses drugs to cope with the pressure of the games.” you immediately understand why he isn’t excited. the character is like a version of himself he’s worked hard to bury. and now someone’s offering to pay him to resurrect it. you don’t know what to say to that, not right away. the excitement dips, replaced by something heavier. “i don’t know,” he continues, rubbing a hand over his face. “it’s a lot. and kind of close to… everything. i don’t know if i can do it. i mean, i can. obviously. but i don’t know if i should.”

he’s quiet about it for the rest of the day, and you let him be. he’s never been the type to talk in circles about something he hasn’t decided on yet. but later that night, while you’re lying next to him, scrolling through your phone and trying to pretend like you’re not waiting for him to bring it up again, you finally just say it: “you’d be good in it.” he doesn’t look at you, just exhales. “that’s not the problem.” “i know,” you say. “but still. you’d be good in it.” he’s silent for a long time after that. then: “it’d be weird, though. playing someone that close. putting it on camera.” “yeah,” you say softly. “but maybe that’s exactly why it should be you.” he finally turns his head, looking at you like he’s trying to read between your words. “maybe this is the kind of thing that means more coming from someone who’s been through it. maybe the story hits harder that way.” he doesn’t say anything. “i’m not saying it won’t suck,” you continue. “it might. it might dig things up. but you’re not that person anymore, hyun. you’re not who you were. and that’s the difference.” he sighs. “it’s not just about playing the part. it’s about how people would look at me after. what they’ll think it means.” you tilt your head. “who cares what they think it means? you know what it means. yeah, okay, people might talk. but you’ve survived worse than people talking.” his eyes soften. he reaches for your hand and you smile at the gesture. “i think you should do it,” you say gently before snuggling closer to him and kissing his temple. “and if you get the role, i think it’ll be hard. but i also think it’ll be worth it.” he doesn’t reply right away. doesn’t make a decision in that moment. but he’s still holding your hand that night while he falls asleep. and the next morning, he sends his agent a text. he says yes, that he’ll audition.

and he gets the part! of course he does. even if he pretends like he’s not sure until the last second, even if he downplays it when the call comes through, you can tell he’s proud. maybe a little scared, but still proud. and you’re proud too, probably more than him. but then reality sets in... filming starts soon. and not just anywhere—in korea. for weeks at a time, sometimes more. meanwhile, you’re in texas, working twelve-hour days at starbase (sometimes even more), still technically an intern, but somehow also the one trusted with way too much responsibility. it’s all hands on deck all the time, and now those hands are going to be in different countries. no one tells you how to handle long-distance when you’re trying to keep the relationship a secret.

no one prepares you for the part where you’re up at 3am reading over crew schedules while texting him between takes, or how weird it feels to miss someone who’s not even in the same timezone. and just to make things even more complicated, they assign you—of all people—the task of helping coordinate his travel between texas and seoul. you know the mission schedule better than anyone, you’ve worked on his time blocks before. but now? you’re suddenly the one making sure his launch prep rehearsals don’t overlap with overnight shoots, the one counting rest days and memorizing airport codes and praying he doesn’t fall asleep mid-sim because he just flew halfway across the world on four hours of sleep and two cups of convenience store coffee. the hard work pays off because, finally, after all these months of being an intern… they give you the job! but you’re tired. not just physically, but in that low, dull way that creeps in when you miss someone constantly but don’t have the space to say it out loud.

he doesn’t make it harder. he texts. he calls. he sends stupid pictures from set—one of his costume—with his freshly dyed purple hair and painted nails—one of him holding a boom mic like he’s about to switch careers, one of him giving you the finger when you ask if he’s drinking enough water. he’s trying. he wants to be present, even if most days all he can offer is a photo and a few words. and at first you don’t complain when you go days without hearing his voice, because this is what it means to support someone who’s chasing something big. but some days you can feel the space between you like a real thing. like distance has weight.

hey, baby :) long day?

seen 10:08 PM

i’ll take that as a yes. still on set? hope you’re surviving! miss you xx

Yeah, just wrapped. Heading back now. Miss you too❤️

don’t forget to eat something

and drink water, your skin was looking a little tragic in that last selfie💔

Lol, thanks.

was that sarcasm or are you genuinely thankful for my skincare critique

u r still hot asfff old man😼

i want youuu baddddd

seen 12:11 AM

everything okay? did i upset you?

Everything’s fine. Sorry, baby. I’m tired.

oh, okay :) get some rest then 🩷 mwah

Will do, goodnight for you🌙😘

then, another day:

Hi, baby❤️

How are you?

oh hey. nice to see you finally remembered you have a gf!

it’s been four days

I know.

you left me on read

I know.

I needed time for myself.

i get that you needed time for yourself, and i do give you space when you need it. but like… you gotta remember there are people who actually worry about you now

it’s not like when you were still here in texas 24/7

this is a relationship. it comes with a little responsibility

I know what a relationship is.

doesn’t seem like it! :)

a quick “hey i’m gonna be off for a few days” would’ve been fine

but you didn’t even tell me you landed, seunghyun

I forgot, I was jetlagged.

Sorry.

right

Don’t do that.

what?

Reply to me with one word texts.

well, i’m upset, what do you want me to do?

you disappear, then come back like nothing

you’re not the only one who’s tired, yk

I never said you weren’t.

no, but you act like i’m just supposed to be okay with this, like i’m not working my ass off to keep things together on both ends

I know how much you’re doing.

You think I don’t feel guilty about it?

I didn’t ask you to take that on.

wow, okay! 🥰

That’s not how i meant it.

And stop being passive aggressive. You know I hate that shit.

I’m just saying this is hard for me too.

It’s not easy here. 👍🏼

dw, i can tell! i’ll let you get some sleep

Don’t leave like this, let’s talk.

Can I call you?

Hello?

Why are you leaving me on read?

isn’t it almost 4am for you?

Yes.

you need to sleep, you’ve got filming in a few hours

Can we speak on the phone? Just five minutes.

fine, call me

you always manage to get through the little bumps in your relationship. sometimes it’s a few tired texts exchanged after hours of silence—just one of you reaching out with a soft hey, and suddenly you’re back on the same page like nothing happened. other times it’s more stubborn—one of you waiting for the other to fold first, and the distance feels so thick it starts to ache in your chest. more often than not, it’s you who folds, who decides it’s not worth the pride, not when you love him this much. but sometimes it’s him. calling you in the middle of the night with a voice so low and quiet it makes you want to cry. showing up in your city like he couldn’t wait one more day. saying things like, “i don’t like when we’re not okay.” you always find your way back. and when you do—when you finally see him again after too long—everything else falls away. your body remembers before your brain does. you’re wet the second he gets his hands on you, soaked and pulsing with need, and he doesn’t even try to tease. he gets your panties off and buries his face between your legs like it’s the only thing he came home for. tongue slow at first, groaning against you when you grab his hair and roll your hips up into his mouth. he eats you like he missed the taste, like he could live off it—tongue flicking over your clit just right, fingers deep inside you, curling in that spot until your legs are shaking and your stomach’s pulling tight and you’re begging without realizing you’re saying anything at all. he makes you cum once like that, and then barely gives you a chance to recover before he’s flipping you over and fucking you from behind, one hand gripping your hip, the other pressed flat between your shoulder blades, keeping you still while he thrusts into you hard and fast, like he’s trying to make up for lost time in every stroke. saying things like “this pussy missed me, huh?” and “gonna fuck you so good you won’t forget it next time i’m gone.” and you moan, loud, because you did miss it. you missed him.

and over time, the distance starts to change the way you touch each other. it’s more desperate, greedy, something tangled up in the fear of losing each other. he fucks you like he’s trying to make the memory last through the days he can’t have you, and you take him like his cock is the only thing that’s going to keep you sane until he’s back again. and when he finally comes back—he’s only home for three days, exhausted from shooting, eyes heavy and voice low from lack of sleep—you don’t even wait to get fully undressed. you crawl into his lap like you’ve been waiting your whole life to sit there again, straddle him on the couch with his hoodie still clinging to your body and nothing but a pair of thin cotton panties underneath. you kiss him as you start grinding against him through your underwear, his cock already hard under you and your breath catching in your throat from how badly you want it, how long you’ve wanted it, how long you’ve been aching just to be this close again. he’s sitting back on the couch, legs spread, hair still damp from the shower, and you’re only half-dressed, no bra, your panties already soaked through, already sticking to your folds from how wet you are just from kissing him. “you’re dripping,” he says when he runs his fingers over the fabric, already thinking about how he’s going to fuck it out of you. “so desperate. what’d you do while i was gone, baby? rub that needy pussy on your pillow and pretend it was me?” “mhm,” you answer. you reach down and push his sweats down just enough to free his dick, hard and flushed and leaking at the tip, and when he reaches for the bag beside the couch—hand going for the condoms—you grab his wrist and shake your head, eyes locked on his. he pauses, squints at you like he’s trying to read your expression in the low light. “are you sure?” you nod. “i want all of it.” he still hesitates. not because he doesn’t want it, but because he does—so badly he looks like it’s physically hurting him to hold back. “you let me fuck you raw, i’m not gonna be nice,” he says, almost a warning. “you’ll be lucky if you can walk tomorrow.” “good,” you say, already pulling your panties to the side, already lining him up beneath you with one hand, the other braced on his chest, your heart racing so fast it feels like it’s in your throat. he mutters a curse in his mother tongue as you sink down onto him, inch by inch, your cunt stretching around him, the feeling so intense it knocks the breath out of both of you—he grabs your hips, digs his nails in, head falling back for a second as he groans through his teeth, like he’s trying to keep from losing it too fast.

you start moving slowly at first, just rocking your hips, getting used to how full you feel, how bare it is. but it doesn’t take long before your thighs start burning as you fuck yourself down harder, faster, bouncing in his lap. he lets you ride him like that, mouth parted, chest rising fast, until his hands suddenly grab your jaw, fingers slipping into your mouth as he tilts your face down toward him, voice low and breathless and mean. “missed me that much, baby?” he mutters, breathless. “f-fuck, you’re so—mmhhh—you’re so cock-hungry you just wanted me in, wanted to be fucked raw like a filthy little slut.” you moan around his fingers, nodding, eyes glazed, body trembling as you grind down harder, chasing it. he laughs under his breath. “yeah? i—i missed you too, baby—shit!—jerking off to the sound of your voice in my head every night. fuck, you don’t even know.” you fuck him harder and faster, your moans turning to whines as your orgasm builds sharp and fast in your gut, the angle just right, the pressure unbearable, his cock hitting so deep inside you it makes your vision blur. “you gonna come on my cock like this?” he growls, hands bruising into your ass cheeks as he fucks up into you, matching your rhythm now. “gonna soak me like a good fucking girl?” “yes! y-yes, fuck, please—” you reach your orgasm on top of him, legs shaking, pussy clenching around him so tight he moans loud into your neck and spills into you without warning. neither of you stops moving, dragging it out until the overstimulation makes your thighs twitch and your body go limp against him.

the panic sets in the next morning. there’s a moment when you’re brushing your teeth, catching a glimpse of the lovebite on your collarbone, the bruises blooming around your hips, thinking, yeah, we fucked the hell out of each other. slay! but then, somewhere between breakfast and pretending you’re both going to be productive that day, it creeps in—the realization that not a single precaution was taken. the panic turns real enough that he sends his assistant out for a plan b while you sit on his couch. and by the end of the week, you’re on the pill.

being seunghyun’s girlfriend is fun. more fun than you ever expected it to be. sometimes kind of lonely, sure—but still, fun. he’s got this thing that makes it impossible to be bored around him. he’s funny, without trying too hard. playful in a way that makes you forget he’s in his thirties. sometimes he feels like a kid in a man’s body. sometimes he feels like a man who never got the chance to be a kid. either way, he keeps you laughing—even when you’re annoyed. of course, dating someone like him means learning how to live in the quiet margins of his life. it means celebrating holidays off-schedule, showing affection in private, keeping entire parts of your life off social media like they don’t even exist. it means deleting photos, not tagging locations, smiling politely when someone asks if you’re seeing anyone and pretending your phone isn’t buzzing in your pocket with a text from him... he misses your birthday. you don’t blame him—he’s on set, exhausted and overcommitted and two plane rides away—but it still stings a little when you wake up alone. the time difference doesn’t help, and the day feels heavier than you expect it to. he sends a gift, of course—his assistant drops it off at your door. and a big bouquet of flowers—dramatic, over-the-top, the kind that takes up half the kitchen table and makes your mom narrow her eyes when she comes home with a bag of pastries and that look she gets when she knows something isn’t adding up. you lie, say it’s from an old college friend. a girl, obviously. she raises a brow, hums a little, doesn’t push, but you can tell she doesn’t fully buy it. the card tucked in the bouquet doesn’t help either: not signed, just a ‘Happy birthday, pretty girl. Wish I was there to see your face. I miss you.’

his birthday is better. he flies you to seoul. you land late, tired and a little anxious, and he’s waiting outside baggage claim in a surgical mask and a hoodie pulled so low you can barely see his eyes—until you get close enough, and then it’s unmistakable, the way he lights up when he sees you, like you’re the only thing that’s gone right all week. he doesn’t tell anyone you’re there. or—more accurately—he tells almost no one. his driver picks you up, takes the long way around to his house, and when you ask what the plan is, he shrugs like the whole point is that there isn’t one. for the next twenty-four hours, you do nothing but nap, eat, have sex, and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. the next night, he takes you to dinner—not just the two of you this time. it’s private enough that he doesn’t flinch every time the door opens. a few of his closest friends are already there when you arrive. he introduces you like he’s been practicing the line all day—“this is my friend,” and nothing else. everyone else pretends not to notice how he never stops looking at you. they’re kind. smart enough to read between the lines and respectful enough not to push. you eat too much. laugh until your face hurts. drink exactly one glass of wine before realizing that staying sober is your best shot at not saying anything incriminating. and he’s just happy to be out with people he trusts.

you don’t spend new year’s together. it would’ve raised too many questions, started the kind of speculation that neither of you can afford. so you agree that this one will have to be split. he’s in seoul for a last-minute event, while you’re in texas, at a friend’s party you almost bailed on, counting down with people who don’t know that the person you actually want to spend it with is already fourteen hours into the new year. your phone buzzed around 10 a.m.—midnight his time—and it was a photo. blurry, overexposed, too close to his face, with a gold paper hat tilted on his head and the world’s most unimpressed expression. under it, a caption: Happy 2024, baby😊😍❤️Pretend I kissed you. And pretend I don’t look drunk. I miss you so much.

you laughed in the middle of the kitchen, toast in hand, your mom asking what’s so funny while you shook your head and said “nothing” a little too fast. he’s asleep by the time it’s your midnight—completely dead to the world, probably unaware that you’ve just made your way through a countdown with a group of half-drunken twenty-somethings and an aggressive spotify playlist. you check your phone at 12:01, just in case. nothing. not that you expected anything. still, you open his message again and read it twice before sliding your phone face-down and letting the rest of the party blur around you.

and then, before you know it, a whole year has passed. you hit your one year anniversary on a tuesday. he books the rooftop of a small bar tucked between buildings in a part of brownsville neither of you frequents, somewhere out of sight. he’s in all black and his cologne clings to him—the one you like most—when he leans in to kiss your cheek. the food is good but secondary; the real focus is seunghyun, across the table, glass in hand, eyes soft when they settle on you as he tells you how filming is almost done, how he’s completely drained but still thinking about you all the time, how he can’t wait to come back and finally give you all of his time, all of his attention, without splitting himself in twenty directions. you tell him how things are going back at starbase—how it’s quieter when he’s not around. you mention, offhand, how your friends have started trying to set you up with someone they know, how they’re convinced you’ve been single for too long, how you’re growing tired of making excuses, of declining invites you never wanted in the first place. you say it lightly, like it’s funny, but you hope it lands like a question. how long are we going to keep hiding? but he doesn’t take the bait (or maybe he just ignores it). he hums in response, pours you more wine, and says something about how good you look in this lighting.

you didn’t think it would bother you—not at first, anyway. when it all started, sneaking around and pretending not to exist in each other’s lives in public was exciting. and sure, fine, it was kind of hot for a while—private, protected, untouched by the noise and the press and the people who would try to make it into something it’s not. but now it’s been over a year, and it starts feeling like a question that no one’s answering. because you were fine with keeping it quiet while it was still fragile and new, while neither of you really knew what it was yet—but you do now. you know what it is. you know how you feel. and you thought he did too. so the longer it stays secret, the more your brain starts doing that thing it always does—overthink. maybe he’s just private. fine. maybe he’s protecting you. okay. maybe he’s just used to hiding things because of who he is and how long he’s been doing it, and he doesn’t realize how much it’s started to chip away at you, how sometimes it makes you feel like a placeholder. or maybe—and this is the one that keeps you up at night even though you hate how dramatic it sounds—maybe he’s keeping it secret because he doesn’t see it the way you do. you try not to think like that. you really do. and most days you’re fine. but some others you aren’t.

it happens on a warm night in brownsville, the kind of humid texas evening where the air feels heavy even after sunset, like the heat’s still clinging to the sidewalks and the inside of your clothes. you’d gone out to dinner. it was good, all of it—better than good, actually. he was in a rare mood: relaxed, talkative, the kind of version of him you don’t always get when he’s coming off back-to-back flights or prepping for his next shoot. you’d call it a perfect night, if you didn’t know what was coming. you’re halfway down the sidewalk, walking back toward the car—his usual driver, waiting for you both—when you suddenly stop and frown. “shit,” you mutter. “i forgot my purse.” he pauses with you, already reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. “want me to get it?” you shake your head. “no, it’s fine. i’ll be fast.” seunghyun nods, gestures toward the car. “okay, babe. i’ll be right here.” you head back inside. the hostess smiles and hands you the purse before you even ask—she remembers you. you thank her, fingers already digging through the front pocket to make sure your keys are still there, your lip balm, your phone. nothing’s missing. everything’s fine. when you step outside again, seunghyun’s exactly where you left him—leaned against the side of the car, cigarette lit, the tip glowing soft in the dark. his eyes flick up when he sees you, and he gives a lazy half-smile around the smoke. “got it,” you say as you approach, holding the purse up by the strap like proof. before he can reply, you hear a voice just off to the left. “um, excuse me?” you both turn, and that’s when you see them—two girls, maybe early twenties, standing a few feet away with nervous smiles and hesitant body language, like they’re not totally sure if they’re allowed to be doing this but can’t not try. “sorry,” one of them says, smiling. “we just—are you choi seunghyun? t.o.p?” his posture shifts slightly—that thing he does when he flips into professional mode. he straightens, pushes off the car, tucks the cigarette behind his back like it never happened. “yeah,” he says, calm and quiet. “hi.” “can we take a picture with you, please? we’re big fans.” he smiles, polite. “yes, of course.” you take a slow breath, fingers tightening around your purse strap. one of the girls lights up, already pulling her phone out of her back pocket and turning to you. “would you mind taking a photo of us?” you blink, then nod, already reaching for the phone without even thinking about it. “sure.”

you take the photo—three, just in case—frame them up neatly, make sure the lighting’s okay, that no one’s blinking, that he’s centered between them. one of them leans in close, her arm sliding gently around his back like she’s not totally sure if she’s allowed to touch him, but not stopping herself either. the other rests a hand lightly on his chest. you snap the photos quickly, then hand the phone back with a polite smile and a soft “here you go.” they both look at the screen, whisper something excited to each other, and then, almost simultaneously, step forward and hug him. not just a side squeeze either—full, arms-around-the-shoulders hugs like they’ve been waiting years for this moment. he lets them, offers a small, tense chuckle, one hand patting a shoulder. “i was really sad when you left big bang last year,” one of them says softly as she pulls back, and that’s the only moment he shifts. you see it though—the faint tightening of his jaw, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. he handles it well, nods once, expression neutral and calm, like this is just another thing he’s learned to fold up and put away. “thank you,” he says. “i appreciate that.” the girls are still hovering, soft smiles still plastered on their faces, that little sparkle of disbelief in their eyes like they can’t believe they just ran into him in a parking lot. one of them glances at you again, and this time she squints slightly, like she’s only just started to register that you’re not just some girl walking past—that you were standing with him. “wait—are you a fan too?” she asks. you open your mouth, not totally sure what you’re going to say, but he beats you to it. “yeah, she had just asked for a picture,” he says, light and easy, flashing a quick smile in your direction. “right?” you smile back, because what else can you do? you play along. “yeah, right.” one of the girls brightens immediately. “we can take it for you, if you want,” she offers, the purest kind of fan energy pulsing from her like she genuinely thinks she’s doing you a favor. “here—give me your phone.” you hesitate. you open your mouth to say no, to brush it off with something polite, but she’s already waiting, and her friend is nodding like they’re gifting you this golden moment. “okay,” you say, voice thinner than you want it to be as you hand her your phone. “sure. thank you.”

and then you’re standing beside him. like a stranger. he shifts slightly, angles his body toward you the way he always does when someone’s got a camera pointed at him, easy and practiced and distant. your breath hitches, just a little. “okay—one, two, three,” the girl says, and the shutter clicks. you smile like it doesn’t feel like your heart just gave a quiet, tired lurch in your chest. when they hand you the phone back, you murmur a thank you, eyes already flicking down to the screen before they’ve even turned away. and there it is. the first photo of you and seunghyun that anyone has ever taken. the only one. and it hits you harder than you expect, the weight of that. you’re standing side by side, the two of you framed perfectly in the center, golden light spilling from a nearby lamppost. there’s a careful few inches between you, no warmth. and that’s what crushes you. the fact that this is it. this is all you have. a full year, a whole relationship, and the only image that exists of you two together is one where he pretended you were just another fan. it doesn’t even look like you know each other. you’re starting to hate this. you want to be able to post a picture with him, you want to tell your friends the truth when they ask who you’ve been seeing. you want to kiss him on the sidewalk, you want him to say you’re his girlfriend when someone asks who you are. you want to be acknowledged. and you hate that this is the thing that’s undoing you—not a fight, not some betrayal—but a photo. a dumb, fucking photo that should’ve been something sweet to keep. but instead, it’s just another reminder of how invisible you’ve had to become in order to stay his.

you slide into the car after the girls finally walk away, your heart still beating too fast, your phone still warm in your palm. the air inside is cooler than outside, the ac humming low. he gets in beside you a second later, door shutting with a soft thud, and he doesn’t look at you. he just runs a hand through his hair, exhales, taps twice on the window, and the driver pulls out. the silence stretches, thick and oddly loud despite the hum of the engine. you’re still staring at the picture—your mouth curved in a tight, forced smile. then, without looking at you, he says, “you should probably delete that.” you blink slowly, thumb hovering just over the screen, and then tilt the phone slightly in his direction. “why?” you ask, tone deliberately flat. “it’s a nice picture.” you don’t even like it. he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, just a flicker of irritation behind it. “you know why.” you shrug, playing dumb. “i mean, it’s not that bad. we’re coworkers after all. and i think i look okay. you look great too, it’s cute.” you can feel his patience shift. “don’t do that.” “do what?” you ask, your voice all sugar. “i just want to keep a perfectly good picture of my favorite idol.” “this isn’t funny,” he says with that clipped sort of frustration he uses when he thinks you’re being unreasonable. you glance over. “who said i was joking?” he doesn’t respond at first—he just shakes his head slightly, jaw tight. you know that look. you’ve learned to recognize all of them by now. “you knew this is what it had to be,” he mutters eventually, as if that justifies anything. “i know—i know i’m supposed to stay quiet and off to the side. i’m really good at it, aren’t i?” you let out a little laugh that doesn’t sound like one. “i didn’t even flinch when you told those girls i was just a fan. really selling it.” he glances at you then, and there’s something in his expression that looks almost like guilt, but he still says, “i had to say something.” “yeah, you had to. god forbid they see you standing next to me and start making assumptions.” his eyes narrow, and you can feel the irritation radiating off him now. “don’t make it sound like i’m ashamed of you.” “aren’t you, though?” the words come out before you can soften them, too sharp to take back. “because that’s what it feels like.” he sighs, rubs a hand over his face like he’s trying to ground himself. “you knew what this was when we started.” “yeah, i did,” you say. “i just didn’t think it would still feel like this after a year.” “feel like what?” he snaps, his voice a little too loud in the tight space of the car. “like we have to be careful with something that could ruin both of us?” “ruin you, you mean.” “you think this is easy for me? you think i like this?” “no. i think you like me, until someone’s watching.” he shakes his head. “jesus christ, you’re being—” “what?” you cut him off. “dramatic? needy?” your chest feels tight now, your throat hot. “you’re thirty-six, right? maybe don’t fuck a twenty-three-year-old if you don’t want someone who actually gives a shit about being hidden.” low blow. “that’s not what this is,” he says through his teeth. “don’t fucking reduce it to that.” you don’t back down. “then what is it, seunghyun? because from where i’m sitting, it looks a lot like i’m good enough to fuck, but not good enough to be seen with.”

he leans back like he’s trying to give himself space, but there’s nowhere to go in the car, and his jaw is tight again, his hands clenched in his lap. “this is exactly why i didn’t want to get involved. because you’d start asking for shit i can’t give.” oh! your stomach drops, but you don’t let it show. you nod slowly, like that’s all the confirmation you needed. “right,” you murmur, voice going cold. “thanks for clearing that up.” “fuck,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “baby, that’s not what i meant—” “no, you did,” you say, staring straight ahead now, your voice steady but low, like you’re holding something in your mouth you don’t trust yourself to swallow. “you did.” there’s a beat of silence—you’re waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t. so you keep going. “you asked me to be your girlfriend, seunghyun. back in barbados. don’t act like this was all me pushing for more. you made it official. you said you wanted that. you said it was already that, we were just putting a name on it.” he exhales, like the memory is inconvenient now. “and i meant it.” “really? because it doesn’t feel like it. it feels like i’m asking for too much.” “because you are,” he snaps, defensive, like he’s been holding it in for too long. “you think i can just post a photo or walk around holding your hand and people will clap for us? i’m not some rising star with a clean slate. half the world fucking hates me. they’ve hated me for years.”

you let the weight of his words sit for a second. he’s right. you know that. but still. “i understand,” you say, finally, and your voice is quieter now. “i do. i get why you’re scared. i get that you’ve been through shit i’ll probably never fully understand. but what i don’t get is how long you think this is supposed to go on.” he doesn’t answer. “because people hate you? okay. they’ve hated you. and maybe they always will. but does that mean you’re just gonna live like this forever? hiding? pretending the people you care about don’t exist? because that’s not protection, hyun. that’s punishment. and i’m the one getting punished for something i didn’t even do.” “this isn’t about punishment.” “no? then what is it? i’ve lied for you. i’ve kept quiet. i’ve kept my distance. but how much longer do you expect me to do this for?” he shakes his head, like you’re missing the point, like you’re being young and idealistic and selfish—which only pisses you off more. “you think it’s that simple?” he says, voice tight. “you think i can just undo everything that comes with who i am, and suddenly be the kind of boyfriend you want?” his hands flex against his knees, the exhaustion starting to bleed into every edge of his voice. “i’m too old for this.” again with that. you blink. “for what, exactly?” “for this kind of drama,” he mutters. “for tiptoeing around your feelings every time reality kicks in. i can’t do what you want me do to, alright? not when things are finally starting to get better.” “so what? i’m just supposed to stay quiet forever? wait for the perfect moment that’s never gonna come?” he shrugs helplessly, and that’s somehow worse than anything else. “i don’t know. maybe.” you laugh. not because it’s funny, but because it’s so fucking sad that this is where you are—a year in, and he still doesn’t see a version of this where you’re allowed to exist beside him. “you’re not too old,” you say, bitterly now, the hurt curling up and turning sour in your throat. “you’re just too scared. and that… that’s fucking sad, hyun.”

the next morning is thick with silence—no texts, no calls, not even a half-hearted meme sent as a peace offering like he sometimes does when he wants to pretend everything’s fine without saying so. you barely slept, but you still wake up with that stiff ache behind your eyes, like your body’s been carrying tension in places you didn’t realize until now. you check your phone out of habit, even though you know better, and sure enough—nothing from him. you don’t reach out. not because you’re trying to punish him or be dramatic, but because you genuinely don’t know what you’d say. and you’re tired of being the one who keeps swallowing things to keep the peace. you go through your day like you’re wearing someone else’s skin. everything feels a little off. you make your coffee, stare blankly at your laptop, reply to some emails, ignore your mom when she complains about how long you took in the shower, scroll through instagram and tiktok, read a little… it’s just past noon when your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with his name.

Hi. Are you busy?

no, why? what’s up?

I don’t like when we’re like this

me neither

I could’ve handled things better last night. I’m sorry.

I was tense because they mentioned Big Bang.

ik, it’s okay, i’m sorry too

i just wanted you to hear me

I did. And I understand.

I just need time. I’m not ready for anything public.

okay

Okay?

i just want you to answer something honestly

no bullshit

Of course.

do you see yourself with me in a few years? like, really with me. not hiding.

Yes, I do. But not right now.

i didn’t say right now, i said in a few years

I know, I know.

Yes.

okay, i just needed to know that

because i can wait, but i can’t wait for something that’s never going to happen

I know.

And I wouldn’t ask you to.

I need you to trust me.

i trust you

Thank you, baby.

I want to see you❤️ I’m leaving again tomorrow.

ik ;( i’m gonna miss you

I’m gonna miss you too, baby.

I’m sending my driver to pick you up now🫰🏼

Is that okay?

yeah okay :)🩷

you don’t plan on having sex the moment you walk through the door, but that’s exactly what ends up happening. you barely register the way he pulls you in, or how you end up stumbling backward into the bedroom with your fingers tugging at his shirt and his hands already under yours, hungry and fast and careful all at once, like he’s not sure if he wants to fuck you or apologize again first. everything moves quickly but also somehow slow, too—both of you half-undressed by the time you reach the bed and he’s pushing you gently onto your back. he eats you out, fucks you slow at first, then faster, then slow again when your thighs start shaking too much. he tells you to look at him while he’s inside you, and you do, because you want him to see what he does to you, want him to see all of it. it’s the best sex you’ve had in your entire relationship, like your bodies are just trying to make up for every hour you spent apart thinking maybe this was the one fight you wouldn’t come back from. and when you cum the second time with his name on your lips, he says it. so close to your skin you almost think you imagined it. “i love you.”

the words are there, hanging heavy in the space between your chests. and for a second, you freeze—not because you’re surprised that he feels it, but because you’re surprised he said it. because he’s never said it before. not in a year. not in the hundreds of times you thought he might. and you never asked, never wanted to make him say something he wasn’t ready for, never wanted it to come from pressure or guilt or some awkward moment where he’d choke on the words and resent you for dragging them out of him. but now, he’s the one who says it first, and you know he means it because his whole body softens after, like he’s been holding that one sentence under his tongue for months and it finally slipped out without permission. you don’t say anything right away. you just run your fingers through his damp purple hair, press a kiss to his sweaty temple, breathe him in like you always do when you’re trying not to fall apart. and then, when your voice works again, you say it back—because god, it’s about time. you stay wrapped up in each other for a while after, skin warm and sticky, his heartbeat finally slowing under your palm, and even though your legs are shaking and you’re ninety percent sure you’ve pulled a muscle somewhere in your back, you don’t move. you just lie there and let it sink in.

for a while, everything is soft and steady, like the storm passed and left something gentler behind. you’re texting constantly, calling when your time zones line up. seunghyun tells you he loves you more often now—carefully, like he’s still getting used to how the words feel in his mouth—but he says it. and you never ask for more than he can give, and he never pushes you away like he used to. things are good… until they’re not (again). you’re the first person in your department to see it. a short, painfully bland email flagged high priority, buried under a dozen others in your inbox. ‘effective immediately, the dearmoon project has been suspended indefinitely. this decision comes in response to the ongoing uncertainty surrounding the starship launch schedule. a full internal briefing is being prepared. please do not share or discuss this information outside of your team until official communication is released. yusaku maezawa will be arriving on-site to meet with the full crew and key personnel later this week. further details to follow.’ your stomach sinks before your brain fully processes it. you read it twice, three times. you’re still sitting at your desk when the rest of the notifications start going out—emails, alerts, whispers down the hall. someone walks past your office a few minutes later with their phone pressed to their ear, saying, “wait—what do you mean canceled?” and that’s when you know it’s real. you stand up so fast your chair scrapes the floor, heart racing as you leave your desk, phone already in your hand. seunghyun picks up on the fourth ring, groggy. he must’ve been sleeping. “hey, princess,” he mumbles, voice thick. “everything okay?” “no,” you say, stepping outside into the texas heat, the sun suddenly feeling way too bright. “i just got an internal notice. the project’s being suspended.” he goes quiet. you press your fingers to your temple, still pacing. “they haven’t told the crew yet. they’re about to send out an official statement. everyone’s gonna know in like… an hour.” “wait—what—what do you mean suspended?” he’s more awake now. “like, paused? or—” “they didn’t say. just ‘indefinitely.’” you pause. “and maezawa’s flying in. he wants to meet with everyone in person. full crew meeting this weekend. they want everyone present.” “fuck,” he mutters. “you need to come back.” “i will,” he says. “well—i don’t know. i’ll see what i can do. i’ll try to be there.” “it’s important.” “i know, baby.” and then it’s quiet again, just your breathing in your ears, your mind spinning faster than your mouth can keep up. you don’t know what this means. not for the mission, not for your job, not for him. but you know it means change.

the meeting is held two days after the news drop. maezawa makes a short speech, all polished disappointment and regretful phrasing, and everyone listens in stunned silence, trying to decide whether to be shocked or just pissed off. seunghyun sits near the back, arms crossed, and from a distance he looks perfectly composed—cool, like this isn’t affecting him at all—but the second you’re alone again, he starts pacing and muttering under his breath about how “they could’ve at least fucking consulted us,” and “we wasted over a year prepping for this.” your mom takes the news like a soldier. she’s reassigned to another high-level project at starbase almost immediately, and to your surprise (and slight guilt), so are you: a new position on a systems coordination team for satellite payloads, which isn’t exactly your dream, but it’s solid and most importantly, it means you still have a job. seunghyun, though, has nothing left in texas. the mission’s over, and there’s no real reason for him to stay. the filming of squid game isn’t even done yet—he’s still got a month left of production in seoul—and he’s already talking about moving back permanently, which makes sense: the job’s done, texas was temporary, and korea is home. and you get it, but that doesn’t stop the rising panic in your chest when you hear him say it out loud, when the quiet reality starts to hit that this thing you’ve been holding together with duct tape is about to hit a wall you can’t ignore.

for a few days you walk around half-waiting for the breakup. but the breakup never comes. you spend the weekend in this weird kind of limbo—your body curled into his at night, his fingers on your skin, both of you pretending nothing’s changing even though everything clearly is. he tells you the night before he’s set to fly back to korea, mid-conversation, somewhere between talking about the mess at starbase and the fact that he forgot to pack his chargers again, which would be funny if your heart wasn’t already thudding unevenly from the way he’s been moving around you all day—like someone tying up invisible loose ends. you’re sitting on the edge of his bed putting some lotion on, and then he says it: “you should come with me.” and for a second, you don’t register it—your brain catches on the words but doesn’t fully process the shape of them, doesn’t quite believe that this is how he’s choosing to say something that might completely change your life. so you just blink at him, and when you ask “what?” it’s not because you didn’t hear him—it’s because you want to give him a second to take it back, but he doesn’t back down. he just shrugs a little, like it’s a logical next step instead of the emotional earthquake it is, and says, “come to seoul. you know i’m moving back after filming. there’s nothing left for me here. and if we keep doing this—this long distance thing, we’re gonna lose it. i can feel it already. and i don’t want to.” and you don’t know what to say to that, because you do want to be with him, you do, but this isn’t just moving in together, this is leaving behind your job, your family, your friends, the small, carefully-built life you spent the last two years crawling toward… and he says it so simply, like it’s the only thing that makes sense, like your entire world is something he expects you to pack neatly into a suitcase because love is supposed to be enough. and maybe it is. maybe it will be. but right now, you just sit there in the too-quiet space between you, wondering how long you can keep pretending that loving seunghyun doesn’t sometimes feel like choosing between him and the rest of your life.

but you still choose him. not right away. not without three nights of overthinking yourself into a stomachache, but eventually, after the noise settles and your heart stops trying to talk over your brain, you come to the same quiet answer you’ve always known was waiting underneath: it’s him. it’s always him. when the moment comes, you tell him through text, typed out at 2:14 a.m. while you’re lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, your phone burning a little in your hand.

i’ll move in with you :)

you stare at it for a full minute before you hit send, reread it twice after it delivers, and then immediately toss your phone onto the other side of the bed like that’ll somehow undo the life-altering choice you just made in a single text. you pick it up when you get a notification with his reply.

What?

Really?😊❤️

yessiiir!

i love you, old man

I love you, princess🌙❤️

I’m very happy🫰🏼

And I miss you a lot

i miss you too

but i’m kinda scared tho, ngl 💔

he calls you immediately, and you can hear the relief in his voice—the way he breathes out like he didn’t realize he was holding his breath until now. he just says “we’ll figure it out, baby. i can’t wait to have you here with me. i love you.”

the next part is harder. telling your mom feels like walking into a trap you know you built yourself. she’s on the couch when you bring it up, sipping tea and scrolling through some mission status reports even though she swears she’s not a workaholic, and you’re sitting across from her rehearsing the opening line in your head like you’re about to confess a felony. “so…” you clear your throat “i’m moving to korea.” you say it as casually as you can, all breezy and upbeat, like you’re announcing a vacation and not the start of a new life, and she freezes for half a second before she looks up, squinting like she misheard you. “you—you’re what?” and then you launch into the half-truth you’ve been crafting all week—about how ever since you and seunghyun became friends, you’ve learned so much about the culture, the language, the food, how you’ve never really traveled and this feels like the right time, how it’s temporary (you stress that part because that woman is terrifying sometimes), and how you’ve already looked into a possible internal transfer through the company’s international partnership program, which is technically not a lie if you squint hard enough. she nods slowly, lips tight. “well, if this is what you want…” she says. and you just smile. “it is.”

she sees it coming before you say a word. she knows you—knows the way you over-explain when you’re trying to lie, the way your voice lifts a little too high when you’re avoiding something. your mom’s suspected it for months. you always got defensive when seunghyun came up in conversation. you started wearing nicer things to work. you checked your phone like something important was always waiting for you, but never shared what. and she knew the way he looked at you—amused in that vaguely inappropriate way that men look at girls they think they’ve figured out. and now here you are, talking about new chapters and traveling and getting out of your comfort zone, and she’s supposed to sit there and smile like she doesn’t know exactly what—or who—you’re chasing. of course she let you speak, nodded and even smiled a little because she’s polite like that. but inside, she’s already decided: you’re full of shit. and worse, you think she’s stupid enough to believe you. you forget who you’re talking to! she didn’t raise you to be this naive. she didn’t spend her career climbing to the top of one of the most competitive aerospace programs in the world just to watch you throw it all away for a man. a man she’s sat across from in meetings. a man who smiled at her, shook her hand, called her ma’am, while fucking her daughter behind her back. so when you go to bed that night, she opens your laptop with intention. she’s not pretending it’s about concern anymore, she wants to find proof. something she can use. she starts with your photos, then your notes, then she checks the messages, searches his name. and it doesn’t take long. because of course you saved everything. she scrolls through the texts. ‘i’ll move in with you :)’ … ‘I love you, princess🌙❤️’ … ‘call me when you’re free plss i miss you, old man ;(( wanna see your stupid face’ … ‘Happy birthday, baby. You’re everything. Wish I could be there.🫰🏼But you should be getting something soon. Check your front door.’ … ‘still can’t walk right, thanks!👎’ … ‘You’ve got no idea how many nights I’ve fallen asleep hard just thinking about your mouth. You make me so horny, baby.’ … ‘you looked so good on that meeting, i wanted to crawl under the table🩷’ … ‘Got the flights to Barbados!😎🙂Private villa too.’ … ‘thank u for flying me to seoul!!! :))) i feel so spoiled it’s actually embarrassing, help. and i don’t think i’ve thanked u enough😭 also ur friends are v nice! but one of them def knows we’re fucking lol’ … ‘Happy one year anniversary❤️😘 You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.’ … ‘thinking bout you! :) i hope filming is going okay, baby’

she wants to puke. her stomach turns, not from shock but from how deep the lie runs. not weeks. not months. a full year. a year of lying to her face building this entire parallel life. a year of her daughter playing house with a man almost twice her age and absolutely old enough to know better. and now you’re about to leave the country for him. abandon everything for someone who not only kept you hidden, but encouraged you to throw it all away, too. her jaw clenches. her fingers twitch. and for a moment she just stares at the screen, the glowing proof of how completely you’ve betrayed her—and for what? for him? and this is the part that really pisses her off—not the secret itself, but how convinced you are that this is some grand, defiant kind of love. like you’re the main character in a sweeping drama and not a twenty-three-year-old girl following a man halfway across the world because he made you feel special in the dark. like you didn’t have every opportunity right here. like she didn’t set you up for something better. you’re throwing away your future for someone who doesn’t even claim you in public. and she can’t decide what stings more—your stupidity, or his nerve. she sits there for a long time, long enough for the screen to go black, and then she closes the laptop, folds her hands in her lap, and starts thinking. because if you’re not going to stop yourself, she will.

your gate is loud, full of crying toddlers and rolling suitcases and the dull voice of the airline agent calling boarding groups over a crackling speaker, but none of it really sinks in—you’re in that pre-flight fog, headphones on, phone half-charged, texting seunghyun stupid things about how you better be greeted with food and a kiss when you land. he hasn’t replied yet, but you figure he’s busy, maybe still on set or in traffic, so you scroll a little and sip your coffee. and that’s when your phone buzzes—his name lighting up your lock screen, followed by something that makes your stomach dip like you’ve just missed a step.

What the fuck is this?

at first, you think maybe it’s about a message you sent. maybe a text that didn’t land the way you thought—but when you unlock your phone, you see the link. you tap it. and it’s immediate—the headline slaps you in the face before the page even finishes loading: “FORMER BIG BANG MEMBER CHOI SEUNGHYUN (T.O.P) REPORTEDLY DATING 23-YEAR-OLD—SOURCE SAYS YEAR-LONG RELATIONSHIP BEGAN DURING DEARMOON PROJECT” your mouth goes dry as you scroll, and even though the wi-fi keeps lagging and the article loads in patches, it’s enough to make your stomach twist, because they have your face. full front-facing, well-lit, smiling in a selfie you posted to your story months ago, wearing the silk pajama set seunghyun also owns because he bought both. and now it’s a side-by-side comparison, captioned something like ‘coincidence?’ with a screenshot of his pajama from that live he did. there are other photos too—zoomed-in shots of your jewelry, the cartier bracelet he gave you for your birthday that you thought looked subtle enough to pass as a dupe, a blurry reflection of your silhouette in a window that someone must’ve enhanced within an inch of its pixels, because it sure as hell wasn’t that obvious when he posted it. they know about barbados, the villa, the timing of your ‘week off,’ the flights, the seoul trip you told no one about. they’re questioning how you can afford your clothes, your nails, your jewelry, as if the only possible explanation is that you’re getting fully sponsored by a thirty-six-year-old man. and your heart starts racing, because how the fuck do they know this? how do they have dates? how do they have details?

i don’t know

You don’t know?

i don’t

where’s this even coming from???

You tell me.

what

you think i did this????

wtf

i’m literally at the gate right now, i board in like 10 minutes

Then how the fuck do they know where we went? What we did?

i don’t know????????

They know things only you could’ve told someone.

are you serious rn, seunghyun??

i didn’t leak anything

and i didn’t talk to anyone

Then explain it to me.

hello???? what’s not clicking?? i can’t explain something i didn’t do

i don’t know how this happened, but it wasn’t me

Then how the fuck does the internet know shit only you and I knew?

i’m fucking telling you!!!! I DON’T KNOOOOW DUDEEEE

Quit the attitude.

so stop accusing me, thanks!

you should quit the attitude too btw

it wasn’t me

i would never do that to you, seunghyun

you know that

That’s not good enough right now.

and what do you want me to say??

i’m standing at the gate shaking and you’re being a fucking asshole to me for no reason

like i haven’t been lying to everyone i love for you

And now it’s all out there.

they’re boarding, i have to go

please don’t make up your mind about me before i even get there

please

wait until i land and we’ll talk properly, okay?

i love you, baby

you’re there in the plane, phone in hand, face burning like you’ve been physically exposed, like someone reached through your screen and dragged your relationship out into the open with a pair of dirty hands, and there’s nothing you can do. you land in seoul fifteen hours later, eyes sore from sleeping in short bursts, your heart beating faster with every slow step off the plane. immigration feels endless. baggage claim feels worse. you check your phone the second you get signal back—nothing from him. not a single message. just the same conversation frozen where you left it. your eyes drag across every face until you spot his driver standing off to the side, holding that same discreet little sign like he always does. you force a smile, greet the driver with a soft hello and a bow, and wheel your suitcase to the car without asking too many questions. it’s not until you’re inside—seatbelt clicked, door shut—that you finally ask. “where’s seunghyun?” he always comes with the driver to pick you up. always. the driver glances at you in the mirror. “he said he had work. asked me to bring you straight to his place.” you nod like it doesn’t sting. you stare out the window the entire ride, trying not to think too much about the way your hands won’t stop fidgeting in your lap. because if he didn’t come to pick you up, then maybe he’s still angry.

you’re standing in front of his door when it starts to hit you, when the weight of the last twenty-four hours finally settles fully into your chest. you press the buzzer once, gently, even though you know he’s expecting you. you stand still for another full minute, maybe more, breathing slow and shallow, trying to keep your hands from shaking. and just as your stomach starts to twist with the awful, embarrassing thought that he might not answer at all—that he might actually leave you standing there like punishment—the door finally opens. he’s dressed down—sweatpants and a t-shirt, purple hair slightly messy. he doesn’t even gesture for you to come in but you step inside anyway. the silence between you is thick enough to bite through as the door shuts behind you with a soft click. you step into him without thinking, arms slipping around his waist in a soft, searching hug, and after a long second, he wraps his arms around you too, but it’s not the kind of hug you’ve missed—it’s stiff, like he’s already somewhere else in his head; you tilt your face up and kiss him anyway, just a small press of your lips to his, hoping it’ll soften something between you, but when he kisses you back it feels automatic, and when you pull away, your heart already knows what your brain hasn’t caught up to yet—he’s not very happy to see you. “i thought you were coming with the driver,” you say after a few seconds, voice small. “i missed you, you know?” he doesn’t answer, just turns and starts walking toward the living room, voice low and empty as he throws over his shoulder, “how was the flight?” you stare at the back of his head for a beat, then follow. “fine,” you say. “long.” he hums in response—the kind of sound you’d expect from a stranger you’re making small talk with, not the man who once kissed every inch of your body and whispered how much he loved you against your skin.

he sits down on the couch without looking at you, elbows on his knees, head bowed slightly like he’s trying to collect himself or maybe just avoid the sight of you, and you hover there for a moment in the, unsure if you’re supposed to follow. when you finally sit, the distance between you feels bigger than the flight. you sit in silence for longer than you want to admit, glancing over at him, waiting for him to express what he’s feeling. but he doesn’t. so you speak, soft, like you’re testing the waters. “are you okay?” he doesn’t meet your eyes, just says, “what do you think?” you let out a quiet breath, more to steady yourself than anything, and for a moment you think about saying something gentle, but there’s already a wall between you, so instead you shift slightly where you sit, eyes still on him. “i didn’t do it.” he exhales through his nose, sharp, the kind of sound that’s halfway between disbelief and exhaustion. “someone did.” “yeah. but not me.” he doesn’t reply at first, gaze fixed on the floor like it might open up and hand him the answer he’s looking for. and then—“i don’t believe that.” the words hit like a slap. because he says them so plainly… like they’re just a fact. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. you’ve played this moment out in your head—him being angry, confused, upset—but never once did you imagine he’d look you in the eye and just… choose not to believe you. “you don’t believe me?” you say, and your voice breaks a little on the last word. “you wanted this to be public months ago. so maybe you got tired of waiting.” oh! the fucking nerve this man has to say that like you haven’t bent yourself backward for over a year to protect him, to protect this. “what—are you fucking serious? you really think i leaked our entire relationship?” “i don’t know what to think anymore.” he shrugs. “you wanted to stop hiding. now you don’t have to.” you laugh, because it’s so fucking absurd that it’s either that or scream. “wow. that’s where we’re at? i move to a whole new country for you, lie to my own mother for you, rearrange my entire fucking life to be with you, and the second something goes wrong, you act like i’m out here trying to fuck you over? for what? why would i do that?”

he shakes his head, voice rising now. “i don’t fucking know! maybe you wanted to stop lying, maybe you thought it would make things easier if it was just—out there. i don’t know, okay? i don’t know!” your mouth drops open, stunned, because it’s like he’s rewriting your entire history in real time, erasing every quiet sacrifice you made to protect him, every time you swallowed a question or smiled through the ache of being invisible. “really? this is fucking unbelievable, hyun! you—you’re being unbelievable.” “i told you why i couldn’t give you what you wanted yet,” he continues, angrier than you’ve seen him in a long time. “i told you from the beginning—i warned you what it would be like, what i could handle.” “no,” you say, pointing at him now. “what you said was that you couldn’t make it public yet. yet, as in not now, not never, and i respected that! i waited, i stayed quiet, i made myself small for you, and you—” your throat tightens suddenly, your chest rising and falling too fast. “you really think i’d burn all of that down on purpose? after everything?” “i don’t know what to think, okay? i’m freaking the fuck out, this was supposed to be private! and now the whole fucking world is talking about it, picking it apart, dissecting you, dissecting me, tying it back to all the shit i’ve tried to put behind me—” “and somehow that’s my fault?” you cut in. “you think i wanted that? you think i wanted to be the girl everyone’s calling a gold digger and a hooker? you think this is what i wanted?”

he starts pacing the room, back and forth across the same stretch of hardwood like if he just keeps moving the problem will solve itself, like he can walk the discomfort out of his body. and maybe that’s why you say it—like a fragile idea you’re not even sure you believe in yet, something you’re still trying to convince yourself could be true. “maybe this doesn’t have to be the end of the world,” you say, and your voice isn’t angry anymore, it’s tired, worn down to the bone. “maybe this is the worst way it could’ve happened, yeah. but now that it has—now that people know—maybe it’s… i don’t know. maybe it’s a chance to stop hiding. to just—to be normal.” you look at him, hoping to see even a flicker of something—anything that might tell you he hears what you’re actually saying. but instead, his expression twists into something unfamiliar, and he lets out a breathy laugh with no humor in it. “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” your stomach tightens. “this is good news to you?” he asks. “this whole thing worked out exactly how you wanted, right?” “what?” you say, blinking. “no—i didn’t say—” but he’s not listening anymore. his hands fly up in frustration as he mutters something sharp under his breath in korean—words you can’t catch but don’t need to, because you know that tone, you know that edge in his voice, and you know when he’s cursing. “hey—don’t do that!” he doesn’t stop pacing. “hyun, don’t fucking do that! don’t start speaking korean to me!” he scoffs, bitter, and then another string of angry words slip out like a reflex, too quick for your brain to untangle but not quick enough to miss the way they’re aimed at you, even if not directly. “stop it! stop—seunghyun! i can’t fucking understand you!” nope. he continues. and now he’s doing it on purpose, which only makes your eyes water. “fuck off!” you snap, taking a step forward now. “speak to me in english, asshole! stop talking around me like i’m not in the fucking room!” that gets him to turn. “i’m not—” “yes! yes, you are!” you shoot back, fury crackling now. “you do this every time you don’t want me to know what the fuck you’re saying, every time you’re pissed but too much of a coward to say it to my damn face.” “don’t call me a coward,” he snaps. “then stop hiding behind a language you know i don’t fucking understand! i’m not fucking stupid, i know what cursing sounds like!”

your voice breaks, and suddenly the tears are there—blurring your vision before you can even try to blink them back. you press your palms to your eyes, cursing under your breath, trying to stop it, but it’s too late. “i didn’t do this,” you whisper, sobbing. “i didn’t fucking do this. stop—stop treating me like this.” his face shifts the moment the sob hits your throat, the sound of it cracking something in him. he exhales and steps forward instinctively. “fuck—” he mutters, under his breath now, softer. “don’t cry, baby. please don’t cry.” his hand hovers near your arm but doesn’t land. like he knows he lost the right to touch you somewhere back in the middle of this mess. “i’m sorry. i didn’t want to hurt you. i don’t want to see you like this.” but the apology is heavy with something else—the anger still buzzing under his skin like a second heartbeat. he runs a hand down his face, eyes closing for a second. “but you have to understand,” he continues. “i can’t shake the feeling that someone let it out. and i don’t know who else it could’ve been.” “you still think it was me,” you say quietly. “even now? after all of this?” “i don’t know what to think. i want to believe you. i do. but it’s a fucking mess. i’m asking you to understand what this is doing to me,” he says, desperate now, voice cracking under the weight of everything he hasn’t said. “i love you. i’m scared. and i’m fucking angry, too. and i don’t know where to put it, and—” he cuts himself off, eyes shining. seunghyun exhales hard, the kind of breath that drags through his whole body, and when he finally speaks again, his voice is quieter—it’s the voice he uses when he’s already made up his mind about something painful. “i think we need space,” he says. “everything’s out of control right now, and this… whatever this is between us, it’s not helping.”

your heart kicks hard against your chest. “what are you saying?” “i just think—i think maybe we need to take a step back. figure things out separately.” “are you—are you breaking up with me?” you ask. he looks at you. and the way he hesitates tells you everything. you take a step back, the tears coming back. “oh my god. oh my fucking god, seunghyun.” you turn away from him, hands trembling, wiping at your face like that’ll somehow help you get a grip on yourself. he takes a few steps toward you, stops, then sighs. “you don’t get it,” he says, his tone clipped. “this couldn’t have come at a worse time.” you spin back toward him. “worse time for what?” he gestures vaguely, like the answer should be obvious. “for everything! squid game 2 is airing in december. i’m already walking into it with a target on my back because of the character i’m playing, and now this shit—now they’ve got a real-life scandal to feed off of too.” “wow. okay.” he keeps going. “you don’t understand the pressure. i’ve worked so hard to get back to this point—to even have this kind of opportunity again. and now the timing’s fucked.” “you think i don’t understand pressure?” you snap. “i gave up everything to be here with you! everything! and you’re standing there acting like i’m a fucking stain on your reputation instead of your fucking girlfriend.” “don’t twist this.” “i’m not twisting anything!” your voice breaks again, high and hoarse. “i’m reacting to the fact that you’ve made it very clear what matters most to you right now, and it’s not me.” “you don’t understand what this show means. it’s—this is a second chance. and i’ve worked too fucking hard to have it fall apart because of—” “because of me?” you scoff. “you were never going to take it, hyun! remember? you were terrified of playing that character, of opening that part of yourself, and i’m the one who talked you into it. i told you it would be worth it. i told you to go for it even though it scared you, and now you’re throwing it back at me like i’ve fucked your career!” “because this is my name on the line!” you cross your arms, eyes stinging again, furious at the way his voice is getting louder, harder, like you’re the unreasonable one here. “i’m trying to protect my future! and you’re acting like i’ve just kicked your puppy.” “don’t talk to me like that!” “then stop acting like a fucking child!”

your jaw drops. he sees it—how much that lands—and he hesitates for a second, like maybe he regrets it. but not enough to take it back. “i gave up everything for you, you asshole. and you still talk to me like i’m some immature little girl who doesn’t get how the world works.” “because you don’t!” he snaps. “excuse me?” “you don’t get what this means, what it costs to have a life like mine.” “i do get it. don’t act like i haven’t been right there—next to you—for over a fucking year, hyun! i’ve seen what it costs, i’ve seen how this life eats you alive some days. i’ve held you when you couldn’t sleep, i wiped away your damn tears. i’ve stayed quiet, i’ve kept secrets, i’ve swallowed so much shit just to protect you—and you think i don’t get it? seriously? i’ve fucking lived it, seunghyun!” “you think that’s the same?” he fires back, eyes narrowing. “you being there when shit got hard—you think that means you understand it? you’re twenty-three. you haven’t lived through what i have. you’ve barely started your life. this—it’s different for you.” you let out a breathless, bitter laugh. “oh, so now it’s about my age?” “that’s not what i—” “no, go ahead. keep talking. because it’s fucking hilarious. you didn’t care about my age when you were fucking me raw and cumming inside of me.” his jaw tightens. “don’t.” “don’t what? don’t remind you? because i fucking remember all of it. every time you’ve called me baby, every time you’ve said you missed me, every time you’ve begged me to ride you because i was so tight you couldn’t think straight—was i too young then?” “stop it,” he growls. “that’s not what this is.” “isn’t it?” you demand, eyes burning. “you’re the one who told me none of that shit mattered. and now you’re flipping it, practically calling me stupid, acting like it’s all too complicated for me to understand. because you’re terrified people are gonna call you what you’ve already been calling yourself in your own fucking head.” he stares at you for a second, eyes narrowed. “and what the fuck do you think that is?” “that you’re sick,” you say. “that you—that you’re fucked in the head. you’ve been punishing yourself for years, hyun, and you cling to that. it gives you an excuse to push people away so they don’t have to see who you really are.” “you think i want to be like this?!” he shouts. “i think you don’t know how to be anything else!” oh, that hurt. that hurt a lot. he takes a step back, like the words physically knock him off balance, tears pooling in this eyes. “you act like if you don’t preempt the world’s hate, it’ll swallow you whole, so you push people away before they get the chance. you make me the villain before anyone else can. and now you’re so deep in your own fucking shame—in your own guilt and paranoia—you’d rather believe i betrayed you than consider the fact that i love you. because i do. i love you so fucking much it hurts. so if you wanna break up with me, then fine, hyun. do it. because i’m fucking tired.”

it hurts to say it. because some part of you still wants him to stop you, to reach for you, to take back everything he’s said and cry in your arms and tell you he doesn’t mean it, that he’s just scared and tired and overwhelmed and that he still wants this, wants you. but he doesn’t. he doesn’t speak at first. just stands there, breathing hard, blinking like he’s trying to see through what you just said. he heard every word but can’t seem to hold onto any of them, can’t figure out where to begin or how to stop this thing from crashing down. “i love you too,” he says. “but you don’t trust me. you don’t believe—” “but i do love you. you know i do.” your heart aches. “then why are you doing this?” “because i don’t think i know how to love you the way you want to be loved, the way you deserve. i thought i did—i wanted to. but i can’t. and i think if we keep going, things will only get worse.” “so that’s it?” you say, your voice shaky. “you’d rather let me go than figure it out together?” “no. it’s not that simple. don’t make it sound like i want this, because i don’t.” you blink through the sting in your eyes. you’re crying, but you’re not sure when it started. “but you do want this, hyun. you’re the one ending it.” “because i think it’s the right thing to do,” he says, frustrated. “right for who?” he doesn’t answer. “right for who, hyun?” you repeat. “because it’s sure as hell not fucking right for me.” “for both of us.” you let out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “don’t lie, you’re doing this for you.” his eyes flick up to yours, and they’re tired. “i’ve spent years trying to put my life back together. trying to build a life that doesn’t make me want to kill myself. and this—” he gestures vaguely. “this is setting it off again. you need to understand that.” “i would’ve stood next to you through it,” you say. “if you’d let me.” “i know,” he says. “but i can’t—i can’t do it. i can’t do this.” he pauses. then adds quietly, “i’ll book you a hotel. i’ll pay for everything. you don’t have to go back to texas right away, but you shouldn’t stay here… i’m sorry.” and he’s already pulling out his phone, not meeting your eyes. and you nod, even though everything inside you is screaming.

he’s quick to block you. you find out the next morning, still laying on the hotel bed he booked for you, surrounded by pristine sheets. and maybe you shouldn’t be surprised—after all, he ended it—but it still makes you cry for two hours straight. you stay in seoul for a few more days. not because you want to, but because the idea of rushing home feels worse. the suite is beautiful and you barely leave it. you eat toast and drink water and lie on your side for hours, just staring, letting the weight of everything press down on you until it feels hard to move. and you cry. you cry a lot. still shocked by how quickly things ended. how he decided to throw away a year of love in a single night and left you with nothing but a suitcase and the memory of the way he looked when he said i love you and i can’t do this in the same breath. a few days later, it starts showing up on your feed—not from him directly, of course, but through tiktoks and screenshots, fan accounts posting cropped images of his comment section under a recent photo, where someone asked if the rumors were true and he replied: ‘Don’t believe everything you read.’ another asks if he was really in a year-long relationship with a younger girl, and he writes, ‘Stop spreading this bullshit.’ and the story he posts hours later—plain white text on black background—feels like a final punch to the gut: ‘No, I’m not dating anyone and I haven’t been dating anyone. Please stop spreading misinformation. Recent rumors circulating online are false.’ just like that.

still, you wait for him to come back to you. to apologize, to tell you how much he missed and needed you. but as the days stretch into weeks and the weeks become months, you stop expecting to hear from him, even though some small, traitorous part of you still hopes. you never find out what your mother did—you imagine a hundred different versions, each one worse than the last, but the truth never surfaces. and then squid game 2 comes out. it’s everywhere almost immediately—clips spreading faster than you can scroll, his face showing up everywhere. and people love him. they love the character, the performance, the way he fits into the story. you’re happy for him, genuinely, even when it aches, because you remember how scared he was to take the role, how close he came to walking away from it entirely, how he almost let the past win. you even think about reaching out. more than once, actually. with something like: hey, sorry to bother… i’ve seen the show, you did amazing! congrats, seunghyun. i’m really proud of you. you type it out a few times, stare at the words on your screen and then you remember—you’re still blocked.

and when the spotlight swings to him, it finds you too. people start digging as soon as the rumor of you and him being together resurfaces. they pick apart your face, your clothes, your age… and the comments aren’t just invasive—they’re cruel in the way that strangers can be when they’ve convinced themselves you deserve it. so you make your accounts private. and when that doesn’t work, you start deleting. one by one, until there’s nothing left to find. that’s when it hits you—even now, even after the breakup, you’re still reacting to him. it’s his silence, his shame, his decision to pretend you never happened that pushed you into hiding, and suddenly it feels like maybe you never really left the relationship at all—just shifted into some sad, invisible version of it where you’re still being shaped by the parts of him you don’t even have access to anymore. and you ask yourself, more than once, if i’d known it would end like this, would i still have done it? would i still have loved him? and you want to say no. you wish you could say no. but the truth is, you don’t know. you’re not sure you ever will.

pls don’t hate me for this😔💀 anyway… if you got this far ily!💗🥹

taglist: @kaerasti49 @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy

part 2 is now posted!

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your seunghyun fic made me so emotional. Now I wish I had a boyfriend who's like your interpretation of him 🥹

AAA thank you so much for reading‼️💗 atp i’m literally manifesting through my writing…😭 i’m so glad you enjoyed my take on him! it was sooooo much fun writing for seunghyun, i just feel like he’d be the absolute sweetest lover🥹

that said… i’m actually drafting another seunghyun fic, and let’s just say it’s gonna be far less soft and sweet than ‘something real’ 👀 i really wanna explore his darker side this time. he’s always had that mysterious, reserved aura, and i’m hoping to tap into that with this next one… we’ll see how it goes!

thank you again for your support, it seriously means the world to me!! sending you lots of love wherever you are💗 —lex

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https://www.tumblr.com/lexalith/781350843176894464/came-here-just-to-say-that-youre-the-best-writer

omg stoppp you’re the sweetest 🥺🥺🥺

and like seriously your work is amazing you always deliver AND THE ANGST IS SOOOOOO LIKE SATISFYING, friends literally devoured made me go through all stages of grief. and hidden omg???? everything is always so perfect and on point and the dialogue is so good AND THEY’RE ALWASY LONG(which i personally appreciate so much) LIKE I ACTUALLY SIT DOWN AND READ AND I EAT IT UP EVERY TIMEEE, amazing writing, amazing writer, and amazing storylines ik it sounds like i’m kissing your ass😭😭 but this is genuinely how i feel and i just wanted to let you know cuz you deserve all the appreciation and the compliments 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼

HELLOOOO STOPPPP??? i’m actually gonna cry real tears rn😭 like be so serious, this is one of the nicest messages i’ve ever gotten! YOUU are the sweetest i swear🥹💗 ily

I LOVE LOVE LOVE writing angst icl. i always feel like i suckk at writing fluff but i lock in so fast every time i get to write the drama, you don’t even know😭😭😭 SO THANK YOUU sooo so so much for appreciating that because i genuinely put my whole heart into it every time.

also i always worry my fics are too long😭 like when i was writing Hidden i kept thinking, there’s no way people are gonna sit through all of this, bc i just keep yapping and yapping💀 and then when i revise i’m always like… did this scene really need to be here?? and i overthink it all the time🥲 so your message honestly made me feel SO much better about all of that!

thank you for being so kind to me like wth😭💗 i appreciate you sm and i hope you have the best day/night wherever you are!! — lex.

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another absolute masterpiece. everyone should read this, it’s painfully beautiful

i take, you give — choi subong (thanos)

notes minors dni contains wealthy fem aged up reader, age gap (reader is 27, subong is 32), takes place before the games, always written with plus size reader in mind as i am myself but anyone can read, made up lore to build dynamic between subong and reader, reader is both inexperienced and not (it'll make sense trust), subong can be very soft and loving in this because yes he is a human!, he also def corrupts her in more ways that one, SMUT (no distinct section, it is imbedded throughout: foreplay, oral f and m receiving, vignettes of sub!subong and sub!reader; roles also switch, subong teaches reader, both reader and subong are possessive, praise, rough, in the car, in the shower, in the pool, over the phone, in front of the mirror, dirty talk, some degradation, in public; people can walk by or overhear), ANGST (miscommunication, toxic dynamic, messy relationship where power dynamics make lines blur, subong talks about his life at home, reader's parents are overbearing, powerful, and strict, arguing, gaslighting, invasion of privacy, theft, dubious practices of the wealthy, insults, unexpected pregnancy; this does not have a happy ending), mentions of drugs and drinking, reader is at times out of touch, a hypocrite, and can have a bit of a savior complex, blatantly problematic subong who can't accept his feelings for the life of him, both him and reader deserve better, my attempt at writing lyrics, and inevitable typos.

requested? the idea of subong x wealthy fem reader was graciously bestowed upon me by @lexalith! i thank you wholeheartedly for not only trusting me with the idea, but allowing me to expand on it. i owe my notes app blowing up with ideas for this fic to her. this is very long. like, detailing the relationship from the very beginning to the very end, long. this is my interpretation of this character in this dynamic. i hope you like it and please be nice! enjoy!

“fuck off, old man. i’m not paying you shit.” subong slammed the taxi door shut. the driver frantically pressed down on the power window switch controlling the passenger seat’s window to retaliate, but subong was one step ahead of him. “you purposefully took the longer route!” he shouted through the window. “you’re not getting my fucking money!” he wagged his pointer finger side to side. “don’t you dare curse at me!” the driver yelled. “don’t you know this neighborhood? it’s not easy to get to! look at the time—look how late it is!” the driver pointed right back at subong, lunging forward, forgetting he still had his seatbelt on. his pushed his wire-framed glasses back up his nose. “hey!” he yelled at subong’s back, not yielding to the wild expression on his face. “i have a family to feed!” “hey! if they’re so important to you, why’d you cruise around for half an hour when i could’ve been here in ten!?” subong’s voice echoed down the sidewalk. he kissed his teeth, waving dismissively. “man, go home to your family instead of cheating me. you’re lucky you have your benefits. its because of leeches like you that i have to work as hard as i do.” with that, subong turned around and walked away. flabbergasted, and downright offended, the driver had no choice but to leave, too, begrudgingly accepting a new ride request downtown. subong took out his phone, reading the texts from his dealer: Got blue and red; followed by a house address; Lmk when ur here ill let u in. subong switched to his maps app—the house was a seven minute walk away. he turned with his phone west, seeing the arrow align with the blue highlighted route. he looked up, seeing an alleyway before him, followed by trees. since when did a pill run become a zelda-style side quest …

the sound of rain-soaked pavement skidding underneath his sneakers soon changed to the rustling of gravel. subong periodically checked the route, seeing he was going the right way. he couldn’t brush off the uneasiness tickling his underarms from walking in the woods at half past ten at night—sucking in a tight breath after stepping on a branch, walking quickly at any noise deemed as natural and unthreatening in the daylight but sinister at this hour. there was music that sounded a whole lot like a party in the near distance, so he took his first chance to send Here to his dealer, looking up and taking in the sight of what looked to be a lodge. when he approached the gate (first of all: a gate?), the realization of just how big this place is hit him … three floors all illuminated with warm toned chandeliers, huge windows, an open space on the ground floor with a fire pit and an abnormally large couch curving with the wall. all of this, in the middle of nowhere? some chaebol shit. subong thought to himself. and he was right, because when he walked into the lodge with his dealer, he marveled at the sea of luxury cars parked outside: a mercedes … cadillacs … the amount of teslas made it seem they were as affordable as used toyotas … two party-goers casually parking their respective lamborghinis … and was that—was that a rolls royce? with a chauffeur sat inside, scrolling on his phone, dressed like he’s a member of the secret service?

“since when were you in the in-group?” subong quipped over the loud music, a smirk on his face as he looked around at all the well-groomed, straight-postured socialites shuffling through the long hallways and spacious living room. some hastily wiped white powder off their nostrils with the back of their hand. others checked the time on their watches with dials as big as their faces; how busy the watches multiple sub-dials were akin to an ancient riddle even indiana jones couldn’t crack. “they want the most, and pay even more.” answered his dealer. “c'mon. your stash is upstairs in the bathroom.”

its always been the sweetest money subong could ever spend. rap gigs never paid much, but they paid enough to open his third eye to mute—or exacerbate the fun parts—his mind for the next few hours. he didn’t take any that night, however, because he wanted to remember every single detail of this ridiculous atmosphere. the music was god awful, and it’s not every day you walk into a party where someone’s wearing your life savings around their neck, but that same necklace is paired with the most atrocious designer outfit he couldn’t dream of if he tried. a few paintings and photos hung along the walls of the hallway he walked down, stopping at the landing, looking over the banister to those mingling below. it held a sense of power, subong fully aware it existed only to himself, but who wouldn’t relish in literally standing above the rich? they could very well just be ignoring him—like a pest or a member of the labor party’s attempt to re-write the tax code—but to subong, this warranted a shit-eating smirk. he turned to his right, walking down a different hallway, mindlessly clutching the cross he wore around his neck housing his stash, his thumb running over the metal imprint adorning the trinket.

tucking the necklace behind his shirt, subong pushed a slightly cracked open door with his fingers, peering inside the one of probably many bedrooms throughout the lodge. the lights were on, but it looked untouched; the bed made, tv off, no sign of movement whatsoever. he still took precaution: “anyone in here?” he asked aloud. no answer. he walked in, hands in his pockets after closing the door behind him, eyes perusing. he opened the closet doors, disappointed by the (yet again) lackluster designer garments hung on velvet coat-hangers. closing it, he turned to the nearest bedside table, seeing a jumble of documents, a passport, pens, and other accessories, including a diamond bracelet that looked to have just been thrown into the corner of the drawer. subong fished it out, bringing it up to his eyes, seeing how it glimmered atop his fingers. he pocketed it without hesitation: it’s pocket change to them. he thought to himself. shoving the drawer closed with his knee, he looked to his left, seeing a balcony overlooking the woods. he walked around the bed, pushed the unexpectedly heavy sliding door open, stepping outside.

his eyebrows furrowed feeling his flat left pocket. shit—that’s right. forgot to pick up a pack before calling the cab. he took his blue puff bar out of his right pocket, inhaling. he took another hit before the translucent cloud fully disappeared into the night, exhaling through his nostrils. fuck, this balcony’s huge. it was wide and long, gaps of light glazing the wooden panelling in designated spaces; it stretched along three rooms, like a hotel. subong smirked. shit at clothes, shit at architecture, too. he brought his puff bar to his mouth for a third hit, attention diverting to his left at the sound of a sliding door opening. you stepped outside, onto the complete opposite end of the balcony, talking into your phone. “for the millionth time, i’m not getting into the car.” you spoke to your mother on the other side of the line. you ignored the rehash of the same argument she’d been recycling for the past ten minutes, switching the hand you’d been holding your phone with to check the time on your watch. “it’s barely past 11:15 on a saturday night. how ludicrous is that, to ask me—someone who’s nearing thirty—to prescribe me a curfew like i’m not a day past sixteen? and for what? last i checked, father’s still at davos. what do you need me for?” perhaps it was your loafers sinking into the back of your ankles that made you so irritable. but why did it take so long to break them in after weeks of wear, and why were you still on the phone? you walked unknowingly towards subong, too busy rubbing your palm against your face whilst he took a hit of his puff bar, trying to mind his business. you stopped at about two thirds of the way down from him, in front the middle one of the rooms lining the balcony, fingers wrapping around the railing before shooting up a gesture as if your mother was standing before you. “if you’re ‘so worried’ about him sitting in the car for hours, maybe you should pay him more. perhaps then he’ll have the audacity to talk back to tell you how he feels. i’ll be home later.” you hung up the call, putting it on silent and sliding it into the pocket of your blazer. a long breath left your diaphragm, both hands grabbing onto the railing, trying to ease your frustration with closed eyes.

subong couldn’t help himself. “rough night?” “what?” you looked to your right. “oh god, you just heard all of that.” you pinched the bridge of your nose. “some parts.” subong said truthfully. “but enough to know someone’s being really fucking annoying.” you exhaled through your nose. “you could say that.” subong brings his gaze back to the trees in front of him, raising his puff bar to his lips. “come here with somebody?” he kept the conversation casual. “a friend.” you answered. “she’s somewhere downstairs, i think.” you shook your head; another goddamn thing to worry about. “she's—she’s much better at these things than i am. we separated almost instantaneously once we arrived.” “'these things,’ as in parties?” subong asked, looking at you to his left. “yeah, that.” you nodded, arms crossing over your chest, looking at the trees. in your movement, subong not only noticed the van cleef bracelet and watch stacked on your wrist, but also your dark grey blazer paired with black slacks and matching loafers. he smirked. “i figured. you look like you don’t belong here.” he said. that’s when you looked at him for the first time, met with his side profile. “excuse me?” you asked, offended. “i mean,” subong exhaled, a cloud of smoke whirring past his ears when a subtle gust of wind flew by. “at a normal party, people don’t dress like they’re at a business conference. they would dress like me.” not seeing his point, you took him in impatiently: a boxy, oversized yellow graphic tee with some indecipherable graphic of the sun, cargo denim shorts, and scuffed sneakers. “but i guess i’m not at a normal party, so i’m the odd one out.” subong chuckled to himself. “my bad, my bad.” he put his hands up in faux-defeat.

you sighed, finally understanding. it wasn’t a normal party whatsoever. “you’re right.” you gave in. “i don’t get out much.” you ran your palm over your face, peering over at him, slightly embarrassed. “do you?” you asked timidly. subong nodded, “i do. for work.” “what do you do?” “i’m an entertainer.” your eyebrows raised. “you are? have i seen you anywhere?” subong shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, putting his puff bar away in his pocket. “maybe. are you on social media?” “sometimes.” you answered, taking your phone out. “i’ll search you up. what’s your name?” “thanos.” he was confused by your laughter. “what’s so funny?” he laughed along, but ready to be on the offensive. “there’s no way that’s your name.” you shook your head, chuckling, clicking your phone off. “oh yeah?” he challenged. he walked up to you, illuminated by the lights on in the room behind you two. subong gestured to his purple hair. “what’s this, then?” he showed you his nails next, equipped with multiple colors. “got all the infinity stones here, too.” his smug grin rivaled yours acknowledging playful defeat. “i stand corrected.” you said, looking up, meeting his eyes. within a matter of seconds, his cockiness dissipated so fast it could’ve induced vertigo. you were fine as fuck. a moderate height difference, sure, but not enough to elicit chronic neck pain in his near future. skin that looked so soft and moisturized even with the limited light of the room behind you, his eyes following your nails manicured black when you reached up to fix your hair; the van cleefs tinkering in the movement of your wrist.

“i take it you’re a musician, then?” your voice took him out of his trance. “rapper.” he cleared his throat, realizing he didn’t say a full sentence. “i’m a—i rap.” he nodded cooly, trying to get himself together with a sharp inhale through his nostrils. “i should’ve known.” you smiled. “i’d ask you to rap something for me, but i don’t want to put you on the spot.” “nah, nah. enough about me.” subong brushed off, shaking his head, face feeling warm because your smile made him feel things he can’t remember feeling before. he needed an excuse to look at you: “tell me about yourself.” “alright, fair enough.” you conceded. “well—” you looked to the trees, trying to figure out where to begin. “i’m currently pursuing my phd in international and global history. i’m on year two of five.” you began, seeing him nod in your periphery. subong caught sight of your two-toned pigmented lips, running his tongue over his own, bringing his bottom lip between his teeth. “i’m one of three. my parents, especially my father, travel often, so i don’t see them much. so i suppose its an excuse to focus on coursework—” “—what do they do?” subong interjected, curiosity poking through despite his brewing infatuation. “well,” you huffed. this is the last thing you wanted to talk about in any situation with anyone. all your life, tied to this question … even with a stranger. but it lingered in the air, and you wanted to get the answer out quickly to move on. “my father manages assets and my mother owns hospitals. i never liked it. nor agreed with it.” your voice dwindled, looking down at your shoes.

the cynicism capitalized on itself: “my older sister works in politics at home in tandem with my parents, but of course not without readying herself to inherit father’s business. my younger brother is currently in new zealand gaining an in with parliament—trying to break us into the english commonwealth. can’t ever stretch ourselves too thin, huh?” you ended on a sarcastic note, looking at subong with a bitter expression mis-directed at him. i don’t understand half of what she just said, but why did no one tell me how fucking hot anger could be? subong thought to himself. “so you’re the socially aware sibling?” he smirked, amused. “what’s the word they use in the states … woke? yeah, woke.” it was strangely disarming; the ability to make fun of yourself. your facial muscles loosened, a smile stretching across your face. “yeah, you could say that.” you laughed. “by process of elimination, i suppose. someone’s got to do it.” you shrugged your shoulders. “but yeah, i’m really nothing but a nepo baby.” subong’s eyebrows furrowed. “a what?” an even bigger smile formed on your face, and subong felt that same tingling feeling from before return to his underarms. “what? i thought you were cognizant of all things internet slang.” you quipped. cogniwhat?—“oh, yeah.” subong nodded, hand scratching the back of his neck, his chuckle and smile working in tandem to thwart his flustered state. “yeah, i think i know that one.”

the conversation dwindled, replaced by intermittent silence. subong, working up the courage, landed imperfectly: “listen, uh—” he cleared his throat, glancing at you before sticking his gaze completely. “you’re really beautiful.” “is this you hoping i have a record producer in the family?” you raise an eyebrow. she’s sharp, too? jesus … subong, though caught off guard yet again, snaps back into himself and returns the energy. well, he tried, because for some fuckass reason he can’t think after looking into your eyes for more than five seconds. “and what if i was?” he said curtly. “then i’d tell you you’re out of luck.” you responded. “i have nothing for you.” subong nodded, kissing his teeth in thought, looking at the trees: a nonverbal its okay. you might have read it as disappointment, but he was scrambling to keep him tethered to you by whatever means. he glanced at you, catching sight of your side profile. “i’m an honest man.” there was something different about his voice; he was sure. he was speaking directly to you, for no one else to hear. “you’re fine as hell.”

he inched closer to you, your eyes momentarily flittering downward upon hearing his ring scrape against the railing. you hadn’t noticed them before, along with the tattoos littering his hand—a thick ring adorning his pointer; a thinner one inked above a real ring on his middle; and a more distinct tattoo on his hand you couldn’t clearly make out in the night. you looked up, seeing he was not only much closer to you, but also realizing this was the first time during your back-and-forth that you were actually seeing the stranger you had been bantering with. he had to be older than you … exemplified by how his crow’s feet are the minute detail necessary to complete that seamless expression universally recognized as the look, but also his bravado of a voice, height and broad-shouldered stature with an air that could only be attributed to more time spent on this earth; no one your age could rival it if they tried. maybe this is why i’ve never liked anyone mother and father have set me up with …

he clearly didn’t belong here. he could have been a friend of a friend of a friend … you heard whispers of a dealer at the party whilst you helped yourself to some olives and cheese; not uncharacteristic whatsoever, considering some of the people you grew up with are admittedly unrecognizable without dilated pupils or fidgeting to cover their arms, but you saw them hover around him, and he looked nothing like the man stood before you now. the mystery perplexed you … but not as much as it exhilarated your senses … maybe, for once, i can have something just to myself … “yeah?” harnessing a flirtatious tone wasn’t exactly your forté, but it was enough to make subong swallow and adjust his posture. “you’re not so bad yourself.” you said. a smug grin captured his face, looking over his shoulder to the empty bedroom to his left, bringing his gaze back to you. “let me take you out to dinner.” “what? no!” you chuckled, a little taken aback, but relishing in it nonetheless. “why not?” subong didn’t act as if he’d been wronged with that lingering grin curving the corners of his mouth, eyes concentrated on you; he’s tethered to you, more than satisfied. “you haven’t even told me your real name.” you said, looking up at him. “subong.” he answered without a moment’s hesitation. “choi subong. i’ll show you my government id if i have to.”

“no, no. it’s fine. i trust you.” you laughed, shaking your hand in affirmation. you introduced yourself; shoving your arms back into crossing over your chest to stifle the inherent muscle memory of putting your hand out for a handshake—a gesture you were conditioned with since sentience, but the last fucking thing to do if you wanted to seem normal. “alright.” he nodded, confidence in full swing. “then at least come see me perform. c'mon, i thought you wanted to hear me rap?” “i do.” you admitted. “i’m performing next saturday with some friends at club pentagon. you heard of it? its in itaewon.” “i can find out.” you nodded. the way your voice sounded just now … he had to divert his eyes to the trees. “we should be on at 10:30. i think that’s when our slot is.” so the next seven days came and went, and subong kicked himself for not getting your number. as saturday came closer, he wondered if you would actually show up … there’s no way, right? from what he searched up about your parents (no matter how many times he looked over your father’s company profile, or read the definition of what a hedge fund manager is, he felt his iq actively deplete; your mother’s photos on google images looked at him like he was the problem, even if her pearly white smile was intended to mean otherwise; he found your older sister’s op-eds and various articles written about her; your younger brother was virtually undetectable, other than photos of him at the olympic trials for horseback riding a couple of years ago and the one family photo the public was deemed worthy to have), you seemed to be the utmost exclusive … your time was indeed money … overthinking himself to the point where his ego deflated. he was a smooth talker, and relatively confident in his ability to win over women. but there was something about you that made him feel like the smallest man in the world. not insecure, per sé, or even insignificant … but if he got close enough, he would be at your complete helm. alluring or sexy were childish descriptors to capture your essence … perhaps intoxicating would suffice better. or maybe he’s just been daydreaming way too fucking much. something about that new batch of blue pills has been hitting different lately …

you walked into the club at 10:36 pm. it was dimly lit with shades of neon pink and purple, washing over the couches and bar top with a surprisingly cinematic glow. people were huddled with their friends around the small tables scattered throughout the club, booming music not being able to mask a contentious conversation an apparent bachelorette was having some feet away with the bartender. you blended into the crowd standing before the stage, looking up when the music abruptly changed to an edm trap beat. subong came onto stage with three men differing in age but similar in aura; domineering with their own verses, riffing off of one another towards the end. it went on like this for twenty minutes, through various instrumentals and at some point one of them started beatboxing. subong built a sweat under his hoodie, letting it trickle down his temple as it was his turn to talk his shit into the microphone. you were floored, peering over people’s shoulders to get a better view. your eyes never wavered from the unmistakable head of purple hair no matter how many times he changed positions on stage; bobbing his head to the beat, holding the microphone akin to personal munition, walking around the stage like he’s got the biggest dick on the block. can’t forget the lip curl he does when the beat drops, or upon hearing someone pull a clever bar out of thin air during their respective freestyles he puts his hands up in surrender; insincerely putting his microphone on the floor before hoisting it back up, laughter ringing out of him. oh. i want him. you thought to yourself.

he came into the crowd after the set wrapped, dapping up familiar faces and not-so-humbly taking compliments from whomever offered. “subong!” he felt a tap on his shoulder, turning around. his eyes widened at the sight of you, his boyish smile making an unabashed appearance. “you came!” he yelled over the music, turning to face you. “of course i did! how could i not!” you said back. your hand rested on his shoulder, standing on your toes to reach his ear, subong leaning in to hear you. “like you said, i wanted to see you perform!” you beamed, making him smile even harder. he leaned into yours: “what’d you think?” “i thought you were great! honestly, i’m a little speechless!” “good, good!” subong laughed. “c'mon, i know somewhere more quiet!” he took your hand without thinking, leading you to the other side of the room; the far-end of the bar. the music was still loud, but not the point where you risked losing your voice to hear each other. the lighting was also brighter, allowing subong to see your much more lax outfit than the one you met in. “you look different.” he said. “hm? oh.” it took a moment to register what he said, glancing down at your jeans and t-shirt after taking a sip of your mojito. “don’t get used to it. i have a change of clothes in the car.” you joked, making subong smirk. “my brother’s home for his birthday.” you explained. “it’s my one chance to not be the designated center of attention just because i’m within arms reach of mother and father.” “you’re not celebrating?” subong asked. “dinner ended just in time for me to come here, funnily enough.” you stirred your drink with your straw, looking up at him to your left. “so i dressed as fast as i could and made my way here. i’ve been waiting all week, if you could believe that.” “i can.” said subong. “i’ve been waiting, too.” your eyes stayed on each other’s until your flustered state gave you away, turning back to your straw. “good to know.” you said.

you chatted each other the fuck up at that bar. nothing but fruitful banter, surprisingly aligned humor for the most part, and no subtle glances at van cleef accessories since your wrists were barren, but instead subong felt his stomach drop to his ballsack at the sight of your wielding an american express black card to pay for your drink like it was a dollar bill. you thought he was a mystery to you? to subong, you were a figment of his imagination. walking into his life like a winning lottery ticket, as divinely beautiful as you are … he was afraid he was going to wake up in a cold sweat at any moment, sharply clutching his phone as it played on repeat whatever amateur porno video he was watching on twitter—the harsh, impending reality that this is all indeed a dream villainously concocted by his subconscious. but with every utterance of a syllable; glimmer of light washing over your supple skin; the tremor of his heart fastening when your arm rested along his bicep after you read a text from your chauffeur saying You are running late. Your mother has called twice., you gave subong a smile, saying “i unfortunately have to go. give me your phone, i’ll put my number in.”

“you better not forget about me.” you teased with a grin, getting up from the stool next to subong, opening your purse and placing your phone inside. “i won’t.” he shook his head, his face aching from how much he smiled tonight. how could he forget you? jesus fucking christ, he’d have to go to a hypnotist or dunk himself in ice cold water just to forget how it felt whenever your knees brushed together underneath the counter, let alone fight the urge to mewl like a fucking bitch when he couldn’t stop glancing at you re-applying your lip balm earlier. “i’ll call you tomorrow.” said subong. “i’ll be waiting. goodnight, subong.” “night.” he watched you leave, head following your movement, leaning a little to his right to peer through his limited angle of the window—just when he thought he’d seen it all, subong saw the car you got into—she’s the one with the fucking rolls royce? his jaw dropped, seeing the headlights turn on and disappear in the opposite direction.

he turned to the counter, flabbergasted. he could do nothing but laugh. at what? he couldn’t pinpoint it exactly. he wasn’t a religious man, but the fact that the universe literally walked into his life a goldmine of a woman armed with a body and face that made his dick twitch; intellect he was nowhere near smart enough to even think to attempt to unpack but it didn’t fucking matter because he was too busy trying to keep up with your wit; eyes he could’ve sworn were putting him under some spell if he looked at them long enough—and not to mention, you’re fucking loaded—certainly felt like divine intervention at its finest. this could be his ticket out of his multigenerational household riddled with bitter silence and explosive rifts that raised him to believe he would be nothing but a failure, or mooching off of friends couches. how about now, dad? look what i’ve got in my back fucking pocket. god really must love me now. he thought to himself. if he played his cards right … who knows where it would take him … a honeymoon in the maldives, maybe. birthdays in mykonos. fucking in her penthouse. shit, does she have one? what does her house look like? ten bedrooms, seven bathrooms, a pool … home theater, maybe? subong’s inner monologue ran wild, fingers toying with his ring as the bass shook the floor below him. all those connections … fuck, i’ll be headlining coa-fucking-chella it two years time, tops. he shook his head, chuckling. nah. can’t get too ahead of myself now …

he took his phone out of his pocket, opening his messages and clicking your contact. your phone vibrated as you pulled into your family’s estate: Hi this is subong. Making sure youre home safe, to which you chuckled pressing send on your response: Hi! I’m home. Wow. I’ve really landed myself a gentleman! subong stared at his screen with an upside down grin, clicking his phone off and stuffing it in his pocket when the warmth of his face didn’t let up. he tugged at the collar of his hoodie, a different question plaguing his mind: she isn’t snobby … she can make fun of herself … she doesn’t second-guess … so what’s her flaw, or vice? there’s got to be something … everyone’s got one. he’s right, because his dangled around his neck and manifests as his dubious moral guidepost. subong looked around in thought, as if some sign would show itself, but then it did: bills lodged underneath the small square napkin soaking in the condensation of your emptied glass, clearly meant as a cash tip for the bartender. subong looked up, seeing the bartender’s back was facing him some feet away, busy mixing a drink. subong slid the bills from the underneath the glass, counting them under the counter.

350,000 won. just there. given away like candy, not even well hidden under the napkin. oh—that’s it. she’s a fucking dumbass. leaving money out in the open like that … in a place like a busy club … you mentioned you hadn’t gone out much when you first met, so maybe this was a true sign of naivete, or perhaps just having too much faith in the world. you are younger than him, so it would make sense … but subong didn’t care all that much to properly make the distinction, pocketing those bills quicker than he stood up from his stool, grabbing the glass and chewing on the halfway melted ice as he walked out of the club richer than when he walked in.

you went to dinner two days later. you met him at a ramen shop close to where he lived, tucked away together in a booth in the corner. this night you did show up accessorized with van cleefs, although different ones than before, and now stacked with a cartier love bracelet on your left wrist. not to mention the matching taupe blazer and trousers paired with a creme white blouse, all the while subong showed up in aged sneakers a year past retirement, jeans, his rings he never takes off, and an oversized graphic tee he last washed maybe six months ago. even so, you were the one clearly overdressed, and he didn’t miss a beat in pointing it out: “did you fix the stock market before coming here?” he asked without looking up from his steaming bowl, slurping the soup off his spoon. you caught his drift, grinning. “i did, yeah.” you played along. “you’ve never heard of a woman with a work-life balance before?” you said back in a mocking tone. “ha ha, very funny. feminism, new world, yeah yeah yeah.” he descended into mutters, making you giggle, his face feeling hotter.

then it was a kimbap café … a tteokbokki stand … and another ramen shop, all within his vicinity, or at most a few blocks over. subong felt himself grow antsy come the end of the fourth date, hiding it behind eating the cheapest ice cream he bought for you two at a nearby convenience store with the last of his money. if only we went to another fucking bar … he thought to himself, throwing your wrappers away before returning to your side, walking the rest of the pathway circulating the park. he continued telling you about his first performance for the rap battleground competition he was admitted to shortly before you met; over 50k viewers on the livestream, and 32 contestants including himself, if you remembered correctly. “i sampled pink floyd’s money as a joke. it turned out to be a big hit, so i might keep that going.” subong chuckled, kicking a pebble away before you turned the corner together, now walking along the river. in your hum of acknowledgement, you wondered if subong would ask you to come and see him perform again … but that might be a step too far … were you even dating? like, official? even so, he did invite you before … and that was the first time you saw each other outside of the party … either way, you didn’t want to overstep, so you played it safe: “i’ll watch it when i get home.” you told him, glancing at him before fluttering your gaze back to the pavement below either of your feet. “you will?” subong raised his eyebrows, upside down grin making his gaze flutter to the empty benches. “shit, now i really have to do good.” he said, making the both of you laugh.

you shared your first kiss at the railing lining the river, his hands coming around your waist whilst yours held his cheeks between your palms. it was soft and purposeful; a natural progression. you can’t remember the last time you had such butterflies in your stomach for something that felt so organic. subong doesn’t know what he was thinking, because when he felt your fingers brush past his cartilage piercing to pull him in for another kiss—an emt wouldn’t be able to revive him, and his heart would be given up to a stranger since he mistakenly checked the donor box after passing his driver’s test. there wasn’t much height difference to compensate for since you showed up tonight in heels (“did you meet with the president before coming here?” “no. i did that after breakfast, obviously.”), so he pulled you in comfortably by your waist into him, his palms ghosting over the tops of either globes of your ass, arms securing you in his grasp. subong kissed you harder, tilting his head a little to the left after feeling the coolness of your cartier bracelet brush against his earlobe. he definitely hit a nerve, because when the smallest of moans vibrated against his lips, you ended the kiss rather abruptly. “i’m sorry. i—i got carried away.” you said. “its fine. it was fucking hot.” he assured. you couldn’t hold in your laugh, nudging your forehead against his, feeling his lips press a kiss onto your soft skin, arms holding you close.

“i want to do something you want to do.” said subong. “hm?” you lifted your head from his bicep, your arm locked with his whilst his hands stuffed his pockets. “i’m tired of you coming to me. i want to come to you.” subong said with unabashed intent. in other words show me how the rich live … “i just—” he kissed his teeth, shaking his head and looking at the river, trying to think of how to word this. “i just feel bad that i can’t pay for nicer things—” “—subong, stop.” your arm left his, crossing yours over your chest. subong’s eyes widened in worry; did i fuck up that badly, on the first fucking try? “i’ve been having a great time with you. you don’t need to worry about those things.” subong’s eyes nearly closed in relief, his hand traveling around your lower back to the other side of your waist. “i know, baby. i know.” his voice was low, smooth. his breath tickled your temple, lips pressing a chaste kiss. “but i just want to … i don’t know—” he shrugged his shoulders. “meet you where you are as best i can, if that makes sense.”

subong meant it, but he would be charged with fraud at the federal level if he denied the gluttonous curiosity playing into this. you didn’t say anything, which led his hand to bring your eyes to his. more importantly, your lips. he kissed you delicately; “hm? what do you think?” he whispered, not paying any mind to the group of high schoolers passing by on their bikes. he kissed you again. “wanna know what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.” said subong. the kiss broke slowly, in a way that made you feel you’d been wasting the past twenty seven years of your life. “okay.” you whispered, not realising how breathless you became. you inhaled, turning your head to look at him. “you’ll come for dinner after i come back.” “come back?” subong’s eyebrows furrowed. “you’re leaving me already?” he quipped, chuckling when you nudged his chest with your shoulder. “i should’ve clarified.” you tutted to yourself. “i’ll be in macau for two days. my sister just got engaged to her fiancé who’s from there.” “i see.” said subong, nodding. he moved behind you, arms hugging you into his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder. another place to drool over when i get home. he thought to himself, lips finding your cheek. “all my blessings to her,” he muttered, grinning against your skin at your scoff. “but don’t be gone for too long, hm?” “i won’t.” you told him, turning your head, kissing his lips gently. “i’ll be back before you know it.”

the following afternoon, you held your phone tightly against your ear with your shoulder—but to no avail on putting the seatbelt on right. “subong, i’m putting my phone down for a second. can’t get this on right.” you muttered. “got it.” he licked the rolling paper, lighting the spliff, blowing the smoke out the window as he sat on his windowsill, waving it away as extra precaution. a tiktok notification lit his screen, seeing the time was 12:21 pm. “okay, i’m back.” he heard you say over speakerphone. “isn’t your flight in ten minutes?” he asked. “yes. i’ve boarded.” you looked out the window to the tarmac, eyes temporarily watching the aircraft marshallers’ neon vests rustle in the new spring wind before your attention diverted to members of your family’s staff boarding the plane, clad in suits. subong’s never flown out of the country before, but he knew one thing from the movies: “aren’t you supposed to put your phone away?” he stuck the spliff out the window, flicking the ash before returning it between his lips. “cell service works fine on the jet.” you answered without thinking.

JET!? holy fuck, this should have been a no brainer … subong snatched his phone from his nightside table, putting you off speaker, looking over his shoulder at his closed bedroom door before pressing his phone to his ear; as if he’d been told highly-classified intel. this was the last thing his family needed to find out … “you have a private jet?” he asked lowly into the phone. you took a moment before answering. “i do.” “how many do you have?” “my family has several.” you said hesitantly. the silence that followed made your eyes close, a huff escaping your lips. “subong, i didn’t mean to—” “its fine!” he shook his head despite you not being able to see, forgetting to blow the smoke out the window, but not thwarting the dollar signs he saw in his eyes. “the words just came out of my mouth. you don’t have to be sorry about anything, baby.”“okay.” you said timidly, shame lingering. the jet began to move, slowly approaching the runway for takeoff. “tell me more about your upcoming performance, hm? you were thinking of writing about how you got your start, right?

your phone remained glued to your ear a majority of the flight. you waved off any chance your staff took to show you an important email or take a call to the point where they gave up altogether. you giggled into your phone like a teenager, manicured fingernail caught between your teeth through whatever cheeky remark he had in his arsenal, or trading anecdotes from one another’s life. “there was this one time i was set up with an oil executive’s son. i think it was right after i finished college.” you spoke, watching the clouds float past. “six and a half dates we went on. that half being i couldn’t take it anymore, so i left him to foot the bill he ran up himself. god, he was the most arrogant prick you’ll ever meet.” you shook your head, tsking. “fucked me up so bad i had to start reading kafka to cope.” you joked. subong learned to laugh through the references he didn’t understand. “that does sound bad.” he affirmed, watching his ceiling fan rotate as he laid in bed. “i’ve only had two girlfriends in my life. one in high school who broke up with me because i didn’t get high enough marks, and the second i was with the year before i enlisted. she left me because she was afraid i was going to propose.” “were you?” you heard him scoff on the other side of the line. “fuck no. our first argument was over that stupid perilla leaf debate you see online. i didn’t see a problem in peeling those leaves, but she did. we wouldn’t have lasted.” “to each their own, i suppose.” you chuckled, nodding in thanks to your assistant whom handed you a glass of ice water.

“you know, with you visiting your sister and all,” subong’s transition wasn’t the smoothest, but it was too late to retract. “i can’t help but wonder if you’ve ever been proposed to.” you swallowed your sip of water, “oh, trust me,” you answered without hesitation. “they’ve tried.” “they have?” subong’s eyebrows furrowed. “who?” “that oil exec fuck brought it up on the way to our second date. pardon my language, i’m known to be rather diplomatic.” subong exhaled through his nose, sitting up with his back to the wall, amused. “at my twenty-five birthday dinner—my father, and i’m using his words, 'cordially invited’ his colleague’s nephew. same age as me, but definitely some lights weren’t on in that head of his. i remember so clearly—like it was yesterday, subong—sitting outside on the balcony, drinking mimosas after dinner with my friends.” you took another drink of your water. “and he came up to us—i mean me, got down on one knee and asked the question. with a ring and everything.” “what?” subong was taken aback. “what’d you do?” “we laughed right in his face.” you heard his laughter ring into your ear, making you laugh in return. “because who the fuck are you!” you gestured with your hand out over the small table before you, a smile on your face. “like, what happened to 'hi, hello, how are you’? subong, the shit i’ve witnessed … it’d take an eternity to fold through it.”

“was the ring nice?” he asked. “well …” you tried to dance around it, but did away with that. “it could’ve been better.” you giggled, hearing subong chuckle. “oh my goodness, how could i forget the time the son of the department head i studied under at oxford?” you thought aloud. “he trailed me down at every party i went to, only to tell me 'you need to lose a few pounds if ever want enough room to be loved’ after i rejected him. not a proposal, but a classic nonetheless.” “jesus, baby.” subong was borderline baffled with how casually you spoke about this. “your people sound ruthless.” “it’s alright. my father got him expelled, anyway.” “what!?” “i’m kidding!” you said, smiling. “he was booted for plagiarism. did such shit job at it, too. i mean, who doesn’t check if your name’s on the paper? only a fool, and that’s what he was. an emasculated fool.”

“so no real boyfriend then, hm?” subong wondered aloud. you jutted out your bottom lip, shaking your head. “nope. its kind of hard for it to be real when your parents are behind everything, or go as far as to sit at the same table as you.” “jesus—” “i know, i know.” you nodded. “but it feels like its real with you, though.” you said without thinking. subong ceased toying with his short’s drawstring, a smirk tugging at his mouth. she’s fucking adorable. “i-i mean—it could be, if you wanted it to. i don’t know how you feel but—” “i feel the same.” he nodded. “it feels real with you, too.” the silence made subong’s back straighten, checking his phone to see the call had reached the two hours mark, but worried it was cut off nonetheless. “hello? baby? are you there? fuck.” “good to know.” you spoke sweetly, hiding your face that felt it had been set ablaze behind your palm. you were sat in a seat not facing your staff, or anyone for that matter, or you were hiding from no one; subong was over one thousand miles away, but it was as if you felt his eyes boring into you. thank goodness he can’t see me right now.

subong ran his palm over his face. “you had me worried there for a second.” he chuckled. the moment called for his next question, but no matter how many times he practiced in his head (or in the bathroom mirror, too), he felt his throat dry up. but he pushed through: “listen, you know the uh—rap battleground? yeah, i have an extra ticket for any guests at the filming studio, if you’d want to come and see me? if—” he cleared his throat. “if you’re not busy, is all.” you emerged from hiding, your palm this time irrationally hiding your stupidly big smile. finally! “when is it, subong?” “sundays at eight pm. the day after we have dinner at your place, funnily enough.” he answered quicker than he intended, trying to take a breath to calm himself down. “eliminations happen on monday at the same time. you don’t have to come to that, or either.” he was the king of being nonchalant, but the universe swung him a big fuck you by making his voice crack at the end of his sentence. “holy fuck,” he squeezed the bridge of his nose, mumbling into his phone. “you have me sounding like i don’t have my lights on.” he hid his face underneath his shirt hearing you laugh, groaning into the fabric. thank god she can’t see me right now, holy shit. “i’ll go both days, subong. send me the name of the venue. i’ll make arrangements.”

when you said you'd send a car to pick subong up for dinner, you weren't fucking lying—he set the ramen shop where you had your first date as the pick up site, fucking bewildered to find the black rolls royce waiting for him in the street. subong unceremoniously knocked on the tinted driver's seat window, his other hand holding the last bouquet of daisies the neighborhood florist had; cheaper than usual from how some already wilted, but were well-hidden. the window rolled down, subong seeing a different man than the one he saw sitting there when walking into the lodge. "choi subong?" the man asked. he was older than subong, but subong himself was too busy staring at his earpiece to gather an answer quickly. "y-yeah. that's me." he nodded, inhaling through his nose, trying to keep his cool. "i have a date with—" "yes, with ma'am. please find your way inside. we will arrive in about twenty minutes. there's refreshments, too, for your leisure." refreshments? the fuck? "alright, thank you." subong said curtly, opening the door and sitting inside the car. subong froze when the car moved and the lights turned on, slowly lifting his head, seeing the headliner lit akin to a constellation. he marveled at how wide the seats are, his right palm running over the shiny black leather whilst the fingers of his left traced the dark wood accenting the car door. she rides in this every fucking day? just when he thought he could begin to process, his eyes found it: the champagne. he slid quickly to the other side of the three-seater, grabbing it, nearly knocking down the flute glasses in the cupholders in front of him. he brought the label closer to his eyes, squinting to read the french name. "louis roederer . . . cristal vintage . . ." his voice trailed, pulling his phone out, typing into the google search bar with his thumb. "holy shit!" he whispered to himself—he was holding 20 million won in his hand, just casually in this luxury fucking car, and by the feeling of the golden foil wrapped around the top of the bottle keeping the cork in, its collecting dust. 

subong put the bottle back, posture stiffening in his seat. he’s spent years dreaming of living like this, wanting so badly to mimic the aura of the rappers he’s looked up to … to somehow wake up in one of those lavish music videos stacked with sports cars, beautiful women, and the finest things money can buy. but here he was now, surrounded by those exact things and on his way to see a woman that he couldn’t dream of having in his wildest fantasies; sat on his hands like a coward, petrified that if he touched anything he would automatically be reprimanded by the authorities. did it all start to feel too real? did he finally take a step a little too ahead of himself, throwing him into something he can’t go back on? what was this feeling—nerves? anxiety? fear of not making a good impression? he felt so dumb … he’s been on dates before … and its not like he was meeting your parents or anything … but he was entering your world, even if you two were going to be alone in your house; free from other eyes. as its always been to this point. he looked down at his outfit, rubbing his sweaty palms on cargo denim shorts he’s worn nearly every time he’s seen you, an over-sized black t-shirt, and sneakers he’s worn on every date. for once, get some new clothes, motherfucker …

you greeted him with that beautiful smile of yours at the door. “hi!” you said cheerfully, reaching up for his face, bringing his lips to yours. “missed you.” you murmured, feeling him re-connect the kiss. “missed you too, baby.” the rustling of the bouquet caught your attention. “how thoughtful.” you grinned, taking the bouquet whilst the other hand came up to his cheek, bringing the one closer to your lips. “thank you, subong.” ’s no problem.“ he took your hand, placing kisses on your palm and inner wrist, glancing at your tiffany & co. heart charm bracelet before intertwining his fingers with yours. "come, i’ll take you to the grill outside. i got us some beef to cook together, and the chefs made side dishes earlier this evening.” “oh, okay.” you saw him visibly pause, able to guess what was running through his mind. “or you could tell me when its cooked,” you offered, bringing his attention back to you. “i’ve always been bad at that.” you smiled. subong shook his head. “its okay. we’ll do it together. c'mon, show me.”

you pulled him along. thank the universe he was behind you, because his jaw hung open looking around the house. it was sleek and modern, accented with dark toned wood, warm lighting, and huge windows looking out onto the massive grassy terrain—similar to the lodge in that respect, but even in those first few footsteps past a sitting room and down a long hallway, it felt very personal to you: vintage film posters hung tastefully on the walls; couches and cushioned chairs that actually looked comfortable and weren’t just for show; a painting certainly much older than him hanging above an opulent fireplace; a staircase leading to the second floor and presumably your bedroom; turning a corner and seeing what looked to be your study, equipped with textbooks sprawled out on a large wooden desk and an imac left on—subong felt himself start to huff and puff. holy shit, the fuck is the square footage of this place?

“i thought you lived with your parents?” subong brought up later in the evening, re-filling your respective shots of soju. “i do, technically.” you were cutting the meat; one hand holding the slab of bulgogi with tongs, the other wielding kitchen shears, letting the pieces fall onto the sizzling grill. after downing his shot, he brought your glass to you, carefully tipping it with your head going back. you swallowed with the usual small grimace, hanging onto the fleeting peach flavor. “they’re just up the hill.” “up the hill? what do you mean?” “look around that corner over there,” you gestured with your head. “passed the tree and the carnations. i’ll keep an eye on the meat.” subong followed, walking off the cobblestone pavement onto the grass, looking around the corner and finding a mansion. it was opulent. regal, even. a giant’s ultimate dollhouse. something that was the physical manifestation of generational wealth, looking into the viewer’s eyes and saying i invented the term 'net worth.’ the architecture looked historical, like many lives have been lived within those walls, but it would take an eternity to walk from one end of the home to the other. the lights were on and very loud about it; illuminating staff tending to various areas of the estate even from the sizable distance subong stood at. he could hear dogs barking and see them running around. she’s the princess and i’m the fucking frog, man. he thought to himself.

you weren’t looking forward to what he was going to say; uncomfortable by the circumstance, never wanting to intentionally flaunt your wealth, but he was going to find out soon enough. “was it too big for you?” you could hear his shit-eating grin. you stirred the meat on the grill without looking up at him. “too quiet.” you corrected. “at least here the silence is my own.” subong can tell he hit a nerve, but doesn’t necessarily retract. he stood behind you, leaning over your shoulder, pressing his cheek against yours; either of your eyes watching the grill. “cook it for a little longer.” said subong, voice low by your ear. “i figured.” you cleared your throat. you felt his arms wrap around your waist from behind. “did they build this place for you?” he asked. “well, no.” you started curtly. “my grandmother lived here before she moved back to her estate in italy. but yeah, it was renovated before i moved in when i started my phd.” subong didn’t respond immediately, only holding you closer, his lips finding a spot underneath your ear. “you don’t have to hesitate to show me your life.” he said. you huffed. “i don’t want to show off, subong.” “i didn’t know telling the truth was considered 'showing off.’” he countered. you tsked, “you know what i mean.” his lips lingered by your earlobe. “i’m only here for you.” subong whispered, hearing your small gasp. “do you believe me?” it took a moment, but you nodded: “i do.” you said truthfully.

you and subong ate good food, but it must have been the soju that loosened you up, because his tongue wrestled with yours not even an hour later. it was gentle and smooth, but not without intention. subong’s hand traveled up the side of your thigh, encouraging you to deepen the kiss to which you did; hand holding his cheek as you tilted your head to your left, the vibrations of his satisfied moan against your lips upon hearing the tinker of your charm bracelet by his ear. he broke the kiss momentarily to catch his breath, feeling your lips find his cheek. he looked down at his hand, rubbing slowly but with purpose, biting his bottom lip. he sucked in a breath of surprise when he looked up, seeing three housekeepers gathering the empty dishes and used cutlery. they were at the very most ten feet away from where you two were currently swallowing each other’s faces on the modular outdoor sofa. subong was petrified. “baby?” he said softly, only for you to hear. you emerged from your spot on his cheek. “hm?” “do they—” subong wasn’t sure how to address them, let alone talk about this. “do they usually work late?” “what time is it? nine?” you turned to your side, tapping your phone screen; like it was the most casual fucking thing in the world. “8:41. they’re wrapping up for the night.” “they don't—” he still couldn’t find the words, clearing his throat. “they don't—” “—they won’t do anything, subong. they just mind their own business. now, come here.” you said gently, bringing your lips back to his.

subong tried to zero back in, but the sound of a housekeeper emptying the grease from the grill took him right out. “have you done this before?” he whispered, glancing at them before turning to you. you shook your head. “what? no. they’ve known me all my life is what i meant. they know what to expect.” “doesn’t that make it weirder?” he questioned, looking at you, anxious. you smiled knowingly. “i thought you’d be one for some risk.” you teased. “i am,” he corrected you quickly. “i am. don’t be like that.” he tutted, making you chuckle. “i just want to be alone with you, is all. make up for lost time after you were gone.” said subong. “i need you too.” you told him, fingers re-centering the necklace hanging his cross tucked behind his shirt. “how about we go up to your room then, hm?” he suggested. you smirked. “a bit forward. that’s more like it.” you quipped, getting up from your seat. subong followed you up the floating staircase, one hand in yours as the other grazed the dark wooden railing. he looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the entire wall at the upstairs landing, catching a glimpse of the balcony lining the huge corner; the view being the family house up the hill. “in here.” your voice brought him back to you. “the first door on your left.”

your room was as big as his family’s apartment, if not bigger. the layout was similar, too, with three doors leading to different spaces—only subong’s were for his, his parents, and his grandmother’s rooms respectively whereas yours were for your en suite bathroom and two walk-in closets. a chandelier lit aglow on the high ceiling, illuminating the creme-colored walls and your pristinely-made king-sized bed with a vanity bench in front; a pair of heels he recognized from a date on the carpeted floors next to a half unpacked carry-on. “sorry for the mess.” your voice, once again, brought subong out of his trance. he shook his head, mouth slightly agape in awe. “s'fine, baby.” he muttered. he felt a gust of him, seeing you on the other side of the room, a pair of curved-top doors open leading to a balcony. “its a little stuffy in here. the house is old, and i haven’t been up here a majority of the day. it can get like that.” you explained, growing more timid with every word, the realization that this fine ass man was really just in your room sinking in. “its no problem.” subong assured, hand resting on your waist. he looked out the balcony, seeing it was above most of the trees, the city skyline in the distance. he felt you tug at his shirt. “so …” you said quietly, not having the gall to look him in the eye through your wordless plea. an upside down grin tugged at his mouth. fucking adorable. “right, my bad. come here.”

he had you backed against the wall, his rings scraping along the edge of your desk whenever he adjusted his grip on your hips. your hands were in his hair; the kiss deep and sensual. subong slid his tongue in whenever he could, eyebrows furrowing in concentration hearing your small moans muffled against his lips. “you know how you said you’ve never had a real boyfriend?” “mhm,” you kissed him back with fervor, the loss of his lips for even a second making you putty in his hands. “why?” “with your sexy fucking body, baby,” subong’s hands rounded your wide hips once more, reaching back to either globes of your ass and squeezing firmly. you gasped, breaking the kiss. the back of your head hit the wall, his lips hovering your jaw. you felt them brush against your skin when he spoke, “i can’t help but wonder if you’ve ever had a real fuck. or an orgasm.” he squeezed again, teeth raking over his bottom lip as his eyes watched yours bite your own. “hm? have you?” you shook your head. “no,” you swallowed, throat dry. “only by myself.” you whispered. “i’m gonna change that, okay?” subong said, nodding. “okay.” you said, hands holding his face, horny out of your fucking mind.

“i’m gonna start by taking care of these.” subong began unbuttoning your black blouse. he leaned down, kissing the bare, supple skin of your chest before seeing your matching lace bralette. “jesus fucking christ.” he murmured. he felt you shake. “hey, what’s wrong?” he looked up at you. “its just me.” “that’s the problem, subong.” you said, thumb tracing his smile line. “you make me really fucking nervous.” you chuckled, hearing him playfully scoff. the arrogant smirk that stretched across his face made your mind start drafting the dimensions of turning the storage room down the hall into a nursery. he licked his lips, leaning down and kissing you tenderly, his palms holding either side of your neck. “nothing to be nervous about, baby.” he said, kissing you again. “here. i’ll take my shirt off, too.” “oh, subong, you don’t have to—” but it was too late. he pulled his shirt off from the top, discarding it onto your desk with his cross, too. he was toned and lean, his melanin nurtured gingerly underneath the warm hues of the chandelier. you noticed how his back tattoo peeked over either of his shoulders, but also the lion’s mane on his abdomen; a constellation with a date in roman numerals just a couple of inches below his collarbone. i feel lightheaded already … “what?” subong’s voice brought you back down. he already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it from you. “you just made it a whole lot worse.” you said, your palm covering your mouth.

subong snickered. his fingers wrapped around your wrist, bringing your palm down. “i take it you like what you see, hm?” “i do.” you said breathily. subong nodded, eyes fluttering down to your chest, past the stretch marks on your stomach to the hem of your jeans. “yeah. i like what i see, too.” his eyes returned to you. “you can touch me, baby.” he spoke to you like you were the only two people in the world, even if you were completely alone. “you can touch me all you want.” and you do: your fingers trace his shoulders, ghosting past the divot of his collarbone before cascading down his chest, following his toned torso. your eyes traveled with your hands down his body, but his stayed on you. his dick was begging to breath. he leaned into your ear, “this is all yours.” he whispered, breath tickling your neck. your eyes fluttered closed; a small, vulnerable moan leaving your lips. your back arched subconsciously, sending your chest to collide with his. his hand came up, kneading your left breast through the bralette. “and this is all fucking mine.” he said whilst you gasped. he felt your nipple harden in his palm. “do you understand me?” “y-yes subong.” you nodded, looking up at him, eyebrows knit together. the day we get to fuck, i’m going to need a defibrillator. he thought to himself. “good.” he nodded, watching you. “can i suck on these perfect tits, baby? hm? can i make you feel good?” you nodded vigorously, making him smirk. “yes—oh my god, please.”

the exposed part of your left breast felt soft and bouncy against subong’s lips—lush, even. his fingers hooked past the lace, carefully taking your breast out of the confines of the bralette. his tongue nurtured your already peaky areola, hearing and feeling your shudder in his palms on your lower back. your eyebrows furrowed, mouth agape, shallow gasps leaving your lungs. your manicured nails clawed at the back of his bare shoulder, making subong moan against your nipple and run his tongue faster. your back arched unexpectedly, nearly making him lose his spot, but he held your breast in place with his hand, his other arm wrapping around your waist, squeezing your left globe. he popped off of your nipple with precision, humming to himself in satisfaction at the sight. “fucking perfect.” he murmured. subong’s arms switched places, shifting his focus onto your right breast. he followed the same procedure, fishing it out and letting it hang off your bralette and between his lips. he kissed your nipple with his tongue repeatedly, hearing you gasp, but no moan just yet. “does it feel good?” he asked, not stopping his ministrations. “outrageously.” you whispered, feeling him chuckle. “those rich boys never made you feel like this, huh?” “n-no.” you shook your head. you gasped upon watching his tongue run over your nipple, coupled with how mind-numbingly good it fucking felt—holy shit. subong popped off a few times: “i figured.” he muttered. his fingers lightly smacked your breast, seeing it jiggle just the way he liked.

he raised his head, eyes looking into yours. his hand came up, holding either side of your jaw, making your gaze stick to his. “i want you to suck my cock and i wanna eat your pussy.” he was sure he’d hear you moan now. “how’s that sound, hm?” “good.” you answered, nodding in his grasp, cheek bunching up. “i want to.” “good.” subong said. he leaned in, and your lips moved for a kiss, but he didn’t close the gap entirely. “but here’s the thing,” he whispered, breath pushing past your upper lip. “i’m gonna make you fucking work for it.” “s-subongie—” you whimpered desperately, hands finding his belt and trying to undo it. it took everything in him to halt your movements in the midst of hearing that pet name for the first time, hand holding your wrist firmly. and with her fucking tits out, looking up at me like that? jesus … “uh-uh.” he tutted condescendingly. subong leaned in and tilted his head as if to kiss you, but his lips hovered. “fucking work for it.” he breathed your desperation in, hand falling to your side when you brought him into you with your tongue. your hands held his face, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, tongue toying with his. that’s right, he thought to himself, keep going.

you can’t remember the last time your mind felt this fuzzy. when i found my clit for the first time? maybe … when i got my new vibrator? not even close … you felt his palms make residence on your ass once again, squeezing down tenderly. this fine ass older man’s swollen lips against yours, his tongue just as desperate … you were born with a golden spoon in your mouth, but this felt like winning the fucking lottery, bitch. this felt like being god’s fucking favorite. your hand trailed to his jeans, finding his bulge and tracing it with your palm. his shoulders shuddered, but caught himself with your lips; muffling his own moan. “s-shit.” subong tried to hide it, but when you pressed down again, he abruptly ended the kiss. “get the fuck over here.” he muttered, grabbing your hand and pulling you to sit beside him on the edge of your bed. he must have forgotten all about his singular condition, because he undid his own belt, pulling down his jeans and briefs, letting it fall to his ankles. “we’re gonna take it slow.” he half-told you and half-himself. “come here.” subong leaned in, hand traveling over your thick fucking thighs and up your waist, fondling your left breast. he smacked it lightly, kneading it firmly afterward each time. your hand reached for his hardened cock, with the wrist adorned by your tiffany & co. bracelet nonetheless, slowly stroking.

he was long and slender, his tip curving slightly left. your palm felt soft and plush—fucking heavenly in comparison to his somewhat calloused hand, no matter how much lotion he used—making his kisses stutter when you built up a pace. he eventually broke it to catch his breath. “h-have you done this before? s-shit!” subong bit his bottom lip, eyebrows contorted, watching you pump his cock in a daze, the wristlet tinkering with your ministrations. “mhm, i have.” you nodded, watching your hand, feeling his precum increasingly slick his cock. you turned your head to look at him, seeing his eyes closed shut and quietly muttering profanities to himself. you smiled, biting your bottom lip in satisfaction, leaning close to his ear. “but he didn’t last long enough for me to actually work my wrist. so i must be pretty good.” you giggled knowingly, ego boosted by his vulnerable moan. subong nodded, swallowing, mouth dry as shit. “you—you are.” he concurred. “just go a l-little s-slower—f-fuck!” he gasped. one hand held the base of his cock steady, whilst your other focused solely on pumping his tip. “slowly? like that?” your teasing tone made him see the light. his stomach caved inward, fighting the looming orgasm. “you’re f-fucking crazy.” his voice barely rose above a whisper. you couldn’t help but giggle, proud of yourself.

you slowly came to a halt, sparing him, amused by how deeply he was breathing. “on your knees.” he rasped, swallowing. “get on your knees.” you didn’t need to be told twice. you knelt between his knees, fingers holding the base of his cock, his tip brushing against your lips. “go slow.” he instructed. and you did, taking his tip between your lips, slowly sinking down. he felt warm in your mouth and tasted slightly salty, taking him about halfway before your mouth traveled back up his cock. you sunk in a little deeper this time, adding your tongue into the mix, hearing his shudder above you. your head began to bob up and down, hand with the wristlet taking care of whatever you couldn’t fit. subong’s breath was shallow and inconsistent, eyes shut tightly and eyebrows furrowed even more-so. hearing and feeling your mouth wrapped around him, the sounds of your fucking throat opening and closing … he opened his eyes, looking down at the sight, biting his lip at how your tits hanged. “h-hollow your cheeks—hngh!” you sucked harder and faster, both hands pumping the base of his cock as you bobbed up and down. subong’s toes curled into the carpeted floors, hand lifeless on the back of your head. he was completely at your helm; mind fucking mush. “f-fuck—ngh! o-oh my f-fuck—” he cried out, unable to look away. “your mouth feels so good when you suck me like that, baby! fuck!” his voice cracked, vision going blurry. you then dealt the card that made him yelp aloud, expediting that unraveling knot in his abdomen: sucking on that curved tip. he let out a sound you thought only existed in your dreams: “w-wait! n-no, stop! i’m gonna—fuck!” subong planned on cumming in your mouth, but was so caught off guard by how good you were and how quickly he reached that high, that he took his cock out of your mouth, spilling onto the floor.

“h—ha—f-fu—ngh!” he mewled. you sat back on your knees, fingers pressed to your lips, shocked yourself. once his senses cleared, he realised what he’d done. “i didn’t mean to ruin your—” “—its fine,” you cut him off, not even worrying about it. “i’ll have it cleaned in the morning.” subong leaned down, bringing his lips to yours. there was a newfound hunger in the kiss, latching onto your mouth after his newfound discovery that just re-constructed his libido. “on the bed. now.” you did as he said, head on the pillow as he got up, kicking his jeans off and pulling up his briefs. subong unbuttoned your jeans, pulling them off and discarding them on the vanity couch. his knees sunk into the duvet, taking off your panties before traveling down the king-sized mattress, settling comfortably on his stomach. you spread your legs, hand in his hair as his tongue led kisses down your inner thighs, subong humming in content upon feeling the divots of your cellulite against his lips. he couldn’t see your ass, but relished in how thick it looked and felt against his elbows, palms running up and down your sides; past your rolls, fingers fluttering over your stretch marks. “anybody eat this pussy before?” he asked, taking in your scent. he felt his dick start to harden again. you shook your head, lip caught in between your teeth, heartbeat in your throat. “tried to. was never good.” “i’ll be good.” subong nodded to himself. “i’ll be real fucking good.”

if he could bottle up your gasp and get drunk on it forever, he would. your thighs encased his head, muffling his senses, but this would be the best way to go out. oh … she tastes fucking good … he made out with your puffy lips, encouraged by your breathy gasps and wriggling waist. “s-subong.” you said meekly, him glancing up to only see your chin; your head thrown back into your pillow. “tell me, baby.” he murmured against your pussy. “tell me how good it feels.” his warm tongue dove between your folds, lapping and swallowing anything he found. his pointer in tandem with his middle finger separated your puffy lips, tongue toying around. “this sweet pussy,” he popped off the top, feeling he was coming closer from how the muscles in your thighs tightened. “all these years, neglected. not treated right.” his tongue went a little lower, hearing your ragged breath. he popped off the spot again, middle finger sinking between your lips, rubbing side to side to find it. “what a pity.” he tsked. your back arched, hoping it would shift his finger into place, but to no avail. if only if he pressed a little deeper—your loudest gasp yet rattled off the walls: “s-subong!” you yelped, palm covering your mouth. “its fine, though, because im about to eat this pussy every fucking day to make up for it.”

with that, he dived right back in, lapping your clit like it was nobody’s business—because it wasn’t. you’re his and you’ve been his; there’s no going back for either of you. subong knew he found that bundle of nerves from how your legs separated, knees hovering barely over the duvet; your hand sinking his face deeper into your cunt. subong snickered. “feels good, baby, doesn’t it?” “y-yes!” you whimpered. subong reached up, fondling your breasts in his palms as he continued to show little mercy to your sweet clit. even then, there wasn’t a moan from you. nothing outside of a sharp gasp, shallow breaths, and whimpering his name. he wondered if you were the quiet type … he’ll definitely work on that later … “taste so fucking good.” he murmured to himself. “gonna live off this pussy.” your eyes rolled to the back of your head, jaw hung open, hair messy along the pillowcase. it was an unbelievable sensation; one that made you want to hump his face like a pathetic fucking whore, but also frozen in time, succumbed to his divine touch. all you could do was lay there and take it. not that you were fucking complaining, though, because you were wondering when the universe was going to start treating you like the goddess you are. now here he was, drunk on your pussy on the first fucking try. “s-subong, i-i’m gonna—” “—give it the fuck to me. it belongs to me.” you cried out, your orgasm taking over your entire body. subong’s arms held your waist down at best he could, eating you out through the high. you felt born anew catching your breath, looking down at his head between your thighs, brushing his hair back as he kissed your thighs; your essence dripping down his chin.

“stay for breakfast.” you told him softly. the lights were off, balcony door closed; the both of you tucked underneath the duvet. your palm held subong’s cheek, thumb tracing his cheekbone back and forth. “its already late as is.” he quipped. he’s right: it was nearing half two in the morning. “i’d feel bad asking someone to drive me now.” he wouldn’t, but niceties always looked better. you called him out on his bullshit. “no you wouldn’t.” you scoffed. “yes i would!” he retorted. you turned onto your back, looking at your ceiling. “i wouldn’t. i’ll admit that.” you shrugged your shoulders. you looked to subong. “if there’s somewhere i have to go, i’ll need to be driven.” subong smirked, scooting closer to you. his lips kissed your temple before resting his chin atop your head; sharing your pillow. “i always knew you were a spoiled brat.” “i’m not!” “yes, you are.”

subong left the next afternoon, the night previous’s dinner and the morning’s breakfast filling his stomach so much he can’t remember feeling this way last (“why’d you prepare so much?” “i wasn’t sure what you liked, so there’s a little bit of everything from the garden and our farm.” “garden? hold on, you have a fucking farm?”). he gave you sweet kisses before getting in the rolls royce to be driven to rehearsals, hesitant to do anything heavier since your chauffeur was standing there holding the door open. “i had a great time last night.” subong told you, pressing a kiss onto your forehead, his arms wrapped around your waist. your hands tenderly rubbed his back, “me too.” you stepped out of his embrace, looking up at him. “thank you for, uh—” you cleared your throat, sheepish. “making up for lost time.” you nodded, seeing an upside-down grin on his face. “its only right.” he teased, kissing your temple. “i’ll see you tonight at eight, baby.” “see you.” you kissed his lips. “let me know when you get there.” “i will.”

and you show the fuck up you did: a matching black blazer and trouser set, heels, sunglasses, a james allen piece adorning your neck. of course you were going to show up for your man (though the need for confirmation really intensified these last few days …) and in fucking style! you sat in your suite overlooking the television studio; it was moderately busy, cameramen getting into position, judges sat at their table in front of the stage, producers either sat in the crowd or getting last minute things in order. the competition started on time, subong slated to go sixth after the name draw before showtime, so you spectated with ease. your posture strengthened in your seat during the commercial break before subong’s performance, taking your sunglasses off, holding them idly in your lap. he was a natural on stage, and ate up those two and a half minutes allotted to him with his sampling of a fugees song. it was like he made the tv studio into a makeshift kingdom, though his disciples were numbered and scattered—the power was omnipresent. the lyrics weren’t half bad either, rather clever with a humorous touch. and there’s something about the way he holds that fucking microphone so close to his lips … as if to say you will fucking hear me, and you will like it. his outfit could use some fine-tuning though. you thought to yourself. maybe drop the shirt and shorts, throw in some jewelry and a nice tracksuit … sneakers … sunglasses … silk chiffon might look nice, too … i’ll look around next i go shopping—hold on, why am i acting like his wife?

before you could process, as if on cue, you heard your phone ding in your purse. there were two texts from subong: Hi my baby howd you like it?; Where are you sitting. he nearly choked on his water in the green room backstage reading your messages: Hi subongie :) You did so well!!; I think I need my vibrator; I’m sat up top, in one of the suites. a few minutes later, subong responded: Youre so fancy baby; Haha Ill help u in the car after😏😏—you showed up the next day for the eliminations, jumping out of your seat in applause and cheers when subong was the second person voted through to the next round. he could hear you from his spot on stage; viewers clueless as to why he was smiling wider than usual that night.

he celebrated by getting to the bottom of why you were so quiet in bed. call it gluttony; obsession; or whatever the fuck—he needed to know and squash that shit like a bug. so here subong was, underneath your duvet after making love to your areolas with his unforgiving tongue, fingering your tight pussy with his middle and ring fingers. you looked so gorgeously fucked out; trying to kiss him back, holding onto the back of his neck to bringing him into your lips, but succumbing to the unbridled pleasure. instead of his fingers going in and out, they remained inside your lush walls; his palm laid flat against your pussy, inadvertently also taking care of your clit, repeatedly moving up and down in quick ministrations to create a sensation akin to him fucking you. subong, being the motherfucker he is, didn’t lay back on his own pillow when you struggled to kiss him back, but watched your every move closely. “what is it, baby?” his voice, though low, was almost rarely audible with the lewd sound coming from underneath the duvet. “you can tell me.” he said knowingly.

all that came out of you were gasps and shallow breaths. subong had enough: “we’re in your fucking kingdom of a house. why don’t you make some noise?” his hand showed mercy, fingers tracing your puffy lips to hear your response. “i’ve never.” you shook your head, swallowing. you opened your eyes, looking at him. “not even when i touch myself. what if they overhear?” subong tsked. he leaned down, hovering his lips above yours. “but you have no problem shoving your tongue down my throat in front of them, huh? don’t act so fucking innocent.” he purposefully backed away when you tried to kiss him, biting his lip hearing you whimper so needily. “i thought you liked it.” your hand reached up to cup his face, eyes pleading and cloudy. you looked so beautiful and so fucking hot that subong couldn’t help himself, giving you his lips, kissing you harder upon feeling your hand travel up the back of his head into his hair. “i do,” he murmured against your lips. his fingers slipped back into you, continuing his ministrations like no time had passed. you gasped, breaking the kiss, your eyes on one another’s. “but i hate hypocrites even more.”

your eyes became glossy. “oh,” subong voice curiously. “are you crying?” you shook your head in disbelief. you had no idea your body could feel this amazing, let alone from one fucking hand. “it f-feels so good.” you could barely muster a whisper. “yeah? i know, mama, i know.” he jutted out his bottom lip, kissing your lips softly, his tongue teasing yours. his hand quickened its pace, making you inhale sharply. “now fucking act like it.” said subong, turning to look at the rising and lowering peak of his arm working you under the duvet. he heard you whimper and mewl: “s-su-subong!” “thats it, baby. that’s it. c'mon. you can do it, i know you can.” he encouraged, tongue running along his bottom lip, ignoring the mounting ache of his wrist. you whimpered until you couldn’t anymore; a guttural moan rang straight from your diaphragm and into the acoustics of your bedroom, back arching off your mattress through your orgasm, toes curling into the linen. triumphant, subong smiled wider than he did on stage earlier tonight. “yes! that’s it, there you go.” he praised. he slowed his hand down, sucking his fingers clean. he leaned over to your exhausted state, kissing your face tenderly. “that’s my girl. that’s my fucking girl. you did so well. i’m so proud of you.”

you fell for him quickly. perhaps a little … too quickly … but you didn’t have time to rake over the details, you were too busy trying to make his dick fit a week and a half later. you imagined this is what prom night looked like for a lot of young adults: desperate, clingy, and a little bit awkward. your hands held onto subong’s shoulders, the both of you watching the sight below you: his fingers holding the base of his condom-wrapped cock, his tip inside of you. subong didn’t have a good feel of you yet, but from now warm his tip alone felt, he’d have to reinvent his sense of self control. he pushed in slowly, halting when hearing you wince. “it hurts so bad.” you whispered, eyebrows furrowed in pain. “i know, baby.” he said, free hand cupping your cheek, bringing the one closest to his lips. “should’ve gotten the more lubricated ones. fuck.” you muttered, somewhat frustrated. subong could sense it: “we’ll make it work.” he said. he peered downward. “you think i can move?” you nodded. “try.” he was barely a centimeter deeper when the discomfort doubled. you shook your head, “nope.” “should i take it out—” “—no, it’ll be worse if we start all over again.” he ate you out like a man starved before putting the condom on, so why weren’t your muscles relaxed enough to make this at least a little more easier? his hardened cock weighed him down like a fucking boulder, keeping himself afloat with his elbows sinking into the mattress. “you need to relax.” he observed, his arms on either side of your head. “don’t be so nervous.” you huffed, annoyed at yourself. “that’s the problem, subong. you make me nervous—” “i’m tired of hearing that shit.” he cut you off, looking right into your eyes, his palms holding your head in place. “get this through your fucking head: you want me like i want you. probably even more than me from how wet you fucking are. let yourself have it.”

there was something new in his eyes, something you hadn’t seen before. “okay.” you whispered, nodding. “i will.” “fucking finally.” subong looked back down. “i’m going to move again.” he was deeper than before, on the precipice of stretching you out. a strange mix of discomfort and an ache blossoming into looming pleasure stirred throughout your body, jaw falling open. “jesus fucking christ!” you exclaimed in a whisper. “why do you have to be so big!” you glanced at his face, seeing his shit-eating fucking upside down grin; smugger than a motherfucker. “i mean …” subong smirked, tilting his head to the left as if in thought. “i’d say i’m average, but if you say so.” you tsked. “oh god, i shouldn’t have said anything.” “no no,” subong couldn’t hold back his chuckle. “there’s nothing wrong in telling the truth, baby.” he laughed when he felt your palm smack his shoulder, the annoyed look on your face something he’s ready to see into his next life. “make it fucking fit, if you’re so good at this.” “okay,” he gave in. he held your hands over your head, intertwining your fingers together. “breath for me. in,” you inhaled together. “and out. in,” you did it again. before subong could pronounce the last syllable, your bare chest crashed into his, his cock inside you. “and out—” “—fuck!” his thrusts were deep and calculated, grunting as your tight pussy held his cock for ransom with every movement. “you d-don’t know how much i’m holding b-back r-right now.” subong mumured, voice deep and breath hot, his heavy balls plopping against the bottom of your ass. “this tight fucking pussy … all for me … baby, i won the fucking lottery.” he cut himself off with a shaky moan, hips stuttering. “s-subong!” your voice cracked into a mewl, head sinking into the pillow as your back arched, speechless at how divinely he filled you up. subong’s eyes seered into your face, nodding as he fucked you harder and deeper, “that’s right. feel every fucking inch of me—f-fuck! ngh!—t-that’s right. squeeze me with that tight fucking pussy. c'mon. make me yours.”

condom disposed of and carnal aches taken care of, you and subong laid peacefully in bed afterward, the both of you watching your fingers re-intertwine. something lingered in the air after he made you cum so hard that your chest convulsed and he gave himself a charley’s horse from how tightly his toes curled: a new portal of vulnerability, a sense of trust if either of you dared to think. “do you really have to go?” he asked quietly. “i do. its for my phd.” you turned your head on your pillow to look at him, but his eyes remained on his and your hands. “it’ll only be for a week.” you were set to travel briefly to south africa in the coming days to visit libraries and historical archives for your course-assigned research; the appointments booked months before you met subong. he didn’t think it would affect him whatsoever. you were just another girl, someone he’d ring up once a while had passed … but with how he cowardly avoided eye contact, and felt anxious at the thought of you boarding that jet … no—he bought himself some time: “what’s it for, again?” he mumbled. “its for my study of presidents and their influence on democracies.” you watched your fingers cross between the crevices of his. “south africa’s democracy is very new, so its a unique point of reference. plus, i’ve always wanted to visit.” you looked at him again, his focus still elsewhere. you’d be remised to not see the signs: “it’s only for a week, subong.” you repeated, tone gentle. “i know.” his voice lower than usual, almost defeated.

you put your hand down, turning onto your side, closer to him. your lips pressed a kiss to his temple. “i’ll miss you.” you whispered. he shook his head, not liking this complicated feeling stirring in his chest. “don’t do that.” he said sternly. he saw the appalled look you gave him from his periphery. “take your own advice: let yourself fucking have this.” you said sharply, poking his shoulder with your finger for emphasis. subong took a sideways glance at you, kissing his teeth, trying to add his own fuel to the fire—but he just couldn’t. you were right; unequivocally and wholeheartedly. he grew tired of throwing his silent tantrum, turning on his side to face you. you didn’t look at him. it’s not like he deserved it. “don’t be gone for too long.” he said. “i’ll …” he hesitated. “i’ll feel weird.” okay, he wasn’t the best, but it was a start. being vulnerable felt foreign, but a welcome change in his subconscious; goosebumps formed on his arms. “i won’t.” you muttered. “i’ll be back before you know it.” subong scooted closer to you, fixating his gaze downward onto the linen, mirroring you. a moment went by before he had the gall again, albeit subdued. “i didn’t know i was dating a humanitarian.” he said quietly. your eyes shot up. “we’re dating?”

for the first time in a long time, subong fell flustered. “i mean, yeah …” his voice trailed, grinning so hard his eyes kissed at the end, smile lines deepening as the memory etched into his skin. “i just fucked the shit out of you, so i’d hope i would be your boyfriend after that.” without warning, you grabbed his face, pressing kisses all over his cheeks and forehead. his knees felt like jelly, and his face started to hurt from how much he’d been smiling. “okay, that’s enough.” he chuckled. you didn’t relent, only kissing his skin more tenderly. “stop acting so nonchalant, boy.” you murmured against his warm skin, each touch sweeter than the last. “boy?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow, eyeing you. his perpetually amused grin basked you in. “i’m six years your senior.” “what do you prefer, then?” you pressed your last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “ahjussi?” subong scoffed. “fuck no.” “exactly.” you said. you couldn’t resist kissing his cheek, pressing yours against his afterward. “my boy. my man. my baby. my subongie.” you listed aloud. he exhaled through his nose, hands tracing the curve of your hips, arms bringing you into him. “my girl, hm?” he said gently. “i like the sound of that.”

the night before you flew out, you held subong in your arms, his head on your chest. he would never admit in the a million fucking years that he liked to be coddled like this, even if he did out himself earlier in the afternoon, having fallen asleep in the same exact position, just in your backyard hammock to the sound of a nearby fountain. your fingers combed through his purple hair; his roots had grown in, the volume gone, laying charmingly flat on his forehead. he’s in need for a touch-up. i’ll make an appointment when i come back. you thought to yourself, hearing his steady breaths, eyes closed. “you don’t need me to do well on sunday, you know.” you told him gently, lips finding the top of his forehead. “you’ll do just fine, if not better.” subong grumbled something incoherent, moving his head to lay on his other cheek, pressing a kiss into the fabric of your shirt where the valley of your breasts would be before settling with a content huff. “i’ll be okay.” he told a half-truth. “i don’t think my eyes will leave your suite, though.”

it was well past two in the morning; less than five hours before your flight, but sleep wasn’t in sight. you found yourselves talking about anything and everything. it could have been exhaustion-induced, but subong couldn’t stop talking to you. five silent minutes went by, and he thought of something else: “do you think i’d look good with a puffer jacket on stage?” he murmured. “i think you’d look really hot. very british, too.” “thank you, baby. i don’t know if that last part was a compliment, though.” you did, too: “ant-man was always my least favorite avenger. he was pushed too hard. i mean, did anyone even go see that movie?” “why’re you asking me? i can’t look into other people’s minds.” “well, you’re thanos, for one. you should’ve wiped him out sooner.” “i will in another life, baby.”

then three o'clock came, and things took a turn. you brought up your families: “my sister looked out for me the most when i was growing up.” you told him, hearing him hum as he listened, the both of you tucked underneath the fluffy duvet. “there’s eight years between us, but she made it feel like eight days with how close we were.” you grinned, the warmth of the memories heating your cheeks. “she’s the first person i ever saw defy my parents. if she didn’t like their chosen suitor, she’d tell them. loudly, too. all the while i was just to eating my salmon and asparagus without a clue in the world.” you exhaled through your nose, hearing his low chuckle. “things changed when she went to study at harvard. i can’t blame her; she had other things to do. new priorities, a life to live.” you nodded to yourself, your silk pillowcase rubbing against your cheek. “but i still felt the loss as a little girl. when she graduated, it was even more different … she wasn’t unrecognizable, but a lot more … uh … in order, if that makes sense.” “would you say she fell in line?” subong asked. you hesitated, but the truth showed itself. “i would, yeah.” you nodded, looking at him. “what about your brother?” “oh,” you scoffed. “he’s about as open as i am unbothered; not much.” you chuckled, but subong didn’t reciprocate. he watched you intently, feeling a common thread about to be unearthed. “well,” you began. “when he was last home for his birthday, we probably said about ten words to each other. before that, i phoned him a couple weeks after the fall semester started. the call was less than three minutes long.” embarrassment mounted, reluctantly looking at subong. “we don’t talk much.” you said. “i try, but he doesn’t. its hard to explain.”

“you don’t have to.” subong shook his head. “i know how it feels.” “you do?” “i don’t have any siblings, but my dad’s been a drunkard since i can remember. the type where he comes home late at night and says the government’s spying on him or some shit. i’m surprised it hasn’t taken him yet.” he attempted to joke, but your worried expression wiped his grin clean off. “my mother’s always been kind of pathetic, too. i’ve tried to get through to her, and i still do today. so that left my grandmother. she raised me, like how your sister raised you, i would say.” he nodded, hearing you hum. “when things got bad, i didn’t go home. i went to stay at a friend’s house. but she always welcomed me back. with a smile, too, and good kimbap. she didn’t understand why i wanted to rap, but she respected that i wanted to do something with my life, period.” he felt his throat close up, tongue running quickly over his lips, silence taking over. his eyes darted to yours, a little uncomfortable by his sudden emotional state, diverting to the linen. “my family—we’ve never really been close.” he said, inhaling through his nostrils. “mine neither.” you concurred. “they didn't—” he cleared his throat. “they didn’t show up to my enlistment ceremony.” he admitted. “i lost my grandmother two years before i had to go, so she couldn’t come.” he inhaled again, blinking quickly. “i haven’t, uh,” he took a moment, shaking his head. “i haven’t been the same since.”

his words sunk into your consciousness. you moved closer to him, closing the remainder of the already small gap. your hand came up to his face, thumb tracing his cheekbone, bringing the one closer to your lips. subong didn’t flinch or show any sign of retaliation. his face felt heavy, breathing through the small part of his lips, sitting with his feelings. he felt you press your cheek onto his, yours lips by his ear. “she would’ve come.” you whispered. his bottom lip quivered, glossy eyes hurriedly dashing around the ceiling. he blinked his tears away, not enough to deter his shaky voice: “i know.” he nodded. “i know she would have.” he lays there in your understanding touch, eyes squeezed shut to keep himself afloat. he grabbed your wrist, turning his head and planting kisses on your palm. his last kiss had him holding your fingers to his forehead, his eyes closing again, almost in silent prayer; i’ve found her. his inner monologue said freely, him fighting a sob. this is the one.

you lifted your head, seeing his pained expression. your fingers slipped out of his, going back to his cheek, kissing his temple in silent assurance; bringing him back down to earth. he opened his eyes, nodding curtly to himself, clearing his throat. he tried to move up his pillow and out of the way, but you kept him in place, returning your cheek to his, your eyelashes tickling his cheekbone, lips in a similar pout. he fucking loved snuggling like this—not only was it lethally adorable, and so preciously needy, but he felt cared for; enough to have skin-to-skin contact, enough for your body temperatures to become one. he turned his head, pressing a kiss onto your supple skin. “you should call your sister.” he told you sincerely, low voice, breath warm against your ear. “i bet she misses you a lot.” your sinuses started to loosen, lips tightening together. “you don’t get to make me cry.” you said, grinning upon hearing and feeling the vibrations of his chuckle.

something in subong’s psyche indefinitely changed. he checked his phone constantly, having added the timezone to his phone to see when it would be okay to call you. his eyes watched your empty suite like a hawk through soundcheck to the point where one of the producers told him to focus on the camera. he looked fondly at his phone screen scrolling through your photos throughout your trip sent daily. it was his middle of the night and your early evening, but he felt his heart swell at seeing you visit a national park at sunrise, smiling so beautiful in your seat for the safari, another photo of you looking back at the herd of zebras in the near distance; a mirror selfie showing what you wore to one of many libraries you visited, his favorite being the tan matching trouser set paired with an white linen shirt and cartier bracelet, the blazer resting on your shoulders; one of food so delectable it made his stomach grumble, and one of you stood at the beach that woke his dick up. So beautiful baby, he wrote back. Can’t wait to talk to you when you wake up:)

subong pummeled you from below when you came back; your hand on the headboard, both of his separating your cheeks, his feet almost flat against the duvet, giving him the utmost leverage. he was whimpering pathetically, face contorted in pleasure he hadn’t felt in years. he tried to protect his pride, biting his lip and letting that vein pop out of his temple, but the sound of your fucking moans, man … and your breasts dangling in his face like that … you felt so relaxed, so open that he fucked you with ease, his balls plopping against you with every thrust. “you feel how fucking heavy my balls are, baby?” subong said through gritted teeth, stomach caving inward, trying to stop that knot from unraveling. “you feel that, yeah?” “y-yes!” you cried out. “yeah? that’s all because of you—f-fuck! a—agh! ngh!” you clenched around him, making his thrusts momentarily subside, cock pulsating in the condom. subong grunted through his racing heartbeat, his nose smushed against your cheek. he adjusted his grip, continuing his unrelenting pace. his eyes rolled back. “o-oh fuck yeah,” his head rested on his pillow, mouth slack. “that’s fucking right. take that fucking dick.”

you gasped, looking down to see your left nipple in his mouth, his tongue running over the hardened peak. his eyes were closed contently, suckling in peace whilst he fucked you. “that f-feels so good, subong.” you bit your bottom lip, eyebrows turning upward. “k-keep—mmph!—keep sucking.” “yeah? you like that, baby?” he hummed, satisfied. he leaned up to kiss you, fucking you faster. you shot up, both of your hands now on the headboard, moaning helplessly, taking it like the good girl you are. “your s-subongie had s-such a—fuck—hard time without you.” he said from beneath you. “i t-tried to touch myself after one of our calls, looking at you looking so fine on the beach,” he swallowed, mouth dry, thrusts becoming sloppy. “but—but i couldn’t, baby.” he shook his head, eyes glossy. “did you get everything you need on your trip, baby? for your research?” the genuine sincerity in his tone contrasted greatly with his lewd actions, making you moan louder than before. you had this man so down bad he sent you the wikipedia page link for a random political leader from a completely different nation than you traveled to, saying it was interesting just to feel some sort of proximity to you during your time apart. “i did, subongie, i—h-haa! i did.” “good, baby.” he smiled. “i’m glad. your s-subongie is so fucking glad!” he whined, punctuating his sentence when hard thrusts. “i couldn’t get off without you—oh fuck!” you fucked him back, meeting his thrusts, balls slamming into you. “h—haa, f-fuck—ngh—baby! baby, baby, i’m gonna—” “show me how much you m-missed me.” you suffocated his cock through your orgasm, looking down to see subong looking ghostly; sweat shining on his forehead, hot cum dripping out of the condom and down his emptied ballsack.

needless to say, he’s locked the fuck in. you ride in the rolls royce with him to drop him off at rehearsals, giving him a farewell kiss before he leaves the car akin to a wife sending her husband off to his 9-5. you’re locked in, too, sat in your suite watching him on stage like he is your husband, of the last ten years matter of fact, and you have four kids together. his strategy of sampling songs increased in virality every time he stepped on stage, launching not only the competition’s growing viewership (“they just told me over one hundred and eighty thousand people watched me rap to justin timberlake.”), but also his overall popularity, too. his social media began blowing up, along with the work email listed in his instagram bio that’s collected dust. his swagger permeated onto everyone’s feeds, particularly from his most recent performance with a very characteristically raunchy line placed notably cleverly that even the judges couldn’t keep a straight face. he rode the chorus of suit & tie with unbridled ease: “that’s right,” he nodded. “she my girl, my señorita. there ain’t nothing i can’t teach her. when she says 'baby have you ever tried…’ like JT i go—” he raised his hands in false surrender, a fine ass smile on his face when the original song goes ’let me show you a few things,’ before bringing the microphone back to his mouth, finishing his verse.

you fucked in the backseat of the rolls royce after he survived elimination night. you let your chauffeur off early, making sure the partition was up since you felt somewhat shameful for doing this so publicly, but not enough to stop. you bounced on his cock like it was the last thing you’d ever do, whorish moans mixing with his pathetic whimpers. his hands lifeless on your hips; head thrown back on the seat as drool teased the corner of his mouth. your thighs burned, and your knees wanted to do away with continuously rubbing against the leather, but it didn’t fucking matter; you fucked him like you owned it. “f-fuck, baby!” he exclaimed. “just like that, just like that!” you raised your head, pressing your nose against his temple, swiveling your hips. a grunt forced its way out of his diaphragm, fingers sinking into the powdery skin of your ass, his belt and jeans tinkering on the floor as he moved his feet. “am i taking you well, subongie?” he nearly fell apart at that, crying out desperately, arms wrapping around you, holding himself close to you whilst you showed no mercy to his helpless dick. “hm? am i t-taking—f-fuck! ngh!—am i taking your big fucking cock well? is this tight pussy making you feel good? yeah?” throwing his words back at him would have made you a mother if not for the condom, along with the feeling of your bulgari diamond earrings pressing against his cheekbone.

“y-yes! yes, baby!” he pleaded, voice a noticeable octave higher. “you take this dick so well i’m not gonna have any—fuck!—i’m not gonna have any cum left after this!” he cried. a strong wave of pleasure washed over your body, making you slam down onto him and clench around his cock—a moan so guttural rang out of him that it made you jump, quickly covering his mouth with your palm. he opened his half-lidded, glossy eyes, confused. “someone’ll fucking hear you!” you shushed. he flicked your hand away, breathing heavily, words slurring a little. “you’re fucking me in a car that’s worth more than i’ll ever make.” he took a deep breath. “and you want me to keep quiet? shut the fuck up.” you tightened around him, making him bite his bottom lip, sharply slapping your right globe. “who told you to stop, hm?” he asked, kneading your ass before smacking it again. “if you don’t move, i’m going to take over.” he said. you sat up, hands moving to his shoulders, and started moving your hips again. “mhm, that’s right.” he praised, spreading his legs further. “no one knows this dick like you do.” you started bouncing again, biting your lip through your aching thighs, watching his face contort meekly. his breath hitched every time your inner thighs met his lower stomach. “just like that!” he cried out. “f-fuck, baby! just like that! f-fuck, you own this fucking dick—” he gasped when you grabbed his jaw, pushing head back over the seat. “stop talking so much. let me fucking focus.” “p-please! please, baby! i’m so close, i’m so fucking close!” he begged. a housekeeper accidentally overheard the muffled commotion, rushing back into the guesthouse to trade heated gossip.

it was the hottest ticket in town to work in your household. perhaps the most eventful thing in recent years. its true that a majority of your staff had known you your whole life, unequivocally in tune with your habits, food and laundry preferences, how your mood might differ depending on the weather—anything, really. but it was the newer recruits who had just signed the dotted line on their non-disclosure agreements that stood in shock in the hallway outside of your bedroom, vacuum on and in hand, hearing repeated banging of a wall. she turned it off, carefully walking up to the closed door, gasping when she heard something crash followed by a cacophony of grunts and moans. you’d just hoisted yourself up onto your desk, shoving your stationary out of the way onto the floor. subong quickly grabbed your ass, pulling himself into you hard and roughly; grunting with every thrust. “harder, subong! h-harder!” “if i go any h-harder, i’m gonna fucking pass the fuck out! f-fuck, baby!” another recruit emerged from a nearby room after cleaning it, the one by your door hurriedly hushing them over. their upcoming weekend off was about to be one for the ages.

he tried to plan dates without feeling like a coward. key word: tried. “i know a nice restaurant with a karaoke place next to it.” he told you over the phone, entering his neighborhood convenience mart. “that sounds fun, subong.” you spoke from your end of the line. you carefully set down a plate filled with freshly-made food by your chefs for lunch: a loaded smoked salmon sandwich with homemade fries. a majority of your day had been spent in your study working on a report for one of your courses, phoning subong during your lunch break. “where is it?” you asked, sitting down on your desk chair. “in itaewon, actually. not far from club pentagon.” subong looked over his shoulder, seeing the cashier was occupied with a customer, quickly pocketing two pre-packaged rolls of kimbap in his hoodie. “i know someone who works there. i can—i can probably get us in there for free.” why did every word feel more embarrassing than the last? she just dropped everything and went to south fucking africa, and i’m offering free karaoke? he ran his palm over his face, sitting on the curb outside of a laundromat. he kept his phone to his ear with his shoulder, taking a roll out and opening the package. “i can pay, subong.” you said after swallowing a bite of your sandwich. “no, no. its fine. its my—its my treat.” he said, chewing on a slice of kimbap. it was dry as shit, but he made due. he shook his head, grimacing at himself. how much more embarrassing can i be? “i’m your boyfriend.” the sentiment was sweet, but the unavoidable truths of your dynamic made it cringe. at least to him. “i should be doing things for you.” he stuffed another slice in his mouth before he could humiliate himself any further.

you smiled sweetly despite him not being able to see, dipping your fry into a small bowl of homemade honey mustard. you matched his typical energy: “you do more than enough with how i remember the shape of it.” he smiled greatly, growing sheepish. “you got that right, baby.” he chuckled. “does friday work for you? i can come over on saturday, like we usually do.” “that should be fine—hold on. is this friday the ninth?” “i think so.” subong pulled the wrapper down, sliding another slice into his mouth. “why?” you got up, checking the calendar hung next to your framed oxford degree. “shit. i have a gala that day.” “a what?”“a gala.”“the fuck is a gala?”“a fundraising event.” you answered, sitting back down in your desk chair. “have you heard of the met gala? its like that, just with less photographers.”“yeah, i know: the place where people wear clothes that don’t make sense.” he said with a full mouth, swallowing as he heard you laugh. “that’s one way of putting it, yes.” “what do you do there?”“well, i dress up really pretty,” you began, grabbing your glass of water, taking a sip. “and then i go and sit. take photos. mingle. network. i’m standing in for my parents.” “mingle?” subong was taken aback, a grain of rice stuck on the corner of his bottom lip. “network? what are you even talking about? you should be at the club. with me.”“i have to go. for image.” “whatever that means.” said subong, tsking. “i know, i know.” you agreed. an upside-down grin tugged at your lips, going forth with pulling his leg some more: “maybe i should tell you about our stakeholders.”“you know,” he swallowed, this bite not going down as easily as the others. he should’ve knicked a water bottle, too. “you make my dick so hard that it fucking scares me, but that just made it limp so quick that i’m starting to feel lightheaded.”“subong!” “what? i’m being for real!”

subong should have already known he had fallen in love like a fucking fool. he made the photo you sent from the gala his lockscreen a little too quickly … on the deck of a yacht, a saturated golden hue of the sunset behind you turning the crisp blue ocean water into an enriched shade of violet; million dollar smile on your gorgeous fucking face, flute glass of bubbly in hand, long sleeve burgundy gown leaving nothing to his imagination—all tied together with the accompanying Missing you!!🥰. or when he was picked up late that friday night, waking up the late the next morning, aimlessly walking into your sunlit en suite bathroom with a raging case of morning wood after falling asleep with his dick against your plush ass. the discomfort from peeing woke his senses enough to open his eyes somewhat when washing his hands. he lifted his head, looking at himself shirtless in the spacious vanity mirror, momentary caught off hard by the dark red lipstick kiss marks trailing his cheeks, neck, and collarbone—until he remembered the previous night’s events. his fingers touched the blurred marks lightly, a smug grin appearing on his face. he heard his phone ding, seeing he left it charging on your sink, next to your augustinus bader moisturizer. there were a couple of texts that came in overnight, business emails he didn’t know what to do with, two mg coin youtube notifications, and three from his crypto app. he turned it on silent, walking back to bed, hearing you mutter his name.

he found himself thinking about the way your fingers pushed strands of his hair off his sweaty forehead after making love—making love? since when did he stop calling it fucking … hearing your quiet “come here” or “i need you,” and subong would not hesitate to oblige, letting himself fall into your embrace, steadying his heartbeat with yours. how about when he was taking off your jeans to eat you out, and he’d see the fraying inner hems from your thighs rubbing together when walking? or when you haven’t realized the denim’s worn out … and there’s that little peek of skin … jesus … he’s never seen anything sexier in his life. he wanted to be buried there forever. or when you couldn’t keep your hands off one another to last a shower together, the acoustics of the en suite making your moans drill into his ears without mercy in tandem with the overwhelming steam of the running water. your tits pressed up against the glass, his fingers digging into your hips as he fucks you from behind, mouth breathing down your ear. “that’s right. take it like the whore you are—the whore you turn me into— f-fuck!” he pulled out, cumming hard onto the shower floor. his lips found the back of your bare shoulder as you came down from your high—“my girl, you’re my fucking girl.” murmured subong, lips nipping at your ear. “no one knows this pussy like i do. no one.”

however, through it all, his initial question remained valid: what do you get or do for someone who already has it all, and if they don’t, with a swipe of a card, they do? he was dreadfully nervous stepping out of that rolls royce, arriving at the guesthouse for your three month anniversary dinner clutching a gift bag housing a book you mentioned wanting to read recently. he was moderately proud of himself when seeing your smile upon opening your gift; the awkwardness of inferiority looming over him like an oncoming storm cloud nonetheless. his mind went blank, though, when you brought out your gifts, staring at the table with his mouth agape at the sight of a brand new rolex and gucci tennis shoes. “is it too much?” you asked worriedly, taking a sip of your rosé, seeing the look on his face. “no, it’s fine.” he shook his head. “it’s just that … i got you a fucking book.” “and i love it! i’ve been wanting to read it for a long time.” you quickly reassured, nodding. your fingers fixed his hair—freshly dyed a much more suitable shade of darker purple for his skintone; subong had his appointment at your salon two days previous—“just wanted to spoil you, is all.” you said gently, a warm grin on your face. “spoil a broke old man, hm?” he muttered cynically. you tsked, “don’t say that.” you warned. “it’s the truth.” subong retorted. “stop it.” you said with finality. “so what if you’re older? i don’t see how that’s a hinderance.” you shook your head. “i can’t expect everyone around me to have their shit in order when mine was before i was even a thought, or a consideration to my parents.” you said. “subong,” you let out a breath. “when i first met you, one of the first things i noticed was your wrinkles. don’t give me that look just yet, let me say my case.” he deflated his offended expression, sinking back into his cushioned chair, hearing the cicadas chirp in the trees surrounding the backyard. “i see these,” your manicured thumb brushed his smile lines, crow’s feet, and forehead wrinkles, “and i see someone who knows what he wants, because he’s lived long enough to know.” you told him. “in three months, i’ve experienced more with you than i have in years. years, subong, and forgive me if i want my man to look fly on stage in return.” you put your hands up in surrender, hearing him laugh lowly.

“at least let me put the watch on you? to see how it looks?” you implored gently. you smiled seeing him nod, “okay.” you took the golden watch out of its box, opening the clasp and settling the band around his wrist, closing the clasp securely. it looked natural on him. “what do you think, baby?” you asked. subong examined his wrist, feeling the comfortable weight of the 18 karat gold. “i like it.” his grin turned into a full-on smile. “i like it a lot.” “its look so good on you!” you beamed, embracing him. subong tried the shoes, too, feeling confident enough to model them for you around the table you were having dinner at. he temporarily left his steak and beer behind to practice poses he was going to do on stage: “i’ll hit them with this,” he curled his upper lip, crossing his arms over his chest, legs at a wide stance. “and then this.” he turned around, looking over his shoulder, watch on display behind him. “yes!” you cheered, clapping after finishing your glass of rosé, “you look so sick, baby.”

later in the evening, you two were laid up together in the spacious hammock. subong actively fought falling asleep on your chest—lulled by the subdued chittering of cicadas joined by crickets; gucci tennis shoes off and politely put to the side to avoid creasing them. it was barely past nine thirty pm, and subong’s eyelids weighed him down heavier than his rolex laden wrist. it was a lethal combination: the early summer heat that was more nurturing rather than humid, the subtle breeze brushing past his ears as the hammock rocked side to side, your fingers combing through his hair … if he wasn’t careful enough, he was going to leave a trail of drool on your blouse that felt like butter against his skin—holy shit, how many thousands of dollars am i just breathing on right now? he quickly opened his eyes, switching the cheek he was laying on, humming in content when your fingers returned to his hair, hearing your stacked cartier and van cleef bracelets tinker together softly. “baby?” he muttered. “hm?” “i have a question.” you smirked, finding his polite approach amusing. “go ahead, subong.” “throughout all the times i’ve been to your kingdom, i can’t help but wonder why you don’t have a pool. or, like, even a jacuzzi.” he spoke. “when i was a kid, that was all i knew about the rich from movies. or the music videos i would watch.” “i see, i see.” you said, understanding. “well,” you let out a breath. “i don’t have one, but my parents do.” “are they home?” you shook your head. “no. one’s in macau, the other’s in tokyo.” subong raised his head. “see, now this is a moment straight out of a movie.” he said, smiling when you let out a laugh. “do you want to head up there? its only about a five minute walk.” “the fuck? of course.”

it was a bit more casual than subong expected it to look: lights illuminating the water, a few cushioned lounge chairs, a couch, and what looked to be an open bar or makeshift barbecue space on the opposite end. the house behind him—or fucking giant’s dollhouse, more aptly put—was another thing to unpack a different time entirely. he kicked the withered sneakers he came tonight with off, stripping himself of his jeans and t-shirt, discarding the garments on a nearby lounge chair. he looked up, seeing you struggle to undo the button on the back of your neck holding your blouse up. he reached over, humming in acknowledgement after your quiet “thank you.” you turned around, tossing your blouse with his clothes, seeing him take off his watch, rings and chain holding his cross, placing them carefully beside his shirt. “can i try one?” you asked, unbuttoning your trousers, pushing them down to your ankles. subong turned his head, a slightly bewildered expression on his face. “you know what’s in there?” his tone wavered with unease with the slightest hint of shame; like he’d been caught. you assured him with ease: “i do.” you spoke, nodding like nothing was wrong. “you—you always wear it.” it was your turn to feel ashamed, the upcoming confession certainly not the best. “so when you were in the shower one day … i suppose i became curious. so i held it, and i heard something shake around, if that makes sense. then i felt a small hatch.” the rest of the story filled itself in. “i-i'm—i’m not judging you, or anything!” you quickly, but earnestly defended, waving either of your hands for emphasis. “there are more people than i can count that i grew up with that are arguably unrecognizable without dilated pupils. i guess what i’m trying to say is … i’m not entirely unfamiliar.” “have you done anything before?” subong asked. “i mean,” you shrugged your shoulders. “if you count a brownie i ate on a ski trip with friends a couple of years ago, and instead of shutting up i actually spoke more than i usually do, then yes. i’ve done something before.” he snickered, making you grin. “i don’t know. i guess my curiosity can be a bit of a—a bit of a vice, sometimes.”

“listen, i don’t know what the fuck 'a vice’ means, but you being curious isn’t a bad thing.” said subong, walking up to you. he turned his head to his left, eyeing the pool before returning his gaze to yours. “but not tonight, baby.” he said gently, shaking his head. “the shit i have is crazy. don’t want any accidents to happen.” “okay.” you nodded, feeling his lips coming down and kissing your temple, his hands coming up your back, undoing the clasp of your bra. his fingers hooked underneath the hem of your panties, pulling them down to your ankles, pressing a kiss to your right hip and shoulder on his way back up. he quickly shoved his briefs off, taking your hand leading you down the steps into the pool. he swam in the warm water with open joy, dipping around and wetting his hair. he caught your hand, pulling you towards him. his palms lifted your thick thighs submerged in the water, satisfied upon feeling your legs wrap around his waist; the buoyancy of the water letting him hold you with ease. your hands held his face, bringing him in for a sweet kiss. “always wanted to fuck you like this, y'know.” he murmured, kissing you back. “would be so fucking hot.” you scoffed. “i would snap you in half.” “no, no.” he tutted, wanting your lips back. “i can do it. i can handle all that.” you gave him your lips, only to quip back. “that can be debatable, at times.” you teased. “no its not.” whined subong, kissing your jaw, trailing down the side of your neck. “whenever i’m on top, you look ghostly.” “doesn’t mean i can’t handle it.” said subong. “you might throw your back out trying to hold me against the wall.” you joked, not sure how he would react. you failed horrendously at holding your laugh in when he nudged you off. “fuck this.” he muttered. “when i’m trying to be all sensual and shit, set the mood—” “—no, come back! i was only kidding! you can handle all this!”

by the time you and subong wrapped up in the pool, it was late enough where neither of you wanted to walk back to the guesthouse—opting to stay. subong did not have the brainpower whatsoever to process the fucking museum of a family home he walked into, but did garner enough to greet the two dogs that came running across the marble-tiled floors to you two—a portuguese water dog named nana, and a shibu inu called sunny—after entering the home through the poolside entryway. the both of you, barefoot with dampened clothes, walked up the staircase leaving what he thought to be one of many kitchens throughout the manor, zigzagging (to him) through various hallways, climbing up another staircase. you opened the door to what was once your childhood bedroom. you hadn’t actively lived in your family’s home for some time, but remnants of your past self were still present in the alanis morissette poster on the wall by your balcony, or the family photos lining the mantelpiece above the fireplace. no dust had dared accumulate, either; a direct result of your family’s loyal, diligent staff. you and subong washed off in the shower before heading to bed, knocking out damn near immediately after his head hit the plush pillow.

subong woke up at around half four in the morning, shuffling to the en suite, his mouth dry. he tried to relieve it by gurgling some water from the sink, but to no avail. he was thirsty. do i even remember the way to the kitchen? he thought to himself, opening the bedroom door, walking into the hallway. in his sleepy state, he took note of his surroundings: yeah, i remember that photo there … then there was that painting before the second staircase … before making it back to the kitchen. the dogs came over to him when he found a glass in one of the many cabinets, shoving it under the fridge’s water dispenser. after a few pats, he made his way back up. in the midst of his chugging, he took a wrong turn—turning left at the second landing as opposed to the right, where your bedroom was. he entered a random bedroom, reflexively turning on the light, remembering that you were asleep.

“shit. sorry, baby.” he whispered, turning the light off. it was in that sudden flash of visibility that he caught sight of the room he walked into; it didn’t look familiar whatsoever. intrigued, subong turned the light on again. he momentarily squinted whilst his vision adjusted to the bright glow of the humungous chandelier hanging in the middle of the high ceiling. subong had walked into what was undeniably the master suite that could not belong to anyone else but your parents—evident in not only the massive bed frame, but just how spacious the room is, spotting an archway leading to another corridor that subong could only assume led to their bathrooms, closets, and whatever else. there were fancy looking mirrors and thick curtains framing the tall windows, too, and he could see a view of the guesthouse on the far left. he walked in, bare feet touching the velvety carpet that felt like he was walking on clouds.

he walked underneath the regal archway, down the small hallway. its walls were decorated with paintings he could only imagine the price tags of, fingertips tracing the wooden paneling you would only see in palaces. my girl does live in a fucking kingdom. he walked past a dark room, unintentionally triggering its motion-sensor lighting. subong nearly dropped his glass at the walk-in closet before him. its his-and-hers layout was apparent; the garments were similar—blazers, suits, majority businesswear—but what differed were the color palettes. your father’s was on the left, his side featuring no other hues besides dark blue, black, and a rare dark brown. your mother’s side had slightly more variation both in color and fabric but was equally filled to the brim, the sheen of a lolite blue silk blazer contrasting with the enriching shade of the dark crimson wool sports jacket a few hangers down.

but nothing captured subong’s attention that the long, narrow cabinet standing in the middle of the room as a makeshift divider. subong opened the top drawer, eyes feasting on the jewelry before him: necklaces, bracelets, earrings, cufflinks, rings all laid out efficiently in black velvet trays without a speck of dust on them. his fingers traced the gold, silver … diamonds … sapphires … and pearls … swiping a pair of earrings, bracelet, and a ring, enclosed in his palm. “pocket change to them.” he muttered to himself, closing the drawer. he walked down the hallway and out of the suite after turning off the light, closing the door. subong returned to your room, seeing you were sound asleep in bed, having not moved. he set his glass down on the mantelpiece, picking his jeans up from the floor, pocketing the jewelry. he climbed back into bed, pressing a kiss to your forehead before dozing off.

for you, it was hard not to fall in love with subong. like, really hard. in between the night after dinner and karaoke, walking out of the bar into bustling itaewon nightlife at half past two in the morning, he reached behind him for your hand, charging through the congested walkways, guiding you to where the rolls royce was to head home, to when he’d take off your panties to eat you out, his finger outing your slick. “you’re so wet, baby.” he’d watch his middle finger disappear between your puffy lips. “who did that?” a devious, knowing grin stretched his mouth. “it wasn’t me, was it? all i did was kiss you…” to seeing him on that fucking stage, stomping around in those gucci tennis shoes and blinding the camera with the shine of his rolex, spectating in your suite like the motherfucking queen you are. or on those rides home after he survived elimination night yet again and so easily, always one of the first people voted through to the next round if not the first. he stepped into the rolls royce with a sweet grin on his face, giving you an even sweeter kiss, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. “another round in the bag, lucky charm.” it was a name he rarely called you, but was very affectionate nonetheless. “did i make you proud? hm?” he asked, kissing your temple. “did your subongie make you proud?” all culminating to the partition going up, your hand making his tip red and angry, him muffling his whimpers and whines with your mouth.

his rising popularity paralleled your belief in subong, leading you to book studios for him to record his mixtape. you asked your staff to contact any notable producers willing to work with subong, sitting behind them, tending to your own business, as they worked and he was behind the mic. you looked up from the business email you were responding to on your ipad, eyebrows furrowing at subong’s attempted adlibs. you leaned over to your right, looking past one of the producers, seeing subong all up in that mic, making gestures and sounds like he was from a different neighborhood. you put your ipad aside, getting up. “which one do i press for me to hear him? thank you.” you were directed to a small red button to your right. the music stopped abruptly in subong’s headphones, catching him off guard. “subong? can you hear me?” “yeah—yeah, baby.” “stop making those noises. you’re from korea.” “but its for the image.” “you’re from korea.” you repeated, letting the button go, catching sight of the producer holding in his laugh in your periphery.

the mixtape did well—over 500,000 streams in total, and mounting jealousy from his fellow contestants. it soon became anything he needed, you got it for him … his manicure chipped? “subongie, does tuesday at two work for you? my nail tech has an opening.”; he’s feeling under the weather? Hi my honey, a reminder that check-up is at 12:30. The car will come at noon; his roots are coming in? you’re sat in a chair reading one of the many lifestyle magazines left out for customers to peruse through, giving your hairdresser a 550,000 won tip on the way out; he shows you pictures of tooth gems, thinking it might be cool to have one for his upcoming performance sampling lady gaga? he’s in that dentist’s chair by friday, smiling cheekily into the camera come sunday, purple butterflies twinkling on his pincers; you’re out shopping, and see a puffer jacket from prada that’d look good on him? you’re walking with it out the door less than five minutes later. not to mention the legal team you had on standby after hearing rumors he was going to be sued for sampling other music.

taking care of your man felt good … like, really fucking good. you’ve always daydreamed about spoiling someone who deserved it, and he fit the bill. you would be remised if you didn’t notice he liked being spoiled, too, with that glint in his eyes or increased bravado in every step he took; the flair of arrogance that fueled his ego both on stage and not, making your thighs rub together subconsciously in your suite or watching him manspread in the rolls royce. it was all so alluring and characteristically him … even if it came at a cost … and to his detriment, too. as the rap battleground competition proceeded, and his popularity increased, so did the amount of people waiting for him after the show. it started off harmless: a group of fanboys here, college girls there, fellow underground rappers who were hoping to qualify for next season … but then, some people got a little too comfortable: holding his hand in their photo with him, hands traveling up his arm when he told a joke, or simply just standing too fucking close—all the while you were sat in your own brewing storm cloud, watching in silence in your rolls royce, waiting for him to come to you.

you never left his line of sight—or line of desire, rather—but one thing you had left to learn about him is that no matter what, no matter how much he is given, some part of him, no matter how small, will always remain insatiable. you would end up learning that the hard way; this was just the beginning. your lingering frustration manifested in a myriad of admittedly petty ways: not giving subong the satisfaction of moaning loudly when he made you cum, shoving his face deeper into your cunt to shut him the fuck up; especially on the nights you’re sat on your family’s poolside, toes in the water, his knees on the steps, palms holding your thighs up, or giving him a curt kiss before he left the car for rehearsals. you felt utmost defeat the weekend after your four month anniversary, watching him from the car behind your sunglasses as he mingled with fans. it was the largest crowd yet following his sampling of bruno mars—and that wasn’t the problem, per sé. it was the group of women very clearly your age, but nothing was more clearer than the fact the one currently clinging to his arm, laying her head on his bicep, and strategically pulling down her tank top, was very desperately trying to communicate that she wants to fuck him.

perhaps the most painful part was the realization that you couldn’t blame her. she was very beautiful and incredibly mystifying; the type of allure that can be felt even from a distance, and certainly the kind men like subong pray for each night before bed. who the fuck am i? your inner monologue voiced bitterly. you turned away when her friend’s camera flash went off, her lips kissing his cheek whilst he wore the prada puffer jacket you got him and the bottega sunglasses you gifted him the previous weekend, his smile showing off the tooth gems you were over the moon to get him. is this another person thats going to slip from my fingers? you thought to yourself. you felt your bottom lip quiver, eyes becoming misty—the door opened, subong climbing in. you straightened your posture, quietly clearing your throat, glancing at him and seeing a lipstick mark on the corner of his jaw. “jesus.” you whispered under your breath, feeling your fucking heart decay.

subong moved as he normally did when the car drove out of the studio lot: wrapping his arm around your shoulders, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. “another one down, lucky charm. i can feel it.” he grinned proudly. you felt nauseous. “what’d you think? hm?” subong asked. “you like the performance?” “mhm.” you said plainly, moving away from his embrace, back into your own seat. “it was good.” subong’s eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses. “something’s been bothering you these past couple of weeks.” he said. “you’ve had that look on your face.” you turned, looking at him behind your sunglasses, stoic. “what look?” “just like that.” he pointed at you, not even trying to hide his grin. “unreadable. almost rotten.” he leaned in a little. “bitchy.” you looked ahead of you, catching sight of your chauffeur glancing at you and subong through the rearview mirror. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.” you said blankly, cheeks growing warm from embarrassment. “nah, i think you do.” subong retorted, nodding. “with how much you talk about your phd, i thought you’d be smart enough to tell me what’s wrong. but i was wrong, because you’ve been pushing my face into your pussy instead of telling me what the fuck has been bothering you.” you didn’t say anything, not even daring to look at the rearview mirror. subong shook his head. “i don’t have time for petty shit. i’m too old for this.”

you turned your head sharply at him. “oh really?” you questioned. “then what do you have time for, hm? letting her believe she gets to fuck you whilst you make your girlfriend wait in the car, like i don’t have something better to be doing?” you gestured to his jaw. “and then—and then you come in here acting like everything’s okay when her lipstick is on your face!” you exclaimed, eyebrows raised. “what do you expect me to do? sit idly, clueless?” the end of your sentence came out fragmented, frustration clogging your throat. “you expect me not to show my fans love?” subong’s tone was as defensive as yours. you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. either he doesn’t get it, or has purposefully weaponized his incompetence, or both. “you’re taking it too far, subong.” you said. “no, i’m not taking anything 'too far.’” he mocked those last words, shaking his head, scoffing. “i worked for this shit. i’m not going to say sorry because you feel fucking insecure.”

that was your last straw. “see this?” you pointed at him, then to yourself. “this is what i don’t have time for.” you shook your head. “your blatant disregard for what or why i’m feeling this way; dismissing it like its some joke, or that you’re so high and mighty above it all that you can’t even begin to acknowledge it. like, because it isn’t fodder for your ego, its ludicrous.” subong shook his head, turning away from you, looking out his window. “speak like a fucking human, man.” he kissed his teeth, muttering. “i feel like i’m at my fucking court date or some shit.” “drop him off at the ramen shop.” “yes ma'am.” said your chauffeur. subong looked at you sharply. “the fuck?” “the fuck?” you mocked right back. “i’m too old for disrespect, subong.” “like i’m getting out of this fucking car.” he grumbled to himself. “oh, yes you are.” you said back.

your chauffeur pulled into the front of the ramen shop. silence washed over the car for a couple of minutes. “get out of the car, subong.” “i’m not leaving.” “get out of the car.” he looked at you, annoyed and defiant. “can’t you fucking hear me? i’m not leaving.” you looked at him, leaning closer. “get out of the fucking car.” you repeated without hesitation. you looked out your window, seeing a friend group walk out of the shop that looked similar to the ones from before. “look, subong. there’s your type.” you pointed. “go and see if they know who you are. i’m sure they’ll give you a kiss, too.” “are you fucking crazy?” subong was taken aback. he put his hand on your shoulder, making you look at him. “is something not right up here?” he pressed his fingers to his temple, eyebrows furrowing. “you’re my fucking type.” he pointed to you. “i don’t even know what you’re talking about anymore.” “like you ever did.” you said in a dismissive tone. silence brewed once more. you reminded him again: “get out of the car, subong.” “i’m not going anywhere—” “—get out of my fucking car!” you exclaimed, voice cracking.

this was subong’s last straw: a reminder of his inherent inferiority in your dynamic. fire brewed in his chest, cornering his mind towards his sharpest rebuttal: reminding you of what you hate most—that you’re nobody without your surname. “your car?” subong tilted his head. “you mean the one mommy and daddy bought you?” he voiced condescendingly. he tutted, “you’re just like the rest of them.” that punctured your soul. “you know that’s not true.” you said, defeated. “you’ve never shown me the alternative.” said subong, putting his hands up in surrender, lying through his teeth. he always needed to one-up the other person, its the only air-tight defense mechanism he’s ever had. you raised your head, looking at him, a fallen tear trailing your cheek. his face fell upon realizing he’s made you cry. your voice remained steady: “you know full fucking well that’s not true.”

it was too late to take it back, but he attempted nonetheless, until you cut him off—“get out of the car, subong. i’m not going to ask you again.” “but … but baby,” he said genuinely, ignoring your scoff. “you leave for beijing tomorrow.” you shook your head in disbelief. “that’s what you bring up now?” you were floored. “well, maybe you should have thought of that before you came to me with some other bitch’s lipstick on your fucking face.” you retaliated, looking out your window. “i’ll see you when i get back.” you said curtly. subong, dismissed to the fullest degree with no wiggle room, turned to another crucial tool in his arsenal: reactionary language. “fuck this shit, man.” he muttered, opening the door, stepping out of the car. “spoiled fucking brat.” he slammed the door behind him, spitting on the pavement, walking away without looking back.

you made up when you were abroad. perhaps it was the fact that subong apologized to you over the phone that made it easier for him to do so. its not that he didn’t know that he was in the wrong— because he did—and he accepted full-throttle that he’d rather shit himself and eat it on national television than ever lose you; willing to ensure that by whatever means necessary. but still, it didn’t mean he didn’t have his forehead against his wall when saying his piece, mentally scrutinizing himself over his word choice, or trying to communicate how he felt (“i fucked up. bad.” “you’re telling me, subong.” “i should have … i should have listened to you.” “mhm.” “i shouldn’t have gotten mad quickly.” “mhm.” “i shouldn’t have spat.” “mhm.” “are you only going to give me short answers?” “i’ll make it even shorter and hang up.” “wait—fuck! i’m sorry! don’t do that. hello? baby?” “i’m here.” “okay, good. fuck.”)

the flight home was quiet. it always was. you sat in a quadrant of seats, facing your parents. your mother never liked clutter, so the only things she accepted on the small table between you two were her copy of today’s financial times, a singular bottle of sparkling water, and cups for whomever wishes to drink. you alternated between scrolling through your ipad in your lap or watching the clouds float by, keeping to yourself. you may not be the heir and are merely the middle child, but that did not mean you were permitted to fall out of line, or succumb to expectations from those in your family’s inner and outer circles that you existed only as the spare, even if that was the silent part said out loud. but under your mother’s watchful gaze, that is and will never be the case. she is the physical manifestation of the phrase the woman behind the man—but she is no mere shadow. she is the entire being; the sacrosanct consciousness that kept this show on the road. if anyone dared to forget, or worse—impede or overstep—a quick flash of the sapphire on her ring finger would whip them right back into shape. she wears the one hundred year old family heirloom with a sense of both pride and fuck around and find out. even when she’s not wearing it—every two weeks on the dot for at most two hours when she’s getting it cleaned—the air of her prowess is omnipresent. she took on the duty of being ringleader forty-five years ago, building her legacy as an air-tight leader, rounding her disciples up, weeding out the weak and not leaving power behind. that also included you, resulting in scooping you up randomly to take you alongside her business ventures with no other choice. she would never say this part out loud, but it was present in how your oatmeal was always sweetened to your liking no matter the part of the world you were in, or had the biscuits you’ve liked since you were a little girl on the table every day at family tea: you’re the last of her children that still lived at home under your own volition.

a member of your father’s team came over, summoning him to the other cabin on the jet to take a phone call. your mother didn’t move from her newspaper, but you glanced up at his back when re-adjusting your posture in your seat. you felt your phone vibrate, reaching into your pocket and seeing texts from subong: Been bored as shit without u; I had to no idea 12 days could feel like 12 years. you grinned, typing: You big baby. I miss you too :); Can you still come for dinner? I should be home at 8. Ofc i can baby i wouldnt miss it, he wrote back. Your driver says he will come @ 7:30. your mother glanced up, seeing the grin on your face. I’ll be a little late. Is that okay? your phone vibrated a couple minutes later. More than ok baby; Ill keep myself busy waiting for u ;). you smirked at your screen. Pervert. You make me that way subong typed back. Let me know when u land, ill tell u when I’m in the car. your thumbs twiddled over the keyboard, I will my honey. See you then

you clicked your phone off and set it face down in your lap, leaning into your seat, looking out the window. your mother looked up again as she turned the page, gaze momentarily flittering to the staff member entering the bathroom near your seats. when she saw the door lock, she made her chess move: “i know what you’ve been doing.” she said. you didn’t panic. you’ve been through this many times before as her daughter, both with your personal life and whats been prescribed as professional. you crossed your arms over your chest, keeping your gaze out the window, seeing buildings and bridges pass below you. “its none of your business.” you answered, tone leveled. your mother’s eyes met your side profile. she heard your father’s voice emerge from behind, not wanting to bring an unnecessary person into the conversation. “you’re smarter than this.” was all she said, going to turn the page, but instead being ushered out of her seat, a stakeholder requesting her on the phone, too.

subong waited over an hour for you to come home. he was a good enough conversationalist and knew your staff amiably to pass the time with friendly banter, or kicking pebbles in the backyard. you had texted him earlier in the evening Have to do something with my mom, shouldn’t take too long, but when he checked the time on his watch and saw it was close to 9:30, hearing his stomach grumble, he couldn’t help but grow impatient. he called you twice and was left on voicemail both times. he bit his fingernail as the time surpassed 10:15, head turning sharply right hearing a door slam shut. he walked quickly into the guesthouse, speeding down the hallway and turning the corner, seeing you. the sound of your heel against the wooden flooring was more pronounced than usual, looming yet hidden frustration intensifying the weight of your steps. you took off your coat with a disgruntled huff, throwing it so hastily towards a nearby cushioned chair that it landed mostly on the floor; housekeepers silently rushing over to put it away in your closet after you passed by. subong approached you when you came close enough with a welcoming grin on his face, unaware. “hi, baby.” he spoke. “i missed you—” “let’s eat.” you cut him off, walking by and into the backyard.

from his experiences growing up, and just from general context clues, subong gathered things with your mother did not go over well. what it was about, he didn’t know. however, it was definitely an argument from the way you both ate in silence, or a disagreement with how your utensils scratched against your plate as you cut into your steak—or both, considering you didn’t look him in the eye, but rather the trees around you whilst you shared a slice of homemade tiramisu. subong looked into his wine glass later in the evening, swirling the last few sips around whilst he sat next to you in the modular couch, quiet as ever. he glanced at you from time to time, seeing an expression he would recognize on himself in an instant: stoic, headstrong; but if he looked close enough and didn’t blink, your eyes would give you away. you finished your glass, gripping the long stem in your palm, thumb nail scratching one part repeatedly as you stared at the field before you in thought. subong swallowed, nerves percolating. “listen, i don’t know what happened between you and your mom.” your eyes closed. “but i’m here.” said subong.

he wasn’t sure if he communicated that correctly, but it was the best he could do. with a breath, his gaze followed yours to watch the trees soaked in the darkness of nightfall, only to turn his head sharply upon hearing you cry. “s-she can be so mean.” your voice was barely above a whisper, punctuated by a sniffle. subong felt his heart sink, but didn’t know what to do. he carefully put his glass down, scooting closer to you on the couch, and proceeded to do what you do when he’s feeling down, or at least what he wanted all those nights he ran away as a teenager: “its not your fault.” he said softly, kissing your temple before bringing your head to his chest. you turned to him, hand reaching for the back of his head as you quietly cried into his shoulder. his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer. “its not your fault.” he repeated, voice shaking. he cleared his throat. “i’m here, baby. i’m here.”

he made love to you sweetly and with purpose, rolling his hips into yours as you moaned so unabashedly and longingly underneath him. it was a newfound sense of intimacy; one that people envy not having no matter how many times they visit a sex therapist, or sculptors immortalize to live on in museums for eternity. “thats right, thats right—s-shit!” subong’s hips stuttered, feeling your gummy walls clench down on him deliciously. he bit his bottom lip, looking down at his condom-wrapped cock. he looked up at you, seeing your eyes closed and eyebrows furrowed in divine pleasure, lips moving against his when he leaned down to kiss you. he stretched you out in the way you needed—to forget, but more importantly, to love. your hands came up to his face, kissing him deeply and with fervor, whimpering feeling his cock move in and out of you again. “a—ah! s-subong!” you moaned gorgeously, breaking the kiss, feeling his lips press into your cheek, your back arching. “feel good with me, baby.” he panted, building a sweat. “feel good with your subongie.” he reached down for your clit, making you gasp, feet rubbing brashly against the linen. “yes! y-yes! s-subong—oh my god!” “my—my b-beautiful fucking woman!” subong mewled, crying out as his thrusts stuttered through your suffocation of his cock. “my beautiful fucking girl. come here, let me look at you. let me see your beautiful face.” he came at the sight of your heavily hooded, glossy eyes peering up at him—“fuck! you’re so fucking sexy, baby!"—choked moans from either of you filled the room as your orgasms hit powerfully in tandem.

subong watched you from his side of the bed, elbow on his pillow, propping his head up with his palm. the day of travel and emotional exhaustion caught up with you, coupled with the soothing relief of your orgasm that lulled you closer to sleep with every small breath. you turned onto your side to face him, eyes closed, comfortably nestled against your pillow. a small grin teased the corners of his mouth at the sound of your content hum when his fingers take your hair out of your face, brisk chill of his rings gliding lightly across your cheekbone. he basked in your effortless fucking beauty, momentarily captivated by your slightly swollen lips from when you kissed each other so hungrily not even an hour ago; your skin’s subtle glow even in the darkness of the bedroom—either a result of your skincare lining your sink, or maybe you really are just an angel. and no, he’s past the point of caring how corny that might have sounded to him four months ago; or how sweet your soft breaths sounded—so serene, so safe. subong didn’t feel as if he was looking at someone who looked at the world with rose-colored lenses, but rather the same ones he did—nuanced, pained, and sometimes even dark.

your similar dynamics with your respective parents made him feel not only validated in his own struggle throughout a life where no one’s given him mercy, but guilty to know someone like you could be so generous. his mouth suddenly twitched into a frown, remembering when he snuck in to both your parents and presumably older sister’s bedrooms, pocketing jewelry and anything else within arm’s reach whilst you were asleep and unaware. it was a few weeks ago, the night he knew something was up from how curt you were during dinner, or more quiet whilst he ate you out by the pool. it was a mix of bitter frustration and resentment towards you on his part. he felt it was more childish that he threw a tantrum so silently and so calculated instead of fucking saying something—ultimately throwing that projection right back at you in the car at some nights later—but not enough to stop himself from walking into the pawn shop, transferring the 75 million won to his bank account, funneling most of it into his cryptocurrency investments and leaving a chunk for anything else: food, pills, etc. he rubbed his eyes when his mind reminded him of when he swiped three of your cartier bracelets in his bitterness, having thought to himself she has thirty of these. she won’t fucking notice shit.

i need to live. even if i am a low-life. he reminded himself. or tried to, because when he couldn’t look away from how innocent you looked tucked under the duvet, cheek pressed against the silk pillowcase, his eyes felt misty. subong inhaled sharply through his nostrils, tightening his lips when they threatened to wobble. he quickly leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, bringing his head to his pillow. he scooted closer to your tired form, not being able to help kissing your soft skin again, heart fluttering hearing your quiet hum. ”i don’t like seeing you like that.“ he said lowly, only for you to hear, despite you two being alone. "hm?” you hummed weakly; registering that he said something, but no recognition of what. subong mistook it as need for clarification. “all sad.” he muttered, doe eyes taking you in, his sentiment sincere. “it doesn't—” here it comes. “it doesn’t suit … you. it doesn’t suit you.” he said, tonally awkward. he shut his eyes, surprised at himself. i’m thirty fucking two years old, man. subong opened his eyes, seeing you fast asleep. he let out a breath, leaning in and tenderly kissing your cheek. in that moment, he figured he at least owed you this: “i love you too much.” he whispered, falling asleep with his fingers holding yours.

the next night, the high from sampling lee hyori wore off fast. subong didn’t even stay to watch his fellow contestants’ performances from the green room, sneaking out of the studio lot after his suggestion to leave early. there was a two week break following elimination night to go to the semi-finals, and with how subong had just reached 120k followers on instagram, his mixtape surpassing 1.7 million streams in total, and him wracking viewership in the hundreds of thousands when performances are uploaded to youtube after the stream—its more than safe to say that he doesn’t have to worry about shit. he said hello to the fans waiting outside and took at most three photos, but that first opening he saw, he took it, scurrying off to the other side of the lot—often times having to evade more hyper fans—slamming the door shut without an ounce of hesitation. it was times like these where he wondered how speculation of your relationship didn’t drift around online. it could’ve been direct handiwork of your staff, or maybe your family was just that exclusive that the press didn’t even know where to start with coverage. after all, when it comes to the uber exclusive rich and socialites alike, does anyone know who’s really in charge?

“how’s my baby, hm?” subong put his bottega sunglasses in his hair, rolex falling further down his wrist. he leaned down, kissing your lips when the rolls royce drove out of the lot. “didn’t make you wait too long, did i?” “no, no. was here for barely five minutes.” you said, reconnecting the kiss. “good.” he muttered against your mouth. subong’s arm came around your shoulders, lips finding your temple before scooting closer to you. “can i ask you something?” you said. your hand reached up, thumb wiping away your lip balm from underneath his bottom lip. “its been pestering my mind all day.” “pestering?” subong smirked, amused. “well, i gotta know now, baby.” “what was it you said to me last night before i fell asleep?” you asked, looking at him. truth is, you knew. you fell for this man so fast and so deeply that your subconscious did the work for you, capturing his words in your memory right before you succumbed to sleep, remembering when you woke up. you just wanted to see if he would say it again.

“uh,” subong was caught off guard. he felt his cheeks tingle, warmth riding up his neck. “it was—it was nothing.” he shook his head, looking at you, downplaying it. “just something about your mom being shitty to you.” he told a half-truth. a knowing smile dared to show on your face. “okay.” you said, nodding. you gestured for him to come closer. you leaned in, mouth right by his ear. “i love you too much, too.” you whispered, kissing his temple. you giggled sweetly at his scoff, shyness radiating off him. “so you did overhear, huh?” he murmured, timid. “of course i did.” you said lovingly, taking your time with your kisses on his skin, each one longer than the last. he felt warm against you, upside down grin bunching his cheeks up just the way you loved it. “how could i not remember my sweet subongie’s words, hm?” you jutted out your bottom lip, knowing how it softened him to mush whenever you did. you grinned, chuckling with success when he rested his forehead against yours. he closed the gap, kissing you with intent. “i’m a man of my word.” he told you. “i meant what i said.” “me too.” you told him sincerely. “of course i love your fine ass.” you smiled, sweet laughter ringing out of you when his lips kissed your neck, the vibrations of his chuckles tickling you.

you and subong spent the next two weeks partying in the amalfi coast. what was the reason? subong didn’t know why; was it a friend’s birthday? bachelorette party, maybe? whatever the fuck it was, he didn’t fucking care—if there’s one thing you’ve inexplicably taught him, its that the rich don’t need a reason to do something; they do it simply because they can. also, he was preoccupied with taking in his first time on a private jet, hands finding your hips like muscle memory when you sat on his thigh after take off, but his eyes kept staring around the luxury interior; the mini plasma screen displaying the weather and plane route; your friends sitting wherever throughout the cabin like it was second nature, because it fucking was. he didn’t even know where his carry-on was, pushing out the fleeting memory of hastily telling his parents he’d be gone for some time before running down the stairs to the car earlier that morning. not like they’d care much. they stopped checking in on him in his twenties, anyway.

he was also temporarily leaving behind ruminating beef with some of his fellow contestants—a mixture of more than apparent jealousy of growing popularity and successful mixtape, the competition’s producers shifting their favorability towards him, and perhaps a fight that broke out in the green room before sound check that was currently making its rounds on various chat forums online. not that subong cared, though. he was busy living the high life: blowing the smoke of his cigar out of the window of your cadillac, drinking alcohol with names he couldn’t pronounce on a yacht larger than he could ever imagine; clapping your cheeks like its his last night alive, and getting his dick sucked on one of the many balconies of your family’s villa (“f-fuck—relax y-your fucking jaw. i’m trying to last more than—shit! a—agh!—i’m trying to last more than five minutes here, baby. s-shit! stop doing that thing with your tongue—f-fuck!”)

this relationship was certainly a first for your friends to see. they had never seen you act this way before—so smitten, or desperate as some would say in hushed tones after you and subong walked out of sight, hand in hand, from where they were sitting in the yacht’s lounge, whispering behind their utensils. their gazes would linger from underneath their sun hats and behind their sunglasses, functionally ignoring the crisp blue water wetting their feet as they sat with them dangling off the private pier, catching glimpses of subong wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you in for a squeeze; your giggle heard at a distance, watching him kiss your temple and lips, waiting for your drinks at the outdoor bar. you sat in his lap more often than your own seat at dinner or any meal, really—except breakfast. that’s when they can expect you two to trudge out of your shared room at half one in the afternoon, sat alone at the table by the poolside eating your respective omelets and whatever was left of the fresh fruit cut earlier in the morning; deep in conversation whilst he wore nothing but briefs and his cross, you in one of his graphic tees that went barely past half of your thigh with two hickeys on your neck.

the night you met, subong told you he was an entertainer, and he kept his word on this trip. his charisma and irreverent humor was a breath of fresh air for many of your friends, finding themselves trying not to choke on a freshly-made cannoli during an afternoon in town, or struggling to keep their humorously appalled expressions at bay whenever he made a flyaway comment about something or someone, eventually succumbing to laughter. he was clever and could read the room in record time, and even on a fucking bike. it was an afternoon where the lot of you cruised around the smooth terrain of admittedly narrow roadways, but far enough away from the nearby town where it was safe to do so. subong stuck out like a sore thumb with his shirt off and securely around his neck, contrasting with everyone else’s sundresses and light sweater vests. he warded off the humidity with the cool breeze generated by his speed, back tattoo spelling thanos in his mother tongue on full display as he swerved around everyone. a car came around the corner and was at a good enough distance to not warrant worry, but subong being the way he is, did not pay attention and got too close for comfort. instead of cowering away at the ear-splitting car honks, subong went right up to the driver’s window and yelled an insult so colorful an artist’s paint palette would never rival such intensity. your friends burst out into laughter as they rode by, and even harder at your attempt to get his attention. “subong! get the fuck back here!” you yelled, ringing your bike bell since you could do nothing else whilst you moved. “hold on!—” “get your ass back here!”

he was good at blending in or at least pretending to know, so he had no problem walking around like he had the biggest dick on the coastline—you two fucked like he did. it was in the creaking of the walls or muffled moans upon staying the night at your villa if they drank one too many, or hearing them in their rawest form at a distance as they walked underneath your open-door balcony you forgot to close; a cacophony of grunts, high-pitched moaning, and clapping of skin making them pick up the speed of their walk to their cars, putting the keys in their ignition to head back to their respective apartments or vacation homes. to some of your more pessimistic friends, it all reeked of a temporary fix. but hypocrite is as hypocrite does. none of them spoke up, because they knew they would be directly contradicting themselves—half were fucking their parents’ assistants whereas others were still in dubious contact with their college professors.

one of them was repeatedly internally taunted by the sounds of your illustrious moans, looking down after pulling into his driveway or rushing into the bathroom, surprised and confused by his growing erection. it was funny how you pestered peoples minds only after they find out you’re taken, and by a man that looks to be satisfying you in more ways than one, after years of either not being taken seriously or flat-out disrespected. subong sensed it those first few days on the coast. the first offense was observed from behind his bottega sunglasses at a brunch everyone was present for, swallowing his mouthful of frittata, washing it down with freshly-squeezed orange juice. you were stood at the opposite end of the table, conversing with who he remembered to be a childhood friend. he was also aboard the jet on the way here, and didn’t seem like a problem then, but with how stupidly fucking wide his smile was now when talking to you, subong thought maybe he just wanted to get her alone bitterly to himself. he turned away from the scene, downing the rest of his juice. i’m too fucking old to be jealous.

but he couldn’t help himself. not after that same friend invited you up to see the view from the helm of his yacht later that very afternoon, or finding flan in the fridge that subong learned he went out of his way to get you because its your utmost favorite. i should be doing this shit for her. he began to feel inadequate, awkwardly toying with his piece as you poured the both of you ice water to cool off from the mounting humidity. where would i go for this? and what would i even ask for—"how’s it taste, subongie?“ your voice cut his inner monologue, tuning back in to his taste buds. "do you like it?” “mhm. yeah.” he nodded. “the rum it has tastes good.” subong pissed himself off when his insecurities percolated persistently at the back of his mind whilst he fucked you from behind later that afternoon. your hands were on the wall, moaning so beautifully, feeling him work all of those places so fucking well—and here subong was, glancing at the balcony doors behind him, wishing they were open for that fucking friend to hear. “s-subongie …” your poetic voice brought him back down to earth, as it always did. “keep going. j-just like that.” your eyes rolled back, biting your bottom lip. he looked down at his palms running over your ass, watching your supple skin recoil with every thrust. “like that? yeah?” he asked lowly. “i’ll keep going. just like this, baby. for you.”

minutes later, he pounded into you, balls heavy and angry. your back arched, mouth hung open as you stuttered through his unrelenting pace; one hand on his that snuck through the neckline of your linen shirtdress, holding your breast, the other holding his head as he grunted in your ear, your cartier bracelets tinkering in his. subong halted when you clenched around him, feeling his stomach cave in behind his shirt, biting his bottom lip. he looked up, seeing your face in the body mirror by the door. he eyed the way your dress ruffled above your ass, and how fucking it looked seeing his shorts around his ankles and your panties on the floor, too. “you see us, baby?” he asked, clearing your lust-clouded senses with a kiss to your temple. “in the mirror? you see the look on your face?” he watched you open your eyes. “who makes you look like that, huh? who makes you look so fucking hot and bothered? hm?” he asked sharply, purposefully ignoring your incoherent whines to keep fucking you, and his own carnal desire. “answer me.” “y-you do, subongie.” you responded meekly, pushing yourself into him. you yelped when he smacked your left globe. “that’s right.” he confirmed, moving his hips again. instead of returning to your neckline, subong’s hand grabbed your face, turning so you looked at the mirror with him, the chill of his rolex against your cheek. “you better fucking look at me when i make love to you—f-fuck! hngh!”

“fuck! a—ah!” he cried, seeing how creamy the condom was. he kept going, pushing his head into the back of shoulder, keeping your gaze to the mirror. “i f-fucking hate these condoms s-sometimes, baby.” his eyes rolled back, squeezing them shut. “would you ever let me fuck you without one? hm?” his mouth came up to your ear. his teeth gritted when you tightened around him, eyebrows furrowing upward from how delicately and helplessly you moaned at the thought. “would you let me fuck this tight pussy all nice and raw? yeah?” the fantasy made his eyes water, abdomen stirring. “y-yes!” you cried out. “o-oh my god, yes!” “thats right. thats fucking right.” he egged on, thrusts becoming sloppy. that motherfucker could never have her like this. all needy, so fucking whiny, all his. he’ll never know her like i do. he’ll never be able to ask her this, no matter how many times he gets her favorite fucking flan—f-fuck! how are her thighs so strong?—or lets her drive his stupid fucking yacht. her’s is better, anyway: “you got so tight when i asked you that, baby.” subong’s arm left your waist, reaching into your neckline, letting your soft stomach hang. “you like that idea? of having subongie's—f-fuck!—of having subongie’s baby? you want an older man to knock up this sweet, tight fucking cunt? y-yeah—fuck!”

subong thought he would be safe from his own jealousy on the day he was set to meet your grandmother. she heard you were in town and extended an invite to all who came with you if they wished to come. he was surprised by how no one else was as game about it as he was. in fact, most of your friends didn’t look like they cared. i guess they’re so high nosed they forgot to have manners. it was the first time he had ever “dressed up,” albeit with the swipe of your card, and a frantic afternoon visit to a tailor in town the day before you were to have lunch and tea together. “they’ve met her a million times before, subong.” you told him as your chauffeur pulled back in to the villa. it was your third time today explaining why none of your friends were preparing like him. “its only a courtesy that she’s inviting everyone.” he stepped out of the cadillac, holding the tom ford bag in his hand, pushing his sunglasses into his hair. “but its your fucking grandmother.” he implored when you came around the car. “do they not have any respect or something?” he asked as you walked up the cobblestone steps, opening the door for you. “they do, albeit selectively.” you said. it didn’t take a genius to figure out why he cared so deeply. his devout love for his grandmother always lingered at the back of your mind; manifesting in the tenderness of his voice when he senses something’s wrong, jokes that easily out his age sometimes, and how he offers his arm wordlessly when you need to fix your shoes. you shrugged your shoulders, looking at his confused expression. “its just the way they are.” “you’re friends with some real fucking assholes.” “i know. but they’re the only people i’ve ever known.”

it was a short boat ride across the river from your family’s villa to your grandmother’s estate. he left his rings by the sink in the bathroom, but for the first time in his life, he questioned why he just had to extend his tattoos to his hands, and have a manicure. his hair was brushed downward onto his forehead—prime product of overthinking. you saw him continuously glance at his hands, taking his left in your lap. its as if you read his mind: “she’s more progressive than you might expect.” you told him. “she enjoys good banter, too. so you’ll be a good fit.” he chuckled at that, pressing a kiss to your forehead, silently grateful for your assurance. you were wholeheartedly, if not overwhelmingly correct, because he can’t remember the last time he felt so at ease in front of an authority figure. his hand shook when he went in to shake hers, but after the first course, his posture relaxed in his cushioned chair. your grandmother looked like the ultimate matriarch: wispy, yet soft looking dark grey hair, a lip color that suited her skin tone so well that it only illustrated her time on earth more vividly; to know herself so well, and the warmth of her aura that felt universal for all grandmothers, no matter societal class. over tea, it was the first time you explicitly told a member of your family that subong is your boyfriend. he laughed out loud when she said “finally, you bring home a fun one” in response, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “that’s what i told her!” he said cheerfully. “or, at least try to, if i don’t annoy her first.” he grinned when you scoffed and nudged his bicep, smiling greatly upon hearing your grandmother chuckle.

later that night, you were laid up in bed together, subong pressing his cheek against yours as he held you close, a movie playing on the television. you traded your dress for a shirt whilst subong lounged in his briefs, comfortable after a hearty dinner of lobster pasta paired with aged whisky. he turned his head to press a kiss onto your temple when you felt your phone vibrate beneath you. he glanced at your screen, seeing it was a group chat with your friends. he almost looked away, only to stare from a sideways glance at the photo that fucking friend sent in, shirtless, holding a fish he had caught on a boat earlier that day, around the time you were having tea with your grandmother. that’s what he did instead? and he has the audacity to send it there, with her? holy fucking shit, this guy is more forward than me. subong returned his cheek to yours when you clicked your phone off. he tried to hold it in, but couldn’t: “does he like you?” “hm? who?” “that guy.” he said quietly. “the one you got you the flan. and let you drive his boat.” you shrugged your shoulders. “who knows? maybe.” subong furrowed his eyebrows. “who knows?” he repeated, confused. “i mean, you should. because from what i’ve seen, he does like you.” you huffed. “he’s just a friend.” you said. “a stupid one, too. we only keep in touch because his parents have a massive share in my father’s company.” you turned your head to look at him. “he’s just a friend, subong.” you repeated, voice soft. “i’m not going anywhere.” you leaned in, kissing his cheek. “like the fuck you are.” he tried to tough it out, only for his face to warm at the sound of your chuckle.

as the movie progressed, subong’s palm found the side of your bare thigh, rubbing up and down tenderly. this touch wasn’t unfamiliar. he often did this to lull himself to sleep, or ensure proximity. he moved into your chest, smelling the last of your dior perfume from your spritz earlier in the afternoon. he closed his eyes, letting the movie become secondary noise to the feeling of your chest rising and falling against his cheek. his palm kept rubbing up and down tenderly, inching higher with no other intention other than to share your presence—until he didn’t feel a hem. he opened his eyes: is she not wearing any—his hand went higher, palm soon holding your left globe—fuck … how did i not notice before? he bit his bottom lip, exhaling through his nostrils, watching his hand disappear underneath your shirt. he peppered kiss along your jaw, humming to himself. “i’m watching a movie.” you muttered. “no one told you to stop watching.” he muttered back, lips moving to your neck. his palm traveled to your lower back before descending back down to the powdery, lush skin of your ass, groping gently. “so fucking sexy.” he whispered, nuzzling more into your neck. you kissed your teeth, eyebrows furrowing in slight annoyance. “subong, i can’t hear the tv.” of course, right when this dumbass movie is getting good, he has to start acting up. he didn’t answer, too lost in his own world of you. “subong, i’m being serious.” you warned. “so am i.” you scoffed, fighting the temptation to roll your eyes back when his tongue ran over your skin. “i think this is the most unserious you’ve ever been.” you said. “i mean, during a buddy comedy?” “i have something real funny to show you.” he muttered into your neck, reaching below him for your hand, bringing it to his bulge. you gasped, not holding back your laugh. “you’re impossible!” you exclaimed, feeling him chuckle against you.

“s-slow down! slow down!” subong panted, unable to look away from your hand pumping his cock. the sound was already so lewd not even five minutes in, his precum coating his stiffened, angry cock with a clear, wet glow. he squirmed when you focused only on his tip, yelping vulnerably feeling your thumb repeatedly trace the slit; back arching as his hips bucked up desperately. you hadn’t broke a sweat, nor were you anywhere near. “hold still.” your tongue ran over your bottom lip in concentration, working your wrist, eyes staying on the television through the prolonged action sequence. “i-i can’t! h—aa—” he whined. subong bucked his hips up again, making your hand lose your grip, slipping off. you tsked, subong seeing you roll your eyes. he was so horny he nearly burst into tears. he couldn’t explain what this feeling was, or why he was so enamored with it when it came about. subong felt like such a pervert for employing the possibility that it was because you were younger, and you having so much control was the hottest fucking thing in the world. he loved being pampered and spoiled since day one—good food, even better pussy, gifts that weighed his wrists down by not as much as his pockets, shown off as your boyfriend whilst surrounded by the most beautiful things money both can and can’t buy. he had his cocky ego flared at the behest of insulting your dumbass friends whilst also dining as finely as they did, but reduced to nothing but a whiny bitch at the sight of your eyes sparkling from below, or the round of your ass curved in your jeans, or watching you pick your jewelry out in the morning. or maybe he just really loved being taken care of, and by a fine ass woman nonetheless.

his breath hitched when you began stroking again. “y-your hand f-feels so g-good, baby—” “—shut up.” subong bit back a moan. “they’re about to solve the case. could’ve watched in peace, and had a quiet night, but no.” you ignored his breathy mewls after your grip became the slightest bit of firmer. “had to go and ruin it by being all needy, hm?” “y-yes!” he gasped, turning his head to look at you with his hooded eyes. you didn’t even give him a glance. “can't—can’t help it, baby. you’re so f-fucking—ngh!—you’re so f-fucking sex—sexy! just like that…” he pleaded. his eyes drifted to your chest, picturing your breasts behind the cloth of your shirt. “can i … can i suck on your tits, baby?” “no.” you said curtly, pressing your thighs together, but masking it as adjusting your posture. “you don’t get to after you’ve been bad.” there it was. “i’ve been … i’ve b-been bad?” he felt his abdomen tighten. “i’m s-sorry, baby. i didn’t mean to.” he shook his head pathetically, watching your side profile. he leaned in, breath hot against you. “i c-can be good.” he nodded, the lewd sound of your stroking his cock doubling in the acoustics of the room. “i can be good for you.” you turned your head, tip of your nose brushing against his. you took your bottom lip between your teeth, feeling heat between your thighs, wrist beginning to ache. “you wanna be good for me? yeah?” your delicate tone made him mewl. how did i last this long having the sexiest fucking woman in the world!? “yes.” he whispered, nodding. “i’ll be good for you.”

you kissed him slowly and with intent, re-connecting your lips after they barely separated. subong took whatever you offered him like the good boy he was; keeping his hands in place at his sides, hips stationary. for the most part, anyway. he cried out when your free hand reached over, kneading his heavy balls in your palm, his eyes rolling back and squeezing shut at the lethal combination. your mouth hovered before his ear, tip of your nose pressing into his cheek. “did you ever think about fucking them, subong?” you asked, voice hushed and lustful. “those groupies that waited for you outside? hm?” you worked his cock with purpose through this subtle interrogation. “you can tell me, subong. you can be honest with me.”“n-no! never!” he panted, shaking his head, saying his truth against an invisible timer. “i never did, baby! i’m b-being for real!” subong leaned in to kiss you, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction. “f-fuck.” he muttered, eyes rolling back. he swallowed, “they’re n-nothing like you, baby. they—they d-don’t e-even come close.” you didn’t say anything. not that you didn’t believe him—you were too busy trying to keep your moan in and not give yourself away. “do you …” subong spoke. “do you ever think about fucking him—” “—the fact that you still employ that thought tells me you shouldn’t fucking cum.”“n-no!” he cried pathetically. “n-no! f-fuck—i take that back, i take that b-back!” his moan was at a noticeably higher pitch. “oh my—fuck!—please, baby. i-i’m sorry! let me cum, let me cum! i’ll be good!”

you turned your head, seeing his head nearly hanging sliding off his pillow from how his back was arching. a devious smile stretched across your face, thighs rubbing together. “if only your friends could see you now, subongie. what would they think, hm?” you laughed with delightful glee when you stroked his tip, hearing his sharp gasp, seeing the muscles in his thighs tighten. “those you’re in the competition with, all upset about you being so successful? what would they think, seeing the man that pisses them off, all bitchy and whiny?” “i d-don’t give a fuck about them.” he shook his head. “they don’t have you. they d-don’t have the best fucking pussy. they don’t get to f-fuck you—fuck!” you sucked on his tip hard. you needed him. “you better cum now before i lose my patience.” subong watched as hot, creamy strings coated his stomach as it caved inward, stuttering through his orgasm. “f-fuck! yeah! y-yeah! oh, fuck yeah, baby! fuck me!” you wiped your hand unceremoniously on his bare thigh, tutting when you glanced at his dick, seeing it still hover about his stomach albeit barely. “you’re still hard? after i just milked you for all you’re worth?” you laid on your back, turning your head towards him when silence filled the room. “well, are you going to fuck me, or not?”

he fucked you missionary, huffing and puffing like he was on his deathbed. you hid your laughter behind your palm, glancing at his cum dripping down his thighs, moving his hips slowly. “i’m really bored, subong.” you said. “i could fall asleep like this.” “just—just give me a minute.” he implored, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. you were so warm and so fucking tight. no wonder he felt lightheaded, after the mind-melting orgasm from earlier. “you really are an old man.” you grinned, teasing him knowingly. “no i’m not.” “you’re not proving otherwise.” you shook your head, yelping when he suddenly thrusted into harshly. “that’s more fucking like it.” you spread your legs further, palms grabbing his ass when his elbows stationed themselves on either side of your head, pushing his hips into yours. he fucked you like it was a workout, skin plomping against yours. “work those hips, come on. make me f-feel something.” his condom-less cock was deep inside and furious, hitting those spots so deliciously your feet rose from the linen an inch or two. subong’s hand reached down to hold the side of your thigh, using it was leverage to fuck you faster. your breath hitched, hands jumping to hold his shoulders, jaw hung open, eyes squeezed shut. “yes! y-yes! that’s it! just like that, subongie!” you whined, moans delicate and whorish. your nails raked down his back tattoo, returning to his ass. you smacked his left cheek, making hips stutter and cry from his diaphragm. “keep f-fucking me, baby! your b-big—mmph!—your cock feels so good f-fucking me raw!” you whimpered. “you’re g-gonna milk me for all i’m worth.” he whispered frantically into your ear as if it was a lifeline. “i'm—i’m gonna b-burst, baby—agh!” you smacked his ass again. “m-more.” he said, moving his hips steadily after feeling the familiar sting on his right cheek. subong hastily pushed your shirt up, capturing your right nipple and sucking diligently, encouraged by how you held his neck. he pulled out after you came, spilling onto your stomach, crossing with your stretch marks.

you found yourself in a similar situation not even sixteen hours later, about to get your back blown out after breakfast. not everyone showed up to eat at the villa, sleeping in to either tend to their hangovers or unwillingly pulled back home by their parents, but if one person did it was the fucking friend. he showed up right on time, barely five minutes past ten thirty, taking you away from subong. you shifted from your seat next to him on the hanging daybed, returning your feet to your sandals. “have to go say hello.” you tell him, seeing the grimace on his face, not even well-hidden behind his sunglasses. he adjusted himself, manspreading more than before; trying to assert dominance, but it amounted to nothing, considering the friend was looking down at his watch. your hand on his thigh brought him back to you. “you know how things are.” “yeah. and i don’t fuckin’ like them.” he murmured back. “let me come with you.” you raised your eyebrows, visible behind your sunglasses. “and what? bash his face in?” “yeah. maybe i fucking will.” subong retorted. “maybe he’ll finally respect the fact that you’re with me.” “he might be stupid enough to act that way, but i’m not stupid enough to let him.” your hand trailed higher up his thigh, rubbing the fabric of his shorts gingerly. “give me a kiss. show him.” you said. subong glanced over, seeing that he was watching. he leaned in, kissing your lips slowly yet deeply, hand reaching over and groping your ass. he held your wrist when you got up, kissing the back of it before fixing your sundress. “all good?” you asked with dual meaning. “mhm.” he nodded. you held his face, giving him one last kiss. “i love you tenderly.” “love you too.”

perhaps you did … play it up … a little to rile him up. you’ve never felt so desired by someone in your life, so pardon yourself if you wanted to see how far it could take you. you didn’t outright betray subong, but you didn’t hold back the very obviously overly-animated laugh when your friend told the worst fucking executed joke you’ve ever heard, or taking off your bracelet to show him the detailing, scooting closer to point them out. subong sat with his arms crossed in his seat, plate emptied and glass still half-full. he got up when you came over: “i’m this fucking close to—” “if you do anything, they’ll sue you until you have nothing left.” he tightened his jaw, looking away, shaking his head. he knew you were right, but the frustration was palpable. “why do you let your parents do this to you?” “its complicated, subong.” you answered. “yeah. everything is.” he said. “man, fuck this shit. i’m going upstairs.” you came up to your shared room sometime later, finding him sat on the edge of the messy, unmade bed, taking a hit of his vape. “i can’t understand you, sometimes.” said subong, feeling you lock your arm with his, laying your head on his bicep. “you’re not the easiest puzzle to solve, either.” you told him. “see, and you speak in these fucking riddles.” he exhaled, translucent cloud disappearing. “i’ve spent this entire trip with you in my arms. fucking you. kissing you. making love, and there’s still not an ounce of respect.” he huffed. “i know i’m a fucking joke to them; i’m not stupid, okay? but this shit … man, it’s like they want to spite me.” you looked up, seeing the balcony doors were wide open. “show them who’s yours.” you spoke, only for him to hear.

his tip traced your puffy lips, pushing his tip in and out agonizingly slow. he watched the scene with the hem of his shirt between his teeth, watching your bare ass. he smacked your right cheek harshly, making you gasp, bottom lip caught between your teeth. “beg thanos for it.” “p-please, thanos—” you gasped, feeling your left globe sting. “f-fuck this tight pussy. n-need you so badly—f-fuck!” he watched your cheek recoil. “again.” “please, thanos. give—give me your fat fucking cock.” you said, pawing at the linen, looking over your shoulder, seeing your sundress pulled up and panties at your knees. “no one gets to fuck this pussy but me.” he muttered to himself. “no one knows this pussy like me.” he pushed his cock in, stretching you out, setting off on an unforgiving rhythm. “yes! yes!” the clapping was loud and lewd, subong grunting every so often watching his pelvis ram into your ass. the thrusts were deep and hard, the curve of his dick making your eyes roll back. “is this what you wanted? a jealous boyfriend? hm?” he stripped himself of his shirt, hands taking hold of your hips. “deeper, subongie. d-deeper.” his palm pushed your back down a little more into the bed, hitting the spot that made a guttural moan travel into the backyard. “yes!” you cried. “just like that!”

your walls swallowed him whole. “let them fucking hear you.” said subong. “they fucking hate me, so its my fucking duty to remind them what they can’t have. that they can’t have this f-fucking pussy.” his breath shook. “i’m so lucky to have someone else’s dream girl in my bed, buried in her pussy. because you’re mine, right? tell me.” “i’m y-yours, subongie!” “that’s right.” he praised, looking down at his cock disappearing inside of you. “i’m yours.” he whimpered, going faster, but just as deep. “i-imagine—hngh!—imagine what they’d do if they saw you like this, moaning and fucking crying over how good my cock feels, while they—they go home to their f-fucking mansions and—shit!—touch themselves to photos of you. f-fuck! oh my god, y-you feel so f-fucking good!” the bed frame creaked against the wall, creating a cacophony with his balls slapping against you. your moans were needy and carnal; the rawest form of pleasure. “you’re my baby. you’re my fucking girl—s-shit!” he pounded into you. “no one k-knows this p-pussy like i do. you taught your good boy so w-well how to make you feel s-so good, fuck! f-fucked the shit out of you last night, and you still want my cock. that’s what i n-need to do, baby. i need to k-keep fucking you good, so y-you don’t even think about other g-guys. n-need to keep you needy, like me. like your subongie.”

“c-can you blame me?” a sweat built up on your forehead, taking him like the good girl you are. “f-felt you raw the first time. c-cant get enough. neither—neither of us went to get condoms t-this morning, so i guess you feel the same.” its true: either the terrain of the amalfi coast was too rocky and narrow, or you both are equally whorish. its a win-win. “need this dick every f-fucking day—oh my god!” you grunted. “keep going, k-keep fucking me.” he leaned down, arm coming around to support your neck, keeping your head in place, his nose sunken into your cheek. you yelped when he started fucking you faster, the sound bouncing off the walls. “i’ll keep you fucking addicted.” he whispered, breath ragged. “my best fucking girl. i love you so—t-too much—fuck!” you clenched around him tighter than before, making his hips stutter. “you’re making your man feel so good right now, you know that? your g-good boy feels so good.” his eyebrows furrowed so deeply they turned upward, feeling the knot tease unraveling. “a-are you close? i’m s-so fucking close, baby.” “y-yes,” your toes curled around nothing. “want you to cum in me. m'on the pill.” “what? f-fuck—” his voice rasped beside your ear. “h-have you been on it—have you been on it this entire time?” “since after y-you first came over. hoped you wanted me. i became a lucky g-girl.” you smiled, moaning. “i was—i was a little scared. b-but not anymore—mmph!—need it. need all of it. cum in this tight pussy you can’t shut the—shut the fuck up about.” subong nearly went cross-eyed. “y-you’re gonna be the death of me, baby.” he whimpered when he heard you laugh. “gonna give you every last drop—fuck!”

your mother watched practically the entire trip go down. her secretaries kept eyes on her children all of their lives, but even more-so when they went abroad for schooling. you and your older sister had the same teams on standby at oxford and harvard, respectively, whilst new recruits tagged along with senior officials for your younger brother in auckland. it was no different if any of you defied your parents in some way—rejecting a suitor; not showing up to meetings; giving the wrong look during dinner—in fact, the ante rose tremendously. take your trip to the amalfi coast, for example. it wasn’t unusual for a member of the family to take a lavish vacation, let alone to one of many residences you have around the globe—but it was the whispers of a new man in your life that perks your mother’s eyes and ears like a hawk. call it intuition, or just straight-up psychic sorcery, but she knows you a lot more than you will admit in your lifetime. she doesn’t attribute it to a certain glow, or whatever those silly romance films and novellas say, but rather an air of naivete. blinded by glee. untempered faith. your mother was not cold-hearted (and no, she did not pay that new york times reporter to alter their word choice), but a realist to her detriment, above all else. its what got her out of her middle-class neighborhood, landed her that ring, and granted her role as almighty powerful shadow to the king. so she did what she usually does when she feels something in the air: pulls her strings, makes people talk, and expect updates every twelve hours.

its what landed her here on her private jet, flying to macau for the third time in two weeks to start planning your older sister’s wedding, ipad in her lap. he reached down to her left leg, pinching the fabric of her black pantsuit, adjusting her compression sock, her other hand scrolling through photos. she had her secretaries round up her personal investigators, lurking around the villa and your travels around the coast at formidable distances; undetected, unbothered. her face remained stoic as she took in the photos of you and subong at the givenchy outlet, you zipping up the tracksuit you got him for the semi-finals, stacked cuban links adorning his neck; subong feeding you cantaloupe whilst the both of you were practically half-naked eating breakfast mid-afternoon by the pool; his arm around your shoulders one evening as you sat together on the hanging outdoor daybed, manspreading beyond belief as he lit a cigar she recognized from your father’s collection held between his teeth; a sequence of photos taken late at night of him on the balcony shirtless smoking a cigarette (i can’t imagine how rancid it must smell there, she thought to herself), you coming out onto the balcony, sharing a kiss, moving to your jaw, past your neck, the last one landing on your chest—only this was blurry, as the private investigator had now realized what was going on and quickly moved away. your mother huffed, pushing the ipad onto the table in front of her, looking out the window. she didn’t need to see her daughter in such a compromised position, let alone so openly. her mind lingered to a previous photo looking into your room, balcony doors shut, him stood on the other side of the room; both of you in the midst of conversation. were they arguing? she wondered. little did she know, you were both high off of your fucking rockers.

on your second to last night on the coast, subong gave you one of his pills (“take the blue one, baby. its not too crazy—should be fine for your first time. here, i’ll take it too.”) the thought had brewed in the back of both your minds for the last near two weeks, finally coming to fruition after subong couldn’t help but make sure you ate and drank enough during dinner (“like i’d let anything bad happen to my baby.”), and went the extra mile to lock the balcony doors just in case. the sensation, at first, brewed in your underarms, slowly traveling down your torso and legs. when it landed in your head, you turned into a giggly mess on the bed. subong was too busy dancing in his place next to you, gesturing to the ceiling to an imaginary beat in his head. he turned his head when yours landed on his shoulder, hearing you burp involuntarily, and then giggling even harder. “feel good?” he asked. “i feel funny.” your face hurt from how hard you were smiling, nuzzling into his shoulder. “everything’s just really funny.” it felt like you were holding in your pee when the beat in his head somehow inspired him to get up and start reminiscing his adolescence—specifically when he used to breakdance. “nah, baby. i used to feel so free!” he exclaimed, putting his hands up. “i used to pop and lock like this,” he puffed out his chest, moving his hips and elbows in a way that had your fingers clutching your lips to hold your laughter in. you blinked tears away when he bumped into the nearby dresser after attempting some footwork that certainly … spotlighted the … rust in his kinks. “shit—move out of the fucking way.” he said to nothing, getting into position again. you burst into loud laughter, falling back onto the bed; vibrations percolate everywhere. “hey! the fuck is so funny?” he saw you clutch your stomach. “i miss this shit so much. i wish i didn’t drop it when i was fifteen—fuck off!”

he owned those motherfucking semi-finals. subong walked out onto stage, melanin aglow by the amalfi coast sun, clad in his forest green givenchy; cuban links; sunglasses; rolex, bobbing his head to the start of the sopranos theme song. the inspiration for his choice of sampling was on the nose, but clever nonetheless. as the beat ruminated, he pulled the corner of his mouth with his pinky, showing off both that fine ass smile of his and tooth gem. “lets get it,” he said into the microphone before the beat took off. you toyed with your necklace as he rode that shit like a wave, observing from your suite like a queen on her throne. if only i was toying with an engagement ring … jesus fucking christ. “i feel like tony soprano, the way i got a blue moon in my eye,” subong licked his lips, bringing the microphone right back. “we both cold like the winter soldier. when she says 'subong, more, more,’ i’m ready to comply.” he winked into the camera, finishing his verse and allotted time with ease. subong was the first one voted through to the finals—his performance racking over 850,000 views in less than a week.

there was another two week break meant for the four finalists to prep material—subong practically moved in with you. he strutted around like he had lived there is whole life: barefoot, in either just in briefs or with a t-shirt at any given moment, snooping in the fridge, and asking your chefs to make a certain stew he used to have as a kid. he was in and out of the house, either to go on a pill run or do some club gigs he booked from his evergreen popularity. you were always there no matter what—that meeting can fucking end early, and that phone call wasn’t important, anyway. it was a routine subong welcomed jubilantly: step out of the rolls royce; coming home generally at 1:30 in the morning as his slots usually ran late, eat whatever leftovers in the fridge, fuck you silly, snore into la la land—repeat. on nights he didn’t have gigs, you took a swim at your family’s estate, lulling you to sleep after pummeling your puffy pussy before nearly breaking his dick in half in your old bedroom, before he snuck off to the other side of the floor; pocketing whatever he could scoop up, coupling the pawn money with his miniscule club earnings. talk about perfect harmony.

you celebrated your five months together the night before the finals, you having to wipe your lipstick off subong’s chin and mouth to prevent staining after he fucked you hard from behind. the day of, subong left earlier than usual for rehearsal as the finals were taking place in a different venue entirely: a sold out indoor amphitheater holding upwards of 1,500, and a projected 675,000 to be watching on the livestream. an unexpected meeting threw your intended routine out of whack, leading you to the car forty-five minutes past the time you wanted to leave. you slammed the car door shut with a huff, subong’s text from forty minutes ago reading I get second in the coin toss on continuous display in your mind. “what’s the eta?” you asked your chauffeur without your usual polite greeting. “an hour fifteen, ma'am. its rush hour, and traffic is heavier than usual.” “hour fifteen?” you raised your eyebrows. it usually took no longer than twenty minutes. you checked the time on your phone—the show was starting in thirty-five minutes. “oh fuck no.” you muttered, getting out of the rolls royce without another word, slamming the door. you ran your hand through your hair after dialing your secretary, cursing aloud when your van cleef caught a strand—“jesus fucking—” “hello? is everything okay?” “i need a chopper.” you said curtly, pacing in the grass. “what do you mean there’s no landing pad? its fucking seoul!” you exclaimed, gesturing to your right towards the direction of the city in frustration. “then make one!” you said irrationally. “it better be here in ten fucking minutes. i’ll be waiting in my parents’ backyard.” you entered and exited the helicopter wordlessly, shoving the protective headset to the concrete before getting in the stationed chevrolet suburban your staff put together on short notice, arriving to your suite two minutes before showtime.

“fucking hell.” you muttered, lifting your sunglasses, wiping the sweat from underneath your eyes. Just got here you texted subong after your flurried back-and-forth of updates. Treat it just like another day; You got this my love; I love you. to your surprise, he responded quickly. Im so glad u made it safe baby; Thank u love you too. Cheer for me. first up was the two and half minute acapella freestyle. the four finalists stood on the stage in line side by side, called in the order decided by the coin toss before the show. subong’s bars flowed smoothly and transitioned seamlessly, but his charismatic aura felt a bit subdued, and to a critic’s eye, watered down. it was his first time seeing the live studio audience, and that shit was filled to the brim. he fought his unexpected nerves by carrying himself through the various woops and hollers of encouragement from fans in the crowd, but lost touch in his closing sentence, stuttering his last two words before time was called. subong’s face didn’t drop, keen on making the haters fucking irate, instead offering a grin of thanks before returning to his spot on stage. live voting was currently underway for the audience in studio and at home to bring four down to two, set to close during the next commercial break—real fucking cut-throat. despite his minor flub, subong was the first one voted through, giving the crowd a thankful nod before heading backstage to prepare for showing what he’s been cooking up to bring it on home.

It’s okay he read your text when he returned to the green room. You did so well. your phone vibrated. Thank u baby; I feel so fly bc of you. he returned to stage ten minutes later with his opponent for the second coin toss, deciding who would go first. subong picked heads, earning him the first spot by chance. he nodded his head, stacked cuban links falling atop one another, diamonds twinkling under the stage lights. he opened his performance with the lyric he started the competition with: “i’m gonna kill half of humanity with my raps—bam. let’s hit it.” before pointing at the dj, grooving cooly to the beat of big poppa. it certainly was a bold choice of sampling, considering not only the utter legendary status of the original artist, but attempt to fine tune his own flow with that of biggie’s or reinvention—of course a motherfucker like subong would go about it. plus, the song was currently trending on tiktok, so he hoped to capitalize on that. he did his first verse with no problems, wiping the sweat off his forehead, walking around the stage to thwart his fastening heartbeat as he always did. the chorus went by with ease, but when subong brought the microphone to usher in the second verse—his mind went blank. before the realization sinked into his conscious, his cues with the beat left him behind. the realization brought you to your feet—“oh god. no. no.” you murmured, shaking your head, unable to look away from stage like it was a car crash.

subong stood there, frozen. it was a visceral kind of shock—he felt wholly aware but equally dumbfounded. the confused murmurs throughout the crowd brought him back to life, but at an deeply embarrassing cost, because all he could muster was an awkward sway of his body and half of a grin on his face to ride the beat until the end. the debacle lasted no longer than thirty seconds, but it felt like thirty fucking years. he doesn’t know how he stood there with the host, watching his opponent perform. he was stoic through the commercial break leading into the announcement of the final result, wishing that he chose to wear those stupid fucking sunglasses to hide behind. it was no surprise that he was the runner-up, leaving the stage before the confetti hit the floor, apathetically snubbing the friendly handshake offered to him by the winner. subong yanked the charging chord off the wall, seeing there was no text from you. what do you even say in a moment like this? It’s okay? because it’s not. You tried your best, subongie? because he fucking didn’t. he embarrassed himself like an inept fucking fool in front of thousands of people, flubbing like a fucking lunatic after shoving his ego down everyone’s throat akin to his third fucking leg of a dick. worst of all—he handed his enemies a win in the easiest, most stupid fucking way possible.

the ride home was silent. subong stared at the window, eyes behind his sunglasses, as you looked ahead of you. you periodically glanced over, seeing he didn’t move a mere centimeter—completely concrete. it was only when you pulled into the driveway of the guesthouse, you dismissing your chauffeur for the night, that the air began to clear. “you did the best you could.” you said quietly. “i did too much.” subong muttered, looking out his window to nothing but grass. you shook your head, turning to look at the back of his head. “no you didn’t. there’s nothing wrong with ambition.” your comforting words severed the heavy tension ruminating in the air of the car; suffocating and berating his psyche, putting his inner self-criticism on blast. he fucking hated feeling stupid, or being made to feel so. to think, it was done on his own volition, and he didn’t even know why? his crypto dependency could be explain with a few scrolls through his phone and how he knows he has an addictive personality, but THIS? something he worked so fucking hard for, knew like the back of his hand, and only with thirty fucking seconds of the song left? this shit was going to weigh him down for life, no matter how big or small, one way or another. the blame game was to begin soon, but not now—he felt his eyes become misty when you reached over for his hand.

“subongie…” you called for him softly. “talk to me. please.” your fingers held his hand, but didn’t intertwine until subong moved, meeting your eyes. “i—i don’t know what happened.” he shook his head, voice low. your heart sunk upon seeing a tear escape. subong shrugged his shoulders, at a loss for words. “i don't—i don’t know what happened up there, baby.” “oh, my love.” you said in a tone that made his sinuses heavier. you took his sunglasses off, wiping his tears with the delicate touch of your thumb. “things happen, and i don’t know why either.” you said. “but you know i’m proud of you, right? i’m so fucking proud of you, subong.” he cried into your palm, fingers longingly clawing at your hips. “come here, my love.” you beckoned, ushering him to your shoulder. he cried and cried, holding onto you for dear life. “i’m a f-fucking failure. my dad was right.” “no he’s not.” you said sharply, hand reaching up, wiping your own fallen tear. “there’s no world where he’s right, subong. not in ours.”

it was a slow descent. subong would stay at the club longer after a gig, stumbling into bed at half four in the morning with his clothes still on. sometimes he wouldn’t even make it to the bedroom, or up the stairs. there were mornings where staff would arrive to the guesthouse to begin their usual routines and errands, only to find subong laying on his side in the lawn, or sprawled out after barely making it through the door—the chill of the marbled floor tiles having lulled him to sleep after one too many. they would try their best to wake him, or carry him to the nearest couch for comfort when he was so far gone that it wasn’t in their pay grade to even attempt bringing him to the bedroom. what brought forth the severity of the circumstance was the evening you returned from a three day trip to bangkok you were roped into by your mother, falling asleep as soon as you arrived home from how demanding it the quick turn-around period was. you awoke at 3:45, mouth dry and thirsty, slightly confused as to why the bed felt emptier than usual—the lingering sleep clouding your logic and not connecting the dots just yet. you walked down the steps, about to turn the corner to the kitchen, until you heard muffled groaning. you walked down the opposite hall, finding subong with his head down on a couch, legs lifeless on the floor with his pants halfway down his thighs from the leak he took in the bushes before walking in, and missing a shoe.

“oh my god,” you bent down, shaking his shoulder. “subong? subong? are you awake?” “mmph?” he was disoriented, raising his head upon feeling your fingers brush his hair back; eyes barely open, drool leaking out of the corner of his mouth. you jumped into action, a scene you were all too familiar with growing up: “can you get up for me?” you asked softly. “your back is going to hurt if you sleep like this.” “mhm. give—give me a sec.” his words slurred, slowly rising to his feet, nearly tripping when taking a step forward, halted by his fallen jeans—sending the corner of the couch back a few inches. “my—” a burp gurgled from his chest. you noticed the wet spot trailing down his boxers. “my pants are off.” “its okay, just leave them there. someone’ll get them in the morning.” you took his arm, slinging it over your shoulders. your arm came around his waist, trying to usher him into the hall, but he was persistent. “i think i’m missing a shoe.” he wiped his face messily. “its okay, i’ll get you new ones. lets just go upstairs.” he slid it off, kicking it to the wall, leaving a skid mark. “great. now come with me, subongie. let’s go.”

he plopped onto bed face down with a groan, you coming up for air, chest heaving. it was no easy feat getting him up those stairs with how out of it he was, leaving your mouth dryer than before. “subong, hey,” you leaned down, pushing his hair out of his face with your fingers; trying to keep his attention before he drifted off. “have you been like this since i was gone?” “m'not really.” he muttered. “couple times … i think.” “okay.” you said softly. there was no way it was only a mere 'couple times,’ and you knew that. subong was a partier, but he could hold his own, even upon going overboard. but this was something else—heavier; a warning sign. “get some rest, okay? i’ll be here for you when you wake up.” subong hummed meekly in response, letting slumber take him. you kissed his temple, pressing your forehead to it afterward. a surplus of questions ran through your mind—what do i need to do for him? how could he have done this to himself? has he been crying for help this entire time? is this because he forgot those lyrics? has anyone else noticed? how do i keep him safe from himself?—slowly getting up and walking to the kitchen, bringing two glasses of water, putting his on the bedside table. you slipped into bed after downing yours, only to woken up four hours later by subong’s retching onto the carpet.

your days ended late, but you slept later waiting for him to come home. on the evenings you were free to go to one of his gigs, or hit a club with him, you witnessed first hand how easy it was to succumb to such a vulnerable state: his stage presence was increasingly reactionary and angry now; not like he had something to prove, but rather negate or dissipate, some songs would just ended with an incoherent slew of curse words often egged by the crowd, disappearing to the bar to grab whatever he could get or going to whomever to buy some temporary relief—he was only somewhat above water when you were there, distracted by your hand on his chest, lips on his, or ass against his hardening cock on the dance floor. but when you weren’t, which was unfortunately more often than not, since a number of your staff were handing in their resignations in an unexpected influx, leaving you with unpredictable days and worrisome nights. you were given less grace every time you returned to an empty home; unanswered texts for hours; no sign of subong since you left that morning to head to brunch with your father and his stakeholders before running miscellaneous errands, subong waking up at half two in the afternoon before leaving to universe only knows where.

your stubborn tendencies kept you up those late, clueless hours, directing your staff on what to do. “check these clubs. i’ve already forwarded the addresses to you.” you pointed to the text thread on your phone, your secretaries nodding. “check pentagon first, then the ramen shop two blocks down. if he’s not there, then check the other two. if you find him, call when he’s in the car. if not, please update me within the hour.” subong stumbled into the guesthouse, held up by two of your stronger secretaries, cold sweat shining on his forehead, eyes barely open. he was brought to your en suite, laying comfortably in the bath you drew for him, arm hooked to an iv at your request from the lifelong family doctor. you sat with subong until the water went cold, coinciding with the sun rising, helping him dress into clean clothes and heading to bed. you got up a couple of hours later with not even a wink of sleep, staring at yourself in the mirror as tears fell down your cheeks—bags deepened, lips dry, eyes perpetually glossy, brain foggy, skin oily and unclean. you were meeting a husk of yourself. it was nowhere near the first time, however—the cards you’ve been dealt with both on your merit and before you were born have landed you in this same situation before. this husk was added to the list, but it felt deeper. more back-handed, more personal. you were fighting for the love of your life—to keep him at bay, preserve him, protect him. like he was an oath. you wiped your tears, double cleansing your face, applying more concealer than usual, heading to your closet to change like it was another day. if you didn’t, you’d shatter.

it went on like this for a few months, until subong got his wake up call on his own volition. he opened his eyes midday after yet another night of mixing his pills with stolen drinks left astray at the bar. his headache pounded between his temples without mercy, throat burning with sickness he doesn’t even remember leaving his body, only to turn his head to see two strangers insert something into his arm. it was two housekeepers he’s known since yours and his first night together—one lightly tapping his arm to encourage a vein to show itself, the other prepping the iv to hydrate him as per your instructions—but subong’s deliriousness corrupted his common sense, unexpectedly jolting out of bed, frightening the two women and knicking himself in the arm as a result. “fuck off!” he yelled, voice cracking after not using it for hours, wincing as his head pounded more viscerally from his sudden movements. “get the fuck away from me!” he bellowed. “what is this you’re putting in me? the fuck is this shit?” he kicked the iv stand down, the bad snagging on the corner of your desk, sending the fluid gushing all over the carpet. “you’re not putting that shit in me!” he pointed at them, ignoring the frightened yelps of the housekeepers, stumbling to out of the bedroom door; unsure of where he was going, but led by confusion, diluted anger, and heightened fear.

chaos ensued for the next ten minutes—your secretaries, housekeepers, and even chefs abandoned making lunch in an attempt to calm subong down. he was unruly and reactionary, cut on his arm burning and inflaming the cloudy look in his eyes as he trudged to wherever his feet led him, pushing defensively against the same secretaries that have been carrying him home these past months. you pulled into the driveway, stepping out of the rolls royce, greeted at the entrance by a disheveled housekeeper, her hand on your wrist. “ma'am, he's—he’s distressed.” she shook her head, unsure of what to do, looking to you for next steps. “its alright.” you mediated without hesitation. “ill speak with him. thank you for your help.” you dropped your purse, turning down the hallway, eyes widening at the sight of him throwing a punch at your secretary—narrowly missing, nearly losing his balance. “subong!” you exclaimed. “subong!” you yelled, voice cracking, grabbing his shirt to turn him towards you. “what—what happened?” “they were trying to inject me with something!” his voice boomed throughout the acoustics of the house, turning around and pointing at the staff surrounding you. “i woke up, and they were sticking a needle into me while i was fucking asleep!”

“subong,” your hands laid on his chest, trying to bring his attention back to you, but also ground yourself from your suffocating nerves from the escalating situation. “subong—listen to me. its an iv. they were just doing what i told them to—” “i don’t need that shit!” he interrupted stubbornly, a nasty snarl on his face. “i’m perfectly fine.” “without it, you wouldn’t even be able to stand right now—” “i’m fucking fine!” he yelled at you, making you gasp. “i don’t need this bullshit! if anythings going to make me not fucking stand, its this.” he showed you the cut on his arm from when he got up hastily. “look at how they cut me.” he looked at you with widened, wild eyes. “look at how they fucking cut me, baby. they’re out to get me, don’t you see?” you were floored. tears threatened to brew. “out to—subong, no. no.” you shook your head. you balled his shirt in your hands, bottom lip quivering. “i—i know you haven’t look in the mirror in a while.” you spoke quietly, just for him to hear, even as staff stood close by. “but … but i have.” you swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “i see that—i see that i’m losing myself because i’m losing you.” you looked up at him, mouth tugged downward in a frown, tears trailing your supple cheeks. you shrugged your shoulders. “its a truth of the matter, subong.” your breath shook upon an inhale. “there’s no refuting it. i can’t deny it any longer.” you shook your head, beginning to plead: “please don’t say we’re trying to hurt you. i’ve done nothing but try to help, subong. i’ve grown so weary, but i’m trying to hard for you.”

you grabbed subong’s face, desperation so personal that some staff turned away from the sight: “you mean so much to me that it fucking scares me.” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his, stifling a sob. “please, i beg of you, don’t start acting like your father. don’t do that, subong.” you shook your head against his—that’s what woke him the fuck up; snapped him back to reality; terrified him the most. his senses began to clear, muscle memory kicking in as his hands found your lower back, pulling you into him as you cried—simultaneously realizing he’s the reason for that, too. oh, he fucking hated himself. “i won’t.” he shook his head, his sinuses feeling heavier, inhaling sharply through his nostrils. “i won’t, baby. you hear me? i won’t turn into him.” his tone returned to normal, tightening his lips when the bottom one quivered. “i’m sorry.” he whispered, bringing you into his tight embrace. “i’m sorry for scaring you, baby, won’t happen again.”

subong scared himself so badly he didn’t go near the clubbing scene for a few months. after the air settled, you both returning to your shared room, putting a bandage on his arm, sitting in silence in your bed together as the same housekeepers from before cleaned up the tainted iv—the embarrassment seeped into subong’s pores, burying his face into your neck underneath the duvet to hide. he didn’t have the gall to look any of your staff in the eyes, sheepishly asking you to bring lunch and dinner up to eat in your own privacy. you obliged merrily, satisfied to not only see him normal again, but warm, and wanting you. it was the side you never got to see when your friends had one too many at school events, galas, or parties—they were either dragged away by their personnel to prevent furthering tarnishing their family’s reputation, or pushed you away after gaining back consciousness after passing out on the bathroom floor; avoiding confrontation. of course, it wasn’t completely black-and-white, but you would be remised to not feel as if holding subong in your arms after months of seeing him dragged by his own was akin to reaping the fruits of your labor; validated for your efforts. “there was—there was a night where, i think you were in bangkok,” subong’s voice was low, cheek pressed to your chest, head practically hidden underneath the fluffy duvet, encouraged and beloved by the touch of your thumb tracing his cheekbone. “i felt so … my mind was so fucking loud. i could hear it over the music, and it made me so mad. i didn’t … i don’t like that feeling.” you listened carefully, subong continuing after feeling the vibration of your acknowledging hum. “at some point, i just realized that … i didn’t know where i was. i didn't—i didn’t know anyone there. i was out of my fucking mind, finally, but i …” his voice trailed. he closed his eyes when your hand stopped moving. “it felt really heavy.” he said. “i don’t want to feel that way anymore. i don’t want to feel numb.” “you don’t have to.” you told him, goosebumps trailing down his spine when your fingers found his hair. “not with me.”

it felt like everything was falling back into place. subong slept at normal times, spending his days lounging in the backyard, or watching whatever series caught his eye on your plasma smart tv, waiting peacefully for you to come home. he mended his relationship with your staff, not necessarily apologizing (the emotions were too layered to him to even begin unpacking), but leaving subtle signs of thanks: attempting to make the bed himself after he woke up, only to give up halfway when the top of the duvet wouldn’t fold in the way he wanted it too, or the way housekeepers always leave it so tidy; not taking that big of a portion when the in-house chefs prepare lunch every day at 1:30 pm on the dot, retreating back to his spot in the sitting room upstairs to watch his show at a lower volume for reasons he can’t pinpoint. he inevitably returned to the kitchen when his stomach grumbled an hour later, shocked to see a fresh batch of fries left for him on the granite counter with the sauce they know he loves; or waving politely after he woke up from his power nap in the hammock, seeing the gardeners tend to the bushes.

it felt good to come home to him, making the sweetest and steamiest of love before bed. on days your schedule was more lax, subong kept you in bed as long as he could, stuck until mid-morning with kisses and wandering hands. “don’t leave. haven’t gotten my fill yet.” his breath was warm against you, lips adorning your face and lips, palm resting comfortably on your ass. “you corny ass motherfucker.” you giggled, laughing when the vibrations of his chuckle tickled your neck. you joined him in watching his series at dinner, humorously baffled by the dramatics of what played out on screen before you, even more so when you looked to your right and saw he was locked the fuck in, eyes glued to the television as he ate his pasta, watching the female lead tell her friend off about dating one of her exes behind her back. it was an endearing scene seeing your man, decadent in various tattoos and known for the gnarliest of bars at times and fucked like he was in heat, humming in affirmation with the character he agreed with. “i didn’t know you liked soap operas.” you said, taking a bite of your pasta. “you’re forgetting i was raised by an eighty-three year old.” he answered with a full mouth, swallowing. “now shhh. i’ve been waiting to her to talk her shit—her friend’s been a bitch from the start.” “okay, okay. sorry.” you said, holding in your laughter.

you celebrated your nine months together just like this: his arm around you on the couch, clinking your glasses of rosé together, making love when the credits of the movie rolled. he fucked into you deep and good, one of your legs hanging off the edge of the couch as your other foot rested on his lower back, lips entangled, subong egged on by your palms kneading his ass the way he can’t fucking get enough of, guiding him into you. it was beautifully intimate, the room filled with nothing but vulnerable pants and needy slapping of skin—seeing white when your orgasms broke in tandem.

you went to japan for subong’s birthday. it was a four day long trip, spent at a small airbnb used only for sleep and rummaging the cupboards for various snacks you bought upon landing before heading out the door for the day. you and subong spent time like tourists: taking dorky photos in front of tokyo tower (“does it look like i’m holding it?” “not even close, subong.”), bringing him to your personal favorite spots from your frequent travels to the country since you were younger (“i didn’t know cat cafés were a thing?” “well, your life’s about to change, then.”), and eating good food; clinking your glasses of sake together at your favorite luxury sushi bar, surrounded by dark wood accents and gold-toned lighting, sharing a special-made platter. he felt like himself on this trip, ushering in with thirty-third year of life with someone who’s completely changed it. he felt cherished, not only with how his life has turned around, but how he was cared for. it radiated off him like a glow when he stepped out of the bathroom after showering, hair wet and flat on his forehead, surprised to see you with the sweetest smile on your face, holding a small cake with a candle lit, singing the song he didn’t hear much growing up. there was a glimmer in his eyes, kissing your lips fondly after blowing the candle out. i have to get my shit together. for her. he thought to himself. need to get my shit right. maybe it was a reach, or your own form of self-validation, but you could’ve sworn the look in his eyes gave way to his soul starting to heal. it was precisely why you planned the trip to be as personal and intimate, to just focus on yourselves for a little while, away from it all. a voice percolating at the back of your head also worried he might relapse if he stayed home for the occasion, quickly making preparations with your staff shortly after your nine month anniversary.

the day you were set to travel home, you woke early. the jet wouldn’t be ready until one, so you spent the morning living slowly, emptying the cupboards or whatever else was laying about the apartment to make for swift check-out, and also make it to your breakfast reservation on time, which wasn’t either of yours or subong’s strong-suits this trip. you walked past his sleeping state to the bathroom, washing your hands after relieving yourself. before brushing your teeth, however, catching an unsuspecting whiff of your minty toothpaste unexpectedly made your stomach churn—within a flash, you set your toothbrush down on the counter, hurriedly grabbing the small bin by the toilet and retched into it. you were momentarily baffled, looking into the mirror after wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, seeing your watering eyes. “christ,” you whispered, wiping away the unintended tears. you set the bin down, hand reaching for the sink, rinsing your mouth. could’ve been the sushi. my stomach’s never really rested well if i have a certain amount. you thought to yourself, brushing your teeth with slight caution in case you felt sick again. you spit and rinsed your mouth of the foamy toothpaste, gurgling away the lingering sting in your throat.

you dabbed your mouth dry with a towel, pressing down on the bottom right corner of the mirror, opening it and fishing out your face wash, moisturizer, and other skincare from the makeshift cabinet. could it have been the sashimi? you wondered, lathering your face wash in your hands. or perhaps the—hold on, when was the last time i had my period? you froze. your eyes darted around the sink, but in your head, you were going through flashes of the last month. i got it when i was in the netherlands with mom and dad, and that was—your eyes widened—that was two months ago. your lips parted, chest feeling heavier, the remnants of panic beginning to ensue—but if you’ve been taught anything, its how to contain crisis, or at least keep it quiet for long enough. you quickly rinsed your hands, hastily drying them on your shirt, opening the bathroom door. you silently grabbed your phone from the bedside table, hearing subong’s snores, quickly yet quietly closing the bedroom door behind you, dialing your secretary and pacing the living room. “hi. yes, everything’s okay,” you spoke quietly, realizing you just lied to yourself, running your hand over your face, gnawing at your bottom lip. “i need you … i need you to book an appointment with my ob. preferably after we land—this evening, actually. its—its urgent. and, uh,” you swallowed. “please keep it between us for now. thank you.”

you were with child. not long enough to know the sex, but long enough to feel doomsday upon you. you stared out the window blankly on the car ride home, not mustering enough strength to utter a hello to your chauffeur. how could i have been so stupid, and just when things we’re starting to get better … you wiped your tear before it could out itself on your cheek, but it wasn’t enough to mask your frown. you were nowhere near emotionally ready to be a mother, nor was that stage of your life in the consideration of entering your periphery. you wanted to be close with your children whenever you chose to have a family, and not only be a known figure in their lives but a consistent one, unlike your parents. your mother is a consistent force, indeed, but that’s the longstanding issue responsible for molding your psyche and divergent moral compass: she’s a force, not a presence. nothing is normal about the life you were born into and live, and bringing a child into it? now? oh my goodness, and subong … your eyes closed, a long huff leaving your nostrils. you’ve never employed the thought of marriage. plus, was he even the type to do that sort of thing? how would he react, let alone be as a parent? you haven’t introduced him to your parents, let alone the remainder of your immediate family—do i initiate it now that i’m carrying his child? is he in it for the long haul? you pestered in your mind. from the moment you found out you were pregnant, you knew you wouldn’t be a mother. not now. but what really solidified it was your next unabashed thought: i can’t imagine him being a father.

you sat on it for a few days, allowing time to get your things in order and garner the courage to tell subong. the clock was ticking, as there were only so many times you could prevent your muscles from tightening when his hand ghosted over your stomach, or silence the irrational fear that he could smell it on you. or maybe it wasn’t that outlandish, because a week later, he caught you off guard: “i’ll be heading out soon—meeting my mother for lunch before we meet my father at his office.” you walked out of the bathroom, straightening the sleeve of your blouse after washing your hands. “i think i told you last night.” “you did,” said subong, putting his shirt over his head, having woken up a half hour ago. he let out a yawn, stretching his arms. “won’t leave me alone for too long, will you?” he asked. “course not.” you smiled. you walked over, hands reaching up, holding his face. “c'mere.” you beckoned sweetly, subong bringing his lips to yours. you giggled when he re-connected the kiss, hands falling to either side of his neck. his hand traveled up your waist, past your stomach and to your chest with the intention of kneading your breast, but the kiss suddenly ended, not giving him enough time to un-pucker his lips fully. his gaze stayed on you, turning around as you entered your closet to pick out a coat. you emerged a few moments later, stepping in front of a nearby body mirror to fix the collar.

“has—uh,” subong, scratched the back of his neck, unsure of how to word this. “has something been bothering you?” you glanced at him through the mirror. “no?” you answered cooly, continuing to fix your collar. “why would i be bothered?” “i don’t know,” subong shrugged his shoulders. “its just—i don’t know … like, did i—did i do something? you just seem, like …” you turned around, looking at him. subong’s eyes scattered around the floor, trying to find the words. “like something’s on your mind.” he said, meeting your gaze. you jutted out your bottom lip slightly, shaking your head, calm since there wasn’t any indication that he knew, or put the pieces together. “no,” you repeated. it would look off if you didn’t reciprocate: “has something been on your mind, baby?” you asked, coming up to him, hands traveling up his biceps before resting on his shoulders—perhaps your subconscious attempting to butter him up, eyes raking his face for any sign. any. “no, no,” subong shook his head, looking down as his hands made their usual residence on your hips—a good sign. “its just that . . .” he thought aloud. “you’ve been getting a little … uncomfortable when—when i touch, or get close to you, lately.” “uncomfortable?” you questioned softly. “but you’re touching me right now.” you teased with a smile, making him chuckle. “yeah,” he nodded, grinning. “but thats not—thats not what i meant. i wouldn’t say you’re … ignoring me, but, its like you’re different. or something.” a hand of yours came up, thumb tracing his cheekbone. “i’m okay, subongie.” “are you, though?” he asked, not leaning in to your touch. you nodded, second hand coming up to hold either side of his face. “i am.” you say, looking into his eyes. “i promise.”

subong takes a beat to respond, watching your face intently. he nodded, albeit with a tinge of reluctance: “okay. c'mere.” he said, leaning down, capturing your lips with his. his palms slid down to your ass, groping like muscle memory, smacking down lightly on your right globe. you let out a small yelp, followed by a sweet-sounding chuckle. he brings your lips back to his without a moment’s hesitation. “love you too much, you know that?” he murmured, hand coming up to hold your cheek. “love you too much, too.” you said. subong’s hand trailed down your chest, knuckles brushing past your stomach to hold your waist—you ended the kiss, your lips finding his cheek. “have to go. will be late.” you muttered, giving his other cheek a kiss for good measure before leaving his embrace. thats exactly what i mean. subong thought to himself, watching you walk to the door. thats what she does when i—wait. he turned his body, raising his finger, vaguely pointing at his temple as the cogs began to turn. “nah, nah.” he muttered, shaking his head, disbelieving—but it was all starting to make sense. you turned around, hand on the doorknob. “hm? did you say something?”

subong walked up to you. “you trust me, right baby?” your hand remained on the doorknob. you nodded, “of course i do.” he blurted it out without thinking: “are you pregnant?” your face went cold; mind blank; paralyzed with surprise and dilapidating fear. you and subong stared at each other. he correctly took it as confirmation. “i’m gonna be a dad?” he questioned; his tone the utmost gentle, the realization hitting him, smile widening with each passing second. “i’m gonna be a dad!” he repeated, only this time as a statement; a true fact. a housekeeper overheard him on the other side of the closed door, stopping dead in her tracks, caddy with cleaning supplies in hand. subong embraced you tightly, his sounds of awe and excitement invading your ears like a war siren. you were immobile in his grasp, utterly terrified: how am i going to tell him i don’t want to be a mother right now? as if on cue, the universe decided to remind you if its cruel sense of humor: “i guess pills don’t fix anything for anyone, huh baby?” subong exhaled, his remark both tragically self-referential and darkly humorous. you closed your eyes in defeat, landing your forehead on his shoulder—all the while, your hand stayed on that doorknob.

“subong…” you said meekly. “yeah, baby?” he lifted his head. his face dropped a little; a tad confused. “hey,” his hand held your cheek, ushering you to look at him. “everything okay—” he cut himself off at the sight of your regretful, teary face. “you’re not…” his voice trailed. “you’re not thinking of—” “—i’m nowhere near ready to be a mother, subong.” you shook your head, looking at him pleadingly. he looked at you with an unreadable expression before sharply turning and walking away wordlessly, beginning to pace in front of the balcony doors. “subong,” you called for him, your hand finally leaving the doorknob. you walked over to him across the room, “subong, just please listen to me—” “how long have you known?” he asked, impatient. “how long have you known?” “since we came back from japan.” he stared at you indignantly: “you’re telling me you’ve known this entire time?” his voice was eerily leveled; calm, but pointed. he pointed to the bed: “you’re telling me you slept next me, knowing you have my fucking kid inside you, and didn’t think to fucking tell me?” “i was going to tell you soon, subong.” you said earnestly. “but i just—i just wasn’t ready yet.” “the fuck were you waiting for, huh?” he retorted sharply, leaning closer to you. “when you have your appointment at the clinic, and i’m in the rolls royce with my head hanging in shame?”

you were appalled at his vulgar, inflammatory rhetoric laced with misunderstanding. “if you’re looking for me to bow my head in shame and apologize for having autonomy, you’re out of luck.” you raised your finger, wagging it with your shaking head, returning his energy. subong scoffed, but you remained defiant: “i’m not ready to be a mother, and i’m not going to have this baby just because you bullied me into it.” “bullied?” he was baffled, repeating your word back to you with a smug, humored expression. “maybe i missed something, but how does me caring about my kid make me a fucking villain?” “because you’re not respecting the wishes of our child’s mother.” “you have everything!” subong exclaimed, he pointed throughout your bedroom—a gesture meant to extend through the entire guesthouse and neighboring estate. “the best schools, the biggest fucking houses,” he listed on his fingers, looking at you with wide, begging eyes. “nannies, chefs, and even dogs! what’s the problem here?” “for starters, you’re not listening to me.” you pointed at his face when he scoffed and rolled his eyes, speaking more firmly to keep his attention: “secondly, just because i can, doesn’t mean i should! i don’t wan’t to be like my mother, subong.” you said, planting your palm against your chest. he looked down at you with a tightened jaw, face stoic. “distant, severed, thinking i know everything when i haven’t the faintest fucking clue.” you shook your head. “that’s not me—i know it isn’t. but … if i have this baby right now, subong … in the middle of my phd, when i don’t even have a place of my own yet—or a sense of it, rather … i’m afraid that’s what i’ll inevitably turn into. i don’t want that. a child doesn’t deserve that.”

“you’ll be a good mother.” he spoke in an absolute, tone subtly argumentative. “don’t hold yourself back.” “i’m not holding myself!—” you exclaimed, cutting yourself off out of frustration. you pinched your nose, “i’m not ‘holding myself back,’ subong. i’m being honest. i’m being for real.” subong stared at you like you were an equation to solve, arms crossed against his chest, looking down at you past his nose. tainted by his re-surfaced insecurities that never really went away, only buried underneath the safety blanket of good times and even better sex, did his inferiority complex start coming back in full swing. he felt his chest inflame with his all-too-familiar clouded sense of logic, coming to a conclusion that made sense to him, but nearly left you speechless: “do you want to break up with me? is that what this is? you don’t want to be with me anymore?” “what!?” you looked around the room like a camera crew was going to come out. “how did you even deduce that from—” “what am i supposed to do, huh?” subong felt the power of the conversation return to his hands—running with it entirely. “see you on social media, or in some magazine at the fucking convenience store with some rich guy, knowing you’re pregnant with my fucking son, like the orange-haired cuck from 'boys over flowers'—” “—we don’t even know if its a boy or a girl yet!—” “—you were always embarrassed of me, anyway. you never told your parents about us, right?” “you know exactly why i haven’t done so.” “oh, really? do your charity of reminding me.” he said condescendingly.

you tut, shaking your head, expression annoyed. “don’t act like you have selective hearing or some shit. don’t go and weaponize your incompetence in front of me.” “speak fucking normally, man.” subong ran his hands over his face. “this is my normal!” you exclaimed, pointing at the carpeted floors. “this is what we bonded over, on my bed, after you basically became the first person i’ve ever had sex with.” your voice descended into a whisper, gesturing to your bed behind you. “our parents don’t see us as people, subong. we only exist for them to project their failures onto.” “we can fix that with our kid.” “are you even ready to be a father!?” you blurted out, riddled with frustration. “do you have an iota of a clue of what that entails, subong?” he leaned down, getting up in your face. “the only thing our parents taught us is how to not be like them.” he said, staring into your eyes. you stood your ground. he shook his head, “so don’t tell me how to be a father to our son.” “you’re so adamant about proving yourself that you don’t have room to employ the thought that she might be a girl, who’s scared shitless like her mother?” “listen, i know things.” he tapped his temple with his finger. “and i know some part of you has always seen me as some fucking joke, or this low-life to play with—”

“where are you getting this?” you were floored, crossing your arms over your chest; horrendously, deeply offended. “where, subong? where!?” you demanded, jaw fallen. “is me—is me going to your performances week after week making you a joke? how about the studio i booked for you, or the five fucking attorneys i had on standby to protect you after someone else in the competition concocted a lie to piss you the fuck off?” you cut him off when he attempted to speak over you. “if you’re the jokester, and i’m the one who played with you or dressed you up like a doll or whatever you’re saying, then give me back the rolex that you hate wearing so much.” you put out your palm. “matter of fact, give me those cuban links you slept in for days, the bottegas that became infused with your head, and i’ll book a dentist’s appointment to get those tooth gems off, too.” “fuck off, man.” subong dismissed. “yeah, fuck you too.” you bit back, scoffing, running your hands through your hair.

silence filled the room. you turned around, pacing back and forth, looking over your shoulder, seeing his face in his hands. “we can’t be reckless, subong.” you said. “oh, but we can be reckless enough for me to fill you with my cum?” he clapped back, looking up at you. “you need to pick one: be the mother of my kid or be a fucking whore.” you had enough: “who are you!?” you yelled suddenly, sound so visceral from your chest that your voice cracked. “what is this?” you questioned, directionless. “this—this hostility, these insults, these—you’re just being mean, at this point. no attempt at productive conversation, or being fucking adults. we’ve never talked about getting married, let alone starting a family! where’s this sudden interest coming from, subong? like—” you held your hands out in front of you, unable to think of the words immediately. “that’s not—that’s not where we are in our relationship right now.”

“what are you doing?” a senior housekeeper climbed the stairs, turning the corner to see the newer recruit outside of your door. “have you finished this floor?” “yes, but i—” she was internally freaking out, pointing to the door, but cut off. “have you let her know she’ll be late meeting her madam chairman? its almost one.” “i was just—”“its alright, let me do it.” there was a knock on the door, both you and subong turned your heads. “ma'am?” you heard her voice. “may i come in?” you walked to the door, opening it about halfway. “is everything alright?” you asked. your eyes were on the senior staffer who you’ve known since your early adolescence, whereas the new recruit looked as if she’d just been handed the nuclear codes. “its almost one. you’ll be late for lunch with madam chairman.” “right, thank you.” you nodded. “i’ll be out in a minute.” “like the fuck you are!” subong yelled as you closed the door. “jesus, subong!” you yelled back, the sudden ordeal making the senior housekeeper’s eyebrows raise, and the newer one wince. “what’s that all about?” the senior wondered aloud, planting her hands on her hips. “she’s pregnant.” the younger one blurted. the color drained from the senior’s face. “god almighty.”

“you have servants telling you your fucking mealtimes.” subong gestured to the door, other hand at his side. “out-of-touch bitch.” “if you insult me one more time, i’ll rut this conversation deeper into the ground more than you already have with no chance of resurfacing.” you walked up to him, pointing to his chest. this isn’t your first time at this rodeo; disrespected by insults used to mask the other’s incompetence. “don’t push it, subong.” you ordered, shaking your head. “not with me.” he swallowed, but didn’t say anything. you let out a breath, feeling punctured now that there was enough room for the weight of the conversation to settle. “i’m not ready to be a mother, subong.” you told him sincerely, voice fragile, only for him to hear. “i—i can’t do it. not right now.” his eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowing. “what is wrong with you?” he questioned, genuinely curious. “people would kill to have your life. all this help you have—you live like royalty.” your chest sunk: he still wasn’t fucking getting it. “what good does it do if i still feel like a child myself sometimes, subong?” you took a step closer to him, palms laying on his chest as you looked up at him. “you said it yourself the night we met: i don’t look like i belong here, because i feel like i don’t. what good would it do to bring a child into that?”

“so its my fault, then? everything’s my fault?” he retorted lowly, tilting his head to the side, raising his eyebrows. “its not my fault you were locked away your entire fucking life.” “i’m not saying it is,” you said, losing patience. “but what i am saying is that i’ve told you repeatedly how i feel, yet you’re ignoring that. i don’t know what you want me to say to make it clear to you.” “i’m not ignoring shit,” he shook his head. “because what i’m hearing is that you’re trying to take my son away from me.” “i’m going to go fucking crazy.” you took your hands off his chest in makeshift surrender. “you’re talking in circles. i don’t have time for this.” you turned around, attempting to walk to the door, but subong stopped you, expression soured and defiant: “you’re not taking my son away from me! hey!” he grabbed your wrist, only for you to yank it out of his grasp. “you’re not taking shit—” “what if she’s a girl!” you yelled, turning sharply to subong, eyes glossy. “huh?” your vision blurred, blinking back the tears. “what if she’s a fucking girl, subong!?” “then i’ll be dad of the fucking year to her!” subong yelled back louder, making you wince; the two housekeepers outside unable to move.

silence brewed. it was subong’s turn to feel the weight of current circumstance. he was not only in a rush to win, but helplessly trying to find the fucking words. his breathing intensified with each passing second—he wanted this, he wanted this baby. the nuanced reasons as to why he would unpack later, if at all. could it be the fact that he would be tied to an absurdly wealthy family for the rest of his life, that he never thought about taking that next step but now that its here he’s game, or was this his chance at really renewing his life with you—perhaps all three? whatever it was, he leads with conviction; adamant. “don't—don’t i have a say in any of this?” he questioned, fingers on his chest for emphasis. “i mean,” he looked around the room, clueless, licking his lips in his disbelief. “i feel like i’m being told just to take it. just sit there, and take it.” he pushed at nothing to his left, honing his point. you crossed your arms over your chest, watching him carefully. “you’ve been fucked by and are fucking with someone who doesn’t fucking quit.” he wagged his finger, a dead serious look in his eyes. “you wanna get married? great, we can go to the courthouse and be back in time for dinner with your parents. you want a husband? i will kiss your feet to pay my debt to you, if thats what you fucking want.” “no, subong,” you shook your head. “thats not the—” “listen to me,” subong cut you off, stepping closer, fingers traveling from your elbows up your arms to keep your attention. “this might…” he took a breath, meeting your eyes. “this might be what sets me right, baby.”

your phone rang and rang in the second floor sitting room, where you left it after having breakfast earlier in the morning. “brat.” your mother tsked under her breath, sitting in the dining room nearest to the main entryway of the family house, clicking her phone off and setting it face-down on the table. it was nearly fifteen minutes past the time she told you to arrive for lunch. she tapped her foot, sitting with herself, until inevitably ringing you again. “are we supposed to touch that?” asked the younger housekeeper, shocked at how unapologetically her senior picked up your ringing phone perpetually displaying the contact name Mommy. “its a phone, not an explosive.” said the senior, walking out of the sitting room, her younger counterpart following closely behind. “come, i’ll give it to her.”“you want to take a gamble on something this serious?” you asked subong, staring into his eyes, expression unamused and unreadable. he’s more far out of reach than i thought, you inner monologue voiced. you were appalled at his proposition, to the point where you couldn’t gather enough care to raise your voice to to properly heard. because what was the point? the man before you was long gone from any logical voice of reason. he wasn’t listening to you nor himself—blatantly disregarding the tumultuous last few months that you picked up the pieces from. you were sick of this, unbelievably over it. subong wasn’t getting it, or choosing not to, and at some point it doesn’t become your fault anymore. you could only find so many words—plead so many times. but he continued pushing: “that’s not—” subong tried to combat, shaking his head. “that’s not what i meant.”

“i want you to keep our baby.” “no you don’t, subong.” “yes, i do!” he said back sharply. “relying on some innocent kid to fix you? why don’t you set yourself straight right fucking now!” the senior housekeeper went to knock on your door, stopping abruptly upon hearing your raised voice. “i was the one that saw you at those clubs. i was the one that got those calls saying you were face first in a bush, or laying by a dumpster. i was the one who washed you off after you soiled yourself.” you ended in a whisper, afraid if you spoke any louder, a damn would break loose from your eyes. your manicured nail dug into his chest, breath shaking. “and i never got a thank you. not even once.” his bottom lip quivered, breathing jagged through his nostrils. “my love, you’ve upended my life.” your hands traveled past his shoulders, up his neck, landing on either side of his face. “you have changed me for the better.” you grinned, letting your tears fall. subong didn’t move an inch; his face stoic, eyes glossy. “but this … this i can’t accept. i can’t do it, subong.” you shook your head. “please, try to understand. for me.” a beat went by before subong leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. you let out a small breath of relief at his movement, keeping his touch with your hand on the back of his head. “please.” you sniffled, voice delicate. subong licked his teeth, swallowing, eyes closed to keep his own frustrated tears at bay. “i’m not falling into line.” he told you. you let out a sob of utmost defeat. he opened his eyes, vision blurry. subong’s voice remained leveled: “you hear me?” he blinked hard, watching you cry. it was brutal, but he would rather perish than not protect himself, especially in sensitive situations like this. there was so much at stake. he was going to do everything he could to keep himself on that pedestal, even if it meant chipping away at your sense of worth. he planned on talking you in circles until his tongue ran dry and you went mute, and with how you looked now—posture cowered, shoulders lowered, face hidden—he seemed a good chunk of the way there.

“i’m not—” you cut him off with a brash push against his chest, walking away and behind him, stopping shortly before the balcony doors. “you’re breaking my heart, subong.” you cleared your throat, wiping whatever of your foundation came off after dabbing the remnants of tears away with your fingertips on your coat. “you’re really doing a number here.” your phone hadn’t rang since the housekeepers retrieved it. unbeknownst to anyone in the guesthouse, your mother was currently making her way down the hill, shooing away the family dogs at their attempt to follow her, beckoned away by staff. a guesthouse staffer saw her walk down the pavement and turn the corner to the nearest entrance, alerting everyone accordingly. “madam chairman is outside!” someone called from below. “what!?” the senior housekeeper looked over her shoulder, eyes widening. she made herself dizzy from how quickly she bolted down the stairs. the younger recruit ran to the banister lining the landing, dropping her caddy in panic.

“you know what, subong,” you sniffled, facing him as he turned to face you from across the room. you swallowed, straightening your posture, crossing your arms over your chest. it was time to bare your truth, no matter how ruthless it was: “this is precisely the reason why you’re the last person that should ever be a father.” subong’s anger turned sinister. you’d really done it this time. his eyebrows furrowed, lips slightly parted, eyes narrowing as his head tilted in basking in your, to him, utter audacity to say such a thing. “what did you just say?” he spoke quietly, jaw tightening. “it was one of the first thoughts i had when i found out i was pregnant, actually.” you said cooly, looking around at the walls, purposefully ignoring him. “sitting alone in my car, thinking how i could’ve been stupid enough to get knocked up. i know what your dumbass is going to say: oh, 'you asked for it, you begged me for my cum,’ just because it made me cum, doesn’t mean i’m going to reap what i sow, especially when there’s a fucking alternative i know that i want. if you don’t like it, i don’t have anything left to say to you on the matter. i just don’t.” you shrugged your shoulders. before he could interject, you raised your hand. “and i’m not saying you should leave, or that you should fall in line, or whatever fucking else you’re going to make up, because i don’t know who you think you are thinking you can talk to me like that.” you shook your head disapprovingly, standing your ground when he walked up to you. “that’s not going to fly by me. especially from a grown man like you. after everything i’ve done for you, too.”

“there really is something fucking missing up here.” subong rapidly tapped his temple in reference to yours. “i should have known from the first time i saw you all alone at that party.” “you were alone too!” you shouted back, gesturing at him with your hand. “we are one in the same, subong!” he ignored that, saying whatever statement came to mind; the sharpest weapon in his arsenal, personal attacks: “you were so desperate when we met,” he shook his head, playing up his pity. “asking me if i go out, looking at me with those sad fucking eyes.” he gestured to your face with his fingers, going right back into place after you attempted to shove them away with an air of annoyance. “after i showed up for you, time and time again—at your house, in your car, after a performance, ate your pussy until i nearly got fucking lockjaw, fucked you when i thought my dick was gonna split in two—” he listed off on his fingers. “got on a plane whenever you wanted, listened to you talk about things that don’t make sense for so-fucking-long!” towards the end he became genuinely frustrated, running his hands over his face dramatically. “oh my god—that was one of the worst parts.” his voice was muffled. he lifted his head, not even looking at you. “you need to know no one gives a fuck about your phd, baby, holy shit.”

“oh,” you nodded, tilting your head. “is that why you stuck to me like glue, and fucked me like a rabbit when i got back from south africa?” “i was a different person back then.” he muttered. you scoffed pitifully, “you’re such a bad liar, subong. sometimes you just talk to hear yourself speak.” “and you don’t!?” his eyebrows raised. “with yours galas and trips and study abroads and shit—man, who the fuck cares?” “that was just me telling you about my life!” “crazy fucking life you live,” he paced from the balcony doors to you. “all this money. all these resources, and you still don’t know anything about the real world. i should’ve known messing around with someone younger would fuck me over.” he shook his head to himself. “says the one who tells me he loves me, and calls himself an old man as an insult any chance he gets.” you rolled your eyes. “how convenient it must be for you to switch it up now.”

you hit him where it always hurts for men like subong: his pride. “you were horrendous in italy.” you tutted. “i thought getting with someone older meant you’d’ve been more sure of yourself; more secure. but then you let some twenty-four year old wall street wannabe run you like a circus animal. how ludicrous.” you shook your head. his chest gurgled with shame, heart irate. “you’re not gonna use that against me.” subong wanted to seem unaffected, but his subdued tone gave him away. “because i know damn well you liked that shit.” in the back of his head, he wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince you or himself more. before you registered it, you lied: “it was embarrassing.” you said, looking up at him pitifully. you weren’t helping his case against the supposed truth behind your intentions: am i project to her? was i just an accessory, proof that she’s open-minded and fucking charitable? was i just work to her—a hobby? subong’s utmost pet peeve was being made to feel stupid, the ultimate dumbass. to have his feelings or lack thereof used against him by whatever means; made to feel small, inconsequential; a ploy. he wasn’t going to be pulled up by strings like a marionette anymore, no, it was time for him to go in for the kill; tell his own lie to knock you down a peg, or several. he leaned down, face centimeters away from yours. “you should’ve fucked him.” he spoke lowly, nodding. “i should’ve given up our room as soon as i saw him grope you with his eyes.” subong watched you intently, tongue poking his inner cheek. you didn’t know where he was going with this, but you stood and matched his energy nonverbally; shoulders back, posture undeterred.

he leaned in closer, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. “that way i wouldn’t think twice about fucking a groupie once we got back.” you started to crumble, hating how fast your eyes watered. what was once a look of power became one of crippling humiliation—perhaps akin to your earliest memories of being picked on on the playground asphalt, but none more-so than the realization of if push comes to shove, he’s just like the rest of them. maybe you truly hadn’t the faintest clue of what it was like to be human, because at any chance it got, the universe humbled you in the most visceral of ways at any attempts of normalcy. or maybe i am young and naive, you thought to yourself, feeling your waterline give way. because some part of me still wants to fight for him, though he has no qualms with hurting me. “you don’t mean that.” you whispered. you shook your head, “you don’t mean—” “—i do. i fucking do.” subong lied through his teeth, nodding vigorously, keeping his momentum. “they would’ve sucked me dry knowing i have the most insecure bitch at home.” you let out a quiet sob. subong didn’t hold back: “and i would’ve loved every fucking second of it.” “s-stop! stop it!” you cried out, voice cracking. subong stood up straight, watching you with a satisfied expression. it was a necessary evil, he felt, even if he had to fight the tingling of his underarms in thwarting the urge to hold you. thats what you fucking get.

“madam chairwoman!” the senior housekeeper let out a flurry of quick breaths after scurrying down the long hall. “i didn’t expect—” “where is my daughter?” your mother asked bluntly, fixing her watch. “she’s upstairs, madam chairwoman.” said the housekeeper. “she’ll be right down—” “why do you have her cell phone?” your mother asked sharply. the housekeeper’s heart dropped, knowing what this looked like. “it was ringing in the upstairs sitting room as ma'am left it there after having breakfast earlier this—” your mother snatched it from her hand. “do we pay you to invade our privacy?” she scolded. “no, madam chairwoman. my apologies.” she bowed her head, hands in front of her. after a moment, your mother let out an unimpressed breath. “you said she’s in her bedroom. has she been there this entire time?” “yes.” the housekeeper answered without thinking, panic ensuing when your mother walked away without an additional word. you pushed past subong, standing near the bathroom—you needed to be as far from him as possible, completely overwhelmed. “y-you’re being so mean.” you wiped your tears, breath shaky. “i don't—i don’t know where this is coming from. i thought you loved me.” saying that last sentence aloud, though true, made you feel like a silly, impressionable young girl; too hopeful for the world, to keen on fantasies. “this is how i’ve always been!” subong exclaimed. “until you came in and … and—” he curled his fingers above his chest, looking around as if the words would present themselves to him. “fuck!” he shouted, outwardly frustrated at his ineptitude, running his hands messily through his hair before looking at you with widened eyes. “until you came in and changed me!” “i didn’t change you!” you shouted back. “i brought you into my life and had to save you from yourself!” there it was.

your mother noticed how empty the guesthouse was, keeping her thoughts to herself; ignoring all of the senior housekeeper’s attempts to get her attention. it really kicked in when she was walking up the stairs: “madam—madam chairwoman.” the housekeeper scurried, trying to think of anything. her younger counterpart was just as panicky as she was. when they turned the corner at the landing, she became desperate: “don't—don’t go in there!” she blurted, terrified when your mother stopped in her footsteps. “you’re telling me where to go in my own home?” she asked, voice eerily leveled. before she could answer, your mother continued walking, moving past the newer recruit without an iota of acknowledgement. “madam—madam chairwoman! please!” the senior sped up, narrowly beating her to the door. your mother looked thoroughly offended. “there's—she’s having a sensitive conversation!” “out of my way!” your mother scolded, aghast, not yet registering the commotion behind the door. “how dare you! what kind of circus is she running here?”

“i loved—i love you!” you yelled at subong. “forgive me if i don’t want to be bloated with your fucking baby!” you balled your fists by your sides, forcing your voice out of your diaphragm. “like anyone would be able to tell the difference, you fucking bitch!” he yelled right back, dismissing you with a wave before turning his back to you, putting his hands on his hips. you didn’t cry—you wanted to set the entire world on fire with how irate you felt. “stop acting like its my fault you forgot those stupid fucking lyrics, motherfucker!” you screamed with everything left in you. subong looked over his shoulder with a wild expression, turning to you to add fuel to the fire—the door opened; the world coming to a sudden halt.

your mother looked at subong with an air of we meet at last. it wasn't one of excitement or unexpected joy, but radical disdain. she was overtly unimpressed; face so stoic it was unnerving, making him switch his weight from one foot to the other awkwardly. she already knew everything there is to know about subong through the nonchalant and undetectable abrasive wielding of her private investigators—"a thirty-three year old who's from a relatively penurious yet moderately respectable neighborhood in the city. he was honorably discharged after eighteen months of mandatory service shortly before his thirty-first birthday, and continues to pursue a music career in a myriad of ways. he has a distant relationship with his family and embattles addiction and debt; most likely meeting your daughter at a party."—to her own opinions of him, molded through photos on her ipad, keeping tabs on her children their entire lives, and looked at her with nothing but briefs and a shirt on in a house that cost more to remodel than it did to construct: pest. he wasn't even worth a raise of her eyebrow.

no one had to be a genius to know your mother was your mother. she held an aura captivating what hillary clinton couldn't be, but everything margaret thatcher wishes she was. dressed to the nines on a sunday afternoon—old-fashioned yet dripped out in the finest navy blue chiffon pantsuit tucked underneath a matching floor-length coat, adorned with one of her favorite brooches on the left side of the jacket's collar. she let out an uninterested exhale through his nostrils, deliberately fixing her hair with her left hand; subong catching sight of the sapphire. she looked at you, unamused. "you're late." she said, handing you your phone. "s-sorry, mom." you muttered, pocketing your phone. you were to the point of emotional exhaustion where you needed to just get away from subong, not necessarily registering the possibility your mother might have overheard the details of the shouting match. to your luck, she hadn't. "let's—let's go." you attempted to usher her out of the door—the housekeepers stood at a distance at the banister—but she saw the slivers of wetness on your cheeks, even after your brazen wiping; a mother could sense it anywhere. she stopped you: "have you been crying?" she asked. "mom, i'm okay. let's just go—" her hand held your arm. "did he hurt you?" "what?" you knew what she meant and were quick to correct it, taken aback. "no, mom. are you serious? he's done nothing but—" "—you can't be fucking serious, man." subong muttered to himself, running his hands over his face. he took a few steps towards you two. "do i look like i'd do that to a woman?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed, genuinely offended. he kept going despite your mother not looking at him through your continued attempt of assuring her truthfully. "is it because i have tattoos, or my hair? judgmental bitch."

"subong!" you exclaimed, appalled. "you're not exactly making a good first impression here!" your mother was undeterred, keeping her focus on you: let him keep showing her his true colors. maybe then, she'll realize. she thought to herself. "i'm not just going to let people insult me!" he blurted out, gesturing back and forth between himself and your mother. "you write insults for a living, you hypocrite!" you bit back. you mother returned her hand to her side, fixing her coat. "at least mine are tasteful! this shit was unprovoked!" "don't act so puritan!" you said back sharply. he waved you off, walking back to the desk. "here you go with these fucking words again—" "don't act like you're resolved of all . . . or—or all goddamn—all high and mighty!" you worked against an invisible timer, making your mother pinch the bridge of her nose. "you're the one who started fights backstage, and—and had that lyric they couldn't re-upload after the show!" "i told you: they censored me!" subong bickered with you back and forth, effectively forgetting your mother was there in a matter of seconds, rapidly sucked back into your own worlds. you took a step forward, waving your hand dismissively. "jesus christ—don't amuse me with acting like you know what that word means." "i do!" subong raised his voice, parring with yours, "because that's what happened to me!" you scoffed, silence filling the room. "this is who you want to spend your life with?" she asked lowly. "hm? someone who acted a complete dunce on that stage?"

it clicked in your head, but not subong's. "how do you . . . how does she know—" "again?" you asked your mother, unsurprised yet offended nonetheless. "you did it again, mom? after i told you not to last time?" "she did what again?" subong tried to be heard, but just looked between you and her cluelessly. "baby, what did she—" "am i not to know who my daughter surrounds herself with? brings into her home?" "you always frame it this way." you rolled your eyes, shaking your head. "am i not my own person? i'm closer to thirty than i am fifteen." "clearly you haven't done much maturing since then, considering your home is akin to a circus and you surround yourself with such unpredictable, unreliable characters. out of the woodworks, i tell you." your mother quipped back without hesitation. "your father and i worked diligently to have such promising men court you—" "—see, that's the problem! your use of the word 'work,' its not supposed to feel that way! and they were never what i wanted!" "are the tears what you wanted?" she gestured to your face. "for me to come and collect you like an orphaned street dog? is that what i raised you to be? is this what i wanted you to be like when you became older?"

"hey! hey!" subong got your attention back. "what did she do again? hm?" he asked quickly, nervously glancing at your mother, who hadn't spared him another look just yet. "you also said 'like last time.' have you been with someone like me before?" "no, subong," you shook your head, thoughts fragmented from balancing both conversations. "i just meant—just meant in general." you muttered. "in general? what do you—" "my life—my life's kept track of. i don't know how else to say it." "i'm looking out for you. don't speak of it as some sort of hinderance." your mother interjected, staring at you. "it is the utmost definition." you said, seeing her shake her head disapprovingly. "goes to oxford, thinks she knows everything." she tutted under her breath; one of her favorite lines. "your life is tracked?" subong was bewildered, looking at your mother with a tinge of fear. would she know . . . no—don't go there. not yet. "jesus, baby. the fuck kind of family do you have?"

"don't you dare speak ill of this family!" your mother warned, pointing at subong, startling him somewhat. he didn't say anything. neither did you. she closed her eyes, taking a breath, regaining her composure. she turned to you, locating her voice of reason. "he's a grown man." "yes, and i'm a grown woman." you answered, unwavering. your mother let out a small huff. "fine." she said. "but, paying for his healthcare? buying him clothing? bringing him to our family home in italy? introducing him to my mother before me?" you crossed your arms over your chest, avoiding eye contact. "grandmother liked him. a lot." you muttered. your mother didn't cower—pushing the metaphorical knife even deeper. she took a step closer to you, her unrelenting gaze making your face burn. "naked in the same pool you learned how to swim in?" she spoke quietly, making sure you heard her. subong's face dropped. her family's fucked in the head. you sucked in a quick breath, eyes widening. "defiling the car your father and i bought you? for everyone to see?" "mom, stop—" "quiet!" she exclaimed, making you gasp. it was all purposeful: embarrassing you in front of an effective audience comprised of staff and the man you love. subong hadn't seen anything like it before, even in his own tumultuous upbringing—it was always shocking to see someone so sure of themselves cower to those they shouldn't, no matter how contradictory his own behavior may be. all those stories he heard . . . all those frustration rants you went on . . . none could effectively illustrate the dynamic more than seeing it firsthand. it was hard to watch, even for him.

"i didn't raise you to be indecent." your mother said. "to be so foully promiscuous. you should be ashamed." don't apologize. subong thought to himself. don't fucking— "i'm sorry." you said in a whisper. subong's eyes closed in second-hand defeat, running his hands through his hair. your mother studied your face carefully, her next words kicking subong's adrenaline into action: "i'll have the ndas ready within the hour. he can sign, and this'll all be behind us—" "what? no, mom, i don't want to break—" "i'm not signing shit!" subong exclaimed, shaking his head. "i'm afraid you have no choice." your mother said to him without raising her head to meet his eyes. "not when—" he began to say, the desperation in his eyes rivaling the pleading in yours. don't, you thought, shaking your head. "please." you whispered, looking at him. his eyes softened apologetically, but not enough to deter him from putting himself first: "not when she's pregnant with my baby!"

your mother's world collapsed. "you're . . . you're pregnant?" her voice withered like a neglected flower. you have never seen her look so defeated in all of your life—lips parted, thousand yard stare stuck on the carpeted floors, nearly stumbling when taking a step back, losing composure; completely thrown off. it terrified you. as much as her vitriolic rhetoric poisoned your veins, the loss of her familiar stature had you caving like an eight year old lost at the mall: "m-mommy, i'm so scared." you reached for her, teary-eyed. subong couldn't look away from the destruction he had caused, frozen in place. "god almighty—have mercy on me." your mother whispered to herself. she was at a loss for words. she tried to sort through her innate sense of rationale through her now discombobulated head. any parent would tell her to have seen this coming, but you . . . there was always something different about you. her darling second daughter; so beautiful, so kind, incredibly generous. too generous for her standards. not clueless, but a little too trusting. not the smartest person in the room, but with clever tact that could render anyone speechless. her eldest daughter's disciple, but a person in her own right, though your mother had inconsistencies with respecting that fact. graduating with highest distinction at oxford . . . the best at bantering on her entire side of the family . . . her mother's favorite grandchild . . . to amount to this. it was devastating. it was enraging.

"you silly, silly girl!" she swatted at your arms, making you gasp. the housekeepers looked in horror. "h-hey! hey—stop!" subong stepped in, moving on autopilot, pulling you to him. caught off guard by how quickly everything escalated, you didn't immediately recognize his embrace, but he tried to capture your attention. "you—you okay?" "w-what?" you asked, a little disoriented. your mother grabbed your arm, yanking you away from him, making you stumble. "get away from her! you've tainted her enough!" she looked him dead in the eyes for the first time since walking in. she then turned to you; so deeply hurt, feeling so betrayed by your irresponsibility that it was time she showed her true arsenal: "you haven't the faintest clue about him. you don't know what i know." subong started pacing on the other side of the room. you didn't know where to focus—how could things have gone south so fucking quickly? your mother's voice brought you back to her: "this is why you'll never be on your own," she shook her head. "this is will you'll never be ready to be on your own." "i am—i have been!" "and what's come from it!?" she yelled, making you flinch. "look at what you've done! not even a year with a man, and you've gotten yourself an illegitimate child! your sister's marrying in the spring. will you be in your bridesmaid's dress with a bump?" she took a breath. "you're in the middle of your phd. have you forgotten that, or must i remind you how much your father is paying for your seat?" "its impossible for me to forget. the reminders are everywhere. i live in one."

"you've practically sent me into cardiac arrest," your mother laid her palms against her chest. "and you remain blinded by your gall enough to still enact blame on me?" she was fully loaded now: "did he ever tell you about his debt?" subong's head whipped around. he felt his heart drop to his balls. your face went cold. your head shook before you squeaked out a measly answer: "n-no." "baby," subong took a few steps forward, but stopped himself short from going up to you directly. "baby—baby, don't listen to her." your mother let go of your arm, taking a step back, gesturing to subong with her hand. "go on. ask him about his ventures with cryptocurrency. i've had him looked into." she said. "how—shit!" subong cursed aloud, realizing he outed himself like a fucking moron; too much for his mind to keep track of, too much to keep at bay—the dam was going to break eventually. never mind the breach of privacy—he was about to fight for his fucking life. unbeknownst to him, the ship was already sinking.

you went on autopilot. you turned your head to look at him. "is it true?" you asked. you've been hit with so many things this last half-hour, you weren't sure what to feel anymore. you were actively running out of capacity; the small beat of silence allotted an attempt at clarity, but to no avail. subong became stand-offish, posture awkward, suddenly hyperaware of his arms; unsure what to do with his body. "is it true?" you repeated more firmly. his face flinched into one of obscene bitterness—cornered into a moral checkmate with nowhere to go. he could hear the blood trickle into his veins with how quiet it was not only in the bedroom, but the entirety of the guesthouse—perhaps the estate. "f-fuck . . ." he muttered in defeat, head sinking. he hated this feeling with a burning passion, and the sound of your sob, too, pushing him further into exponential ostracism. "subong, please." you begged him for an answer, though his lack of one served more than adequately. you just needed to hear it for yourself. "i—i can't—" "—yes." he said, avoiding your eyes. "its fucking true, okay?"

"how did you—how did you get into it?" "there's this . . . there's this guy on—on youtube." your head sunk. his eyes dodged your disappointed expression. "his name is mg coin—" "what is even happening anymore?" "tell her how much." your mother demanded. "fuck no!" subong retaliated. "you are the father of her child!" she looked nauseous saying that fact, but powered through. "its the least you could do, after all the trouble you've caused!" "listen—" subong walked up to your mother, pointing at her unabashedly. "she wanted to fuck me just as much i wanted to fuck her. don't call me evil because i wanted her. we're not in the wrong for fucking wanting each other!" "my goodness—are you capable of not talking so lewdly?" your mother snapped. "if you won't, then i'll tell her with how much you stole from us." shit. SHIT.

you looked up at him sharply. "you what?" you asked, eyebrows deeply furrowed. his mouth went dry, but he swallowed: "your mom's fucking lying," he only focused on you, taking a step closer, making sure he was your entire line of sight. "that's what you said she does. right, baby? makes you feel bad, even if it isn't true?" he spoke softly, pressing his forehead against yours, hands holding either side of your face. "i'm only here to love you, baby. i'm not perfect, and i know i said some mean shit earlier, but we can work it out. i know we can work it out." he pressed a kiss to your cheek, thumbs tracing your supple skin. focus on me, focus on me. his inner monologue chanted. to your mother, it was a pitiful scene to the point of amusement; metaphorically cracking her knuckles. "you make me feel normal—" "where're your sister's ruby and emerald rings she received from your eldest aunt for her sixteenth birthday?" subong halted his movements. "i haven't been able to find your father's piaget watch since your italian excursion. he wanted to wear it to his yearly stakeholder conference, and asked me to look for his other one, but that was missing, too." your face felt heavy. "some of my earrings have mysteriously vanished as well, including a one-hundred-year-old pearl necklace gifted to me from your father's mother the night before our wedding." "my god!" you felt faint, putting your face in your hands. subong and your mother stared at one another with mutual vitriol; a certain smugness on her face reading akin to game over.

"at first i suspected the maids, or other members of staff, which resulted in many terminations or forced resignations; hence the desertion present here." this was half-true; she ruthlessly suspected newer recruits for all of two days when she first noticed a pair of ruby and pearl earrings, respectively, were missing from her jewelry chest upon returning from her second trip to macau. she fired whomever had been allegedly near the master bedroom suite the previous two days, only to find out that no one from her staff had, but a secretary had found two rings on a poolside lounge chair that your mother did not recognize—until she watched subong's most recent rap battleground performance at the time on her ipad after her private investigator identified him when you returned from beijing, of course. her senior staff were utmost loyalists, not even daring to entertain the prospect of entering the master suite unless she was present, or provided written permission if she was abroad. other than that, the family home was just that—free for your parents, siblings, and visiting members to come and go as they please. until subong came along. your mother put two-and-two together when the aforementioned pearl necklace disappeared into thin air. but that was almost six months ago, and she wanted to pack an increasingly lethal punch of a lesson to bestow upon you. so she kept on firing people: loyal patrons who needed healthcare, newer recruits who needed to pay for school, and unsuspecting middlemen.

you needed an answer: "how much?" "what was that?" said your mother, not hearing you as your voice was muffled. "how much!" you yelled, subong flinching, seeing you at the end of your rope. you looked pathetic; at the end of your line. your mother was satisfied—her plan was working. "i tracked down the pawn shop you went to." she said to the back of his head. "fuck." subong walked away, looking out the closed balcony doors. he closed his eyes, hoping he could sink into a hole right then and there. "it amounts to over 450 million won." "subong, why? just why?" you were at a loss for words, sustaining a perpetual shake of the head. you couldn't even begin to process anything. at this point, the fact that you're pregnant felt like an afterthought on top of everything else. "i could've . . . i could've—i have more than enough to help you. i mean, that's what i did. yet . . . yet you—did i—did i mean nothing to you? what's going on?" it felt like your body couldn't generate more tears; reaching your bandwidth, not sure if what you were saying was making sense. truth be told, you weren't sure how you were even conscious right now. "its because he's a leech, that's why." your mother voiced, watching him carefully, counting down. "just like the rest of them."

"i am no fucking leech!" subong yelled, turned around, vein popping out his temple. he was provoked successfully, evident in how your mother strategically scurried out of the room when he came trudging forward. "who the fuck do you think you are!? i worked hard for what i have—the love i have! i'm not going to apologize for needing to fucking live!" he yelled, part of his face turning red with passion; one hand holding the door frame, the other pointing at your mother. you were subconsciously sick of sticking to the wall helplessly, moving like muscle memory to get subong from the doorframe—you were no stranger to contradiction at this point. its inherent in your blood, and now the way you love. you grabbed at his torso, tugging at his shirt. "subong, please—" "call security or there'll be a bounty on your heads." your mother told the two housekeepers at the banister with venom. they both scurried off down the staircase without hesitation, ignoring the pits of guilt gurgling in their stomachs.

"subong! subong!" you yanked his shirt with all of your weakened might, sending him momentarily stumbling backwards, turning around and temporarily out of his angered-filled haze. "what?" he wasn't aware of what was going on until you tugged aimlessly at the front of his shirt, bringing his forehead to yours, holding onto the back of his head desperately. "why'd you do it?" you asked him, pawing at his shoulder. "hm? why'd you do it, subongie? you can tell me. you can tell me why you couldn't be—why you couldn't be honest with your baby." in the whirlwind of your current mind, this was all you needed to know at this very moment. it was a pitiful scene of desperation, one ignored by your mother as she heard security personnel walk in, turning the corner of the long hallway. "i don't—i don't know." he shook his head, hearing your shaky breaths. he swallowed, tightening his lips when he felt his bottom lip quiver. "i have problems, baby. i need to get myself straight. too prideful. too—too messy for you." your face contorted into a sob, but your body physically couldn't generate anymore, intensifying the pounding between your temples. "we both have problems. that's why we met. that's why i love you." you brought him to your lips messily. subong kissed you harder, hands finding their home on your hips.

you kissed him harshly, anger brewing, hands pulling his head against yours. "people lost their jobs because of you." you cried in frustration, unable to hold yourself back from kissing him again. "i know, i know." he muttered, his sinuses feeling heavy. "you've upended me forever, and i hate that i still love you." you murmured against his lips, reconnecting the kiss. "i hate that i still want to make this work." "m'never leaving you, baby." said subong. "i'm never—" "subong!" he was yanked by either arm by two burly security guards out of the door. he put up a fight, or tried to, ending up being dragged across the floor and down the stairs. the two housekeepers from before watched in horror; surrounding staff either turning away or unable to from the sheer shock of circumstance. your mother watched from where she stood in the sitting room, in front of the same couch you stumbled upon a drunken subong months before. you nearly tripped from how you ran down the stairs, senses alive like you were under attack. "that's—that's the father of my baby!" you shouted helplessly. "stop being so fucking rough! stop!"

subong's legs were riddled with cuts and bruises from fighting the grip of the security guards in the house and being dragged across the gravel walkway outside, nearly pulling a muscle in resisting being thrown into a nondescript suv. "stop! stop! please!" you ran in front of him, grabbing hold of his face. "i'm coming back for you," he cleared his throat. "you hear me? i'm coming the fuck back." "okay—okay." you were panicking, moving so fast but simultaneously in slow motion, gasping when he was shoved into the car after your lips barely brushed together, driving off hte asphault driveway and leaving the gated estate.

ten minutes felt like ten hours as you sat in the heaviness lingering in the air of your bedroom. you existed in the heavy silence—too shocked to process, too exhausted to move. you felt the bed dip next to you, your mother settling in wordlessly. "its okay." she started. "its over now." her hand reached for yours, but you snatched it away. "don't even—don't even fucking try." "you will not curse at me." "i'll do whatever i fucking want! i'm old enough!" you yelled, fingers pounding your chest for desperate emphasis. "i mean—i mean—" you gestured aimlessly around you. "you just—you just took away the best thing thats ever happened to me, mom! where did he—where did he even go!?" "his parents home." she tried to calm you down, attempting to reach for your shoulders. "he was dropped at his family's home." "i don't—" you came to an embarrassing realization. "i don't even know where that is." your mother looked at you knowingly as the carpet caught your gaze again, holding your hands in hers. "i suppose he kept a lot from you, hm?"

you didn't answer—the confusion of your complex feelings blurred your senses. "come here, my love." your mother beckoned tenderly, hands rubbing up and down your back as your forehead laid against her shoulder. "he wasn't a good man." she projected. "he's out of your life, and that's a good thing." it felt of no use to argue, especially when you were so exhausted that you were empty of any strength. but still, an iota remained: "you have nothing in common." she added. "we have everything in common." you countered. "neither of us have places in our families." "shh. . ." your mother tutted before saying the line that defined your adolescence, and now, your foreseeable future: "you don't know what you're talking about." moments of silence went by, punctuated by the delayed growling of your stomach as lunchtime felt like hours ago—until your shoulders began to shake, and your chest convulsed. your mother held onto you tighter. "i see myself the most in you." she said, thwarting her own tears, unable to garner the courage to say what else swirled in her head: you can't leave us. not like that; not with him. but does say what she always does: "everything i do, no matter how it may frustrate you, is for your own good."

it was proof you were stuck in forever loop of fighting for self-preserving power until you inevitably cowered to either of your parents wishes: "you will be finishing your phd in auckland with your brother. you need time away from here. before that, we'll take care of your stomach." she said, holding you tighter when your cries became more visceral. "i've—i've made arrangements with the department head at the country's most prestigious university," she's had this planned for a while now. "you've changed. you need time alone in a different place, and come back when you're ready." translation, your inner monologue voiced as you sobbed egregiously, feeling faint: you're going to be shipped off to an alternate form of family headquarters to be monitored even more closely, and will only return with a parental-approved ring on your finger.

a year later, it was sunday afternoon. you set down a cup of homemade iced coffee on the sitting room table before you—crisp breeze of this early summer morning ushering in another day in auckland. your younger brother lived in the same luxury apartment complex as you, only a few floors down, but rarely came up to visit. you turned on the television, flipping through various channels before settling indifferently onto a local news station, sitting back on the couch and letting it seep into the background. your phone vibrated beside you, unlocking it to see several texts notifications from your friend group's chat—scrolling through messages about miscellaneous things, bickering, photos from trips, and half-hazard attempts at planning to come see you. you sent in whatever reply you could muster—the few memes scattered about the chat making you giggle—until you clicked your phone off. but then, like clockwork, your mind lingered. you picked your phone up again, unlocking it and scrolling down your messages, clicking on subong's. you stared at the last text sent, which was from him: Out in the hammock baby come by when u can. your thumb traced that gray text bubble like it was his cheekbone—back and forth . . . back and forth . . . back and forth . . .it was sent not even a full twenty-four hours until he disappeared from your life. not completely traceless, considering you saw him online on instagram a few times this past year, but not entirely tangible, since he hadn't reached out. there was a part of you that was strangely accepting of this. either because your parents have been responsible for such severed ties before, or that small twist of fate that lead you to the balcony that night was the first time you ever felt a sense of belonging.

honey's taglist! ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა: @gongyoosgf, @infinetlyforgotten, @riddlerloveb0t, @mesopotamism

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I sound like such an absolute beg but would you ever write for player 124/namgyu ?

omg nooo you don’t sound like a beg at all‼️💗 i’m currently finishing a seunghyun fic that i’m gonna post in the next few days😼 and i also have a thanos one sitting in my drafts staring at me like >:( so i need to finish that one too… BUT after that i can 100% write for namgyu!!! i already have a little idea brewing in my brain for him so stay tuned 🫡💗 —lex

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I JUST FINISHED READING HIDDEN AND IT WAS SOOOO MF GOOD OMGGG, i’m in LOVEEE w ur work 😩 any ideas or spoilers for the next fic??? 🥲🫣

OMGG THANK YOU SO MUCHHH 🎀😭 i’m so happy you liked ‘Hidden’ ahhh!! not gonna lie i was kinda scared to post it at first bc it shows a darker side of seunghyun in some parts and i didn’t know how ppl would react… but seeing how kind and supportive everyone’s been?? it makes me so happy and relieved🥹

i’m working on a thanos fic rn! (still no title bc i keep scrapping every single one i come up with, help) and it’s gonna have a lot of texting between him and the reader! (if there’s not an unnecessary amount of texting, did i even write it?? lmaooo) i kinda wanna try adding a bit more fluff this time (more than in my last thanos fic), but still keep him the way he is, with all the good and the bad that comes with loving him!

thank you again for your support!!💗 —lex

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guys, i’m literally speechless. thank you all so much for the love and support on my fic “FRIENDS || Choi Su-bong (Thanos)” i seriously didn’t expect it to get such a great response!😭 i didn’t even think anyone would read it at all, i was so self-conscious about it that i almost didn’t post it. words can’t even describe how thankful i am!💗

i’m currently working on a new fic, and this one’s gonna be a choi seunghyun story!😼 tiny spoiler: it’s called ‘something real,’ it’s also an au, and i plan for it to be just as long as my thanos fic (maybe even longer). stay tuned!

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