Is There A Tag List For Hidden If So Could I Be Added To It 💔

hiii hows progress for hidden pt 2? take ur time n pls tag me!! lvovyaaa 💗💗💗💗

hii!! part 2 is almost finished and i’ll be posting it in the next few days!! thank you so much for being patient with me💗 like i mentioned before, it’s a lot shorter than part 1, which is why i’m actually able to post it soon... considering part 1 took me almost a whole month to write😭 so yeah!!

alsooo, here’s a tiny sneak peek for you (the first sentence of part 2 hehe)

it’s been nine months since the breakup, and your life couldn’t be more different than it was—if someone took a polaroid of you now and held it next to the girl who packed her bags for seoul with stars in her eyes, you’re not sure you’d even recognize her.

just know that part 2 hurt me

I’M SORRY💔

life with choi subong (thanos)

notes minors dni contains life before games, fem and aged up reader (same age as subong), always written with plus size reader in mind but truly anyone can read, a lot of made up lore to fill in gaps & build dynamic between subong and reader, smut (no distinct section. it is imbedded throughout; sexting, dirty talk, oral f and m receiving, vignettes of sub!subong, handjob, p in v, non-protective sex (don't be stupid,) public sex, foreplay, squirting), angst (lying, deception, miscommunication, arguing and gaslighting: cursing, pushing each other, one body shaming remark, a lot of name calling, insults, mentions of death, just being mean; this does not having a happy ending), toxic dynamic, mentions of drinking, drug use, problematic reader if you squint, i don't know how crypto works so don't yell at me, blatantly problematic subong, reader deserves better, a lot of dumbassery and some typos.

requested? no, this is an original idea! this is also my very first post, and i want to show what i can do! this is really long. like, really long. this is my interpretation of the character, i hope you like it and please be nice!

he was the nail that chipped the day after you painted them; the incessant promotional email that never filtered to the spam folder; the fly you repeatedly missed when swatting; the shoelaces that always came undone; the built up phlegm after a particularly nasty cough; the shirt that shrunk when you left it in the dryer too long. but what could you say? the dick was too fucking bomb ...

you met on the night of your friend's birthday. some time past eleven thirty pm on a saturday night at some dimly-lit nightclub in itaewon, you nursed a margarita, chatting with your friends and paying no mind to the re-arranging happening on the small stage some feet away from your table—a couple of speakers and a mic stand—nor did you look when the club manager made a half-assed announcement, followed by his exit and an old school hip hop instrumental filling the acoustics of the club.

subong was performing that night after begging the manager for weeks on end. it was a particularly difficult feat, considering the rap battle night he and seven other underground artists were part of two months prior ended in a fist fight after a set of insensitive bars about subong's opponent's family lineage spewed from his mouth without remorse. oh, can't forget the time he stole three bottles of cuervo tequila, or when he got so high he squirted someone in the eye with lime because they looked at him funny, or when he left such a monstrous shit in the toilet that he ended up flooding the bathroom when trying to flush.

alas, alas ... the melon streaming numbers spoke for itself (over 95k streams in total for his most recent mixtape), he just reached 10k followers on instagram, and all attention is good attention if you know how to work it ... and subong did, considering bookings went up when he announced he'd be performing this weekend prior to getting approval, cornering the club manager into a checkmate.

you noticed the slight commotion reverberating through the crowd when the music blared, but not enough to divert your attention wholly. when his set finished, he snuck into the crowd, snagging a rogue bloody mary from the bar and downing it without hesitation, turning his head sharply when someone from your party shouted his name.

your friend's boyfriend went to high school with him and hadn't seen him in years. with the way subong reacted, you would've thought they saw each other last week and were the best of friends, slinging his arm around his shoulders and capturing the attention of your table in a flurry. he was overtly charismatic, slowly coming around to your side of the table, eyeing you up and down without an iota of shame. he liked what he saw—his tongue running over his bottom lip.

he looked a bit try hard-y, in his loose fitting clothing, singular golden chain, and his black hair in an awkward stage of a grown out buzz cut—but admittedly he was fine. then you saw the layer of sweat shining on his tan skin ... oh ... he's fine.

"you like what you saw?" he shouted over the music, placing his hand on the table, inching towards you. he gestured to the now empty stage with a subtle flick of his head, leaning in to hear you. "that was you?" you said back. "i'm sorry, i wasn't watching!"

subong smirked, thinking you were joking, but his ego inflated nonetheless. "i—i rap!" he shouted, laying his palm against his chest. "i don't!" you quipped back with a grand smile, shaking your head. he had no idea his dick could get hard that quickly. "i work at a firm!" you say.

it could have been the sight of your glossed lips .. or his big brown eyes .. or your curvy hips .. full thighs .. his tattooed hands .. or the way his lips brushed against your earlobe for you to hear him .. or how your fingers brushed his hair back so he could hear you .. but next thing you know, his lips caught yours, and the next thing after that, his knees were on the porcelain tiles of the bathroom stall, head caught between your plush thighs, eating your pussy like a man starved.

subong's arms held your waist in place, not stopping your back from arching or your hands grasping onto either the wall or his hair, your breathy moans making his jeans feel as if he was wearing tight spandex. when you came—and you came hard—he pulled his phone out of his pocket and shoved it into your hand, "number. now."

"fucking christ, i just came." you said, breathing labored. "hold on." when he stood up, you reached down, pulling your underwear up. you eyed the time on his phone whilst adding your number to his contacts, sending yourself a text. you caught sight of his bulge when you gave his phone back. "you'll have to take care of that yourself. i have to go." you say, running your hands through your hair in an effort to not look too disheveled, even if your friends were smart enough to put two and two together.

you noticed subong take a prolonged look at you. he read your mind: "taking a mental photo for later." he explained, inhaling sharply through his nose. a smirk tugged at your lips. "oh yeah? i'll make it 4d." you palmed his bulge. he nearly lost balance, his gasp sounding more vulnerable than he would've liked—"f-fuck—ngh!" he bit his bottom lip, planting his forehead against yours. your touch was slow and calculated but firm, applying enough pressure to make his vision go fuzzy. "you're f-fucking crazy," his voice shook pathetically, eyebrows contorted in deep pleasure. "y-you f-fucking—ngh!—crazy bitch!"

you stopped abruptly, grabbing subong through his pants harshly. he mewled pathetically in pain. "call me that shit one more time and see what happens." "i'm s-sorry! f-fuck, i'm sorry! i'm sorry! please!" his breath hitched. "oh my fuck—please, baby, i'm so sorry!"

you gradually began palming him again, feeling his deep breath brush against your skin as his forehead returned to yours. his lips eventually latched onto yours, and you couldn't help your thighs rubbing together from how long and slender he felt in your hand.

your phone started to ring in your purse, which hung off the hook at the top of the bathroom stall door, undoubtedly a friend looking for you. you broke the kiss and ceased your touch, stepping around him and fishing your phone out before slinging your purse over your shoulder. "you better fucking call me." you say, kissing his lips again. "i will, will."

you eye his tent. it looks like it hurts and the zipper could break off. you didn't even realise you were biting your bottom lip until your phone rang again. "best dick i'll ever have." subong heard you mutter as you walked away, his cocky smirk stretching across his face in no time. he bit his lip when he saw the wet spot on his jeans. unbeknownst to either of you, this night would become the defining vignette of your relationship.

he called you the very next day. when you didn't answer—because your phone was charging on your nightstand whilst you showered—he sent a dick pic with the bottom half of his face visible in the upper left corner with the accompanying text: Like what u see? he chuckled reading your response: should have kept it a surprise

from that point on he spent his spare money (he didn't have much to begin with) on e-cigarette refills, pills, eyebrow threading appointments (he swore you to secrecy), and, perhaps his most beloved purchase, condoms. he always kissed the wrapper before putting one on.

subong tries to give the impression of someone who fucks but the reality is .... well .... he wonders how he got so lucky whenever he's stood at your apartment door, waiting for you to open it after he's knocked. it's been a lot longer than he'd ever admit under sworn oath, but his erratic thrusts gave it away so quickly it was concerning.

don't get it twisted, it felt ... fine. maybe okay on a good day. he filled you up at the very least! but if only it could last longer ... and didn't feel so ... jabby ... and if only you didn't have to keep in your laughter when his forehead fell to your shoulder ... after he came so hard his vein bulged out of his temple and his breathing was deep enough to power a fucking windmill .. only for you to glance at the time on your phone when a notif popped up and think to yourself ... has it really only been four minutes?

so when he's thrusting into you from behind one night, panting like someone's choking him and drilling into you feverishly, you take his temporary halt to catch his breath as your moment. "subong..." your voice ruminates with lust, aided by the intoxicating feeling of his cock resting inside you. you look over your shoulder at his glistening body, illuminated even in your dimly lit bedroom. "you feel so good, baby." you half-lie, internally cringing. either way, he can't tell, he's too fucked out.

"but how about we ... go a little slower? so we can last longer? hm?" you say. his breath hitches when you roll your hips slowly, his palms laying against either globes of your ass lifelessly. you were struggling to keep it together, eyebrows contorted and mouth agape, stretching yourself out on him.

"like this, yeah?—mmf!" you bite your lip. this is the feeling you've been wanting ... you've been aching for. "it'll feel so much better, subong ..." "yeah, yeah ..." he was breathy. his palms slid to either side of your hips, pulling himself in slow and deep. you gasp, "yes! like that! start slow, then go faster ..."

the moans and whimpers that escaped your lips ran every single porno he's ever seen into the ground. he pounded into you when you told him to, feeling the gumminess of your tight walls hug his cock so divinely that he felt for a split second that maybe, just maybe, the cross he always wore served a different purpose than carrying his stash of pills. subong, unsurprisingly, did not last long, but for the first time, you didn't either. "b-baby! f-fuck—i'm gonna, i'm gonna!—" you clenched around him, and he saw white. subong thought he had transcended ... what better way to go out ... death by the best pussy ... he came so hard and so much that he felt himself drip down his thigh.

you first started calling him over on sundays. then he started to come on fridays ... then staying the weekend ... then he came by on wednesdays for a mid-week fuck .. and slowly, but surely, he essentially lived rent free in your apartment. it was a major plus for him. he'd just been floating from one friend's couch to another. your studio apartment was small as is, barely enough for someone a few years into the workforce and even less on affordability—you barely scraped by on groceries. you'd have to make a wish on a shooting star if you ever needed repairs or healthcare. subong, on the other hand? he finally got to sleep in a bed again, and he gets to not only bum it out on another couch, but also eat pussy, get his dick sucked, and fuck on it. 10/10 no notes from him

and christ did you fuck ... one ankle on the coffee table whilst the other rests atop the couch, him pounding into you deep and deliberately, his eyes boring into your face as yours rolled back, mouth agape. once he found his rhythm and knew your body more, it was over. by the grace of the universe, his stamina heightened, too. he thought about reading war and peace and the meticulous process of the seasonal fermentation of various vegetables to thwart his orgasm from coming too quickly, but fell into a mumble of incoherent whimpers and profanities when he heard your beautiful voice tell him to "h-harder, s-subong, harder," or the cacophony of stuttered grunts leaving both of your chests; sexual pleasure in its rawest form.

one friday evening he was sat at the top of your now shared bed with his back against the wall, legs spread and looking up at you with his mouth hung open and eyebrows furrowed in inexplicable pleasure, watching you bounce up and down in fucked out bliss. you had a bullshit ass day at work—something about being denied a raise or being unfairly told off at a meeting—he didn't remember or really care, all he knew was he suggested you use him to relieve frustration, and you obliged. "that's it b-baby. give it all to me, u-use this dick." he bit his bottom lip, squeezing the side of your thigh as you slammed down onto him. "give all your stress to—ngh!—me. your subongie will help you relax." his hands trailed up your waist and kneaded your breasts, making you gasp. you rolled your hips to catch your breath, biting your lip.

you put your hands on his chest for support. "such good dick." you said breathily. "all mine." "that's right." he affirmed. one hand stationed beside your knee, the other reached to the nightside table for his e-cig, bringing it to his lips. you opened your eyes when the cloud of smoke brushed against your cheeks, filling your nostrils with the faint scent of strawberry.

"fuck you and your fuckass puff bar." you said, trying to take it, but he raised it in the air with a shit-eating grin. "what? are you jealous? hm? is my baby jealous?" he jutted out his bottom lip mockingly, chuckling when you swat the e-cig out of his hand. "the fuck would i be jealous about you destroying your lungs for?" you retort. he rolled his eyes, shaking his head. "you think you're too good to be fucked by me that you needed to take the edge off." you say, throwing the e-cig onto the floor and ignoring his protests, only for them turn into sharp sucked-in breaths when you rolled your hips again. "th-that was my—shit!—my b-best fucking one," subong shuddered. "you want your best puff or pussy? hm?" you said sharply. with a whimper, he said "my best p-pussy." "i thought so. now say you're sorry until i believe you." you said, hearing him let out a wall-shattering moan when you began riding his long cock again. he would never admit to this in a million years, but this was his favorite way to fuck.

you were in denial for a long time that things had become more romantic and vulnerable. since it was unspoken between you two when he inconspicuously moved in (as irresponsible it is) ... to when he started calling you "my baby" two months in and him "your subongie" a couple weeks later ... to when steamy makeouts before bed remained just that, even through the hushed whimpers and dry humping ... to when he'd smoke a cigarette on the balcony after you routinely complained about the smell, him having you sit on his lap because "the cigarette doesn't hit the same," only to end up sucking the life out of his cock or him rutting into you from behind ... to when you'd wake up with his arm slung lazily across your waist and his head tucked into your neck ... he'd run verses by you and you'd unironically compliment them ... he unironically started going on grocery runs with you, and picking out your jewelry ... and to when sunday mornings became a lot more quieter than they used to be, you two sat on the small couch together, clad in nothing but your underwear, drinking stale black coffee as one of four channels you have play on your dinky tv. it might be due to the limited space, or something more, but his hand lay on your knee whilst yours mindlessly traced the tattoos on the back of his neck, or toyed with his cartilage piercing.

you couldn't kick the question out your mind anymore. "subong?" "hm?" he responded, eyes glued to the tv. "what are we?" he didn't budge. you nudged his shoulder, earning his attention but with a flutter of irritation. "huh? what'd you ask?" "i said what are we?" his eyebrows furrowed. "what do you mean?" you raised your eyebrows, losing patience. "you know exactly what i mean."

he takes a moment to rack his brain, and then gets it. "you're my girl. my señorita." his face fell when you scoffed and pushed him away. "talk to me when you want to be serious." "i am being serious!" he says defensively. "look, you're my girlfriend. we're together." he sets his coffee down, pulling you in for a kiss. he kept kissing you until you cracked a grin, which took all of two tries. he wields his big brown eyes like katanas looking into yours, raising a finger heart and pressing it against his lips. "i like you." he says, unable to hold back his smile when you moved his hand away.

subong leaned in closer, the tip of his nose feeling the warmth of your cheek. "do you like me, too? hm? you can tell me. i promise i'll keep it a secret. i won't tell anyone." he knew your answer, but teased nonetheless, shaking his head in affirmation. you shushed him gently, actively trying to thwart how flustered you've become. he only pushed more, pressing a purposely deep and obnoxious kiss onto your skin. "i'll be the best and sexiest boyfriend ever."

it felt so wrong that your heart beat a little faster. "i'm only saying okay so that you shut up." you muttered. a knowing grin stretched across subong's face. he placed a kiss on your neck and above the valley between your breasts, laying his temple on your chest, slinging his arms around you. he smirked when you wrapped your arm around his shoulder some minutes later, his eyes fluttering closed when your lips found the top of his head.

you made him start coughing up his earnings from gigs to go towards rent. considering he wasn't being paid much, bookings weren't predictable, and he'd sometimes try to hide his earnings from you (which resulted in him sleeping on the couch, and if he did it again, you threatened he'd be out on the balcony without a blanket) his contribution wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. you shut down any chance of retaliation from him with a look he's since named "period projection" or, depending on his mood, "viagra."

when a lot of time passed between gigs, subong was woken up by a notebook and pen thrown onto his chest. "if you don't have five songs written by the time i get back from work, you're pussyless for a week." you said, slinging your purse over your shoulder. he grunted, barely opening his eyes but sitting up, the notebook and pen falling onto the bed. you grabbed his face, pecking his cheek before heading out the door.

subong talked himself up if you were being particularly hard on him, or really, just not as delusional about his success. "baby, one day you won't have to worry about shit. i'll have us partying in mykonos by next valentine's and in switzerland to see the first snow." he said one morning, standing stupidly in the middle of the apartment with nothing but his briefs and a graphic tee that had stains you didn't want to know about. "book the flights when you stop eating week old beef and using my moisturizer." you mutter, shoving the vacuum cleaner in his hands, gesturing for him to hand over the shirt before heading to the basement of the building to do laundry.

if work permitted, you went to see him perform at whatever nightclub in the city. subong found you in the crowd after his set, giving you a sloppy kiss and wrapping his sweaty arms around you no matter if you came straight from work, still clad in business wear, or in something that made you look like the rapper girlfriend of his dreams. an air of added cockiness ruminated off him when you two tag-teamed hounding the club manager whenever they tried to lowball his pay. more often than not, they caved in and gave what was agreed to and then some after you shouted said your piece. either way, you end up on the dance floor wrestling with your tongues or him pounding into you from behind in a bathroom stall. everybody wins!

when you're at work and subong's at home, he films tiktoks and posts on his instagram to get his name out there. he also tries to start beef on various naver cafés, especially when he's bored. or texting you: Did u eat the last tico?; Hi baby I have a threading appt at 5 i will meet u at your work before we go to dinner; Highh as sht88df thikning about ❤️You girl❤️❤️❤️❤️; [insert photo of him flexing in the bathroom mirror] Come home for lunch

speaking of photos on his phone, he has quite the array—advertisements at the train and bus stations he finds funny; various hair colors from the department store he wants to try; mirror selfies of him either flexing or trying on shoes; a photo of his hand squishing your cheeks when you two were waiting in line for cheap street food for lunch; another photo of you looking rather disheveled in the kitchen when you two were unfairly woken up at 6 am one saturday morning by nearby construction, an adorably annoyed look on your face because he was standing in the way of the fridge; one selfie of him in bed hitting his e-cig; the next taken six minutes later with your tit in his mouth, his eyes looking at himself. if you didn't keep tabs on him, he would've made the latter the cover of his next mixtape.

some of your friends thought you were crazy for still being with him, someone who was barely scraping by and, from an outsider's pov, was a moocher. you'd shake your head, "you guys don't get it. i know what i'm doing. you don't need to worry." and you certainly did, considering whenever you came home to subong's big brown eyes, towering height, and his smooth, low voice asking "how was your day, baby?," or when his fingers traced a fresh hickey on your neck, or when he announced his presence by placing his hand teasingly low on your waist ... oh, you were just about ready to make him a father .... even if it would lower the nation's life expectancy rate.

you've caught yourself staring at him at night when you couldn't sleep, watching the way his lips parted every time he exhaled, or how his arms were sprawled out before him after he fell asleep with them crossed. you fought the fluttering of your heavy eyelids to just .... look at him. sometimes you succumb to slumber, pressing a gentle kiss onto his cheek before drifting off. but one night you were simply plagued by him, looking at subong as if he was a riddle to solve, until you realized with wide eyes that you were projecting: oh fuck no. i love him.

it terrified you, that strong feeling. but not enough to sit idly by if someone became a little too flirty with him at the club, or to slow your speed walk to the bathroom after a work conference to send him a picture after he sent one that morning—lowering your volume and pressing your phone to your ear, listening to the audio message he sent in response, subconsciously rubbing your thighs together: "god, you're so fucking hot baby. how did i get so lucky .... what am i supposed to do, hm? you made my dick so fucking hard .... and it's not even eleven am yet ... is this what you wanted, hm? to get me riled up first thing in the morning?" his voice was low, sleep still fresh in his tone, followed by wet strokes. "it's sad that you're at work for so long. leaving me here—f-fuck, yeah, just like th-that—all alone ... and so needy ..."

you fucked good and hard when subong got a spot in the rap battleground competition, landing him in a position to not only put his name out there, but possibly win some money that would make a difference. you were elated enough to go condom-less. "wanna make you feel good, baby," you murmured breathily, ass pushing against the kitchen countertop, subong standing between your warm thighs. "i'm just so—mmf!" you sucked in a breath when his lips and tongue found your neck. "s-so proud of you, subongie." oh. subong just knew something was up. but he wasn't stupid enough to question it, not when he knows he's about to enter the gates of heaven. "gonna let me fuck this tight pussy raw?" he muttered in that low voice of his, continuing his slow, wet kisses on your neck to avoid melting into a puddle of his libido. his voice quivered when you didn't answer, hidden well by your moan: "hm? gonna let me ruin this pussy—" "yes!" you whimpered.

in a moment of weakness, he bit his bottom lip. he grabbed your face with one hand, making you look him in the eye. even in his attempt at dominance, you saw the flickers of awe in his eyes. nothing filled the kitchen besides the sounds of your shaky breaths, his face studying yours. could this ... could he have just realized that ... he loves you, too? subong leans in closer, the tip of his nose brushing with yours. you try to lean in, but his hold on your face stops you. you don't know what to make of his feelings with his next words, but with how his other hand comes up and combs your hair out of your face, and his forehead touches yours, its perhaps the most intimate moment of your relationship thus far: "you're finally gonna let me fuck what's mine?" he whispers. you nod silently.

subong bottomed out that night, cumming all over your stomach and back. your back arched like never before when he was pounding into you from behind, taking him deep into your gummy, warm walls. your fingernails clawed at your pillowcases and bed sheets, jaw hung open and eyes rolled back whilst his heavy balls hit the bottom of your stomach. your cunt suffocated his dick every time his palm smacked either globe of your ass—"take that fucking dick. take that fucking dick, just like that, yeah," he panted, palm rubbing over your hot skin before smacking it again. his voice cracked, "f-fuck! o-oh my god! fuck!" he squeezed your hips so hard you sucked a breath in through your teeth. his thrusts momentarily slowed, blinking hard when his vision began to blur at the sight of the creamy ring at the end of his cock. the noise was obnoxious, wet, and loud. you're everything he could ever hope for. in missionary, he tried so hard not to be a babbling mess, through his purposeful strokes. his hands held your head in place, his thumbs pressing into your temples, but his gaze failed to leave his cock fucking you. "give me that fucking puffy pussy." he murmured. he held his bottom lip between his teeth, groaning. "give me that puffy fucking—o-oh! ngh! f-fuck, you always know how to make me feel so f-fucking good, baby!"

you showered afterward together, momentarily forgetting about the water bill when your arms wrapped around subong's neck, your lips molding together. the kiss was soft and sensual. his hands massaged the same globes his palms set fire to whilst the remnants of his lust washed off your body and down the drain. he slept the best he had in weeks that night. a couple weeks later, you helped him dye his hair a deep purple a few days before the competition, just in time for him to adopt his new stage persona after becoming insufferable since watching "endgame," thanos.

the competition came and went, and he placed as a runner-up. he actually listened when you said you didn't want to head to the club since you had work early the next day, settling for a nice dinner and a bottle or two of soju instead. a group of fans of the show came up to him in the checkout line, and not only did you watch with an admiring grin, but your eyes widened surprise when he introduced you as his girlfriend after you were handed their phones to take a photo, harmlessly mistaken as a bystander. not only were you then asked to join the photo, but subong laughed heartily on the walk home upon hearing one of the girls' face dropped hearing the news that he's taken.

the bottles emptied on your coffee table, you ended the night rolling your hips atop his, holding onto his shoulders as his hands held onto either globes of your ass, looking up at you whilst you rode his cock. your dress pants for work were discarded on the floor, panties pushed to the side for his condom-less dick, biting your bottom lip when his palm massaged your breast through your blouse. nothing was in the room besides your breathy gasps, his low groans, the squeak of sweaty skin against the cheap faux leather of the couch, and his whispers . . . "you look so beautiful, baby. so fucking sexy." subong's eyebrows furrowed deeply, glancing at your swiveling hips before looking back up at you, despite your head being thrown back. "taking this cock so good...f-fuck ... know how to make me feel good, yeah? always know just how to squeeze me, how to make this big, fat cock cum, yeah? tell me, baby."

all you could muster was a whimper and your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt on his shoulders, but that was more than okay with him. his hand trailed up the side of your neck, bringing your head forward. "come here, come here my beautiful baby. my beautiful fucking woman." his lips kissed yours, molding them together repeatedly. his tongue toyed with yours, picking up the speed of your hips, making him grunt into your mouth every time your inner thighs clapped against his lower stomach. you held onto each other tighter, the kiss becoming feverish, only to be broken when his thumb found your clit. you came in what felt like seconds, and before you knew it, the words slipped out: "i love you!" you whimpered, riding out the high of your intense orgasm, subong having pulled out and spilling onto his thigh. "i love you, i love you!" you repeated breathily. through the pounding of his temples, he heard. through your laborious breathing, you didn't register that he said nothing back.

subong loved you too. he's known for a while now. but that was precisely the problem—he knew, and he wasn't going to say shit. what was the reason? perhaps it was a fucked up way of protecting you by stonewalling that part of him, perhaps it was selfishness, perhaps it was the inferiority complex making him feel like he didn't deserve someone as patient, as transformative, and as loving as you, and he questioned every day why he hadn't been kicked to the fucking curb yet, even after a year and a half together. or maybe ... it was that fucking mg coin ...

he started watching that fuckass man a couple months before the rap battleground competition after a friend tipped him off about crypto. you peered over his shoulder after settling into bed, hearing parts of a youtube video through his phone speaker. "i stopped trying to understand that shit when they told me a picture of an ape is somehow currency." you muttered, making him laugh. "yeah. you're right, hm?" he let out a yawn, clicking his phone off before taking you in his arms, falling asleep with your head on his chest.

but then, it was like a flip switched. subong saw something you didn't (delusion), and seemed to be watching myung gi's videos at what felt like any chance he had. he watched him in the morning, sat at the small dining table in the kitchen as he ate leftover kimbap from dinner the night previous, already annoying you at barely 10 AM whilst pouring yourself cereal, sitting across from him on this rare saturday off. you eyed his phone, "i thought you dropped that shit." you said between chewing. his eyes stayed glued to his screen, putting another slice into his mouth. "i don't know, baby. i think he has a point. people are getting rich quick off this crypto shit. i might have to play my hand, y'know?" before you could respond, he reached over, wiping a rogue drop of milk that slipped from the corner of your mouth, sucking it off his thumb before pressing 'skip ad'. you reached over, clicking his phone off and turning it face down. "hey!—" "you talk like you routinely pay for this wifi." you said, looking into his eyes. "you talk about 'playing your hand' when you don't have the decency to spend 5,000 won on wired headphones so i don't have to hear this shit all day?"

his lip twitched in annoyance, eyes widening. "don't get smart with me!" he exclaimed. you scoffed and waved your hand dismissively, eating another scoop of your cereal. "i'll go get some headphones after i eat if that's what you really want, damn!" "if you invest in something invisible, you do it with your own money so you reap the punishment." you say. "i will." subong rolled his eyes, eating his last slice of kimbap, but irritably. "he knows his shit. says the coin'll blow up." he mumbled, glancing at you when you got up. you held his face, leaning down and pressing a kiss onto his cheek. "that's what they all say, subong." you collected his and your dishes, bringing them to the sink and beginning to wash.

he funneled money into that coin behind your back no problem. every time a check came in, the slice that went to investing got larger and larger. he kept it hidden by putting aside just enough to not cause suspicion. and turning off notifs at specific times. he said he'd transfer a few months worth of the rent when the money hit his account after rap battleground and a couple of scheduled gigs he won as well, but it was a half-baked lie. he told you the money hit way after it actually did, giving you what he promised but keeping a large sum for himself, because he surprisingly got a return on his investment.

he kept going and going, the high of it all rivaling his pills. he bought limited edition shoes, a pair of earrings you'd been eyeing for a while for your anniversary, and got a couple new tattoos. all of it was hidden well behind his coincidentally coinciding success of his music in the wake of the competition ... damn ... he could get used to the universe dickriding him this hard ...

until it all came crashing down that night on the couch. the same night you confessed, he got a notif from one of his crypto apps that he had lost 30 million won. he bolted out of bed, leaving your sleeping, clueless form behind to smoke a cigarette outside, pacing back and forth in the street, trying to calm himself down at 2:30 in the morning. he stared at those numbers like they were going to change, ultimately convincing himself that it was a mere fluke and that money would come again in no time, stomping his cigarette into the asphalt and heading back upstairs.

it was like a routine: watch myung gi, take notes, invest. watch myung gi, take notes, invest. subong took it to heart when he said viewers would be foolish not to bet. he resented being made to feel stupid. even when the returns were slimmer with each swipe up to refresh, he kept going. he looked you straight in the eyes with an admiring grin on his face, lying through his teeth saying everything was okay. what you didn't know couldn't hurt you, right? right. but it ate away at him. subconsciously, then viscerally.

your confession hung at the back of subong's head for weeks. he tried to avoid it, even attempted to put that frustration into his music, but nothing was satisfactory. his inner turmoil flooded to the surface—avoiding your kiss in the morning before you headed to work, landing your lips on the corner of his mouth before he pecked yours without much thought. you didn't say those three words again, but he saw them on display in the softness of your eyes gazing up at him. he couldn't bare it. it was so easy for him to lie to your face about his whereabouts, how much of a fucking coward was he to not say three words back? especially when he felt them, too?

you noticed the change as well. he'd be gone for longer hours, only texting you back in the later evening. his hand stayed to hisself on sunday mornings. kisses were quick and choppy, not sensual and slow. sex was more rough and rushed. it made you feel so deeply embarrassed, like a teenaged girl made to feel silly and begging for her boyfriend's attention. you hated the feeling, but hated the fact that you let that confession slip more. you always felt he wasn't one to open up like that, but a girl can dream, can't she?

then it descended into utter madness. you came home from work later than usual, having to finish last minute assignments for someone who didn't show up. you nearly exploded at the haze of smoke filling your apartment, dropping your purse on the floor. there were bottles of soju and half-eaten food littering the kitchen counters and floor, the fridge left wide open, sure to have spoiled the rest of your leftovers. your eyes then found subong and his friend, a stranger to you, so fucking high that drool leaked out of the corner of their mouths.

"out!" you yelled, enraged. "get the fuck out!" neither of them moved until the piercing sound of the soju bottle you threw at the wall, shattering into pieces, jolted their senses awake. you grabbed the friend by his tank top, yanking him out of his seat like a fucking rag doll, and shoved him out the door. "the fuck! get ... get your—tell your bitch to fucking chill, bro!" the man's words slurred, only for him to nearly stumble down the stairs when you hurled another bottle at him. "don't ever fucking come back here!" you yelled.

"jesus fucking christ, you're so fucking loud." subong muttered, now standing and rubbing his fingers against his temples. "what the fuck is wrong with you! you've never done shit like this before!" you yelled, paying no mind to his wincing. "the fuck are you talking about? i get high, you know this—" "yeah, i do! but never like this. in our fucking house, subong!"

it was then that you saw the syringe and tinfoil on the coffee table. even in your blistering anger, you took his wrists in your hands, looking over his arms. "since when did you do hard shit? huh?" you muttered. his eyebrows furrowed, looking over to the table with hooded eyes. "what? i...i don't." his words slurred, a low burp gurgling out from his lips, shaking his head. "my friend fucks around with that. not me. i stick to pills and vape, baby. i swear."

you let go of his wrists, running a hand through your hair and pacing. the smoke had cleared. you turned around, seeing him laying his temple against the fridge, mouth hung open and eyes closed. you slowly walked up to him, not sure where to begin, your hands reaching up and holding his face. "baby." you said, him grunting in response. "i don't ... i don't know what's going been going on with you lately. you've been so distant and ... and cold. and then coming home to this ... subong, you're—you're scaring me a little."

he groaned weakly, chin sinking downward before you caught him, holding his face up whilst looking into his hooded eyes. your heart felt punctured. "is it ... is it because i said i love you? is it because of that?" his eyes opened, making way for his frustrated grimace. he shook his head, lip curling in what you mistook as disgust, when in reality he was outwardly sickened by himself. "you don't know fucking shit about anything, bitch."

your face fell, eyes watering. you let go of him, his cheek flattened against the fridge, barely stabilizing himself against it. you took a step back. a million thoughts ran through your mind, but one prevailed amongst all of them: what i've been avoiding has shown itself to be true. a tear escaped your waterline, but your voice was stable. "get out." you sniffled, wiping your cheek. "get out, subong."

"huh?" he mumbled, gradually opening his eyes. "i said get the fuck out of my house, subong." "what? i'm not going—" he burped again. "i'm not going fucking anywhere." he wagged a finger in your face. you swatted his arm away, grabbing him by the hem of his shirt and yanked him with all of your might, pushing his back, shoving him out the door even after he tripped over your purse. you slammed the door and locked it before he got to his feet again. "hey!" he yelled. he inhaled sharply through his nose. "open the damn door, you fucking bitch!" he pounded on the door with his palm. "come back when you stop acting like a fucking child!" you yelled, hitting the door back repeatedly. "and not turn my place into a fucking trap house, you piece of shit!"

"what about all that money i gave you, huh!? for rent? and your fucking groceries? give me those fucking earrings you have on, you never fucking deserved them anyway—" "fuck no!" you shouted over him. "this is the least i fucking deserve after your fucking pennies, you cheap piece of shit! if you're so loaded, then fuck off!" subong pressed his mouth to edge of the door, seething. "throwing your boyfriend out like this? when i'm making it big, huh? you'll come to regret this—" you bursted out laughing almost maniacally, a very strange mixture of anger, frustration, and hilarity brewing in your chest. he could be so fucking ridiculous. "m-making it big?" you repeated, laughing so hard you clutched your stomach and wiped tears from your face. it was cathartic. "i-if you're 'making it big,' subong, then—then i'm a lost member of the royal fucking family!" you exclaimed. "how's the fund for greece, huh? still plan on taking me for valentine's? or are you going to continue to clog my toilet because you're still too cheap to buy fresh meat?" "shut the fuck up!" he roared, slamming his palm against the door and wiggling the doorknob.

a neighbor opened their door, avoiding eye contact and stepping around the broken glass to take out their trash, visibly not wanting to be caught in the firestorm taking place in the hall. subong grew embarrassed, turning back to the closed door with a new plea to avoid the atomically sinking feeling. "open the door. please, baby. let's talk this out." he spoke, trying to keep his voice level, wiping his nose with the side of his thumb. when you didn't answer, he kept going. "i'm sorry for all the trouble, baby. let me make it up to you, yeah? just open the door, and we can talk this out. c'mon, baby, the neighbors'll hear—" "let them fucking hear!" you yelled, making him flinh. you leaned closer to the edge of the door, directly parallel to him. "what's that bullshit you always say, huh? any attention is good attention, if you know what to do with it? well, eat your fucking words then, subong! be a man for once in your stupid life!" his eyes widened, vein popping out of his temple. "fuck you, you fucking whore!" he slammed the door repeatedly, the two of you creating a cacophony when you started hitting it, too. "fuck you too, dumbass!"

it was eerily silent that evening in your apartment. you, alone, cleaning up the mess he left behind. carefully sweeping up shattered glass, plastic bags, food wrappers, washing the dishes, cleaning out the fridge, etc. subong was universe knows where. you didn't have the energy to think about him, not even bothering to look around on your walk to the convenience mart to buy ramen for dinner. the emotional turmoil sank into your chest when you sat at the same kitchen table where chaos unfolded at mere hours ago to eat. you barely swallowed the first mouthful before you sank into tears, shoulders shaking, pressing the back of your hand to your lips to console yourself. how could everything have fallen apart so quickly?

you and subong didn't speak for three months. he called and texted those first couple weeks, but that fizzled out, and you didn't answer at all. you didn't owe him anything, especially after the shit he put you through. the wound was still felt too fresh, sensitive enough to do anything but wallow in the silence, heading back out to bars with your friends on the weekends.

none of your friends dared to say much. you were offered apologetic words, but a fool wouldn't notice the air of i told you so in their tone. even with you ceasing caring to cover the healing hickies, being much more subdued on nights out, or your eye bags deepening in the wake of the break up, you were mainly left to wallow in your own grief. you felt it was half deserved and half fucking rude.

but as more time went on, you felt hurt by the fact that subong didn't show back up. not once. not even a mean note on your door, or sign of attempted entry. did he really not fucking care that much? he was just a man, after all ... but then again, not every man is reduced to grateful tears after eating pussy. or looks at you like a renaissance painting come to life when you're retouching his fucking hair dye. when you got home one night, a little tipsy from the cocktails you had, you clicked on those unread text messages— ranging from Baby i'm sorry please talk to me; Stop being so fucking stubborn; ileft my keytthere I dont wantt it back u fknng cnutt; to I don't deserve you i fucked up please baby—and listening to those voicemails.

one resonated with you, even in your inebriated state: "hi ... um, it's been, like, four days since we ... and i, uh—i feel weird. and i don't like it at all. i know you're at work right now but i can't bring myself to show my face and i fucking hate it. i don't like being a coward. but you ... you're ... you're just ... you need to stop. you can't keep doing this to me. you make me feel things i've never felt and it fucking scares me. and you cut me off before i could even say my bit. how is that fair? you can't just come into my life like that and walk away before i get a say. you can't change my life and me and then just throw me away. i know ... i know i'm not the best guy. but even i don't deserve to be thrown out like—" he was cut off and did not call back. "oh my god. what a fucking idiot." you murmured, rubbing your temple with your fingers.

but the universe loves to throw curveballs, because you saw him two weeks later at a bar a few blocks down from the club you first met at. subong saw you long before you saw him that night. he'd spent so much of the last four months feeling a spectrum of emotions, coping with his frustration by daydreaming about what he'd say the next time he saw you—all of the insults to suffice for his anger, all of the things he'd say to make you feel bad for how you treated him—all cogs in his self-deflection apparatus. but when he actually saw you, sat alone at the bar with no friend group in sight, drinking what looked to be martini, he was at a loss for words. even his emotionally daft ass was aware enough to sense something was different about you. more muted, more subdued. that's what she fucking gets. his inner monologue was unforgiving, only for him to peer over a tall strangers shoulder to keep his softened eyes on you. but she ... she can't be alone. not here.

subong was really good at blending into the crowd, until he got too close, and by chance you glanced up and saw him. he was close enough to hear you suck in a breath through your teeth, and see your eyes widen in panic the same time his did. without thinking, you got up from your seat, grabbing your purse hanging on the back of your chair, forgetting you hadn't even taken a second sip of your overpriced drink. subong stepped out of the crowd, "don't go." he said gentler than anticipated, before remembering he was supposed to be livid. his expression hardened, lips tightened, hand grabbing for your arm. "we need to talk."

"i don't have anything to fucking say to you." you say sharply, not looking at him, keeping your voice low to not cause commotion. "yes the fuck you do." he bit back. you tried to pull your arm out of his grip, failing. "let me go or i'll throw my drink in your face." "really?" he smirked. "i didn't take you to be so careless with your money." you look up, eyebrows raised, meeting his eyes for the first time in months. "oh, that's funny. do you still think you're up and coming? or have you come to terms with the fact that you're an illiterate fuck who steals IP just to still write shit fucking bars?"

subong closed much of the remaining gap between you. "shut your fucking mouth, you bitch." he seethed through gritted teeth. you look him dead in the eyes, "see what i mean? you still can't come up with anything new, and you've had all this time." you pulled at his grip again, but he was strong. "let me go." "you didn't listen to me before, so you're going to listen now." "like the fuck i am!" you looked at him like he was crazy. you pulled again, finally freeing your arm. you grabbed your drink, purse in your other hand. "now leave me alone." you say. "or i'll throw this drink right in your fucking eyes."

you turned and walked deeper into the dimly lit bar; just anywhere that was not where he was. you found an empty booth, sitting down with a huff, taking a hefty swig of your martini. you shot up when you saw him walk over, putting your arm in position, only for subong to put his hands up, one hovering over your drink. "don't throw it! don't!" "do you not know how to fucking listen!?" "you don't know how, either!" he shot back. "why did you never respond to my texts or calls?" "don't ask me that with that stupid look on your face like it's as bad as you bringing a fucking stranger and hard drugs into my home!" you exclaimed. "which, by the way, in all of your rambling voicemails and texts, you've never once apologized for." "so you did read them?" "that's not the fucking point, subong!" "yes, it is! to me!" "and what? you don't think it matters to me that you never said 'i love you' back? that i felt like a fucking teenage girl, waiting at her boyfriend's beck and call to care about her?"

people were starting to stare, but your sense of decorum was long gone. he got up in your face, and you took him up at that challenge. "i care! i fucking cared!" he stared into your eyes in frustration, pushing his fingers into his chest in a desperate gesture. "well, you didn't do a good job of showing it. because at some point, i felt my loneliest even when you were beside me, snoring like fucking pug and dutch ovening the blanket."

subong, at a loss for words, too choked up on his anger and long-suppressed complicated feelings boiling to the surface, turned to what he knew best: low hanging fruit. after a moment, he collects himself. a smug smirk stretches across his face, taking a step back and glancing at the dated wall art behind you. he shook his head, looking down at the floor with a chuckle. "and here i was, thinking you were secretly pregnant with my kid or something." he said. your eyebrows furrowed, deeply confused. this was stupid, even for him. "what?" you shook your head. "what the fuck are you talking about—" "—it makes sense that you wouldn't want to tell me. too much for you too handle. but then i saw you tonight, and you looked more bloated than usual, so i thought i was right. but then you were drinking—" he yelped when the cold gin splashed in his face, flinching at the glass bouncing off his chest, shattering next to his foot. gasps erupted throughout the room. subong hastily wiped his eyes, feeling them burn. "fucking bitch!" "your children would be lucky to never know their deadbeat of a fucking father."

you stormed off, heading into the nearby women's bathroom. heartbeat in your throat, you turned on a sink, rinsing the alcohol off your hands. you didn't look up when the door hit the wall, or when subong yelled "fuck off!" to the other three women in the room, causing a brief scurry of heels out the door. he pushed you out of the way, rinsing his eyes. "i should go and file a fucking police report on you." he mumbled. he looked up at you, expression angry, even with his squinting eyes. "i should've written 'sex slave' on my tax forms, too, with how you treated me!"

you pushed him right back, collecting a handful of water from the running sink with your palm, and throwing it at his face. "when was the last time you paid your taxes? hm!?" you exclaimed. "do you even know where your bank is? did you ever buy a new toothbrush after the one you had became a clump of bristles and i had to get one for you like a fucking mother!?" you yelled, using both palms and throwing more water; some hitting the floor, some splashing on yourself, but most wetting his face and clothing. "hey!" his voice boomed. he took a step forward, slipping, but caught himself on the edge of the sink. he turned the water off, landing your hand atop his in a failed effort to stop him. "you don't get to speak to me like that!" he yelled. "i can speak however i want to!" you yelled louder, making him wince, cursing under his breath. "you lost your chance when you made me feel crazy for loving you. i don't know how i could've even liked you!"

"hey!" subong's voice echoed off the walls. "your voice is so fucking shrill! you're giving me a fucking headache!" he pushed his fingers into his temple. he pointed at you, unwavering when you smacked it away. "don't act like you're fucking innocent, either—let me fucking finish!" you closed your mouth, crossing your arms over your chest. "see, this is what your problem is. you don't let anyone speak, or want to do anything i like. all those times you laughed in my face, didn't take me seriously, or tossed my career away like it was garbage, like some fucking fly you couldn't swat away." he waved his hand in front of his face, mimicking the gesture. "well, i'm sorry i put a roof over your head when you were piss poor broke." your voice was eerily leveled, staring so hard into his eyes you could've burned holes into his retinas. "and didn't act like you were nominated for grammys in fucking return."

"'laughed?' 'didn't take seriously?'" you repeated his words, eyebrows furrowing. "who dyed your stupid fucking purple hair? who reminded you to write songs? who pushed you to call clubs? who yelled at pervert managers to get you fair pay!?" your voice escalated. subong's eyes drifted to the tiled floor, head hanging lower than before. you took a breath. "subong, i—" he met your eyes at the mention of his name. "i invented you."

his expression soured, hating that you were right and faced with his own cowardice once again. but he would rather give himself up to his loan shark than show it. "invented is the right word." subong spoke lowly, nodding. his hand came up to his head, making a screwing gesture. "false ideas—you have false ideas of who i am. you played with me like a toy." you were in disbelief. "p-played you? like ... like a toy?" you began to stutter through this newfound upheaval of anger, something that made your face feel hot and stomach churn, increasingly irritated with each second you couldn't get the words out. "you!—you!" you hit your palm on the edge of the sink, sending your purse to the floor. "you came so hard that i thought i had to go to urgent care to get you an oxygen mask!" every word sounded more strained than before. you inhaled deeply, running against a ticking timer in your head to when he'd open his mouth next. you gestured at a bathroom stall door, but in your head, it was a memory. "you held onto me so tightly after your performances or at home or—or eating dinner to the point where i had to eat with one hand!" you closed the gap, your pointer finger brushing against the tip of his nose. "at some point, you couldn't fall asleep unless you felt my fucking heartbeat, motherfucker!"

"and you did all of that," you gestured around you. "just to fuck me over, and make me realize i've wasted my time loving someone who doesn't give half a fucking shit whether i live or die!" "i care!" his voice boomed. "how many times do i have to say that!?" "until your last goddamn breath." you retort without hesitation. "and with how you live, that should be right around the corner." "are you saying i should die?" "what? no, subong. of course not." you shook your head. "that's not what i—that's not what i meant." "so what did you mean?" "what i mean was—no, stop distracting. you know exactly what i meant." with your next look at him, you saw them: his manicured hands, equipped with different colors on all fingernails. oh, you hated how quickly your mind shifted gears, how quickly the worries of the imaginary teenage girl clouded your logic and best judgment, but none more than this being what your eyes began watering over. "who ... who did that?" you asked, your suddenly quieted voice catching subong off guard.

"what?" he asked, confused. his eyes followed your gaze, landing at his hands, eyebrows raising at the realization that this was his chance at getting the upper hand: "someone i saw." he lied. it wasn't wholly untrue, but dubiously framed; the nail tech was a woman, so he did see her, just not in the way he just purposefully vaguely implied. he needed something to jab at you, to knock you down a peg like it was a schoolyard fight, but even he couldn't smirk at the hurt on your face. in fact, he regretted those words the moment he said them. "who is she?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper. subong had never seen you look so devastated like this before. it made him feel an instinct that straightened his posture, unaware of what to do next, standing awkwardly. he attempted to say these next words with venom, but he couldn't even believe them himself, almost sounding as subdued as you: "it's none of your fucking business."

your heart drops. you feel nauseous. if subong had blinked, he would've missed your curt nod. you didn't bother wiping the tear trailing your cheek, his eyes watching as you pick up your purse from the floor, ears perking at your sniffle. "okay." you whispered, but you were so quiet that your voice nearly blended with the air vent. you started walking, fully intending to never turn back around, until his hand on your wrist stopped you. "wait—" "stop!" you said sharply, yanking out of his grip before he could close his fingers entirely. you held your hands in the air before circling around, your eyes landing on his. his face fell. you looked perishable, drained of an essence he couldn't fathom you without. oh, he'd really done it this time.

you lunged forward, nail of your pointer finger scratching against his nose. "you don't get to do this to me, s-subong!" you exclaimed, trying to keep your voice steady, but the tears stifle the effort. you couldn't contain the sob. he was mortified at the sight. "it's ... it's not fair." you whispered meekly. your hands trailed to his chest, balling into fists as you cried. he stood there, frozen, mouth agape like a fool. subong raised his hand, petting your hair with a light, unsure touch. "it's fi—" he sucked in a surprised breath through his teeth when you started swatting his chest, pushing and shoving at him in a pitiful tantrum. subong took it silently, putting his hands up, face contorting uncomfortably at the sound of your cries. his bottom lip started to quiver as time went on. he couldn't tell what he hated more: the fact he lost the fight, or the fact he cared about that to begin with.

"that's enough. hey—" subong inhaled sharply through his nose. he grabbed both of your wrists, holding them in place. "that's enough." he hoped to whatever higher power you didn't hear the quiver. he swallowed, resting his forehead against yours. your hands went limp. he let go, feelings your palms trail up to his face. "you're mine." you spoke weakly. his mouth fell open, staring at your lips whilst you begged for his eyes; earning you such when your hand on his cheek guided him to your gaze. "do you hear me?" you whispered. "you're mine, subong. no one elses." you shook your forehead against his, your tragic desperation ailing him. "mhm." his hands trailed your waist. "i'm yours, baby. all yours."

with a shaky hand, your fingers ran through his hair, thumb so close to his lips he pressed a skeleton of a kiss onto it. "i'm sorry i threw my drink at you." you cry, voice stuck at a whisper. "i'm so sorry, subong—" "stop." his low voice shushes you, nose nestling beside yours, slowly trailing to your neck. he inhaled your scent, eyes rolling back when your fingers brushed past his cartilage piercing. "i had it coming." his nose found its way back to your cheek, pressing kisses onto the warm, wet skin. "why didn't you come home, subong? i .. i've been waiting for so long." his bottom lip quivered again, but his voice was utmost steady: "you never asked."

"i—i shouldn't have to!" you swatted at his chest. "you idiot!" "i know, i know. i've been really fucking stupid." his voice cracks. subong leans in, but you turn away. "i can't. it's not good for me." "can't you see we're dying without each other?" he pleads, his hands turning your head to look at him. "look at me, look at you! just one, baby. please." his breath brushed against your cheeks, his hands holding either side of your face. "i can't ... i can't go on without you."

with a shaky breath and fresh tears falling down your cheeks, you closed the gap. a guttural moan rumbled through your chest, subong whimpering desperately. his arms wrap tightly around your waist, your hands holding his face for dear life—the kiss slow and purposeful, making up for lost time, a conversation no words could say. subong's palms made way to your ass, acting on pure muscle memory. he angled his head, introducing his tongue into the equation, having to quickly bend his knees to catch your fidgety form. "i'm not going anywhere." he unintentionally stifled the most heavenly moan he's ever heard from you. you broke the kiss for air. subong wasted no time, returning to his favorite spot on your neck, holding you in place firmly. your head fell back, letting him do whatever he so pleased—your hand on the back of his head wielding the power of casting a centuries-long trance.

he sucked and licked with precision, like a day hadn't gone by. he even hummed in concentration, mouth popping off of your soft skin until the bruise was to his liking. "s-subong." you whined, needing his lips back, your fingers messily carding through his hair. "i'm almost done." he was gentle, even if he was ignoring the concrete fucking lump in his pants and starting to sweat over your warmth against his. he latched off, fingers tracing the bluish-red spot with satisfaction. "come here, pretty girl." his slightly swollen lips made your eyebrows furrow pathetically, the kiss felt sticky, your lips sown with his. "i need you." you murmured. "i need you." "stall. the bathroom stall."

you grabbed his hand, rushing to the closest one, pulling him inside. neither of you think to close the door, letting it bang against the wall after swinging it open. subong's lips returned to yours, but his hands pat his pockets, feeling his phone and wallet, unsure: "i don't—i don't have a condom." "it's okay, it's okay." you assure truthfully, hurriedly kissing him as if he'd disappear if you let go. "it'll be just like how we used to, hm?" "turn around for me."

you do, placing your hands on the bathroom stall wall to hold yourself up. subong pulls your pants down to your ankles, unbuckling his belt and pulling his pants down just enough to grind his hardened cock against your ass, leaving nothing to the imagination, even with the barrier of his briefs and your underwear. "s-subong!" you gasped, back arching, pushing your ass farther onto him, feeling his cock closer to your aching pussy but not quite there yet. "how could you take this away from me?" he whispered into your ear, breath hitching vulnerably as he tried to keep himself composed, the plush of your round ass making his mind mush. "from us?" subong's hands snuck past the hem, grabbing at the powdery softness of either globes of your ass. his bottom lip suffered between his teeth, watching his hands work underneath the fabric, squeezing firmly. your nails clawed at the wall, eyes fluttering closed whenever his cool rings cinched around your hot skin. "stop teasing." your cheek collided with his nose, not realizing how close his face was to yours.

subong kissed your supple skin like instinct. "you'll take this dick like a good fucking girl, right?" he was so close to your ear the tip of his nose smushed against the stall wall. "y-yes!" you helplessly paw at the wall. his hand pulled down your underwear, rutting himself against your bare ass. his fingers maneuvered between your legs, middle finger sinking between your folds and encircling, keeping you steady between him and the wall. when he finds that sensitive bundle of nerves, he feels faint, cursing under his breath as your guttural grunt that bounced off the walls. "s-subong—" your voice sounded dry from the earlier arguing and succumbing to your illustrious libido. "i know, baby, i know." his fingers were unrelenting. christ, you were so fucking wet. "just wait for a little longer, and i'll fuck this pussy like the good boy you know i fucking am."

his fingers came to a gradual halt. whilst your chest heaved, he sucked on the tip of his middle finger, licking it clean. "i'm getting on my knees. don't move." he pulled your underwear down, peering up at the puffy lips he has to thank for opening his third eye. you cover your mouth, his warm tongue delving between your folds, scared of what you might sound like if you let go. for the next minute, all that fills the bathroom are the lewd sounds of his tongue nursing your sweet pussy and your muffled whimpers. a crude smack on your left globe followed by a harsh squeeze was the unspoken: let me fucking hear you. "o-oh!" you cried out. "o-oh my fucking god!"

you pushed your ass onto his face, your eyes crossing over the vibrations of his satisfied moan against your clit, squeezing them shut. he lapped your hole repeatedly, swallowing, taking a breath before adjusting his knees on the floor. subong's thumbs spread your lips apart, latching his mouth onto your clit and sucking. the curvature of your back deepened, head thrown back, a cry of pure lust brewing out of your diaphragm, heartbeat stuttering when his tongue lapped the bundle without mercy. "r-right there! just, just—ngh! hngh!—just l-like that!" "where? here?" he asked knowingly, tongue replaced by his finger, rubbing your clit mercilessly. his other hand fished his cock out from his briefs, beginning to stroke himself.

it was a cacophony of wet slick, choked moans, and squelching heat. nothing could deter it, not even the pair of friends that walked in the bathroom, chatting away and completely unaware, only to quickly back out of the room widened eyes and whispers of "oh my god, did you see them?" and "on a tuesday?" it was a sight to behold: your ass in his face; a mixture of his saliva and your slick trailing down his chin, quickly wiped by the back of his hand when he took a breath, but smearing nonetheless; his precum leaking onto the floor; your moans so delicate and raw any erotic film director would beg on their knees to cast you; and subong's affirming mhms and thats rights as he sucks and laps your clit.

subong knew you were close when your thighs began to shake. "give it to me." his hand ceased pumping his dick, both thumbs separating your puffy lips farther than before, running his tongue over your clit. "give it to me, mama," your moan made his dick twitch, eyebrows deeply furrowed, fucked-out gloss coating his eyes. "give it to me, baby, come on—" "ngh!" your body squirmed, nails scraping against the wall, one hand reaching for the top, thighs clenching around his head as your orgasm took over your body. subong was stubborn—his palms pressing your back down further, tongue unrelenting through your high, swallowing whatever you gave him. he slowed when your breathing leveled, suckling one last time before rising to his feet.

he pushed your shirt up, kissing the top of your spine, then the back of your shoulder. "hey," he said gently, hearing your shaky breaths. "still with me?" "mhm." you nod, bottom lip caught between your teeth, trying your best to remain standing. his lips kissed your temple, "everything okay?" "mhm," was all you were able to muster. "f-felt really good. needed it." "me too. i dreamt about you, baby." he whined, lips pressed to your skin. "i dreamt about you so much." his breathing became ragged, tip of his cock red and angry. "tugged at my dick so much and i never came as good as when i was with you. now you made me cum just from eating your pussy. do you see what you've done to me? do you see what you've done to your precious subongie?"

you feel dizzy, lifting your head for air. "put it in." you whisper. you push your ass into him, moaning at the feeling of his cock rutting against you. "put it in, subongie." he slowly pushed his tip in, eventually enveloped by your gummy walls. his face contorted—"how're you so much tighter than before!?" his voice was notably higher, barely moving his hips, slowly inching out of you. "h-haven't had anyone else," you sucked in a tight breath. "b-been waiting for you—hngh!" oh, you were so back ... you couldn't help the satisfied smile that stretched across your face, ears filled with his needy whines and blubbering incoherently about how much he missed you, and his girthy cock stretching you out in the way you deserve. "fuck me, subongie," you said breathlessly. "fuck me the way you dream about." "i won't last, you're so fucking tight!—" "—be the good boy you said you'd be!"

with that, he got to work. his pelvis hit your ass, not rapidly, but with reverberating force, moaning and whining like it was the last thing he'd ever do. your mouth fell open, body shaking with every thrust, eyes squeezed shut. you gasped when his hand reached into your bra, holding your left breast, biting your lip as your nipple hardened against his palm. you looked over your shoulder, catching sight of your jiggling globes every time he thrusted. "faster," you said. "faster and harder, s-subong. i—fuck!—i n-need you so b-badly!" he grabbed either side of your hips, pounding into you through his intensifying blurry haze, balls slapping against you so unapologetically that, if someone got close enough, it could've been heard from outside the door. subong wasn't showing off; he wasn't outdoing himself, to him, this was making love. here he was, fucking the woman of his dreams (he got her back!!,) hearing those moans he was so afraid would escape his memories, and fortunate to be feeling and fucking her divine pussy. talk about a jackpot.

"a-agh! f-fuck!" he cried out, hips stuttering as you began fucking him back. he looked down at the sight, watching his creamy cock disappear and reappear at your volition, his indescribable pleasure displayed on his face, envied by empty canvases wishing to capture such raw human emotion. "n-no, no!" he gasped, feeling your pussy clench around him, that knot forming in his abdomen. "y-you're killing me, baby," he panted. "b-baby—ngh!—s-stop, need to f-fuck you. m'gonna cum s'quick if you—if you, f-fuck!" you stopped abruptly, slamming against his pelvis with a shaky breath. "i'm almost there, too." you said. you sunk a little lower, pushing your ass against him. "k-keep going, my love. you're doing so good. always know how to fuck this pussy so good, hm? yeah? best dick i've ever fucking had." you whine, feeling his cock pulsate in your cunt. you look over your shoulder, feeling his hand squeeze your left asscheek, "wanna cum in me?" wanna cum in me so much that i make you a daddy? yeah?" a wall-rattling gasp shattered out of your lungs when he thrust into you hard, once. then twice. "you're going to be the fucking death of me."

subong pounded into your tight pussy mercilessly, brushing against that spongy spot deep in your cunt with little effort at the angle you were in now. "right there, right t-there! o-oh my god, f-fuck—fuck! s-subong—subong! keep going! you feel so f-f-fucking good!" your whorish mewls were no match for his. he was a goner; bottomed out; becoming lightheaded. he kept going, kept hitting that spongy haven, but it wasn't a knot in your abdomen that fleshed goosebumps across your skin, embarking on its unravel—it was deeper, more carnal than that—but before you could register it, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and your leg felt wet. "o-oh—oh my g-god—" you were a mumbling mess through this indescribable orgasm, wholly aware of your body but lost in your lustful haze. subong knew exactly what was going on. it brought him over the edge. "f-fuck! fuck! fuck!" warmth coated your walls, chock-full of his cum, trailing down your thigh with your squirt. he slowed his thrusts, moving so delicately it was as if his cock was made of glass.

he stopped moving, cock resting inside your warm cunt. you were in your own world, weakly holding onto the wall, ears ringing, temples pounding. your senses cleared albeit minutely with his hands holding your shoulders, helping you stand up better. you raised your arm, planting it before you and resting your forehead against it, taking deep breaths. subong pulled out, tutting softly hearing your quiet gasp, palm tracing your lower back as a silent i know, i know. his chest heaving, subong's hand reached over, trying to tuck your hair behind your ear to talk to you, but stops when he sees your earrings—the ones he gave you all those months ago; the ones he said you didn't deserve during that explosive argument. unexpectedly to him, his eyes started to water, quickly pressing a kiss onto the back of your shoulder, mouth muffled against the fabric of your top. in the midst of your labored breathing, you don't overhear: "i love you," he whispered. he pressed another kiss. "i love you."

after a few moments, you stood up steadily, making subong lift his head. your hand aimlessly reached behind you for him."you made me ... you made me—" "—i know, i know." he spoke gently. your senses found him when his arm wrapped around your waist, lips pressing a kiss to your temple and staying there. your hand reached up, coaxing your fingers through his hair. "have we ... have we ever done that before?" "i don't think we did." "yeah ... i figured." your eyes were still closed, slowly opening when his lips peppered kisses on your jaw. "i don't—" you swallowed, mouth dry. "i don't know if i can walk straight." both of you couldn't help but laugh, his forehead resting against your temple. "you know," he cleared his throat. "i think someone came in when i was eating you out." "oh god." you murmured. "did they say anything?" "i was kinda busy to notice if they did." he chuckled lowly. "right, right."

the heat of your apartment woke you up in the middle of the night, lazily tugging the duvet of your sweaty body. subong's light snores became background noise after a press of a button, the air conditioning kicking in. in your sleepy state, you squinted at the time on the oven: 4:27 AM. shuffling to the bathroom, you emerged a few minutes later, filling a glass of water from the kitchen tap. after taking a sip, you walked to the ac unit, eyes closed whilst you cooled down, wind flowing modestly through your hair.

feeling refreshed enough, you headed back to bed. you carefully slid your glass onto the nightside table, hoping there was a enough space on the already small and cluttered surface—equipped with yours and subong's charging phones, hair ties, ibuprofen, whatever else you were too lazy to properly put away, and not lit since there was no room for a lamp—but guessed wrong, accidentally sliding both phones off. a loud clatter rang throughout the apartment, "shit!" you cursed under your breath, quickly eyeing subong. he didn't flinch, snoring peacefully. you picked the phones up, plugged his back in, and set them onto the table securely. a notif came up on his screen. by chance, your eyes glanced over. what was a mere peek became a full on stare.

it was from a crypto app. you didn't have to be a genius to know; the word was in the name of the fucking app. you read the notif before his screen went dark: You have an update on your investment. Tap to view. you have got to be fucking kidding me. you thought to yourself. without thinking, you unplugged his phone, tapping his screen to see it again. but the notif was now hidden, requiring his face id or passcode to view. is his passcode still the same as before? you wondered, thinking of those times he'd let you use his phone to connect him to the wifi, or send yourself photos from dates he'd always forget to. you look over your shoulder at his sleeping form, clueless. forget ethics, forget respecting privacy, forget trusting your partner; your brain was in overdrive. this better fucking work. you swipe up, typing 6969—it works. you tap the notif, the app loads quickly. your eyes run over an interface filled with lingo you don't know or care for and usernames that should be put on a watchlist, but then you find it: his profile. you click the icon on the bottom right corner, seeing the Investments tab with an encircled 1 next to it, clicking it, waiting for the screen to load. it only took a couple of seconds, but it was long enough to make you nervously gnaw at your bottom lip and tap your foot. then it loaded.

-850 MILLION KRW — in unmissable red at the top of the screen, above a graph you could only guess illustrated the fluctuation of his money, and other bullshit you couldn't comprehend in the moment. you stared. in silence, numb. before you knew it, the number changed: -1.19 BILLION KRW. your thumb acted before your brain could, scrolling, finding the extensive histories of his investments. he was betting hourly during the day with money he certainly did not have, losing thousands. you scrolled even deeper, finding investments from before you broke up. 50,000 krw here, 5 million there, 30 million another day .... he'd been lying that entire time. selfishly keeping more for himself, all the while consoling your crying state from not being able to make rent in time, even with what you suspected to be all he had ("i'm so sorry, baby. you don't deserve this. we don't deserve this. i'll fight your landlord for you, don't worry.") what utter bullshit.

it was all lies. it was all deception. and now he was back in your bed, peacefully asleep like everything was okay. you let him back into your life, thinking everything was going to be fucking okay. you squeeze his phone in your hand, arm shaking. your other hand sinks your fingers into your knee, as if to prevent from screaming; trying to find another outlet for the anger—fuck it! irate, you grab your glass of water and rush to his side of the bed, throwing it onto his face. he shot up immediately. you paced back and forth, eyes rolling at his coughing fit. "wha—what?" his voice was gravely, wiping his eyes. "was that—was that water?" he asked stupidly. "yes it was fucking water!" you spoke loudly, irritated at the sight of his barely opened eyes."what're you yelling for?" his voice was lower than usual, clouded by looming sleep. "it's, like, four in the morning, baby."

"don't you fucking 'baby' me." you muttered, marching up to him. you showed him his screen. "the fuck is this? hm?" "what?" he asked, wiping water off his forehead. you threw his phone onto his lap. "check your fucking investments." he picked up his phone and scrolled. he didn't say a word. you continued to pace like a madwoman, back and forth, nothing filling the air but the skid of the heels of your feet against the floor. you mentally cursed and screamed, thoughts so scrambled that if you opened your mouth all that would come out would be jibberish, so you paced. and paced. and paced. it could've been anywhere between five or ten minutes when you stopped. "well?" you asked sharply, arms crossed over your chest. "how much money did you fucking make?"

"why'd you look at my phone?" asked subong. he was trying so hard to avoid openly showing his shame; his pride prevailing. "that's—" you stuttered. "that's seriously what you're asking right now?" "yes, that's what i'm fucking asking right the fuck now." he looked up at you, meeting your eyes with an unreadable expression. "you just threw water in my face. i get to ask questions." "you're a billion in debt!" you whisper-yelled, afraid your eyes would water if you were any louder. you trudged to his side of the bed, eyes wide and finger to his chest. he stared at you blankly, a twitch of his eyebrow outed his mounting frustration at his stifled shame. "you're a billion in debt, subong. where did you ... where did you even get all that money?" you swallowed, taking a step back, eyes looking everywhere but him to thwart the mounting glossiness. "why did you lie to me? all those times, all those times where i felt like it was the end. where i felt like i was at a dead end." you gestured to the couch with your hand, staring at him. "and you ... you lied. you were selfish, and didn't want to help. i ... i saw everything, subong. i know you kept on lying about your earnings when we were together."

another beat of silence. "subong, why did you put so much money into—" "—why'd you look at my phone? hm?" he interrupted, eyes wide. "why couldn't you just mind your fucking business?" "you're a billion in debt—" "i didn't owe you anything!" subong suddenly yelled, catching you off guard. he ripped the duvet off, marching up to you, finger in your face. "i didn't owe you fucking anything." he repeated, breathing hard through his nostrils. "what was it you said to me? hm? that it's my money, my punishment to have? so let me fucking have it." "you owed me everything!" you yelled, smacking his hand away. "you owed me the fucking truth!" he turned around, walking to the window leading to the balcony, hands roughly rubbing his face and hair. "why didn't you just tell me? why did you hide—" "—i did it all for you."

your eyes widened and jaw fell, appalled. "oh my god." you muttered to yourself, but he overheard. "i'm going fucking crazy. i'm going fucking crazy." you ran your hands through your hair, pacing. "i know you did not just ... i know you did not just say that." you shook your head. "how could you be so fucking stupid. how could i be so fucking stupid?" subong whipped his head around. "hey! don't call me stupid!" he walked up to you, growing angrier with your ignoring him. "hey!" he exclaimed. "don't call me stupid! i'm not stupid for taking initiative, or, or doing shit because i care about you!" his arms flailed.

"oh..." you shook your head, facing him. he felt like a first grader being told off by his teacher, frustratingly shifting his weight between his feet, unsure of where to put this uncomfortable energy. "oh no, subong. this isn't caring. this is being a complete and utter dumbass." you said, eyes porous in realization. tears were no longer in the realm of possibility. now, it was just pity. "there's no coming back from this." you made sure he knew. "you're fucked." "i know that!" he yelled, vein tight in his temple. "you don't think i fucking know that!?" subong's eyebrows furrowed. it was his turn to avoid crying. he looked away hastily, cursing repeatedly under his breath as if it'd ward off his blurring vision. he blinked hard—"i ... i tried everything." he muttered, bottom lip quivering. "i ... made deals with dangerous p-people." he cleared his throat. "i slept on benches. my own mother wouldn't pick up my calls. i've disappointed her too many times. and you ... you," he cleared his throat again. "you weren't an option." he shook his head, a tear landing on his arm. he inhaled sharply through his nose. "but ... but i have this one last chance—"

"—you're hopeless." you cut him off. "you're the worst person i've ever fucking met." subong looked at you, silently pleading to take those words back. "no." he sounded wounded. "you don't ... you don't mean that." "i do. i mean every word." you nodded. "i must have done something really horrible in a past life to be cursed with loving someone as hurtful as you." "no ..." he shook his head, his palms flattening his hair. "you don't mean what you're saying." "i do!" you yelled, voice cracking, heartbeat in your throat. a shaky breath left his lips, eyes staring at the ceiling and blinking fast, waterline feeling heavy. "no ... no, no." he muttered to himself. he took your face in his hands, eyes darting around your features, making them out even in the meek lighting of the slowly emerging sunrise. you stared blankly at the floor, emotionless between his palms.

"you don't mean those words. i know you don't." he spoke aloud, trying to convince himself. "you don't mean them." his fingers combed your hair out of your face. "i've been trying so hard. i'm so fucking scared, baby." subong shook his head quickly, but it didn't halt his falling tears. "i f-fucked up so bad." he whispered, lips quivering. he pressed kisses to your supple skin, attempting to fill the eerie silence. "but i promise—" his lips peppering your face. "i promise i'm going to fix all of this. i have a plan." subong tasted something salty, seeing a tear having fallen down your cheek. "no, no." he tutted gently, kissing it away. "don't cry. you're too beautiful to cry over a loser like me, baby." he kissed that same spot. "no, no. don't cry. here, let me hold you. come here." his lips trailed to the back of your jaw, arms wrapping loosely around your waist. even in his desperation, he was unsure. his eyes glanced at the glimmer of your dainty diamond drop earrings. "the earrings look good on you. you've always had good taste." he muttered against your shoulder. you didn't move. nor say a word. the silence was killing him. "i've been scared for so long." he whispered. your shoulder felt wet. "please ... please hold me."

he said no apology. no "i'm sorry," no "i regret this." it was a tale as old as time: redirected sympathy; a murky, multi-layered distraction, him avoiding taking full responsibility. you sympathized with his pain, you felt his hurt and the monstrous circumstance, but at some fucking point, there is only so much you could do. there is so much strength one could muster; so much mercy a heart could offer. this wasn't your problem, and you weren't going to go out of your way to make it yours. it was time to draw the line. right here, right now. you didn't recognize the man before you. he was a stranger: "subong?" "yes?" he responded quickly, a hint of hope in his tone. "when were you going to tell me about your debt?"

subong was silent, but you spoke for him. "when i get a promotion? when i get laid off? when there's an eviction notice on my door? after we elope at the courthouse, or when i tell you you're the father of my baby? hm? when were you going to tell me?" your voice was unexpectedly gentle. his shoulders started to shake, quietly sobbing. "when, subong? when?" "forgive me." he pleaded. "forgive me. please, baby—" "—get off of me." you pushed him away, slipping out of his embrace. he wiped his face with the back of his hand. "you're—you're the best thing that's ever happened to me." "you're the worst!" you exclaimed. "it's exhausting loving you! it's torture! i'm decaying from the inside!"

you took a breath, looking at this pathetic form. "i've forgiven you too much." you shook your head. "you've made me a stranger to myself. you take, and you take, and you take. i share my home, i let you fuck me, i let myself think you respect me—" "—i d-do, baby, i do! i lo—" "—i let you into the deepest, darkest pits of who i am, and you let me cry over your fucking nail polish while you were throwing away millions into something that isn't even fucking real. and you have the audacity to say it was for me?" you gesture to yourself. "as much as i tried to fix you, stupidity is in incurable disease. you're the dumbest person i've ever fucking met. you're not even smart enough to say 'i'm sorry.'"

"i never want to see you again." you turn around, your back facing him. "you don't know me. i don't know you. get out." this was it. you didn't move your eyes from the kitchen floor tiles as you heard him collect his things—the clinking of his belt; his shallow breaths; his heavy, stuttered footsteps; the clean swoosh of his pants as he put them on; over-pronounced inhales; his shoving of his feet into his sneakers—punctuated by the slam of the door. you slowly turned around. the oven read 4:53 AM. you sat on the couch, the silence heavy, only moderately cut through by the sporadic chirping of the birds outside. you sunk into the cheap cushions, hands coming up to your face, chest convulsing.

subong didn't know how long he'd been walking for. he was numb; eyes wet, cheeks swollen, snot dried, sneakers carelessly dragging against the sidewalk. the sun had risen. he could hear the taxis driving by, or catch in his peripheral vision the sight of people hurriedly leaving their apartment buildings as the morning commute commenced, but his gaze never shifted from aimless. he was wandering; nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. his chest heaved and his heart pounded in his temples, feelings buried in an overly complicated web that made his ears ring. subong's tongue was dry from breathing through his mouth, but he was so out of it he didn't bother to close his jaw.

it was the ring of a pedestrian's bike bell that temporarily took him out of this trance, stumbling a few steps to the right, letting them pass. "i'm sorry." he muttered weakly. it was only then that he looked at his surroundings, realizing he was walking along a bridge. seeing the water flow below him without issue made him feel so inconsequentially small, almost as if the car driving by or the subtle whispers of the leaves rattling in the wind told him that no matter what he did, or what he went through, or what he said, nature will be there before and after. "excuse me, sir." a voice said. subong's head felt heavy, but he turned it nonetheless. it was the man in the suit from a week ago. "i forgot to give you this after our game last week." he handed subong what looked to be a business card. "my sincerest apologies. i kindly ask that you forgive me, sir." with that, he walked away.

you woke up on the couch in the late morning, having slept through your phone alarm. you had the day off, so that wasn't exactly a concern, only to jolt awake from seering pain on side of your neck and lower back from falling asleep in such a cramped, awkward position. it was hot in the apartment again. you gradually stood on your feet, carefully stretching. "fuck." you mutter under your breath. you moved to the bathroom. you peeled your clothes off, throwing them mindlessly into the hamper. before you stepped into the shower, the glimmer of your earrings caught your sight. you tucked your hair back, staring hard into the mirror. memories of the night previous came rushing back. your quivering lip made you mad all over again, quickly taking the earrings off, throwing them into the trash bin without second thought.

you did errands. you went to work the next day. you quit your job three months later, having landed a better paying one on the opposite side of the city. a year later, you were longed moved out of your small studio and into your one bedroom abode, equipped with an in house dryer and washer. you had new friends. you had a new life. in the end, you really did get your wish of never seeing subong again.

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!

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🥹💗

NAH YOURE JOKING YOURE KIDDING UOU NEED TO PAU FOR MY THERAPY CUZ WHAT OMG OVE NEVER CRIED SO MUCH FOR A FANFICTION THIS WAS A FUCKING ROLLERCOASTER OF EMOTIONS. THE WAY UOU PORTRAY THE CHARACTERS AND THE COMPLEXITY IS SO CRAZY I SWEAR TO GOD LEX YOU ARE GENUINELY SOOOOO TALENTED I HAVE NO TEARS LEFT IN ME AND 5USED TISSUES BESIDES MY BED 😭😭😭 THIS WAS SOSOSOSOOSOSOSOSO GOOD

i just hope one day these two will be able to be together and live happily or else i swear

🍒

AAAAAAAA 🍒 THANK YOU SO MUCH😭😭💗‼️‼️

part 2 spoilers below!

from the beginning, i just couldn’t see this story ending in a perfectly wrapped-up, happy way, it didn’t feel realistic to me. (ik it’s fanfiction and it doesn’t HAVE to be realistic, but part 1 was always meant to feel grounded in reality, so i wanted part 2 to stay true to that too)

and as much as i LOVE tragic/sad endings… i also felt awful giving them one😭 (even though that was the original plan, ngl…) but like, haven’t they been through enough already??? lmao. so i ended up leaving it open for interpretation. if you want them married with five kids, go for it (even though let’s be honest… seunghyun would never😭😭💀help). maybe they’re together again and made it public after a few years. maybe they stayed friends and kept it at that. it’s really up to you and how you want to imagine it🙂‍↕️💗 —lex.

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!

OUUUU GIRL GIRLLLLLLLLLLLL I have no words I'm speechless ur writing is so good ur interpretation of him is to the tea i cannot wait to read more of ur works in the future this was amazing I loved hidden pt 2

THANK YOUUUUU AAA😼💗‼️

Hii how are you? I hope you've had an amazing day!

Now I'm curious WHO is on your pfp, because she is absolutely beautiful.

Have a great day/night <3 I love your fics sooo much keep up the good work!

hii, i’m doing good!! just a bit tired bc uni is kinda kicking my ass rn help, but we move‼️😭 and yess that’s margaret qualley on my pfp!!! she’s soooo gorgeous it’s unreal. also omg thank you sm for the love on my fics, that means the world to me!💗 i hope you’re doing good too and that life’s treating you kindly wherever you are!! —lex

You let us live our trash!boyfriend fantasies without actually having to date one. Thank you for your service 🫡

happy to provide the drama without the trauma‼️ i’m glad you enjoyed, thank you for reading!💗 i’ll be writing more for choi subong, which means… more trash!boyfriend content coming soon! (hellyeahhh)