Choi Seunghyun - Blog Posts

T.O.P. Reacts to Thanos' Best Scenes | Squid Game: Season 2 | Netflix

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 pt.2 || Choi Seung-Hyun (T.O.P)

summary: this is part 2 of my original fic HIDDEN. you should read that one first or you’re gonna be very confused!

warnings/this story contains: female reader, age gap (reader is 24 now, seunghyun’s 37) unresolved tension, mutual pining and emotional damage, reader’s life being absolute trash (?), seunghyun and the reader being very anxious people. angst (jealousy, heartbreak, guilt, shame, regret, self loathing, not being able to let go but also not being able to stay. timing never being right and love not being enough like alwayssss, i’m sorry) personal growth, forgiveness, closure, and a tiny little bitty bit of fluff if you squint your eyes very, very hard (lmao).

a/n: i never planned on writing a part two, but here we are! thank you so much for the endless support and for looking forward to this <3 as always, 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: champagne coast — blood orange (yes, again, because this is their song. i’m making it canon) ll all i wanted — paramore || lovers — anna of the north || all too well (10 minute version) — taylor swift

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. you’re back in brownsville, no longer coordinating payload systems at starbase—because, well, turns out when your year-long secret relationship becomes very suddenly not so secret, someone decided having you around was more trouble than it was worth. after they cut you off—citing professionalism and image and propriety—you didn’t really have a plan.

you spent a month unemployed, half-heartedly scrolling through job listings you didn’t want while lying facedown on the couch, alternating between waves of quiet panic and nausea that came every time you accidentally thought about seunghyun for more than five seconds. it was still raw then—the kind of heartbreak that didn’t just ache but physically made you feel sick, like your body was rejecting the entire experience. everything reminded you of him, and you hated it—how you could go from brushing your teeth to fully sobbing in the span of a minute because some memory had snuck in through the cracks, as if your own mind was determined to torture you for ever letting someone get that close.

and eventually, when your savings account started looking like a damn joke, you took the first job you could find—bartending at a small spot downtown. it’s not what you studied for. it’s not even remotely what you imagined doing when you walked across that graduation stage in your too-tight heels and got your aerospace degree handed to you… but it’s steady. you’ve memorized the orders of the regulars, learned how to hold your tongue when men call you sweetheart like it’s your god-given name or snap their fingers and whistle like you’re a fucking dog, and you’ve gotten really good at pretending you’re okay—smiling through it. your shoes are always sticky by the end of the night, your clothes reek of grease and cheap vodka no matter how many times you wash them, and there’s a tiny scar on your wrist from a shattered pint glass that slipped mid-shift during a friday rush. but hey… at least the tips are decent.

you’ve also been… seeing someone. the guy your friends had been annoyingly pushing for months (back when you were still secretly dating seunghyun and pretending to consider it just to shut them up). he’s your age, works in construction and is very nice, which sounds like a shitty compliment, but it’s not. you’ve been seeing him for about two months now—hanging out and hooking up. you like him. really, you do… a little bit. but every now and then you catch yourself comparing the way he holds your face to the way someone else used to, and you have to blink it away before it sinks too deep. he doesn’t know about seunghyun, of course. not the real version of it, anyway. just that there was someone before, someone who hurt you. and you appreciate his patience—he gives you space when you need it and doesn’t ask too many questions. and, well, he eats your pussy good, so. there’s that too. sometimes that’s enough to shut your brain up for a bit, enough to make you forget the ache that still sits in your chest like a bruise that never really healed. even though you know it’s not fair. and you wonder, sometimes, if this guy’s waiting for you to fall in love with him and has no idea that you’re still scraping someone else’s fingerprints off your skin.

but the most significant thing—the one that still sits in your stomach like a rock you can’t digest—is that you found out. you finally know. it was her. your mother. you didn’t even get it from her directly. you found it by accident—buried in an old email. you weren’t snooping—just printing a return label for something, waiting for the slow-ass printer to wake up—when your eyes caught the subject line: re: media contact – confidential inquiry. and you clicked it. you scrolled through every line with a growing sense of horror. you confronted her that same night. you didn’t plan it, didn’t rehearse what you were going to say—you just walked into the kitchen, heart pounding, and said, “how long were you planning on hiding the fact that you’re the one who leaked it?” she didn’t even deny it. just looked at you, quiet for a second, then said, “i did what i had to do.” “you had to?!” your voice broke, equal parts disbelief and fury. “you had to sabotage my entire fucking relationship?!” “he was taking advantage of you,” she said flatly. “what the fuck? what the—what the fuck is wrong with you?! you had no right to interfere like that! none!” “you think i didn’t see what he was doing? he was grooming you—” “don’t you dare use that word,” you spat, stepping forward. “don’t you fucking dare put it like that just because you needed a reason to feel better about what you did! i was twenty-two, not sixteen!” “i don’t care! he’s thirteen years older than you, and you—” “he wasn’t using me! i knew what i was doing—” “no!” she pointed at you, jabbing the air, furious and breathless, “you were just following him around like some starstruck idiot, lying to me, running away from your job, from your family—” “oh my god, shut the fuck up!” you snapped, tears hot in your eyes. “shut the fuck up! i was in love! and you fucking ruined it!”

you don’t remember much after that—just fragments. you remember your mother shouting something about protection, about how she couldn’t stand by and watch you throw your future away over a man who was never going to give you anything real. you remember knocking over a stack of books, slamming a drawer so hard it bounced back open, dragging your suitcase out of the closet with shaking hands and yanking things off hangers without looking. she cried, kept repeating that she didn’t mean to hurt you, that she was scared, that she thought she was doing what was best. but you didn’t care. you were too angry and too fucking tired of being treated like you didn’t know your own mind. you haven’t spoken to her since. you don’t know if you ever will. because it turns out there’s heartbreak that comes from losing a lover, and then there’s heartbreak that comes from realizing the person who raised you is the reason you lost them. and now it’s too late to take any of it back.

you’ve been crashing with one of your friends for the past three weeks—sleeping on a futon that creaks every time you turn over and makes your back ache by morning. you didn’t really know where else to go. your job barely covers groceries—forget rent, forget deposits, forget the fantasy of having a space that’s actually yours. so now you’re here, trying not to be a burden, trying not to cry into your friend’s couch cushions at night because she’s doing you a favor, and you already feel like a walking pity case. sometimes you lie there and think about how you used to fall asleep in a king-sized bed with high thread count sheets and a man who kissed your shoulders before falling asleep with his hand in yours, and now you’re in someone else’s place, listening to the hum of a fridge that never stops running—feeling lonelier than you ever have in your entire life.

you thought life would’ve gotten better by now, but you spend the nights crying instead—staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. you cry because nothing feels right, because everything feels too hard, because you lost your job, your relationship, your home, your sense of direction—and even though you keep telling yourself you’re only twenty-four, that there’s time to figure it out, some nights it just feels like you’re stuck in and endless pain loop. no one warned you adulthood would feel like this.

you’re alone that night. your friend’s covering a night shift, the apartment is quiet, and your body feels like it’s made of wet tissue—fragile and bloated and cursed with every symptom imaginable, because the universe decided you needed your period on top of everything else. the cramps are brutal, your back hurts, your tits ache, and the fucking futon now has a suspicious little stain that you know you’ll have to scrub later. you’ve been crying (again!) and your throat is raw from it, your eyes puffy, your nose sore from wiping it too hard with paper towels. you feel pathetic. like genuinely, award-winning levels of pathetic. and maybe that’s what finally does it. you reach for your phone with hands that are slightly shaky, not because you’re nervous, but because you’re just so damn tired. of yourself, mostly. and maybe the universe too. your fingers open his old messages. you used to do this sometimes—type things you needed to get off your chest. but you never sent them because seeing your words in that annoying green bubble would be worse than anything else. it would remind you that yes, he blocked you. yes, he’s still gone. yes, this is over, and it’s been over. move the fuck on already, girl. so, following your little tradition, you type:

it was my fucking mom this whole time. she’s the one who leaked everything. i found out like three weeks ago, and i still haven’t processed it. i wish you knew. i wish i could make you know so you wouldn’t go on living your life thinking i betrayed you or whatever tf you decided to believe instead of trusting me. but anyway. talk about trust issues now, bc honestly, idk how i’m ever supposed to trust anyone again!🥰 love this for meeeee omg!😍😍 i shouldn’t have told her i was moving to seoul. i should’ve just disappeared from her fucking life and been happy with you and what we had. but no. because life can’t be that easy for me, right? no. life has to be a fucking bitch in every possible way. i’m so fucking tired.

your fingers hover over the delete button as you cry profusely after typing that paragraph—eyes blurry, throat tight, the screen glowing too bright in the dark room. and maybe it’s the hormones, or the sleep deprivation, but something inside you hits send. because why the fuck does it matter? he’s not gonna read it, he’s got you blocked. but the second you see the message go blue—you freeze. your stomach drops and you stare at your phone like it’s just slapped you across the face. he unblocked you. wait—what? since when? you shoot up like you’ve just been electrocuted, eyes wide as the full horror of what just happened sinks in. “what the fuck! what the fuck! shit, shit, shit—” you whisper to no one, pacing the tiny apartment. so much for crying in your period-stained pajamas—turns out all it takes to yank you out of a full-blown breakdown is the absolute fucking horror of realizing you just sent a long-ass vent session straight to the one person on this planet you were least fucking ready to talk to. congrats, girl! you keep outdoing yourself! “oh my—fuck! fuck, fuck, fuck! oh, god. oh my god,” you keep mumbling. when the fuck did he unblock you?! and why the hell didn’t you check?! your heart is in your throat, pulse hammering so fast it makes your vision blur for a second. you swipe back to the chat like maybe you hallucinated the whole thing. maybe the app glitched. but no. and before you can delete it, there it is—read. “huh?!” you stop in your tracks, frozen in the middle of the room. your mouth falls open. your lungs forget how to work. your entire body goes cold and then hot, and then cold again. “no. no no no no no no—fuck!”

you groan into your hands and sink down onto the futon. your palms are damp with sweat and your brain’s screaming. the message is sent. he’s seen it. and no matter how much you want to crawl inside your phone and delete it—there’s nothing left to do but sit in the aftermath. so you do. you sit, legs curled beneath you, staring at your phone screen. you check the time—3:41 a.m. in texas. in seoul, it’s late afternoon. you decide to leave your phone face up on the floor next to you and try to pretend you’re not watching it from the corner of your eye like it’s about to perform a fucking magic trick. every time it lights up, your heart jumps—once it’s duolingo, passive-aggressively reminding you for the hundredth time that you haven’t finished your korean lessons (well… thank you for the reminder, motherfucker!). and another time it’s your period tracker app asking if you’re feeling moody lately. no shit! you lurch forward every time, breath catching in your throat, only to get sucker-punched by disappointment again and again. and still, no reply. you try to sleep, not because you think it’ll work, but because it’s the only other option. but lying down just makes it worse—your thoughts are louder. you flip your pillow, then flip it again. the sheets are damp with sweat, your legs restless, your hands twitching toward your phone like it’s calling to you. you wait for hours… he never replies.

and by the time the sun comes up, you’ve barely slept at all. your eyes sting, your mouth is dry, and you’ve gone full zombie-mode by the time your shift rolls around. you survive your shift at the bar by sheer muscle memory, making drinks, taking orders and smiling through clenched teeth. and when it ends, your body aches like it’s been rolled through the pavement. you go home—your friend’s home—after midnight, feet aching, back sore, and stomach hollow from skipping dinner because the thought of eating made you feel sick. the place is dark when you walk in. she’s probably already asleep, and you tiptoe into the kitchen to grab a glass of water before collapsing on the futon. you check your phone—still nothing. and that’s it. that’s the end of the story. why would it end any other way? of course he’s not going to reply. you should’ve never sent that fucking text. you should’ve stuck to your sad little ritual of typing and deleting and pretending you had closure. because this? this is embarrassing.

you toss your phone onto the floor like maybe breaking it will break the shame too, and flop onto your side dramatically… and then it buzzes. you’ve never gotten up so fast—hands scrambling for the phone. you swipe, thumbs clumsy with nerves because holy shit, there’s a notification from him. but somehow you manage to open the message.

Can I call you?

you stare at the screen. your pulse is pounding loud in your ears, and for a second you’re genuinely not sure if you’re going to throw up or pass out. your entire body is shaking and your blood has drained out of your face. you can feel it. you’re cold and clammy all over, heart thudding like it’s trying to punch its way out of your chest. you try to breathe—in through your nose, out through your mouth—before typing:

yeah, okay

your phone starts ringing a second later—like he’d been waiting. and the sound of it, his name lighting up your screen again after all these months, knocks something loose in your chest. the apartment is quiet—just the creak of the floor beneath your feet as you cross over to the sliding door that leads to the balcony. you slide it open as quietly as you can, since you don’t want to wake your friend, and step outside. it’s darker than you expected, the only light coming from the streetlamps below and the faint orange glow of someone’s window across the way. the balcony chair creaks under your weight as you sink into it, the metal cold against your bare thighs. your breathing’s all uneven now—short little gasps like you just finished running, though you haven’t moved more than ten feet—and you can’t stop staring at the screen. you swipe to answer. for a few seconds, there’s nothing. only silence. then, finally, a voice. “hi.” you grip the phone tighter, trying to stop your hands from shaking. “hi,” you say back. and then silence again. you can’t tell if it’s awkward or loaded or both.

you shift in the chair, curling one leg up underneath you. “how are you?” he asks. oh lord. he was literally fucking you raw less than a year ago… and now he’s making small talk. stop this madness. “i—i’m good,” you say, lying through your teeth, obviously. you clear your throat. “you?” “fine,” he says after a beat, but he sounds anything but—tired, like something in his chest’s been weighing him down. and then another pause, before he finally says, “i read your message.” “yeah… i know. i mean—i saw.” you chew the inside of your cheek, fingers picking at the hem of your sleeve. “was it really her?” you nod before realizing he can’t see you. “yeah. it was.” he doesn’t say anything, so you keep going, just to fill the space. “i saw… an email she sent. and we—we fought. bad. i left the same day and i… i haven’t been back since.” “you—where are you staying?” he asks, and you hear something in his voice, concern. “friend’s house.” you try to make it sound casual. he goes quiet again, and for a second, all you can hear is the low static hum of the call. you bite your bottom lip before blurting, “i didn’t know you’d unblocked me.” “yeah. i did like a month ago, i think.” you hum. you want to ask why, but you don’t. because the call already feels like a glass balancing on the edge of a table, and you don’t want to make it more awkward than it already is. and besides, you know you wouldn’t get the answer you want. if he wanted to talk, he would’ve. if he missed you, if he regretted it, if any part of him wanted to reach out… he would’ve. and he didn’t. so you swallow that sharp little ache, ignore the part of you that still wants to believe in something softer, and you say, “i’m sorry for sending that, by the way. i was… i don’t know. not in a great headspace yesterday.” “don’t apologize,” he says. “i’m glad you told me.” “you deserved to know.” “mmh.” the silence stretches for another second before he says, “thank you.”

the quiet that follows is soft, almost gentle. for a second you think that’s it—you can almost feel one of you hovering over the red button, and you know you should probably let it happen, let it end on something simple and clean. but you don’t want to hang up yet. so, instead, you do what you always do when your nerves start to buzz—you talk. “i’ve typed stuff before. like—messages. to you.” oh my god… shut up! shut up! why the fuck are you saying this? you want to swallow the words back down immediately but nope—your mouth keeps going. “i never sent them but… i don’t know. i wasn’t even supposed to send you that one last night—i don’t know why i did.” you press a hand to your forehead, silently screaming. “anyway i—yeah. sorry. i should just… shut up.” there’s a pause on the other end, heavy enough to make your fingers twitch against your leg. you expect him to change the subject or maybe just hang up altogether, and for a second you even brace yourself for the sound of the line going dead. but then he says, “what kind of stuff?” you blink, eyes still fixed on the quiet street below, unsure you heard him right. “what?” “the messages,” he answers, and his voice is a little quieter now, like he’s not sure if he should be asking. “what were they about?” you’re caught so off guard that you let out this small, breathless laugh that doesn’t hold any humor at all. “seriously?” you ask, more to yourself than to him. you rub a hand over your face. “i don’t know, just… random things about my life. like my day, what i was doing… sometimes just things i wish i could say to you but knew i couldn’t. i don’t know.” you trail off, embarrassed, already regretting every word spilling out of your mouth. “you can tell me now,” he says. you blink, heart stumbling a little in your chest, because you don’t know what you were expecting him to say—but it definitely wasn’t that. your fingers tighten around the phone again. “you… want me to tell you?” “i do.” you hesitate. not because you don’t have things to say—god, you’ve got too many—but because you don’t know what version of your life he’s expecting. probably not the one you’re living. “i didn’t think you’d care,” you admit quietly. “i care—of course i care.” oh… you close your eyes, press your palm to your chest and you can feel how fast your heart is beating. you force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat before you speak. “i’m bartending now.” you immediately want to cringe, because wow, what an opener. “they fired me from starbase. so… yeah. but it’s okay, this job isn’t so bad… i mean—it’s not good either, but it pays.” he hums, a soft sound of acknowledgement, like he’s listening. “and, like i told you, i’m living with a friend. after—after everything that happened with my mom… i couldn’t stay. so, yeah.”

something about saying all of that out loud—narrating your life to someone who once knew it better than anyone else—makes your bottom lip tremble before you can stop it. this tiny traitorous movement that you feel more than see, like the last thread of control slipping quietly from your hands. you swallow hard. try to hold it together and sound normal. “but i’m, um… i’m looking for a place,” you add, voice higher now, too fast. “something small for myself.” you don’t mention that your bank account laughs at you every time you open the app, or that you fall asleep on a futon in the corner of your friend’s tiny apartment, feeling like a burden. you don’t say any of that, because it’s pathetic. but the tears come anyway, completely against your will. not just because of your mom or your job or your life crumbling in pieces so small you can’t even name them—but because you’re talking to him. and everything about this feels so impossibly far from what you used to be. the way you speak to each other now, like strangers, it’s breaking you open in places you didn’t know were still sore. you try to sniff it away, wipe your face with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, but it’s useless. “are you…” his voice cuts through the line. “are you crying?” “no.” you suck in a breath. “i mean—yes. yes, i am. it’s just—i don’t know.” the tears are falling faster now, and your throat is thick with everything you’ve been trying so hard not to feel for the last nine months. you sniff, drag the sleeve of your sweatshirt across your nose, and bite out, “why’d you even call me, seunghyun? seriously. what was the point?” “i wanted to apologize.” he pauses. “i—i’m sorry. i should’ve trusted you, i should’ve listened. i was just… angry. and scared.” you exhale through your nose, trying to steady the shaking in your chest. “it’s okay,” you say quietly, even though part of you wants to tell him it’s not.

he doesn’t reply right away, and for a second you think the call might be really ending this time—that this was all he needed to say, a final stitch to close the wound and move on. but then—“i missed your voice.” your breath catches, and you don’t know what to say to that. because it hurts. it hurts so fucking much to hear it. “you hurt me, seunghyun,” you whisper. “i know,” he says, voice breaking. “i know i did, baby—shit. sorry. fuck, i—i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to call you that.” you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your knuckles to your lips like it’ll stop the sting. “don’t. don’t do that.” “i didn’t mean to—” “no, you don’t get to do that,” you cut in, sharper this time, words tumbling out fast. “this isn’t fair,” you say, and now your voice really starts to shake. “you’re not—you’re not being fair, seunghyun.” “listen—“ “no, i don’t wanna fucking listen!” you raise your voice, frustration spilling out faster than you can rein it in. “sorry,” you say quietly. “sorry. i—i didn’t mean to speak to you like that.” “i know,” he whispers. “but i understand. i deserve it.” “no, you—i just… it’s a lot. and hearing your voice like this again—fuck, i don’t know.” he doesn’t say anything, and you’re not even sure if that’s a good or bad thing, so you keep going before you lose your nerve. “you shouldn’t have unblocked me. you should’ve just left it the way it was,” you continue, sobbing between words. “what—” “i was doing okay,” you lie, even though you both know you weren’t. “or at least, i was trying. and then you—you do this, and now i feel like—i feel like i’m right back where i started.” he’s silent again, and it drives you fucking insane—how he always does this, lets the silence do the work for him, like it’s your job to fill in the blanks. “you can’t just show up in my life when you feel like it. that’s not how this works. you don’t get to block me, forget about me, go on with your life, and then crawl back into mine just because you’re curious or lonely or whatever the fuck this is.” your breath is shallow now, chest rising and falling fast. “i can’t do this, seunghyun. i can’t—” you cry. “so do it again. block me. because if you don’t… i will.”

you wait a second—two, maybe three—before you hang up. you stare at the screen for a beat too long after the line goes dead, your own reflection faint in the glass. your limbs feel shaky as you drag yourself up from the chair with the kind of stiffness that makes you wonder if heartbreak settles in your bones like lead. the apartment is quiet when you slip back inside. you don’t even bother changing. and when you fall onto the futon, you collapse. your chest hurts, in the literal, physical way—like there’s something pressing down on it, making it harder to breathe with every passing second. you’re still crying, face crumpling into the crook of your elbow. and even though you try to keep it quiet because your friend is asleep in the next room, your body has other plans. the sobs come in waves, ugly and loud and gasping, and there’s no one to stop them, no one to shush you or hold you or say it’s going to be okay. you press your face into the pillow and scream once, like it might help get it out, but it doesn’t. you cry until you’re too tired to cry anymore, until your body feels wrung out and empty. until your eyelids are heavy, your head pounds and the ache in your chest starts to dull—because, yes, even pain has its limits. and when sleep finally takes you, it feels like relief.

you don’t even hear her come in. it takes a few tries before your friend gets through to you, nudging your foot, then your shoulder, then finally your name, said a little too loudly for how early it is. “hey! you’ve gotta get up. don’t you have work?” you jolt upright like you’re coming up for air, groggy and disoriented, face crusted with dried tears. you mutter something like “shit, what time is it?” before fumbling for your phone. and that’s when you see it. seunghyun texted you while you were asleep.

Hi. I just booked a flight to Texas.

I’ll be in Brownsville for a few days, and I really, really want to see you.

I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me.

But if you do, I’ll be here next Sunday at 4 P.M.

he had sent a location.

We have a lot to talk about.

I didn’t want our call to end like that.

You don’t have to reply, just know I’ll be there, waiting.

And if you don’t show up, that’s okay too.

I hope you have a good day. 🫰🏼

your first thought is no. not even a soft, hesitant kind of no—just a loud, stubborn one that echoes straight through your head. NO. you don’t want to see him. you don’t want to talk. you don’t want to sit across from him pretending like the last nine months haven’t been eating you alive. you lock your phone, toss it somewhere near the futon, and move through your morning like you’re not actively dissociating—getting dressed and slapping on mascara with a shaky hand. you go to work, surprisingly making it on time. and when your shift ends, you go home. you eat leftovers straight from the container, ignore the ache behind your eyes, and tell yourself you’ve made a decision. you’re not going. simple as that.

but as the days creep forward and that sunday inches closer, your initial no—the one that came so fast and full of conviction it practically shouted over your entire body—starts to feel less like a boundary and more like a bluff you’re trying to convince yourself to believe. you find yourself rereading his texts on the bus ride home, or glancing at the clock and thinking about time zones again, something you swore you’d broken the habit of months ago. it’s not that you want to see him (girl… you do, you aren’t fooling anyone) it’s just that you’re curious. and a little bit stupid, apparently. and then, like your brain didn’t already have enough to chew on, instagram decides to kick you while you’re down. you get the notification late at night: TOP 최승현🌙 posted for the first time in a while. you stare at the alert, blinking. no way. how fucking convenient. you open the app before you can stop yourself, and there it is—proof that he unblocked you on your private insta, because you’re staring right at his profile. oh my… you’re a slut in mourning. it’s a selfie. he’s staring straight at the camera, head tilted slightly to the side to flex that stupid jawline, jesus christ... he’s wearing a black hoodie—the same one you used to borrow when you were together. more specifically, the one you were wearing the first time you let him fuck you raw. is he doing it on purpose? is this his way of getting your attention? trying to say he misses you? that he’s thinking about you too? or maybe you’re just being delusional and he’s literally just wearing his fucking hoodie like any normal person would… not everything is about you. right? you zoom in without shame, you stare, you squint and you hate yourself a little. you flip your phone face down and mutter, “fuck off,” like that’s going to do anything—like you’re not already replaying every time you tugged his hair while he was between your thighs, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue circled your clit.

sunday. 3 p.m. comes and you’re still telling yourself no, still convincing yourself with weak half-arguments and imaginary moral high ground, still walking around the room like you’re above it, like you’ve evolved past the the version of yourself who would show up for him no matter what. you’re not going. you’ve already made that decision—made it days ago. in fact, you’ve been repeating it like a fucking mantra: i’m not going, i’m not going, i’m not going. it’s the one thing you’ve been stubbornly sure of. and yet, by 3:07, you’re in front the drawer your friend let you use. you’re not sure when you stood up or how you ended up yanking it open, but suddenly you’re staring at your clothes like any of them will know what the fuck you’re doing. and you tell yourself: what harm could there be in just… seeing? just showing up, looking hot, and reminding him what he lost? right? what could go wrong? you drag yourself into the shower, rinse off the sweat and anxiety, and talk yourself out of having a panic attack while shaving your legs. you towel off, throw on something decent and slap on a bit of makeup as you wonder why the fuck are you wasting your free day on this, when you could’ve been watching reruns of some trashy dating show or doom-scrolling in peace. and before you can rethink your decision again, you’re on the bus, heart pounding harder with every stop.

you show up an hour late—closer to five-thirty than four—but you don’t feel bad about it. if anything, it makes you feel a little less like you’re crawling back and a little more like you’re arriving on your own terms. the place he chose to meet you is a rooftop wine bar in downtown brownsville with thick wooden beams stretched overhead to break the light. string lights hang loosely between them and the tables are spaced out, some close to the railing with a quiet view of the city below. he’s already there, of course, seated near the far edge of the terrace, next to the railing, with a half-finished glass of wine in front of him. you spot him instantly. he’s in a long-sleeved maroon sweater, and you don’t know why the fuck he’s wearing sleeves in this heat. his trousers are loose and slouchy, and his boots—yes, boots, in thirty-degree texas weather—are polished to hell, the soles thick and clunky. his cap sits on the table beside his wineglass, and he’s wearing his glasses—the ones that make him look so gentle. you used to love it when he wore them around you. he doesn’t see you right away—he’s looking out over the terrace, lips pursed like he’s deep in thought—but your stomach still drops like it’s the first time all over again.

you take a slow breath, then start walking. the heels of your shoes click against the tile, and the closer you get, the more surreal it feels—seeing him again. and then he looks up. you don’t know what you expected, but the way his whole face shifts when his eyes land on you catches you off guard. his brows lift just a little, like he’s not sure he’s seeing you right, and then there’s this soft pull at the corners of his mouth, the kind of expression people only ever give to people they’ve missed. he moves quickly after that, chair scraping back as he stands up too fast, brushing his palms down the sides of his pants like he’s suddenly unsure of himself. your heart thuds a little too hard as you close the last few steps between you, nerves spiking even though there’s no reason to be this tense—you’ve seen him like this before, touched him, kissed him, loved him. but now it feels like starting from scratch. “hey,” you say first, because someone has to break the tension. your voice comes out quiet, breathier than you meant. he clears his throat, shifting his weight. “hi.”

he stands there, hovering beside the table, and for a second it’s like neither of you knows how to move—do you shake hands? do you hug? his gaze flickers down to your hands, like he’s expecting you to offer one to shake, and then back up to your face. it’s clear he doesn’t know what to do, and god, neither do you. a hug feels too intimate, but standing here in this weird, polite standoff feels worse. so you do it—you step forward, close the space, and wrap your arms around him quickly, not giving yourself enough time to regret it. he’s surprised, you can tell by the way his arms come around you just a second too late. you pull away before it can get weird, and he lets you, hands immediately dropping to his sides like he’s scared to overstep. you glance at the wine glass, then back at him. “sorry i’m late.” seunghyun shakes his head, quick. “no, it’s fine. i—” he exhales. “i didn’t think you were coming.” you nod, slow and awkward, arms crossed tight over your chest for a second before you remember how that looks and force yourself to let them fall to your sides. “yeah. me neither.” he huffs a tiny laugh, almost embarrassed, and gestures toward the seat across from his. “do you wanna sit?” you nod, murmuring a soft “yeah,” as you move toward the chair. you sit, legs crossed, back too straight, and he mirrors you, settling across from you. the table feels huge between you. ridiculous, really—after everything you’ve done together, everything you’ve been to each other, now you’re playing pretend like two people on a first date who forgot how to talk.

he reaches for his wine glass, turns it slowly between his fingers without drinking. “you look good,” he says, eventually. “i mean… really good.” you meet his eyes, and then, because you can’t help it, “so do you.” he smiles at that, soft, almost sheepish, and then glances down at the wine list sitting neatly on the table between you. “you want anything?” he asks, tapping the edge of the menu lightly. “they’ve got a good selection.” you shake your head, giving a small, polite smile. “just water’s fine.” “water, then,” he says, and signals to the server passing by to order you a glass. there’s a beat of silence after the server leaves, just the soft clink of his glass when he shifts it on the table. he doesn’t look at you—just studies the red swirl of wine for a second like it’s got the right words floating in it somewhere—then finally says, “i’m glad you came.” you nod once, unsure what to say to that, fingers twitching in your lap. “and… i’m sorry,” he adds quietly. “about the phone call. the way it ended… that wasn’t how i wanted it to go.” “i know.” “i didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he says. “or backed into a corner. i just—my head was a mess, and i handled it wrong. i’m sorry.” “it’s fine. thank you—thanks for the apology.” and you mean it. he leans back slightly in his chair, exhales through his nose. his fingers trace the rim of his wine glass like he’s trying to occupy them. “i didn’t know if you’d ever want to see me again. after everything.” “i didn’t know either. up until like… three o’clock.” his mouth twitches into something that’s almost a smile. “last-minute decision?” “very,” you say. “bad one, maybe. not sure yet.” “i get it. i wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t shown up.” “i almost didn’t,” you admit. “but then i thought—i don’t know. if i didn’t come, i’d just keep wondering what you wanted to say.” he nods, finally meeting your eyes again. “i wanted to say a lot of things.” “like what?” he hesitates, jaw tightening slightly, like the words are caught somewhere behind his teeth. he exhales, slow and heavy, and leans forward, forearms resting on the edge of the table. “i wanted to apologize,” he says. “for how things ended. for—for what i said. for not listening.” “seunghyun—” you start, but he shakes his head. “i didn’t believe you,” he goes on. “and i should have. i should’ve known better—i did know better. but it was easier to be angry than to be scared, and i was so, so fucking scared. scared of being exposed again, of people dragging my name through the mud all over, of losing everything i’d tried to build back up—” “i know. i know, hyun. i understand you. it’s… it’s okay.” it isn’t, though. “and instead of trusting you,” he says, like he didn’t hear you at all, “i panicked. i pushed you away. and i hate myself for it.” you shift in your seat, hands gripping the sides of the chair, aching with the weight of all the things you wish could make this easier. “hyun,” you murmur again, softer now, like saying his name might take the edge off his pain or yours. “you don’t have to—” “i do,” he says. “i haven’t stopped thinking about it… about how fast i let it all go. how fast i let you go. and the worst part is…” he stops, biting down on the inside of his cheek. “the worst part is that i made you think you didn’t matter to me. like it was easy for me to—to cut you off. and it wasn’t. it’s never been easy. it still fucking haunts me.” he pauses. “i just needed you to know that. i needed—i needed to say it to your face.” he exhales shakily, like just getting the words out took something out of him. his eyes stay fixed somewhere past your shoulder, like he’s afraid that meeting yours will make it harder. “and i missed you,” he says quietly. “fuck, i missed you so much.”

the words land somewhere low in your gut, like they’ve been thrown instead of spoken. and for a second, it stings in a sweet way, that traitorous part of your chest aching at the sound of his voice wrapped around something soft again, something that once made you feel safe. but the sweetness evaporates almost instantly, replaced by a sharp kind of heat under your skin, the kind that flares when something touches a bruise you thought had already faded. because you don’t get to miss someone and do nothing about it. not when you’re the one who made it clear, so fucking clear, that it was over. your jaw tightens. because no. no, he doesn’t get to say that. your eyes start to sting, the burn rising fast and sudden behind your lashes. and then, without warning, a single tear slips down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly with the back of your hand. “why didn’t you reach out, then?” he blinks, startled, like he hadn’t expected the question. you sniff once, wipe at your cheek again even though the tear’s already gone. “i waited, you know. for so fucking long. every day, i thought maybe today you’d say something.” you scoff. “but you didn’t. not a word—not until i told you the one thing that finally cleared me.” his lips part like he wants to speak, but you don’t let him. “and now you’re here,” you go on, voice shaking. “saying all the things i used to fantasize about hearing. and don’t get me wrong—it’s nice. it’s—it’s really fucking nice, i needed to hear it. but if i hadn’t sent that message, if i hadn’t broken down and hit send for once instead of just typing and deleting like i always did… would we even be here right now?” you’re not sure what answer you’re hoping for. but you needed to let him know how much it sucked to feel like the only one who kept looking back.

he exhales slowly, eyes falling from yours to the table, like he can’t bear the weight of them. because what you’re saying isn’t just true, but something he’s thought about too, something he’s afraid to admit out loud. “you’re right,” he says, voice low and tight. “you’re right. but i—i wanted to. so many times. but when i thought about saying something, i’d convince myself it would only make it worse. that you didn’t want to hear from me. that you were happier without me.” you stare at him. “you thought i was happy?” “i hoped. because the alternative fucking hurt.” “but you still let me think it was my fault,” you say, voice sharp with disbelief. “you let me sit in that, seunghyun. for months. do you even understand what that did to me?” he doesn’t speak right away—just drags a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to rub the shame off his face. “i know. i know i fucked up.” “you didn’t just fuck up,” you snap. “you abandoned me. you—you went on with your life while i… i lost everything. and all because you couldn’t bring yourself to believe me.” “i wanted to believe you,” he says, a little too desperate now. “i swear to god, i did.” “then why didn’t you?” he looks at you like that question physically hurts him. “you already know. i told you—i told you about han seohee. i’ve been betrayed before, and i just—it felt safer to assume the worst than risk getting hurt again.” “yeah?” you say, and your voice comes out rough, almost trembling with the weight of everything you’ve been trying to swallow. “well guess what, seunghyun—i wasn’t han fucking seohee. i wasn’t anyone but me. your… your girlfriend. and you didn’t even give me the benefit of the doubt. not even for a fucking second.” his jaw tenses, lips pressing into a thin line like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to speak. “i didn’t ask you to be perfect,” you continue, voice softer now. “i never did. all i wanted was for you to believe me—and you couldn’t do that.” he shakes his head, pained. “it wasn’t about you,” he mutters. “it was about me. my past. my shit. it twisted everything.” you shake your head, the frustration rising even though you don’t want it to. “yeah! and you let it win!” you lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly through your nose, trying to collect yourself.

this wasn’t what you intended when you showed up. you really don’t want to raise your voice at him—shit, you weren’t even supposed to get this upset. the last thing you want to do is hurt him. “i moved across the world for you, seunghyun,” you continue, calmer. “i put everything on the line. and the second things got hard, you chose to believe the version of me that fit your fears.” his face falls. “i know,” he whispers. “i know. i thought i was protecting myself—but i should’ve protected you too. i should’ve protected us. all i ever wanted was to keep this thing—what we had—safe.” he sighs. “i’m really, really sorry. for everything.” the interruption comes at just the right time—the server appears, setting down the glass of water with a soft clink. you thank him with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and seunghyun gives a nod before the server leaves, the space around you settling into silence again.

you take a sip, the cold water almost jarring against the heat crawling up your throat. the moment stretches, and you know there’s more to say. the conversation isn’t finished—not even close—but your chest already feels too full. it’s too much all at once, and you feel the weight of it pressing down behind your eyes. so, you set the glass back down and glance up at him, forcing your voice to steady and offering the smallest smile you can manage. “i watched squid game,” you say. “you were amazing in it.” his face softens and he lets out a breathy laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “yeah?” you nod. “yeah. like… really good. i wanted to text you when it dropped but… you know.” yeah, he knows… he had you fucking blocked. seunghyun nods once. “i appreciate that,” he says, voice a little quieter now, like he’s not sure what to do with the softness in your tone. “wasn’t expecting it to do that well, to be honest.” you hum, tracing the rim of your glass with the pad of your finger. “well, people love a villain. especially when he’s funny… and hot.” that pulls a small, surprised laugh out of him, and his cheeks turn red. “well, thank you.” you smile, gaze softening. “i read the interview you made back in january too, by the way.” “oh. did you?” you nod. “yeah.” “you know, i kept wondering what you’d think if you read it. part of me hoped you wouldn’t. the other part hoped you would.” “i did. twice, actually.” you smile faintly. “once when it came out, and again when i was mad at you. to remind myself you were still in there somewhere.” that seems to knock the wind out of him a little. you continue, “i think… i didn’t expect you to be that honest.” “i wasn’t planning to do it, you know,” he says after a pause. “the interview. for years, i thought if i just stayed silent, eventually everyone would forget. but i didn’t forget. i couldn’t.” you study him. “it read like someone who’s been carrying a lot. for a long time.” and you know that better than anyone—because you were there, in the thick of it, helping him through his worst days. his mouth curves, but it isn’t a smile. “yeah.” you let the silence sit for a beat before speaking. “i thought… i thought it was brave. i actually—i felt proud,” you confess. and there it is. the thing you’ve been meaning to tell him ever since everything ended, but couldn’t bring yourself to say until now. “i’m proud of you, hyun.” he feels it—that familiar, overwhelming tightness in his throat. he swallows hard, eyes watering slightly. he nods once. then, he opens his mouth, tries to speak, to say thank you, but his lower lip trembles before the words can form… so he closes it again. and hopes the nod is enough.

his family never said that to him. at least not after his mistakes were exposed. so this—this thing you just gave him, so casually and so fucking sincerely—it hits like a punch to the ribs. and it comes from you. you, who he’d hurt more than anyone else. it comes from someone who knows. someone who was there when he was a shell of himself, someone who saw the worst parts of him and stayed, until he made it impossible for you to do so. his eyes hurt and his throat burns and there’s a tremble in his jaw he can’t quite stop, and still he says nothing, because there’s nothing that would be enough to meet the weight of what you just gave him. “that part you said about the group,” you murmur after a moment, voice a little hesitant now, “how seeing them felt like looking at a photo of a family you’d been separated from…” “that’s exactly what it feels like.” “i know,” you nod, gently. “i’m sure they miss you too. i don’t know if you’ve been in touch with them or—” “i haven’t.” he cuts in quickly, and there’s a finality to it. you don’t push, but you notice the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his jaw tenses. there’s even a bead of sweat slipping down the side of his face. “sorry. i didn’t mean to bring up something that—i mean, i wasn’t trying to pry. i just thought… maybe after everything, after all these months, it might’ve felt possible. or… i don’t know.” you trail off, suddenly unsure of what you’re even trying to say. maybe part of you just wanted to believe he wasn’t as alone as he used to be. he hums. then, after a moment: “you were the one thing that made that time bearable. everything else was a mess, but with you, it was—” he stops himself, mouth twitching, like the rest of the sentence is too fragile to say out loud. “you didn’t fix it. but you made it hurt less. and i’ve never—i’ve never thanked you for that.” “you didn’t need to. i knew you were thankful.” you pause. “and… i’m not saying the article fixed anything, but it made sense. why you pulled away. i get it more now.” “that doesn’t make it okay.” “no,” you agree, “it doesn’t. but it helps.”

after that, things start to loosen—the conversation shifts slowly, and the air between you starts to feel less dense, less charged with the tension that had been building since the moment you sat down. the heaviness doesn’t vanish, it’s still there but easier to ignore when you’re focused on something else, like the way seunghyun starts tapping his fingers against his glass, or how your knee keeps bouncing under the table because your body hasn’t quite figured out what to do with the weird, awkward comfort of being near him again. it’s not like either of you suddenly forget the months of silence, or the way things ended, or all the shit that never really got said… but eventually, the edge softens, and your mouths start moving for other reasons—comments that aren’t weighed down by anger or guilt, memories that aren’t necessarily painful, and a rhythm that, while still tentative, starts to resemble the way things used to be between you, back before everything got ruined. because at first, you’re both careful—testing the boundaries of what’s okay to say, what’s still too raw to touch—but as time passes and the conversation wanders into safer ground, you find yourself laughing. which then makes him start laughing too, and it feels bizarre and comforting all at once—like your body forgot how easy it used to be to laugh with him, how that sound had once been a constant part of your days. and when he leans back in his chair, a little more at ease, you realize it’s been a long time since you’ve seen seunghyun look like that. it’s still weird. you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t. it’s weird to be sitting across from him, in real life, hearing his voice without a screen in between, seeing the way he moves and talks and exists like a real fucking person again. there are still moments where it catches you off guard—how familiar this all is, and also how far away it feels from who you were the last time you looked at him like this.

and when he asks, “do you want to go for a walk? brownsville’s botanical garden isn’t far from here. and it’s still open for another hour and a half,” you don’t even pretend to think about it. you just nod, and the look on his face, that flicker of relief, tells you he didn’t expect a yes. his driver’s already waiting outside, like always, and neither of you says much on the way. the ride is short, ten minutes, maybe fifteen. you watch the town pass through the tinted window, and beside you, he’s silent, but not in the closed-off way he used to be when things were bad. it’s a softer kind of silence now, where he’s letting himself be here, in this moment, with you. the botanical garden is smaller than you remember, and it’s mostly empty by the time you get there. as you walk, side by side but not too close—under a pink sky that’s starting to fade into something darker—there’s still a nervous flutter in your stomach, still that ridiculous awareness of where his hand is, of how close it would be if you reached out, but you don’t. because you remember—you remember how fucking much it hurt to lose him, how badly it ended and how long you waited for an apology that never came, until today. and as you both slow near a bench surrounded by wildflowers and a few trees that creak lazily in the warm breeze, he gestures toward it with a quiet nod, and you both sink down into the wooden slats. there’s a few inches between you, enough space to feel the gap and remind you both that no matter how easy the conversation’s been, there’s still a line neither of you has crossed yet. for a moment, you both just sit there, watching the wind tug lazily at the branches, listening to the low hum of cicadas starting up somewhere in the distance. and then, very casually, he asks, “so… is there someone in your life these days?” god—he hates how obvious it probably sounded the second it left his mouth. he doesn’t look at you when he asks, just keeps his gaze forward, like he’s talking to the horizon instead of you, like the question is just curiosity and not the thing he’s been thinking about since the second he saw you again. you glance at him. “yeah,” you say softly, honest because there’s no point in pretending. “i’ve been seeing someone.” oh… it hits him harder than he wants it to. not because he thought you’d been waiting around for him. of course not. he knows better than that. knows he doesn’t have that right. but something about hearing it out loud, from your mouth, in that voice he used to fall asleep to—it makes his stomach twist. you can see it in the way his jaw tightens slightly, and in the way his hands suddenly find his lap, like his body doesn’t quite believe the version of calm he’s trying to sell.

a long silence settles in, and he tells himself not to ask the next question, the one that’s pushing at his throat, but it slips out anyway, “does he know you’re here?” you shake your head. “no.” he turns slightly toward you, brows pulling in just a little. “i never told him,” you add. “about us.” and that fucking stings. “i just said there was someone once. but not who. i wanted to respect your choice, you know… you didn’t want it out there, you wanted to keep it private. and i… i guess i got used to it, too. so… i kept that, even after it ended.” he swallows hard, but doesn’t speak. because what is there to say, really? he sits there, listening to your words settle into the space between you, feeling it again—the shame. seunghyun stares out into the garden with a tight jaw, wondering when exactly he stopped deserving that kind of grace from you—and why you’re still giving it anyway. he stays quiet longer than he should, but he doesn’t trust his voice not to crack under the weight of everything he isn’t saying. and maybe he should let it go—but he can’t. “is he good to you?” he asks. he hates how much he wants to know. hates how pathetic it makes him feel to sit here, asking about a man who has what he used to. what he walked away from. “yeah,” you reply, and your voice is careful. “he’s… he’s kind. he works in construction with his dad—they run their own small company, mostly residential stuff. but we don’t see each other a lot… he’s the kind of guy who’s in bed by ten and up by five, and my schedule’s kind of all over the place too, so… yeah. but it works. things with him are—they’re simple… easy.” you don’t mean it as an insult, but fuck, it lands like one. “that’s good,” he says, and the words feel like gravel in his mouth. he forces them out anyway, and forces himself to nod, like that makes it more believable. “you deserve that.”

seunghyun wonders if this guy knows how you like your coffee, if he knows how you get when you’re overwhelmed—how you play with the hem of your shirt, how your voice gets sharp when you’re scared and how underneath that, you’re just trying not to break into a million pieces. he wonders if this new guy has ever seen you cry, and if he did, whether he knew what the fuck to do with it. if he sat with you in it, or tried to fix it, or made it worse by telling you everything would be okay when he didn’t know shit about what was actually going on inside your head. he wonders if this guy knows how you ramble when you’re tired. if he’s heard the stories you only tell when you’ve had one glass of wine too many, the ones that make you laugh even as you wipe your eyes. if he knows the things you’re afraid of. he wonders if this guy’s ever traced the line of your spine with his fingers just to feel you shiver under him, if he knows how your breath catches before you ever make a sound, how your thighs tense when you’re trying not to beg. does he know how to touch you the way you like? and fuck—does he get to hear you like that? whispering his name, nails in his back, legs shaking, voice breaking around the kind of moan that used to make seunghyun lose his goddamn mind? and then, in the middle of all that wondering, he hates himself a little—for being so fucking jealous.

you must feel the shift in the air too, the way his silence has gone from thoughtful to tense, like he’s holding something back. so you add, “we’re not… dating.” his head turns a little at that, eyes flicking over to you for the first time in minutes. “no?” you shake your head. “i’m not ready for that. not again. it’s been—i’ve been figuring shit out. still am.” he nods slowly. you glance at him, like maybe you’re trying to gauge his reaction, but he gives you nothing. “what about you?” you ask after a moment. “you seeing anyone?” “no.” it comes out fast and flat, like the idea pisses him off. you wait, maybe expecting him to explain, but he doesn’t. so you press, “not even casually?” seunghyun lets out a short, humorless laugh. “what would be the point?” your brows pull together, but you don’t answer. “i’m not exactly great company,” he adds, almost bitter. “and i’m not trying to let anyone close just so they can realize it for themselves.” “you are great company, hyun. don’t say that.” he just scoffs under his breath and shifts on the bench like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. “yeah, well,” he mutters, “guess that’s not enough anymore.” you turn to look at him. “what?” “nothing.” “no—say it.” you’re watching him now, fully turned toward him, and he can feel it—the weight of your stare, the tension in your voice. he shakes his head. “you’re here, telling me you’ve got someone, and—i don’t know, it’s just… i don’t know.” “you asked, seunghyun.” “i know. i just—i wasn’t expecting that answer.” you blink at him. “so what? you ask me if i’m seeing someone, and now you’re pissed that i answered you honestly?” “i’m not pissed,” he lies, and you both know it. “don’t lie to me. i know you better than anyone—” “do you love him?” he asks, and the question comes out so suddenly, so bluntly, it knocks the air out of your lungs. “no,” you say, after a beat. “i don’t love him. if i did, i wouldn’t be here.” he nods, like that’s what he wanted to hear, but the tightness in his mouth doesn’t ease. “okay.” “what do you want me to say, seunghyun?” you ask, keeping your voice even, though it’s getting harder. “that i waited around? that i haven’t touched anyone since you left? is that what you were hoping for?” “i wasn’t hoping for anything,” he snaps. you raise an eyebrow. “sure.”

he exhales, a short, frustrated breath, and leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the dirt path between his shoes. because the truth is—he was hoping for that. he was hoping you’d tell him that, even after all this time, you were still a little bit his. and hearing otherwise—he doesn’t know what to do with that. doesn’t know how to sit across from you like it doesn’t matter when it feels like it’s fucking tearing him apart—sitting here, stewing in his own mess, wanting things he let go of, wishing you’d stayed stuck when all you ever did was survive the damage he left behind. every twisted part of him that wants you to be okay, also wants you to still need him. he’s so, so fucking selfish. and you’re right, of course. every word. his hands curl into fists. his vision blurs. he doesn’t mean to start crying, but it happens anyway. fuck. he takes his glasses off and drags a hand over his face, hoping you won’t say anything, hoping maybe you’ll look away long enough for him to get it under control. but he can’t. “i’m sorry,” he chokes out. “i’m sorry i’m acting like this. i just—i didn’t think it would feel like this. seeing you. i thought i could handle it, and i can’t.” his throat aches. he wipes at his face again, furious at himself for crying, for falling apart in front of you, for being nine months too late. “seunghyun—“

his name barely leaves your mouth before he’s crumbling again, shoulders shaking. you slide across the bench, closing the space between you, and wrap your arms around him, firmly. he tenses at first, like he doesn’t know what to do with the comfort, and then he just folds into you. his face buries into the crook of your neck, warm and damp with tears, breath shuddering against your skin, and your hand comes up to cradle the back of his head instinctively. “i’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over again. “fuck, i’m so sorry. i fucked everything up.” you close your eyes, heart aching with the weight of it. “i ruined it,” he says again, voice cracking. “i ruined us.” “it’s not your fault.” “it is.” “no—you were just scared. my mom’s the one who put us in this situation. and yeah, you hurt me but i—i forgive you, hyun. you’re forgiven, okay?” you hold him tighter, your chin resting lightly on his shoulder, breathing slow and steady because maybe if you stay calm, he’ll remember how to do the same. and for a while, he just cries. you haven’t seen him like this in a long time—haven’t seen him break this hard, this openly, not since the first time he told you he didn’t know how to live with himself. or the nights he’d curl into you, silent and shaking, too proud to sob until his body gave him no other choice.

when the worst of it passes—when the sobs begin to slow and his breathing evens out—he leans back and sniffles, avoiding your eyes as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black cloth—one of those soft ones he always carried for his glasses, or for sweat when he was anxious. he dabs at his face, wiping away the tears first, then pressing it against his temples and the back of his neck. he’s sweating like hell, his hair damp, the collar of his sweater sticking slightly to his skin. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse. “i’m a mess.” you reach for the cloth gently, fingers brushing his as you take it from him, and he doesn’t resist. “let me.” you wipe the tears from under his eyes first, careful and slow, then run the cloth lightly across his forehead, down to his cheeks, around the curve of his jaw. your other hand rests on his shoulder, grounding him. “you’re okay,” you murmur. “just breathe.” he nods, throat moving as he swallows hard. and then, after a long pause, with a voice that’s barely there he says, “i… i still love you.” you freeze, the cloth limp in your hand, your breath catching mid-air. did you hear that right? and then, quieter, he adds, “i don’t think i’ve ever loved someone as much.” yeah, you heard that right. your heart stumbles in your chest and you sit there, watching him. he won’t meet your eyes now, like saying it took the last of whatever strength he had left. his shoulders are hunched, jaw tight like he’s bracing for rejection even before it comes. he looks younger like this, and older too, worn down by months of pretending he was okay, of convincing himself he didn’t still ache for you every fucking day. and you love him. oh, you love this man so fucking much… you wish you didn’t sometimes, wish it didn’t still hurt. you place the cloth down carefully in your lap and reach out without thinking, your hand brushing the side of his face, fingers sliding into his hair like muscle memory. and he leans into it. you let your hand fall to his jaw, thumb gently swiping along the damp edge of it. “i love you too, hyun,” you say. “i never stopped.”

his shoulders shake, and you can tell he’s holding back again, trying not to fall apart a second time. you take his hand in yours. “you said… you said that you missed me. earlier. and the truth is… i missed you too,” you whisper, voice low and breaking now. “i missed everything—us. i tried to forget all of it and i couldn’t. i didn’t want to.” his fingers twitch under yours and he grips your hand tighter. you can feel how warm his skin is, how clammy his palm’s gone from the crying and the heat and all the fucking emotion, but you don’t let go. you just hold on, because this is the first time in months you’ve both said the truth out loud, and if it’s going to hurt, you’d rather it hurt with him right there beside you. his eyes are glassy, and you can tell he’s struggling to find the words. “i used to wake up in the middle of the night thinking you were still next to me,” he says. “and every single time it hit me that you weren’t, it felt—” he stops himself, rubbing a hand over his chest to stop it from aching. “i missed you so much it made me sick sometimes.” and you believe him. because you know that feeling. you remember what it felt like to lie awake with your back to the wall, trying to sleep in a bed that felt too big and too cold, your hand unconsciously reaching for a body that wasn’t there anymore. you remember the mornings you’d open your eyes and forget, just for a second, that he was gone—and how that second was always worse than the rest of the day combined. but sitting here now, his hand still trembling slightly in yours, all you can think is: we can’t go back. “i love you,” you say. “and i want to be with you, seunghyun. i want—hell, i’d spend the rest of my life with you.” your voice cracks on the last word, and your chest pulls tight as the tears finally spill over. “and i mean it. but… what would change?”

he’s silent. not because he doesn’t know what to say—but because he knows exactly what he’d like to say, and none of it would be true. “i can’t go back to hiding,” you continue before he can speak. “i can’t—i don’t want to be that girl again.” he closes his eyes for a second, then nods. “i know.” “but i also know…” you exhale, voice shaking, “i know that’s all you can offer me right now.” he shifts slightly, like he wants to argue. “that’s not—” “there’s no point in lying, seunghyun.” he runs a hand over his mouth, pained. “i could—maybe, in a few months, if things calm down—” “you and i both know that’s not how it works,” you say, cutting him off gently. “a few months won’t change the industry. or the people watching you. it won’t suddenly make us easy. and you know, seunghyun… you know a few months is unrealistic. and i don’t wanna—i don’t wanna wait in the shadows anymore. i won’t do it. i promised that to myself.” he sighs, long and defeated. “yeah. i know—i’m sorry. i just… i didn’t think i’d be getting this much attention again. after everything. the interviews, the show… it’s all been more than i expected. and it could get to you too, for the wrong reasons—” “i know,” you nod. “i know. and i get it, i really do. i’ve already deleted half my socials because of the harassment i got when it was just a rumor, and that wasn’t even real to them.” his face falls, shame coloring every line of it. “i’m sorry about that, too.” “yeah,” you murmur. “it’s fine. or—it’s not, but… it happened. those months were awful. but they’re behind me now.” he watches you for a long second, then says, “if we’d been closer in age, maybe it wouldn’t have been so complicated.” you smile, even though your lower lip is trembling slightly. “yeah. maybe it would’ve been easier.” the world outside won’t stop pressing in, and the timing keeps pulling you apart before you even get the chance to hold each other properly. “i hate this,” he whispers. “i hate that we finally said everything and it still isn’t enough.” “me too,” you say, sniffing. “but love isn’t the problem. it never was.” he nods slowly, and you know he’s holding back more tears.

you look at him—his swollen eyes, the slight tremble in his mouth that mirrors your own—and for a moment, you wish you could be selfish. you wish you could say fuck it, go back with him, crawl into the warmth of what could’ve been, and pretend that love alone is enough. but you can’t. “maybe you were right,” you say, trying to laugh through the tears, your voice catching halfway through. “maybe breaking up was the right thing to do. for both of us.” oh… the way his heart drops when he hears that—how much he wishes he could take those words back. how much he regrets ever saying them in the first place. how much he’s begged time, in every quiet moment since, to let him go back and rewrite your story. but it’s useless. it didn’t feel right then, and it sure as hell doesn’t now. you’re all he ever wanted. you’re all he wants. and deep down, he knows—you always will be. and it fucking kills him. it kills him to know that loving you isn’t the question—he does. with everything. the question is what to do with that love, now that it can’t go anywhere. because if you tried again… if you gave in to the ache and the want and the desperation—nothing would really change. you’d end up right back here. except next time, you’d be even more broken. “if i were braver,” he starts, “if i was different—” “don’t,” you cut in. “don’t do that. you don’t need to be a different person, hyun,” you say softly. “you just need a different life. and you don’t have that right now—and maybe you never will. but it’s okay.” “how can it be?” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice that makes your chest tighten. “how the fuck is it okay to want something this badly and still have to let it go?” you let out a shaky breath and look down at your lap. “we can’t change it. this. it’s… it’s not okay—fuck, i know it’s not. but it’s what we have.”

he goes quiet again, wiping under his nose with the back of his hand, tears still hanging in his lashes. you both sit in it. the sadness. the weight of every missed chance, every wrong timing, every choice that brought you to this bench. “if there’s another life,” you murmur, “maybe we find our way back to each other there.” he nods. “maybe,” he says, and you know he’s picturing it too. the could-have-beens. the should-haves. the soft life you never got to live. but not this one. he’s quiet for a while after that, like he’s still standing in that other life you just painted with your words—still walking through it in his mind, holding your hand in a version of the world where things were easier. and then his voice cuts through the silence, “but i don’t want to lose you in this life, either.” and before you can say anything, he adds, “do you think we could… i don’t know—be friends?” you turn to look at him, and he’s watching you carefully, not with expectation but with something closer to fear. he’s afraid you’ll say no, afraid you’ll cut the thread that still tethers you to him, even if it’s frayed and worn and barely holding. but you smile a little. it’s small and sad, but a smile after all. “yeah. i think we could.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “maybe not right now,” you add gently. “maybe we give it some time. let it stop hurting so much. but yeah… eventually, i’d like that.” he nods again, eyes flicking toward you like he’s trying to memorize your face in this exact light, with this exact expression—still full of love. “i just don’t want to lose you completely.” “you won’t,” you say. and it’s the one thing you can promise. “you’re too much a part of me now, hyun, you always will be. we’ll figure it out.”

the gravel crunches quietly under your shoes. the path back through the garden is dim now, the sun completely dipped behind the horizon, leaving the sky painted in that deep, rich blue, settling into dusk. every now and then, you glance at seunghyun in your periphery—his hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed, like he’s trying to hold on to every last moment of this without showing it. you walk without touching, without speaking, but everything between you is loud. and then, just before the path curves toward the iron gate that separates the quiet of this place from the rest of the world, you stop. “seunghyun,” you say, his name barely above a whisper. he turns to you slowly, like he already knows what’s coming, like he’s been waiting for it without letting himself hope. you reach up with both hands and cradle his face—thumbs brushing over the curve of his cheekbones, your fingers slipping into the soft, familiar edges of his hair. his breath catches, his eyes flicker, and then they fall shut just as your mouth finds his. his hands are on you within seconds—your waist, your back, the side of your neck, fucking everywhere. he kisses you back hard, full of need and every word he didn’t know how to say earlier. you make a soft sound against his mouth, one he swallows greedily, pulling you closer, gripping the fabric at your back like he doesn’t trust the world not to rip you away. your fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him moan, and when he groans against your mouth, his tongue slips past your lips, deepening the kiss. he kisses you hungrily. because he knows this is the last moment he’ll get to remember what it feels like to be wanted by you. his hands slide up your sides, and then one of them cups your face, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, catching a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. your heart stutters in your chest at how tender it is—how fucking unfair it is that someone can love you this gently and still not be yours. you kiss him deeper, your tongue meeting his, your mouth opening wider like maybe if you just give enough of yourself, it’ll keep him for a little longer. but eventually, it has to stop. your hands loosen in his hair, and his grip on you falters. you pull away first, even though it feels like tearing something out of your own chest. you’re both panting, and your lips are swollen. “sorry,” you whisper. “i just… i needed to do that one last time.” you close your eyes and let your hand rest over his chest, right where his heart is pounding beneath your palm—fast and uneven, like yours. “i needed it too,” he says quietly. you both feel it settle deep in your bones—that quiet, devastating truth: the kiss was goodbye. to everything you were and everything you’ll never be again.

by the time you make it back to your friend’s apartment, the sky has already folded into itself, navy and thick. you step inside, the house dim and quiet, the hallway lit only by the warm spill of light coming from the kitchen where your friend’s probably left a candle burning. you move through the space like you’re not really there. your shoes come off, your jacket lands somewhere near a chair you don’t look at, and you’re halfway down the hall toward the living room with that hollow, buzzing emptiness ringing in your ears—when your phone vibrates once. and you think, for a stupid second, that maybe it’s him. but no. instead, it’s your banking app, and there on your screen, as casual as if someone had just venmoed you for last week’s pizza, is a deposit—an absurd amount of money, like… frankly ridiculous amount—and next to it, the name. choi seunghyun. you stare at it for a second, not really processing it, your brain taking its sweet time catching up, and when it finally does, you quickly message him.

seunghyun

WHAT THE FUCK

what

why

wtf

what the actual fuck

You told me you were staying with your friend while looking for a place.

I thought it might help.

are you crazy?

wtf

this is insane, hyun

It’s nothing🙂

it’s NOT nothing wtf

you wired me enough to pay rent for a year

maybe more

no, no, definitely more

way more

what part of that feels normal to you

this is so much money, what were you thinking

I was thinking you deserved it.

i don’t need you to take care of me like that

i’m not your responsibility

You’re not.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help you however I can.

it’s too much, hyun

So is everything I feel for you.

i don’t know if i can accept it

Please do.

Friends help each other, don’t they?

i’m being so frl rn old man

Me too, princess.

are u trying to make me cry?💔 be honest

We’ve cried enough today.

I want you to be happy, so please let me do this for you.

thank you seunhyun, really

Of course🫰🏼

i love you

I love you too.

Take care❤️

you too :)

you press the phone to your chest, close your eyes, and sigh. and maybe it’s dramatic to cry over a money transfer, but here you are. not because you need the money, but because you know, this is the only way he knows how to take care of you now—by giving you something tangible and useful in his absence. and that hurts.

it’s been two years since that last conversation with seunghyun—two whole years since that kiss in the garden, since the deposit, since his last message sat in your phone. life didn’t stop after him. it moved forward the way time always does—slow. and eventually, you did too. you moved out of your friend’s place not long after meeting seunghyun—gave yourself permission to look at listings just slightly outside your price range, to stop filtering by ‘cheapest first,’ to imagine something more. and when you found it—a corner apartment on the top floor of a building, all warm wood and tall windows and soft morning light—you said yes. it’s not huge, but it’s beautiful. clean lines, a little balcony that overlooks the street, a kitchen that makes you want to cook even when all you know how to make is pasta… it’s the first place you’ve ever lived that feels like it was meant for you. and yeah, sometimes you think about seunghyun—you think about how he gave this to you. but mostly, you think about how you made it into something your own.

you also dropped the guy you’d been seeing back then and focused on yourself. let yourself learn how to be alone. you got a new job too—something better, something steadier. it pays well, and you don’t come home every night feeling like you’ve been scraped raw, which is more than you used to ask for. things with your mom are better now, or at least better than they used to be. she calls every week, asks about work (because that’s her favorite topic), sometimes even about your mood, and it’s clear she’s trying. but the thing that still sticks in your throat, the thing you can’t seem to move past, is that she’s never actually said she was sorry. she speaks like it was a necessary evil, like leaking your relationship to the press was some calculated decision made for your protection, not a betrayal that burned through your entire life. and maybe if she showed even a flicker of regret—real regret—you’d be able to meet her halfway. but without that, there’s only so far you can go.

you’re not healed. but you’re okay. you wake up most mornings without feeling like you’re drowning, you go to work, make dinner, fold laundry while music plays in the background. you laugh with friends and sleep through the night more often than not. and your screen time is down 12% this week—so, progress. that has to count for something. but some nights, when it’s quiet in your apartment and the city hums softly outside your window, you think of seunghyun. you wonder where he is, if he’s okay, if he ever sees something and thinks of you. you wonder if he’s happy, if he’s sleeping well, if his hands still tremble when he’s anxious or if someone else has learned how to hold them steady. and sometimes, you stare at the ceiling too long, or catch yourself holding your breath when a memory slips through—and it still surprises you, how much he lives in the smallest, stupidest things. because no matter how much distance time gives you, there are people who never really leave. and seunghyun, no matter how far away he is now—he’s one of them.

so when his name lights up your phone one random thursday evening two years later—you almost fall off your bed.

Hi.

Sorry if this is weird.

I was looking through my gallery and I found this.

it’s a photo taken from above—his arm stretched out enough to fit both of you into the frame, the angle slightly off-center. you’re completely out, fast asleep on top of him, arms loosely wrapped around his waist like you were trying to merge with him in your sleep. your cheek is smushed against the ridiculous pajama top—the one he bought for himself first, then ordered a second one for you when he realized how cute you’d look matching. yes, the infamous pajama set that everyone and their mother saw after your mom leaked everything. his hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction, but his face is soft—eyes shining even in the low light of the room, a sleepy grin on his face.

Turns out, the picture those fans took of us wasn’t the only one we had.

I hope life’s treating you nicely🫰🏼

and something about it—about him still having that photo, still thinking of you enough to send it—makes you smile. you write back faster than you thought you would.

omg seunhyun!!! hii!!

when did you take that photo? and why didn’t u tell me about it?😭

I took it when you came to Seoul for my birthday.

I forgot I took it.

You woke up right after hahah😴😄

it’s sooo sooo cute🥹

It is😊

How are you?

i’m good :)) but a bit tired because i’ve been helping my friend paint her house and it’s been a lot of work

my arms are so sore😭

what about you?

you doing okay?

Yes! I’m good.

I missed talking to you.

me too :)) and i’m glad to know you’re doing well!

I also wanted to know if you’d like to go for a coffee next week?

I wanted to fly to Texas to see you.

We could catch up.

If you want to, of course🙂

yesss ofc, i’d love to :)🩷

i’m really happy you reached out

been thinking about you a lot, honestly

You have?

more than i’d like to admit hahah

i was wondering how you were doing :)

I’ve thought about you too.

And I’m really looking forward to seeing you😊

me too🙂‍↕️

I’ll send you the details once everything’s booked, is that okay?

yeah, sure, that sounds perfect :)

See you soon🫰🏼

when the day finally comes, there’s a quiet nervousness in your chest—not the kind that makes your hands shake, but the kind that hums beneath your skin. you don’t know what to expect. it’s been two years. whole seasons, whole versions of yourself have passed since you last stood in front of him. you’ve changed. you’ve grown. but some things stay. he’s waiting outside the café when you arrive—hands in his coat pockets, hair a little longer. and the second your eyes meet, he smiles. and you smile back, like no time has passed at all. the conversation flows without effort. you don’t even notice your coffee going cold—you’re too busy talking and laughing like it hasn’t been two years. and you don’t try to stop the feeling that rushes in, that warm, aching knowing in your chest that says, yeah. it’s still him. even after everything. it’s still seunghyun. you don’t know what’s going to happen next, and for once, that doesn’t scare you. you just let the moment be what it is, suspended in something that feels a lot like peace. because maybe this is it. maybe you don’t need another life to find your way back to each other—you already do in this one.

i hope this lived up to your expectations for part 2 :) i genuinely did the best i could. i’ve spent so much time on this fic and gotten so attached to everything about it that it doesn’t even feel like something i made up anymore?? like someone out there is living through it and suffering bc of seunghyun fr… my brain fully believes it atp😭

thank you so much for all the support you’ve shown to this fic, and for all the kind messages i’ve been getting because of it—i seriously wasn’t expecting it at all 🥹💗

regular taglist: @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @infinetlyforgotten @bettelaboure @scream-queen-25 @flwerangii

hidden pt.2 taglist: @ulquiorraswife @rubyylovestoread @youlikeex @liv2cool

HEY LEX I’M 🍒 JUST HOPPING ON HERE TO SHARE THIS PLAYLIST THAT I MADE A FEW WEEKS AGO AND WAS NOW LISTENING TO IT WHILE REREADING HIDDEN(cuz it’s tew good) AND NOTICED HOW THE VIBES MATXH PERFECTLY

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6nNQN24mwNrpbTInooWxl6?si=N-KHP_tRS9yMFQbBfrT1Hw&pi=1S1CWn1iRiWSB

OMG WAIT THAT’S SO TRUE‼️ and stoppp rn bc your music taste is actually elite… the way i already had most of these saved on my playlist??😭 thank you for sharing them with me, i literally love it so much!!!

I LOVE YOUR WRITING SO MUCH, reading all ur stories i can tn 💔 WISH I DISCOVERED U SOONER

you’re so sweet omg!!!🥹 THANK YOUU💗 i hope you enjoy them!!🙂‍↕️

wow i just read Hidden and I had to make eye contact with the imaginary camera in my room bc WHAAAATT it was sooooo good omg like i need more (not specifically a part 2 just more top cause i love him AND I find it entertaining to read things that make me suffer)

AAAA THANK YOU‼️💗 i got good news for you 😼 after part 2, my next fic is gonna be a thanos one that i was already working on! but TRUST i’m definitely planning to write more for seunghyun, i already have an idea!! and i won’t lie… i kinda love making ppl suffer with my writing. i was way too nice with the endings in my other two fics LMAO

https://www.tumblr.com/lexalith/781376840813182977/httpswwwtumblrcomlexalith781350843176894464

OK SO THATS WHY YOUR ANGST IS SO PERFECT (and can we talk about the smut too?? like omg???? 👀🔥🔥🔥), PERSONALLY I LOOOOOVE THE EMOTIONAL TURMOIL SOOO

ANDDDDD THE FACT THAT THEY’RE LONG MAKES ME SO HAPPY LIKE WHEN I SAW THAT YOU POSTED HIDDEN I GENUINELY STARTED GIGGLING AND I HAD A MATH TEST THE DAY AFYER (which i totally studied for and did not spend majority of my day reading your masterpiece 😅😅😅) FAILED THE TEST BUT IT WAS SOOOOOOOO WORTH IT can’t wait for pt2 <3

also since i’m staying around can i be 🍒 anon? 👀

OKAY FIRST OF ALL… THANK YOU 😭😭💗 and pls i have to laugh bc half the time i’m writing smut i’m like what am i even DOING lmaoo. the first time i ever wrote smut in english was for my fic ‘Friends’!! but honestly i love writing it, so i’m happy to know that you enjoy it!😼

and omg i hate maths…😭 nothing has ever humbled me more than math has istg💀 i’m sorry about the test! that’s real dedication to my fics right there‼️

and YESSS you can 100% be 🍒 anon!! thank you so much for your love and support 🥹💗 can’t wait to share part 2 with you!! —lex.

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

omg stoppp you’re the sweetest 🥺🥺🥺

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

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

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

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

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

Does Pt2 of Hidden have a good ending? plssss

well…! to be honest, i haven’t written the ending yet and i’m still going back and forth on a few options. all i can really say is that i’m trying to keep it realistic, since that was kinda the whole point of writing part 1. i wanted it to feel like what dating seunghyun would actually be like irl! (based on my own interpretation of him, ofc) we’ll see!

thank you sm for your support and looking forward 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.

came here just to say that you’re the best writer for CSH on this app i swear i eat everything you write up, you’re so talented ily

omg stoppp🥹 that seriously means so much to me, you have no idea. i’m genuinely so grateful for every single person who reads my fics. there are so many insanely talented writers for CSH on here who i admire, so just being part of the mix is already such an honor! thank you sm for taking the time to send this, it really made my day!! ilyyy💗 —lex.

✨I want to print out Hidden and tattoo it on my left butt cheek for all of eternity ✨

PLSSS LMAO😭😭 honestly… if you do it, i’ll frame a pic of your left butt cheek on my wall. that’s how honored i am! 😼 JOKES!😭

thank you so much for reading💗🥹

i don’t think i’ve ever cried at a piece of writing like i did with hidden OMG. it was so good!!! also reminded me of all too well 10 minute version so bad (i’ve never gotten upset/emotional/cried over fanfiction before)

omg wait no stoppp 🥹 that’s actually such a huge compliment i don’t even know what to say?? i’m gonna be thinking about it forever 😭💗 and HELLOOO why didn’t i think of that before?? you’re so right omg… ‘all too well’ fits perfectly and now i’m mad i didn’t include it in the fic songs, sigh… i’ll add it in part2😼 thank you so much for reading and taking the time to leave an ask! 💗 —lex.

UPDATE!

okay sooo… i’ve officially decided there’s gonna be a part 2 for ‘Hidden || Choi Seung-Hyun (T.O.P)’ !! it’s gonna be a lot shorter than the original fic since i never actually planned on writing a second part, but after seeing how much y’all connected with it, i really wanted to give the characters a bit more closure and make the ending hurt a little less.

i’ll be pausing the thanos fic for now (sorry king💜) and focusing on writing this second part—hopefully it won’t take me forever to finish and i can get it posted soon!!

thank u sm for all the love you’ve shown Hidden so far—i seriously appreciate it more than i can say!!🥹💗—lex

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🥹💗

May i be added to your taglist plzz

sure thing queen! i added you💗

YOU HAVE FED US ILY

😼😼I HOPE IT WAS YUMMY, ILYT!

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SOMETHING REAL || Choi Seunghyun (T.O.P)

summary: you never expected him to matter this much. at first, seunghyun is just the annoying guy from class—the one who gets under your skin without even trying. but somehow, he becomes your best friend, the one who listens when no one else does. you both have your own lives, your own relationships. it’s never supposed to be more than that. but then the way he looks at you lingers a little too long, his touch starts to feel like something you don’t want to live without. and when love starts to feel like loneliness, he’s there. what if he was the right one all along?

warnings/this story contains: (reader discretion is advised), seunghyun and the reader are both in their early twenties, slowburn, enemies to friends to enemies (?) to friends to lovers (lmao help), smut (oral sex (f receiving), p in v, dry humping, fingering, slight overstimulation, praising, lowkey rough sex), seunghyun and the reader struggle with insecurities, mentions of cheating, emotional cheating, mild angst (miscommunication, heartbreak, ghosting, lies, bickering), fluff (toward the end, seunghyun’s down BAD), a loooot of artsy talk and an insane amount of yearning.

a/n: this is an au! seunghyun’s not an idol and he was born in the early 2000’s. this is loosely based on real events (my life, lmao), some stuff has been altered for artistic reasons and to fit seunghyun’s persona. enjoy this fragment that i couldn’t resist sharing, because it’s the most bookish thing that’s ever happened to me—basically the closest i’ve ever been to feeling like the main character. help. anyway! english isn’t my first language so mistakes should be present!! lower case is intended. reader’s dialogue is in bold. mind you, like always, this is LOOONG (it’s a whole fic)

songs: i love my boyfriend — princess chelsea || delicate — taylor swift || sure thing — miguel

three minutes. that’s exactly the time you have left before your next class starts. you’re walking briskly across campus, your coffee in one hand, your backpack slung over one shoulder, trying to make sure you don’t arrive late (again…). but then, out of nowhere, someone bumps into you. it’s not even a light brush—it’s a full-on collision that sends the hot coffee sloshing out of your cup and spilling all over you. you gasp, looking down at your favorite blouse, now stained with dark coffee, and a surge of frustration rises in your chest. the guy who bumped into you stumbles back, clearly just as startled as you are, and for a moment, you just stand there, staring at him. he’s awkward, shifting on his feet, like he doesn’t know what to do. “uh… i didn’t see you,” he says, but his voice trails off. his eyes flicker down to the stain, then back to you, but he doesn’t move to offer help. “clearly,” you huff. he seems to be about to offer something—an apology, maybe—but the words never quite make it out. this is so ridiculous. it’s not like you expected him to drop to his knees asking for forgiveness, but at least do something. instead, he just looks at you, and says, “it’s just coffee.” it’s clear he didn’t mean to spill the drink, but the last thing you need right now is him trying to downplay it. you roll your eyes, your patience wearing thin. “yeah, and now it’s on me!” he raises his eyebrows, almost amused by your reaction. “it’ll probably come out in the wash.” “i can’t go to my next class like this!” you don’t have time for this. “yeah… i—i’m sorry,” he finally says.

you stare at him for a moment, and at first, you almost want to believe his apology, but then you see it. his lips twitch. it’s so subtle, like he’s trying to hold back a laugh, but it’s enough to set you off. your blood boils with frustration, and you glare at him, your patience completely gone. “great. just great,” you snap, your voice dripping with sarcasm. without waiting for him to respond, you turn on your heel and start walking away, the coffee still soaking through your blouse, irritation simmering beneath your skin. “sorry!” you hear him call after you, but it’s distant. and just before you disappear around the corner, you catch it—the soft sound of a laugh. he’s laughing at you! what a fucking douche! you want to spin around and yell, but you don’t. you’ve got bigger things to worry about. like, for instance, the argument with your boyfriend earlier. it started as something small—just a misunderstanding, a simple disagreement about plans for the weekend—but somehow, it escalated. words were exchanged, and now you’re both giving each other the silent treatment. it doesn’t help that you haven’t had the time or energy to smooth things over. so now, you’re walking around campus, wearing a coffee stain bigger than your damn head, replaying the argument in your mind over and over. it’s like everything is spiraling today.

you’ve officially become a hater of the coffee-spiller guy. it doesn’t take long for you to realize that fate has an awful sense of humor. a couple of days later, when you walk into your ‘history of art’ class, you spot him. there he is, sitting at the back of the lecture hall. you freeze for a moment and his eyes catch yours almost immediately. you can see it—the flicker of recognition, the split second where he remembers exactly who you are. but he looks away quickly. you roll your eyes and find a seat far away from him, making a mental note to never, ever, be near him in this class.

every little thing he does in class irritates you. the way he taps his pen against the desk, that awful, self-satisfied look he gets when he answers a question correctly. then there’s his laugh. it’s loud, obnoxious. you swear you can feel the vibration of it in your chest, like it’s shaking the whole room. and god, don’t even get started on the way he taps his foot incessantly, like he’s got some sort of rhythm problem, the way he flips through his notebook with unnecessary speed, flicking each page with an irritating snap. it drives you crazy. if you could, you’d throw your notebook at him just to get him to stop. but you don’t. because, well, you’re trying to act like an adult. by the end of each lecture, you’re fuming, but the worst part is—you’re starting to remember his name. choi seunghyun.

the next week, your friend doesn’t show up to class, and empty seat where they should be. and it’s a problem, because when the professor starts assigning partners for the semester project, you don’t have one. and of course, because the universe fucking hates you, guess who also doesn’t have a partner? “choi seunghyun, you’ll be with…” the professor scans the room, and your stomach drops before she even says it. your name. you blink. “what?” “you two will be working together on the project.” “can i do it alone? i don’t need a partner,” you say, shaking your head. the professor doesn’t even look up from her notes. “it’s a paired assignment.” “okay, but my partner’s just absent today. they’re still in the class, they’ll be back.” “you’re with seunghyun,” the professor says, finally looking at you, exasperated. you turn in your seat to glare at him, and of course, the asshole looks completely unbothered. you take a deep breath, grip your notebook a little tighter, and push yourself up from your seat. if there’s one thing you know for sure, it’s that seunghyun isn’t about to haul his ass over to you. which means, unfortunately, you have to go to him. it shouldn’t annoy you as much as it does, but everything about this situation is already pissing you off, so what’s one more thing?

you drop your stuff on his desk and pull out a chair, not waiting for an invitation. “let’s just get this over with.” seunghyun barely glances up. “eager, aren’t you?” “i actually want to pass this class,” you snap, unfolding the project sheet. and then, as your eyes land on the topic, your irritation dims—just a little. “ancient greek sculpture,” you mutter, reading over the details. seunghyun leans back, stretching his arms over the back of his chair. “not bad, huh?” “could’ve been worse,” you admit, tapping your pen against the desk. “greek sculpture is foundational. proportions, movement, realism—this stuff shaped everything that came after it.” he smirks. “glad you won’t be completely miserable, then.” you huff, crossing your arms. “trust me, if i had a different partner, i’d actually be excited about this.” his grin widens. “so i’m the problem?” “seunghyun,” you deadpan, “that was never in question.”

seunghyun doesn’t know why it feels so strange, hearing his name come from you. but it sticks in his head. he keeps his eyes on the project sheet, pretending to read while his mind is somewhere else entirely. you sit across from him, your fingers lingering on the corners of each page before turning them, and every so often, you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re thinking. he shouldn’t be noticing these things. but he does. you’re pretty. no, beautiful. sitting this close, it’s impossible to ignore. the way the light catches your eyes, the faintest crease in your brow when you’re thinking, the soft curve of your cheeks when you huff in frustration. there’s something about it—something that makes him glance away too quickly when you look up. but when you start talking, it’s even worse. your voice changes when you talk about art. there’s a spark in it, something alive, something that makes him sit up just a little straighter. you don’t just like this stuff—you care about it. and he gets that. because he cares too. he watches the way your hands move, the way you gesture like your words aren’t enough on their own. the way your eyes light up when you explain something, like you’re seeing it in your head as you say it. and it’s… nice.

as the conversation drags on, you feel the irritation you’ve been holding onto slowly start to slip away. at first, you thought seunghyun’d be the type of guy who leaves you to do all the work. but as he starts talking, you realize something you hadn’t anticipated. there’s this calm reason to his words, like he’s thought about what he’s saying before he says it—a kind of maturity in the way he talks. it’s not just facts he’s spitting out, it’s a genuine understanding. he’s making connections between things you hadn’t considered, filling in gaps you didn’t even know were there. and damn it, it makes you think twice. it messes with your entire perception of him.

“so, who’s your favorite greek sculptor?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost like he genuinely wants to know. you pause, considering. “it’s hard to pick,” you say, tapping your pen against the desk. “but if i had to choose, i’d go with praxiteles. he was one of the first to really capture natural human beauty. his sculptures, like the ‘hermes and the infant dionysus’, they’re just… they look like they could breathe, you know? like they’re alive.” you glance up to see him nodding. “yeah,” he murmurs. he falls silent for a moment, his eyes drifting down to his notebook. “for me, it’d probably be phidias,” he says. “the one who worked on the parthenon. his sculptures, especially the statue of athena… it’s just incredible.” he looks up at you then, a small, almost hesitant smile on his face. “there’s something about the way he made the gods feel so… human. like they were both divine and reachable at the same time.” “mhm.” you nod slowly. it’s strange—how much you find yourself agreeing with him.

he shifts in his seat, looking at the paper between you two but not really focusing on it anymore. “so, uh…” he starts, trailing off for a second like he’s trying to find the right words. “what do you usually do outside of class?” you glance at him, a little surprised by the sudden change in topic. “outside of class?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “yeah,” he says, shrugging slightly. “just curious. got any weird hobbies?” you chuckle at the thought, leaning back in your chair. “weird hobbies? i don’t know about weird, but i like to read. i write a lot, too. and i sing, sometimes.” his eyes widen, and he looks at you with a kind of surprised excitement. “wait, you sing?” you nod, a little unsure of his reaction. “yeah, just for fun, though.” he’s practically leaning forward now, his voice more animated. “seriously? i like to sing too! but not like—i don’t perform or anything, but i mess around with writing songs sometimes.” you blink at him, surprised. “you write songs?” “yeah!” he says, his eyes lighting up as he talks. “mostly rap songs! just stuff i keep to myself. i don’t know, it helps me get my thoughts out.” you’re taken aback, not expecting that from him at all. “that’s… actually pretty cool! i didn’t think you’d be the type.” he chuckles a little, almost shy now, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah. i don’t know, music’s kind of a big deal for me.” “i get that. i mean, i feel the same way about writing. it’s like… the only way to really get everything out.” his smile softens, and he nods, almost like he’s relieved that you get it. “exactly. it’s the only way i know how to say what i’m feeling.” he pauses, then adds, “i guess we’re not that different, huh?” you grin, a little more comfortable with him now. “guess not.”

weeks go by, and somehow, without you really noticing when it happened, you stop dreading working with seunghyun. at first, it was just about getting the project done—tolerating his presence, keeping things academically professional. but somewhere along the way, that changes. you start meeting up outside of class—not just in the library, but in the university cafeteria, sometimes even grabbing a table outside when the weather’s nice. at first, it’s always under the excuse of we need to finish this, but little by little, the project stops being the main focus of your meetings. it starts with small things. “you drink your coffee black?” you ask one afternoon, watching as he stirs his drink. he glances up at you, raising an eyebrow. “sometimes. why?” you wrinkle your nose, shaking your head. “no sugar, no milk… nothing?” “nope. not today,” he says, taking a sip like it’s no big deal. “you think that’s weird?” “oh, definitely.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “coming from someone who drowns theirs in sugar? right.” you scoff, feigning offense. “excuse me for liking some flavor in my life.” he only smirks, taking another sip of his coffee. and you don’t know why, but you find yourself watching the way his fingers wrap around the cup, the way he always waits a second before actually drinking. “talking about coffee,” seunghyun clears his throat. “i—i’m sorry for bumping into you that day. and for your blouse.” you blink, a little thrown by the sudden apology. you hadn’t expected him to bring it up. for a second, you almost forgot about that. but the memory comes back in full color—the embarrassment, the heat of the coffee soaking into fabric, and, worst of all, the way you heard him laugh right after. you shrug, forcing a small smile. “it’s fine! stuff happens.” but it doesn’t come out as smooth as you want it to. he notices. “look, i—i wasn’t laughing at you.” you don’t say anything, just arch a brow. “i mean, yeah, i laughed. but it wasn’t, like—fuck, i just do that when i’m nervous.” he lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “it’s a stupid reflex. i wasn’t trying to be an asshole.” “nervous?” you echo, curiosity edging into your voice. he hesitates for a second. “i don’t know. you caught me off guard.” “it’s okay! really.” “it won’t happen again, i promise.” “what, spilling my coffee? or the nervous laughing?” you grin. “both. if i can help it.” he smiles back.

one afternoon, you’re both hunched over your notebooks at your usual table in the cafeteria, trying to put together a proper analysis for the project, when he suddenly groans, running a hand through his hair. “okay, i need a break.” “agreed,” you sigh, stretching your arms over your head. “i think my brain is melting.” he leans back in his chair, exhaling. “we should just drop out. open a karaoke bar instead.” you hum, pretending to consider it. “tempting. but i think we’d go bankrupt in a week.” “probably,” he admits, smirking slightly. then, a sudden gust of wind blows through the open door. a few loose sheets of paper fly off the table, and you both reach for them at the same time. your hands brush, just for a second. you freeze. he does too. but instead of pulling away immediately, he hesitates. it’s barely noticeable, but you feel it—his fingers just lingering before he finally lets go. you don’t look at him, just focus on gathering the papers, but your heart beats a little faster anyway. he clears his throat, sitting back. “we should probably staple these,” he says, voice a little quieter than before. “yeah,” you mutter, shuffling the pages together.

another day, you find yourselves in the campus library, tucked away in a quiet corner where barely anyone goes. at first, it’s about the project—like it always is—but before long, you’re talking about anything but that. “okay, real question,” you say, tapping your pen against your notebook. “if you could live in any painting, which one would it be?” seunghyun leans back, arms crossed. he barely takes a second to think. “anything by kandinsky.” “oohh! good choice!” “right? it’d be like living inside music.” you nod, smiling. “i guess that suits you.” “what about you?” he asks, gaze flicking to you. you think for a moment before saying, “‘the garden of earthly delights.’” he lets out a low laugh. “crazy choice.” “shut up.” you laugh too. “i mean, it’s chaotic, sure, but it’d never be boring. plus, i’d be surrounded by nature—which i love—and i’d also get to hang out with weird little creatures all day.” seunghyun has to stifle the loud laugh scratching his throat. “it’s an orgy,” he says. you blink. “what?” “‘the garden of earthly delights.’ you picked a medieval sex party. should i be concerned?” you burst out laughing and a student a few tables away shoots you a look over their glasses, pressing a finger to their lips. “okay, first of all, that is not the reason i picked it.” you whisper, biting back another laugh. “but it’s there,” he insists, raising a brow. “like, everyone in that painting is naked.” “but they’re just eating fruit,” you retort. “yeah, and fruit is like… the biggest metaphor for sex ever. come on now.” you shake your head, still laughing softly, trying to contain yourself. “i just like that it’s weird, okay? it looks like something out of a fever dream. plus, i feel like bosch was on something when he painted it, and honestly? i respect that.” “so what you’re saying is, you wanna live in chaos.” “no, i wanna live somewhere that would never be boring. kinda like you picking kandinsky. kandinsky is chaos too, just in a different font,” you tease, arms crossing over your chest. “dude’s entire thing is just shapes and color explosions. what does that say about you?” he grins. “it says i’m fun.” “it says you have the attention span of a goldfish.” his mouth falls open in exaggerated offense. “okay, rude.” your laughter spills out again, earning you another round of disapproving stares from a group of students at a nearby table. one of them—not even looking up from their notes—goes, “shhh!”

seunghyun leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the table. his eyes flicker over your face, thoughtful. “what?” you ask, raising a brow. he shrugs. “nothing. just… you’re different from what i expected.” “that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?” his lips twitch. “take it as a compliment.” he grins, but there’s something in his expression—something a little too observant, like he’s picking apart a puzzle piece by piece. “so? what did you expect?” he hesitates for just a second before saying, “i don’t know.” he does know, or at least, he has some idea. he expected someone easier to read. but you’re not easy to read, and now he’s realizing that the more he pays attention, the more there is to figure out. he just doesn’t know how to say it. but he’s also noticed the cracks, the way some days you seem a little quieter, like you’re carrying something heavier than you let on. he wonders if you even realize it, how your guard slips in the smallest ways. maybe he shouldn’t say anything. maybe it’s not his place. but the words slip before he can stop himself. “i’ve noticed some days you’re different. like… sad.” it catches you so off guard that you don’t even know what to say for a moment. you force a small scoff. “everyone has off days.” he doesn’t buy it. “yeah, but not everyone acts like they don’t.” his voice is softer now, more careful. “i just—i think you’re good at keeping people out.” “most people aren’t worth letting in,” you reply. “i get that. sorry, i’m—i mean, i notice because i do the same thing,” he admits. the way he says it, like he actually sees you, makes your chest feel tight. you press your tongue against the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your pulse has picked up. “i think you like analyzing people too much.” seunghyun snorts. “only when they’re interesting.” you open your mouth to respond, but you hesitate, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is. when did he lean in like that? or were you the one who moved? “right, okay,” you clear your throat, shifting in your seat and looking down at the books in front of you. “so, back to the hellenistic period. sculptures are less perfect compared to the classical period, more real. i’ll do the analysis of venus de milo, you can work on laocoön and his sons, if that’s okay with you.” he chuckles softly. “sure. sounds good to me.”

and when you’re walking together out of campus after—the sun already starting to set outside—he asks, “wait, have you ever been to the art gallery downtown?” you blink at him. “which one?” “the modern art gallery,” he says, hands tucked into his pockets, hoodie pulled up over his head. “they’ve got an exhibit on abstract and expressionist paintings right now. thought you might be interested.” you hesitate for a second, caught off guard. “you’ve been?” he nods. “yeah. went last week.” “alone?” “yeah.” he shrugs like it’s nothing. “sometimes it’s nice to go without distractions.” “weirdo,” you joke, and he chuckles. then you hum, considering it. “maybe i’ll check it out.” “you should,” he says, then—after a pause—“i could go again. if you wanted.” you glance at him, but he’s looking straight ahead, like he didn’t just say something that makes your stomach feel weird. you don’t answer right away. but you don’t say no, either.

a few days later, you end up at a park near campus, sitting on a bench. “okay,” you say, exhaling, “this is officially the furthest we’ve strayed from our project.” he smirks. “we could talk about it now, if you want.” you groan dramatically, leaning your head back. “ugh. please, no. let me live.” he chuckles, shaking his head. then, he tugs his hoodie over his head, the fabric bunching up around his face when he pulls its strings slightly. you watch him for a second before the thought slips out. “why do you do that?” his gaze flicks to you. “do what?” “pull your hoodie up like that. you do it all the time.” he exhales a quiet laugh, looking away. “i just… i don’t know. makes me feel more… covered?” he hesitates, then adds, almost like it’s an afterthought, “and i don’t like my ears getting cold.” “your ears?” “yeah.” but you know that look on his face. and you know the feeling, too. the urge to shrink youself, to avoid giving people something to make fun of. “i like your ears.” his head lifts slightly, eyes meeting yours in surprise. “what?” you shrug. “they’re nice.” for the first time, he actually looks caught off guard. “that’s… weirdly specific,” he laughs softly. “just take the compliment, hyun,” you say, rolling your eyes with a smile. he freezes for half a second. hyun? since when do you call him that? do you even realize you said it? he clears his throat, shifting like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself. it’s just a nickname. it’s not a big deal. people shorten names all the time. but there’s this weird warmth settling in his chest, and he hates how much he notices it. “it was… it was genuine,” you add. “i used to be really insecure about them. my ears, i mean. well, actually… i used to be really insecure about a lot of things when i was younger.” “really?” “yeah. and people can be brutal. i got called all kinds of things. made me not want to talk much, not want to draw attention to myself.” your brows pull together as you listen. he’s opening up, letting you see a part of him that he probably doesn’t show most people. and you don’t take that lightly. “i’m talking too much again, aren’t i? i’m sorry—“ “you can talk about it,” you reassure him. “i’m listening.” you care? he wasn’t expecting that at all. “i just… never really felt comfortable in my own skin.” “i get that. i… i feel the same way.” “seriously?” “yeah. when i was younger most people thought i was weird. and i’ve never been the prettiest either. no one really looked at me.” “that’s crazy to me.” “why?” you ask, frowning. “why? are you kidding me? look at you!” his eyes flick away, like he just realized what he said. “i mean—” he clears his throat. “i don’t think you’re weird at all. you’re—you’re kind, and sweet, and funny, and smart as hell, and understanding…” he pauses. “and i think you’re very pretty, too.” you feel heat rise to your cheeks. “thanks, seunghyun,” you smile at him. “but—“ “ah, ah.” he shakes his head, pointing at you with his index finger. and in the same tone you used earlier, he says, “just take the compliment.” and you both laugh. the conversation drifts after that. you talk about books, music, childhood stories. and at some point, you glance at him and realize—he’s not as bad as you once thought. you could even consider him your friend at this point. and before you know it, you’re kind of looking forward to these moments.

saturday morning. it’s supposed to be a normal day. just you and your boyfriend, going from store to store, him carrying the bags while you browse through clothes, debating whether you really need another sweater. you don’t expect to see him. but then, as you’re exiting a store, laughing at something your boyfriend says, you hear a familiar voice. “oh. hey.” you stop mid-step, looking up. seunghyun is standing a few feet away, eyebrows raised. and he’s not alone. next to him, holding onto his arm, is a girl. she’s pretty. really pretty. she has that effortless kind of elegance, the type of girl you’d expect to see in an old film, with delicate jewelry and a perfect smile. you weren’t expecting this. you weren’t expecting him at all, let alone with someone. for a second, no one speaks. then, because you have to, you clear your throat. “uh—hey.” he nods, glancing at your boyfriend, then back at you. oh. right. introductions. that’s what people do, right? introduce their significant others? “so uhm… this is my boyfriend,” you say, nudging him slightly. your boyfriend extends a hand. “nice to meet you, man.” seunghyun hesitates—just for a fraction of a second—before shaking it. “yeah. you too.” then, as if remembering his own situation, he shifts slightly. “and… this is my girlfriend.” girlfriend…? she smiles, polite. “hi.” you don’t know why it feels weird. you force a small smile back. “nice to meet you.”

there’s a beat of silence, awkward and heavy, before your boyfriend gestures to the shopping bags in his hand. “someone got a little carried away,” he chuckles. “hey!” you nudge him, feigning offense. “i needed all of this.” seunghyun huffs a quiet laugh, barely noticeable, but you catch it. “are you guys shopping too?” you ask, because the silence is unbearable. “not really,” his girlfriend answers before he can. “just walking around, grabbing coffee.” “oh, nice,” you say, nodding, even though that doesn’t really keep the conversation going. you glance at him, searching for something else to say. “so no shopping spree for you?” he shakes his head. “no, not today. i don’t shop that much.” “right. you’re more of a ‘spend hours in an art gallery alone’ kind of guy.” you were trying to bring some humor into the conversation but oh my god. why did you say that? was that even a joke? (literally no one laughed…) his lips twitch slightly, like he wants to smile but doesn’t. “yeah.” another silence. his girlfriend tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking between the two of you. “so… how do you guys know each other?” “we’re working on a project together,” you say quickly. “for our ‘history of art’ class,” seunghyun adds, voice quieter than yours. she hums, nodding. “that’s nice.” you don’t miss the way she squeezes his arm slightly, like a subconscious claim.

your boyfriend, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice the awkward tension, but you do. seunghyun does. maybe it’s because, for weeks now, it’s just been you and him, meeting up, talking, working together. and somehow, in all that time, neither of you ever mentioned the people waiting for you outside of those moments. “we should—” you start, at the same time he says, “well, we—” you both stop. you let out a small, breathy laugh, and he exhales, shaking his head. “see you in class,” he says eventually. “yeah,” you nod. “see you.” and then you’re both walking in opposite directions, like that wasn’t weird at all.

it shouldn’t feel weird. it shouldn’t feel like anything. but your mind keeps circling back to it a day after. to him. to her. you don’t know why it caught you so off guard. or why it lingers now. maybe it’s the fact that you spent all these weeks talking to seunghyun, learning little pieces of him in a way that felt… too personal. and neither of you ever mentioned having a significant other. why? because he never asked? because you never did? because it never felt necessary? or because, deep down, some part of you didn’t want to say it? you swallow, shaking off the thought, forcing yourself to focus on something else. you’re just overthinking the situation. you have a boyfriend and seunghyun and you are just… classmates? friends? whatever.

class feels different on monday. not in a way anyone else would notice, but you feel it. in the way you and seunghyun settle into your usual seats, in the way neither of you says anything at first. usually, by now, one of you would’ve made some kind of comment, but today, there’s just silence. you busy yourself by flipping through your notes, pretending to be more focused than you actually are. he clears his throat. “did you finish the research on the kouros statues?” you nod. “yeah. i wrote some notes about the stylistic differences over time.” “good,” he says. “we can work on the structure later.” and that’s it. just straight to business. what a great way to start the day…! it annoys you. so, before you can stop yourself, you blurt it out. “you never told me you had a girlfriend.” you try to say it in a playful tone but you fail terribly at it. he looks at you. “you never told me you had a boyfriend,” he replies in the same awkward way. there’s a beat of silence after that, just enough for the words to hang between you two. then, unexpectedly, he chuckles—soft, like he’s trying to shake off the awkwardness. “guess we’re both bad at this,” he says, half-smiling. you snort, rolling your eyes. “yeah, apparently.” he leans back in his seat a little, fingers tapping lightly on his notebook. “so, how long?” you raise an eyebrow. “how long what?” “how long have you been with him? if you don’t mind me asking.” you bite your lip for a second, debating how much to share. “like… a little under two years,” you say finally. “we met online.” seunghyun raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “online?” “yeah, on instagram. i posted a picture, and he texted me after that. i know, it sounds kinda pathetic, but that’s how it happened.” you can’t help but feel a little embarrassed admitting it, but you shrug it off. “we’ve been together ever since… he’s my first love.” “not judging,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips. you’re grateful he doesn’t make you feel weird about it. “what about you two?” “we’ve been together for a while too. a year and a few months. she’s also my first love. i met her through a mutual friend,” he says, leaning back in his seat. “we were hanging out at one of his parties, we started talking, and… here we are.” “that sounds more normal than my story.” he shrugs, a small grin tugging at his lips. “hey, it worked out, right?” “yeah, it did,” you agree, smiling slightly.

but oh, if only he knew. the last couple of months have been… hard. a constant string of arguments, over the smallest things. it’s like every time you talk, it turns into a fight. you thought it was just a rough patch, but it doesn’t feel like a patch anymore. it started small at first—just him being a little distant. but it kept growing. he used to say “i love you” all the time, like it was the easiest thing in the world. but now? it’s like those words are stuck in his throat, like he’s forgotten how to say them, or worse—like he doesn’t want to say them anymore. you’ve noticed how he’s been putting others before you too, choosing to hang out with his friends or canceling plans with you last minute without a real reason. it hurts, and you don’t know how to fix it. but you can’t tell seunghyun that.

but to your surprise, after a beat of silence, seunghyun says, “it’s funny.” voice quieter than usual, almost like he’s not sure whether he should admit this. “things have been a little… rough with my girlfriend lately.” you blink. there’s something about hearing him say that, something about knowing you’re not the only one struggling, that makes you feel a little lighter. not because you want him to be going through something hard too, but because it makes you feel like it’s normal. like maybe every relationship has its bumps.“what do you mean?” you ask, leaning forward slightly. “i don’t know. we’re just… not clicking like we used to. it feels like we can’t talk without it turning into an argument, and i hate it.” he pauses. “like—when you made that joke the other day, about me going to art galleries alone, she got mad at me for even telling you about it. she said it ‘put her in a bad light’ because she doesn’t do those things with me… but she’s the one who doesn’t want to come, even when i ask.” you feel a pang of guilt, like your joke somehow made things worse. "sorry," you say, glancing at him. "i didn't mean to stir anything up." seunghyun shakes his head, like it's not a big deal at all. "oh, no. it was just an example. it's not your fault," he says. then, he shifts in his seat, suddenly looking more uncomfortable than before, like he’s regretting saying anything at all. “look, i didn’t mean to dump that on you,” he says quickly, his voice awkward now. “i… i love my girlfriend, you know? i’m just frustrated. it’s not… it’s not that bad or anything.” you can see the nervousness in his eyes, the way he avoids your gaze, trying to brush off what he said. it’s clear he wasn’t expecting to let that out. but you can also see how much he’s trying to act like everything is fine, even though it’s obvious he’s not. just like you. “hey,” you say softly, reaching across the table just a little, enough for him to hear the sincerity in your voice. “it’s okay. i get it. relationships aren’t always easy.” you take a breath, then decide to be honest. “i’ve been feeling the same way with my boyfriend. we’ve been fighting a lot lately, and it’s… tough. we’re just… constantly butting heads.”

he goes quiet after that. like, really quiet. there’s something in his dark eyes—hesitation, maybe. or relief. like he needed to hear that he wasn’t alone in this, that someone else out there was struggling with the same messy, frustrating parts of love. and then, almost abruptly, he suggests it. skipping the rest of the day. just ditching everything and going to that same art gallery. it catches you off guard, but you don’t even hesitate before nodding.

the gallery is damn near empty at that hour, just the two of you wandering through halls lined with color and shadow, bathed in soft overhead lights that make everything feel a little more intimate. there’s something about being here, surrounded by all this art, that makes it easier to breathe. you both stop at the first painting that catches your eye—a massive canvas of deep blues, layered thick like it’s been slathered on with a palette knife, with jagged streaks of gold cutting through the darkness like lightning. you let out a quiet ‘fuck’, barely above a whisper. seunghyun huffs a small laugh. “looks like someone was trying to do rothko but got pissed off halfway through.” you smirk, tilting your head. “nah, this is too aggressive for rothko. feels more like franz kline, but with, like… a caravaggio-level obsession with drama.” his lips twitch. “yeah, i see that. but notice how the gold isn’t just random—it’s balanced. it pulls your eye across the whole thing, cutting through the shades of blue.” you’re quiet for a moment, taking it in. “dependency,” you say. “the gold wouldn’t mean anything without the darkness of the blue.” he looks at you, eyes glinting under the gallery lights. “exactly.” and that’s how it goes. you move through the gallery slowly, stopping at every piece, actually talking about the art, finding beauty in all of it. even the weird, messy, seemingly meaningless ones. it’s easy, because you both get it. you see the details, the choices, the way every piece has something to say. you pause in front of a sculpture—a chaotic mess of rusted metal, welded together at impossible angles. “brutalist, but trying to be constructivist,” you murmur, circling it. “like… it wants to have structure, but it’s resisting.” seunghyun chuckles. “or maybe it’s collapsing. like tatlin’s tower, if they’d actually built it and just let it rot.” “okay, points for that reference.” he grins. “i know my stuff.”

somewhere along the way, the conversation shifts. you start talking about relationships, about the ways they fall apart. but it doesn’t feel heavy. because you’re realizing how fucking similar your relationships are, and in a way, how similar you and seunghyun are too. it makes you feel less lonely. “it’s always the same thing,” you say, shaking your head. “getting angry when i ask what’s wrong, giving me the silent treatment, then blaming me about every bad-fucking-thing that’s ever happened to him—calling me a crazy bitch just to come back a day after, acting like everything’s fine.” “yeah, fucks with your head, makes you question if you’re actually the problem when really, he’s just deflecting.” he shifts his weight, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “guys like that, they don’t know how to handle their own shit, so they make it yours.” he glances at you, voice softer now. “but you know that, right? that it’s not you?” you let out a bitter laugh, rubbing a hand over your face. “i mean, i tell myself that. but after a while, it’s like… how many times can someone treat you like shit before you start wondering if maybe you deserve it?” “you don’t,” he reassures. seunghyun’s jaw tightens, his gaze flicking away for a second. “i know that feeling too.” he hesitates, like he’s debating whether to say it. “with my girlfriend, it’s different, but also not. it’s like—she just won’t fucking talk to me. she gets mad at me for not knowing what’s wrong, but then when i ask, she shuts down. and she treats me like shit when that happens too. she yells at me, calls me names, ignores my texts… makes me feel like an idiot for even trying.” “like she expects you to read her mind.” he nods, huffing a short laugh. “exactly. and then when i give her space, it’s ‘you don’t care.’ when i push to talk, it’s ‘you don’t respect boundaries.’ i can’t—i don’t know, everything i do is fucking wrong in her eyes.” you scoff. “god, it’s the same thing. like, just say what you want! say what you mean! don’t make me guess.” seunghyun lets out a sharp exhale, like he’s been holding that in for too long. “right?! i hate that shit. like, i’m here. i want to fix it. but how the fuck am i supposed to do that if she won’t even let me in?” there’s a pause, the weight of both your words settling in the quiet gallery. “makes you wonder if it’s even worth it,” you murmur. seunghyun’s lips press into a thin line, his fingers tightening in his pockets. “yeah.” he exhales, looking up at the ceiling like it might have the answer. “but then they apologize, and suddenly it’s like none of it ever happened. and you want to believe it, because for those few hours or days, it feels good again.” you nod, because you know exactly what he means. “and then it starts all over.” he looks at you then, eyes meeting yours like he’s searching for something. “yeah.”

silence settles between you and your gaze drifts to the painting in front of you. but your eyes don’t stay on it for long. without really meaning to, you glance at seunghyun. he’s standing there, just a little in front of you, his gaze fixed on the painting, like he’s seeing something no one else can. the soft lighting catches the sharp angles of his jaw, the high planes of his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, his dark hair falling just a little out of place—it’s almost unfair how effortlessly attractive he is. you should look away. but you don’t. and then, like he can feel your gaze, he shifts. his eyes flicker toward you, catching you in the act. your breath stumbles. but he doesn’t say anything—just holds your gaze for a second too long, a knowing smile tugging at his lips before he looks back at the painting. and you swear the air feels warmer after that. what the hell is happening to you?

months pass, and you’re closer than ever. one day, he’s just some guy you had a class with, and then, somehow, he’s your best friend. the project you worked on together? you absolutely crushed it—high marks, glowing feedback from your professor, the kind of result that makes all the half-serious arguments about formatting feel worth it. now you hang out all the time. and not just around campus—you start meeting up outside, too. going to the cinema together, picking dumb movies just to make fun of them. letting him come over to your place, where he inevitably kicks your ass at whatever game you decide to play—but then grumbles when you start getting better and actually put up a fight. some days, you just drive around aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing, stopping for food at sketchy places that somehow have the best food you’ve ever tried. you also help him with his relationship problems, and he helps with yours. well, help is a strong word—mostly, you just sit around, venting, analyzing every little thing your significant others do, trying to make sense of it all. sometimes, you’ll lie on his couch, scrolling through texts, trying to decode what a delayed response or a vague message really means. other times, he’s the one ranting, pacing the room, running a frustrated hand through his hair. neither of you have any real answers, but somehow, just saying it out loud makes it easier to carry.

the texting never stops either. even after spending the whole day together, even when you know you’ll see each other tomorrow. memes, whatever pops into your head at midnight, reminders about class or inside jokes from earlier in the day, thoughts about love and life. messages that start lighthearted but end up lingering in your mind long after the conversation ends. he’s the person you call when something good happens. he’s also the person you call when everything sucks. he becomes part of your life in a way that feels permanent. like even if everything else changes, he’ll still be there.

well, surprise! you are very wrong! it happens slowly at first, so slowly that you almost don’t notice it. a missed call here, a delayed text there. seunghyun stops responding as quickly, but you tell yourself it’s nothing—maybe he’s just busy. but then, suddenly, there’s no texting at all. he stops reaching out, and when you text first, the replies are short, distant, like he’s talking to a stranger instead of you. at first, you brush it off. maybe he’s just going through something. you give him space, waiting for him to come back on his own. but then he starts avoiding you in person, too. in class, he stops sitting next to you. when you try to talk to him, he keeps it brief, like the past few months never even happened. so you try. you crack jokes, hoping to lighten the mood. he barely reacts. you ask if he wants to grab coffee after class, and there’s always an excuse. but you’re stubborn. you keep trying, keep telling yourself that maybe he just needs time. maybe if you push a little harder, he’ll tell you what’s wrong. maybe he’ll go back to being the seunghyun you know. but he doesn’t. so eventually, you stop. because there’s only so many times you can knock on a closed door before you realize no one’s going to open it.

but fuck, you miss him. you miss seunghyun so much… in all the small, stupid ways that sneak up on you. you miss the way he used to walk you home after class, even when it was completely out of his way. how he’d always offer you his jacket without making a big deal out of it, just drape it over your shoulders. you miss how he’d send you voice notes instead of texts when he was tired, his voice soft and half-laughing as he complained about his day. like how he accidentally bought decaf coffee and didn’t realize until he’d already had two cups. or when he got locked out and had to convince the neighbor to let him climb across their balcony to reach his window—commentary and all, like he was narrating his own survival special. you miss sitting next to him during boring lectures, passing notes like you were in high school again—little doodles, sarcastic comments, the occasional ‘want to skip and get tteokbokki?’ scrawled in messy handwriting. how he’d always save you a seat beside him, even when he didn’t need to. you miss sharing your music with him, like that rainy afternoon you spent at the bus stop together, both of you soaked and laughing, sharing one headphone while waiting for a bus that never came. you miss how he’d always remember the little things—your favorite candy, the name of that song you liked for two weeks straight, the way you hated talking on the phone but would answer when it was him.

you love your boyfriend. you do. you’ve fought for this relationship, worked through the rough patches, stayed when it would’ve been easier to walk away. so why does your heart feel so heavy when you think about seunghyun? why do these stupid little memories of him make your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with losing a friend? and then it hits you. you were starting to fall for seunghyun. the realization slams into you like a truck, knocking the air right out of your lungs. your stomach twists, guilt rising up so fast it makes you dizzy. you squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head as if that’ll get rid of the thoughts. it’s nothing. just stupid feelings messing with you because you miss seunghyun as a friend. that’s all. it has to be. but deep down, you know. you don’t want to deal with this. any of it. it makes you sick. you try to shove it down, bury it deep where it can’t touch you. but the more you try to push it away, the worse it gets. anger starts to creep in, and you start resenting seunghyun. resentment is easier. that’s what you tell yourself. it’s easier than facing the awful, sinking truth—that you like him. that, somewhere along the way, he started meaning too much. so you turn that feeling into something bitter. it’s easier to hate him for pushing you away without an explanation.

you don’t say hi when you pass each other on campus. he doesn’t either. you just walk by like two people who never meant a damn thing to each other. in class, is where it’s the worst. you’re stuck two rows apart, forced to exist in the same space, forced to hear his voice, and it pisses you off. everything about him pisses you off again now. so when the discussion turns to a painting you know he’s wrong about, you jump at the chance. “that’s not what it means,” you say. seunghyun pauses mid-sentence. his jaw tightens slightly. “i wasn’t talking to you.” “yeah, well, you’re still wrong.” you lean back in your seat, arms crossed, glare locked onto him. “the artist literally said in an interview that the painting was about grief, not isolation.” “and what, you suddenly know more than everyone now?” “i know how to read.” he exhales through his nose. “interpretation exists for a reason. it doesn’t have to mean just one thing.” “so your interpretation is just better than the artist’s own words? that makes total sense.” someone snickers a few seats over. the professor looks unimpressed but doesn’t step in. “are you done?” he asks. “no, i’m not,” you reply before stating your opinion and interpretation of the painting. seunghyun shakes his head, muttering something under his breath.

the bickering continues for months. that class turns into a battlefield, every discussion an excuse to dig into each other. it doesn’t even matter what the topic is anymore—if seunghyun says one thing, you find a way to contradict it. if you make a point, he challenges it. he acts like he doesn’t care, but he does. you see it in the way his jaw tightens when you cut him off. in the way his fingers drum against the desk when your words hit a little too hard. in the way his voice gets sharper, more clipped, when he finally bites back. good! you want him to feel as frustrated as you do, as angry as you do. but one day, when the class ends and you’re gathering your things ready to leave, you feel fingers wrap around your wrist. firm, but not rough. seunghyun. your breath catches. he’s barely touched you before, but now, he’s pulling you aside, out of the classroom, into the quieter hallway. “why are you doing this?” he asks, frustrated. you snatch your wrist out of his grasp. “doing what?” he lets out a slow breath. “you know what.” you do. of course you do. “you should know.” his eyes search yours before his shoulders drop slightly, and he steps back. “okay.” you scoff. “okay? that’s all you have to say?” “what else do you want me to say?” “i want an explanation.” the words snap out before you can stop them. “you just—you just left, seunghyun.” his jaw clenches. “that’s not—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “nothing happened.” “what?” “nothing happened.” he repeats, like that somehow makes it better. “there’s no explanation. i just—” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “it’s nothing.” “don’t lie.” “i’m not lying.” “yes, you are!” you snap. “you don’t just wake up one day and decide to cut someone out of your life for nothing.” he doesn’t say anything. you narrow your eyes. “was it because of her?” his brows furrow slightly. “what?” “your girlfriend.” you say, sharper this time. “is that why? she didn’t like me or something?” his whole posture stiffens. “no. that’s not—” he shakes his head. “this has nothing to do with her.” “then why?” “i don’t know what you want me to say.” “i want the truth.” “there’s no—” “you always complained about her not telling you what was wrong, even when you asked. now i’m asking you, hyun,” your voice sounds almost pleading. “i’m asking you to be fucking honest with me. did i do something wrong? i just—please. please, tell me.” for a split second, something flickers across his face. something real. but then it’s gone, buried under that frustrating, detached calm of his. seunghyun swallows, his gaze dropping to the floor. “i already told you. there’s nothing to explain.” and that’s when it really sinks in. he’s not going to tell you. he’s not going to give you answers. you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to ignore the way your throat tightens. “okay,” you say quietly, almost in a whisper. “have a good day, seunghyun.”

when the academic year ends, you feel like you can finally breathe. the weight of seeing seunghyun every day finally lifts, and you don’t realize how much it was draining you until it’s gone. summer feels like a breath of fresh air. no classes to deal with, no more running into him on campus. you actually start to feel better. the long days blend into each other, and the heat is almost a relief, as if the sun can melt away the last remnants of all the mess that’s been building up inside you. you spend time with friends, with your boyfriend, with family, dive into your hobbies—things that make you feel again, instead of being stuck in that heavy, frustrating place you were in just a few months ago.

the day feels like any other. it’s one of those lazy summer days, the kind that stretches on, with no obligations in sight. you’re in the kitchen, a soft hum of music filling the space as you chop vegetables for your lunch. it’s a soothing task, one that lets you lose yourself in the rhythm while the world spins on without much thought. then, your phone rings. the sound slices through the calm, pulling your attention to the screen. the moment you see the name, your heart skips a beat. seunghyun. you freeze, knife halfway through slicing a carrot. the world feels like it slows down for a moment. it’s been months since you last heard from him, since that final conversation you thought would be the last. you can feel your breath catch in your chest as your mind races. why is he calling now? what could he possibly want? you stare at his name, watching the screen flash. your fingers hover over the phone, torn. there’s a part of you that wants to ignore it, to send him straight to voicemail. it would be easier, right? just let him stay in the past where he belongs. but another part of you wants to know why he’s calling. you’ll regret it if you don’t pick up.

with a sharp exhale, you swipe your finger across the screen. “hello?” your voice sounds smaller than you expected. there’s a long silence on the other end. you can hear faint sounds—shuffling, soft breaths, maybe a sniffle—and then, his voice cracks through, shaky and broken. “hey…” your stomach drops. there’s something wrong. something off in his tone. “seunghyun?” you whisper, suddenly feeling the weight of his name. he doesn’t respond right away, and you can hear him sniffle again. “i—” his voice cracks. “are you okay?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, panic creeping up your spine. there’s a long pause. you wait, heart pounding in your ears. and then, his voice comes, quieter this time. “no. i’m not okay.” you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, the tension in his voice seeping into your bones. “what’s going on?” you ask, your words coming out urgent, concerned. “hyun, talk to me.” there’s a shaky breath on the other end before he finally speaks. “she cheated on me.” it’s the last thing you expected to hear. you swallow. “what? your girlfriend?” “i found out a couple days ago,” he continues, his words slow, like he’s choosing each one carefully. “she… she left her phone unlocked. and i didn’t mean to snoop i swear, but i saw messages—pictures, stuff i shouldn’t have seen. i knew something was off before, but seeing it…” you wince, not sure what to say. you can’t imagine what he must’ve been going through. “i’m sorry,” you say quietly, the words feeling too small. he lets out a shaky sigh, and you hear him breathe in like he’s trying to pull himself together. “yeah, well… it’s done now. we argued for days, but today, i… i ended it. it’s over.” “oh. i’m sorry, hyun, i… i don’t know what to say.” there’s a long pause, and when he speaks again, it’s with an almost defeated tone. “i… i didn’t mean to call you. i just—i don’t know,” he says, his words stumbling over each other. “i didn’t want to bother you. i-i shouldn’t have called. i don’t know why i did.” he’s almost apologizing, and the guilt in his voice makes you frown. “don’t hang up,” you say quickly, before you even think about it. “please don’t hang up.” “i’m sorry for calling you out of nowhere.” you feel a pang of sadness at his words. “it’s okay,” you reply. “you don’t have to apologize for calling. i’m here, okay? you can talk to me.”

seunghyun sits there, phone pressed to his ear, wondering how you can still be here for him after everything, after he pushed you away. the guilt eats at him, every part of him screaming that he doesn’t deserve to have someone like you by his side. “i thought you’d be done with me by now,” he says, almost in a whisper. you shake your head even though he can’t see you, your hand gripping the phone a little tighter. “we were friends, seunghyun,” you remind him, your voice gentle. “i know things got messed up, but… we were friends. best friends. and i told you i’d always be there for you.” you pause, chewing on your lower lip for a moment, before you finally say what you’ve been thinking. “if you want, i can come over. we can talk… or not talk. whatever you need.” you hold your breath, waiting for his response. there’s a long, stunned silence on the other end. “you want to see me?” he asks, like he can’t believe it. “yeah, of course.” “i don’t deserve your help.” “you do. please, let me.” there’s a slight hesitation before he speaks again. “okay. i won’t keep you long. i don’t want to be a burden.” “you’re not,” you assure him. “give me an hour and i’ll be there.”

as soon as you reach his place, you knock lightly, your heart hammering in your chest. the door creaks open a few seconds later. he looks awful. his eyes are red and swollen, his hair messy. he’s in a hoodie that hangs loosely on his frame, and the exhaustion in his face makes him look smaller. for a moment, neither of you move. no words are exchanged. then, without overanalyzing, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. he tenses at first, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he just… melts. his arms tighten around you, his face burying into your shoulder as his body shakes. and then, quietly, he starts crying. you feel his tears soak into your shirt but you don’t pull away. you just hold him, one hand running soothingly over his back.

you spend the entire summer trying to pull seunghyun out of the darkness he’s buried himself in. he barely leaves his house, barely eats unless you remind him, barely sleeps. and you can’t stand it. you can’t stand seeing him like this—so broken. so you do what you can. you show up. every single day. some days, it’s just sitting with him in comfortable silence, letting him exist without forcing him to talk. other days, you try to drag him outside, finding little excuses to get him moving. “come on,” you tell him one afternoon, standing in his living room with your hands on your hips. “let’s go get ice cream.” he’s curled up on the couch, hood pulled over his head, despite the unbearable heat outside. you’re not surprised—he once told you he likes to be covered up. “i’m good,” he mumbles, not even looking at you. you roll your eyes and walk over, grabbing the hood and yanking it off. “no, you’re not, liar. you haven’t left this room in days. come on, seunghyun. you love ice cream.” he sighs, rubbing his face. “i’m not in the mood.” “that’s exactly why we’re going.” you grab his arm, pulling until he finally gets up.

one day you even made him dance with you. it was late, music playing softly from your speakers. you were already swaying to the beat, grinning at him from across the room. “come on, dance with me.” he scoffed, arms crossed. “yeah, no.” “why not?” “because i don’t dance.” you rolled your eyes. “don’t lie. you literally have like five videos on instagram of you dancing in front of your mirror.” “that’s different,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze. “is it?” you raised an eyebrow. “what about that time you started dancing in the middle of the crosswalk because that one guy’s car stereo was blasting usher?” he tried to suppress a smile, but failed. “okay, that doesn’t count either. i was just being silly.” “be silly with me now, then. everyone dances, hyun.” you stepped closer and grabbed his wrists, trying to tug him away from the wall. he resisted at first, feet planted like a grumpy little kid, but you didn’t let up. until finally, with a dramatic sigh, he let you pull him toward the center of the room. “this is dumb,” he grumbled. “you’re dumb,” you shot back. “just move.” at first he was stiff, awkward, his shoulders tense and eyes focused anywhere but on you. but you didn’t care. you kept swaying, guiding him with a light grip and a grin, your voice humming along with the music. and slowly he loosened up. just a little. “see? not so bad.” he let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, his eyes flicking down to you, soft around the edges. like he wanted to argue, but didn’t have it in him. not when it was you.

eventually, he started coming back to himself. making jokes like he used to. but the first time you heard his real laugh again, after months, it nearly made you jump out of your seat. it happened at his house. you were sprawled out on his couch, flipping through a magazine, when you made an offhand comment about his wardrobe. “you literally have like three hoodies. and you wear them every day.” “rude,” he said flatly. “i have five.” you snorted. “right. and they all look exactly the same.” “it’s called having a brand.” “your brand is sad boy chic.” he tried to hold it in, pressing his lips together like that would stop it—but the laugh still slipped out. your eyes widened. “oh my god.” you sat up, staring at him. “are you laughing?” he shook his head, even as his mouth twitched up. “i’m not.” and then another chuckle escaped. your grin stretched wide. “you are!” he groaned, running a hand down his face. “shut up.”

one evening, you’re both out on his balcony, the sun just having dipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of deep orange and purple in the sky. the air is warm but cooling down, the distant hum of the city below mixing with the occasional rustling of leaves. seunghyun leans against the railing, cigarette between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. he takes a slow drag, exhaling the smoke into the evening air before wordlessly handing it to you. you hesitate for half a second before taking it, bringing it to your lips and inhaling just enough for the burn to settle in your lungs. you pass it back, watching as he taps the ash over the edge of the railing, gaze distant. he hasn’t said much in the past few minutes, which isn’t unusual, but there’s something about his silence that feels different. after a while, he sighs. “i need to tell you something.” you straighten a little, looking at him. “what is it?” “i think… i think i owe you an explanation,” he says. your stomach tightens. you know exactly what he means. “you don’t have to,” you reply, even though you’ve spent months dying to know. “i wasn’t honest with you back then. and… i want to be.” he pauses, rolling the cigarette between his fingers, gaze fixed on the darkened skyline. “the reason i… the reason i stopped talking to you is because—” he hesitates, jaw clenching. “because i liked you,” he finally says. your breath catches. “what?” he turns his head slightly, just enough to glance at you. “i liked you. as more than a friend.” but even now, standing here with the truth hanging between you, he knows he’s still holding back. liked—he said it like it was past tense, like it was something he’d moved on from. but that’s a lie. he still does. you don’t know what to say. don’t even know what to feel. “seunghyun…” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “i had a girlfriend. you had a boyfriend… well, you still do.” his voice drops at that last part. he clears his throat, looking away again. “i loved her. and it was wrong. so i told myself that those feelings for you would go away if i put enough space between us.” your fingers tighten around the railing. your voice is barely above a whisper when you ask, “did it work?” “no.”

silence settles between you. you want to admit it, too. that you felt the same thing. but where would that even get you? you’re still in a relationship. and you love your boyfriend (at least that’s what you tell yourself…) you know better. you can’t complicate things again now. so instead, you force yourself to ask, “why are you telling me this, hyun?” he frowns. “i don’t know, i just—i thought you should know.” he pauses. “i’m sorry for disappearing like that.” “it’s okay—” “no, it’s not.” he sighs. “i shouldn’t have… i shouldn’t have cut you off. i hurt you and you didn’t deserve that.” the guilt has been sitting in his chest for so long, pressing down on him every time he thought about you—which was always. you know you should be angrier, that you should make him sit with the weight of what he did a little longer. but the truth is, you missed him. you missed him so much it ached. “yeah,” you say quietly, “you did hurt me. but i get it, hyun.” he frowns slightly. “you were confused. and scared.” and you know that, because that’s exactly how you felt too. “but that doesn’t justify—” “seunghyun.” you cut off, shaking your head. “no it doesn’t justify it, but you apologized. i forgive you. it’s okay. don’t be—don’t be hard on yourself.” oh man. he wonders what he did in another life to deserve you being so good to him in this one. “i’m sorry too,” you continue with a smile tugging at your lips. “for snapping at you all the time in class.” he lets out a small laugh. “it’s okay,” he replies, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “i thought it was kinda cute.” “cute?” you snort. “yeah. but don’t worry,” he says, forcing a smirk, like he’s trying to play it off. “it’s in the past. we’re good friends.” and for some reason, that stings.

summer ends before you even realize it. the warmth starts to fade, the days growing shorter, the air losing its heaviness. you’re back on campus, slipping into the routine of lectures and assignments. but everything shifts—just a few days into the new academic year, it all comes crashing down. the fight with your boyfriend starts like any other argument. but then, somewhere in the middle of it, he snaps. says something he can’t take back. something that makes your stomach drop. he’s slept with multiple girls behind your back. you don’t remember what you said after that. don’t remember how the argument ended. all you know is that it’s over. and now, somehow, the tables have turned. it’s seunghyun showing up at your door this time, no hesitation in his eyes when he pulls you into a hug the second he sees your face. it’s him dragging you out of your house when you don’t want to move, sitting with you in coffee shops and parks and anywhere that isn’t your room, distracting you with dumb jokes and conversations about nothing. it’s him texting you at random hours, u good? or let’s go get food or just a simple i’m outside when you need it the most. he doesn’t push you to talk. doesn’t force you to open up. he just stays—sits beside you when you don’t feel like speaking, lets you cry when you need to. and slowly, piece by piece, he starts pulling you back together.

by the time october rolls around, you’re a new person. the heartbreak doesn’t sting anymore, the anger has dulled, and you’re genuinely happy after what feels like a lifetime. seunghyun has a lot to do with that. and maybe that’s why, when the invitation for a halloween party from some classmates rolls in, it doesn’t feel so strange that you and seunghyun are each other’s default plus-one. the house is packed, every room overflowing with people. music booms from the speakers, the bass so heavy it vibrates through the floor, making the half-empty bottles on the kitchen counter tremble. laughter and shouting fill the space, blending with the music, with the sound of ice clinking in cups, with the occasional crash of something breaking followed by a drunken chorus of “ooohhh!” you and seunghyun arrive together, dressed in matching costumes—him as an astronaut, you as the moon. your dress is a soft, silvery white, made of a flowing fabric that shimmers with every step, catching the dim party lights. the bodice is scattered with tiny embroidered stars, and the skirt has a subtle iridescence, shifting between silver and pale blue as you move. your jewelry is just as delicate—dangling earrings shaped like crescent moons. atop your hair sits a headband, adorned with silver moons and twinkling stars. seunghyun had grinned when he saw you, adjusting the nasa patch on his astronaut suit before reaching out to spin you in place.

you don’t separate when you step inside. instead, his hand stays on the small of your back. someone shoves drinks into your hands the second you reach the kitchen—something bright and sugary, probably way too strong—but neither of you mind. a group is playing beer pong in the living room, another is huddled around a tiny table, laughing over some drinking game with cards. in the corner, someone’s passed out in a vampire cape, an empty bowl of candy resting on their lap. the night moves in a blur. you and seunghyun barely leave each other’s side, moving together through the party, dancing till his hair starts sticking to his forehead from sweat. between songs, you weave through the party together, stopping to talk to friends, laughing at half-drunken conversations, clinking cups and playing games. someone compliments your matching costumes, and seunghyun just grins, tugging playfully at the fabric of your dress. “told you we’d have the best costumes. i mean, what’s an astronaut without his moon?”

eventually, the heat and the crowd become too much, and seunghyun leans in close, voice just loud enough over the music. “let’s go outside for a bit.” you follow him through the packed room and out the back door, the chilly night air biting at your skin. the backyard is quiet compared to the chaos inside, just the faint murmur of distant conversations and the occasional burst of laughter. seunghyun pulls a cigarette from his pocket, then offers you one without a word. you take it, watching as he lights his first, the glow flickering against his face before he leans in to light yours. you take a slow drag before exhaling. “having fun?” he asks. you smirk. “define fun.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “you took more shots than me earlier. you’re definitely drunk.” “tipsy,” you correct, nudging him with your elbow. “big difference.” he hums in response, taking a drag of his own. for a moment, there’s only silence, the two of you standing side by side, watching the way the smoke curls into the cold air. “the party is actually good,” he says. “way better than i expected. i was killing it at beer pong.” “you lost.” “okay, but it was a close game.” you shake your head, laughing. “so this is a ten out of ten night for you?” “pretty much,” he grins. “good music, free booze, and…” he hesitates for a second before saying, “you. what more could i want?” you feel warmth creep up your neck, but you keep your expression neutral, taking a slow drag of your cigarette. “drunk flirty hyun… that’s new.” he scoffs, shaking his head. “that wasn’t—” he starts, but then he stops, like he realizes mid-sentence that there’s no point in denying it. instead, he exhales, flicking ash off his cigarette. “i was just being honest.” he takes another drag, exhaling slowly after, watching the way the smoke drifts into the cold air before his gaze drifts back to you. he’s so screwed. because you’re smiling, the glow of the party lights casting this ridiculous golden halo around you. your lips are glossy, your smile lifting your cheeks, making you look even cuter, and your hair—god, your hair—looks so soft he has to physically stop himself from reaching out and running his fingers through it. you’re beautiful. and he’s so stupidly in love. you turn to look at him, brows raising slightly. “what?” you ask, amusement flickering in your eyes. seunghyun blinks, realizing too late that he’s been staring. “nothing,” he says, a little too quickly, taking another drag of his cigarette like that’ll somehow make him look less obvious. you tilt your head, the corner of your lips quirking up. “you sure?” you press, watching him. seunghyun hesitates for half a second, then just smiles, soft and a little shy. “yeah. just… spaced out for a second.” “mhmm,” you hum, clearly unconvinced, but you don’t push. instead, you take another slow drag of your cigarette. after a moment, you flick the end of it away, stretching slightly. “wanna go back in?” he nods. “yeah.” “only if you take another shot with me.” seunghyun huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “figured there was a catch.” “come on, hyun,” you grin, tugging at his sleeve. “just one more.” and he’s already moving, already following you back inside, because he’s so far gone for you it’s pathetic.

after a couple of hours, when the party starts to lose its spark and exhaustion settles in, he leans in, voice low near your ear. “you wanna head out?” you nod, stretching your arms with a yawn. “yeah, just need to grab my coat. left it in one of the rooms.” he doesn’t say anything, just follows when you turn to go. the house is still loud, music pulsing from the main room, but out here in the hallway, it’s quieter, the chatter more distant. you push open the door to a small room, stepping inside. your coat is draped over the back of a chair, right where you left it. seunghyun’s inside too, standing just a few steps away. you shake out your coat, ready to slip it on, but before you can, he steps closer. “here,” he offers, voice quieter now, more careful. “let me.”

you hesitate for half a second before nodding, handing it over. he takes it gently, holding it open as you slide your arms through the sleeves. his hands brush against your shoulders as he settles it into place, a touch so light it barely lingers, but it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine. neither of you move right away. you can feel him behind you, his warmth, the way he still hasn’t stepped back. slowly, you turn to face him. his gaze flickers over you, taking you in like he’s memorizing every detail. then, so quietly it almost disappears into the space between you, he says, “do you wanna know what i was thinking before? when we were outside?” you hum in response, nodding slightly. “i was thinking… you’re beautiful. you’re so, so beautiful.” “you’re drunk,” you say, but it comes out quieter than you intended. he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “i know what i’m saying.” you hold his gaze, fingers curling inside your sleeves. “you sure?” you laugh softly. his voice is quieter when he speaks again. “yeah. it’s not a bad thing. thinking you’re beautiful… calling you beautiful.” his gaze flickers, dropping briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes. “you shouldn’t look at me like that,” you say. he steps just the slightest bit closer, gaze never leaving yours. “like what?” “like that,” you mutter, looking away. he’s quiet for a moment, then—“maybe you should stop looking at me like that, too.” your eyes snap back to his, heart pounding in your chest. “i’m not,” you argue, but it’s unconvincing. he smiles. “yes, you are.” you blink, heat spreading through your cheeks. “hyun…” you start, but the words catch in your throat. his smile lingers. “what?” “don’t do that.” “do what?” “act like you know what’s going on in my head.” his expression softens just slightly, but there’s something careful in the way he tilts his head, watching you. “don’t i?” of course he does. it’s infuriating, really, the way he can pick apart your thoughts without you saying a word. his eyes search yours, and then, he studies you for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide if he should even say what he’s about to say at all. but the words escape his lips before he can stop them. “i still have feelings for you.” “hyun—” “they never went away,” he cuts in. “you never noticed?” “i don’t—i don’t know.” “i thought you did,” he murmurs. “sometimes, it felt like you did. but maybe i was just seeing what i wanted to see.” he pauses. “sorry, i don’t want to make things weird, i know the breakup is recent for you, i just—i needed to say it,” his voice is quieter now, like he’s already made peace with whatever answer he thinks is coming. you glance up at him and he looks like he’s already preparing himself for the worst. and that’s what does it. that’s what makes the words slip past your lips before you can overthink them. “i… i do too.” “what?” “i have feelings for you too,” you say. “for a while now.” his expression softens, something flickering in his gaze—relief. “really?” “mhm.” you nod with a shy smile.

he exhales, like he’s been holding in the breath this whole time. and then, before you can process it, he takes a step closer, hand reaching up to brush against your cheek, gentle. your breath stutters as his face inches closer, his eyes flickering to your lips, giving you time to pull away if you want to. but you don’t. except, just as his lips nearly graze yours, panic flares in your chest, and you instinctively turn your head. “wait—” he freezes immediately, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “oh. sorry. too fast?” “no, no.” “what’s wrong?” you press your lips together. “i just… i haven’t kissed anyone other than my ex before.” your voice is small, embarrassed. “i don’t know—i don’t know how to do this. i’m nervous.” his brows lift slightly before a small smile tugs at his lips, understanding. “you think i have?” “what?” “you’re the only person i’ve liked other than my ex. i haven’t kissed anyone either.” the confession eases some of the nerves coiled in your stomach. “it’s okay to be nervous,” he says softly. “we don’t have to rush anything.”

you chew on your bottom lip. the way he’s looking at you makes you feel a little braver. seunghyun hesitates, then asks, “do you want to try?” he’s waiting—patient, not pushing, just letting you decide. and that just makes you want it more. “yes.” your voice is quiet. “i want to try.” his lips twitch up in a small smile, and he nods once. his gaze dips to your lips for just a second before meeting your eyes again, waiting for you to make the first move. you take a shaky breath before you lean in. it’s barely a kiss, just the softest press of your lips against his. you pull back almost immediately, nerves sparking in your chest. he stays close, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at each other. “you okay?” he murmurs. you nod quickly, cheeks burning. “yeah.” a small, shy smile on your lips. his own smile widens just a little. “can we—can we try again?” you whisper. this time, when you lean in, he meets you halfway. the second kiss is different. his lips fit against yours like they were always meant to. you feel his hand slide to the curve of your jaw, his thumb brushing your skin so delicately that it makes your stomach flip. your fingers find the fabric of his costume, curling slightly as you let yourself lean into him, let yourself fall into the moment. the kiss deepens naturally, neither of you rushing, just learning each other in quiet, stolen seconds. he tilts his head slightly, and the shift makes it even better—your lips molding together, the warmth of him surrounding you. his nose brushes against yours as you part. your lashes flutter open, meeting his gaze. “was that okay?” he murmurs. you let out a breathless laugh, nodding. “more than okay.” “good.” he laughs too.

you spend more time with each other after that night, if that’s even possible. it becomes routine. you wake up expecting to see him at some point in the day. if you don’t, it feels off, like something’s missing. sometimes, you’ll spend hours together without saying much, just existing in the same space. other times you’ll talk for hours, trading secrets you’ve never told anyone, laughing until your stomachs hurt. seunghyun is so in love. oh, so in love… sometimes, when he’s lying awake at night, staring at his ceiling, he feels almost angry at himself—for waiting so long, for not realizing sooner. he thinks about the time he wasted, stuck in something that was never meant to last, convincing himself that love was supposed to be hard, that it was supposed to be painful and exhausting. but with you, it’s so fucking easy. he’s starting to believe what people say. first love is beautiful, sure. but second love? second love is real. second love is unforgettable. seunghyun is down bad. your presence alone is enough to set every nerve in his body on fire. and when you laugh—god, when you laugh—he thinks he could live off that sound alone. and maybe it’s crazy, but sometimes, he finds himself thinking—this is it, isn’t it? this is the kind of love people write about. he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that no one—not his first love, not anyone—has ever made him feel like this. he’s never felt love like this before. but he never wants to go another day without it. without you.

the way you kiss him it’s intoxicating. seunghyun has kissed before, obviously. with you, it’s different. because when you do, slow, like you’re savoring every second, it makes his head spin more than anything else ever has. because the way you pull back just to look at him, eyes flickering between his—your hands on him, like you need to be touching him—makes his chest ache in the best way. makes him feel like the most important person in the world. sometimes, it starts soft, just a lingering press of lips. other times, it’s urgent. but you don’t push for more, and neither does he. not because you don’t want to, but because that’s already enough.

that’s why he doesn’t expect that, one day, while you’re making out on his couch, you straddle him—your knees pressing into the couch on either side of him, your hands settling on his shoulders. and seunghyun? he forgets how to breathe. his brain short-circuits. like, completely shuts down. his hands hover awkwardly at your waist, fingers twitching, unsure if he should actually touch you or just die right then and there. because holy shit. you don’t seem to notice his internal crisis, too caught up in the moment, too focused on the way his lips and tongue move against yours. but he notices—notices the way your body presses flush against his, the way your weight settles onto his lap, the way your fingers thread into his hair, tugging slightly. his self-control? hanging by a thread. your breath is uneven when you pull back to meet his gaze, your lips a little swollen. “is this okay?” you ask, voice soft. he exhales, hands smoothing over your waist. “yeah,” he breathes. “is it okay for you?” “mhm,” you nod.

you kiss him again, and this time, it’s different. it’s charged. seunghyun feels it in the way your hands slide from his shoulders to the nape of his neck. he feels it in the way your lips move against his. but most of all, he feels it when you shift in his lap, pressing down. just the slightest movement. he inhales sharply, his grip on your waist tightening as his body tenses beneath you. it’s not even really a movement, more of a hesitant roll of your hips against his, but fuck, it sends heat straight to the bulge in his pants. his brain barely has time to process what’s happening before you do it again. this time, he can’t stop the quiet groan that slips past his lips, low and almost pained, his hands digging into your hips on instinct.

he lets you. lets you move against him however you want, lets himself feel you. your movements start slow, almost experimental, like you’re figuring this out as you go, like you’re getting used to the feel of him beneath you. but when you find a rhythm—when you finally press against him fully, rolling your hips down just right—oh boy. his head tips back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, a shaky breath slipping past his lips. he’s done for. you lean in, pressing a kiss just under his jaw, and he groans, low in his throat, his hands sliding down to squeeze your ass like he’s trying to keep himself together. “fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you. “you’re gonna kill me.” you smile against his skin, and it’s unfair, so unfair, because you know what you’re doing to him. you know, and you keep going. the friction is perfect—every movement sending a pulse of heat through his body, enough to drive him crazy, enough to have his dick twitching in his pants.

his breathing comes out in short, uneven gasps as he grits his teeth, trying to hold on, trying to stay in control. but he can’t. because the way you sound—soft, breathy little moans escaping your lips—paired with the friction of you against him? it’s too fucking much. he’s already so close, already on the edge before he even realizes it. and when you press down just right, his stomach tightens. “shit—!” his whole body tenses as the pleasure hits him, crashing over him before he can stop it. his breath catches in his throat, a choked moan slipping past his lips, his fingers gripping your ass hard. he stills completely, chest rising and falling against yours, and it takes a second before he realizes what just happened. he ruined his pants. fuck. his face burns as the reality sets in. you blink at him, confused at first, before realization dawns in your expression. “oh.” seunghyun groans, tilting his head back, dragging his hands down his face, mortified. “don’t.” his voice is muffled against his palms. “don’t say anything.” but it’s too late. you giggle, and that just makes his ears go even redder. you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and whisper, “cute.” “i’m sorry,” he says, embarrassed. “it’s okay, baby,” you giggle again. after a moment, he laughs too.

the physical side of your relationship isn’t something either of you are shying away from anymore. the kisses get longer. deeper. and there’s more touching now. it starts happening more often, too. you’re figuring each other out, taking your time. memorizing the way each other moves, the way each other reacts. you’re learning him, and he’s learning you.

it’s natural that you start wanting more. that’s why, one night, late in his room, you find yourself lying beneath him, bodies tangled in his sheets. hands are everywhere. his lips leave yours only to trail down your jaw, down your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. he loves this—loves the way you shiver, loves the way your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging slightly when he nips at the sensitive spot just below your ear. “seunghyun,” you breathe, and he swears he could die happy right now. his hands slide lower, fingers on your right thigh. you shift beneath him, pressing closer, sighing when his hand finally trails higher. his fingers move along the fabric between your legs. his touch featherlight, barely-there, but still enough to make you squirm. oh lord jesus, he nearly loses it right there. “you’re so fucking pretty,” he mutters against your skin. “my pretty, pretty girl.” you’re warm and soft, reacting to every little touch, every slow drag of his fingers. he can feel your heartbeat beneath his mouth as he kisses along your throat, your chest rising and falling a little too fast. his own breathing is just as uneven as yours now. he’s so hard it’s almost embarrassing. “tell me what you want, baby,” he murmurs. “i’ll give you anything, just—” “touch me, seunghyun,” you say softly. oh, you don’t need to tell him twice! he unbuttons your pants, sliding them down slowly. his fingers hook into the waistband, knuckles brushing against your hips as he tugs the fabric down, past your thighs, past your knees, until they’re bunched at your ankles. he takes his time pulling them off completely. his fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of your underwear next, dragging them down until they’re gone.

his hand goes right back where you want it. two of his fingers slide against you, teasing. feeling exactly how wet you are for him. the way your juices coat his fingertips, makes him groan, the sound vibrating low in his throat. his thumb drags over your clit, rubbing slow circles, and the reaction is immediate—your breath catches, your thighs twitch and your hips jerk slightly, a soft moan escaping your lips. oh that sound… his cock throbs in his jeans. “tell me if it’s too much. or if you want more.” your response comes fast—a shaky, desperate whisper. “more.” you beg, voice trembling. “more, seunghyun.” “more what, baby?” he teases, his thumb still working your clit. you whimper. “y-your fingers.” he chuckles softly, one of his fingers gently parting your folds before he pushes it in, sinking into your pussy with no resistance. “like this?” you nod, biting your lip. he begins pumping his finger slowly in and out and your breath comes faster, mingling with the wet sounds of his finger fucking you. when he adds another finger, your hands grip his arms, trying to hold onto something. he watches you, completely transfixed by how beautiful you look right now—lips parted, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. “that feel good, hm?” he asks as he curls his fingers inside you, pressing against that one spot “y-yes! o-oh my—!” so he gives you more. his fingers thrust deeper and faster, curling just right, and your moans turn into whimpers. your thighs tremble and seunghyun can feel how close you are, how your body is tensing, your gummy walls squeezing his fingers. “hyun, i-i’m—i’m gonna—!” “i know, baby… give it to me.” one more thrust of his fingers, one more firm stroke of his thumb against your clit and your back arches—a sharp, desperate moan spilling from your lips—your body shuddering, clenching down around his fingers. he gives you a moment to catch your breath before he leans in. he presses a kiss to your forehead. “next time,” he murmurs against your skin, pressing another kiss, “i’m using my mouth.”

and he keeps his promise! it happens on a lazy sunday morning, right before your scheduled museum date. he shows up at your place a few minutes early, too excited to see you, too impatient to wait. maybe he had good intentions, but the second he sees you in that dress… he almost wishes to be a father. because what the fuck—you just look so good. soft and pretty, hair still slightly messy from getting ready in a rush, your perfume fresh in the air… his hands are on you before he even realizes it, pulling you in by the waist. you blink up at him, confused at first, lips parted, breath hitching slightly at the way he’s looking at you. that man is hungry. and he shows it with his kisses. “we—” you try to speak in between them. “we’re gonna be late—” “don’t care, i wanna taste you,” he mutters against your lips, hands sliding beneath the hem of your dress. “can i?”

and not even three minutes later, his head is buried between your thighs, his grip firm as he holds you in place. the first taste of you nearly ruins him—his low groan vibrating against your skin as his tongue works with a hunger that borders on desperate. your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging when he flattens his tongue against you. “s-seunghyun!” you moan loudly. music to his ears. he loves the way you whimper, the way your body shudders when he flicks your clit with his tongue, then sucking it just enough to make your thighs tremble. his grip on them is borderline bruising, but you don’t care—not when he’s got his mouth on you like this. “fuck, you taste so good,” he mutters against you, breath hot, voice thick with need. “so fuckin’ sweet.” “y-you always this needy?” you manage to tease, but your voice is shaky. he chuckles. “says the one trying to suffocate me with her thighs.” you open your mouth to fire back, but he circles your clit with his tongue, and whatever you were about to say turns into a sharp gasp. he grins against you, pleased with himself. and god, you’re already so close. he can feel it in the way your body tenses, the way your legs try to close around his head, the way your breath stutters into these soft, broken little moans. but he’s not done. he slides one hand up, fingers teasing at your entrance before slowly sliding inside. “fuck! f-fuck, hyun!” you cry from pleasure. “yes—ngh!—y-yes, baby, just like that! just like that!” your whole body jerks as his fingers move in perfect rhythm, tongue working you over even faster. “c’mon, baby,” he coaxes, pulling away just for a moment. “be good for me.” and that’s it. you choke on a moan, back arching as pleasure crashes through you. you cum on his tongue and he works you through it. licking and sucking even when your thighs shake. and when you try to pull away from the overstimulation, he doesn’t let up—not until he’s sure he’s gotten every last drop of it. finally, he pulls back, lips slick, eyes dark as he looks up at you, taking in the mess he’s made of you. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking before crawling up to press soft kisses to your jaw, your cheeks, the corner of your lips—gentle, like he’s trying to bring you back down. “you okay?” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “mhm,” you nod, still breathless. “yeah… just feel like jello.” he chuckles. “you’re so cute.” there’s something soft in the way he’s looking at you. your heart stutters, warmth blooming in your chest. “you’re such a sap,” you tease. he just grins, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. “only for you.”

when valentine’s day rolls around, seunghyun makes sure you have the best one yet. he remembers—of course, he does—how you once mentioned that your ex never really cared about it, brushing off the day like it meant nothing. seunghyun, though, he isn’t like that. so when you walk through the door after a long day at university, you almost miss it at first. your brain is too tired to register the burst of color sitting on the living room table. but then, your eyes land on it, and for a second, you think you’ve walked into the wrong place. a massive bouquet of flowers sits right in the center, petals soft and vibrant like they belong in a fairytale. two—no, three—boxes of chocolate are stacked neatly beside it, ribbons tied in perfect bows. you blink, then blink again. “what the…” you murmur, stepping closer, fingertips grazing the velvety petals. there’s a small note tucked between the stems, and when you pull it out, your lips part into a slow, disbelieving smile. ‘because you deserve to be spoiled. i’ll pick you up for dinner (make sure to wear that beautiful smile of yours). happy valentine’s day, baby. — your hyun.’ you don’t even realize you’re smiling so hard until your cheeks start to hurt. warmth spreads through your chest, making you feel a little ridiculous, a little too giddy, but you don’t care. grabbing your phone, you call him immediately. “hi, baby—” “you’re insane,” you cut in, still staring at the bouquet. “this is—seunghyun, what the fuck?” his soft chuckle comes through the speaker, warm and just a little shy. “so, you liked it?” “liked it?” you echo, shaking your head. “i love it. i—how did you even—when did you—ugh. you didn’t have to, baby.” “i wanted to. your parents helped me set it up.” his voice is so sure, so simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. and maybe it is—to him, at least. “thank you.” your fingers play with the edge of the little note, eyes flicking over the words again. “did you read the note?” he asks. “yeah,” you nod, even though he can’t see you. “i read it. where are you taking me?” “surprise.” “hyun—” “you’ll see later.” “i need to know so that i can—” “huh? wait—hold on, i think you’re cutting out.” his voice suddenly sounds distant, like he’s holding the phone away from his mouth. “hello? can you hear me?” you narrow your eyes. “don’t even start.” “ah, damn. i think my signal’s bad.” he makes a few static noises with his mouth, so ridiculously fake you almost drop your phone from laughing. “you’re a dork, you know that?” more static—or at least his sad attempt at it. “what? i—i can’t—losing connection—” “seunghyun, you’re literally at home.” he clears his throat. “gotta go, baby, see you at seven!” the call ends before you can say another word. you stare at your screen, completely unimpressed, but also grinning like an idiot. he’s gonna be the end of you.

he takes you to one of the fanciest restaurants you’ve ever been in, which makes you wonder how the hell he managed to afford all this. but knowing him, he’s probably been saving up for weeks, quietly planning everything down to the last detail. dinner feels like time slowing down in the best way. seunghyun watches you more than he eats, eyes crinkling whenever you ramble about something or get too caught up in telling a story. and when the check comes, you barely get the chance to reach for your purse before seunghyun is already handing over his card, like every time you go out. stepping outside, the cool air wraps around you, crisp and refreshing after the warmth of the restaurant. seunghyun is close beside you, his hand brushing against yours before he finally just takes it, fingers slotting together. you squeeze his hand lightly, glancing up at him, but he’s already looking at you, eyes soft under the glow of the city lights.

as you settle into the car, seunghyun doesn’t start the engine right away. instead, he reaches into the pocket of his coat. you stare at him, curious, but before you can ask, he pulls out a small, velvet box and holds it out to you. “i got you something,” he smiles, voice a little quieter than usual. “what—? hyun—” “shh, let me spoil you,” he chuckles. your fingers hesitate for a second before you take it, the soft material cool against your palm. your chest tightens slightly as you flip it open, revealing a delicate necklace inside. the pendant is small, understated, but beautiful—exactly the kind of thing you’d pick for yourself. you exhale, running your thumb over the tiny charm. “oh my—i love it!” “i saw it and thought of you.” “it’s perfect, baby. thank you.” his lips twitch into a small smile. “let me put it on you.” you turn slightly, gathering your hair to one side as he takes the necklace from the box. he fastens it behind your neck, his fingers brushing lightly along the back of your shoulder. he lingers, adjusting the clasp, making sure it sits just right before letting his hands drop. you glance down, fingertips brushing over the pendant as a soft smile tugs at your lips. seunghyun leans back slightly, eyes flickering over you before settling on your face. “my pretty, pretty, pretty girl.” you shake your head with a small laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. “okay, your turn.” his brows furrow slightly. “my turn?” you reach into your bag, pulling out a small, neatly wrapped package before placing it in his hands. “yeah. you didn’t think you were the only one with surprises tonight, did you?” “you got me something?” he’s not used to being on the receiving end of surprises. “of course, i did,” you say, handing it to him. “now, open it.”

as soon as the paper wrapper falls away, his expression shifts. a hardcover book with a deep, star-speckled cover. his fingers graze over the title—the art of the cosmos—a collection of celestial-inspired artwork, paintings, sculptures, and photography, all centered around space. he flips through the pages slowly, carefully, eyes taking in the images of galaxies captured in oil paint, nebulas carved into stone, planets sculpted from glass. “i know how much you love space,” you say, watching his reaction closely. “and art, of course. so… i wanted you to have something that combined the two things you love the most, something that feels like you. it’s not—it’s not as fancy as… everything that you’ve prepared but—” before you can finish, seunghyun leans in, pressing his lips to yours. when he finally pulls away, he stays close, forehead barely an inch from yours. “don’t ever say that again.” “say what?” “that it’s not—” he exhales, shaking his head. “you could’ve given me a damn rock, and i’d still love it because it’s from you.” your heart stumbles a little, and you let out a soft laugh. “this is perfect, baby,” he says, flipping through the pages again. “you’re really the best.” you smile, watching the way his eyes soften as he takes in every detail. “i’m just glad you like it.” he sets the book down carefully on the dashboard before turning fully toward you.

he smiles, but there’s something behind it—something hesitant, like he’s trying to work up the courage to say something else. his knee bounces slightly, and his fingers tap against his thigh, a sign that there’s more on his mind. you tilt your head. “what?” he exhales sharply, shaking his head before letting out a soft laugh. “nothing, just…” he looks down at your hand resting between you, then, as if on instinct, reaches for it. he rubs his thumb over your knuckles, staring at your joined hands for a second before finally speaking. “let me be your boyfriend,” he says. “i know we haven’t really put a name on what this is, but i want to. i want you. i don’t want there to be any doubt about where we stand.” you must’ve started smiling like an absolute idiot because the second he sees it, he starts smiling too. “seunghyun, you’ve been my boyfriend in my head for months now,” you laugh, shaking you head. “so… that’s a yes?” “of course it’s a yes!” without giving him time to react, you press a quick, fleeting kiss to his lips. but before you can even pull away, seunghyun tugs you back in, kissing you with a much deeper intensity. your lips part instinctively, letting him in, his tongue gliding against yours. your fingers find his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, thumb brushing gently over his cheek as you do everything in your power to keep from moaning into his mouth. he’s such a good kisser… his lips hot and soft against yours, tilting his head so that you fit just right… his lips leave yours only to trail along the corner of your mouth, before sliding down to your jaw. he takes his time, lingering there, and then he makes his way down. his face buries into the crook of your neck for a moment, and you can feel his smile against your skin. you run your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck before pulling back just enough to look at him. “i love you,” he says. your lips part slightly, something swelling in your chest so big it almost hurts, and then you’re smiling. “i love you too, hyun.”

you can’t lie—loving seunghyun is kind of terrifying. not in a bad way, not in the he’s going to hurt me kind of way, but in the this is real and i don’t want to mess it up way. you’ve both been through it. cheated on, strung along, left to piece together whatever crumbs of affection your exes were willing to throw your way. it’s hard to unlearn that, hard to trust that someone wants you without expecting you to beg for it. and even though this is different—he’s different—it’s hard to shake the nerves, the fear that if you let yourself have this, really have it, something will go wrong. maybe that’s why, even now, after a long, perfect night, when you’re curled up with him on the couch, a movie playing but barely holding your attention, you still feel jittery. and when things start heating up (like they usually do) you feel embarrassingly new to it all. like you’re back at square one. like you’re a virgin all over again. “you’re shaking,” says seunghyun quietly, breath shuddering when his condom-wrapped tip presses slightly against your entrance. “we don’t have to do this—“ “i want to,” you reassure him. “i really do. i’m just… nervous.” intimacy can be scary, especially when it’s with someone new. “i know, baby. me too,” he admits. “i’ll go slow. just hold onto me.” so you do. your hands find his arms, gripping them lightly as he hovers over you, his eyes locked onto yours. “kiss me,” you whisper. he smiles before he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. then, as he moves, as he pushes into you, a sharp gasp escapes your lips, breaking the kiss. your fingers tighten around his arms, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you adjust to the stretch, the way he fills you so completely. he’s holding himself back, he’s trying to let you set the pace. his lips brush against your jaw pressing soft kisses on your skin before he kisses the side of your neck. “hyun… you—” your words falter as he presses in deeper, your back arching instinctively. “shit! you feel so good.” “tell me what you need, baby,” he says. your body already knows the answer before your lips do. you move your hips slightly, urging him deeper, making him exhale. “deeper,” you reply. “and faster. please.”

the room turns into a mess—moans, heavy breathing, the sharp slap of skin against skin. seunghyun’s fucking into you like he’ll never get another chance, and all you can do is take it, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails dragging down his back as he fills you over and over again. he leans in, mouth hot against your neck. “you like that, baby?” his teeth graze your skin before he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss just beneath your jaw. “y-yes!” he’s deep, so deep, hitting that perfect spot that makes your eyes roll back, your mouth falling open, too lost in the way he’s ruining you to say anything coherent. “can f-feel you squeezing me—a-ah! fuck, baby!” he moans. and the desperate sound you make back only seem to push him further, make him rougher. your body responds instinctively, meeting his thrusts, rolling your hips slightly against him. oh, fuck. oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. he’s barely holding it together as it is hearing you moan under him like that, but that thing you just did? it almost sends seunghyun to an early grave. his hips snap into you harder, completely abandoning whatever self-control he thought he had, grip tightening on your hips so hard he’s pretty sure he’s leaving marks. “shit!—h-hyun! ah, fuck! f-fuck, y-yeah! baby, mmph!” you sound so fucking good, all needy and breathless, and he wants to loop it in his brain forever, build a shrine to the way you just moaned his name like that. he knew sex with you would be good, but this? this is some life-altering, religious experience type shit.

the pleasure is intense, rolling through you in waves so strong it’s almost embarrassing how quickly you start feeling your orgasm build up in your lower stomach. seunghyun’s entire body is tight. muscles straining, his thrusts turning more desperate, more frantic, because he can feel how close you are, the way your thighs are shaking, the way your moans are turning higher, almost pleading. and fuck, he’s so close… but he needs to take you with him. his grip shifts, one hand sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. the second he rubs tight, messy circles over it, your whole body jerks beneath him, a gasp breaking from your lips. “that’s it, baby,” he breathes, “cum… cum with me.” your walls flutter around him, clenching so tight it nearly sends him into another dimension. and when you finally snap, it hits hard—your back arches, your thighs shake, and your moans are loud enough to make your neighbors hate you. thank god your parents aren’t home. seunghyun groans, slamming into you a few more times before he loses it, burying himself deep as he follows right after, cursing under his breath. for a second, all you can hear is the sound of your ragged breathing and the rapid thud of your heartbeat. his forehead drops against your shoulder, both of you still panting, his hands lazily running over your skin. his body feels wrecked in the best way, his mind still floating somewhere between reality and the aftershocks of the best orgasm he’s ever had. his lips press against your temple as your breathing slows. “come on, baby,” he murmurs. “let’s shower.” you groan in protest, making him chuckle. so fucking cute. he kisses your lips. “you wanna sleep like this?” he teases. you sigh dramatically, blinking up at him with that hazy, fucked-out look that makes his stomach clench. “fine, let’s go shower,” you laugh softly.

the bed is soft, the sheets cool against your skin as you sink into them, your body still warm from the shower. you barely have time to settle before seunghyun climbs in beside you, immediately pulling you against him. his arms wrap around your waist, tugging you close until your back is flush against his chest. his body is warm, solid, and when he exhales, you feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against your spine. one of his hands slips beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt, really—his fingertips tracing patterns along your stomach. his lips press against the back of your neck, soft, before he nuzzles into you, his nose brushing against your hair. you smile, closing your eyes. nothing else has ever felt this right. your fingers move against his hand, barely tracing over his skin, and he hums in response, shifting slightly to bury his face further into your hair. “comfy?” he murmurs, voice lower now, sleepier. “mmhm.” you squeeze his hand, barely awake. “you?” he presses another kiss to the back of your neck. “always. i love you.” “i love you too,” you whisper. “sleep, baby.” and right before you drift off, you feel it—his lips pressing one last kiss to the back of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.

two years have passed. but it doesn’t feel like two years. it feels like forever. like there was never a version of your life before him, only with him. when you sleep together, mornings always start the same: seunghyun wakes up first, but he never gets out of bed before you. instead, he buries his face into your neck, pressing lazy kisses against your skin until you finally stir. you’ve built a life together in these little rituals—the way he always holds your hand when you walk anywhere, the way you sit between his legs on the couch when you watch movies, your back pressed against his chest, his arms locked around your waist. the way he’ll randomly pull you onto his lap while he’s studying at his desk, murmuring “i concentrate better like this.” knowing damn well he doesn’t. and talking about studies… you two can barely focus, study sessions always turn into giggling messes where he pretends to be paying attention to his notes but spends half the time sneaking glances at you instead. cramming for exams together is another challenge, he makes flashcards and tries to quiz you, only for you to distract him by climbing onto his lap, trailing kisses down his neck until he groans and tosses the cards aside. you’re both exhausted half the time, pulling all-nighters with caffeine and takeout, but he’s there, and that makes it bearable.

you travel together, not often but enough—weekend getaways, road trips that always start with him in control of the music and end with you fighting over who gets to dj. there was the time you went to a cabin in the mountains, curled up by the fireplace with wine, the two of you getting way too competitive over board games. or that one chaotic trip where you completely missed your bus, got lost trying to find your hotel, and ended up walking for miles in the rain. you were so close to breaking down, but seunghyun just pulled you into a convenience store, bought you a hot drink, and said, “we’ll figure it out, baby. we’re together, that’s what matters.” and somehow, it turned into one of your favorite memories.

his mom adores you. always sends you food, always texts you on random days asking how you’re doing. one time, she pulled out his baby pictures, and now you will never let him live them down. his dad always cracks jokes about how he’s never seen seunghyun this soft before. your family adores him too, inevitably hyping him up for any polite gesture, since they’re not used to you having someone so nice by your side (your last boyfriend was a questionable human being…) they always gush about how sweet seunghyun is, how he takes such good care of you.

two years of love slipping into every part of your life—small, everyday things turning into your things. you have a shared playlist called ‘let me spill your coffee’. it’s a mix of songs you love, songs that remind him of you, and stupid meme songs he adds just to annoy you. the bookshelf in the corner of your room is overflowing, pictures of the two of you and a few stuffed animals he’s gifted you shoved in between. a small framed picture sits on the very top shelf, one from a winter night when the world outside was covered in snow. you’re bundled up in his scarf while he stands behind you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. there are tiny snowflakes caught in his hair, and even through the blur of the picture, you can tell he’s smiling. there’s a strip of photo booth pictures tucked behind a stuffed bear he won for you at a carnival. in the first frame, you’re both grinning wide; in the second, he’s caught off guard as you surprise him with a kiss on the cheek. by the third, he’s laughing, and in the last one, he’s holding your face between his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. another picture taken on your second new year’s eve together. you’re curled up next to him on the couch, confetti still in your hair. he’s looking at you instead of the camera, a small, stupidly in-love smile on his face. you hadn’t noticed it at first, but when you did, it made your chest ache in the best way. and then, tucked behind a row of books, there’s the oldest one of all. the very first picture you ever took together, when you were only friends. it’s a little blurry, the lighting terrible, but you remember everything about that day. how he made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt. how you didn’t know then what you know now—that this would be the first of many.

above your bed, there’s a painting. one he made for you on your first anniversary. deep blues and purples, swirling together like a galaxy, with tiny flecks of gold scattered like stars. in the bottom corner, barely noticeable unless you look closely, he wrote ‘us’. you didn’t see it at first, but when you did, you nearly cried. the record player he bought you for your birthday sits by the window, a vinyl still on it from the last time he was over. and your toothbrush sits next to his in the cup by the sink. there’s also an extra charger on your nightstand—his, since he spends so much time at your house. there’s a worn-out polaroid tucked into the frame of your mirror, slightly bent at the edges from how many times you’ve taken it out to look at it. it’s your favorite picture of the two of you—summer night at the beach, your hair messy from the wind, his arm slung over your shoulders, both of you grinning like you have the entire world in your hands. because it felt like you did. and it still feels like you do. because somehow, even after all this time, nothing has faded. two years of love wrapped around your life, yet every touch, every glance, still feels like the first. and every single day, in a million different ways, you keep choosing each other.

i hope you enjoyed! thank you for reading <3

tag list: @kaerasti49

GIRL you’re so talented like actually omg❤️❤️❤️😭😭🙏🙏🙏if u ever leave tumblr please keep writing just in general. the subong fix is so special.

i literally LOVE YOU omg thank you sooo much!! 😭💗 i had so many doubts about it, so it actually surprised me that so many people liked it! i’m not planning on stopping writing anytime soon! i was (and still am, whoops…) a wattpad writer, but i decided to try posting here since i’ve been using tumblr for years—i just never had the courage to actually share my stuff😭 people here have been nothing but insanely kind to me, so i’m really glad i got over that fear🥹

anyway!! thank you so much again for taking the time to read my writing and even leaving such a sweet message! i appreciate it a lot!! and guess what?😼 i’m almost done with a seunghyun fic, and i’m already drafting another subong one…👀 (the obsession is getting a little out of hand i’d say, but… can you blame me?)

hope you have an amazing day/night!! sending you lots of love!! 💖 —lex

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!

FRIENDS || Choi Su-Bong (Thanos)

summary: after late-night sexting with your best friend, everything changes. the bond you thought was purely platonic starts to feel deeper. were these feelings always there, hidden beneath the surface? or did something just… click? is this the start of something real, or the beginning of a mistake that could ruin everything?

warnings: aged up female reader (they’re both in their late twenties) (MDNI), smut (masturbation, fingering, public sex, p in v, oral sex (f and m), sexting, edging, praising, unprotected sex (don’t be silly)) semi and minsu are victims of the reader’s and subong’s freakiness, angst (name calling, miscommunication, pushing, throwing things, lying, deception, fear of commitment, reader refuses to help him at some point, slapping, slutshame remarks), overuse of the words ‘fuck’ and ‘fucking’ (lmaoo), subong should be a warning himself, fwb dynamic, reader uses someone to forget subong, drug use and addiction.

a/n: i’ve never ever written anything here on tumblr before, so i don’t really know what i’m doing, help. also, english isn’t my first language, so mistakes should be present!! lowercase is intentional. this is an au with no games. text messages are in different colors (orange for the reader, purple for subong). the reader’s dialogue is in bold. mind you, this is LOOOONG (it’s a whole fic)

songs that inspired me to write this: friends — chase atlantic || back to friends — sombr || heartbeat — childish gambino || casual — chappell roan

this fic was also inspired by @jedisupernova ‘s writing, check out her page and fics!!! (they’re soooo good)

you’re still thinking about what that guy said. it wasn’t even a big deal, not really. just some random jerk at the club who’d had a few too many drinks and decided to share his unfiltered thoughts about your body. “you’re not really my type,” he’d said, like you’d asked. then he’d laughed and added, “not many guys would go for that.”

it shouldn’t bother you. you know it shouldn’t. but now, a few nights later, it’s stuck in your head, looping like a song you can’t turn off. so, lying in bed, scrolling aimlessly, you do what you always do when something’s bugging you—you text him. your best friend.

subong. are you awake?

yes ma’am. why?

i got a random question. but like, it’s not that deep

???

do you think i’m attractive?

you fire it off without overthinking, like it’s no big deal. it’s not weird to ask your best friend something like this. right?

it takes him a few minutes to reply.

what kind of question is that?

just answer

i’m too high for this shit, bro

you’re not high🙄 liar

i wish i were

omfg can you just say yes or no? please? but be honest, i promise i won’t get mad

yeah, i think u are

really?

sure thinggg, u’re hot mama

dude quit playing, i’m being serious over here

i’m not fucking playing

okay you think i’m attractive but like… what kind of attractive? cute attractive? like awwww. or i’d-fuck-you-raw attractive?

what are we even talking about

why can’t you just answer?😭

what is this for?

for my knowledge

tf is that supposed to mean?

you stare at the screen, mentally deciding whether you should tell him about what happened or not. you hadn’t told him before, not wanting to give it more attention. but this time, you decide to.

ugh, remember i went clubbing the other day? well this dude was being an asshole to me and he said some stuff and i can’t stop thinking about it so just be fucking honest and answer my question

some stuff? what stuff?

he said, and i quote ‘not many guys would go for that’. ‘that’ is me, btw💀

who tf is this dude?

bruh idk, some random guy, it doesn’t matter

it does?

are you gonna answer my question or no?

yeah. i think u r both kinds.

good, good, you think to yourself. his reply makes you relax a little, the knot in your stomach loosening. he thinks you’re attractive. of course he does—he’s your best friend, and best friends are supposed to hype you up.

for a moment, you stare at your phone, chewing on your bottom lip. you know you should leave it there, let it go. but something keeps tugging at you.

so, hypothetically, would you… yk, with me?

the second you hit send, panic sets in. your pulse skyrockets, and you almost want to throw your phone across the room. why did you do that? why couldn’t you just shut up? but you don’t have time to spiral, because the dots appear almost immediately.

are u serious?

and you freeze. your fingers hover over the screen, but you can’t bring yourself to type anything back. what kind of answer is that?

alr, imma be honest. yeah i would

your heart stops. you blink at the message, reading it again and again, like the words might change if you look long enough. you weren’t prepared for this.

subong’s typing…

would u? with me?

you want to lie, to brush it off, but your fingers move before your brain can stop them.

maybe

the dots pop up again. then disappear. then pop up again.

maybe?? that means yes. cmon i’m hot as hell, baby, u know it. u’ve probably touched yourself thinking about me at least once

wtf bro you’re giving me the biggest ick rn 💀

but have u?

and you? i bet you jerk off to my insta photos, perv. don’t even start lmaoo

can’t help it when u look that good💯

you stare at his message, your mind scrambling to process it. you feel your breath catch in your throat. the shock should be overwhelming, but instead, you feel a strange warmth spread through you.

you didn’t expect this. the idea that he’s been thinking about you like that… it sends a shiver down your spine. you should probably tell him to stop, tell him it’s too much, but instead, you feel yourself leaning in, pulled toward this conversation in a way you didn’t think you would be.

i may or may not have done the same with your insta pics

i knew itttt señorita 🙏🏼

shut up

how many times?

why do you wanna know?🤨

i answered ur stupid ass questions, now u answer mine

maybe like idk, two?

no fucking way, just two????????

you think it’s not enough or what???? how many times have you done it?

more than u wanna know

how bad are we talking?

so bad i’ve lost count. u really want me to get into details?

maybe i do

bro, let’s just say that everytime u post i’m over here fighting a battle

you do realize i’m your bestfriend right?

yeah, so?

so aren’t there any girls to jerk off to instead of me???

yeah but they don’t make me as hard

you stare at the screen, your heart pounding, your legs squeezing together instinctively. what the hell is happening right now? and then another message comes through.

even saying this shit is getting me worked up

what???😭 you’re hard??

yeah bro, what's a guy supposed to do when his best friend asks if he would fuck her?

it was hypothetical

hypothetically speaking, if a guy was attracted to his best friend, he'd probably be rock fucking hard right now. so yeah, i'm fucking hard, girl

your stomach flips at the bluntness of his words. you can feel the blood rushing to your face as you stare at the message.

too much info, subong

nahhh, u asked. u wanted details, so here they are

okay… should i leave you to it?

fuck no

damn alr, suffer then🙄

could u help me out?

help you out?????????????

with a pic of u or smth

boy whatttttttttt

what?

i’m not sending you fucking nudes wtf 💀💀

no one asked for that, stupid. just a pic of u

just a pic of you. the request feels so simple. he’s your bestfriend—it’s not that big of a deal, right? especially after everything you’ve both just confessed to each other.

your eyes flick toward the mirror in your room. you’re in your pajamas. no bra. you know how it looks. it’s the kind of thing you wouldn’t think twice about wearing around him in person, but now, with this conversation, it feels different. your legs carry you to the mirror almost on autopilot. you pick up your phone and angle it toward your reflection. you shouldn’t even be entertaining this. but instead, you snap the picture. you stare at it for a moment, biting your lip. it’s not explicit—it’s just you. but still… you know exactly how he’ll see it.

your thumb hovers over the send button, hesitation gripping you. a hundred reasons not to do this race through your head, but one single thought drowns them all out: you want to know how he’ll react. before you can second-guess yourself, you hit send. the moment it delivers, your stomach drops, a mix of adrenaline and regret washing over you. you sit down on the edge of your bed, staring at the screen, waiting for his response, your heart pounding louder with every passing second.

hoooooooooly shitttttttttt

it’s just a pic

yeah, a pic of u looking like that

im just in my pajamas

and i’m hornier now, if that’s even possible

subong you can’t just say stuff like that

why not? we always tell each other everything

i should’ve thrown on a hoodie

i’d still be thinking of what’s underneath

well, glad i could help your horny ass🫡 enjoy or whatever

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

you watch the dots—flickering like they're mocking you. you can't help but wonder what he's typing—or if he's second-guessing whatever bold thing he's about to say. but then, they disappear. nothing. you frown, staring at the screen, waiting a few more seconds. still nothing. you realize exactly what he's probably doing. you bite your lip, heat creeping up your neck as the image forms in your mind: him, sitting there, hand wrapped around his dick, staring at the picture you sent.

you feel like you need to do something—anything—to distract yourself. you toss your phone onto the bed and reach for the remote, flipping on a random tv show. you let the noise fill the silence, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. it's a few minutes later when your phone dings. the sound cuts through the room like a knife, and you hesitate for a moment, staring at the screen, before finally reaching for it.

it's him. he sent a picture.

these are my pajamas. now we’re even, baby

him, standing in front of the mirror, shirtless and wearing only a pair of tight black briefs. the way he's posing is so over the top... he's trying way too hard. his expression is almost comical, like he's not really sure if he's pulling it off but is hoping you'll think he is. you can't help it—you stifle a laugh. but then your eyes drop, and that laughter dies in your throat. the bulge is so obvious, pushing against the fabric in a way that's impossible to ignore. it's not just visible, it's big. big enough that your pulse spikes, and you forget to breathe for a second. that laughter you were holding back? gone. you glance back at his goofy grin in the mirror, but it's no longer funny. shit. you’re wet.

you don't even know how it happens. one moment, you're staring at his picture, then a teasing comment here, a bold reply there—and before you know it, you're lying on your bed, your phone clutched in one hand and your other slipping between your thighs, pressed against the growing ache he's stoked with every message. you've never gone this far with him before—always ignoring his obvious flirting. but you can’t stop now. and he isn’t shy about it either, telling you with detail everything he would do to you.

u'd look soooo fucking good begging under me, baby

and what if i don’t?

then i'd make u

mhmmm, how?

fuck, i’d bury my face between those thighs and eat u out until u can’t take it anymore

a soft gasp escapes your lips as you read, your body reacting to the vivid images his words paint in your mind. you know you shouldn't be doing this—not with him—but the way he's describing everything makes you forget about all the reasons why. you’re far past the point of feeling shy too. you bite your lip, barely believing yourself as you hit send.

i wish you could feel how wet i am just thinking about you fucking me from behind

god damn girl, i’d stretch that pussy so good my dick is the only thing u’d think about for weeks

and then, it's not just texting anymore—you're sending pictures, even though you swore you wouldn't. the first one is a close-up of your fingers, glistening with your juices. his reply comes almost instantly, not as a text but as a voice message. “shit, baby, you're f-fucking killing me... mhmm... look at that. you're so fucking wet f’me, I can almost taste it through the screen... fuck...” his voice is low and rough, broken by soft, shaky breaths. you can hear him stroking himself, moans slipping out between words. you're losing your damn mind over it, replaying the voice message again and again—fingers curling inside of you as you push them in and out, wishing it were his fingers instead of yours.

he sends a pic too. this time, he leaves nothing to the imagination. it’s a selfie, his face barely visible at the corner. the center of attention is his hard dick, hand wrapped around it, tip leaking precum. and the only thing that comes to your mind right there and then is just how badly you want to take him in your mouth.

one picture leads to another, the messages growing dirtier with every exchange. his words are filthy, his photos even filthier, and the way he talks about your body—what he'd do to it, what he's imagining—fucking hell. your breathing quickens, your body burning with need, and before you know it, that familiar tension starts to coil low in your stomach.

shit, subong… i’m close

u’re gonna cum for me? cmon pretty girl, let me hear you

you hit record just as your orgasm crashes over you, moaning his name loudly as you cum on your fingers. after a few minutes, he sends a voice message back “you sound so fucking good… shit, look what you’ve done t-to me… mmm… fuck, fuck, fuck… i’m gonna cum thinking about fucking you, baby. i’m gonna cum thinking about you making those… s-sounds while i fucking pound into you.”

the next few days are a blur. he hasn’t texted, and you haven’t either. but no matter what you do, you can’t stop thinking about what happened. no matter how hard you try to shake it off, it’s there. his voice, the way he sounded saying your name, the damn nudes, the way your heart raced as you typed those things to him.

you don’t know how to feel about it. on one hand, you can’t deny how much you wanted it in the moment. but now? now you’re not sure. did you cross a line? did he? part of you regrets it, wishes you could just rewind and stop yourself before things spiraled. but another part—one you’re trying to ignore—remembers how good it felt, how right it seemed in the moment.

and then there’s the friendship. years of it. he’s been your best friend for a few years now. he knows things about you no one else does and he’s seen you at your absolute worst. like that night you showed up at his door after a horrible breakup. mascara streaked down your cheeks, and he didn’t say a word—just handed you a blanket, put on your favorite movie, and sat there with you until you fell asleep on his shoulder.

but it wasn’t always serious. like the time he tried rapping one of his freestyles for you, all cocky, and you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe. or like the time you tripped over absolutely nothing at the mall, and he laughed so hard he cried, then spent weeks reenacting it whenever you were around. or when he clogged your toilet and tried to fix it himself instead of just telling you. or when he picked a fight with some guy at a club because the guy bumped into you and didn’t apologize. he got all puffed up and said, “you got a problem, man?” like he was some kind of action movie hero. but the guy was huge, like, rugby player huge, and before you could drag subong away, he swung and missed, and the dude took him down in one hit. he spent the rest of the night with a bloody nose and ice pressed to his face, grumbling, “he got lucky.” you still remind him of how he ‘lost a fight in one punch,’ and it always makes him groan.

you’ve got a thousand stupid inside jokes that no one else would understand, like how you always text each other ‘don’t die’ instead of ‘goodnight’ because of some dumb horror movie you watched together. or the fact that he nicknamed you ‘señorita’ when you said you wanted to visit spain one day.

he’s a walking disaster, an endless source of secondhand embarrassment, and somehow, that’s what makes subong… subong. being around him has always felt easy, like slipping into your favorite hoodie—comfortable, familiar, safe.

but friends don’t do… that. what if it’s never the same again? you’ve always been comfortable with him, never overthinking what you said or did around him. now, you can’t imagine looking him in the eye without thinking about what you two did together. you keep telling yourself that things will go back to normal, but deep down, you’re scared they won’t. because you’re not sure you can go back—not after knowing what it felt like to be wanted by him in that way. not after letting yourself want him back.

one day, out of the blue, he texts you like nothing happened. just casually, like you didn't have your hand between your thighs while listening to him moan your name a few nights ago.

yoooo, wanna hop on call and play videogames? i’m bored

at first, you stare at the text, because... what does this mean? is this his way of brushing it under the rug? of pretending nothing ever happened? still, you say yes. because what else can you do? you hop into the call, and there he is—joking, laughing, completely normal. like the two of you didn't cross every possible line. he's so good at acting like nothing's changed, it almost convinces you. you match his energy, responding with the same casual ease. maybe this is fine. maybe you're fine.

then the group chat lights up a few days later: a cinema meet-up. everyone's throwing out ideas for what movie to watch, talking about snacks, debating over showtimes. he's there, throwing in jokes about popcorn sizes and his infamous sweet tooth, and you're sitting there trying to decide if you can handle seeing him face to face. you hesitate, debating if you should just make up an excuse not to go. but then he replies to the chat, tagging you specifically.

u better be there señorita

i will🙃

the day arrives faster than you’d like, and before you know it, you’re standing outside the cinema, stomach flipping as you spot namgyu, minsu, gyeongsu, and semi waving at you. you force a smile and walk over, doing your best to focus on their chatter and ignore the nerves crawling up your spine. but then you see him—subong, leaning against the wall, vape in hand. and when his eyes land on you, he smirks. he knows damn well. he knows exactly what you’re thinking, and he’s not going to make this easy for you. “finally,” he says when you’re close enough. “i was starting to doubt you’d come.” “why wouldn’t i?” you reply. he shrugs, taking a puff from his vape “thought you might’ve had better things to do.” the way he says it feels loaded, but he doesn’t give you time to respond, turning his attention to namgyu instead.

when it’s time to head into the cinema, you try to position yourself far from him, making a beeline for a seat between minsu and semi. you settle in, thinking you’re safe, but of course, subong has other plans. “yo, minsu, my boy,” he says as he walks down the aisle, stopping directly in front of you. “mind scooting over? i’ll sit here.” “uh, sure,” minsu says, shifting down without hesitation. you open your mouth to object, but before you can say anything, subong is sliding into the seat next to you, drink in one hand and a bag of popcorn in the other. “hope you don’t mind,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer than necessary. you grit your teeth, keeping your gaze locked on the screen as the previews start. “not at all,” you mutter under your breath.

you think that’s it. but, of course, it doesn’t end there. he shifts in his seat, his arm brushing against yours every now and then, like he’s waiting for you to react. you swear you catch him smirking out of the corner of your eye multiple times. you try to focus on the movie, but it’s impossible when his presence is so loud. every little movement, every tiny glance, has your nerves on edge. and he knows it.

then, you feel it. his hand—light at first— rests on your bare thigh, the heat of his palm sending a jolt through you. you freeze, your breath catching in your throat. what the hell is he doing? his fingers trace a soft line along your skin, caressing just above your knee. you stay still, unsure of what to do, but your body betrays you, not pulling away.

his touch grows bolder, creeping higher up your leg, slipping under your skirt. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. he's still watching the movie, acting like nothing is happening, like his hand isn't inches away from your clothed pussy. “what are you doing?” you finally ask, your voice barely above a whisper. he turns his head toward you, looking innocent, like he's just minding his own business. “nothing.” “subong—” “i'll stop if you want me to.” you don't answer, torn between wanting to push him away and not wanting him to stop at all. “do you want me to stop? be honest,” he says, still waiting for your response. “no,” you reply, looking away with embarrassment. he chuckles softly—hand rubbing the inside of your thigh.

you drape the thin jacket you brought over your legs, a flimsy attempt to shield his hand from semi’s view. every nerve in your body screams that you shouldn’t be letting this happen, but you don’t stop him. he spreads your legs with his hand for better access, and soon you feel two of his fingers pressing against your clit over the fabric of your panties. your breath hitches, and you try not to move—not even a sound escapes you—but your lips part at the feeling of his touch. he moves them slow—too slow—in a way that has you shifting against him, your hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more. and he gives it to you. his hand slips beneath your soaked underwear, and a low chuckle leaves him when he feels just how wet you are.

subong knows what he is doing. he rubs your clit in circles, gently but with enough pressure to have you biting your bottom lip. and god, his fingers feel so much better than you ever imagined. when he quickens the pace, a soft moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly slap a hand over your mouth, pretending to be focused on the screen. but the rapid rise and fall of your chest betrays your so-called calm. before you can collect yourself, semi leans in. “are you okay?” “mhm,” you nod quickly, forcing a smile. “yeah, don't worry, i—” your words falter when his fingers move faster. you bite your lip, trying to hold it together, but he's clearly enjoying watching you struggle. “i-i'm fine,” you manage to stutter. semi raises an eyebrow. “you sure?” “yeah,” you nod. “alright,” semi says before shrugging and turning her attention back to the screen.

you let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through you. your head snaps toward subong, eyes narrowing in a glare that’s meant to convey exactly how ridiculous he’s being right now. you dig your nails into his wrist, “are you crazy?” but he only pauses for a second, leaning in close enough to whisper, “relax, girl. no one noticed.” the audacity of him sends heat rushing to your face. but he doesn’t back down, his fingers resuming their slow, torturous movements. and just as you’re about to reach your orgasm… he stops. your body jerks in frustration, and you whip your head toward him, confused. his smirk only deepens as he pulls his hand from under your skirt, bringing his fingers to his lips and licking them clean. “what the fuck?” you whisper, a soft groan escaping at the loss of his touch. “what?” he whispers back, feigning innocence. “you know what.” “i don't. you'll have to spell it out for me.” “subong—” “tell me what you want.” the frustration wells up in your chest. to him, this is probably hilarious—you being so desperate. but for you? it's humiliating. pathetic. begging your best friend for something like this. still, the need outweighs your pride. you lean in, your lips almost brushing his ear, “i wanna... i wanna cum. please, make me cum.” “yeah? be fucking quiet, then.”

his fingers slip back under your skirt. your breath catches, and you press your lips together, your body already trembling from how close you were before—gripping the armrest, barely able to keep still. every nerve in your body feels like it's on fire, and when his fingers circle just right, you're done. the release hits hard, and you muffle your moans by biting down on your lip so hard it stings.

the days after are... strange. again. no texting, no acknowledgment, no teasing, nothing. it's like it never happened. and when he does text again, it's so casual it throws you off. he sends a random picture, a meme he has found on instagram.

this shit is so funny bro loooololol

i fear your humor is broken😐

naahhh u just don’t get ittt babyy

you reply like everything's fine because, well, isn't it? you don’t even know at this point.

another day, he messages the group chat:

pentagon this weekend?🔥

the replies come fast. namgyu’s working that night. semi has plans with her girlfriend. gyeongsu says he’s too exhausted for it. minsu doesn’t even reply. everyone has an excuse, and eventually, the chat goes dead. then, a private message from subong popps up.

wbu? still down to go?

you and subong had gone clubbing together hundreds of times. hell, most nights it was just the two of you, dancing until your legs gave out, taking blurry selfies, and laughing over cheap drinks. it was normal. so, you type:

yeah, sureee

bet. see u saturday, señorita

when the night comes, your phone buzzes as you’re double-checking your look in the mirror.

outside

outsideeee

outsideeeeeeeee

hellooooooooooooooooooo

one minute, let me grab my jacket

i’m freezing man

one minute my ass

patience is a virtue ❤️

cmooooooooon

u knitting the jacket or what

girl i just hit retirement age waiting for u

you’re so dramatic

and u r so slow, balance baby

you grab your jacket and head out, the bass from his car already thudding through the air when you step outside. you see him leaning against the passenger door, dressed in his usual baggy style—a loose graphic tee, cargo pants, and sneakers that probably cost more than your entire outfit (the only damn thing he saves up for…)—vape dangling lazily from his fingers. when he sees you, his eyes trail over you for a second too long. “you’re overdressed,” he teases with a smile. “you’re underdressed,” you shoot back.

the drive to club pentagon is easy, filled with a mix of rap tracks and subong’s singing. when you finally pull up, the line’s already stretching down the block, but subong doesn’t even blink. “namgyu’s working, right?” he asks, sliding out of the car. you nod. “yeah, he’ll let us in.” inside, the music is already pulsing, bass heavy enough to shake the floors. subong grabs your wrist. “drinks first?” “obviously,” you answer. you follow subong to the bar, the pounding music buzzing in your ears. “what are we starting with?” he asks, leaning against the bar. “shots,” you say, already reaching into your bag. he raises an eyebrow. “you’re paying?” “you’re broke,” you remind him, rolling your eyes before ordering four shots of tequila. when the glasses arrive, he grabs two and hands you one. “guess i’ll owe you,” he says, clinking his glass against yours. “you already do,” you reply, downing the first shot without hesitation. the familiar burn of tequila trails down your throat, and you chase it with a quick breath.

you can feel his eyes on you as you throw back the second shot. you don’t meet his gaze, but you can feel it—the weight of it, the way it makes your stomach flutter. shaking it off, you slam your glass on the counter and signal for one more round. “last one,” you say, mostly to yourself, pulling out more cash. he doesn’t argue, just picks up his shot, watching you as you pick up yours. you both toss back the final shot, and the alcohol is just enough to loosen the knot in your chest. but the way his gaze lingers as he sets his glass down makes it tighten again. “dancing?” you ask. he nods. you push through the crowd till you find a spot on the dance floor. the techno track thuds through your chest as you sway to the rhythm. subong moves with you, not particularly in sync with the beat, but in his own way that somehow works. every now and then, his eyes catch yours, and you have to force yourself to look away.

the music builds, and you let yourself get lost in it, the alcohol buzzing through your veins and the tension from earlier slowly dissolving into the haze of the moment. after a while, he stops moving and pulls his phone from his pocket. you glance at him, curious, as he squints at the screen. whatever he sees makes him smile faintly before he shoves the phone back into his pocket. “i need to hit the bathroom!” he says, leaning close so you can hear. you blink at him, confused. “right now?” he nods, gesturing for you to follow. you don’t argue—it’s not exactly safe to hang around the dance floor by yourself. reluctantly, you let him lead you off the floor.

he disappears into the men’s room, leaving you standing against the wall, arms crossed. you tap your foot, watching drunk strangers stumble past. a few minutes later, the door swings open, and subong walks out, a small smirk playing on his lips. “what took you so long?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him. instead of answering, he holds up a small plastic bag between his fingers. your stomach flips when you see the little colorful pills inside. “what the hell is that?” you ask, but you already know. he grins, tilting his head. “new stuff.” your brows furrow. “what?” “my plug got these,” he says, holding up the bag slightly. “said they hit different. figured i’d try.” he slides one pill between his fingers, studying it like it’s no big deal. then he brings it to his mouth, about to toss it back. “wait,” you say, grabbing his wrist. he scoffs. “what? you want it instead?” you glare at him. “no, subong. what are you even doing? you don’t need that!” he rolls his eyes, freeing his wrist from your grip. “come on, it’s nothing. we’ve had worse.” “worse?” you scoff. “you’re really gonna compare getting blackout drunk and smoking pot to this?” “you’re fucking overthinking it. it’s just one pill. just tonight. trust me.” he says.

you glance at the bag again, at the little pills that seem so harmless yet scream bad idea. “subong…” you start, but your voice trails off. “look,” he cuts in, his voice softer now. “we’re having a good fucking time, yeah? it’ll be just this once, okay? i promise.” “okay,” you say suddenly, lifting your chin. “but if you do one, i’ll do one.” his smirk falters for half a second. “no.” you frown. “what do you mean, no?” “i mean no. you’re not taking one.” “but you can?” you challenge, crossing your arms.“yeah.” you scoff. “that’s bullshit.” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “this isn’t your thing, señorita.” “since when it’s yours?” you snap. “if you’re gonna do it, then so am i.”

he looks at you, really looks at you. then, with an exasperated groan, he reaches into the bag. “fucking stubborn,” he mutters, pulling out another pill. “just this once.” he holds it delicately between his fingers before stepping closer. “open up,” he says, his voice dropping a notch. you hesitate for a second but eventually part your lips, sticking out your tongue. he places the pill gently on it. “there you go,” he says, stepping back and popping his own pill. you swallow it quickly, trying not to think about what you’ve just decided to do.

you move back onto the dance floor, the pill's effects creeping in like a warm wave washing over you. the flashing lights seem brighter now and everything blurs together—colors, sounds, the heat of the crowd—but it feels good. better than it should. your limbs feel lighter, like you're floating, and the energy buzzing inside you pushes you to move. subong is right there beside you, dancing with his hand raised, and you can't stop staring at him. his messy hair sticks to his forehead, sweat glistening on his tanned skin.

before you know it, your arms are around his neck, pulling him in like it’s the only thing keeping you steady. his eyes burn into yours for half a second, like he’s daring you to close the distance. then his hands are on your waist, rough fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and he drags you closer until you’re pressed against him. the music is pounding, but it feels distant—like the only rhythm you can hear now is the way your bodies move together, hips rolling in time, every brush of his skin against yours making you burn.

his breath fans across your lips, hot and tasting of tequila and something bitter—maybe the pill he took earlier—and it makes your head spin. then your mouth crashes into his. there’s nothing soft about it. it’s messy and sloppy, urgent—like you’re both too far gone to think about anything but this. his lips part against yours immediately, and your tongues meet in a dizzying clash of heat and need. his hands slide up your back, fingers threading into your hair, tugging just hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

you tilt your head, chasing the kiss even deeper. you feel the sharp graze of his teeth against your bottom lip, a bite that makes you whimper before he soothes it with his tongue. the sound you make pushes him further—he groans into your mouth, his other hand gripping your jaw, tilting your face exactly how he wants it.

you’re not sure where the desperation is coming from, but it feels like if he stops touching you, you’ll shatter. your fingers clutch at his shirt, twisting the fabric as you grind just a little closer, a little harder. he’s breathing just as heavy as you are, lips red and swollen from kissing you like he never wants to stop.

you’ve kissed people before but nothing’s ever felt like this. nothing’s ever felt this fucking good. the two of you stumble out of the club. your legs feel like jelly as you hold onto subong, and his arm wraps around your waist to steady you. his car is parked a few streets over, tucked away in a dark, hidden corner under some trees. “thank god for this spot,” he mutters as he unlocks the doors.

you barely make it into the backseat before he’s on you again—his lips crashing into yours like he’s been waiting for this forever. his hands are all over you, rough and desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. but you’re not going anywhere. his fingers dig into your thighs as he pulls you into his lap, and the second you straddle him, you feel it—hard and thick, pressing right against the heat between your legs. a soft gasp slips out of you, but he swallows it with another kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. fuck, he’s good.

your hands tangle in his hair, pulling as your hips start to move, grinding down on him. his grip tightens immediately, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he guides your movements, rocking you against him harder. the friction creates a delicious, aching pressure that makes you whimper against his lips. “fuck,” he breathes, breaking the kiss just long enough to let his head fall back against the seat. his fingers squeeze your ass, dragging you down against him rougher. “keep doing that.” so you do. you roll your hips, slow at first, letting yourself feel everything. you’re already soaked, already throbbing for more, and from the way his hands are gripping you, the way his breathing is getting heavier, you know he feels it too. “i need to eat you out,” he says, trailing kisses down your neck. “want you to cum on my tongue.” you do exactly what he wants—legs spread wide, thighs trembling as his head dips between them. his breath is hot against your soaked pussy, teasing, before his tongue finally makes contact—slow at first, a long, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit that makes your whole body jolt.

you gasp at the feeling, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard, but it only makes him groan against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure straight through you. he doesn’t hold back. he devours you, eating you out like a man starved, his tongue flicking against your clit before he sucks it into his mouth. and when two of his fingers slip inside you, curling deep, pressing against that perfect spot, you swear you see stars. “you taste so fucking good,” he groans against you, his lips slick with your arousal before he flattens his tongue and laps up every drop. the way he’s working you—his mouth, his fingers, the filthy sounds coming from between your legs—it’s too much, too good, and your whole body is trembling, hips rolling against his face, chasing more. “shit—subong!” your voice breaks as the pleasure crashes over you all at once. your thighs clamp around his head, your body arching off the seat as you cum hard against his mouth. but he doesn’t stop—his tongue keeps moving, drinking you in, dragging out your release until you’re shaking.

when he comes back up to kiss you—chin shining with the evidence of your release— your hand instinctively moves to rub him through his pants, the hard outline of his dick impossible to miss. he hisses at the contact, his hips bucking eagerly against your touch. “you got a condom?” you ask. he pauses. “yeah, hold on.” reluctantly, he pulls away and starts patting his pockets. his brows furrow in concentration as he checks one side, then the other. finally, with a relieved grin, he pulls a condom out and holds it up. “got it,” he says before kissing the wrapper, making you chuckle.

he looks so fucking hot as he rolls the condom onto his cock, his chest rising and falling with anticipation. but nothing gets him off more than watching you climb back onto his lap, your soaked folds teasing the head of his dick as you line yourself up. his breath stutters, his hands gripping your thighs, barely holding himself back. “fuck, you’re so wet,” he says, voice tight with restraint. then, slowly you sink down onto him. inch by inch, he stretches you open, filling you up until there’s no space left between your bodies. “shit,” he hisses, watching as your slick coats him, making every movement easy, effortless—like your body was made to take him. and when you start moving, lifting your hips before sliding back down, a broken moan escapes his lips. “fuck, baby,” he breathes, hands roaming up your back, gripping your ass, anything to ground himself as you ride him. “you feel so f-fucking good—look at you, taking me so… mmm… so fucking well.” his voice is needy, and when you slam down harder, his hips jerk up to meet yours, pushing even deeper. “oh my—fuck, subong!” you cry out, your walls clenching around him so tight it makes his whole body tense beneath you.

he almost fucking loses it the second he feels you clench around him, his face twisting in pleasure, jaw going slack. his hands grip your hips, guiding you—faster, rougher—eyes locked on where your bodies meet, watching his cock disappear inside you over and over again. he forces himself to meet your gaze, even though his eyes keep threatening to roll back. “fuck, if i’d known how fucking good this pussy is… i would’ve f-fucked you sooner.” he moans as you move faster, bouncing on his cock—every thrust making obscene, slick sounds that only turn him on more. his eyes drop to your tits, bouncing perfectly in time with your movements, and fuck, he can’t decide what he wants more—to keep watching you ride him like this or to flip you over and ruin you.

but then you tighten around him, your rhythm stuttering as you throw your head back, moaning so loud he swears the whole damn neighborhood can hear you. “fuck— i’m gonna—! i-i’m gonna cum!” you cry out, your whole body trembling, thighs shaking as you cum around his cock. and that’s it. that’s all it takes to break him. “shit—ngh!” his body jerks beneath you, his abs tensing as he spills into the condom, his head falling back, mouth open.

his hands are still gripping you, holding you down against him as he rides out every last pulse of his release, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. and fuck—you’re still wrapped around him, warm and wet and perfect. you end up laughing for a solid twenty minutes after that, still too high to fully process what the fuck just happened between you two. but even in your haze, every single detail stays with you the next day.

fucking your best friend while high as fuck one night might’ve been an accident. but then it happens again. and again. and again. and you can’t call it an accident anymore.

it happens everywhere.

in his car, where the windows are always fogged up, your moans echoing in the tight space. in your apartment, where he barely gets the door shut before he’s got you pinned against it, hands rough and greedy, yanking your clothes off like he’s been waiting all fucking day for this. sometimes he doesn’t even make it past the kitchen—he just lifts you onto the counter, knocking over whatever’s in his way, too impatient to care as his mouth moves down your neck. in his bed, where the sheets are always a mess, tangled from how hard he fucks you into the mattress, his hands gripping your wrists, pinning them above your head. even in a club bathroom, right after he gives a show, still high off the energy, sweat dripping down his temple. you’re barely inside before he’s got you bent over the sink, hiking your dress up, shoving your panties to the side, fucking into you so deep you have to bite your hand to keep from screaming his name.

wherever. the second you’re alone, it’s happening. it becomes a thing. a need.

you always figured subong would fuck good. he never shut up about the girls he’s been with, the shit he’s done, bragging like he was the best lay any of them ever had. and every time he talked about it, you’d feel heat pool between your thighs, wondering if he was really that good or just full of shit.

now you knew. and fuck, he wasn’t lying.

he’s rough and passionate—the kind of lover who takes without hesitation but gives just as much, maybe even more. he loves watching you squirm, loves the way your body responds to him like it was made for this. like it needs this. his fingers trail down your skin, barely touching, making you shiver before he finally gives you what you want. and fuck, he lives for it—the way you gasp when he finally presses his mouth between your legs, the way your back arches when he fills you up, stretching you wide, making you take every inch.

some days, he drags it out, torturing you with slow touches, lazy kisses, making you beg before he finally gives in. he’ll tease you until you’re trembling, hands gripping at him desperately, “please, subong… need you so bad.” and then, maybe then, he’ll give you what you’re begging for. other days? he doesn’t bother waiting. before you can say a word, he’s got you pinned to the mattress, yanking your legs apart, pressing himself against you, making you feel just how hard he is. “been thinking about this all fucking day.” then he’s inside you, fucking you like he’s been starving for it.

it’s been months now—this thing between you and subong. but you don’t talk about it. not once. there’s no late-night confessions, no whispered ‘what are we?’ between tangled sheets. he doesn’t ask who else you’re seeing, and you sure as hell don’t ask him. but the uncertainty lingers. because he’s still your best friend. you still laugh at his dumb ass jokes, roll your eyes when he’s being his cocky self, and feel that weird, warm twist in your stomach when you catch him watching you from across the room.

and yet, there are a bunch of little things that scream something more. like that time you sat on his rumpled bed while he was writing a song, and you helped him hammer out stupid-ass verses—even when he swore they’d never work. you teased him for his cheesy lines and then watched his face light up like he’d just discovered a new fucking world. hell, he even calls you his muse sometimes, and you hate how damn proud that makes you feel.

or that stormy night. the rain was lashing against the windows, and you two were locked in his tiny studio apartment. one minute you were laughing, taking silly pictures of him with a digital camera while he smoked, and the next, he had your face pressed against the wooden table as he fucked you from behind—your ass cheeks burning from his vigorous spanking. after, he pulled you close, running his fingers through your hair as if trying to memorize every inch of you.

that one night he showed up at your door at 2 a.m., high off his ass, slurring your name with that cocky grin, his knuckles tapping too fast against the wood. “couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled, leaning against the doorframe. “fucking missed you.” you should’ve told him to fuck off, should’ve rolled your eyes and slammed the door in his face because he promised he wouldn’t do that shit again. instead, you let him in, let him collapse onto your bed with a heavy sigh, pulling you down with him. his arms caged you in, the scent of his cheap cologne filling your senses.

then there was the time you caught him staring at you while you were getting ready. you were fixing your hair in his mirror, wearing nothing but his oversized t-shirt, and when you turned around, he was just standing there—arms crossed. “what?” you asked, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. he just shook his head, smirking a little. “nothing,” he said. “you just—you look good in my clothes, mama.”

and when you called him crying after a shitty day at work, voice shaking so bad he could barely understand you. you didn’t even have to ask—he just showed up, no questions. drove way too fucking fast to get to you, and pulled you into his chest so tight it felt like he was trying to hold you together. “who do i need to punch?” he asked, half-joking, half-dead serious. and you laughed, even through your tears, because that was him—always trying to make you smile. he let you cry into his hoodie, let you hold onto him like a fucking lifeline, and then, when you finally calmed down, he kissed your forehead like it was second nature. “you’re okay, baby” he murmured. “i got you.” he always had you.

or the night he took you to some shitty underground concert, knowing damn well you didn’t even like the band. “it’s not about the music,” he told you, grinning like an idiot. “it’s about the experience.” you rolled your eyes, but you still let him pull you into the crowd, still let him wrap an arm around you when the pit got too wild, still let him hold your hand. afterward, sweaty and breathless, you sat on the curb outside, sharing a cigarette while he rambled about how sick the show was. “you should play up there one day,” you told him, nudging his shoulder. “your songs have gotten better.” “you think?” “yeah. you’re good, bong-bong.” the nickname made him laugh. a week later, he showed you something he wrote. something raw and messy and fucking beautiful. he let you hear a part of him no one else ever did.

you even helped him rebrand himself. it started with him pacing his room, muttering to himself, stopping every few seconds like he was about to say something, then changing his mind. eventually, you sighed, rolling onto your stomach while watching him from his bed. “are you having a breakdown or just being dramatic?” he ignored you, still pacing. and then, out of nowhere, he stopped. snapped his fingers. looked at you like he just discovered the secret to life itself. “i’m gonna dye my hair purple.” you stared at him for a long second, waiting for him to laugh or tell you he was joking. but he just stood there, completely serious, shoulders squared like he was about to go to war.

within twenty minutes, you were in his bathroom, gloves on, a box of purple dye sitting between you. you didn’t even ask how he got it so fast. knowing him, he’d probably been sitting on this idea for weeks, just waiting for the right moment to drag you into it. he sat on the closed toilet lid, legs spread, while you stood over him, parting his hair and working the dye through. up close, he looked smug as hell, like he knew he was onto something. the whole rap game was about standing out, and he was done waiting for people to notice him.

the name ‘thanos’ caught on faster than you expected. at first, it was a joke—you called him that to be annoying, and then he used it in a song, and suddenly, people were saying it back to him. dms started piling up. more people started listening. before you knew it, subong wasn’t just some guy making music in his bedroom—he was thanos. and, of course, he acted like he knew it was gonna work all along.

and fuck, the time he brought you home to meet his family. his mom fussed over you like you were the perfect daughter-in-law, laying on your favorite dish and insisting you have seconds. then, saying, “he talks about you a lot”, making subong choke on his food while his sister goaded him about how he treats you like his damn girlfriend. you felt so out-of-place and yet so damn loved by the way he proudly introduced you to everyone, as if you were the missing piece in his fucked-up puzzle. he even opened up to you about his dad—how he never gave a shit about him, never looked at him unless it was to point out everything he did wrong. maybe that was why he kept stealing glances at you like he was trying to make sense of it—of being wanted, of being next to someone who actually cared.

and later that night, when you were both lying on his couch, full and sleepy, he nudged your knee with his. “thanks for coming, señorita,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “they liked you.” you turned your head to look at him, saying, “of course they did. i’m fucking amazing.” he smirked, but it faded quick, his gaze lingering on you a little too long. “yeah,” he murmured. “you are.”

nights that weren’t about sex at all. the ones where he just wanted you close, his hands resting on your back, his lips pressed to your shoulder, his voice low and sleepy in the dark. “you’re warm,” he’d mumble, pulling you closer. “don’t leave.” “i work tomorrow, baby,” you’d say. “i’ll drive you… stay with me,” he’d always replied.

and you did. every single time.

and there were the nights he fucked you like he meant it. not just like you were some girl he was hooking up with, but like you were the only one who had ever mattered. like he was trying to prove something with every touch, every kiss, every time he pressed his sweaty forehead to yours and whispered your name like a prayer.

like he loved you. but he never said it. and neither did you.

so instead, you settled for the quiet moments—for the way he always pulled you into his lap at parties, his hands resting lazily on your thighs; for the way he let you pick the music when you drove anywhere, even though he always bitched about your taste; for the way he let you steal his fries, let you doodle on his lyrics notebook, let you wear his hoodies even when you didn’t ask; for the way he texted you ‘good morning, baby❤️,’ and it made you smile for no damn reason; for the way you woke up to find him still asleep beside you, hair a damn mess on the pillow, and traced lazy circles on his chest while he mumbled some half-remembered melody. for the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

you can’t help but hope that one day you’ll both just say the damn words and finally admit that all these little moments mean something. you hope that maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll stop wondering if you’re more than just friends with benefits.

are u busy?

no, why?

good, i’ll be there in 10

i’m on my period

who gives a shitttt, i sure as hell don’t, mama

subong.

yeah?🙏🏼

not in the mood❤️

oh

alr cool👍🏼💯

can i still come over tho? we could watch a movie or something

yeah okayyy, bring snacks (or else i won’t let you in)

i’m the only snack u need, girl

you don’t expect him to show up with anything, but when you open the door, subong’s standing there, hands full—one holding a plastic bag, the other gripping a bottle of soda. “what’s all this?” you ask, raising a brow. he steps inside without waiting for an invite, kicking off his shoes. “you said ‘bring snacks’, didn’t you?” he says, dropping the bag onto your coffee table. “figured you’d want something sweet.” you peek inside—chocolate bars, a pack of strawberry pocky, even a container of sliced fruit. your chest tightens at the thought of him actually remembering the little things you like.“what, no painkillers?” you tease, flopping onto the couch. he scoffs, collapsing next to you, way too comfortable in your space. “what do i look like, a pharmacy?”

you give him a knowing look, and his lips twitch, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. grabbing the remote, you ask, “so, what are we watching?” “something i won’t fall asleep to,” he says, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. “which means no boring indie shit.” you nudge his thigh with your foot. “first of all, my movie taste is elite. second, if you fall asleep, i’m taking pictures.” he grins, lazy and cocky. “yeah? what will you use them for?” heat rushes to your face, and you smack his arm without thinking. “shut up.”

the movie plays, and for a while, it’s normal. easy. you snack on the pocky while subong steals pieces of fruit from the container, acting like he’s doing you a favor by eating the ones you don’t like. he stretches out on the couch, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. goddamn.

it's barely been a few minutes when you find yourself on your knees in front of the couch, his strong hand fisting in your hair as you hungrily suck his dick like your life depends on it. you couldn’t help it. he just looked too fucking good. you take him deep, your nose pressing against his abs, gagging slightly but refusing to back off. he lets out a groan as you take him, the head of his dick hitting the back of your throat. His hand tightens in your hair, guiding your head up and down. “fuck, just like that baby... show me how much you love this dick.” his hips thrust forward, making you gag slightly. “you're so f-fucking good for me... mmm such a pretty little mouth, choking on my cock.”

drool slips down your chin as you struggle to breathe but maintain eye contact, wanting him to see how much you love taking him in your mouth. the wet, obscene sounds of you slurping and gagging fill the room. he watches you intently, pupils blown wide with lust, his dick throbbing against your tongue. moaning around him, the vibrations make his thighs quake. "shit... you’re gonna make me fucking c-cum," he breathes out. “you gonna… you gonna let me cum in that s-sweet mouth of yours, hm?” “mhmm,” you purr around his length, looking up at him with hooded eyes. you double your efforts, sucking him hard and fast, your hand pumping what you can’t reach. he holds your head in place as he comes, making you to swallow every last drop. you take a moment to catch your breath, wiping your mouth before sitting back up.

the bathroom lights hum to life as you rinse your mouth and splash cool water on your face, trying to shake off the heat thrumming through you. you press your palms against the sink, inhaling deep in an attempt to look less flustered. the movie’s still on when you come back. you get comfortable, leaning into subong just slightly. he doesn’t say anything, just lifts his arm and lets you settle in against his side. the warmth of him seeps into you, and you rest your head on his shoulder. subong smiles at you before kissing your forehead, something that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow does.

you shift slightly, but he just pulls you in closer, his body solid and warm against yours. your heart stutters in your chest, and the thought of what you are—what you actually mean to him—becomes impossible to ignore. the longer you sit there, the harder it is to pretend this is normal. your heart is beating too fast, your mind racing with thoughts you’ve been shoving down for months. finally, you tilt your head to glance up. “subong,” you start, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. he hums, eyes still on the screen, but you can tell he’s listening. you swallow, suddenly nervous. “what… what are we doing?” that gets his attention. “what do you mean?” you sit up a little, putting some space between you—enough to see him clearly. “this. us. it’s been months, and we’ve never talked about it.” “what’s there to talk?” “i mean, is this just sex to you?”

he doesn’t answer right away. his jaw tenses, his eyes flicking away for a second like he’s weighing his words. “does it feel like just sex to you?” he finally asks. your chest tightens. “no.” his lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to admit it so easily. like maybe he’s been trying to convince himself of something different. “right. it’s not just sex, we’re friends, too,” he says. “then why are we acting like this?” you push. he rubs a hand over his face. “i don’t know.” he leans forward, elbows on his knees. the silence stretches thick between you, but you refuse to let it suffocate you. you need to know. “what do you want this to be?”

subong exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair. he looks frustrated, like he doesn’t even want to have this conversation. like you’re ruining something by asking. “why do we have to call it something?” he says finally, and your stomach twists. you blink, sitting up a little. “because it’s been months, subong. because we’re not—we’re not just fucking and then going our separate ways. because we’re sitting here, cuddling, watching a damn movie, and it feels like more.” his jaw clenches, his fingers tightening around his knee. “it doesn’t have to mean anything.” that stings. worse than you were expecting. you swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “it does to me.” his face twists, like he hates hearing that. “shit, don’t fucking do this,” he mutters, shaking his head. “why can’t we just keep things the way they are?” “because i’m tired of pretending this is casual when it’s not,” you snap, your voice cracking. “not for me, at least.”

he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, like he’s trying to hold something back. when he looks at you again, his expression is unreadable, but his next words hit like a punch to the gut. “then maybe you shouldn’t have let it get this fucking far.” you feel like the air has been sucked out of the room. “what?” “i never promised you shit.” the words cut deep, sharper than anything he’s ever said to you before. you open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. because he’s right. he never did. but the way he touched you, the way he held you after—none of that felt like nothing. you shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your voice steady. “are you fucking kidding me?”

he hesitates for a second too long. and that’s all you need to know. you force yourself to nod, pressing your lips together. “okay.” his brows furrow, like he wasn’t expecting you to take it like that, but you don’t give him the chance to say anything else. you grab the remote, press stop on the movie, and push yourself off the couch. “you should go.” “are you fucking serious?” you cross your arms over your chest, fighting to keep your composure. “yeah, i’m serious. get the fuck out.” “we have one fucking shitty conversation, and now you don’t want me here?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “what the fuck do you want from me, subong?” your voice shakes, and you can feel it crack, but you force it out. “sit here and pretend like i didn’t just fucking tell you how i feel? pretend i’m not fucking hurt because you—” you stop yourself, biting your lip so hard it almost bleeds. his jaw clenches. “what?” you let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “because you don’t fucking care.” “i never said i don’t care.” “you might as well have,” you snap, voice breaking with frustration. “you just don’t give a shit enough to do anything about it.” he presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, breathing hard through his nose. “just because i care doesn’t mean we have to slap a fucking label on it!” “and i just have to be okay with that?!” you snap, your voice rising. “i have to sit here like a dumbass and pretend this is fine when it’s not?”

he throws his hands up, his face twisting in frustration. “for fuck’s sake, why do you have to make everything so fucking difficult?” “difficult?!” you let out a humorless laugh. “you’re the one acting like a fucking idiot, subong! you want to fuck me, cuddle me, act like i’m your fucking girlfriend, but the second i ask you to be honest about what this is, suddenly i’m the problem?! you even introduced me to your damn family!” he freezes for half a second when the words leave your mouth, then he stands up, jabbing a finger in your face. “what the fuck did you just call me?!” you swat his hand away, your glare burning into him. “don’t fucking point at me like that!” his jaw tightens, and his nostrils flare like he’s barely keeping himself from snapping. “you wanna talk about being a fucking idiot?! look in the fucking mirror!” he spits. “you’re the one acting like some needy little bitch because i won’t say what you wanna hear.” “fuck you, subong!” you don’t say anything else. you just turn on your heel and walk out of the living room, heading straight for the kitchen. your hands are shaking, your chest tight, and you just need to put some distance between you and him before you completely fall apart. behind you, you hear him scoff. “seriously? you’re just gonna walk away mid-fucking-conversation?”

you grip the edge of the counter, squeezing your eyes shut. maybe if you stay quiet, he’ll take the fucking hint and leave. but of course, he doesn’t. you hear his footsteps as he follows you in. “you always do this shit,” he mutters, his voice dripping with irritation. “running off the second things don’t go your way.” you whirl around, your eyes burning. “what should i do, then? hm? get on my knees and suck your fucking dick again?!” he clenches his fists at his sides, his mouth opening like he’s about to argue—but then he hesitates. because the truth is, you do mean something to him. he just doesn’t know how to fucking deal with it. subong has never done this before—never been in something that wasn’t just fucking around, never had to deal with real feelings, real expectations. and the idea of fucking it up? it scares the shit out of him. but instead of admitting that, instead of being honest for once in his life, he just does what he does best—pushes, lashes out. it seems easier than dealing with what he feels when he’s around you.

“why do you care so fucking much about not calling it something?” you ask, your voice softer now. “if we’re not seeing other people, if we’re always together, if you do care about me, then why?” his throat bobs as he swallows hard. and then—because he’s a fucking coward—he lies. “who says i’m not seeing other people?” you freeze. his face is unreadable, but you can see the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he already regrets saying it. “you’re lying.” your voice is quiet. he just shrugs, “i’ve been seeing this girl.” “who?” you raise your voice, taking a step closer as tears start falling down your face. “who?!” “i’m not fucking telling you!” “are you serious?! aren’t we supposed to be friends too?! we used to tell each other everything!”

his eyes flick to yours, and for a second—just a second—something flashes in them. something like guilt. but then he shuts it down, scoffing as he shakes his head. you continue, “but we’re not even friends anymore, are we?” “don’t say that.” “why not? it’s true, isn’t it? friends don’t do what we do,” you wipe at your face, even though the tears won’t stop fucking falling. he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, pressing it against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to hold something back. but then he just shrugs again, voice flat. “guess we’re not fucking friends either, then.”

your vision blurs as you cry, no matter how hard you try to keep it together. “get the fuck out, subong.” your voice breaks on the last word, and you hate how fucking weak you sound, how pathetic. and the second the first real sob rips out of your throat, something in him shifts. “fuck. no, i—” he exhales, raking a hand through his hair, his voice softer now, like he’s realizing he went too far. “i didn’t mean it. i’m sorry—i’m sorry, baby.” “don’t fucking call me that!” “you gotta listen to me!” you shake your head, taking a step back, your whole body trembling. “no. i’m done listening to your fucking bullshit.” “baby, please.” his voice cracks, and his hands reach for you—hesitant, like he doesn’t know if you’ll let him touch you. “please.” you slap them away instantly. “don’t fucking touch me.” “you’re really just gonna shut me out like this?!” “you shut me out first!” “i fucking care about you!” “not enough!” his breath catches in his throat, and for a second, he just stares at you. “you’re being fucking dramatic.” “get the fuck out of my house, subong.” “why are you being such a fucking—” “say it.” your voice is a challenge, daring him to go there. he doesn’t hesitate. “bitch. a fucking bitch. you—you’re acting like a bitch.”

you’ve had enough. without thinking, you shove him—hard. he stumbles back a step, caught off guard, but you don't stop. you shove him again, your palms flat against his chest. “you’re a fucking asshole! fuck you! get out! get the fuck out!” his jaw tightens, like he wants to argue, like he wants to throw something else back at you, but you're already stepping forward again, grabbing his arm and shoving him toward the front door. subong wrenches his arm away, but you don't let it stop you. you push him again, shoving him past the threshold. but he’s not moving, so you grab the nearest thing—his damn sneakers—and chuck them at him, one after the other. the first one bounces off his chest, the second one catches him square in the shoulder. “what the fuck, man?!” subong barks, flinching back, his face twisting in irritation. he barely catches the second shoe before it can hit the ground. “you’re a crazy bitch!”

“fuck off!” your voice cracks again, but you don’t care. you’re already stepping forward, already reaching for the door—and you slam it in his face. the sound echoing through the room. for a moment, silence. a long, awful pause where your breath hitches, where your chest tightens so much it feels like you’re suffocating. then—“open the door. c’mon, open—open the fucking door!” he slams his fist against the wood. “stop being so fucking childish!” “you’re calling me childish?! grow up, subong! you’re twenty six, you don’t know what you want and you still dress like a fucking kid!” he bangs the door. “you’re one to talk, girl! always dressed like a damn slut!”

you squeeze your eyes shut and stumble to your room until your knees hit the bed, and then you’re collapsing onto it. the first sob breaks out of you before you can stop it, and then another, and another. you curl into yourself, pulling the blanket over your head, pressing your hands against your ears. but it doesn’t block him out. “fucking talk to me!” another bang. you hear the doorknob rattle. “baby, please! i’m sorry, okay?! c’mon, don’t do this! we’re fucking friends!” your voice is muffled when it finally comes, thick with tears, but loud enough for him to hear you. “go away!” “not fucking happening! open the damn door!” “go away or i’m calling the fucking cops, motherfucker!” that seems to work. you curl tighter, press your face into the pillow, and sob until the sound of his fists against the door fades away. he did this. he made you feel this way. and he fucking hates himself for it. but it’s too late.

the next few days are absolute shit. you barely leave your bed at first. your body feels too heavy, your chest too tight, your eyes too sore from crying. when you do finally move, it’s only to go through the motions—brushing your teeth, pulling on the same oversized hoodie, forcing down a few bites of food even when everything tastes like nothing, and going to work. you don’t check your phone at first. you can’t. but eventually, the screen lights up, and you don’t have to look to know who it is. subong. you let it ring. he calls again. and again. when it finally stops, the texts start.

pick up the fucking phone

cmon baby please

i fucking miss u

don’t do this shit to me

u make me so fucking angry

bro istfg

please

you turn the phone face down. but he doesn’t stop. every time you glance at your screen, his name is there.

i know u r reading these

don’t fucking ignore me bro

at least tell me u r okay

minsu asked why u didn’t come with us today

just fucking answer

is it that hard?

years and years of friendship man and u throw it all away like that?

u r fucking selfish

i hope u know that

the texts keep coming. always at random times. but the worst ones come at night. one day, at 4:12 a.m., your phone buzzes against your nightstand. you try to ignore it, try to pretend you’re asleep, but something tells you to look.

im highhg as fuvckk bro

look whatu vdone to me

fukcing bittvhhh

its urA fault

i mis uu

u r myybhaby❤️❤️❤️❤️

its fucking 4am. i wake up at 6 to go to work, stfu and leave me alone

can i cone over? plewaasse

answer bitchj

fuck you, subong. i don’t want to see you again

come bsck

i loveyouy

you block him, roll over, and squeeze your eyes shut. but sleep doesn’t come easy. not when the last words he sent are still glowing behind your eyelids, burning into your brain.

blocking him should have brought peace. should have been the final step, the clean break. but it doesn’t feel like that. instead, it feels like holding your breath underwater, waiting to resurface, except there’s no hand to pull you up this time. the first few days, you keep checking your phone out of habit. unlocking it without thinking. but there’s nothing. you still reach for him in small ways—almost texting him when something funny happens, almost turning to tell him about your day. but you can’t do that. you won’t do that. so you keep yourself busy. you pick up a book, let your eyes scan the words without really absorbing them. go on long walks, let the cold air bite at your skin, hoping it shocks you out of your thoughts. start journaling, writing down everything except his name, except the way your chest still feels hollow. you even try new things—take a yoga class with a friend, bake cookies at 2 a.m., cut your hair just to feel something different. but memories of him are stitched into the fabric of your life.

you hear his voice on the radio sometimes now, when they play a song of his that went viral. see him in the reflection of dark car windows, like he’s just a step behind you. hear a joke and immediately think about how he’d laugh, head thrown back, eyes crinkling at the edges. you tell yourself that eventually, you’ll forget. but some nights, you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’s staring at his too. if he’s thinking about you. and the ache doesn’t go away.

your phone rings one night, when you’re already in bed. you almost don’t answer, but when you see semi’s name flash across the screen, you pick up. “hello?” your voice is groggy, tired. “hey,” semi says. “sorry, did i wake you?” “no,” you lie. “what’s up?” there’s a pause. hesitation. then, “it’s subong.” your stomach drops. “we’re worried about him.” she rushes the words out, like she’s been holding them in for too long. “he’s been acting weird lately—worse than usual.” you close your eyes, already knowing where this is going. already knowing what she’s about to say before she even says it. “he’s been taking those pills,” she continues. “the ones he used to mess with sometimes, but now he’s on them all the time. it’s like he’s not even—shit. he was out,” she says, frantic. “namgyu couldn’t wake him up at first, it was fucking bad, dude. and now he’s still high as hell, barely making sense, and he keeps—” she hesitates. you frown. “he keeps what?” “he keeps mumbling your name.” you feel like you’ve been punched in the chest. you press your fingers to your temple, trying to stop the pounding in your head. “fuck.” “he’s not okay,” she says. “he’s barely sleeping, barely eating. he looks like shit. well, he always does, but you know what i mean. and when he does talk, it’s like he’s—like he’s not there.”

you take a shaky breath. you shouldn’t care. you don’t care. he’s not your problem anymore. but your stomach still twists at the thought of him like that. “maybe you could talk to him?” semi says, hopeful. “when he feels better. i think he’d listen to you. gyeongsu is gonna take us to the hospital in a few minutes, maybe you could come too? we’ll pick you up. we’re at namgyu’s apartment, we had to take him—” “we’re not friends anymore, semi,” you cut off, swallowing down the lump in your throat. silence. “what?” she says. “what do you mean?” “he hasn’t told you?” “told us what?” “it doesn’t matter,” you say finally, letting out a heavy sigh. “i can’t help him.” “but—” “i can’t, semi.” the words come out sharper than you mean them to. she falls quiet. after a long moment, she sighs. “alright, okay,” she says, voice heavy with disappointment. “i just… i didn’t know.”

and even though you tell yourself it’s not your problem, even though you tell yourself you did the right thing—you don’t sleep that night. maybe you’re the most horrible person ever. for not helping him. that’s what you think to yourself as the days go by. you don’t go to see him. you don’t text semi back. you tell yourself that there’s nothing you could have done, that he made his choices, that you’re not responsible for saving him. but the guilt sticks to your ribs.

you keep moving forward. and then, somewhere along the way, you meet him. he’s nothing like subong. not really. but sometimes, in the way he leans back in his chair, in the way he runs his fingers through his hair, in the way he laughs when he’s had one too many drinks—he almost is. (he even likes rap!) and maybe that’s why you let him take you out. why you let him kiss you. why you let him press his hands against your skin and pretend it feels right. it doesn’t. but you let it happen anyway. because it’s easier. because when you close your eyes, you can almost pretend it’s subong. it’s fucked up. you know it’s fucked up. but you tell yourself it’s fine. that it doesn’t matter. that this is what moving on is supposed to look like. but it’s not fair. you know you shouldn’t be doing this. and when he asks what’s wrong, why you get quiet sometimes, why you look at him like you’re seeing someone else—you just smile. shake your head. press a kiss to his lips and hope he never realizes that you don’t mean it. hope he never realizes that no matter how hard you try—subong is still the only one you see.

he invites you to a show one night, says it’ll be fun. you don’t really know much about it—just that it’s some rap battle tournament called ‘rap battlegrounds’—but you’re bored, and it’s something to do. you don’t ask too many questions because, honestly, you don’t care that much. he picks you up, and you follow him through the neon-lit streets to a club you’ve never seen before, the bass already thumping from inside. he leads you through the crowd to a small corner of the club. it’s dark, gritty, with exposed brick walls and dim, flickering lights that barely cut through the haze of smoke hanging in the air. the floor is sticky. it’s the kind of place you usually avoid, but tonight, you let it slide.

you're barely paying attention, your eyes drifting over the crowd, the noise just background filler. the battles blur together, the hype not really doing anything for you. you're zoning out, tapping your foot to the rhythm of the beat, hoping this night will pass quickly—regretting all your life choices when he wraps his arm around your shoulders. when suddenly, a voice crackles through the mic, cutting through the noise. “yo, yo, yo, we got a real one up next! fresh off that new heat, straight killin’ the game—make some noise for ‘thanos’!” you freeze, snapping your head to the stage as the crowd cheers. “…and he’s goin’ up against the beast, the local legend, the one and only jace ‘the hammer!’”

there’s no way. you blink, trying to process it, but everything’s too dark, shadows everywhere, making you second-guess yourself. but then, you hear it—his voice. your stomach sinks. this is real. subong is here. for a second, you think you might pass out. he’s standing there, center stage, all cocky confidence, rapping like he owns the room. you wish you could ignore it, wish you could pretend he’s just another guy on stage, but he isn’t. and you can’t. and then it happens. his eyes sweep across the crowd, like he’s eating up the attention, and then they land on you. he freezes. just for a second—just long enough for his flow to falter, the words dying on his tongue. the beat keeps going, but he doesn’t, and the guy he’s battling jumps in, taking advantage of the opening. subong blinks, shakes his head, tries to recover—but it’s too late. he’s lost the rhythm, lost the momentum, and the battle ends with subong’s opponent eating up the win. the crowd erupts, but subong doesn’t hear any of it. he stands there for a second, chest rising and falling like he can’t believe it—like he can’t believe he actually lost. then, without another word, he shoves the mic into someone’s hand and disappears behind the stage.

someone else takes the spotlight almost immediately, the next rappers stepping up, music booming through the speakers again. you turn to the guy beside you, grabbing his wrist. “i wanna leave.” he frowns. “what? why?” you glance toward the side of the stage, your stomach twisting. subong won’t just leave it alone—you know him. “i’m just—i’m kinda tired.” the nervousness in your voice alarms him. “are you okay? what’s wrong?” “nothing. i just don’t wanna be here right now.” he studies you, and you can tell the exact moment he realizes how tense you are, how your shoulders are stiff, how you haven’t stopped glancing over your shoulder. his expression softens, just a little. “hey,” he says, voice quieter now. “it’s okay. i’ll take you home.” “yeah?” “of course.” you don’t move when he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. and it feels like… nothing. just lips on lips, a fleeting warmth that barely registers. your chest feels tight, like you need to shake something off, drown something out. so you kiss him back, harder this time, pressing in, searching for something. maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the way seeing subong on that stage messed with your head, knocked you off center. maybe you just want to prove to yourself that you can feel that rush with someone else. but you don’t. no matter how deep the kiss goes, no matter how much you try to lose yourself in it, there’s nothing there.

and just a second later, he’s ripped away from you—shoved back so hard he stumbles, nearly knocking into the bar behind him. and when you look up, you already know. subong stands there, shoulders tense, and his eyes locked on you. “what the fuck are you doing?!” “me?! what the fuck are you doing, subong?!” the guy composes himself and goes back next to you with a strained expression, one of his hands caressing his side. “what’s your problem, man?!” “who the fuck is this?” subong demands, his eyes never leaving yours. you exhale sharply. “just leave me alone.” disbelief flashes across his face like you’ve just insulted him. “nah, what the fuck is this?” he gestures vaguely between you and the guy. “this who you’re with now?” the guy straightens up. “is there a problem?” subong laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “yeah, there’s a fucking problem. who the fuck are you?” “just go, subong.” you cut in quickly. “no. i’m not fucking leaving.”

the guy beside you steps in, placing himself between you and subong. “you know this asshole?” he asks you. you sigh, “he’s… we used to be friends,” you reply. “yeah, and i’ve probably fucked her more times than you have, bro,” subong adds, a smirk on his face. “don’t listen to him,” you tell the guy before redirecting your attention to subong. “you’re being more than ridiculous right now. stop it. leave us alone.” he just stares, like he didn’t even hear you. like you didn’t just tell him to fuck off. “ridiculous?” he repeats, like the word itself it’s funny to him. “you wanna know what’s fucking ridiculous? you showing up here with—” he finally looks at the guy, eyes dragging over him like he’s barely worth acknowledging “—this.” “enough! i said… leave us alone.” “no, we need need to talk.” “she told you to leave, man.” the guy interrupts. wrong move. subong’s lips curl into something mean. “and who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” he sizes him up, scoffing. the guy doesn’t back down. he squares his shoulders, keeping himself between you and subong like he actually thinks that’ll stop him. subong steps closer, just enough to invade his space. you step forward, grabbing the guy’s arm. “seriously, let’s just go—”

subong’s hand shoots out, grabbing his collar. the guy shoves him back instantly, and that’s all it takes. subong’s always been quick to anger, and now he’s pissed. “relax,” the guy says, lifting his hands like he’s trying to de-escalate, but subong’s past that. “relax? you want me to relax when you’re out here kissing my girl?” the guy exhales through his nose. “you wanna fight me over her that bad?” he shakes his head. “man, you already lost once tonight.” subong’s expression shifts in an instant. his shoulders go tense, his nostrils flare, and his jaw locks so tight you swear you can hear his teeth grind. he snaps, swinging first. it’s fast, a punch aimed straight for the guy’s jaw, but he dodges, stepping back just in time. the guy doesn’t waste time. he drives forward, ramming his shoulder into subong’s chest, sending him stumbling back. for a second, you think it might end there—but of course, it doesn’t. subong recovers quick, too quick. he surges forward, grabbing the guy’s shirt and yanking him down just to throw a knee into his ribs. the guy grunts, shoving him off, and then they’re both swinging. fists connect, curses fly, and you can barely keep up. the guy tries to hold his own, landing a few hits, but subong barely flinches. he’s fueled by something else, and he’s not stopping. one punch lands hard against the guy’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. another follows, a brutal hit to his jaw that makes him stumble. then another. and another. the guy grunts, arms coming up to shield himself, but subong doesn’t let up. he grabs the front of his shirt, yanking him forward just to slam his fist into his face again.

blood splatters. and that’s when you snap out of it. “subong, stop!” he doesn’t hear you. “subong!” he pulls back for another hit, and you move before you even think. you grab him by his shirt, using all your strength to shove him back. he stumbles, losing his grip on the guy, his eyes wild when they snap to yours. “what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, chest heaving. subong’s nostrils flare, hands still clenched into fists like he’s seconds away from going back for more. the guy groans, wiping blood from his face. “you broke my fucking nose, man! you’re insane!” he yells. “shut the fuck up,” subong spits, but before he can go at him again, you shove him harder. “leave him alone!” his breathing is heavy, his eyes dark, burning into yours. for a second, you think he might listen, that the fight might finally be over. but then, in one swift movement, he grabs your wrist. “what are you—” you barely get the words out before he pulls you with him, dragging you through the crowd, past the stage. “let go of me!” you struggle against his grip, but he doesn’t stop. people turn to look, but no one moves to intervene. they just watch. before you know it, you’re backstage, away from the lights, away from the eyes—trapped in a space that feels too small.

subong finally stops, shoving you back against the wall. you barely have a second to catch your breath before you’re shoving him off. “what the fuck is wrong with you?! what the fuck was all of that about?! huh?!” you slam your hands against his chest, but he barely moves. his jaw clenches, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. “what the fuck is wrong with me?! you’re really asking me that?! when you’re the one out there acting like a desperate fucking slut?!” your head jerks back, a bitter laugh ripping from your throat. “are you fucking serious right now?! you just beat the shit out of him, and you’re mad at me?! for what?! for moving the fuck on?!” “yeah, i fucking am!” he snaps. before you can react, he steps in, closing the space between you in an instant. his hands come up, slamming against the wall on either side of your head. your whole body tenses. he’s seething, breath ragged and reeking of cheap liquor and god knows what else. “why?!” “because you’re mine!” “yours?! fuck off!” you shove at him again, hard. “and take a goddamn shower while you’re at it. you smell like a fucking alleyway.”

his nostrils flare. “yeah? well, you smell like a cheap whore.” rage flares hot in your chest. “right, because you’d fucking know, wouldn’t you?” you sneer. his head tilts, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “at least i don’t pretend to have fucking standards. what’s his name, huh?” your stomach turns, but you don’t let it show. instead, you smile. “why? you jealous? go cry about it, asshole.” he leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “you know he’s just using you, right? you’re nothing but a warm hole to him.” your hand flies up before you can think better of it, shoving his face away. “yeah. like that wasn’t exactly what i was to you too, motherfucker.” he stumbles back a step, running a hand over his jaw. “we never talked about what the fuck we wanted, or what we expected from each other. so don’t—don’t—” “that’s what you tell yourself? that you didn’t lead me on? that you didn’t fuck with my head for months?!” you cut him off. “you’re a fucking coward, subong. too fucking scared to admit you wanted me, but the second i move on, suddenly you give a shit?” “move on? to who? that fucking loser? you think he actually gives a shit about you?” “and you do?” “you can’t just act like we never fucking happened!” “we didn’t happen, that’s the thing!” you shoot back. “you didn’t want to be with me like that,” your voice wavers, but you force yourself to hold your ground. “so you don’t get to fucking act like this. you don’t get to be jealous, you don’t get to start fights over me, and you sure as hell don’t get to drag me back here like you own me.”

his throat bobs as he swallows. he looks away for a second, like if he doesn’t meet your eyes, this won’t sting as much. like he can pretend this isn’t hitting him the way it is. his fingers twitch at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to hold onto something—maybe the last shred of whatever this used to be. his breath comes sharp through his nose, the kind that’s meant to steady him but doesn’t do a damn thing. “i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, voice rough around the edges. “i don’t—i don’t own you.” but there’s something bitter in the way he says it, like he hates that it’s true. like he hates that he ever let it get to this point. you’re not his anymore. you never were, really. “then stop acting like it! don’t try to ruin everything just because you can’t handle the fact that i moved the fuck on!” for a second, he doesn’t say anything. his eyes flick over your face, tongue running over his teeth like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something worse. but then— “if you had, you wouldn’t have let that motherfucker shove his tongue down your throat right in front of me.” you scoff. “you think i did that on purpose?” he steps in, too close, and you instinctively take a step back. “fuck yeah, you did. you wanted me to see it. you wanted to fucking piss me off.” “you piss yourself off, subong! newsflash! not everything is about you! get over yourself.” “get over myself? you made me look like a fucking idiot out there!” “what the fuck are you talking about?” his eyes flash. “you made me lose the fucking battle, man!” you blink, caught off guard for half a second, then roll your eyes. “first of all, i’m not a man. second of all, don’t blame that shit on me.” “right. it’s never your fucking fault, huh?” he shakes his head. “you just get to do whatever the fuck you want and act like it doesn’t affect me.” you throw your hands up. “if you weren’t such a fucking asshole, maybe this wouldn’t have happened!” “yeah?!” “yeah!”

and then there’s silence. thick, heavy silence. his breathing is still ragged, his hands still curled into fists at his sides. your heart is pounding, your own fists clenched just as tight. then subong scoffs, shaking his head. “you’re so fucking full of shit.” “excuse me?” “you wanna talk about me being an asshole when you’ve been ignoring me for months? like i didn’t fucking exist.” the pain in his voice is evident and it catches you off guard. “i wasn’t—i didn’t ignore you. i was trying to heal. you’re seriously throwing that in my face right now?” “yeah, i am. don’t act like you’re the only one who got hurt.” “don’t do that.” “do what? tell the truth? you fucking blocked me, girl!” “no! don’t—don’t twist shit around just to make yourself feel better,” you snap. “you know exactly why i did it. don’t act like you’re the fucking victim.” “who is it then? you?” he scoffs. “oh, eat shit, subong! you never fucking came to see me!” you throw your arms out, exasperated. “not once! you could’ve fixed this, but you didn’t.” his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look away. “you think i didn’t want to?” “i don’t know what the fuck you wanted!” your voice cracks, but you don’t care. “i called! and texted you every single fucking day!” “and you think that’s enough?! after everything?!” "i almost fucking overdosed!" he yells. "i was at my fucking lowest, and you—" he lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "you weren't there." you shake your head, anger bubbling in your chest. "don't put that on me, subong. you did that to yourself," you snap, voice sharp. "don't fucking guilt trip me with that." "are you serious?" “what do you want me to say? did you expect me to just forget everything and come back to you like nothing happened? you promised me—how many times?—that you weren’t gonna do that shit anymore, and here we are! and not only are you trying to make me feel like a fucking piece of shit for it, but you’re also acting like this—all of this—is my fault? when you were the one who decided i wasn’t good enough to be anything more than a fuck buddy?”

his expression falters—just a flash of something almost guilty—but then he scoffs, masking it with anger. “you’re really trying to act like you didn’t fucking replace me the second i was gone?” “replace you?” you repeat, incredulous. “you can’t be serious right now. i wasn’t the one fucking other people when we were…. whatever we were!” he freezes, his face draining of color for a split second. “don’t bring that shit up.” “oh, I’ll bring it up, alright. because you can’t say that shit to me when you were too busy screwing around while i was waiting for you to call me your fucking girlfriend.” he opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a group of people walk past, glancing over at the scene. a couple of them whisper, eyes flicking nervously from you to subong. his face hardens, irritation flashing across his features, and without warning, he grabs your wrist. “what the fuck are you looking at?” he snaps at them. the group quickly averts their gazes, pretending they weren’t just watching him. he yanks you away and you struggle for a moment, trying to free yourself from his grip, but he doesn’t let go. you’re too caught up in the heat of the moment to really think about where he’s taking you. before you know it, you’re being shoved through a door into a dimly lit room backstage, the door slamming shut behind him with a force that echoes in the silence. the room is small, cluttered with his belongings—bags, jackets, and scattered items. a mirror with round vanity lights casts a dull glow over the space, reflecting the mess on the counter: a half-empty water bottle, energy drink cans, his vape, a lighter, a bunch of candy wrappers and a few crumpled papers.

“you need to stop doing that!” you snap. “dragging me around like i’m—i don’t know—like i’m some puppet!” he ignores your words. “listen,” he says, “i tried to make it right, okay? i did.” “calling me? texting me?” you scoff, disbelief laced in your voice. “that’s what you think making it right looks like? all you ever did was send bullshit messages—half insults, half nothing at all.” you shake your head. “if you actually meant it, you would’ve come to me. you know where i live, where i work—you had every chance to show up, to prove that you actually gave a damn. but you didn’t.” his voice shakes now. “i thought… i thought you didn’t fucking need me anymore! i thought you’d be better off without me!” “better off without you?! that’s the dumbest excuse i’ve ever heard!” before you can stop yourself, you shove him, hard enough that he stumbles back a step. “you were my fucking best friend, you idiot!” your voice cracks as a tear rolls down your cheek, and you have to look away. “and i…” the words tangle in your throat. you swallow hard, forcing them out. “i fucking loved you.”

the words hit him like a fist to the gut. he swallows, his throat suddenly dry. because he knows. he knows exactly how that feels. he’s loved you too—probably longer than he even realized. but he’s never said it. not properly. not in a way that mattered anyway. and now? now it sounds like it’s too fucking late. “loved,” he repeats. “past tense?” you don’t answer. “you don’t—you don’t love me anymore?” the words slip out before he can stop them, and he hates how pathetic they sound, how fucking vulnerable they make him. “subong i—i’m sorry, i can’t… i can’t do this,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “answer me,” he presses, stepping closer, his pulse thundering in his ears. “please.” “i’m not talking about this,” you say firmly, reaching for the door. but he moves faster, pressing his hand against it, keeping you trapped in the small room with him. you squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply. “i don’t want to see you again, subong.” “i do.” “well, i don’t.” “why not?” “because it fucking hurts!” the words barely leave your lips before the weight of everything crashes down on you all at once. “it… it hurts.” your throat burns, and suddenly, you can’t hold it back anymore. a choked sob rips through you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re crying.

subong’s eyes widen for half a second, like he doesn’t know what to do with the sight of you breaking down in front of him. but then, without hesitation, he reaches for you. “i know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. “i know, baby.” the warmth of him, the familiarity, the way he holds you…it all feels too fucking good. too safe. too much like home. you sob into his shirt, fists clutching at the fabric, body shaking as months’ worth of pain and anger pour out of you. he holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting firm against your waist. “i’m sorry,” he breathes.

you suck in a sharp breath, realization slamming into you. and just like that, the warmth turns suffocating. “no,” you whisper, pushing against his chest. he stiffens. “what—” “get off me.” he hesitates, grip loosening slightly, but you shove harder, forcing space between you. “fuck, subong, what the hell am i doing?” he looks at you, confused, almost dazed, like he doesn’t understand why you’re suddenly pulling away. “baby—” “don’t call me that,” you cut him off. “i can’t—i can’t do this with you.” his jaw tightens. “you don’t mean that. you know you don’t.” “i do! because you fucking broke me!” you yell, hands trembling. “and i hate that you still make me feel like this!” you pause, trying to catch your breath, wiping at your face furiously. you hate the way the tears cling to your skin. you hate even more that he’s standing there, watching you cry. you force yourself to steady your voice. “i’m leaving.” “no, you’re not.” he’s there—blocking the door. you let out a frustrated breath, shoving at him again, but he doesn’t move an inch. “subong, move.” nothing. he doesn’t even blink. “is he your boyfriend?” the question throws you off balance. your brows furrow, and for a moment, the anger is eclipsed by confusion. “what?” “that guy. is he your boyfriend?” you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you glare at him. “jesus christ, subong, really?” “is he?” “it’s none of your business,” the words are clipped, laced with venom. his eyes darken. “none of my—?” he drags a hand through his hair, like he’s barely keeping himself together. for a second, it looks like he might actually lose it. “seriously? you can’t even say no?” “why does it matter?!” you snap. “it fucking matters to me!” your heart pounds. you don’t know why it’s so hard to answer, why the words feel like they’re lodged in your throat. his patience wears thin. “fucking hell, just—” “no!” you cut him off. “he’s not my boyfriend, okay?!” you shake your head. “did you fuck him?” “are you serious right now?” “answer the fucking question,” he demands, stepping closer. you scoff, shaking your head. “you’re actually insane.” “fucking answer!” “yes!” the word rips out of you before you can stop it. “yeah, i did. happy now?”

for a moment, he doesn’t react. he just stares at you, like the air has been knocked from his lungs. his jaw clenches, his nostrils flare. but nothing can stop the thought from sinking its claws into him—someone else touching you, having you, getting what he let slip through his fingers. it makes him sick. and it’s his own damn fault. he knows he has no right to be angry. no right to feel this way. but the jealousy curdles in his stomach, and before he can stop himself, the words tear from his mouth like a whip. “you’re a fucking whore.” the second he says it, he hates himself for it. but he doesn’t take it back. your fury is instant, white-hot.“fuck you! don’t call me that!” “i’ll call you whatever the fuck i want!” he snaps. he needs to hurt you, to make you feel even a fraction of what he’s feeling. “you really don’t see how fucking pathetic that is? spreading your legs for some guy who doesn’t even matter?” the words taste like acid in his mouth, but he spits them out anyway. he doesn’t know how else to deal with the anger, the self-hatred he feels. it’s easier to take it out on you than to admit the truth—that he ruined everything, that he’s the reason you were with someone else.

your vision goes red. before you can think, before you can stop yourself, your hand swings up and smacks across his face. his head jerks to the side from the impact, and for a moment, everything is dead silent except for the sharp sound of your ragged breathing. then, slowly, he turns back to you, his jaw tightening, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek like he’s tasting the sting of your palm. “did you just hit me?” his voice is low. oh, he’s angry. “yeah, i fucking did,” you say, your hands trembling. “because you’re a fucking piece of shit!” “you’ve got some fucking nerve!” he seethes, shoving your forehead with two of his fingers, forcing your head back slightly. you slap his hand away, your own anger doubling at the touch. “do that again, and i’ll break your fucking fingers, motherfucker,” you warn. “you just slapped me!” “and you called me a whore twice, subong! i wonder how the fuck i was ever friends with you! you’re a hypocrite!” he steps closer, jabbing a finger in your face. “don’t fucking talk to me like that!” “and i told you many times not to fucking point your finger at me!” you yell, shoving his hand away harder this time. so hard his arm jerks back. “who the fuck do you think you are?! you can’t fucking judge me when you’re the one who—”

his patience snaps. he grabs a nearby chair and hurls it at the wall. it hits with a loud crack, rattling from the impact before toppling over. you flinch, but you don't back down. “real fucking mature.” “you don’t fucking get it.” “why do you even care, huh? you have plenty of other girls to fuck, don’t you?” you spit. “so why the fuck does it matter who i’m with? why is it a problem when you do the exact same shit?” he doesn’t say anything. fine. you’re done here. you reach for the door again, shoving past him. “i’m leaving—” “i lied.” his voice stops you cold. slowly, you turn back, brows furrowing. “what?” he swallows hard. “i lied about it. there was never another girl.” you stare at him in disbelief. “i just—i said that shit to piss you off. to make you hate me. but i never—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “i never touched anyone else when i was with you.”

your mind spins, struggling to piece together what he’s saying. he’s lying again. he has to be. “you expect me to believe that?” your voice is defensive. “i don’t give a fuck if you believe me,” he snaps back. “it’s the truth.” your throat tightens. there’s something in his eyes, something desperate, something you’re not used to seeing. “why?” he hesitates. his lips part, then press into a thin line. “because i—” he exhales sharply, looking away for a moment before forcing himself to look at you again. “because i love you. i’ve—” “don’t fucking lie to me, subong.” frustration flashes across his face. “i’m not lying, okay?! i’ve—” “sure as hell you aren’t.” “jesus—can i fucking talk?!” you huff, arms crossing tightly over your chest. your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. but you don’t interrupt again. you let him speak. “i’ve loved you for so fucking long, and it scared the shit out of me. you were my best friend and i didn’t—i didn’t know how to do it. how to be with you without fucking it all up.” you shake your head, gripping your arms tighter. “you can’t just say this shit and think it fixes everything,” you whisper, voice trembling. “you loved me, and you never told me. you preferred this… this shit between us rather than just… being fucking honest. you—” your breath shudders and you stop to breathe for a moment. “you’re confusing me, subong.”

he sighs. you can see it in his eyes—the regret, the pain, the anger at himself. then, he steps closer. his hands find your face, fingers gentle as they cup your cheeks. his thumbs move carefully, wiping away the tears you hadn’t even realized were still falling. his touch is soft—so fucking soft it almost breaks you. you squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing against the lump in your throat. you shouldn’t let him do this. shouldn’t let him hold you like this, shouldn’t let yourself sink into the warmth of his hands. but you do. because it’s him. “i’m sorry, baby” he murmurs, his breath warm against your face. “fuck, i’m so sorry.” his voice is lower now, and when you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you—his brows furrowed. “i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continues, his hands steady on your face. “i swear to god, i didn’t.” “but you did.” “i know,” he whispers. “i was a fucking idiot.” his thumbs still trace slow paths along your skin, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of you. you try to look away, but he won’t let you. his grip isn’t forceful, but it’s firm—just enough to keep you there. “i can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, his brows furrowing deeper, like it physically hurts him to admit it. “no matter what i do—it’s always you.” “don’t—” “it’s the truth,” he cuts in, his hands sliding down to your jaw, his fingers just barely brushing your neck. “i wake up thinking about you. i fall asleep thinking about you. every fucking song i write is about you. every stupid little thing reminds me of you.” you shake your head, blinking back tears. “stop it.” “i can’t,” he breathes. “i don’t know how.”

he leans in slightly, his lips barely an inch from yours. “tell me you don’t feel the same, and i’ll go.” your heart pounds so hard it hurts. he’s so close… and the way he’s looking at you, like he’s daring you to push him away, makes something snap inside you. before he can say another word, you grab his shirt and yank him down, crashing your lips against his. subong freezes for half a second, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he groans into your mouth, his hands gripping at your waist as he kisses you back just as hard. he barely gives you a second to breathe before he’s backing you up, walking you straight into the wall. the impact makes a sharp gasp escape you, but he swallows it down, one hand threading into your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth moves against yours.

then it happens—your breath catches, and before you can stop it, a tear slips down your cheek. he stops. his lips hover just over yours, his chest rising and falling against you, and he pulls back just enough to look at you. “are you okay?” you don’t answer. instead, you pull him back in, your fingers curling around the back of his neck. you kiss him harder, and he lets you—lets you take what you need, lets you pour everything you can’t say into this. his fingers tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to pull your head back before pressing his forehead to yours. “tell me what’s wrong,” he murmurs, breath hot against your lips. in a broken whisper, you finally say it. “i need you.” he’s been waiting to hear that. for months, it’s been the only thing on his mind—you. every time he got high, every time he tried to flirt with someone else, every time he told himself it didn’t matter, that you didn’t matter. but it was all a lie. because you did. you always did. and now you’re here, in his arms, needing him. and he’s so fucking mad at himself for wasting all this time, for pushing you away, for pretending he didn’t want this when you’ve been the only thing he’s wanted.

that’s all it takes. he’s on you in an instant, his hands gripping your waist as his mouth crashes against yours. he walks with you, never breaking the kiss, his fingers pressing into your sides, guiding you until your legs bump against the edge of a small table. before you can steady yourself, his hands move to your hips, helping you up until you’re perched on top of it. his lips leave yours, dragging along your jaw and your neck. one hand slides up, fingers curving over your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. the touch alone makes a soft moan slip past your lips. he swallows the sound with another kiss, deep and greedy, before tugging your shirt up, his palms skimming your skin as he pulls it over your head. his other hand moves with purpose, working the clasp of your bra. the second it falls away, his mouth is on you. you gasp when his tongue flicks over your nipple, your head falling back as pleasure shoots through you. “gonna make you feel good, baby,” he promises, his breath hot on your skin as he switches to your other breast, his teeth grazing your nipple just enough to make you squirm. his free hand slides down your stomach, unbuttoning your pants with practiced ease before slipping between your thighs. you spread them instinctively, your breath hitching when his fingers brush against the damp fabric of your panties. “you’re so wet for me already,” he says, pulling back to look at you, his eyes dark with hunger.

subong takes his time peeling your pants off, pressing soft kisses to your thighs, your knees, your ankles. once they’re gone, he hooks his fingers into your panties, dragging them down at the same agonizing pace, his lips following their path. he tosses them aside without a second thought. then he’s on his knees, hands spreading your thighs wider as the cool air hits your skin, making you shiver. “let me show you how sorry i am, yeah?” you nod slowly in response. subong leans in, his breath hot against you, and you bite your lip, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach. and then his tongue is on you, licking a long stripe up your center, parting your delicate folds, exploring your wetness. you gasp when it finds your clit, your hands flying to his purple hair as his tongue swirls around it in slow circles. “f-fuck, yeah, right there,” you whimper, and he hums against you in approval.

he focuses all his attention on it, flicking his tongue over the sensitive nub before sucking it gently into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing out as he applies gentle pressure. you feel one of his fingers slide inside you, then two, curling them upwards and hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back. his tongue never leaves your clit, licking and sucking in perfect rhythm with his fingers, and you can feel that familiar pressure building in your lower stomach. your hand travels to the side of his face, your thumb caressing his cheek as he works you. moans grow louder, your hips bucking involuntarily against his face. “subong—” you try to speak, but the words die in your throat—the pleasure too strong. he smirks, feeling you tightening around his fingers. “that’s it, baby” his voice is muffled against you. “cum for me.” and you do, your back arching, knuckles white from gripping the side of the table, a cry tearing from your throat as you fall apart. his mouth never stops, drawing every last wave of pleasure from you until you’re boneless, panting.

you try to catch your breath as he stands, pulling you into him, his mouth claiming yours again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. your fingers tremble slightly as they find the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric. he shudders under your touch, muscles tensing before he exhales, letting you lift the shirt over his head. it falls somewhere behind him as your hands roam his chest. this isn’t like before. like the other times you’ve had sex. there’s something different in the way his fingers brush your skin, in the way he watches you like he’s afraid to blink, afraid to miss a second of this. you reach for his waistband, tugging at it, and he lets you, his breathing uneven as he watches your hands work him free. his pants and boxers slip to the floor, and he steps out of them, never once breaking contact.

“do you… do you have a condom?” you ask quietly. he stills, his hands resting on your hips as he looks at you. his brows pull together slightly. “no,” he admits, then asks, “do you?” you shake your head. “no.” “shit,” he exhales, his forehead falling to your shoulder. you can tell he’s frustrated—not at you, but at the situation. “it’s… it’s okay. we don’t need one,” you add softly. his head snaps back up. “you sure?” he asks, and you nod. “i want to feel you.” your words are the confirmation he needs. he grabs your thighs before pulling you closer to the edge of the table, spreading them apart to find room between them. his raw tip presses against your clit and you take a deep breath when he starts grinding against you, his stiff dick sliding across your wet slit. you both moan at the feeling, but nothing compares to the gasp that escapes both of your lips the moment he slides inside of you.

he’s slow at first, letting you adjust to the feeling, his hands holding you in place as he sinks in deeper, stretching you around him. you try to steady yourself, holding onto the side of the table with one of your hands again. his breath is uneven, and each slow, measured thrust makes you ache for more. but then his pace shifts. his grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin as he pulls back and thrusts in harder and faster. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the space between you, mixed with your breathless moans and his ragged groans. when you meet his gaze, his brows are furrowed, his lips parted. you can see it all written on his face: how much he’s wanted this, how long he’s been waiting, how badly he’s yearned for you. he looks like he’s barely holding himself together, like he’s afraid he won’t last because you feel too fucking good. “fuck,” he grits out, voice strained, his fingers flexing against your hips. “i missed you s-so fucking much…” his words cut off in a groan, his head dropping forward, forehead pressing to yours as he fucks you like he’s trying to make up for all the lost time. “i missed this… mmm… missed this pretty pussy of y-yours.” he drives into you harder, like he’s trying to claim you, like he’s trying to erase every trace of anyone else who’s ever touched you—muttering curses under his breath like he’s punishing himself as much as he’s fucking you. your nails scrape down his back, leaving red streaks in their wake, and he groans at the sting, at the way you cling to him. “fuck, baby—” he gasps, voice rough. “was he better than me? tell me,” he demands, his thrusts turning brutal, each one punctuating his words. “did he—did he fuck you like this? mmh? shit… did he make you cum like i-i do?” there’s anger in his voice. not at you—at himself. for waiting too long, for not telling you the truth when he had the chance, for letting someone else have you. you shake your head in response. his hand grips your chin, forcing you to look at him. “answer me.” “n-no!” you whimper “he… he didn’t, baby. only you—mmph!—only you make me f-feel this good.”

his grip on your chin tightens for a second before he releases you, his hand sliding down to wrap around your throat instead. not squeezing, just holding—just feeling you. his pace doesn’t slow, if anything, it gets rougher, like your answer wasn’t enough to satisfy the anger. “that’s right,” he grits out, sweat slicking his skin. “he could never…he could never fuck you like this.” his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he slams into you, making you cry out. you hold onto him, and he loves it—loves feeling you claim him the way he’s claiming you now. and fuck, he needs this, needs to remind himself that you’re here, wrapped around him—that you’re his. “look,” he mutters, commanding. “look how fucking g-good you’re taking me.” your breath hitches as your eyes drop, and fuck—seeing it is different. watching the way his dick disappears inside you, the way your body clenches around him, the way he’s completely buried in you, over and over again… “see that?” he pants. “you were made for me. this was fucking made for me.” his hand moves again, sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, precise circles. “shit—subong!” you let out a broken moan. “y-yeah… fuck, yeah, just like that!” a whimper slips from your lips when subong fists your hair, tugging your head back up until your eyes meet his again. “say it,” he practically pleads. “say that you're mine.” “i-i'm yours!" you gasp, your voice shaking, your whole body trembling from the intensity of him. “i'm fucking yours…mmm… always been.” “i’m yours too, baby.”

his thrusts grow frantic and his breath comes in harsh, uneven bursts. all he can hear is the sound of his name falling from your lips in desperate, breathless moans. he swears he’s never heard something as beautiful. you can tell he is close, holding you in place as he leans over you, his forehead pressing against yours. your body tenses, your gummy walls clenching around him, his fingers still pressed on your clit as he pounds into you, making it impossible for you to hold back. your body tenses, and your free hand clings to the back of his neck with desperation as you kiss him, trying to muffle your whimpering. “gonna cum for me, b-baby?” he whispers, pulling away for a moment. “gonna—mmh! gonna cum on my cock?” you can’t even nod. his words are like a spark, and you can’t hold it back anymore. your body snaps, the pleasure flooding you. “subong!” you cry out, legs shaking. he watches you, his name on your lips, and the sight of you completely undone drives him to the edge. with a final, deep thrust, he follows you, quickly pulling out, his release spilling into your lower stomach. his face contorts, a strangled gasp escaping him as he rides out his own climax. he stays there for a moment, his body pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily, sweat-slicked skin sticking together. “i love you,” you whisper, hands running through his messy hair. “i love you too, señorita,” he smirks, his hand cupping your cheek before leaning in to give you a small peck on the lips. “i missed you.”

subong is a good boyfriend. or at least he tries to be. he still messes up sometimes, still says things without thinking, still gets into fights he shouldn’t, but he’s trying. you see it in the way he waits for you after work, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to play it cool, but you know he’s been standing there for a while. in the way he walks on the outside of the sidewalk, even though you never asked him to. you see it in the way he always grabs an extra drink when he stops by the convenience store, handing it to you without a word, like he just knew you’d want one. in the way he texts you did you eat? before he even says hello. in the way he always grumbles about carrying your bag when it looks too heavy, but takes it anyway. in the way he lets you steal his hoodies, rolling his eyes when you show up wearing one but never actually asking for it back. you see it in the way he lets you mess with his hair, even when he pretends to hate it. in the way he looks at you, like he still can’t believe you’re his. in the way he says your name, soft around the edges. in the way he tells you he loves you—not just with words, but in a hundred different ways, every single day.

there’s no confusion anymore. no second-guessing, no wondering where you stand with each other. he wants you, and he’s not afraid to say it. he tells you all the time, in every way he knows how. sometimes it’s casual, like when he looks at you in the middle of a conversation, something soft in his eyes, and says, “you know i love you, right?” like he just needs you to know. and then there are times when he’s shameless about it. like the time he made it his entire mission to embarrass you in front of both of your friends, throwing an arm around your shoulders and grinning as he declared, “isn’t my girlfriend the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen? no offense to you, semi.” there’s a beat of silence before half of them go “what?!” while the others just exchange knowing looks. “wait—dude, since when?!” namgyu asks. “oh, come on,” semi scoffs, rolling her eyes. “like we didn’t all see this coming.” subong just smirks, pulling you a little closer, dropping a kiss to your cheek. he’s here, and he’s yours, and he makes sure you know it.

you’re still best friends. you still laugh until your stomach hurts, still steal food off each other’s plates, still shove at each other like you’re kids. except now he kisses you after. or before. or sometimes instead of shoving you back. he’s still stubborn, still gets on your nerves more than anyone else. he’s not perfect, but he never pretends to be. and maybe that’s what makes it feel so easy. there’s nothing to prove, nothing to question. just the two of you, exactly as you are, exactly as you’ve always been. just you and him.

if you’ve read this far, i love you, let’s get married pookie ong

THIS WAS SURPIRSINGLY SO ACCURATE I mean in my opinion atleast 😭

Thanos/Choi Subong NSFW Headcanons

Warnings: NSFW (18+), smutty, substance use, manipulation (this takes place pre-games btw!)

I imagine you two to have a friends with benefits situation. Subong doesn’t like commitment and the sexual tension between you guys is too intense to ignore.

His motto is “tits or ass? why not both?”

Would love to get you to smoke weed with him, especially the lazy messy makeout sessions that ensue during it

Has tons of experience. Don’t worry, that translates to veryyy good things for you in the bedroom, he’s so goddamn good at eating pussy.

Loves your legs over his shoulders, pressing your legs to your chest, mating press, anything that evolves him feeling up your soft legs/thighs and bending your body in half.

Doesn’t take off his cross while he fucks you. It dangles between you two as he’s above you, resting coldly on your boobs when he leans down to connect your mouths in a sloppy kiss.

Can be mean in the bedroom, but mostly very cocky and just loves to see you embarrassed and flustered. Loves the huge ego boost he gets when you cover your face in embarrassment or you can’t help the cute pathetic noises leaving your lips. You’re so cute! He’s not below making fun of you until you pout with your plump bottom lip out, and he loves to tease.

Loves when you whine his name out, “Subong…” and give him your pleading puppy eyes. He’ll grin widely and pinch your cheek, sometimes giving you what you want. Most of the time makes you beg for it while you try to hide your blushing face.

“Beg Thanos if you want it so bad.”

Will refer to himself in the third person cuz he’s silly and cocky like that

I imagine him living the high life in a mansion before he lost all his money to crypto. It’s big, modern, lots of marble and granite. Throws tons of parties where everyone gets shit-faced. Loves loves loves you being there so he can sling his arm around you the entire party. If you’re a party girl you’ll be living the dream everyday of your life. If not, well, you better get used to it, the drug scene and all.

That being said about his house, his room is a stark contrast to the rest of his place. Dim lights, neon signs along the walls spelling out his name in Korean and english, dark red walls and black accents. Various music equipment lying around, a futon (his favorite place to get blowjobs from you), a few weights, and his king-size black bed which is never made. Smoke almost always clouds the room creating a dream-like atmosphere. It always smells like weed or sweat in there and his floor is covered in clothes (some of them being yours that you forgot about).

LOVES LOVES LOVES IT when you wear one of his shirts and just panties. It’s so oversized on you and hangs off one shoulder. He thinks you look so sexy like that. Your favorite shirt to borrow is his neon green one, it smells so good, so Subong.

Pretty fit but not overly muscular. He’s got great pecs and loves to walk around shirtless ‘cause he knows you’re so weak for it (and just because).

So often you’ll show up at his place and he’ll be lazily walking around without a shirt on and a baggy pair of shorts slung low on his hips, far enough to see the brand of boxers he’s wearing. His cross laying on his bare chest between his pecs. Makes your legs wobbly.

He’s constantly got scratch and claw marks down his back from you. And lovesss to show it off.

Loves to pay for you to get your nails done (so you can scratch him with em), honestly loves to pay for your everything and I can see him using money recklessly to show off. Will never let you buy anything when you’re with him.

Will be trying to get you to use. If you don’t already, he’ll see it as a conquest to corrupt you. He knows it’s bad and doesn’t really care, he’d love to bring you down to his level if it meant you two could feel good together. Will definitely be manipulating you into taking a pill from his cross.

“C’mon baby, it’ll make y’feel so good. Ya trust me right?”

Gives you substances through sexual methods only. Popping a pill in his mouth and kissing you, pushing it through your lips with his tongue. Putting a pill on his tongue and sticking it out for you to lick off. Blowing smoke & vapor into your mouth.

Has a thing for your mouth and lips. The view of your lips stretched around the base of his cock is his favorite thing in the world. When you leave lipstick stains on his pelvis he doesn’t want to wash it off afterwards.

This man has a tattooed and pierced dick — he has no shame and a high pain tolerance. He has a dark solid line running down his shaft (like the one on his neck), a ladder piercing and a stud at the tip (like a Prince Albert piercing). You couldn’t lie, it intimidated you when you first saw it, your eyes going really wide when it sprung out of his boxers. He laughed above you at your reaction, a lopsided smirk forming on his face. How was that gonna feel inside of you…? “M’gonna make you feel so good baby.” Turns out he was right, it felt fucking fantastic.

Nicknames he has for you include baby, babe, senorita, flower, mamacita when he’s feeling playful. In bed it’s my slut, whore, Thanos’s whore, plaything. “My bitch” when he’s drunk or on strong substances.

Wants you to get a tattoo of his name so fucking bad. Has brought up the idea in passing a few times, seeming not super interested. But in reality he’d find it so fucking hot, especially if it was on a hidden part of your body like your ass cheek, the word “Thanos’ bitch” surrounded by a heart inked into your plush flesh.

Would spank the shit out of that tattoo on you.

Loves to spank you in general, needs to see that ass jiggle when it’s bouncing against his bare hips.

100% records you during sex and loves taking photos of you (whether you realize it or not during the moment). Has an entire photo album dedicated to it <3

I need to see more of him before the games, that 2 second clip was not enough smh.

You shouldn't even be surprised if you see all Tabi on my blog today.

the most handsome cinnamon roll has returned

We've missed you.

OH MY GOD!!!

Amazing.

The media has been talking shit about TOP for years and their asses waited in the heat for hours to get a statement and he went out the back to secretly meet with just his fans. I mean, THEY REALLY THOUGHT HE’D TALK TO THEM 😂😂

I love VIPs.

Love love love the fact that it’s just him and the VIPs. The people who stuck by him, prayed for him, and saw some of his ups and downs these last couple years - those are the only people who deserve to be greeted by him. Not the nosey, rude, ruthless press who made money and articles off of his and his brother’s lives.

I hope the VIPs there respect his wishes and keep things quiet and private as he wishes