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Code Red!

Kim Doyoung X Black.FemReader ♡

Warnings ⚠️: Mentions of Blood, Period Care, mention of Ex's, embarrassment, potential spelling errors, Fluff ♡

Wordcount: 1,200

It was a Saturday Afternoon, and your classes ended early for you. Your stomach was on fucking fire and you; yourself struggling with symptoms.

You wanted to call your boyfriend but... from past experiences they didn't like that, they thought it was dirty, you were looked at like you hadn't taken care of yourself in ages.

Yes, you managed to walk your ass back to your house, 'upset stomach' banging against your insides. It wasn't a far walk but you were tired indeed..Once you made it home your natural instinct was to rip off your pants and shirt then hit the hay.

And that is exactly what you did. In an instant you were sound asleep. An hour or so later your phone rings, you ignore it.. then rings again, you decline..at least 2 more times then knocking at your door.

You grimace in annoyance, why is everything getting on your nerves today? You opened the door and Doyoung was there. You signed glad he was here, someone who can easily ease your annoyance.

The pain was back so you motioned for him to come in and you quickly went to take a seat,"Hey, why didn't you answer my calls?" He asked worried.."I was napping, im sorry.." He closes the door then walks over to you squatting down in front of you.

"It's okay, I understand..ah-" he reached out to brush your hair from your face, in the process he felt your forehead.

"Y/n– You're burning up.."

"Yeah..its hot in here, ain't it?"

"No, Y/n YOU are burning up." You looked up at him, and he felt your cheek with the palm of his hand. Next thing you know you're being lifted up and carried to you room,"Doyoung..Im fine, I swear-" he moved the covers so that he could set you down then tuck you in.

However, he stopped in his tracks,"Oh Pumpkin." Your breathing staggered,"huh..w-what."

"Here sit right here." He sat you at a wooden stool next to your desk. Doyoung rushed out of your room- and you were still puzzled. Then you saw it, there was blood on you sheets..but when?

You weren't bleeding when you used the bathroom before, so why now. Embarrassment has never hurt so bad. You just know your eyes watered and everything was so blurry.

You darted into the bathroom, humiliated, ashamed. Now your boyfriend left, he's not coming back. Is what you thought. There was a quiet knock on the door and a soft voice behind it.

"Sweat Pea, are you in here?" He knew you were in there, he heard you sniffling,"What do you want?" You heard the doorknob twist but it didn't open due to you locking it beforehand.

"Let me in, Please. I want to make sure you're alright Y/n." To check on me? You thought..thats new. "No, please go, I'll change my sheets and you can excuse yourself." He leaning against the door at this point, lulling you from the other end.

"Sweet Pea, I already changed your sheets."

"Really?" You creep towards the door unlocking it, causeing Doyoung to srumble forward, falling into the bathroom.

"..You weren't lieing–". He walked up to you rubbing the arm he fell on,"Of course not..why would I lie."

"Oh no! Im sorry Doyoung!"

"Its okay, Sweet pea." He smiled sweetly at you, before taking your hand and spinning you around. When you realized what he was doing you quickly covered up. "Sweet Pea..It's really not that bad!"

"No! Its embarrassing.."

"Do you want me to help you with the clean up process?"

You stood ashamed,'How could he ask a question like that?' Clean you? "A-Ah.. No! I'll be out in a minute." You got out the shower..Finally spending at least an hour in there. You were sure Doyoung was gone. You changed into pajamas, finally feeling clean.

"Finally..Thank goodness he's gone-"

"Am not, so rude. You want me gone so badly?- Tsk, Tsk-"

He leaned against your door with arms folded. "I..",you tried looking for the right words, and you couldn't.

"I'm sorry Dong- I just..Why are you still here? Aren't you disgusted by me? Don't you think im filthy?"

He game you a look of puzzlement,"Why would I think that?" You hesitate- "My ex's..they didn't like it. So I just thought–"

You heard footsteps get closer to you,"Sweet Pea, Listen to me. I'm not your ex's, I'm a different person Y/n." He was right, he did have a point.

"It's normal, Im not disgusted by bodily functions", He admitted. "Here, Look at me Y/n, I've got you Princess. Let me take care of you. Okay?"

You nodded, and He gave you a kiss on your forehead. "Hmm..You're not burning up anymore, but I think I still would like you to lay down for a bit."

You listened and got comfortable, having Doyoung tuck you in. He grabbed a stool near-by and sat beside you.

"Is there anything I can get for you?"

"Doyoung, you don't have to. I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I can go get a Heating Pad. A trash can for your nausea? Some pain killers?" You giggled which caused him to ask,"Whats funny Pumpkin?"

"Im sorry Doyoung, you're so cute. You don't have to do anything! I promise I feel better."

"Thank you Y/n, but I think you're the cutest!" He places his fingers on your sides and ticked you, having laughter for the most point but then the 'ouch!' Came.. Doyoung panicked a bit pulling his hands back,"Ah..Im sorry Y/n."

You smiled,"Its okay! Hey uh..I thought of something you could do for me."

"Yes?"

He gets up out of his seat and head to the door, ready for what you were going to request of him.

"Could you cuddle me?"

He smiled,"Oh of course my princess." He crawled onto the bed and stopped when he hovered above you. You reached out hold his face, as he leans into your touch.

"You're too sweet to me, I'm sorry I doubted you Doyoung." He leaned down to kiss you,"Hey, don't worry about it. If I were in your shoes I'd be embarrassed too."

You pulled back the covers allowing Doyoung to get underneath. He lies in front of you getting comfortable beside you. He was laying on top of you a bit, placing his head on your chest. "Doyoung.."

"Hm?" Your hands fiddle with his hair, arms wrapped around his upper back and lower back. "Thank you for being good to me."

He held his head up and looked at you. "Sweet Pea, Stop thanking me and focus on feeling better." He chuckled and lay his head back down.

Then followed by a "You're welcome my beauty. You smiled,"You're so pretty Dong."

"Hush you, its nap time."

"Okay, I love you." He rubs your tummy with his warm hands.

"I love you too princess."

Written On February 4th 2022

Quick statement for people who dont know, I used 'Dong' for short of Doyoung's Real name 'Dong-young' so don't be confused ♡ Ty

FOREIGN SWAGGERS

Pairing: Johnny x Jaehyun x Mark x f!reader (ft.Taeyong)

Genre: Fluff, Smut, Enemies to friends to lovers(?) BROTHER’s BEST FRIENDS Au

W/c: 8k

Warnings: mention of drinking, use of sex toys, birth control pills, sex w/o a wrap(don't do it sillies), they all are just horny for each other, four-some, dom!Johnny, dom!Jaehyun, dom!Mark, sub!fem, finger sucking, cum eating, nipple play, hickeys, manhandling, fingering, kissing, crying, afraid of left alone, overstimulation, masturbation, aftercare, comfort, lots of love (let me know what to add more)

Request from: @tazziexbunn (sorry I made you wait for it so long)

Note: please I want to thanks to people for reading and reblogging. Reviews are always appreciated . Applause to the ones who come up to me to interact and they know how friendly I am. Okay enough!

Special mention of @acescavern thanks for helping when I was stuck due to writer's block. A true friend indeed.

MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT UNDER THE POST!

Family holidays are meant to be having great bonding times and sharing some good moments with your loved ones. The feelings between the individuals deepens and these become the treasured memories in future. But what exactly are the feelings here? The feelings can be between friends, the couples, children and elders, siblings, colleagues, and so on. Sometimes, you meet some new faces and bond with them if the minds click with each other. But also sometimes, some known faces who seemed to be distant as you tried to ignore them appears.

It's okay until you have some distraction. But what if they are the distraction?

 And something like that happened when you were planning holidays with your family. It was a summer break and usually you all plan for a trip to some places where you all are having in mind altogether but this time, your brother’s three friends tagged along.

They are your brother’s childhood friends and you almost have seen them often like the times they stayed back at your house for sleepovers, gaming nights, school projects and assignments. You never tried to be friends with them because it was pretty much obvious that they always tried to ignore you. They hate you.

There is nothing to complain about them hating on you as the feelings is mutual. You haven’t ever appreciated their presence around you. What’s with them always popping out of nowhere in your house. They are your brother’s friends but it’s not like you are even their enemy. They are typically non-existent to you. As if you can’t see them but deep down you are cursing regularly whenever you bump into one of them. They are all so attractive that sometimes you steal glances of them. Of course, oblivion to them.

Well, you all grew up hating each other. Obviously.

The family holidays are always the exciting ones to you and the first one to initiate the plannings for the trip has always been you.

And that time, it was the same with you running down the stairs with your laptop in hand and your brother scolding behind you to be careful because if the laptop breaks, he has to buy you again but it doesn’t matter if you fall down.

What a caring brother!

“Mom…Dad…we are going to this place and that’s final. I have asked you so many times. Please.” You were literally whining while placing your laptop on the center table and crouching down beside it.

Your brother’s laugh echoed the place and you groaned before glaring at him.

“They won’t be agreeing with you. I bet.” He leaned back into the sofa across from you and put his hands behind his head. He poked out his tongue at you like a child.

You swear he has not yet grown up after five.

“It’s more like you don’t agree. You should support me but instead you just have to be the mamas boy in front of mom. You are a loser. Well always looks like one.” You spat at him.

“Yah! Shut up. Have you seen the ladies in my workplace drooling over me. My handsome face and everything I do just makes them delusional. Loser is you, not me.” You wanted to punch off that smug off from his face.

“Yeah sure…that’s why your girlfriend dumped you last week”

“Shut up!”

Both of your glares got smacked away by your mother.

“Why don’t you guys try to behave like your age?” your mother shook her head in disappointment.

“Taeyong has started it. I was just excited for the trip but he has to ruin my mood.” You sulked.

“No mom. I just said the truth and she got mad at me. This angry bird is annoying.”

“What did you just tell me?”

 Your mother again smacked both of you and then you were totally shut. She was not scolding you enough and that only meant she was in a good mood and was about to deliver some good news.

you waited to hear whatever she was going to say.

She started off with an old story of school days and you were invested into it. Your laptop was long forgotten and your whole attention was on your mom.

It went with jumping off from one topic to another and finally the most awaited speech of the day from her was delivered. She was very happy in the end of the explanation and you were still contemplating the situation and your brother was already on his feet excitedly.

“No way. You are leaving me and Taeyong to go for vacations alone.” You were in disbelief.

He scoffed, “You are telling it the way as if you dont want to go and I’m going to sell you off.”

“Who knows maybe you can?” You stared back at him.

“That’s true though. Atleast you will be of some use by then.”

Your mother smacked his arm, “Oh you two shut it now and listen to me. As me and your dad are going back to our home-town so you are free to go anywhere as you are grown up adults. But the behaviours don’t really prove it but still you don’t get such opportunities often.”

Taeyong was quick to ask, “Can I go to this vacation with my friends?”

Your mother nodded.

You gulped and hesitantly asked, “That means I can go to L.A.?”

“of course. But on one note, no one should go alone. Wherever you are going, you should go together or you are not allowed. He is going with his friends so Y/n, go with them.” Your mother smiled.

You sighed, “no thanks. I would rather stay at home than going with his friends.”

“Y/n dear…I cant leave you all alone and he can take care of you.”

You stood up and ran to your room. You were annoyed. But with whom? With yourself. It’s not like you didn’t like to go with your brother. You both love each other a lot but his friends are the only problems.

You heard someone knocking at your door but you didn’t reply and then when you heard the creak of the door.

Taeyong placed the laptop on your desk and sat beside you. You looked away and scooted away from him.

“I will not go with my friends. Let’s go together.” He sounded sad.

You shook your head and looked back at him, “no it’s okay. I don’t want to ruin your plans.”

 “hey its not like that…if you are uncomfortable with them then we can go alone. Really.” He assured you and you smiled back.

“I’m not uncomfortable or such. I am never been close with them. It’s because I feel like they hate me and they don’t like me around. It will just make me look like an outcast among us.” You pout.

He laughed and ruffled your hairs, earning a groan and hit to his arm.

“they never hate you. More like they always told me I’m lucky that I have a pretty and sweet sister like you. They never talked to you or approached as a friend because of your over protective brother. I didn’t trust those horny teenagers around you.”

You both laughed and somewhere you felt as if you just had contemplated their behaviours in a wrong way. So like them bumping into you was not to annoy you but they wanted to talk to you but your brother was being a barrier back then. is that right? Well, you also never really tried to become friends with them. So there was a lack in efforts from both the sides. What about now?

“Are we and your friends going to L.A.?” you asked.

He nodded and added, “if only you are comfortable.”

“It’s okay as far as they will appreciate me to consider a friend.”

“They will.”

.

.

.

It’s been thirty minutes that you were waiting for your frien—oh wait your brother’s friends.

The loud shout from your brother signalled you that his friends had arrived and so you looked up from your phone and craned your neck to watch where your brother ran to.

His excitement is always on another level when it comes to his friends. He really has some true friends unlike you.

They hugged with each other and then walked to where you were waiting. As soon as they were in front of you, you stood up and greeted them with a little smile on your face. They were hesitant at first but Johnny took the lead to extend his hand to shake hands with you. Wow, it’s the first time in the lifetime, you are standing so near to him and them.

“Hey Y/n…you grew up into a beautiful lady…I haven’t seen you in years after you all moved from the hometown.” Johnny stated with a genuine smile on his face.

Him initiating the conversation was a relief or you would have stuttered or never been able to form any words.

“yeah...it’s really been years. You look…good, Johnny.”

He smiled and nodded to your words.

Good? No, Fucking handsome. You wanted to scream it at his face because you have never seen him in such close up view and honestly your brother’s friends are freaking whole meal. You need to calm down and shut up because you don’t want to make it obvious to them and your brother. You sent him a smile.

Your brother and Johnny left for the check-ins, leaving you with Jaehyun and Mark. You gulped and looked around as you were in a very awkward situation. But you didn’t notice yet, Jaehyun’s gaze was boring holes into you and mark was looking between you and his friend.

“You look pretty...I mean really pretty…wow do I sound desperate? But it’s true.” Mark licked his lips and held your gaze when you looked at him.

A smile cracked on your face and you thanked him.

"you look cool as well."

He was eager to talk to you more and now you knew how friendly he was and it would be comfortable to be around him. When you looked at the other person in your group. He was already staring back at you. He was serious, with no emotions visible on his face and he sucked his cheeks inside.

You gulped in nervousness because the feelings of uneasiness rising up was making you suffocate even when the waiting area was so spacious and huge. You didn't know what was the reason for the uneasiness: him or the flight.

Your brother called you three from afar and you were the first one to almost run to your brother. The eyes of the other two behind you were following you. Mark laughed a bit and the corner of Jaehyun’s lip curled up.

Mark, Jaehyun and you got your seats together and on the other side Johnny, Taeyong and a random boy were having their seats. You told Taeyong to ask Johnny to switch seats with you but he told you that it would be better if you spend time with them and then you could be friends before reaching there.

You pouted and sulked in your seat. You sat in the middle one because mark had already claimed to not sit on the window seat and he hates middle one. Also, you were not a fan of window seats so you chose middle and it would be better because you will have mark’s company. Jaehyun was last to enter and he sat on his seat and closed his eyes.

Was he tired or ignoring you?

You didn’t mind his presence but getting interested in hearing Mark’s passion on rap and dancing. His eyes were shining when he was sharing about his likings and hobbies.

But as soon as you felt the wheels moving on the runway, the feeling of uneasiness returned from earlier. You turned to your front and closed your eyes tightly. Your one hand gripping Mark’s sleeves of his full sleeve t-shirt. And the other hand clutching the armrest. Nails digging deeper. You were feeling nauseous and then something unexpected happened.

“Take deep breaths. You will be fine.” You heard whisper from the side of window seat. A hand entangled with yours and clutching it in a soothing way. Thumbs rubbing your skin to calm down. Another hand patted your other hand which was clutching the sleeves.

Slowly, you parted your eyelids to see Jaehyun leaning towards you in worry and his hands were entangled with yours and Mark was patting your other hand with same worry visible on your face.

And what about your brother? He was busy joking with Johnny. But you didn’t know, he was having the same worry and was in panic, Mark assured him that he would handle it.

he will take care of you.

You breathed through your mouth and gulped. Mark patted your head before he went back to whatever he was doing on his phone.

You looked over to Jaehyun and again he was emotionless. “Thank you.”

As you tried to pull away your hand, he held it tighter. Your gaze fell on his veiny hands, veins visible in those smooth buttery skin. His skin was better than yours. Your eyes were trailing upward slowly and slowly and stopped on his lips, they were so pinkish and kissable. WTF! No no not kissable. You met his eyes.

“You can sleep if you feel sick. I won’t mind but don’t even dare to puke on me.”

“I don’t puke…” you pout.

He scoffed and looked away towards the window and it was night but still he had a sunglass over his head. It was adding to his attractiveness.

He patted his shoulder and you frowned.

“What?”

“Sleep…you are annoying.”

You scoffed. Perfect best-friend of your brother. If he was already mad without doing anything then you would rather sleep and be an annoying burden on his shoulder.

.

.

.

Earlier Mark squeezed your cheeks hard and woke you up from peaceful sleep and so you were mad because Taeyong does the same to annoy you when he wakes you up.

Why all his friends are similar to him?

You were still in sleepy mood and were walking towards the hotel room in a daze.

You got a separate room from them. You were so happy that this time you don’t have to share a room with your brother again. Taeyong and Jaehyun were roommates and Johnny and Mark were in the room across from yours beside the other pair.

It was already afternoon when you reached the hotel so you didn’t have much plan for the day so you guys went off to some individual activities in exploring the place. Taeyong offered you to come along with him and Mark but you assured him that you won’t be wandering too far from the hotel.

As far as the first day, the trip was fine. You really had a great evening with making new friends at record shops. They had same music taste similar like yours. You exchanged your IG ids with those three girls and you were happy since that.

The next day it was totally a siblings day with you two exploring the famous places in L.A. You knew that was the only option to spend a day only with him or other days, he wont be leaving his friends behind. You really did argue, fight, clicking pictures and especially eat a lot. It ended with all five of you having your dinner at a fancy restaurant.

Everything was going well until the fourth day of the trip.

You all went to the beach in front of your hotel and you wore a beach dress. Of course, you would have worn a bikini but somehow Taeyong sternly told you to not wear all those in front of his friends or you were not going. You were mad but still you agreed and trailed behind them. Johnny was talking with you a lot since last night. He was often asking you if you were comfortable or feeling left out but you were quick to wave it off as nothing.

Thinking of last night, you remember how you both spent the night in the terrace of your floor in the hotel.

“Cant sleep?”

You got startled and looked behind to see Johnny in a white t-shirt and sweat pants walking towards you. You shook your head.

“It’s not like that. I am just not that tired.”

He chuckled, “it was such a long day and still you are not tired?”

“Yeah. I usually don’t sleep whenever I go for a vacation and I love to spend time with the new environment.”

He nodded and watched the waves hitting the shore and loud roars of the waters could be heard. It was a refreshing feeling after a long day. His fingers moved up to your face to tug your hairs behind the ears. You both smiled at each other.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

 It was an unexpected question but was quick to make you flustered.

“N-no. I don’t.”

“Good.”

“Huh?”

“It’s good that bad boys didn’t got their ways with you…”

“Y/n…Wont you go down into water with us?”

Mark’s voice barely audible due to the loud music. Still, you managed to answer and you shook your head telling him how you didn’t want to soak your pretty sundress. But that was not his intention. As you were looking around. He scooped you from behind and ran with you towards the others.

“Mark…please don’t…I said no..”

“Come on, don’t be a joy-kill.”

With that he threw you into the water but still holding your upper half so that you don’t get hurt for the jump being so sudden.

As soon as you stood up and removed the hairs from your face, you glared at mark jokingly and he laughed it off. His white shirt and shorts were already soaked. Taeyong and Johnny were shirtless with surfboard in their hands, showing off their tattoos. On other side Jaehyun was also shirtless and was recording in his hand-cam.

His cam fixed in your direction and he zoomed in. You stared back at the lens. He smiled at the portrait of yours visible on the screen. His thumb caressed your face. You smiled behind the camera and ‘click’.

Someone splashed water from your side and Johnny was laughing for what he did.

Jaehyun joined in too.

Johnny stifled his laugh and spoke up, “Girls vs Boys.”

“I am the only girl here. This is not fair.” You whined.

Taeyong volunteered to take your side and Johnny teased him, “Oh Y/n look, that man is your girl.”

Taeyong threw some water and tangled his arm around his neck and Jaehyun splashed water at you with Mark taking the both sides for maintaining equal members and that’s how it went on with you all laughing and enjoying with each other in your own world.

Maybe they are not bad as you thought.

.

.

.

Taeyong’s intolerance of alcohol was known by everyone except him. He always insisted that he can handle a lot amount but would definitely pass out after half of the bottle. It was pretty strong. The four friends were having night pool party in the rooftop and it was pretty late and Taeyong suddenly banged his head on the table.

Oh he is wasted. The strong boy is sleeping now.

Jaehyun called you three times to check on you and let you know that they were going down and as earlier Taeyong stated that you asked him to bring a cocktail from the party. So, instead of your brother, he took the responsibility.

Three missed calls and you didn’t pick up. They were sure that before going to sleep. You would let Taeyong know about it but now they were panicked.

Johnny rushed down. He didn’t wait for the elevators and run down the stairs and rest two were bringing Taeyong down to the room.

Where were you?

Johnny knocked on your door. He waited for a response but nothing was audible. Licking his lips, he was about to ring the bell when he heard a faint buzzing sound. He leaned to check his doubt. He was correct.

His hand hovered on the handle and he pushed open it. Again, you didn’t lock the door. But then he might not have got this opportunity.

he entered the room and took a turn.

Your mouth was agape and eyes closed with throaty moans and hands clutching the bedsheet with sprawled across on it. And a pink vibrator was attached to your black panty.

Shamelessly, he was watching you. His pant was getting tight in a particular place and he gulped. He was not even moving but standing still, watching you with hungry eyes. He waited for you to cum. By seeing your desperation, he was sure you were near the climax and he patiently waited in his place in silence. You moaned out Mark’s name when you came undone.

So, you were thinking about him?

He smirked at your exhausted state in just your lingerie. You were panting. If you had wore it at the beach then he could have seen you like this earlier. You look sexy in bikinis and he was getting impatient to tear off the piece of clothes and have you in every way.

The ring of his phone made your eyes shot open and you hurriedly sat up. He picked up the call with holding your gaze. You gulped to see his dark eyes.

Jaehyun was on the call. Johnny’s voice echoed inside the room.

"Come to Y/n's room." He didn't say anything more but chuckled after he cut the call.

Like a predator he walked around the bed and you were sitting in the middle, still fazed by the orgasm. He bent to your side and before you could realize it, he snatched away the remote from your hand.

"What are you doing here?" You asked in a broken voice. He raised his brows and titled his head, "did you say something?"

he had a dominance in his voice.

"You should not be here" you gulped and raised your voice a bit, "if my brother finds out."

"Oh listen darling, your brother won't know what is going to happen and even if your brother finds out, it will be too late."

You heard the door open and shut and sound of the lock. Jaehyun and Mark emerged from the corner of the room.

"Oh dude what are you doing here?" Mark was confused and looking between you and the tall man. "I see our little princess was having her little fun without us." Jaehyun smirked as he noticed the vibrator and the remote in his friend's grasp.

"Shut up. You three. What are you even doing here? Where is Taeyong?"

"He is knocked out halfway through." Mark chuckled.

Johnny paced to the edge of the bed and in front of you. He smirked while scanning your whole body. He has never seen you in such a way and he was amused that you were not even telling them to go out. "Oh Mark. You know, she was calling you earlier."

"Really but why?" Mark was smiling but he was curious.

"Darling, are you telling them or should I do the honor?" Johnny was crouching down in front of you, resting his hand on the edge of the bed and staring at you. "I—I don't know what you are saying."

Johnny chuckled, "oh don't say like you weren't moaning out his name." "What?" You were surprised to know that he heard you. For how long was he there?

"Oh really?...I want to see that." Mark was excited.

Before you could protest, the sound of vibrator earned a gasp from you. You watched how Johnny had a smug look and Jaehyun whispered something into his ear, widening his grin.

You watched in horror that they were exchanging glances and communicating between them. your head fell low and hands clutching the bedsheet tightly and you leaned forward.

The vibration was in low mode and you wanted more. no you needed more. You closed your eyes and focused on the sound and vibration filling you up. The tightening of the knot but still the feeling of emptiness was there because the speed was too low. You panted out. "More...fast please..."

“You are asking for more from your brother’s friends? Won’t you ask us to go?”

You were whining and your hand hovered over the vibrator to rub it against your folds and press it deeper.

Someone held you back. And you cry out. The vibration increased and you leaned backward, throwing your head back on the person's shoulder. The same whispering voice from the plane. "Is it okay now, princess? Don't you dare to do anything. We are here to take care of you."

Your hands were locked by him and his bare chest was against your hot body, earning groans from him. Every little squirm of yours was making him painfully hard. There was a reek of alcohol from them.

You were reaching to the climax and it was very obvious and the way Jaehyun's husky groans filling your ears. You swear you will come soon.

"Are you near?" You nodded.

Jaehyun chuckled into your ears and licked it, "words, princess." "Y—yes Jaehyun...Jo—hhny."

"It's daddy for you." Johnny said in a darker voice. Your back arched and you leaned back to Jaehyun as you were about to get loose but Johnny had some other plans.

You were whimpering, "why? Please daddy...I want to cum."

he turned the vibrator off.

"No. You had your fun earlier and now it's for us to have our turn."

He climbed the bed in front of you and hovered over you. You tried to scoot back and get away from the hold but they held you in place.

"Mark I guess someone is impatient."

Mark nodded on Johnny's statement and watched your watery eyes staring back at Johnny in a frustrated expression.

"I heard she was moaning my name and I really want to see how it's going to be when I literally will fuck her."

"Oh you will. But you can wait for your turn. Let me make my darling taste a bit of my fun." Johnny was using the nickname casually but it was turning you on.

He hooked a finger with your panty and slid it down very slowly. His movements were painfully slow and you couldn't even do anything to get rid of the little piece of clothing faster.

He let it hung at one of your ankles and pushed your legs apart, you were pressing them too tight.

He placed himself between them so that you couldn't close your legs and he dipped a finger inside of your wet folds. You moaned and raised your hips into his hand when he pressed your belly down. "Uh uh you are not getting like this...patience is the key here. Look you are so needy that you didn't attend the party because you were off into your little world."

Mark added, "if she had asked us then we would have had the fun together."

Watching how you were not catching on with the conversation, Johnny curled his finger, keeping the same pace from earlier. When he watched you squeezing his second finger in so easily. He pulled his hand out and pushed it inside your parted lips. "Suck."

You were not needed to say twice and you rolled your tongues around his fingers and licked your juices off.

"Princess is doing so good."

Jaehyun had a cheerful tone and then suddenly Johnny slapped your pussy to get your attention back on him before pulling down his pant. You were so impatient and didn't want him to take longer. Jaehyun unhooked your bra but still your front was covered. His hands caressed your bare back and you shivered to his touch.

Johnny's yellow shirt was unbuttoned and your now freed hands went up to touch the biceps. He chuckled and held your wrist to guide you through his muscles. You were so distracted when he suddenly entered you. You cried out because of the size and stretch and the pain was unbearable. Johnny had a satisfied look on his face but soon changed into a worry when he saw your wrinkled forehead and you were wiggling on Jaehyun’s lap.

Your eyes rolled back when he started moving. The pace began with slow and deep movements and each move burned the connected soft area. Johnny was groaning above you and his fingers were tightly entangled with yours, pressing down your palms into the mattress. His loose shirt rode up and the flexing muscles were visible.

“Fuck Y/n…I didn’t know that sweet little one…has such a good pussy.” Johnny increased his pace and your moans became louder.

Your sweet moans earned a shaky groan from a corner of the room. You looked over to the place to see Mark was pumping himself with his head thrown back and cursing and moaning out your name. He was imagining the image of how it was you when moaning out his name when you were pleasuring yourself.

Jaehyun chuckled, “Oh Johnny, she likes to get fuck by her brother’s best friends.”

“Is that right, Y/n?” Johnny asked you but your foggy mind didn’t register the question. So, he gripped your jaw and forced to make you look at him. Your teary eyes stared back at him when he slowed the movements.

“I asked you something, darling. Do you like getting fucked by your brother’s best friends?”

You clenched around him on hearing his question.

“Yes…yes daddy…I like to be fucked by you…I—I want to be fucked by you all.” You whined when he pushed deeper but continued in sloppy movements.

His smirk widened and head dipped in the crook of your neck. He sucked and kissed all your sensitive spots. He pulled down the bra and sucked your nipples. He was leaving red marks all over your chest and throat. Your nipples were erect and hard and when he was sucking it hard, you were losing your mind. “Fuck…it’s so good.”

“Is it feeling good? Johnny making you feel good?”

You moaned out, “Yes Jaehyun, he is making me feel good. I—I want to cum please…please…”

The fast thrusts were almost ripping you apart into two and his moans and groans into your ear was nearing you so much that your tears were streaming down. The sloppy sound and your moans filling out the room. But Johnny hushed you with a heated kiss. He was hungry. Teeth clashing to each and biting down your lips, making you gasp and clench around him. He was hungry to finally have his best friend’s sister under him. The sister his friend protected too much from them was now whimpering under and that boosted his ego.

“Cum…ah-Fuck…” You both came undone together.

Mark cursed out at the same time with both of you.

You were floating with blurry vision and he rode out his high. He pulled out and chuckled at your fucked out state. Before any juice could leak out of you, he pressed your legs together. He started at you but you cut him off.

“I am on birth control pill.” You stated.

“Why? Were you expecting something like this to happen?” Johnny chuckled and stood up.

“No. but just in case…” Johnny pecked your lips. You were surprised as to why he did it but you let the kiss linger on you longer.

Mark interjected, “So you were planning to have a one-night stand on this trip somewhere?”

You licked your lips and nodded, “yeah something like that.” You closed your eyes to take deep breaths. Johnny excused himself after putting on the pant and went to his room.

You heard shuffles around your bed and before you knew what was happening, Jaehyun was smiling down at you from between your legs. You tried to scoot back but he pressed you down with a smirk and dark look on his face.

He was serious with dark eyes just contrast to the white unbuttoned shirt on him. He looks good in white and later you have to compliment him about that.

“What are you thinking, princess?” he asked you while positioning himself to your entrance.

“you look good in white.” you finally complimented him.

He smiled, “thanks princess. But I would look better with your white cum around my dick.”

His tip toying with your folds. You whined and Mark laughed when he sat beside you. He removed your bra and threw it away. Jaehyun thanked Mark and started pumping your breasts. You gasped and moaned. Mark was staring at you with hooded eyes. Jaehyun flicked your nipples and pinched them.

It was paining but it was sending a pleasurable jolt throughout your body.

 He straightened himself and placed his palm over your breasts and pushed himself inside you. You gasped out loudly and he chuckled on feeling how you were still tight and clenching around him after his friend fucked you so hard earlier.

“you are taking me so well, princess.”

His pace was deeper and faster from the start and your sensitive bud was throbbing in pain. Skin slapping sound and his skill-full fingers drawing pattern over your curves and hands sliding smoothly all over your body. Your whines and his moans getting louder with each passing second and he leaned down to peck you. You opened your eyes and wiggled your hands from, under the grip of Mark’s strong hold. Your weak hands slid down Jaehyun’s soft skin and you smiled.

“Jaehyun…”

Why are you even smiling? He took a hold of your wrist and placed a kiss on your fingers.

“You are really pretty, Y/n…you were always pretty.”

He finally connected his lips with yours and you moaned into his mouth when he hit a right spot, making you arch into his body. Your hips moving up and down to get him more-close to you. As if it was even possible. He pressed you down and there was a sweet rhythm to the movement of his lips and hips.

You were lost in the kiss and gasping for air but he was sucking you so hard that the little air left inside you would be sucked out. He finally pulled apart and thrusted deeper. When you let out a broken moan, his hands moved up to grip your throat and with a moderate pressure, he pressed it tight.

“The innocent little sister of Taeyong is whining with my fingers wrapped around her throat and getting fucked. What will your brother think of you getting fucked by his best-friend?”

You couldn’t reply but mumbled something. Mark laughed and patted your head.

You whined and gasped. Your one hand gripped his wrist and other wiggling under his strong hold on your wrist. His mouth skillfully working on your nipples, leaving bruise marks around it. It was too much. You were overstimulated by all these pleasures in different parts. The pace became sloppy and both of you were near the edge.

“if you want to cum then cum. Cum on my dick and paint me white.” He said and put a little more pressure on the side of your throat. His voice vibrating on your nipples and his hot breath hitting around the sensitive area.

You gasped and let it loose as soon as his words fell from the lips. He thrusted faster and you whined. After a few more thrusts, he bottomed down into you. “fuck-“

 His hands were at the same place but weakly holding you, his head resting on your breast and he placed a soft and long kiss on your nipple before retreating himself.

Vulnerable was not a word for you. You were broken. Your body, your pulping veins, your sensitive used spots and your mind. Your broken voice couldn’t even dare to speak up anything more.

Mark.

You didn’t know what were the thoughts running through his mind. His two other friends were just monster fuckers. Thinking about him fucking you after they caught you moaning out his name was scratching a mark direct to your core.

You expected Jaehyun to leave but he propped himself on the sofa and leaned back with closed eyes and heaved a sigh.

Was he regretting?

Your attention was brought to Mark when he gripped your jaw and pulled your face to the side to face him. He was smirking unlike before when he was sweetly smiling at you. His jeans was long forgotten lying down on the floor and he pulled down the boxer. Your burning body was sensitive to a little amount of air caused by the swish of movements around you.

He was still sitting to your side, hand gripping your jaw. Your weak hands held his wrist dearly.

“mark…please fuck me.”

He poked his cheek with the tongue, “why? Didn’t Jaehyun gave you the satisfaction and also Johnny?”

As if on cut Johnny entered the room in a fresh set of trouser and a plain white t-shirt. He propped himself beside Jaehyun.

“What’s with my name?” Johnny’s voice made you squirm.

“I want you…no I need you, Mark. Please.” You literally begged. His smirk widened.

He suddenly hovered on top of you and you were surprised by his sudden fast movement. He was excited. Something in him shifted when you begged to him. He was no more that soft and excited friend like last four days. In front of you was a hungry monster who was ready to devour you.

His hands trailed down your curves. He pushed your legs up and watched how your hole was leaking down the juices and he groaned to the sight. He pushed up your swelled breasts and pumping them, earning whines and moans from you. Your tears were the most beautiful thing to him at the moment.

His hands trailed higher and rested on your jaw, fingers caressing your cheek. Your tired eyes still locked with his hooded ones.

“you will show me how you were moaning my name with this pretty mouth. Okay?”

You nodded. He slapped you and gripped your jaw.

“Okay?”

“Yes…Mark…I will show you...please…”

No prep was needed and so he pushed your legs apart as far as possible. He slowly entered you and your gasp got lost into his mouth when he pressed down his lips to you. Just like others, his kiss was also reeking of alcohol. You were getting drunk just by their kisses.

His kiss was between of hunger and making love. Once he was being a sweet kisser and the next moment, he was eating you out. His teeth sucking yours making it a plump.

His movements were slow. Too slow. You wanted more but the way he slapped your pussy when you moved up, you knew he was not giving you what you wanted.

He broke the kiss but his lips never left your heated skin, his lips pressing soft kisses on yours and trailed down to your jaw and then to the crook of your neck.

“Mark…”

“So that’s how you sound like baby…fuck…you are sucking me in so good...you sound so sexy...”

“More please…please Mark.”

You were crying and repeating his name like a chant. It was making him painfully hard to control himself not to cum again and again into you. His one hand pumping your breast and other caressing your head. He leaned to attach his lips to your left out nipple.

Every second was like a rising of burning flame. Your body was on fire. He was overstimulating you to hear his name from your lips on repeat. He didn’t want to end the moment so fast. He could hear your moans all day long if its need to fuck you everytime. His one hand dipped down to rub on your bud and you cry out before Johnny inserted a finger into your mouth. You quickly wrapped around his fingers to suck for your dear life.

“don’t want to let this whole floor know that how good your brother’s best friends are fucking you, right?” he asked you mockingly.

Mark added, “Taeyong might can wake up too.”

They laughed to see you in mercy of their friend and tears falling continuously from the eyes.

“Ah fuck- baby…fuck…are you near?”

You couldn’t reply when the finger was deep down your throat.

Mark swatted the hand away and gripped your jaw.

“Do you want to cum?”

Your vision was blurry but still you nodded and replied, “yes…yes Mark…please”

“then cum and say my name.”

You did as he told you. Your vision was white and your whole body jerked.

He was thrusting deeper and faster and soon he was panting on top of yours and hot liquid filling you up.

The same euphoric feeling rising up to your fuzzy mind.

Mark laid down beside you. You both were tired but no one was as compared to you.

“I guess someone is tired for the first time while on a vacation.” Johnny smiled at you before patting your head.

You dreamily smiled and nodded.

He asked Jaehyun to go back to his shared room with Taeyong or he might could get in trouble if Taeyong sees him missing in the room. He sent a smile towards you before laving with Johhny. It was only you and Mark.

“I will take care of you. I have promised, Taeyong.”

he promised Taeyong.

He let you sleep and as promised, he cleaned you up before cleaning himself. He tugged you to sleep. Before leaving the room, he watched you for a while how you were sleeping peacefully and something inside him was tugging not to leave you alone. But there was no choice. He turned off the lights and left the room with interlocking it.

He is just your brother’s best-friend.

.

.

.

The next morning when your mind registered that you were awake, you didn’t open your eyes. The first thought came to your mind was that you were all alone. They all just left you after fucking. You clutched the blankets tight, you cried silently. Was it just all about one night? Nothing more? Today you have to pretend as if nothing happened last night. Silent tears fall from your eyes.

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?” Taeyong’s worried voice and a warm hand on your cheek reminded you of their lingering touches on your skin.

You didn’t want to open your eyes. Even if you wanted to think of that as a dream but the soreness and the paining aches all over your body would be giving you reality check. Still. You didn’t want to worry your brother so you slowly looked at him and he was sitting by the side of your head, smiling a little.

“when I woke up, Jaehyun told me that you are feeling sick since last night and I was drunk so he took care of you.” He innocently said.

Took care of you.

Huh! And then left…

You nodded.

“You are crying…is your headache worse…do you need medicines?”

“headache?”

“yeah…he told me not to disturb you today. It’s better to let you rest for a while.”

Yeah. Headache. Rest for a while.

The words were not setting in right places.

He stood up, “I have to meet an university friend today who works at a company here so we are going to hang out today. So take some rest. Just call me if you need anything or I will tell one of them-“

“No I will call you.”

“Okay, see you later.”

And he turned to the space to get out of your room from where they all went last night. You didn’t hear your door closed but heard some talking between your brother and Johnny. His voice tugged at your heart. You were sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard. You looked down to yourself wearing a t-shirt and shorts. A tear fell on your hand.

Why were you even crying?

It was all about you four being horny last night. Nothing more.

The close of door shut jolted you. You still didn’t look up but closed your eyes to let yourself understand that you shouldn’t be so sensitive of having sex with them.

“y/n…”

Did you hear right?

No no you were dreaming.

“y/n…are you okay?”

You looked up to see Mark looking at you with hurtful eyes. Is he regretting for the last night?

You didn’t reply. Two more figures emerged from the corner, what were they doing at door for so long.

“why are you here?” you whispered out the words.

“Isn't this the same thing you asked last night?” johnny stated.

You watched his movements when he came beside you and sat down to pat your head and comb your hairs with his long fingers. You fought back the urge to lean to his touch. Jaehyun sat to your other side and caressed your cheeks.

More tears streamed down your eyes.

Jaehyun wiped them off. “Why are you crying?”

“Don’t give me false hopes. I know you all are regretting for the last night and so you left or maybe you see it like a regular fun but please I…I don’t know how to feel now.”

“then don’t fight back.” Johnny said without any emotion visible.

Mark added, “y/n…it’s a very complicated situation we are in…we are your brother’s best friends and you are his sister. If somehow this last night becomes a problem between us then the friendship will be hampered. You are our friend too.”

Mark scooted closer to you.

“you all were the first ones to have sex with me…”

They didn’t reply but suddenly Mark pulled you in his embrace. You could feel a different set of hands caressing your back. You started crying in his hold. He patted your head.

“I know... you know we were never your friends but still we admired you since you were a baby. We have watched you every time how you whined for little things, your giggles, your sweet smile, your annoyed face whenever we showed up at your house and when your brother teasing you. Our eyes were always on you.” Mark words were dipped in softness.

You whispered, “I thought you all hated me.”

Johnny laughed, “never. It was your brother who never wanted us to be near you. He thought that his little sister should not be near us. He is good brother. He loves you a lot.”

He really is.

“I don’t want to leave you all after yesterday. I know I’m being selfish but I really don’t know why I'm feeling this but I cant handle if you all leave me.” You said and turned to rest two of them from Mark’s embrace, Jaehyun’s hands fall from your back.

Jaehyun added, “we don’t want to leave you too. Yesterday when I saw you in that state, I felt a possessiveness inside me that no one should get to look at you and I own you. So…..”

He looked at everyone and sighed.

“so?..” your soft voice tugged at their heart.

Johnny completed his sentence, “so we need to have a talk with Taeyong.”

“You all will?” you were surprised.

Mark turned you around, “don’t you want us? Or do you want only me?”

“All three of you. Call me selfish but I love you all.”

“We love you too, y/n. promise. we will take care of you.” Johnny said and placed a kiss on top of your head.

“she is still a baby.” Jaehyun said and laughed loudly.

The others also joined in. You clutched to Mark’s shirt and smiled a little before snuggling into the smell of his cologne.

Your brother kept you away from them. But then you became too close to them. Closer than being just friends. The foreign swaggers is your new memory of your holidays. It was meant to be a family holiday like every year. but this was different and the best.

Also, you don’t hate your brother’s best friends like you thought.

They are no more just your brother’s best friends. They are your hearts: the foreign swaggers.

Are you going to regret it?

thank me coz i was going to end it on a sad note but then I thought to make it a bit emotional and happy in the last moement.

Taglist: @mymoodwriting @justhere4kpop @anyamaris @yeoobin @icchyi @jwnghyuns @piratequeen-queenofgames @dinonuguaegi @oreharuuu @hwanring @sanwifesstuff @kiwiisnthereoops @kiwiraccoon @hyuukah @kazscara @aceofspadesbiofalltrades @sexygrass @minkyuncutie @loveforred

Wrong For You | hrj

❝𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐞.❞

↳ He's been your best friend since college, and you've been in love with him just as long. Procrastination can only get you so far; now he has a girlfriend, and she's so very, very wrong.

↳ Renjun x female reader

↳ 8.6k

! Strong language, friends to lovers, bestie vs. gf, themes of rivalry, gaslighting, insecurities poked at, gf is an unpleasant individual beware, mutual pining, tension and angst, explicit sexual content, so much making out, dirty talk, angst w a happy ending, adult themes throughout !

「suitable for 18+ readers only」  「© April 2023 by jl-micasea-fics」

Today, the city is grey.

The sky is a blanket of heavy, dark cloud, the winter rainfall is dense and unforgiving. Gathered puddles on the pavements spill over to the roadside drains, collecting in dips and cracks of concrete. Passing cars kick up waves of surface spray, their windscreen wipers frantic. Pedestrians huddle under their umbrellas—the only sight of colour around—rushed in their paces and keen to get out of the cruel weather.

Staring listlessly through the rain-streaked window of the second-floor café, you try to recall what the city looked like basking in the warmth of sunshine. You miss it; this winter has felt especially endless. Two months until spring comes.

Renjun snaps his fingers in front of your face. “Hello?”

Pulled from your daze, you blink back to clarity. Renjun frowns at you from across the table, his pout a tempting swell of glossy pink. His two-tone black and blonde is swept back from his forehead, his white jacket finished with the blue beads around his neck.

“Might as well have come here by my damn self,” he grumbles.

“Sorry,” you sigh. “I’m so out of it today. Hate this weather.”

He hums, stirring his cappuccino with a dainty teaspoon. You know he agrees; he’s a sunshine bug too.

“We should go on a trip,” you suggest.

Renjun pauses his stirring; he looks at you incredulously over his silver rimmed glasses.

“Like we used to,” you press. “Remember the hot springs? God, they were so fun. It’s been too long.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Your enthusiasm is staggering, Jun. I can go by myself.”

“No, sorry. I didn’t mean to be a downer. It’s just... things are complicated now.”

Complicated. You wonder if he knows that’s not how most guys refer to the existence of their girlfriends.

“Right,” you nod, looking back out the window, heart sinking.

Renjun’s finding of a girlfriend was as unexpected as it was painful; when he’d announced he was getting on the dating apps, you’d put no real stock in it, knowing from experience how difficult it was to form any tangible connection amongst a sea of people simply looking for short-term thrills. That was never Renjun’s thing. He’d get bored and move on eventually. Yet if anyone could find and catch a coveted rainbow fish, it would be him, and he’d done just that. Hence the unexpected.

As for the painful...?

“I, uh, actually have something to tell you on that front,” he says.

You quirk a brow at him, none too keen to hear anything related to his relationship, yet resigned to the fact that you’ll have to if you wish stay in his life.

“Zara’s coming here.”

Your throat constricts amidst a surge of dread.

“Like, any minute now,” he adds.

“You’re ambushing me?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not, I swear—”

“Jun—”

“I just want you meet her, is that so bad? I’ve been trying for weeks! I talk so much about you and she’s curious, you know? I’d love for the two of you to get on—”

“You should have told me,” you seethe.

“So you could make another last-minute excuse to get out of it?” he challenges, dark eyes determined, and in that, you suppose he’s not so wrong. His attempts to introduce you have so far failed at every turn, and if you really look to reason you can see why desperation might drive him to such a pincer movement as this. His intentions are good; he wants the people he cherishes to come together, and any sensible individual couldn’t possibly resent him that. Indeed, you don’t. You simply resent how much it all hurts.

Moments pass suspended in tension, and when Zara eventually arrives, she does so looking every inch the early ‘Gen Z hot girl’ that she is. A cropped white tee reveals tan skin and the makings of abs, fitted flares accentuate her hips and thighs. Her blonde mane is tamed by a silk scrunchie, her makeup minimal, but still somehow statemented. She turns heads—literally—and you go about making rapid, unhealthy comparisons as you rise and greet her, the hug you offer turned handshake by her subtle recoil.

Renjun glows as she settles beside him; you feel not unlike an alien specimen being examined by the very standard of beauty itself, male and female, perfect and untouchable. It strikes you that, at least aesthetically, they appear made for each other. Couple goals; is that what they call it?

“Want something to drink, baby?” Renjun asks her.

Your gut churns uncomfortably. Zara looks around the café, at its quaint, rustic décor and charming ornaments.

“No, thanks.”

“Hungry?”

She shakes her head, linking her arm through Renjun’s. Yet more churning.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” you say after a beat of silence, keen to fill it. “Jun talks about you a lot.”

Zara smiles; it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Ren-ren talks about you, too.”

Ren-ren...?

“You both mean a lot to me,” Renjun says innocently. “It’d be cool if we could do more stuff together.”

“Totally,” Zara appears to agree. “Do you work out? We could go to the gym.”

“Oh, well, no,” you reply, suddenly self-conscious. “Not so much. With work and everything—”

“Yeah. Thought not. You should totally start.”

Oh.

“That’s actually how Ren-ren and I met,” she turns to him, closing into his side. “It was love at first squat.”

Renjun scoffs, a blush rising over his cheeks; you’ve never seen him blush before.

“That’s sweet,” you force.

Renjun looks at you sheepishly; you wonder if he detects anything outside his bubble of apparent bliss. If he does, he doesn’t give it away.

“You and I met in college, right?” he then says to you. “Feels like forever ago.”

“Yeah. It really does.”

Zara’s nose scrunches; she looks around aimlessly.

“She actually works in publishing,” Renjun tells her, oblivious to her waning attentions. “Worked her way up from an internship to assistant editor. Awesome, right?”

“Sure,” Zara smiles, pulling her phone from her pocket. “If books are your thing.”

“Books are my thing, actually,” you exclaim, stewing in disbelief. Snide quips on your physical state aside, your profession is not for belittling. For everything else about your life that might be vague, work explicitly isn’t. You did get the dream job, and you’ll die on the hill that is protecting it.

Zara stares vacantly, then unlocks her phone. “Cool.”

And she spends the remainder of the time on it, scrolling through whatever social media platforms she no doubt reigns supreme over. You detect Renjun’s consistent discomfort; he scratches his nape, his leg bounces beneath the table, he surreptitiously slances at her phone and attempts to engage her in the conversation. It’s painful to watch.

Parting ways from the café comes as a relief; you bid them goodbye and decide that the manuscript you weren’t going to look over today suddenly doesn’t seem as daunting a task as it did two hours ago. Some time after the event, a text from your best friend comes through.

>> what do u think?

Never being one to abstain from honesty with him, you reply to that end.

<< Not what I expected.

The response comes instantly:

>> meaning?

<< She’s just not who I thought you’d end up with.

>> who did u think i'd end up with?

And it seems that being irrevocably in love with your best friend has a way of filtering every thought and word to cautious extremes. It overshadows everything, drives your decisions and your actions. Your hitherto avoidance of his girlfriend, your reluctance to accept that she is it for him, your inability to find love elsewhere. Part of you miserably concedes that if anything romantic were to occur between you, it surely would have by now, after so many years spent together. Another part—irritatingly naïve—clings to hope that things may yet change. There are moments; fleeting occurrences where gazes linger and a weight of anticipation shimmers, where his hand hovers in stillness over yours, and you’re so sure that if you tried to cross the boundary of friendship, you wouldn’t suffer rejection. It would be your name on the tip of his tongue, your arm linked through his.

But timing is a fickle mistress that suffers no procrastinators, and now he has a girlfriend.

***

Renjun and Zara are a package deal.

That’s what you’ve learned over the last four weeks. Getting him alone is an impossibility, for wherever he is, there Zara lingers. Impromptu dinners and last-minute coffee catchups are a thing of the past; Renjun needs notice now, and ample of it. On the occasions you do see him, invitations are naturally extended to his girlfriend; he says she has a ‘thing’ about best friends of the opposite sex, to which you’re too dumbfounded to argue. Equally as dumbfounding is the suddenness with which he’s become so unavailable; prior to your meeting, his girlfriend was never a problem. Now, she seems to be the obstacle central to everything.

So: Renjun and Zara are a package deal. Fine. You can tolerate it, if it means making Renjun happy. You most certainly prefer having him like this than not at all, which is the only other alternative save for his ending of the relationship, and as things stand, you think Hell is likelier to freeze over before that.

Still, you feel his absence. It’s worse at night, when memories of time spent huddled over popcorn and in the company of a Netflix thriller encroach on your loneliness. A glutton for punishment, you find yourself scrolling through his Instagram; a once sparse but artistic affair turned a hub of grand romantic gestures and #couplegoals monochrome reels; his arms around her, his hands on her, their love edited to perfection. Your follow request to Zara still pends approval.

First impressions count for everything, and yours of Zara was far from rosy. Ever the optimist you sought to give her the benefit of the doubt; first meeting nerves can taint one’s character, a lack of confidence may manifest obnoxiously. It soon became clear that your doubt was misplaced; Renjun is kind and conscientious. Zara is not. She’s wrong for him.

She’s wrong for him, but he doesn’t see it. He’s in love, you muse silently, watching as the pair stroll ahead down the street, gathered close under a black umbrella. He talks to her with a gentile tone that makes your stomach twist; she giggles and stays close. Occasionally, when Renjun looks elsewhere with attention diverted, she’ll glance back at you, the eye contact pointed. She does the same to others that pass by, every one of their stares injects her ego, and still, he doesn’t see it. If you were being kind, you might draw her nature up to a symptom of her generation; she craves the attention, wants to be wanted, is only validated by the longing gazes of others, and by that reasoning can’t help the way she seeks it out. If you weren’t being kind; well, you’d get in trouble for that.

The destination is the restaurant down the street; a newly opened vegan place that claims its food tastes ‘just like the real thing’, and really, you can’t help but think that’s doing vegan food an overall disservice. Still, when Renjun texted you two nights prior suggesting dinner, you jumped at the chance. It’s been over a week since you last saw him. You have yet to say much more than ‘hello’ to him; Zara hanging from his side makes it difficult, as is customary now.

 Approaching the restaurant, umbrellas are drawn down and Renjun holds the door open, firstly for Zara, then for you (to her pouting disapproval).

“Thanks,” you offer him a timid smile, unable to meet his gaze.

“Sure.”

Inside, you’re shown to a table near the rear of the venue. The whole place smells distinctly herby, though not unpleasant, the décor colourful without being too garish. Adequately hipster, you suppose. When seated, it’s the same affair as usual: Renjun and Zara versus you. You realise now that she waits for you to sit before positioning herself directly opposite; you’d thought it was coincidence.

Renjun picks up a menu and hands it to you; Zara takes it. He smiles awkwardly. A pierced and tattooed waiter takes everyone’s orders (you rush to choose the first thing you really see thanks to Zara’s menu-hogging), and all that remains is to wait.

Silence falls over the table.

“How have you been?” you eventually ask, chipping away at the iceberg. Your question is directed at Renjun.

“Great, thanks for asking,” Zara replies.

Renjun clears his throat. He puts a hand on Zara’s, which seems to placate her. “Good, yeah. You?”

“Good,” you lie.

“How are things at work?” he asks, dark eyes trained to you. In risking a glance up at him, you realise the gauntness to his cheeks, his sallow complexion. Alarm sweeps through you in a hot wave; you reign in the urge to hug him.

“Fine,” you mumble. “Busy, you know. As always.”

Renjun smiles. “Right.”

“I, uh... I actually read a manuscript the other day that made me think of you. You’d have liked it. It was about this—”

“Oh my gosh, where is this food?” Zara suddenly complains in a huff.

Irritation ticks your jaw. You take a slow inhale and continue, “It was about this artist that's been having a recurring nightmare since childhood. He decides to try and understand it, and paints it, and basically gets—”

“I am starving.”

Renjun cringes, but does a good job of hiding it. He pats Zara’s hand. “It won’t be much longer, baby.”

He turns back to you. “Go on.”

Gathering the fragments of your worn patience, you try to collect your thoughts again. “Uh, so, he’s been having a nightmare, and he paints it hoping it’ll help him figure out why he’s having it. It becomes this massive work, spanning over several canvases, and he can’t control it. He can’t stop painting. It ends with him—”

“Ren-ren, could you get me a water?”

And you snap.

“Do you not hear me talking?”

Zara blinks at you nonchalantly, thick black lashes fanning over her cheeks. “Excuse me?”

“I’m talking,” you repeat sternly, “you keep interrupting me.”

She scoffs and shrugs. “Well, damn. I’m just out here emoting, honey. You don’t have to get so—”

“Could you maybe emote in silence?”

Renjun looks frantically between you.

“I’m sensing some aggression that I’m not enjoying,” Zara states patronisingly. She turns to Renjun. “You need to get her under control.”

“Okay,” you rise from the table, collecting your bag as the chair skids across the tiled floor. “I’m done.”

Renjun calls your name. “Wait!”

But you’re already halfway across the restaurant, and it’s surely a mercy that you don’t see the dainty wave Zara affords after you or the smugness on her face.

Outside the venue, it’s pouring down; in your eagerness to leave, you’d left your umbrella behind. Looking up at the grey sky, you once again lament the sunshine. One month until spring comes.

Starting down the street at a rage-fuelled pace, you hope to walk it off if the downpour doesn’t dampen it first.

A voice from behind calls your name again, and in the next moment, a breathless Renjun catches up to appear before you, umbrella raised over your head. You expect the shrill cry of his girlfriend to follow mere seconds after, yet it doesn’t.

“I’m so sorry about her,” he pants, rain cascading from the rim of the umbrella. Patches of damp stain his white shirt. “She can be a little feisty sometimes.”

You balk at him. “Feisty?”

Renjun blinks cluelessly, and you suppose so many weeks of withholding is long enough.

“You really don’t see it, do you?”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“Her,” you point back in the direction of the restaurant, “the way she is. She’s a bad person, Jun.”

He rolls his eyes. “I know you’ve had a falling out, but isn’t that a bit extreme? You can come back from it—”

“Come back from it?! Don’t you see the way she treats people? The way she treats me? Like I’m dirt on her shoe?”

Renjun stares, seemingly dumbfounded.

“I have tried to be amicable for your sake,” you continue, “but I can’t anymore, Jun. She’s the most self-absorbed person I’ve ever met. She’s the total opposite of you in every way that matters, which makes me wonder what it is you even see in her past the obvious.”

“I... I’m with her because I love her.”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“It’s the truth.”

“It can’t be, Jun, because your being in love with her would mean you’re a bad person too, and that’s simply not true.”

Renjun’s jaw locks; he drops his gaze to the puddles at your feet.

“You are my best friend,” you speak over the din of rainfall, “but she doesn’t respect that. She doesn’t respect either of us. Maybe I should have told you all this before she drove a wedge between us, but I wanted you to be happy. I thought you were.”

“I am—”

“Don’t lie to me. I have eyes, I see the state of you. Even if I didn’t know you, I’d think you looked like warmed up shit.”

He scoffs, but it’s far from amused.

“It’s not my place to tell you what to do, but I’ll still call it as I see it. She’s so wrong for you.”

Renjun tips his head back, his breath condensing on the chill air. He looks at you, the ends of his two-tone black and blonde dripping water.

“And you’re right for me?” he says.

Your heart seizes. You try to say something when he steps forward, concealed from the world under the umbrella that he lowers over you.

“Is that what you’re implying?” he presses, his voice an octave lower. Something warm and heavy swoops through your gut; he reaches to your chin, gentle thumb and forefinger tipping your head back to his view. It gets harder to breathe.

“After all this time?”

Gaze flicking from your eyes to parted lips, it defies all sense that this should be happening now. Even in moments past where you thought something could have happened, it’s never been like this; so heated and apparent. He’s never been so—

“Ren-ren!”

And the fragile knitting of the standoff is shattered.

Returned to self, you shove him by the chest, snatch the umbrella from his grasp, and take off down the street.

You can't discern the tears from the rainfall.

***

Watching the slow-moving bicycle icon trail across the tracking map with a concerning intensity, your stomach growls impatiently.

“Cycle faster, you shit,” you grumble.

Ultimately conceding that staring at the delivery driver probably won’t make food come any quicker, you toss your phone to the sofa. Immediate problems are a decent enough distraction from the events of the day, especially when easily solved: you didn’t get to eat earlier, thus are wasting away, therefore require sustenance in the form of the saving grace that is Deliveroo. Easy.

The problem of your best friend, however, requires rather more thought. If before there had been uncertainty surrounding his feelings for you, you suppose there isn’t now. It’s crossed your mind that his earlier advance may well have been a product of the momentary turmoil; that wouldn’t be out of the realms of possibility, if a little harder to swallow than the pleasant, preferred alternative.

Either way, you suppose the ball rests in his court. Whatever happens next should be down to him; you’ve said you piece and made your feelings on his girlfriend clear. When he ends it, that’ll at least be a weight removed from your shoulders.

A sharp buzz resounds from your side; you scramble for your phone. It’s not the delivery driver.

You answer the call, tapping loudspeaker. “Hello?”

“Hi.”

His voice always deepens when he’s tired. You wait for him to speak.

“Did you, uh... make it home alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. That’s good.”

Silence passes; anxious anticipation curls around you.

“I wanted to apologise. Like, properly.”

“For what?”

“For... what happened earlier. For trying it on with you like that. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Oh.

“So, yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” is all you can manage with the lump solidifying in your throat. Renjun clears his and speaks again.

“Zara wants to apologise too.”

The anxiety warps to sickness.

“We talked things through. She didn’t see what an asshole she was being. I know you have your... reservations about her, but I really think if you just hear her out, you’ll change your mind.”

Tears prick and streak down your cheeks; there’s no reasoning with him now, you realise.

“I gave her your number. She said she’d call so... heads up.”

“Okay.”

“I hope that was okay to do.”

“It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Jun, I have to go. Food’s here.”

“Alright. Well, I’m sorry, again. See you soon?”

“Sure.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever actively sought to get off the phone to your best friend; the first time you’ve ever been relieved to do so.

Food arrives twenty minutes later, which is time enough for you to regain a sliver of composure. You pay the cyclist, and tip him well.

A shame that it goes cold on the table.

***

The next day, you’re so buried in work you don’t have a spare cell capable of affording thought to anything else.

Meetings with authors first thing and manuscript approvals mid-morning, lunchtime is worked through responding to emails and early afternoon is spent reviewing submitted redrafts. Late afternoon is yet another meeting with a partner publishing house, and as early evening ticks over, you’re brutally reminded by a dizzy spell and mercifully brief spate of double vision that you’ve yet to consume anything other than coffee in more than sixteen hours.

Checking your phone on the way the café down the street brings a dose of reality: seven missed calls from an unknown number, two from Renjun, and a text from the unknown number that reads:

>> hihi, it’s Z, call me x

Better to do it before there’s food in your stomach, you suppose. You’d rather not have to see it again. Dialling the unknown number, it rings only twice.

“I have been calling you, like, literally all day.”

Your gut twists uncomfortably; even the sound of her voice manages it.

“Yeah. I work.”

She makes an obnoxious sound of realisation. “Right! The magazine?”

“If by that you mean the publishing house, then yes.”

“Hey, so, Ren-ren wanted me to call and say sorry for yesterday or whatever but I figured it’d be cooler for us to meet up.”

“Zara, this is all kind of pointless. You don’t actually want to apologise and I’m not—”

“Awesome, I’ll text you the deets. You’re free tonight, right?”

“I actually have quite a bit of work to do—”

“Cool! TTFN honey!”

And just like that, the line dies.

Simmering in irritation all the way to the café, not even the sweet delight of a chocolate muffin can lift the funk. Back at work, you reschedule everything you’d planned to do that evening, supposing there’ll be overtime tomorrow instead.

You begrudgingly google ‘TTFN’.

Do people just say acronyms now?

***

The bar Zara instructed you to meet at is further from your part of the city than you really like to venture; you’re far too jaded by now to believe the inconvenience isn’t deliberate.

An hour-long taxi ride later and nursing sufficient anxiety for being in unfamiliar territory, you send her a text:

&lt;;&lt; I'm here.

The message reads as delivered and seen, but no response comes. Scrolling up the sparse messages to check the name of the bar she sent you beforehand, you’re sure you’re in the right place; the slick stainless-steel sign above the door reads ‘Hub 069’. Supposing that loitering outside won’t do you any good, you gather the scraps of your courage and head in.

It’s immediately apparent that this isn’t a place in which you belong. If money had a tangible aesthetic, the décor of Hub 069 would be the epitome of it; glass and sleek metal curves into furniture, the low lighting is deep blue and white to compliment the sultry atmosphere. Tall poles stretch from floor to spot lit ceiling, several with empty, open cages built around them. There’s no obvious dancefloor, but there is an elevated stage of sorts, its curtains drawn over and floor dark. The consistent hum of a low track plays over the space; it’s too anonymous for you to make out anything other than the occasional bass drop, but it fits the vibe regardless.

You spot a back bar that’s quiet save for two others propping it, the shelf behind it mirrored and lined with vintage liquors on opaque shelving; it gives the illusion of going on endlessly. Heading over to it, you attempt to carry yourself with the self-assurance you know you would have if you were anywhere else, striding through the mix of beautiful people both stood and seated.

Approaching the bar, it takes a moment before you’re noticed; even ordering a double vodka and tonic makes one feel inferior. With no sign of Zara anywhere, you check your phone again and send her another message.

&lt;;< I’m at the bar. Where are you?

Twenty minutes later, a familiar voice spikes your already shot nerves. Glancing over your shoulder, you see Zara entering with two others; a man and a woman, both dripping glamour. Zara herself is wearing the shortest little black dress you’ve ever seen, finished with thigh-high platform boots and a thick chain choker. She looks around, spots you, says something to the man who affords you the most judgemental thousand-yard stare you’ve ever been subjected to before ushering the other woman off across the floor. Zara approaches you; you knock back the rest of your vodka tonic.

“Hi, honey,” she breezes, smelling as expensive as she looks.

“You’re late.”

She pouts dramatically. “I know.”

Rooted in disbelief, watching as she orders a drink, it strikes you just how deeply you don’t want to do this. Nothing about Zara is likeable or relatable; at least not from where you’re standing. You’re chalk and cheese, oil and water. The best friend and the girlfriend.

“So, I’ll keep this short, because, like, my friends are waiting,” she says, “but I’m not here to apologise to you.”

You resist the urge to laugh—as though you hadn’t known that—and instead manage a stilted, “Okay.”

“You and me don’t vibe, like, at all,” she continues. “I know you’re Ren-ren's bestie or whatever—”

“No,” you interrupt her, “not ‘whatever’. I am his best friend, Zara. I have been for a long time, and I’ll continue to be whether you’re in his life or not.”

She blinks, her thick, fake lashes fluttering. “Right. Whatever. But, like, the thing is, we don’t vibe, and so I’m going to need you to leave him alone.”

This time, you don’t resist the urge to laugh. Zara—for the first time—falters, her face dropping.

“I don’t know why that’s, like, funny to you—”

“Funny? It’s fucking hysterical.”

“I’m not joking. You really need to stay away from him.”

“Okay,” you try to compose yourself, “let me just make this clear, because you obviously didn’t hear me the first time. I will be in Renjun’s life whether you like it or not, as his best friend, as his support, as whatever he needs me to be. Nothing is going to change that. The sooner you make your peace with it, the better.”

Zara huffs, her overly glossed lips pressing to a thin line. “People shouldn’t have friends of the opposite sex. It’s weird.”

You gesture across the bar. “Didn’t you just come in here with a man?”

“Doesn’t count. He’s gay.”

“Right,” you laugh, thoroughly exasperated. “Sure. Are we done here?”

You move as though to leave, retrieving your bag from the bar. Zara grabs your arm, stopping you in place.

“Get your damn hand off me—”

“You’re in love with him,” she deadpans.

Momentarily stunned, your face must give away the truth of things when your heart plummets. Zara sneers, her lips curling back over white teeth.

“Knew it.”

 You snatch your arm out of her grasp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re really going to pretend?” she presses. “It’s, like, so obvious, the way you pine after him.”

Defensiveness rears its ugly head. “My feelings for Renjun are my business, Zara. They’re not for you to poke fun at.”

“They totally are though.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, like, what else am I supposed to use against you?” she shrugs.

You stare at her, horrified.

“I mean, imagine hanging onto someone since college hoping they’ll notice you one day,” she giggles, “it’s totally pathetic.”

A lump of emotion solidifies in your throat. You’d known she was a bad person, but this? Zara leans in, her voice dripping vitriol.

“News flash, honey. If he didn’t want to fuck you then, he doesn’t want to now. He never will. It’s giving super desperate.”

“How dare you—”

“Aw,” she coos, “does the truth hurt? It must, right? Because, like, you’ve been so delulu all this time.”

Upset warps to seething rage, and before you do something you know you’ll regret, you’re storming out of the bar, leaving the high-pitched cackles of Zara behind.

Outside Hub 069 is when you remember you’re an hour away from anywhere familiar; too tightly strung to even entertain despair, you simply start walking. Through darkened city streets until your feet begin to blister and your soles ache; until you start to feel the downpour, already soaked through to the skin. Until the heat of anger has subsided so that it gives way to hopeless weakness; until you finally start crying, taking refuge under the striped canopy of a brightly lit convenience store.

What hurts the most about it is that nothing she said is too off the mark; none of it you haven’t considered yourself. There was a time when you were certain your feelings would be perpetually unrequited, in fact. That you and Renjun would never be more than just good friends. Now, however? Things are different. You’re different.

Dragging your sleeve over your tear-streaked cheeks, you fumble for your phone, pulling it from your bag. Dialling Renjun’s number comes easily; it’s muscle memory by now.

After a few rings, he answers.

“Hello?”

“Can you come and get me?”

“Wh—” there’s ruffling from the end of the phone. Was he in bed? “Weren’t you meeting Zara?”

“Yeah. I did.”

Silence; he takes a breath.

“And?”

“And I need you to come get me. Please.”

You wonder if he hears the torrential patter of cascading rain, or the distant sounding of a car horn. Does he hear the billowing of wintry breeze that inspires you to a shiver?

“Drop me a pin. I’m on my way.”

***

Renjun’s car is warm.

It’s also a chaotic mess of empty bottles and aged art supplies; but it’s warm.

Holding your hands by the dashboard vents that blast out hot air thaws the winter chill from your bones; your sodden clothes still stick uncomfortably to your skin. Renjun hasn’t said much aside from instructing you to get in and throwing a blanket from the backseat over your legs; he drives now in stoic silence, his face drawn sombre.

Through the car window, the nightscape passes by in wet streaks of red, white and amber. The steady swish of the windscreen wipers fills the silence; they squeak against the dry glass when he passes under a bridge. The engine hums when in motion and rattles when at a stop, indicative of a problem he ought to look at, perhaps. It wouldn’t be the only one.

After half an hour of silence, you can’t take anymore.

“Thank you for coming all this way,” you say quietly.

Renjun hums. “Sure.”

“I appreciate it.”

He nods, eyes trained to the road. “I know.”

Stuck for something else to say, you’re grateful when he finally sighs.

“Why would she drag you right the way out here?”

You only realise he’s not looking for a genuine answer when he speaks again.

“It’s like she’s trying to be awkward,” he huffs.

Despair curls around you. Why must you be forced to be the bad guy?

“Pull over, Jun.”

He glances at you. “What?”

“Stop the car.”

“O— Okay.”

He pulls into a side street, then around again into a small car park fenced off by thin chain-link; there’s only one streetlamp that burns brightly in the centre of it, several other dark, empty cars are parked up.

He switches off the ignition, stares down at the wheel. Part of him must know what’s coming.

“Zara didn’t meet me because she wanted to apologise,” you sigh. “She warned me off you.”

Renjun’s brow furrows, his already tired eyes narrowing. “Warned you?”

“She told me to stay away from you. To get out of your life.”

He shakes his head.

“You don’t believe me?” you press.

“No, I do. I mean, I know you wouldn’t lie.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t.”

He rakes his hands down his face, his exasperation rife. “I don’t know why she’s being like this.”

“She’s a bad person, Jun. I told you this.”

“Is that really it?” he mumbles, hands dropping to his lap. “Why don’t I see it?”

“Because bad people are good at manipulating others,” you confess.

“You think I’m being manipulated?”

You shrug. “I think you love her, and it’s hard to see past that.”

Renjun’s head falls back to the rest of his seat. He stares through the windscreen that’s just beginning to fog over.

“Do I love her?” he mutters.

Another question he doesn’t want an answer to, you suppose, but the opportunity seems as good as any you’re going to get. A diversion, perhaps.

“Can I... ask you something?”

Renjun’s head lolls towards you; he nods.

“The other day, outside the vegan place...” you assess his reaction on mention of the event. He doesn’t look away from you. “What was that?”

He puffs a small laugh. “Who knows? Another one of our moments, probably.”

Your chest seizes with the ache of hope.

“Moments?” you press.

“What, you’ve never noticed? We have moments.”

He turns towards you slightly, angling so he can stretch his left arm over the back of your seat, his shirt pulling tight across his broad chest. Heat rises up your nape, blooms in your cheeks.

“I’ve noticed.”

He quirks a brow. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I thought it was just me.”

“It wasn’t. It’s not, I mean.”

Misty condensation crawls over the windscreen, the eerie glow of the streetlamp casting strong shadows down the planes of Renjun’s face, the smooth length of his neck.

“Have you ever thought about us? In that way?” you ask.

Renjun swallows. He wets his bottom lip, gaze drifting to your mouth. “What way?” he rasps.

“In the way that friends shouldn’t.”

He smirks gently. “Yeah.”

A heavy swoop of wanting renders you somewhat lightheaded.

“But you never made a move,” you breathe.

“I was never sure. Had a lot to lose.”

“Are you sure now?”

It’s stunted, the realisation that during this whole exchange, he’s been gradually closing in on you. When the next words roll from his lips, they’re inches from yours.

“So sure,” he whispers.

And the connection you’ve been longing for is made; Renjun kisses you, softly and with a tenderness that clutches the fibre of your being and forever tethers you to the man. When he breaks off carefully, it’s a mere second to allow for acceptance; you clutch his shirt and drag him back.

The rain bounces off the hood of the car, relentless in its tinny rhythm. The blanket of darkness outside, the tangible weight of heat in the car makes this a secret so far removed from what you had hitherto believed; that your best friend was never a realistic option. Now, with your lips on his and your groans on his tongue, it feels pretty damn real.

He breaks away again, flushed across cheek and chest. “We should stop.”

“No—”

You kiss him again, a clashing of lips and momentum that Renjun counters with his weight, leaning over you to press back against the creaky seat. His hand closing around your throat, gentle and clammy, sends a wave of voracious wanting straight to your core; you hold his wrist, urging him closer, licking into his mouth.

“Jesus,” he pants breathlessly, “you taste even better than I imagined—”

You groan softly. “You can’t say things like that to me, Jun.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes me crazy.”

He grins against your mouth. “I don’t mind a little crazy, baby.”

***

Back at your apartment, things move quickly, and perhaps that’s for the best.

In the dim of your living room, Renjun strips the wet clothes from your skin, the sliver of moonlight bleeding through the curtains bathing your complexion. Every hitch of breath and wanton sigh feels deafening in the silence; it’s vulnerable, to be so open and bare like this, but all the more natural.

There’s a conversation to be had, you know, and were you not the victim of years’ worth of crushing longing you might pause to entertain it. As it stands, you’re far from able to tear yourself away from the man. Better then, that it appears to be mutual.

He likes the way you taste; he’s told you as much. He likes the way your lips feel, an apparent glutton for kissing every inch of your mouth. His are swollen now, temptingly plush. They travel down the column of your throat, a tingling trail left on your skin. The nearest hard surface is a chest of drawers tucked near the television unit; you’re backed to it, lifted to it, legs spread for him to stand between. His shirt discarded to reveal broad chest and a gentle wave of abs brings you to near frantic delight; your hands roam over him, appreciating every curve and blemish.

“It’s so weird,” you mumble quietly.

Renjun watches you. “Weird?”

“To touch you like this; like I've always wanted to. I feel like I should be reprimanded or something.”

He curls a grip around your wrist, bringing your arm around his neck. His lips close on yours as he whispers, “That can be arranged, baby.”

Arousal pools silken in your core; with one hand he lifts your right thigh up and apart, with the other he traces a teasing touch over your naked centre, the expanse of his palm cupping you warmly. You grind instinctively against him, the desire for friction demanding it.

Renjun grins and says on a staggered breath, “So pretty right here.” He isolates his middle finger, dragging it through your folds. “So wet.”

 “Jun, fuck—”

“Want my big cock, baby?” He palms over the swell in his jeans, guides your hand to do the same. The thick impression under your fingers sends butterflies in your gut to soar; you make quick work of his belt buckle and zipper, tugging the clothing down his thighs until he takes over. When free, he strokes himself slowly, tightly. Gripping the lip of the furniture you’re perched on, your core throbs with wanting on the suggestion of being filled, for Renjun’s lengthy appendage promises such satisfaction.

“Well?” he quirks a brow. “Do you want it?”

You nod weakly.

“Can’t hear you.”

“Yes, Jun. I want it. God.”

“Better,” he rasps, a step forward connecting your bodies for him to angle just so. By the curve of your ass, he drags you sharply to the edge of the furniture, his blushed head catching on your entrance when he aligns. You hold your breath, arms thrown around his neck, so much more than prepared for this.

He locks your lips when a gentle ease of his hips guides him inside; every nerve ending fires off and white static descends over your consciousness, your whimper of delight in taking him so deliciously dying out on his tongue. Renjun draws tight, holds so until the relief of being sheathed inside you allows him to relax. Connected on most every level two people may be, he breaks away to lift your chin with thumb and forefinger, attaching his mouth to the underside of your jaw as he whispers, “Hold on tight.”

And his warning is not unfounded; Renjun fucks you with a vivacity you thought him incapable of, the rhythmic drive of his hips strong and pointed on every thrust. The thump of the drawers against the wall accompanies the litany of expletives falling from your lips, bruised and bitten from his enthusiasm. Held spread by his hands hooked under your knees, Renjun moves with a steady fluidity that sees you stimulated in the deepest reaches.

Over his shoulder, the darkened window of your living room reflects the moonlit scene back at you; the toned muscles of his back and thighs that wave like an artform, the rigidity of his stance that speaks to his seemingly endless stamina, the thin coat of sweat that renders him almost iridescent.

“Jun,” you whimper hopelessly, “I can’t—”

“You can,” he hisses, “you can, baby. You’re doing so well.”

Slinking from him to rest against the wall, Renjun releases your knee to drag an appreciative touch down your clammy chest, to your navel.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, then guides your thighs up and spreads wide, exposing your tender centre for his viewing pleasure. He watches with smouldering intensity as he disappears inside you, coated in your arousal, the repeated entry slick and easy. He manages what length of his throbbing cock is given to you; sometimes the inches of his tip and one more, sometimes the full seven.

“J— Jun,” you claw at his chest, “I’m coming—”

“Yeah, fuck... good girl.”

When your orgasm hits, it brings his. Removed from physical constraints of the body, you float boneless through the euphoria that is having the most incredible sex of your life. The sight of Renjun falling apart amidst praises of your name is one you won’t soon forget; hopefully won’t have to.

Swaddled in bed with him after the clean-up, (he insisted on showering with you), it strikes you that this is how it must feel to cross a line you’ve been tiptoeing along for so many years; like fulfilment. Uncertain, but somehow complete. Your best friend naked at your side, you turn to him and take him in. His plush lips relaxed in content, his eyes closed as sleep crawls over him. His black and blonde hair freshly washed and towel dried, the gentle rising and falling of his still blushed chest.

“Jun?”

He opens his eyes slowly.

“We did a thing,” you whisper.

He smiles lazily. “Yeah. We did. A good thing?”

“It feels like a good thing.”

He hums his agreement. “It does.”

“You’re a talker though, huh?”

“You knew that about me.”

“I guess. I didn’t think it extended to everything though.”

He eyes you dubiously. “You don’t like it?”

You shake your head. “Didn’t say that.”

“Good. Because there’s still scope for that reprimanding you wanted.”

Silken warmth blooms in your core; this is certainly a side of him that’ll take some getting used to where your sanity is concerned.

“So... you’d want this to happen again?” you ask, somewhat timidly.

His brow furrows. “Would I want to have the best sex I’ve ever had, again? Are you kidding?”

“I mean—”

“I know what you mean. Yes, I do. I’d like it to happen a lot, actually.”

You swallow over the lump in your throat. Renjun taps his chest, opening his arm for you to snuggle beneath. In doing so, you’re almost as confused as you are thoroughly delighted; this is all so new.

He kisses your crown softly. “I’ll get things straightened out with Zara in the morning,” he speaks into your hair. “I know this wasn’t the right way to do things, but I’m glad it happened all the same.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. If it didn’t happen now, it might never have.”

“It would have,” you whisper. “I’d have made sure of it.”

Renjun laughs gently, the vibrations in his chest under your ear.

“You were always supposed to end up with me, Jun.”

He sighs listlessly, his fingers soothing through your hair.

“I know.”

***

Five weeks ago, in this very café, you met someone who had everything you wanted.

Now, you sit opposite that same person, and her countenance is just as icy as it was back then. Yours, however, is decidedly lighter. You don’t look at Zara and see all the things she has that you don’t; you look at her and simply see her for what she pretends to be.

And in the spirit of pretence, you place your phone to the table.

“What is it that you wanted, exactly?” Zara huffs, arms wrapped around herself as though fearing she might catch a disease from the rustic venue.

“I wanted to thank you.”

Zara scoffs. “What?”

“I wanted to say thank you,” you repeat.

“I don’t get it.”

You smile sweetly. “If it wasn’t for you, I never would have had the courage to go through with telling Jun how I felt.” You pause, pleased with the vacant gloss that crosses Zara’s face. “Or, I suppose, showing him how I felt.”

Her mouth opens, then promptly closes. It reminds you of a pufferfish.

“You gave me an epiphany, Zara.”

“A what?”

“After your attempt at blackmailing me yesterday, I figured I had nothing to lose. Why was I keeping my feelings to myself? I mean, I’d always had an inkling that if Jun and I ever tried to cross that line of friendship into something more, we’d hit it off big time. I guess I was super right.”

Zara leans across the table. “What the hell are you saying to me? What happened?”

“Well,” you speak thoughtfully, “after I left the plastic club, I called Jun. He picked me up, and we talked, and then...” you look around sheepishly, then pull down the collar of your sweater just enough that the mark of Renjun’s passion is exposed; perhaps you exacerbated it with some brown eyeshadow.

Zara’s cheeks turn a strange, beetroot colour. “You’re trying to tell me you screwed my boyfriend? Like, you?”

You nod triumphantly.

“There’s no fucking way,” Zara laughs, “like, look at you. Look at me. He’d give up prime fucking steak for a mouldy old hamburger? Be serious right now—”

“Best sex of his life, I think he said.”

“You’re a fucking liar!” she rises from her chair. “I’ll totally destroy you, bitch. You think Ren-ren would even look at you? That he would cheat on me!? I knew you were delulu but this is giving psych ward—”

And at that moment, the venue door opens, inviting the street chill inside. Still sitting calmly, you glance over your shoulder. Renjun, having just entered, holds his phone to his ear, his expression sombre. The colour drains from Zara’s face.

“Ren-ren...?”

He lowers his phone, holding the screen to her. Your caller ID dances across it; you tap the screen of your phone, still positioned face-up on the table, and promptly end the call. For Zara, the pieces click into place relatively quickly.

“You... heard all that?” she mutters.

“She told me you were a bad person,” Renjun says coolly. “I didn’t want to believe it.”

Zara starts across the café towards him; you rise quickly from your chair, stepping into her path. She falters but doesn’t push it.

“You blackmailed my best friend,” he continues, “belittled her. Dismissed her at every turn. Made her feel like she was worth nothing; like her feelings were worth nothing. What has to be fundamentally broken in a person to make them capable of doing that?”

“You’ve got it totally wrong, Ren-ren—”

“Enough!” he hisses. “Just stop pretending, Zara. For once, be real.”

And something in her demeanour appears to snap; like the mask falls away to reveal the rot beneath.

“You know I have, like, three other dudes hanging off me, right?” she sneers. “I’m not short on attention. Guys trip over themselves trying to get to know me. My DM’s are so packed it’s like the fucking Superbowl in there.”

You breathe out a laugh, unable to withhold it.

“What? That’s funny to you? You wouldn’t even know what attention feels like, how good it feels to be wanted—”

“Oh, I know how good it feels to be wanted,” you smile saccharine.

“You’re nothing,” she continues.

Renjun takes your hand, seemingly done with the display. “Come on.”

You nod at him, turning away from the first person you’ve ever seen spiral into their own built-up delusions in real time.

“You’re a pair of fucking nobodies!” she cries.

You wonder if there might have been another way to do this. Not so publicly, perhaps. Does a bad, brutal person call for a bad, brutal comedown in every case?

“You think you got one over on me!? I don’t get cheated on; I do not get dumped!”

You turn back to her as Renjun opens the door for you. A snide wave and a smile of genuine delight, you simply say:

“TTFN.”

***

“Oh, fuck, Jun—”

Among your plans for this Sunday afternoon, getting your back blown out wasn’t quite on the list. Having said that, it’s a welcome addition.

Renjun holds you at the curve of your hips, the rhythmic smack of skin timing to his brutal thrusts. He groans your name and curses aloud, the thick length of his cock driving every staggered breath clean from you in a litany of whines and moans.

Five weeks since the incident you’re mutually calling ‘the great breakdown’; spring is finally here.

Life is a level of blissful you hadn’t thought was achievable. You’re not sure there’s such a thing as moving too fast when you’ve both suffered such longing; there’s been talk of him moving in with you, talk of meeting parents, talk of future plans that—while somewhat daunting for the most obvious reasons pertaining to change—are inexplicably exciting.

“God, you’re so good baby. So good at taking me—”

And as Renjun still talks, your susceptibility to his filth has only grown.

“Want it,” you whimper, “want all of it, Jun, please—”

Blonde strands fall into his eyes amongst the black as he doubles over you, close to crisis. Hands and knees imprinting the mattress that creaks steadily beneath you, Renjun’s appreciation for your body manifests in the handprints on your ass, the soft teeth marks over your shoulders, the dainty blooming of colour on your throat. He flips you over—a somewhat clumsy affair until limbs are situated and he’s back inside you—and the final drives of his hips bring him to release.

When he comes, he does so while consuming your lips, for that’s yet another thing you’ve discovered of his nature; Renjun feels never more connected than by a kiss, the need to feel your lips a crutch on which his pleasure rests.

Good thing you’re more than happy to oblige.

Amidst post-coital content, strewn out naked under the sunny spring rays that cast through your bedroom window, Renjun sighs softly.

“Still want to take that hot springs trip?”

𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚, 𝙧𝙚𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙨𝙠 ♡

salted caramel | lmh ( m )

you hadn’t been aware that mark’s jealousy followed the rules of baseball — three strikes, and he snaps?

read the first part here!

pairing: barista!bf!mark x reader verse: college!au rating: r warnings&tags: unprotected sex, mentions of creampies (although not an actual one), hickeys, possessiveness and jealousy, exhibitionism, sort of phone sex in conjunction with said exhibitionism, oral (m!receiving), mark has an understated but unending obsession with mc’s stomach, tummy bulges, we always love an implicit bigdick!mark, donghyuck is kind of a little shit and basically he has to cross a few lines for this “plot” to get to where it gets word count: 20.3k

a/n: this is a bit rushed and panicked because I basically wrote it in a feverish 2.5ish days… i’m so sorry that the pacing might be a little off, especially since I can never tell if it’s actually too fast or not. this is also unedited and unbeta’d but oh well because i never edit my stuff before posting and just re-edit when I re-read! regardless, i hope it’s something that you can enjoy, and i couldn’t pick between sweetest bf ever!mark and hottest mf ever!mark, so i guess you get a little bit of both!

if you liked it, please consider reblogging to support (especially because this may get flagged for mature content)!

You should have noticed it the first time, but in your overall defense, you find most things that you take note of about Mark Lee to be more on the highly positive and greatly endearing side — or, maybe, you just have a tendency to paint him in that kind of light.

You can’t really help it; he’s still got that halfway shy, softly adoring look in his eyes whenever he sees you, which is more often now than ever before, and you just can’t do anything but reciprocate, if only to see his eyes grow a little brighter. You wonder if Mark’s aware that if this were a Shakespearean scenario, you’d easily fall on your sword for him without question, for as long as he asked, but you don’t think there’s any pressing need to remind him — not with the way you spend most of your free time figuring out ways to be with him. You’re certain he should know, what with the fact that every time he looks at you, even just a glimpse, your gaze is always on him, ready to make eye contact whenever he turns his head — something he often acknowledges with one of those signature blushes that spread like wildfire across his cheeks, up to the tips of his ears.

It also should be unmistakably clear that you’re head over heels for him, given how at least once a week, he’s got his face buried between your legs in an attempt to hear the thing he wants you to say the most (see: his name, in varying pitches and decibels) — but if he doesn’t notice then, you can’t hold it against him; Mark’s mouth is so attentive that you doubt his mind is anywhere else apart from what inch of you his tongue is going to meet next in that moment. At least, that much is true for you.

He should at least know, what with you waiting for his classes to end so you can walk to Starbucks for his afternoon shift; you even race the twenty-minute distance to the Department of Mathematics, still holding your European Renaissance History textbook from your last lecture, just to make sure you’re there right as he gets out — a fact he has to know is an act of devotion, considering how often he finds you heaving for air and leaning your back against the brick wall outside the Accounting 150 Lab. Even his professor knows you as Mark Lee’s admirer, which is all well and good, but if you had the breath to spare, you’d correct his terminology for accuracy. Girlfriend. You’re Mark Lee’s girlfriend.

It’s a fact you don’t mind reminding him of but that you actually have to do quite often, because when you call Mark the appropriate counterpart — boyfriend — his eyes still widen, like he’s hearing it for the first time. It’s cute, just like everything else about him. You just have to wonder, at times, if he doesn’t believe you.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter; you’ll just keep telling him.

You don’t have any classes with Mark this semester, which is a shame, considering your favorite pastime over the last few months had just been to stare at his side profile and wish he’d look over so you could kiss him, but the fact that you spend almost every day with him now, using that time to remind him of how much you want to kiss him and actually getting it to do it right then and there, pretty much more than makes up for your previous schedule of daydreaming.

However, hanging out with him doesn’t always mean you’re just with him; you came to learn this after the first week of the new semester, and you’ve now gotten used to the fact that with Mark Lee sometimes comes his band of tall, often loud friends.

The loudest by far is Lee Donghyuck, the mysterious figure last semester that you’d only known by one syllable, now easily recognizable (and no longer enigmatic by any means to you) by his booming voice and even more demanding personality. He’s supremely outgoing, a trait you can’t say you mind, but there’s an interesting contrast between Mark, who tends to say things after carefully considering his ideas, and Donghyuck, who seems to just burst out in fits of impulsive rambling that often leads to some kind of semi-structured debate. It kind of gives you whiplash, in a funny, slightly perplexing way.

The whole friend group likes to meet up at Starbucks while Mark is on his shift, and now that they’ve come to know you as that girl Mark didn’t teach a single thing in College Algebra to but still somehow got lucky with (something you’ve wasted immense efforts into correcting but have ultimately failed to do so), you now find yourself sitting with them, all somehow waiting for who appears to be the nucleus of this group to stop taking coffee orders and hang up his (cute, but you’re the only one that thinks so, actually) green apron.

Again, you don’t mind it; new people aren’t an issue to you, and you’re also interested in finding out more about Mark through those closest to him. You get to see the few ways they’re alike in contrast to the staggering number of things that make them amusingly different from one another. Despite the broad spectrum of their intersecting interests, you’ve come to learn, through the conversations you’ve had to sit through over the last month, that they have varying opinions on said interests. For instance, you know they’re all into video games, Japanese manga, and long-winding fantasy movies, but every conversation takes flight the moment there’s even a spark of dissent from one person — and the source, usually (and quite unfortunately), is Lee Donghyuck himself.

Today is no exception.

“Dude, you’re crazy,” Zhong Chenle practically seethes. Whether by sheer coincidence or actual desire, he’s the one who most often finds himself staring Donghyuck down, trying to bend the latter’s will into admitting defeat. Donghyuck, on the other hand, has mastered the art of looking supremely unperturbed, especially when Chenle is in the heat of his rage. “The ninth was the worst, hands down.”

“Art and rendering were so solid.” Donghyuck raises a finger, and you’re not sure if it’s to start off a list or to shut Chenle up. You don’t want to ask, anyway, too busy finding amusement in the shifting expressions of despair, rage, anguish, and murderous intent on the latter’s face to speak up. You presume that’s why everyone else isn’t stopping them — or maybe they’re just preparing their own defenses and points to raise. “Intuitive combat and flawless combo chains. The fucking open world? Which other installment in the franchise offers that much depth in the gameplay?”

“Depth? Do you even hear yourself right now?” Chenle grips his head so tightly that when he pulls his hands away, there are actual red marks across his forehead and temple, and his bangs are askew. “What kind of depth comes from cloned movesets? The character designs are so stupidly traditional too. And—”

“There’s a unique kind of beauty in familiarity.”

“The open world was a disaster,” Chenle plows on. “It was so empty, and the map was the farthest thing from intuitive. It’s quite literally the worst thing KOEI has ever done. That’s exactly why they went back to the limited map strategy in later installments. Even the spin-offs.”

“I thought the grappling and ambush systems were pretty intuitive. Ingenious, even.”

It’s a singularly amusing sight — Chenle is one insult to his pride away from imploding, and Donghyuck is just checking the dirt under his nails like he’s waiting in line to take his school ID photo. Park Jisung, one of the quieter ones in the bunch, tries to diffuse the tension by clearing his throat and going ‘I actually really liked the Age Of Calamity Zelda one they released with all the different campaigns,’ but that just goes unnoticed by either party.

“You once failed an ambush play just because you were stuck behind a wall you couldn’t scale. Don’t say shit about the ambush and grappling mechanics.”

“Unlike some people sitting around this table, I learn from my mistakes. That’s also probably why some people — not naming names — just can’t appreciate the artistic beauty that is Dynasty Warriors 9.”

Donghyuck doesn’t even look up from his cuticles when Chenle explodes.

“You’re fucking impossible!”

“Can you guys relax?” Lee Jeno, who had somehow miraculously found the space and silence in the breaths between the entire argument to doze off, opens one eye, only slightly irate. “You’re making a scene over a dead game franchise.”

“It’s not dead; they’re on hiatus,” both Chenle and Donghyuck chime in together, apparently finding a moment of unique solidarity to shoot Jeno down before going back to glaring daggers at each other. Jeno shrugs, gives everyone else at the table an I tried kind of exasperated expression, and settles back into his seat, the one eye already closing before he’s fully folded his arms across his chest.

Your eyes wander away from the group over to the counter. You’re thankful for the fact that most of the time, you just get invited to share a table with them without necessarily being trapped in the middle of a conversation — especially one as heated as the one Chenle is prolonging while jabbing his finger accusingly at Donghyuck, as if he’s trying to pin a crime on the latter instead of just explaining why Donghyuck’s opinion is ‘borne of ignorance.’ When they’re all caught up in their business like this, you end up being able to revel in your more or less unobstructed view of Mark behind the barista’s station, where he’s busy piping an extra helping of whipped cream on top of a strawberry frappuccino for a kid that’s already jumping up and down next to the pick-up station.

The biting winter had already given way to the first signs of spring, and the Starbucks Mark works at has a supremely effective central heating system that allows people to shed their coats. This works in your favor, considering Mark wears nothing but a button-up shirt over his apron while he works, and he’s got this habit of rolling up his sleeves so they don’t catch any stains. You’re pretty sure he has a second motive, though; surely, he’s aware of how the view of his arms, muscles tightening under his skin whenever he even lightly grips something, drives you crazy. You’d bet a month’s allowance he’s doing it on purpose so that you start entertaining the thought of yelling at everyone in the branch to fuck off so you can grab him by the front of his stupid shirt so you can kiss his stupid face. Or ride it.

And for some inexplicable reason, he still has the audacity to act like there’s nothing amiss. When he looks up at you right after pushing the frappuccino towards the little girl, his eyes still brighten, almost innocent in their gaze, the corners of his lips turning up surreptitiously, hiding the smile he seems to save for only you from everyone else in the room.

You smile back, but when he turns away to take someone’s order, you let out a heavy sigh and take a long sip of your vanilla sweet cream cold brew until you start reaching the last dregs of it under the ice. Your brain pretty much cries out in protest, but you know it deserves as much as a mental cold shower for entertaining the thought of asking him to bend you over the counter at five-thirty in the afternoon in a Starbucks.

Stupid Mark. Stupid brain. Stupid fucking people in the room.

The warm breath in your ear alerts you to a slowly approaching presence, but you don’t have the reflexes to turn back to its source before it starts talking.

“Got anything to add to either of our cases, ___________?”

“What?” Your palm comes up to rub your ear as Donghyuck pulls away, laughing lightly. You’re sucked back into the foreground of the conversation, but you’re just as lost now as you had been before you started tuning them out in favor of your lust. “Uh — no. Sorry. To be honest, I know nothing about… sorry, what were you guys talking about again?”

“See, that’s how normal people act,” Jeno grumbles, both his eyes flying open this time. “Instead of hosting a presidential debate about Dynasty Warriors.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” You’re quick to add, and Jeno looks mildly amused at your attempt to still mollify the rest of the group. “I’m sure I would have liked it. If, you know, I actually had been introduced to it at any point in my life.”

“And if you had, I’m sure you’d have the taste to assert alongside me that the seventh installment was revolutionary,” Chenle sniffs, but he’s looking more pointedly at Donghyuck, who’s still ignoring him, save for the fact that he’s now looking at you instead of at his nails (which doesn’t feel like such a great upgrade).

“Nah, she’d be on my side. ___________ looks like she’d appreciate a good, scenic open world and grappling system. Right?”

“Uh…” you say smartly.

“Man, shut up.” Chenle throws his hands in the air before he stands up, his chair scraping against the floor as he pushes it back with astounding force. “Got me so pissed off I need to pee now.”

You have no idea what the correlation is between getting annoyed and needing to use the bathroom, but even if you wanted to bring up your doubts — which you don’t — Chenle is long gone before you can get your thoughts together. It’s only when he’s out of earshot that Donghyuck leans in, almost conspiratorially, to whisper to you again.

“Actually, I think the ninth sucks too. But isn’t it kind of funny how worked up that fucker gets?”

“To be honest, I’ve never known anyone with quite your talent in riling people up,” you admit, and even though you’re not sure what kind of meaning you want attached to that, you notice that he decides to take it as a compliment all on his own, his chest puffing out in pride. “Too bad I have no idea which opinion is really right, or I’d weigh in, too.”

“Not a Dynasty Warriors kind of girl, then?”

“No one is, Hyuck,” Jeno snorts, shaking his head. “You two are the only people I know who still played that past the fifth installment.”

“Fair. I nurture a love for old franchises.” Donghyuck leans back, looking supremely satisfied at how he’s managed to tick off one of his most important ‘to-do’ points of the day. “So what’s your poison, ___________?”

“What’s that mean?”

“You a Gardenscapes kind of girl? Tekken? Maybe you like some good ol’ fashioned LoL?”

“I honestly don’t have the hand-eye coordination to play,” you confess. “I know Mark likes to play PUBG from time to time. I mostly just sit and ask questions, though. The few times I tried playing with him, I swear any normal person would’ve cried. He had to babysit me like crazy. It was a miracle he didn’t throw me out.”

“She even tries to play with him,” Donghyuck whistles lowly. “Dude, how’d Mark get a chick like you?”

“Meaning?”

“You’re way too good for that dope.” His laugh is light and good-natured. “Never thought a moony-eyed weirdo like him would actually wind up with his dream girl — which he’s called you, more than once, by the way. Fucking disgusting, but… I get it. Doesn’t make it less crazy or weird to hear, though.”

“Sorry to put you through that.” You smile, using your straw to stir the contents of your cup. A warmth spreads through your shoulders and down your arms to the tips of your fingers as you digest what Donghyuck’s just said to you, and you find your eyes trailing back to Mark, who’s pulling off his apron. His eyes are already fixed on you, and when you lock gazes, he mouths a wait for me that makes you want to squeeze the life out of something in pure joy. You settle for a soft sigh. “I guess it won’t help if I say your friend over there’s my dream guy.”

“It absolutely will not,” Donghyuck groans, faking a gagging noise that has you laughing. “But tell you what — if you ever get tired of Mark playing PUBG and ignoring you like the clown he is, I’ll find you someone else more your speed.”

“No thanks,” you snort, taking the last sip of your drink. “More than that, I’d just want to be some kind of helpful to him if I ever play with him again.”

“We can help you with that too,” Jisung volunteers. “Jeno taught me the basics. I’m sure he can teach you too.”

“Yeah, and I’m guessing you’d be a better student than mister “how come you didn’t tell me I had to focus the crosshairs myself” over here,” Jeno chuckles, surreptitiously pointing at Jisung when you cast him a questioning look.

“I’m pretty good at sneak attacks myself.” Donghyuck makes a show of pretending to slice your neck before grinning smugly. “We’ll take care of you. Mark won’t know what hit him next time.”

“What’s happening to me next time?”

You feel Mark before you see him, his hand landing on your head lightly and smoothing your hair back in an idle, gentle motion to announce his presence. You look up at him, already beaming, and he returns the favor as his hand settles on your shoulder.

“We were just talking about replacing you. Both as a friend and as a boyfriend, for your poor little dream girl here who’s just too nice to turn you down.” Donghyuck lies like it’s second nature; you wonder if that’s a Finance major thing or just a him thing.

“And you’re offering that to someone who didn’t ask for it?” Mark snorts, nudging Chenle’s bag over so he can sit in the empty spot.

“She’s so caught up in your sticky little web that she can’t struggle against you.” Donghyuck feigns a heavy sigh that suggests he feels sorry for you before he puts a hand on your free shoulder, shaking his head in a convincing kind of pity. “I’ll save you, so don’t worry. Mark can’t keep his grubby hands on you forever. Whenever you need to be saved, I’ll come a-running to free you.”

There’s a tightness on one shoulder that disrupts the balance of your torso, and you find yourself leaning closer to Mark. Your hand finds its way to his knee, giving it a light squeeze under the table, and his grip loosens by a fraction. Donghyuck’s as quick to let go as he is to hang on.

“We were just talking about PUBG,” you correct, and Mark’s eyes snap to you. “I was asking for help — you know, so I won’t drag you down the next time I join in?”

“I don’t mind whatever you do in-game.” He’s quick to comfort you, even if you don’t actually need it, but it feels warm and cold “I’m just glad you wanna try it with me.”

“No, but I kind of want to learn too. So it can be fun for both of us. Also so you don’t have to keep avenging me after five minutes,” you laugh. Mark cracks a smile then, and you don’t realize his expression had been slightly harder until it softens under your gaze.

“Then I’ll teach you next time.”

“No, I want to surprise you with how cool I get. And then next time, I’ll even beat you.” You turn to Donghyuck, slightly unsure. “Uh… I can beat him, can’t I?”

“If you play different teams, yeah,” he confirms. “Trust me. I’ll help you kick his ass.”

“Or we’ll both kick yours,” Mark chuckles, his grasp now tightening and loosening intermittently. He’s massaging your shoulder lightly, and you end up sinking deeper into his side. You don’t miss the slightly nauseated amusement that passes across Donghyuck’s face nor the way he mouths ‘sap’ to Mark, who ignores this comment in its entirety.

“Yo, hotpot at seven? Renjun’s asking,” Chenle announces as he returns to your table, his phone in one hand and a crumpled paper towel in the other. “Jaemin can’t make it, though. Study group or whatever shit he always says.”

“I’m down,” Donghyuck immediately replies, and Chenle’s eyes shoot heavenward, like he’s already asking for the divine strength to not sock Donghyuck in the face later.

“Can’t,” Jeno yawns, both his arms outstretched as he tries to move the sleep out of his spine. “Pre-test tomorrow.”

“Dude, it’s a pre-test,” Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to study if they’re just testing how much you know before studying.”

“Gotta study all the same.”

“I gotta pass too,” Jisung looks actually apologetic. “I promised my mom I’d help her move some stuff to my aunt’s place tonight.”

“Boring,” Chenle grumbles before turning to the both of you. “Lovebirds?”

“Rain check,” Mark shakes his head. “Family dinner. My brother’s home for the weekend. How about Monday instead? Most of us can’t make it anyway. At least Jaemin doesn’t have study group either.”

“If that’s even what that weirdo’s doing,” Chenle sighs, already punching in a message to send to Renjun. “Fine; I’ll ask about Monday. You guys better actually reply to the goddamn group chat. I can’t coordinate in six different private chats ever again.”

“You can put my name down already,” Mark casts you a sideway glance, and you nod immediately. “Two names, actually.”

“I’m good on Monday too. When we see each other again, I’ll bring some prospects for you to sift through,” Donghyuck adds to you, and you laugh. “Cool guys. Jocks. I know this upperclassman all the girls say is really hot. I think I still have his Messenger from when we did a group discussion last semester.”

“I’ll have Mark look at them so he can reject them all for me,” you promise. Donghyuck feigns affront before looking at Mark in utter disbelief.

“How the fuck did you snag a girl like this, man?”

“I’m pretty sure she once told me I… what did you say?” Mark glances at you amusedly. “I had some moves, I guess.”

“You mean stutter and blush in her presence?” Donghyuck can’t decide how to look at you without being even the slightest bit offensive; he just settles on incredulity. “And that won you over?”

“Most powerful move in the Mark Lee playbook,” you shrug, grinning. “Had me from the first ‘um,’ and he’s had me ever since.”

“You lucky son of a bitch,” Donghyuck snorts, and neither of you misses the slightly abashed but unmistakable smugness in Mark’s face when you lean in to rest your head on his shoulder.

The second time it happens is on that Monday, in a far more noticeable capacity. You just aren’t quick enough to read the signs, as usual.

But in your defense (again), it hadn’t felt all that significant.

“Fuck, this is spicy,” Na Jaemin sucks air in through his teeth and lets it out in a sharp whistle that’s broken by a laugh that’s not necessarily at anything funny. Maybe he’s just laughing at the sheen of sweat across his forehead that he has to wipe off with the other side of his napkin.

Miraculously, the hotpot plan pushes through, with no small amount of effort in coordination on Chenle’s part; he’d even texted you just to make sure he’d gotten the head count right, despite the fact that Mark had already confirmed your attendance twice over. Even the often elusive Na Jaemin, who always seems to have one or another study group to attend on most nights, manages to come and is currently busy mixing his peanut sauce in his little bowl with such vigor that you can’t help but wonder if he’s not trying to drown the mala-flavored strips of meat in it completely.

“That’s why I said you need a bowl of water for dipping, you dimwit,” Donghyuck points his chopsticks at Jaemin’s messy plate in a way you can only describe as nagging, even if that’s actually impossible. “You’ve got super mala breath now.”

“Don’t know about me, but I can smell yours all the way from over here,” Jaemin quips back with an easy kind of nonchalance, hastily ducking the balled-up napkin that goes flying across the table. It lands on the floor behind his chair harmlessly.

It’s nice, you think, that Mark’s friends like to invite you to their outings now; despite all the jokes they’ve made at his expense, they’ve been consistently open to having you around. You’re not necessarily the type of couple that acts in a way that disgusts people into moving to a completely different table anyway, and you allow their conversations to unfold easily without ever interrupting, so you think that this arrangement works for all parties involved.

They’re even louder outside Starbucks, you’ve come to note; the restaurant is significantly busier than the cafe anyway, filled with people on their company dinners, so Mark’s friends all seem to want to rival that boisterous energy. Weirdly, you like it, even when they’re already half off their seats and one (Chenle) is just about to strangle the other (Donghyuck). The laughter flows freely, and there’s a messiness to the whole affair that makes it impossible to feel uncomfortable.

Even Mark pipes in occasionally, offering his opinion on topics he knows much more about than you, and you can’t help but admire how everyone listens to him when he starts to speak, even if he has nothing realistically important to say. His friends might find it odd that you’d been so drawn to him, but they just don’t know that even they’re victims of Mark’s natural magnetism, also falling quiet and eager to hear his voice, his light-hearted laugh, in response to the things they say.

But even when he’s mostly distracted by conversation, there’s a part of him that continuously pays attention to you in his own way. He nudges his ginger and soy sauce bowl towards you with the side of his wrist so you can dip your beef in, even if you’d adamantly declined him giving you your own bowl of it in the first place (you’d always thought you were peanut sauce or nothing kind of girl, but one sneaky venture into Mark’s sauce proved you wrong). His hand hovers over your head when you drop your chopsticks and bend over to pick them up from where they’ve rolled under the table, making sure you’re bump-free when you resurface.

And his palms always, always settle somewhere on you, no matter what he’s doing. If one hand is busy feeding himself, the other is intent on warming your thigh, passing over the denim in slow, steady strokes. His fingers tickle your knee when you laugh, just to make you laugh a little harder — you’d even almost kneed the table at one point, much to Huang Renjun’s alarm. But the most common place for his arm is around you, fingers lightly bunched into the side of your shirt, like he’s worried loosening his grip on you further will cause you to vanish. It keeps him close to you, keeps his scent and warmth washing over you in gentle waves, so much so that you often have to remind yourself that he’ll be the target of much light-hearted mockery if you so much as lean into him and rest your head on his shoulder.

But it’s hard to resist it, especially when his hand seems to be intent on outlining every curve on that side, passing over your hip and dipping into your waist. The motion allows him to slowly but surely lift the fabric of your shirt, up until there’s just enough of an opening for his palm to slip under, and suddenly it’s much warmer on that side, with the light roughness of his hand grazing at your skin. His fingers always stretch apart, like he’s trying to feel as much of you as he can, and the pads of his digits have a tendency to graze the plane of your stomach — his nails sometimes even travel featherlight just next to your navel, etching out words you can’t really decipher. Like he’s writing a message just for you.

It makes you feel like no matter what he’s doing, a part of his mind is always on you.

“You guys want to see that new horror movie? The Ghost Within, I think it’s called,” Jisung asks the group from over at the other end of the table, having to raise his voice significantly to make sure it isn’t swept away by the raucous laughter from across the restaurant. “I think it’s coming out in a week or two.”

“I’d be okay with it,” Renjun shrugs, although he doesn’t look enthused. “Kind of looks like a cliche horror with all those cheap jump scares and shit, but I’m down if you all are.”

A wave of assent passes over the group in general, but you notice Mark doesn’t immediately respond. You take this opportunity to lean in and confess your stance.

“If I have to sit around and watch a ghost pop out at me from a big-ass movie screen, you may never again see me in the same wonderful light you do today,” you warn. “Remember me as I am, not as I will be, Mark Lee.”

He snorts, coughing lightly as a mixture of ginger and fishcake sticks in his throat. “Yeah — we’ll pass, I think.”

“Scaredy-cat,” Donghyuck teases, and you’re surprised that Mark doesn’t come to his own defense. There’s something romantic in him not wanting to be the one to sell you out, but you suppose there’s also a kind of chivalry in being the one to take the bullet.

“Actually, I’m the one who can’t handle it well,” you smile in apology. “Sorry. I don’t have much of a reputation, so to speak, but what elegance may be attached to my name, however misplaced, is something I really want to maintain. At least until I graduate.”

“In short, you don’t want Mark to see you scream and cry,” Chenle deduces. You can’t even find fault in him figuring it out so quickly.

“Bingo.”

“Well, we can solve the problem,” Donghyuck claps his hands, getting everyone’s attention for no good reason. “__________, you sit beside me, and Mark can sit on the far end of the row. With how dark it is, he won’t see anything, and I get to sit next to a cute girl in a movie theater. Win-win.”

“Thanks for the offer,” you laugh, shaking your head. “But it’s not a win-win if I accidentally grab your hand out of instinct.”

“It is to me,” Donghyuck winks, and you feel Mark’s hand stop brushing over your stomach. His fingers curl in lightly, almost like he’s trying to make a fist but can’t quite get to that point out of personal restraint. “Or better yet, you could do what we all think you should do and dump Mark for someone you won’t be ashamed to cry in front of. I, for one, would not even bother to comment on whatever emotions you’re going through in the middle of a movie, so what do you say? It’s a pretty sweet deal, in my humble opinion. Me versus Mark Lee. The showdown of the century, right here in Hai Di Lao.”

You’ve noticed that the more Donghyuck piles onto his little teasing rampage, the more forcefully Mark tugs you over; his fingers aren’t just skimming over your skin but have now grown into the habit of gently pinching it, as if begging for your attention. It feels nice but also a little urgent, although it’s hard for you to understand why; the whole foundation of this group is built on teasing each other until someone (Chenle) snaps and lobs a bottle cap at someone else (Donghyuck), so it should be normal for Mark to be at the receiving end of some light banter.

“Should we ask the hostess to referee the match, then?” You ride along with the joke.

“No way. You’re the one calling the shots.” Donghyuck sits up a little straighter, putting on a smug face. “Okay, pick, __________. Me or Mark; who’s got the better punches?”

You make a show of acting thoughtful, even tapping your chin to pretend considering it deeply, but there was never any doubt on your choice. Still, you can’t really decipher the sudden slowness, the light tremble in Mark’s palm as it travels to your hip, where it settles, heavy, over the curve.

“It’s a complete knock-out,” you finally announce, grinning. “Championship belt goes to Mark.”

“Man, if I had a girlfriend as straight-shooting about her feelings for me as you are about your feelings for Mark, I’d propose in a day, max,” Jeno groans, half-exasperated and half-amused all at once.

“Man must’ve saved a nation or something in his past life,” Donghyuck grimaces. “No way he deserves a girl this hot and crazy about him. Hey — got any tips on stopping natural disasters or something? I could use a sexy, loyal girlfriend in my next life. Or maybe I’ll just poach yours in this one and see what it feels like.”

“I would actually deck you, so don’t even try it,” Mark snorts, his arm now winding full around your waist. You’re flush against his side, and he uses this opportunity to do something he doesn’t often do in front of his friends: show explicit affection by pressing a light kiss just behind your ear. It tickles, his breath grazing your earlobe, and you giggle, squirming in his hold. All he does is smile and pull you in tighter.

The bill’s split eight ways, but Mark’s fishing out cash to pay for your share even before you can get your wallet out from the bottom of your bag; it’s one of those quick, instinctive moves he likes to use on you, where he pushes the money and sends the bill back to the staff before you can even protest in full, so you have to settle on thanking him by returning the earlier favor — landing a peck on his cheek, which flushes a warm and contented pink the moment your lips make contact.

You just pointedly ignore the snickers that run around the table, particularly from Donghyuck and Jaemin.

The group splits ways at the front of the school dorms; most of them head in after their goodbyes, while Chenle backtracks towards his apartment building off-campus, mumbling something about how he hopes his roommate’s in because he accidentally left his key in the bowl next to their doorway. Mark should be piling in with the rest into the dorms, but he has a habit of insisting that he take you to the subway station; you’ve long since given up on convincing him against tagging along, mostly because he looks slightly hurt whenever you try to get him to stay put. You’re not going to complain anyway; for as much as you like being around Mark’s friends, it’s even better when you have this little slice of alone time despite the hassle it brings him.

Your fingers are linked when you walk under the street lights, the campus road leading to the station entrance significantly less busy at this time of evening; it’s cool enough for you to have an excuse to press yourself into Mark’s form, and he accepts this additional burden with an immense amount of grace, his arm finding its way around you again. Two minutes later, his palm is pressed against your bare skin once more, rubbing small, gentle circles just above your pelvis.

A part of you wonders if you’ll be able to do this — lean in, flush against him — when the summer heat starts to stick, but rather than really worrying about the logistics, you realize you’re more hung up on the idea of spending this summer with him.

“Sorry,” Mark murmurs out of the blue. Your eyebrows shoot up, and he looks down at you sheepishly. “Isn’t hanging out with my friends kind of driving you crazy?”

You hum in thought before shaking your head in resolution. “Not really. Not in a bad way, at least. I like how close you guys all are — and how big the group is. It’s usually just Yeji and Jisu with me, and they’re definitely not as rowdy. The change of pace is pretty fun.”

“Yeji and Jisu,” he echoes. “Your best friends. I haven’t met them yet, have I?”

“Not yet. Jisu started a part-time job across town, so we can’t get our schedules to align right just yet.” Your hip collides gently with his. “Should I let you, though?”

“One day… I think it would be nice to hang out with a less migraine-inducing crowd for a change.”

“I’ll tell them, then. They want to meet you.” You crane your neck up slightly, lowering your voice into a hushed whisper that’s completely unnecessary. “They want to know if you’re as cute as you look in your pictures.”

Mark draws back, laughing incredulously. “How do they know what my pictures look like?”

“I stalked your Instagram and showed them,” you answer simply. He throws you a funny look that’s equal parts disbelief and amusement. “They liked that one with the Spider-man costume.”

“Please don’t,” he groans, passing a hand over his face. “I should have taken that down, but I didn’t think anyone would care.”

“Why? I like it.” Your hand’s the one that manages to slip under his sweater this time, fingers trailing down his stomach; you feel him suck it in for a second in surprise before he lets out an exhale.

“I can’t ever understand what’s going through your head,” he chuckles, and you think it’s unfair that he manages to extract your hand from under the fabric while his is still firmly pressed against the side of your stomach. “You saw that and still wanted to date me?”

“Mark Lee, you simply underestimate how much I adore you. It’s kind of hurting my feelings at this rate.”

You’re just a few inches shy of the circle of light cast by the subway station sign. Your feet try to bring you forward, but Mark lingers behind, just outside the curve of soft white on the pavement, and his hand slips from under your shirt. You turn, and his hand skims down your arm instead, fingers locking around your wrist. With the slight distance between you, it looks like you’re caught in motion.

“I still can’t wrap my head around it sometimes.”

“What?”

“I just look over at you and feel like it’s not real. Like you’re going to disappear, and I’m just going to wake up from a dream and see you the next day, just some other stranger who doesn’t even know my name.” He licks his lips, and you want to reach out and kiss him already, but you know he isn’t done talking. “And I’m going to remember how much I liked you in that dream, but you won’t ever feel that same way.”

“You know I’m right here, though, don’t you?” Your fingers mimic his, squeezing around his wrist. “You can feel me. I’m here with you.”

Hesitation flashes across his face even when he nods, and you notice his eyes flit down to his shoes before looking back up at you — a habit of avoidance you know he’s trying to correct. “Sometimes I have to wonder if they’re right.”

“If… who’s right?”

“Them.” He jerks his thumb back in the general direction of the school dorms. “The guys. You know — when they ask me how I got a girl like you… the truth is, I don’t even really know. They can’t believe it, and it’s so crazy to me that I still sometimes can’t myself. So I start wondering if—”

You don’t let him finish this time; it’s rude to interrupt, you know, but you also know that what he’s about to say is probably something neither of you wants to hear anyway. Your lips connect with his, firm and demanding, and his words die in his throat, melting into a soft groan that vibrates against your skin. When you pull away, you don’t create the same distance, and Mark’s hands find their way to your waist, slightly trembling.

“They’re wrong,” you murmur, a quiet strength in your voice. “So stop wondering and just be with me.”

A smile starts tugging on the corners of his mouth, and the next moment, he’s nodding in assent, in wholehearted agreement, and the next kiss you share is one he starts, far more gentle than earlier.

“Next time I catch you entertaining nonsensical thoughts, there’ll be consequences.”

“Are you threatening me?” His laugh is colored with incredulity.

“Yes.” Your tone is firm, but your grin gives away too much of the jest. “Maybe I’ll ground you for a week, or something really childish.”

“I’d take it if you were with me.”

“That’s not how it works,” you snort, gently flicking the tip of his nose. He scrunches it on impact. “You’d be in solitary. You must reflect on your actions and all that nonsense. Meanwhile, I’ll be out having some good hotpot with everyone else.”

“If that happens, promise me one thing, then.” He maneuvers your stance until you’re both back in the blanket of darkness, just out of reach of the subway entrance. “Don’t sit next to Donghyuck.”

“And let him and Chenle give me an earful about how bad-slash-good the first Human Centipede movie was all over again? I think not.”

“No, really.” Mark buries his face into your neck, and you hear the quiet inhale as he breathes in your scent. On instinct, your hand comes up to thread through his hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp. “I don’t want you sitting there and hearing him talk your ear off about how much I don’t deserve you or that he’ll help you find someone better.”

“You know he’s just joking — and I’m just joking, right?”

“Just promise me.”

You pause, wondering if it’s in your best interest to tease him for whatever act he’s pulling, but there’s a shortness to his breathing that makes the whole situation feel weirdly tense. He’s really waiting for something — an answer. The right answer, maybe.

“I promise,” you finally say, and you know you’ve said the correct thing when Mark’s lips press a soft kiss to your collarbone, like he’s sealing in your vow.

On the third time, Mark pretty much gives up.

The strangest thing is that it starts at a time when you’re not even actually together; if you had to pinpoint the exact moment, it probably had to be when Donghyuck had walked you to the dorm from library. No — maybe even before that. Somewhere in the time you’d spent in there, he’d thought up yet another way to push Mark’s buttons. You just didn’t really know the exact minute he’d first seen you with Jung Jaehyun.

You don’t know how Jaehyun does it; he skips half his classes and somehow doesn’t even get in trouble, let alone fail. You’d only met him last semester, but he was just about the only person who was halfway familiar in your Anthropology 120 class, so you thought you could at least feel comfortable enough to chat with him about the weather or what had happened in the last meeting. You don’t expect him to strong-arm you into being something of a literal proxy for him; the first week of the semester, you’d spend almost each lecture period gnawing on your nails and fretting over the fact that your signature for attendance looked nothing like his. By the second week, you’d already come to realize that it doesn’t matter because he had only attended one lecture — the first one — thus far and your professor was as clueless about Jaehyun’s handwriting as you. By the fourth week, you had resigned yourself to being his slightly unwilling associate for his random escapades, allowing him to copy off your notes and turning in his homework for him.

Now that you think about it, that’s probably how he does it.

You sacrifice your free time for him today, caged up in a library for pretty much the afternoon. You can’t help but resent him, not just because the whole room is stuffy and the librarian keeps passing by, clucking to remind people not to litter between shelves, but also because you’d much rather do things that are important to you — like pretending to flirt with Mark for the first time when you place your order and watching him act like it’s the first time you’re saying something so sweet to him, except he’s definitely not pretending. Instead of watching Mark’s face color that cute shade of pink and that sweet little smile pull at his mouth until he’s basically biting his lips back to stop himself from grinning, you have to bore yourself with the sight of Jaehyun trying to decipher your handwriting.

“You should really be more legible with your strokes.” He has the audacity to chastise you as if he’s the one doing you a favor by giving you constructive criticism.

“You should really come to class more often,” you bite back, although there’s no real heat to your words. You just look out the window and watch the sun sink down behind the university hospital building, wondering if there’s a chance you’ll still be able to catch Mark before his shift ends.

“Would if I could.”

“You actually fucking can,” you say tiredly, and even the way he turns the page is so impossibly slow. “Can’t you just take a picture?”

“Nah; writing it down carefully really helps my retention of this kind of stuff.”

“So take a picture and then write it down carefully.”

“With your ridiculous handwriting? I’d probably fail.”

“So come to class and write it yourself!”

Your hiss increases in pitch, and it calls the attention of the librarian over to you. She swoops in, clicking her tongue, but she’s not even looking at you. Her eyes are zoned in on Jaehyun, who meets her gaze with so much innocence it’s hard to imagine you’d wanted to smack him two minutes ago.

“Jung Jaehyun,” the librarian snaps in an undertone. The slow, punctuated way she says his name suggests she knows him fairly well — and not in a great way. “I see you’re back in here after your probationary period.”

“Sorry for the trouble, Mrs. Park.” He grins up at her, looking anything but apologetic. “I promise I won’t get in your way again today.”

“And this one—” She points to you, and you point to yourself in shock at being pointed to, and Jaehyun’s pointing at you and mouthing ‘this one’ with excessive mirth in his eyes. “Isn’t another one of those girls you plan on defiling my sacred space with?”

Jaehyun says ‘we didn’t defile anything’ at the same time you say I’m going to throw up, and the librarian just adds to the noise by shushing you on top of that jumble of words.

“I’ll be keeping a close eye on you two,” Mrs. Park warns before stalking away, tutting at a library assistant for wrongly shelving a volume of Encyclopedia Brittanica.

“Please, Jaehyun,” you groan, crossing your arms over the table and flattening your forehead against them. “Just hurry up. Release me.”

He ignores you, still leaning closer to your notebook to decipher your handwriting. “I would like to set the record straight and make it known I didn’t fuck anyone in the library.”

“What’d you get probation for, then?”

“Just making out.” You notice he has the energy to grin wickedly even without meeting your eye, even while he’s still scrawling on his own notebook, and you groan something incoherent and irate once again. “What are you in such a big hurry for, anyway?”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” you grumble, raising your head. “That some people might want to do better things than sit here and watch you write stuff for ages?”

“No,” comes his simple reply. You bop your head onto your arms a few times in the hope that the impact will shake you out of this nightmare and you’d find yourself waking up in Mark’s arms instead, but you have no such luck. “By better things, do you mean fucking Mark Lee in someone else’s bedroom? That’s real defilement, by the way.”

“How’d you hear about that?” You squeeze your eyes shut and growl under your breath. “Fucking Youngho.”

“You doing that too?”

“Shut — please, would you hurry?”

He pointedly purses his lips in an effort to keep himself from letting out what you can only assume is, by the glint in his eyes, a witch’s cackle. “Almost done, man. Relax a bit. So did you guys get together — like, together together?”

You initially contemplate not telling him, but Jaehyun’s nosiness is probably going to reveal the truth to him sooner or later anyway. “Yeah. What’s it to you, though?”

“Nothing. You’re lucky.”

For the first time today, you feel like Jaehyun has finally said something right. “Yeah — yeah, I am.”

“I bet his friends don’t seem to think so.”

“Is this something you know because it’s a guy thing or because you’re so nosy that you just can’t help but listen in on every other juicy conversation around you?”

“A bit of both,” he chuckles. “Mostly just because I know Lee Donghyuck was giving him a hard time about it last semester.”

“I noticed that too — a bit, anyway. But it’s just banter, I think.”

“Probably. Imagine being his friend and getting a girlfriend; it’s like… the perfect ammunition for teasing. But I’m pretty sure half of the things that come out of his mouth are jokes meant to annoy.”

“What about yours?”

“I get it,” he sighs, shutting your notebook resolutely. It makes a thud that alerts the librarian two tables away, and she glares at you like you’re climbing onto Jaehyun’s lap in the middle of the References on the Korean War aisle. “I’ll set you free. Thanks, by the way, for letting me copy from you. Same time next week?”

“Or how about you look up the schedules for our classes and actually come instead of piggybacking off of my efforts and making snarky remarks about my handwriting while you’re taking advantage of my goodwill?”

“Sounds like too much effort on my end,” he yawns, waving you off as you stuff your notebook into your bag. “Later, ___________. Say hi to Mark for me. The normal way — not the girlfriend way, please.”

You stick your tongue out at him before you make a mad dash for the door, ignoring Mrs. Park as she shushes your footsteps on the marble. You’re so intent on fishing your phone out of your bag that you almost ram the door into the person standing behind it.

“Oh, fuck— Jesus, I’m sorry, I wa— wait, Donghyuck?”

“Great to see you too, ___________.” He rubs his jaw where the edge of the door grazed it. “You in a rush?”

“I was just about to go see if Mark was still at Starbucks.”

“His shift’s probably almost over. I’m headed back to the dorm if you wanna tag along.” When you nod, he starts leading the way, breaking the silence again soon after. “Were you in a study group, or something?”

“No,” you jerk your thumb backwards towards the minuscule form of Jaehyun, who’s now busy wasting time and space playing something on his phone where you’d left him. Donghyuck’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s my classmate who never comes to class. I was just lending him my notes.”

“Oh, Jaehyun, yeah.” Donghyuck snaps his fingers. “We were classmates last semester. He never went to class either, but I don’t know who he mooched off of to pass. You guys close?”

“Not really. I just fell into the trap of being too nice to him.”

“It’s funny,” he hums, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Jaehyun seems more your speed. On paper, at least.”

You can’t help but look taken aback, and Donghyuck laughs at your expression. “What do you mean, my speed?”

“Not sure.” He pauses, trying to find the right words to explain himself. “Someone who’d fit more into your social circles. Someone who probably likes Formula One and considers men’s health magazines to be classic literature.”

“That’s your impression of my social circle?”

“You know what I mean. People like Jung Jaehyun or Seo Youngho. I literally thought you were dating him last semester, so it was totally crazy to hear you asked Mark out.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Like… you asked him out. Not even the other way around. That’s ridiculous.”

“Why?” You know he doesn’t mean anything bad by it; Donghyuck has next to no filter, and something about him being unable to process your relationship is honestly a little funny. “A girl can’t ask a guy out?”

(You try not to think too hard about the fact that up until you’d cornered him in Youngho’s room, you had been praying to whatever god could hear you to convince Mark Lee to do the romanticist thing and ask you out.)

“Nah, dude. Like… a girl like you asked a guy like him out.”

“I didn’t ask him out because he was a guy like that,” you say pointedly. “I asked him out because he was a guy I liked. I wouldn’t have asked anyone else out if it weren’t him.”

Donghyuck falls quiet for a while, and only the crunching of the leaves underfoot accompanies your walk. “You really like him that much, huh?”

“I’m crazy about him.” His nose scrunches up like he’s been hit with a horrible smell, and you laugh. “Can you stop giving him a hard time? Or tone it down? I know you probably don’t like it—”

Donghyuck’s chuckle is light and easy. “I’m not teasing him because I hate it; let’s be clear on that. I actually really like that you guys are together. I’ve never seen him this happy with anything or anyone.”

“Then why are you—”

“Because he’s Mark.” A devilish grin creeps up his features as he holds the door to the dorm lobby open for you. “And teasing him is my favorite thing to do.”

You shake your head; you can’t help your amusement, but you’re not sure you fully understand this kind of friendship. You suppose if Mark is okay with it in its totality, then there isn’t much you can say to change it either.

The next twenty minutes pass in comfortable back-and-forths; Donghyuck is, as you already have learned, an expert conversationalist, and while he doesn’t aggravate you the way he does Chenle, he does manage to navigate a quick-fire kind of exchange of thoughts and information that allows you to see the speed at which he thinks. There’s barely any lag between when he digests what you say and when he responds. You suppose there’s a measure of wit in that, but it’s also a little bemusing to see someone speak without at least running it through the conscience checker every once in a while. You decide you’ve never met anyone quite like Lee Donghyuck before.

He’s in the middle of asking you what the Anthropology professor is like because he’s planning on taking it as an elective if he can when you notice a familiar figure pushing into the lobby, backpack swinging on a folded elbow.

“Mark!” The brief confusion on his face morphs into a surprised joy when he spots you on the couch, even though a bit of it lingers upon recognizing that Donghyuck is seated next to you. He walks over in long strides, and your posture straightens to meet his palm as it comes down gently against the crown of your head again; it bumps lightly, causing the both of you to laugh.

“Hey, you.” His voice is warm and fond in its greeting, and you beam up at him. “Did you have a busy afternoon?”

“Unfortunately. Did you just get back from your shift?”

“I passed by the co-op to check out the new university letter jackets. Design’s pretty dope.” He nods towards the elevator. “You wanna head up for a little bit?” You almost get to respond before your companion cuts in instead.

“Hey. Can’t you see we’re having a riveting conversation over here?” Donghyuck sniffs, making a show of hitting Mark’s shin lightly with the heel of his shoe. “Have some respect.”

“Is the conversation so riveting that I can’t take my girl for the evening at all?”

You mouth out a no, but Donghyuck’s flair for dramatics has him humphing and shoving Mark’s hand away from your hair. “Yeah, man. At least let us finish up.”

“What’s this even about?”

“How Jung Jaehyun asked her out in the library today,” Donghyuck replies easily. You start, shaking your head immediately, but Mark’s jaw slackens a little upon hearing this. Donghyuck continues loudly over your protests, and you can’t keep your voice straight because you’re adamant and yet, somehow, still laughing incredulously in your shock. “Oh, dude, let me tell you. He had his arm around her like this — and he was giving her the bedroom eyes… I wouldn’t have blamed her if she folded, honestly.”

“Mark, no,” your stupid gasp comes out as half a giggle as a result of Donghyuck trying to reenact his imaginary scenario. He’s slung his arm across your shoulders and pulled himself in, doing his best expression of a pleading dog’s gaze, which is both perplexing and hilarious. “He’s just kidding—”

“Then he got all close like this—” Donghyuck presses his forehead against yours, and the view he allows himself blocks him from having to look at Mark. You, on the other hand, are still trying to resist a misunderstanding, your palms up and every part of your body that can move shaking vehemently, but you can see Mark’s face turn a violent shade of red you can’t remember having seen from him before. “Spoke all low — you remember he had that sexy, husky voice, right? ”

“He’s just messing with you,” you wheeze out, trying to extract yourself from Donghyuck’s hold, but he only tightens his arm around your neck, almost to the point where you can’t inhale properly.

“And he said ‘you’re the hottest chick I’ve ever seen—’ then you know what he did, Markie?”

Mark doesn’t respond; you’re not even sure if he can, considering his Adam’s apple is bobbing dangerously like he’s one misstep away from exploding. You laugh again, stupidly, because you don’t know what else to do; you know Donghyuck’s teasing him, and you know Mark usually takes it in stride, but you’ve also never seen the latter look so focused on anything that didn’t involve a math problem or eating you out. “No, really, nothing hap—”

You don’t even have the space to finish your sentence. Donghyuck’s too quick when he grabs your face and plants a comedically sloppy kiss on your cheek, bursting out in laughter when he pulls away. You can only sit there, probably as stunned as Mark looks, raising your hand slowly to wipe the spittle Donghyuck left behind in his wake.

“Oh, Jesus,” Donghyuck rasps out between snorts. “Your face is priceless, man.”

“Not funny,” Mark grumbles, and there’s a hoarseness to his voice that makes you feel like it’s barely controlled.

“Also not true. I just bumped into her on the way from the library. We were talking about one of her classes or whatever.” Donghyuck dramatically wipes the tears from his eyes, and you sigh, nudging him. “Sorry, sorry. I couldn’t resist. Man, don’t even worry. She’s downright crazy about you. Even if Jung Jaehyun had asked her out—”

“Anyway.” Mark reaches down, lacing your fingers together, pulling you up and closer to his side like he’s worried you’ll catch Donghyuck’s crazy. “If that’s all of it…”

“Yeah, yeah. You two lovebirds go moon over each other already. I just love seeing your face like that.”

Mark snorts, yanking on Donghyuck’s earlobe punitively, and the latter cries out sharply (and a little exaggeratedly) at the pain. Mark doesn’t even seem to care; he leads you to the elevator and punches in his floor. You barely have time to call out a belated ‘bye’ to Donghyuck, who acknowledges it with a raise of his palm, before the doors slide shut.

It’s a slow elevator, given that it’s an old building, and the first couple of floors pass without much noise between the two of you. You’re not unaware of how tight Mark’s grip is on your hand, but you don’t comment nor take it against him. By the fourth floor, you’re raising his hand up to your lips and pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

“Nothing happened.” You confirm his unasked question, and you see a modicum of tension leave his shoulders. “He was just messing with you because he thinks it’s funny.”

“Yeah, I know.” Even if he says it like that, there’s still lingering doubt in his voice. “Were you with Jung Jaehyun today, though? Is that why you didn’t show up?”

You nod. “He was copying my notes for Anthropology. Guy barely shows up to lectures, so he borrows my stuff. I can’t believe he hasn’t been suspended yet. Or punched in the face by the people he leeches off of.”

“No kidding.”

You step out on the sixth floor with him. Even if you already know where Mark’s dorm is, you let him lead the way, and he ushers you into an empty and dimly lit living space while taking his shoes off. His roommate barely seems to be around; you’ve seen him all of two times, and it doesn’t look like he’s here either right now. You pause anyway, listening to any signs of life just to be sure, but when you both confirm that there’s no one but the two of you, you busy yourselves with turning on the lights and plugging in the water dispenser.

You work in relative silence; it isn’t anything unusual since you’ve done this a million times, and you’ve come to learn that small talk isn’t necessary when you’re just washing your hands or opening the refrigerator aimlessly even if you know you both plan on ordering in. But there’s a weird aura around Mark that you’re not sure how to place; he doesn’t seem like he’s mad, but there definitely seems to be something off — a problem, at least, that you’re not sure you know how to ask about.

So you just try to diffuse whatever it is by completely ignoring it.

“Pizza or Chinese?” You ask, flopping onto the couch as he plugs the television into the outlet. He looks up at you, and you notice his eyes are slightly dazed, like you’ve just woken him up from a dream. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse the first time he says it, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, sorry.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“We just had pizza, so I’m thinking Chinese is the better option. Cream shrimp? Fried rice? Not the salted fish one, though, maybe.”

You hum in assent, but when he straightens up from behind the television, you extend your arm to him, attempting to clarify yourself. “I mean, what are you thinking so hard about?”

“Nothing.” His answer’s a little too quick. A moment of awkward silence passes where you telepathically tell him you know he’s lying and he has to come to terms with his horrible lying skills, and he sighs, crossing over to the couch and settling beside you. Immediately, he tangles your fingers together, belatedly returning the favor from the elevator and brushing his lips across your knuckles. “He didn’t ask you out, right?”

You know he knows the truth, so you decide to bat your own question back at him in an attempt at rhetoric. “What would it matter if he did? The answer would have been the same, real or imagined.”

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling slowly. There’s a red flush on his neck that’s only started fading, it seems. You reach out and skim your finger along the vein that runs down the side of his throat. “I know. I don’t like it all the same. I hate… even thinking about it, actually.”

“Really — nothing happened. If you don’t count the fact that I almost strangled him for keeping me there — which I’m sure you’d agree doesn’t count as anything in favor of him.”

“I heard Jung Jaehyun’s kind of a playboy.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.” His head lolls to the side, and his eyes hold a sadness that pulls at your heart. “It means he really could have made a pass at you. Or you could have — I don’t know. In the end… I just worry.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Your lower lip juts out, and his eyes widen slightly, his head shaking before his mouth can even work out a proper response.

“No — I mean, yes, absolutely. It’s — I mean, it’s just—” He inhales again to gather his wits, two fingers still rubbing his forehead. “I trust you, without a doubt. I don’t trust other people — not around you. Not Jaehyun, or Youngho, or—”

“Or Donghyuck?” You smile a little apologetically at his embarrassment, clear on his face when his eyes stray from yours. “Mark, you know he’s only messing with you, right? I thought it was a funny thing for you guys.”

“It’s not funny if it’s about you,” he mumbles, more to himself than to you. He looks up at you again, chewing on his bottom lip. “I know. I’m trying to control it. Sometimes… I don’t know why it gets under my skin. I guess it’s because it could happen — you… finding someone else. I kind of hate the thought of that.”

“And if I said I hate it even more than you?”

His gaze softens, something like relief passing over his features, but the rest of his body still holds a significant amount of tension; you know by the way he’s running agitated circles on the back of your hand. You gently tug on his arm, allowing yourself to use it as an anchor to shift your weight. Mark makes a soft noise of inquiry but says nothing more, waiting until you’ve maneuvered your body to settle on his lap.

The view is reminiscent, and you can see that the core memory you share flashes through his mind too. A small smile, still somewhat reluctant, plays on Mark’s lips, and you hate that it’s all you get right now, so you rectify this by leaning down and leaving a small, chaste kiss on them. You pull away much too soon, and his head follows in response to the distance, chasing your lips until you’re realistically too far to reach. His arm extends instead, swiftly tucking your hair behind your ear.

Your fingers close around his wrist, and your head turns, continuing the kiss against his palm — short and firm.

“Stop doing that.”

His eyebrows fly upward in questioning, his other hand freezing in its trail up your thighs. Even his breath seems to catch, and what’s left of it comes out as a raspy whisper. “Stop being jealous? I’m… I’m trying.”

You shake your head. “Stop being sexy when you’re jealous.”

The ‘what’ he seems to want to ask dies in his throat, his mouth only able to form half of the word before you interrupt, your lips taking in the rest of the syllable. When you kiss him this time, there’s a slow hunger to it; your teeth find his lower lip even before he’s able to get into the rhythm of kissing you back. You just want him to know — everything about him drives you wild, even when he doesn’t know it.

You’ll never grow sick of the taste of him, you’re sure; today, he tastes even more enticing, the hint of something rich mixing in with the stronger flavor of coffee on his tongue. It’s familiar and comforting, and it’s only when you break away, both your faces flushed from a prolonged lack of air, that you puzzle out what the taste is — the lingering aftermath of a vanilla sweet cream cold brew, one he must have prepared in anticipation of you this afternoon.

You briefly squeeze your eyes shut and thank whoever’s listening for the gift of Mark Lee.

“Mark,” your murmur, your voice much softer, intent on coaxing him into releasing his worries. “You know, right?”

His ‘hm’ is only half-there in focus, the rest of his attention on his hands, which have found their way to your ass and have started digging his fingers into the flesh beyond your jeans. You have to tilt his head up with one finger under his chin, and there’s a whirlpool of emotion in them: curiosity, desire, and, interestingly, a quiet, almost suppressed kind of anger.

“If it isn’t you,” you whisper. “Then there’s nobody else.”

You see his jaw tighten, feel his grip against you do the same, and his brow furrows, like he’s trying — much too hard, and for no good reason — to stop himself from tipping over. You don’t like that either; if he’s there, you think, you should take him over the edge.

“But if you want them to know so badly, then…” You tilt your head to the side, exposing more of your neck, bringing the expanse just a little closer to his mouth. “Why don’t you go ahead and put your claim on me?”

You swear you see his pupils dilate right before he presses his mouth to your skin. With a low, almost pained groan against your neck, he latches his teeth in lightly, and you feel the soft sting, the increase in pressure the moment he starts sucking a mark just above your collarbone. There’s a wet, messy pattern to his movements, always punctuated by the sweep of his tongue to soothe your flesh. Even with that, his movements are slow and careful, still gentle in the way he’s handling you, but you feel it anyway — all of his tension’s concentrated in his grip, the way he keeps you close, hips pinned against him as if he’s worried anything less will cause you to disappear.

“Every time you worry, remember you can do this.” You pause, your breath catching in a lilt as his teeth dig in a little more fiercely. “You’re the only one that can.”

His lips detach with a soft groan, fingers squeezing your ass tight for a moment. Warm breath cools against the damp patch on your neck, and a second later, you feel his mouth graze against the few inches of skin, sensitive and slightly raw. “I know. It’s just not fair.”

You hum in questioning, but he doesn’t answer immediately; his mouth busies itself just under the mark he’d surely left, already starting up the same routine. You’d let him, and you want him to, but you want to hear his voice more. Your fingers tangle into his hair, and you use that hold to ease his head back, urging him to look up at you. It’s almost a mistake, seeing him like that — lips slightly swollen and definitely slick with his own saliva, parted just a little to reveal teeth he’d been desperate to nip your flesh with again. It crosses your mind that Mark has a mouth made for kissing — no, that isn’t accurate.

A mouth made for you to kiss.

“What’s not fair?” You ask softly. Even now, he takes his time in answering, his eyes falling close for a second; you watch him swallow, lick his lips, breathe in before he speaks, and all of those mundane things he does somehow make you lose your mind all the more.

“How badly I keep wanting you,” he breathes out, his eyes slowly opening. “And how it makes me think everyone wants you just as much.”

His hands leave the curve of your ass, traveling up your shirt, resting against your sides. He holds you like he’s careful in trying not to break you, his fingers spread wide to make sure his thumbs almost meet against your stomach, but there’s a smoldering headiness in his gaze that tells you he’s thinking a little too hard about wanting to break you.

“I touch you like this, and I think that everyone would kill to do the same.” His fingers squeeze against your flesh, inching upwards until they rest just under your breasts; his thumbs stroke the curved underline of your bra. “I think about kissing you and it feels like everyone’s thinking it at the exact same time. I look at someone next to you, even if you don’t know them, and I wonder if they want to pull you close, if they want to feel you against them just as much as I do. When I—”

He inhales sharply between his words, and the exhale comes out somewhat shaky. For a moment, he grits his teeth, jaw flexing in an attempt to keep himself in check. You worry he doesn’t want to continue — doesn’t want to let you hear it, but it feels so important that you can’t let it go. “Tell me.”

“When I think about fucking you,” he breathes out, voice barely audible. “Whenever I look at you and think about how much I want to feel you around me, feel you cum around me… I just know everyone else wants the same thing, and it’s driving me crazy because… because they can’t.”

It’s there again, flashing in his eyes — a determination that reads almost like fury.

“They can’t,” he repeats, his voice firmer. “I won’t ever let them. Never.”

You don’t stop him this time when his mouth reclaims your skin. You let his thoughts fuel the need in his movements, allow yourself to move only in reaction to what he does — the tilting of your head to give him more room, the tightening of your fists against his shirt to keep yourself steady. A surprised mewl leaves you when you feel his teeth pinch against your flesh again, and it’s harder, sharper this time, his quiet anger finally dictating his strength. You grapple for words, but they come out in weak gasps.

“It doesn’t — doesn’t matter,” you manage to whimper out. “How many people think that way, how much they want me that way. I only ever want you.”

His breathing is caught, warm, in the pocket of space just between you and his mouth; it tingles against your skin, tickles your senses into heightening. Your fingers unfurl, pressing against his chest, and you can feel his quickened heartbeat thrumming under your palm.

“God, please,” he murmurs, the soft peck of a kiss landing against your collarbone. “Please, tell me.”

“Mark, I’m yours.” There’s no teasing in how you say it; it was never meant to rile him up. It even escapes sweetness, the romanticism it usually comes with when you remind him on any other occasion. This is a promise to him, something you’re reinforcing as fact, something that can’t ever change. “I’m always going to be yours — no one else’s. I’ll never let anyone have anything that’s yours. Ask anything, take everything you want. I’ll never say no to you. Only you — always you.”

You know something’s different in a number of ways; his arms circle around you, but instead of keeping you firm and stable in his lap, they’re tight, squeezing a whine out of you, holding your torso flush against his. His face never leaves the crook of your neck, but you hear — feel — something there — a soft growl of need, of frustration that begs release. Suddenly, you find yourself off the couch; you barely have the presence of mind to wrap your arms around his neck and tighten your thighs against his sides before he’s carrying you to his room, kicking the door open and letting the rebound of the impact against his wall slam it shut behind him.

You’ve been in Mark’s room before, so there’s absolutely no need for you to take in the scenery when he sets you down on his bed. It doesn’t matter anyway, even if this were your first time; Mark’s crawling over you, his face flush and eyes sharp with hunger, and he looks so enticing that you wouldn’t want to pay attention to anything else around you anyway. His limbs cage you in, arms on either side of your shoulders and his knees just by your thighs, and you don’t really know why he’s already panting, but it just makes you want him all the more.

“Never,” he groans out, leaning down to nose against the patch of skin his mouth had worked on. “I’m never going to let anyone take you, ever. You’re all mine.”

His name fades on your lips, carried away by a moan when his mouth reattaches itself to your neck; it moves, almost frenzied, to renew the mark he’d left, make it a deeper red, a slightly bruised purple. You’re usually careful not to do anything that will require any attention or cover-up after, but Mark seems a little too far gone to care, and you realize you like him best this way.

Even with all the attention he gives your neck, his fingers are busy; they work on the button of your jeans, sliding them down with the help you offer by raising your hips. They only reach halfway down your thighs, his reluctance to come back up for air stopping him from peeling them off completely, but it’s all he seems to need for now.

Eager fingers ease between your thighs, two at once, pressing against your folds. You’re unable to spread your legs like you usually do, but this tightness makes you all the more sensitive, and you keen as his digits fit themselves into your slit. Frustratingly, they don’t move right away, and you have to raise your hips again just to get some sort of friction. Even then, Mark doesn’t take the hint — or, perhaps, the bait — keeping a light pressure against your clit without doing anything else. His focus is still on your neck, now slightly aching under his lips, and when he finally pulls away, you see a look of triumph on his face. He tilts his head back slightly to admire his work — the blooming dark patch you’re sure he’s left where your skin tingles the most.

“If I said I wanted to mark you all over, would you let me?”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t ask for it?”

He chuckles, tightening the pressure of his fingers against your clit; you say something that sounds halfway between ‘Mark’ and a sob.

“I want to, so badly.” He admits, gaze still fixed on your neck. “I’d want to see you walk out of here, walk into class covered in them. I’d want people to ask you how you got them, and who gave them to you. And I’d want you to say it proudly — that it was me who did it. That I fucked you all night and made you mine over and over again.”

“Why don’t you?” His eyes snap up to you, a small smile forming on his lips. “I want to say that too. Let me brag about having you. Let me tell everyone how good you always make me feel. Then you can tell everyone who doesn’t believe you, too — how I let you take me every single time. Show me off and tell them to look at how you made me yours.”

Another laugh escapes him, but there’s more disbelief than humor in it; he seems to find it amazing, that you can just agree with what he says, no matter how strange he thinks it is.

“Show you off? If I mark you in other places, do I have to show them every part?”

“Do you not want to?”

“I want to, and I don’t.” He pauses, slightly amused, and you know he’s remembering the first time you fucked. “I don’t them to see your body, but I want them to see what I did to it. I don’t want them to look at what’s mine, but I just want them to know it is.”

“Then you can fuck me in front of everyone and make them watch you ruin me completely.”

He shakes his head, even if desire flashes clear across his features. He busies himself with actions while he mulls it over, tugging your jeans down alongside your panties and casting them aside before he straightens up. His eyes rake over your form; you’re bare from the waist down, your shirt halfway ridden up, the underside of your bra peeking out from under the hem. Again, his eyes land on your neck, and his smile widens slightly.

“Can’t.” He decides finally. “You’re too pretty for that.”

You hum thoughtfully, and he raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t move, even when you sit up, shifting yourself so you can tuck your calves under your thighs — not even when you reach out to undo his belt or tug down his zipper. He only reacts a little when your hand presses against his hardness through his boxers, the girth now easily familiar to your palm.

“What about something like this?” You ask, inching closer to the edge of the bed. You’ve started slow strokes against him, the fabric creating extra friction, more heat under your palm, and you watch his jaw clench as he swallows back a soft grunt. “Would you let them watch me do this for you?”

“Let me think about it,” he chuckles softly, and you nod, letting your fingers work to make your point. You don’t have to undress him completely to get what you want; all you need is to tug down the front of his boxers to free him, and you already have him wrapped in your palms, stroking his shaft to full hardness.

“Think faster,” you urge, and he shakes his head, slightly bemused. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t even want them to watch me jerk you off?”

“At least give me a full minute.”

You laugh lightly, whispering a ‘fine’ before you press a soft kiss against tip. He inhales sharp through his teeth, already sensitive, and you waste no time in letting your tongue flick out against the smooth head. He doesn’t need the lubrication, realistically; his precum’s already leaking from the tip, mixing in with your saliva as you run your tongue around it. All you do is make him a little messier, a little slicker, your spittle running down his length.

Taking Mark in your mouth is a demanding task, but one you’re always up for; there’s something uniquely satisfying about letting him fill your mouth, inch by inch, and watching his breathing hitch and stutter until your lips are closer to the base than to the head. What you can’t reach, your hand always squeezes around, eager to make sure he feels good completely. His expression is sublime when you draw your head back the first time, sucking as you do so — his eyes are half-lidded, and he doesn’t stop the moan that falls from his lips. His gaze is fixed on you, hazy but still able to drink the sight of you in, and you’re not sure how, but you almost feel like you could get off to watching him watch you taste him.

You try, somehow, vaguely conscious of the movement of your hips; you’re grinding at nothing at first, so your knees give way just enough for you to press yourself against his sheets. It’s slightly uncomfortable, a strain in your thighs that you’re not really used to, but you don’t care; Mark’s sharp inhale at seeing you attempt to grind your pussy against his mattress is pretty much as arousing as anything else. His cock twitches hard in your mouth, and you suck just a little harder, a little messier, your head bobbing down to meet your hand, still firmly wrapped around his girth.

The room’s filled with nothing but slick sounds and soft groans; Mark’s hand has found its way into your hair, tangled into a makeshift ponytail, and while he isn’t guiding your mouth to do anything, you can feel his hips stutter then start to move, pulling back when your head does. He tries to hide it, tries to keep himself steady, but pride blooms in your chest when you note that he can’t; he wants to feel like he’s fucking into your mouth, into your hand, the way he does when he takes your pussy.

It’s relatively quiet for that time, nothing but muffled moans from you that mix in with his noises, but you only realize you’d been waiting for an answer to something when he speaks up again.

“It’s… still a no for me.”

Your movements slow, your gaze lifting to communicate your mild confusion to him. You don’t want to ask; you just don’t want to lose the taste of him on your tongue just yet. He looks down at you, smiling with overflowing tenderness, almost like he’s apologetic.

“Even just this — you’re too pretty when you do it.” His hand reaches down, thumb stroking over your cheek. “I can’t let anyone see what you look like when you’re like this. They’ll keep thinking about you doing it for them. And you’d only do it for me — right?”

You nod immediately, your response causing your mouth to slip down his shaft just a little more. It elicits a guttural noise from him, one that fuels you into sucking him just a little harder, your enthusiasm overtaking your restraint. His fingers have let go of your hair, stroking it back into smoothness, almost comforting in their movements.

“God, I wish you could see yourself; you’d know what I mean,” he continues to murmur, his voice just a little louder over the eager, wet noises you’re making. “How pretty you look with your mouth wrapped around me. How perfect you are when you’re kneeling like this for me — how happy you look when you’re sucking me off. I can’t share that with anyone. Fuck — not ever.”

Your mouth draws back, completely this time, and your tongue presses against the underside of his cock. You lick a long stripe up his shaft, moaning softly at the light throb you feel, and you watch him tip his head back. The groan that follows soon after is almost close to a frustrated growl, ending in a whispered ‘shit’ before his eyes land back on you. He watches you press kiss after kiss against his tip, coaxing the precum out even more, and you take special care to leave more down each inch of his cock until you’re finally able to release your hold on his base so you can leave the last one there.

His hand combs your hair back before it falls to cup your chin, his thumb swiping at the corner of your mouth to gently clean up the froth of spittle there. You smile up at him in thanks, and his thumb sweeps over the seam of your lips to follow the slight curve.

“So pretty,” he repeats, and your cheeks glow pink under the palms that caress them. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Pretty as hell, fucking perfect — and you’re all mine.”

You kneel up again, chasing his lips with your own, and he locks you in his arms as his tongue slips its way past your teeth, the aroma of coffee still on it. He leaves today’s taste of him against your tongue, on the ridges of your teeth, until you feel like you’ve all but consumed him, and you whimper softly when he pulls away, urging you to turn around and lean back into his chest.

His mouth reattaches itself to the same spot; it’s like a home base for him, and he breathes in your scent from there before giving the same patch of skin a light suck, almost as if he’s worried it’ll fade in a few minutes’ time if he doesn’t give it attention.

“Show me.” Hands slide down to your hips, squeezing them lightly, like a prompt for your response. “Show me how pretty you are for me.”

His palms never leave you, not even when you detach yourself from his chest and bend down; your elbows meet the mattress, but your hips stay raised, giving him a view of your pussy. Your gasp easily turns into a moan when his digit dips into your wetness again, his other hand pushing gently at your asscheek to keep you open.

You think he’s about to slip his finger in, the tip brushing against your entrance, and you tense in anticipation, but it doesn’t happen; he continues to run his finger down your slit, careful not to linger against your clit for too long. The result is that you tighten around nothing, and you hear him suck in a breath as he watches your hole grow smaller for a second. You laugh breathily, resting your chin against the backs of your hands, one folded atop the other. “Pretty enough for you to fuck?”

“Do you have to ask if you already know?”

“I want to hear it anyway.”

His finger slips into your hole, finally, and you keen softly as he breaches the first ring of tightness. He doesn’t really move it, just tests your tightness, feels you contract around him as if to know what his cock will feel in a few moments.

“Your pussy’s too pretty not to fuck,” he manages out, and his throat sounds as tight as you feel. “Seeing it like this… makes me think there’s no way anyone can resist. It’s exactly why I can’t let anyone see you like this.”

You hum as his finger presses in deeper, and you know it’s nothing in comparison to the real thing, but you like feeling that mild stretch, the depth it reaches all the same. “How should we let them know, then? That I’m all yours.”

His finger stills, and you hum softly, swaying your hips to shake him out of whatever trance he’s in. He’s grown quiet, but there’s a thoughtfulness in this pause, like he’s seriously considering your question. You laugh lightly, ready to tell him you’re just egging him on until he fucks you, but he slips his finger out of you, leaving you clenching around nothing again. You can’t help the confused noise that comes out of you, but you at least know he isn’t completely backing away, his other hand still firmly on your ass.

“Mark, what—”

You get your answer in the thud that interrupts your question — he’s tossed his phone onto the bed, having it land next to you. Something in your blood runs hot, and your fingers tremble when you pick it up. You see yourself reflected in the blackened screen — excitement in your eyes, your lips glossy from your blowjob.

Mark’s silent as you let the meaning of his actions settle; wordlessly, he slips his finger into you again, followed by another one this time, and you shudder in pleasure at the difference in the stretch. He doesn’t ask, but you can tell he’s wondering if he’s gone too far— if you think he’s crazy. He lets his fingers stay anchored in you, unmoving, waiting for you to say something, but from where he is, he just can’t know the smile that passes your face.

Finally, he tries to speak up. “We don’t have to— I just meant—”

“What’s your passcode?”

He breathes out, the exhale quivering as much as you probably are. “Your birthday.”

Your smile only widens when you tap the screen to life and see a picture of you — you don’t even remember when he’d taken it, but it’s a shot of you sprawled on his bed, bundled in his blanket and reading something that looks oddly like your textbook for your European Renaissance History class. It’s grainy and dimly lit, a stolen photograph of you, but it makes your heart swell, and you laugh lightly as you key in your birthday; the screen unlocks, allowing you access to all his applications.

“What’s funny?”

“Just thinking about how you should replace this wallpaper.”

“To what?” He sounds bemused.

“The view of me you have now.”

His fingers curl in you, pressing down against your walls, and you push your hips back in a bid for more friction; you hear him hiss out a ‘fuck’ under his breath, and his hand digs harder into the flesh of your ass.

You open Mark’s contacts, scrolling down aimlessly. Most of the names, you don’t recognize, but you see a few familiar ones crop up here and there. He doesn’t ask, only starts pumping his fingers into you in quiet anticipation, wondering how far you’re willing to take it, how much you’ve bought into this crazy idea.

“Mark,” you call out, and he hums in response. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“With my life.”

“So if I called Donghyuck right now—” His fingers hook into you, the delicious pressure on your walls making you squeak instead of finish your sentence immediately. You twist your torso to meet his eyes, and you’re slightly surprised but not at all displeased to see something crazed lingering in his gaze. “How much of a show would you want to put on for him?”

He shifts his weight, his knee sinking into the mattress as he slots it between your legs. This change in position allows him to angle his fingers a little differently, driving down into you with a force that makes you squirm. You almost forget you’ve asked him something again until he leans in closer, his murmur almost drowned out by the slick sounds of his finger pressing into your hole.

“Just… enough for him to know you’ve always been mine.”

Your thumbs are shaking when you scroll through his contacts again, up and down until you find the right name — Lee Donghyuck — and Mark watches you intently, wordlessly, as you press his number, start the call, and put it on speaker.

The wait feels like an eternity, with Mark’s finger slipping in and out of you in a steady, languid pace as you watch the line connect, but in reality, Donghyuck really only answers after the fourth ring. “Yo, Mark.”

His voice is casual, lacking in any sort of expectation; you can hear explosions and gunshots in the background, and you’re willing to bet he’s in the middle of an action movie. You’re proven right when you hear random English babbling soon after.

“Hi, Hyuck.”

“___________?” He sounds genuinely confused that it’s you that greets him. “Where’s Mark? You okay?”

“He’s right here with me; don’t worry.” Your voice is a soft croon, and he has to lower the volume of the television to be able to hear you better. “We’re totally fine. What are you up to?”

“Watching Resident Evil. Uh, is there a reason you called?”

You want to draw out the lie of something casual for as long as you can, but Mark doesn’t let you. His fingers push, suddenly forceful, into you, and you let out a soft cry into the receiver. You look back at him, eyes wide with amusement, and he shrugs, having at least enough sense to look slightly abashed at his experiment.

One moment, you’re listening to a female voice shout something, and the next, Donghyuck’s side of the call is silent except for his breathing. When you don’t bother explaining what had just happened, he takes matters into his own hands.

“Hello?”

He sounds equal parts affronted and amused, like the shock of it has tickled him. You can’t help it; you laugh too, but it’s quickly cut off by another whine when Mark pulls his fingers out. Donghyuck makes an incredulous noise.

“Now, what the fuck is all this about, you freaks?”

“You kept wondering why I ended up asking Mark out,” you evade his question with another one. “Should I tell you why, if you’re that curious?”

“No way. Have fun, weirdos,” he laughs, and the line goes dead a second after.

You snort out a laugh, and Mark mumbles something that sounds vaguely like that was crazy before he leans down and presses a kiss to the small of your back. You make to turn so you can finally face him, but you’re distracted when his phone screen lights up again, and Donghyuck’s name flashes across it.

You exchange amused glances before you pick up the call, and you don’t even get a ‘hello’ out when his voice rings out, sharp and clear.

“But pretending I am,” he says, as though he hadn’t hung up the call a few seconds ago. “Exactly what kind of answer would I get?”

“The kind that’ll hopefully shut you up for good,” Mark pipes in instead of you.

“What’s that even going to sound like?” Already, Donghyuck’s activated whatever toggle in him that gets him to push Mark’s buttons. This time, though, you can’t say it works against you; you feel Mark inch closer to you, and a moment later, the fat tip of his cock nudges against your entrance. “I bet you can’t even get her to yawn, man.”

Mark doesn’t have to respond; you do it for him when he pushes in, torturously slow, as if to draw out your moan. It works a little too well, with you keening into the phone, and yet no part of you is acting for his sake. As familiar as the stretch is, it’s not something you’ve ever been able to commit to memory fully, and it feels like a new breaching of your tightness each time. Your legs fold in slightly, a useless movement that attempts to get you adjusted to his size faster, but Mark interprets it as discomfort, his hands tightening on your hips.

“You okay?” He sounds genuinely worried for a second, forgetting that Donghyuck’s still on the line. Your cheek brushes against his sheets as you nod, trying to meet his eye even in this position to let him know you’re being honest.

“Fucking big, Mark.” You hear Donghyuck tsk from his end, and you laugh breathlessly. “You don’t like knowing he’s big?”

“I just hate that fucker,” Donghyuck quips back easily, but there’s no seriousness in his voice. If anything, it sounds a little raspy, with him clearing his throat soon afterward.

“Well, I’m crazy about him,” you whisper into the call, and your breathing hitches as Mark finally bottoms out, groaning at your tightness. “I’m crazy about the way he touches me, the way he tastes. I’m crazy about how big his cock is, how deep it gets when he’s inside me, how he stretches me out — fuck—”

Your verbal rampage is cut short by a loud moan as Mark draws his hips back and pushes forcefully into you; you haven’t fully adjusted, and you’re even tighter now from what you’re saying, so the friction inside you is nothing short of delicious. He starts a pattern of thrusts, not bothering to build up from his usual slow and steady pace — hearing you talk that way and knowing that Donghyuck is listening is enough to get him to abandon self-imposed restrictions.

“Mark,” you whine out, accidentally pushing the phone a little further away as you reach out blindly for him behind you, and he catches your wrist to let you know he’s there. “Mark, fuck, it feels so good—”

You tighten around him as if to prove your words, and he growls in response. You find yourself having to press your cheek in a little harder into the mattress as he gathers your wrists together into one hand, pinning them to your lower back, and it’s with that hold on you that he leverages his thrusts, pumping into you a little harder each time.

You’re not completely unaware of your surroundings, but it takes a while for you to process the sounds coming from the phone’s speaker — labored breathing, the sound of a zipper being pulled down. You want to wonder if this is working a little too well, but nothing comes from your mouth apart from soft whimpers, and it’s all the cue Mark needs to be the one to fill in the relative silence himself.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispers, and you feel his lips press between your shoulder blades. It feels like a chaste kiss at first, but he leaves his breath there, still flitting over your skin as he continues to speak. “I’ll never get tired of how pretty you are — how pretty you always sound for me. Doesn’t she sound pretty, Hyuck?”

“Fucking pretty,” Donghyuck agrees, though his voice sounds somewhat distant. You can only sob back a quiet ‘fuck me, harder, harder,’ in response.

“Can you imagine how much prettier she looks under me?” It’s almost a full-blown conversation now, but even if Mark’s addressing Donghyuck, the rest of his attention’s fully on you. He adjusts his stance, still keeping his hold around your wrists as he angles himself deeper into you, causing you to cry out and squirm in pleasure. With your face pressed against the bed and his weight driving down into you, you feel utterly trapped, in the best kind of way. Mark, in the way he is now, is inescapable, almost incorrigible, and he pistons deeper into your pussy, his free hand brushing your hair away from your shoulder so he can leave a kiss against it. “Bent over, legs spread just a little, all for me to take. Pretty little hole wet for me, and so fucking tight. Can you imagine that?”

“I’m doing it right now.”

“It’s a thousand times better in person. Trust me.”

The same hand slips between your thighs, two fingers spreading your folds apart; the middle one circles your clit in a pace that matches his thrusts, sudden and shocking, and you arch your back upwards slightly with a choked noise. He finally releases your wrists, and you claw at the sheets helplessly to keep yourself somehow upright as the force of Mark’s hips, their impact against the backs of your thighs, pushes you forward, closer to the phone again. The stimulation is merciless, endless, and in the haze of your pleasure, you wonder if you should make Mark a little more jealous everyday if it gets him to act this way.

“Mark, I…. I’ve been— s-since—”

“Not yet,” he whispers, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as if to bring you back to reality. You shudder at the pain, the pleasure that accompanies it, and when you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, you notice that a few tears escape your eyes. “Hold out for me a bit, okay? Please. It’s not enough. Not yet enough.”

You wonder if ‘enough’ is a concept the both of you even understand when it comes to wanting each other; already, you feel desire pooling in your stomach, threatening to spill from you, and clenching around him isn’t helping you stop it the way your body seems to think it’s supposed to. It also doesn’t help that Mark’s fingers are relentless, one still drawing tight, heavy circles around your clit, and the other creeping up under your shirt to tug down the cup of your bra, letting a breast spill into his warm palm. He kneads with an unusual — but not unpleasant — roughness, and you squeak out incoherently as he tweaks at the hardened bud of your nipple, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Hold on for me a little,” he continues murmuring, even after you shake your head and whisper ‘can’t’ to him over and over. “Do it for me. Tell Donghyuck — tell him how good it feels. How much you want to keep feeling me inside you.”

You don’t even know what to say; the pleasure that washes over you, the new kind of roughness that Mark exhibits has you drawing a blank, and you can only whine in a last attempt at protest, only for your tongue to start moving on autopilot, fueled by your want.

“It’s not enough,” you echo — and even if it feels like it is, even if it feels even more than you can possibly handle, something tells you that it’s true. “Not enough — need to feel you more, Mark. God, I want to feel you stretch me out, fuck my little hole into the shape of your cock— until no one else can fuck me but you—”

“What,” Donghyuck breathes out, his exhale coming across as static. “The fuck.”

You don’t have to explain; your babbling’s doing most of the work in that regard anyway, and you can tell by the wet, staccato noises on the other end that Donghyuck can easily piece together the scenario anyway. He’s jacking off to the both of you, something in your mind whispers, and the notion of that alone has you tightening around Mark’s cock. The change doesn’t go unnoticed, and his fingers sink deeper into your flesh; you cry out softly when you feel a jolt of pleasure as he gives your clit a sudden pinch.

“How much tighter can you get?” He sounds incredulous but also, interestingly, proud — there’s a smug tinge to his voice that arouses you even more. “Does it feel that good?”

“Fuck, yes,” you breathe out, the syllables quivering in your throat. “So good I’m going to lose my mind. Let me — God, please, let me—”

“Not yet,” Mark mumbles, and you whimper as he slows and slips out of you, his hand gently rubbing your folds in what feels like comfort — a small apology for his overt enthusiasm that you don’t even really need. “Just a little more. I need to see it.”

“See what?” Donghyuck’s voice is barely above a whisper, hoarse and pretty much muffled by the sound of his hand pumping his own shaft. Your head’s light, so your body moves on its own when Mark inches away slightly, giving you room to turn yourself around and lay on your back. You’ve barely even settled when he lifts your hips, dragging you closer to him and easing your thighs apart to slot himself between your legs.

His cock weighs heavy, pressed up against your folds, and he pushes his hips in a superficial thrust to get them to spread. His eyes fall briefly on your swollen clit, the wetness that you left on his shaft, even more of it still leaking from your hole. When he looks back up at you, there’s something triumphant in his gaze.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he coos, so lovingly it’d be hard to imagine his cock still sliding against your folds if you couldn’t feel it yourself. “I’ll never get enough of your perfect pussy — so perfect that it was made to take me.”

“See what?” Donghyuck presses, an impatience now coloring his voice. Mark chuckles, nodding at you and mouthing silently. Tell him.

Your inhale’s shaky, quivering like the rest of your body, and you don’t ever break away from Mark’s gaze, even as you speak.

“His cock fucking me in my stomach.”

Donghyuck’s ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ is drowned out by your cry of need as Mark pushes back into you. There’s no lag time now, no wait for any kind of adjustment; he takes you in one motion, until you feel his hips hit the backs of your thighs again. Your walls flutter around him, unable to process his size fully, and all that comes out of you is a string of messy mewls that’s constantly interrupted by the wet sounds of his thrusts.

Your body feels almost weightless, the only thing you can understand being the feeling of his cock pumping into you, stretching you out further. You’re only able to shake yourself out of the reverie when you feel his hands push back against your thighs, folding you in half, before they crowd atop your stomach.

“God, I need to feel it,” he groans out, his palms skimming under your navel, searching. “Please — do it for me.”

Even with your brain muddled, you don’t even have to try to figure it out; you let him feel it every time he asks. You inhale, deep and slow, until your stomach sinks, and the walls of your stomach flatten against his cock, which pauses briefly in its movements as he revels in the newfound feeling.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and you flush in pleasure, in satisfaction at his praise. “Love seeing my cock inside you.”

He adjusts himself before he starts pumping into you again, burying his shaft all the way to the hilt each time; each thrust is followed by a soft sob from you, and you reach out, planting your hands on top of his. You obviously can’t feel his cock under your palms, but you don’t have to anyway; the fit’s tight enough that it feels, ridiculously, like he’s fucking your whole body, like he’s pressing into the deepest part of your core. You just want him to feel it more — the movement of the bulge under his hands, the resistance it has to push through to get to your stomach.

“Love feeling me inside you,” he continues, and his breathing stutters then, signaling that he’s also barely hanging on. “Love seeing how pretty you look when I rearrange your insides.”

You mouth out a disbelieving ‘what the fuck’ that earns you a simple smile, but Mark’s unrelenting in his movements anyway, his palms completely covering your stomach.

“Dude, I wanna see it too,” Donghyuck reminds you both of his presence when his voice comes through the speaker. “Put her on video.”

“No way,” comes Mark’s swift, firm reply. Donghyuck makes a noise of protest. “This is just for me.”

“Selfish as hell, calling me without really sharing.”

“The point wasn’t really ever to share.”

Mark’s hands suddenly press down on your stomach, and you stifle a soft scream; the pressure increases tenfold, as does the tightness of the fit, his cock brushing against your walls in a way that makes you feel breathless — it makes you feel used. Your hands fly up, fingers locking behind his neck, and you squirm under him, knowing fully well that you can’t escape anyway — not that you really want to, anyway.

“Mark,” you warn him again, your voice thin and airy. “I can’t anymore — I really—”

“I got you,” he murmurs — something you’ve come to learn he always says, always wants to let you know. He’ll be here until you break, until you can’t take anymore. “One second, okay?”

“Bro, what? Are you serious—” Even Donghyuck sounds confused, although his voice is tight too; he must be close, your mind weakly registers, but it doesn’t matter. Mark, albeit reluctantly, slips one hand away from your stomach — for a good cause, he must think, and you learn what it is when he ends the call, effectively cutting off Donghyuck’s complaints. Your eyes widen in confusion, but all Mark’s gaze is to you is reassuring, gentle, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips before he answers your unspoken question.

“Can’t let him hear you cum,” he murmurs against your mouth. “That’s only for me, isn’t it?”

You nod, letting the movement of it brush your lips against his. “You’re the only one I’ll cum for — the only one that can make me.”

Above your head, his phone is trilling noisily; the vibrations course through your back, weak but persistent, and for some reason, it heightens your arousal all the more. Mark ignores it completely, single-mindedly focused on pistoning into you with the bulk of his strength. His hands push down just under your navel, increasing your awareness of the feeling of his cock, him fucking you, coaxing out your climax.

“Do it. Show me how pretty you look when you cum for me.”

You don’t think it’s possible for him to inject any more strength into his movements, but he proves you wrong time and time again; the wind’s knocked out of you as he braces himself and fucks you harder, sharper into the bed, and the only noises you can make are weak whimpers and choked sobs. Your mind’s so overrun with pleasure that your climax hits your body first before your mind fully parses it; your back arches again, and you mewl out something broken, something that sounds like his name as you come undone.

Mark still doesn’t relent, the tremble in your legs somehow only inspiring him to put more power in his thrusts. Even through the dazedness that comes with all the stimulation, you can see the fine details you’ve come to know so well — the tightness in his jaw, the growing flush across his collar, the quick heaving of his chest. He’s close too, so close he’s just holding himself back out of sheer force of will to make sure he can watch you come down from your climax completely. You don’t know why he has to, but you want to see him let go too, and you scramble for words, for more touch — pressing your thighs firm against his sides to keep him close, locked — just to get him there.

“Will you mark me up one last time?” You breathe out. He reacts almost instantaneously, moving to lean down and press his mouth against the still-untouched side of your neck, but your palm on his chest stops him from doing so. Surprise crosses his face, followed by slight confusion. You squeeze your thighs against him, trying to make your point, but even then, his brow furrows. “Mark me — inside.”

His eyes widen, and his hips stutter before they resume pace, his fingers digging into your stomach almost painfully as he tries to keep himself in control. “I— no, you know I can’t…”

“Do you want to?” You egg him on, your hand dropping from his chest to land on top of his again, adding to the pressure until you’re sure he can feel every small movement, every throb of his own cock inside you. “You can, you know — make me yours, from the inside out.”

“God — we can’t; you know we’d be in so much trouble.”

“But I’d let you anyway, if you wanted to. Do you ever think about it, Mark?” Your fingers toy with his, almost like you’re having a casual conversation instead of a situation in which he’s deep inside you, already aching for release. “Fucking your cum deep into me, letting it seep into my stomach — making sure no one else can fill me up?”

“Jesus,” he growls, and he reluctantly slips his hands out from under yours to grip your thighs. Realistically, he has enough strength to peel them away, have you release him, but his hold just tightens, not really making any motion to do so. You see the thought flash in his eyes, serious even just for a moment. He thinks about it all the time.

“Think about it,” you urge, your voice soft but close to a demand. “And every time you do, remember one day, you will — because you’re the only one that can.”

He tilts his head back, letting a growl rip from his throat, and he finally manages to push your thighs apart. You let him, let them fall apart so he can slip out of you. You watch him shift upwards, his knees on either side of your torso, and you’re met with the erotic sight of him fisting his cock in front of you, urging himself into completion. You do the only thing you can think of to help; you open your mouth wide, pushing your tongue out, silently asking for his load.

“Even when you do that, you’re fucking pretty,” he groans out, and his thumb presses his cock down, resting the underside flush against your tongue as he rocks his hips. “How much prettier are you going to look with my cum all over your face?”

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out, and you don’t have to respond; he gets the answer he wants with one last thrust against your tongue, and you close your eyes briefly, allowing yourself to drink in the taste, the smell of his cum as it streaks across your cheeks, all over your lips. You hear his release as it comes too — the soft rumble from his chest, the release of air that gently whistles through his teeth.

When you open your eyes again, Mark is looking down at you, a warm flush creeping up his cheeks and ears again; he’s breathless, panting as he comes down from his high. From the daze of his climax, a slightly sheepish look of apology crosses his face, and he reaches down, seemingly without any real plan, to clean you up, only to withdraw, slightly bemused, when you shake your head.

A laugh escapes him when you shimmy out from under him, straighten up, and extend your arms upward, puckering your lips in slight demand. You think he might reject you, but Mark doesn’t even hesitate longer than a second. He swoops down, capturing your lips in a fierce kiss, and your thighs press together tight as you enjoy the feeling of his tongue swiping away his cum from your bottom lip before he takes it between his teeth, sucking softly as if to clean you completely.

When he pulls away, his head dips into your shoulder; again, his face turns to press against the mark he’d left, and his teeth nip at the soft bruise that’s already begun to blossom. Satisfied by the soft noise you make at the sensitivity you feel from the contact, he breathes out, long and steady, against your skin.

“Just… can’t get enough of you,” he finally exhales, pressing another kiss to your neck; it’s gentler, situated just under your jaw.

“You don’t ever have to think about having enough,” you whisper, leaving a light nuzzle against his shoulder. “Just always think about having more.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, but he nods, accepting your offer anyway. A moment of silence passes, where you’re wrapped up in each other, his weight against you in a blanket of heat, and it stretches to what almost feels like an eternity — if not for the phone suddenly ringing again, Donghyuck’s name coming up on the ID. You both start, and Mark reaches over, fumbling with the sides of his device before he finds and toggles the silent switch.

“Seriously,” he grumbles, watching the call drop just for it to start up again, the screen flashing.

“We kind of left him hanging, to be fair.”

“No fairness.” Mark tosses the phone to the foot of the bed, where it lies, facedown and buzzing. “He got more than he deserved today.”

You watch him as he slips off the bed, rearranging himself before clipping his jeans button back into place. He whispers a gentle ‘be right back’ and exits the room, leaving the door only slightly ajar. You hear the water run in the bathroom, and a few moments later, Mark returns to your side, holding a damp towel.

He leaves a kiss after each light swipe across your face, as if to apologize for the pain he thinks he might be causing; you laugh, partly because it’s ridiculous, but mostly because you like it. He cleans your mouth last, even though there’s already nothing left, just so he has an excuse to leave a long, lasting kiss there.

You think it’s the last you’ll get for now, but he surprises you by bending down even further, hiking your shirt up your torso again. His hand rests on your thigh, keeping himself balanced as he presses a flutter of kisses around your navel, lingering at the exact spot that sits above where he knows his cock hits every time he bottoms out in you.

“One day,” he whispers into your skin before he looks up at you, his eyes shining. “I’ll really make you all mine.”

“Dummy.” Your voice is just as low, and you pull his head up again, enjoying the brush of his hair against your hand, the swoop of his jaw under your palm. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Every single day, considering I’ll never get tired of it.”

You hum, not one to deny him of what he asks anyway; you push him back onto his calves, climbing back onto his lap; it’s your favorite way to be near him, you decide, with almost nothing between you, almost everything of yours touching everything of his — like you fit in him perfectly. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, feeling their soft rise and fall as his breathing steadies, and you squirm a bit, if only to make sure his arms are locked securely around you — to make sure he won’t let go. Just like that, in his arms, you say it again — a truth, a fact, and a promise.

“I already am.”

Risk | l.jn [1]

Genre: college au; crush-at-first-sight Synopsis: Firmly convinced that Love-at-First-Sight is a hoax, you never expected to be proven wrong when the universe decided to throw you, quite literally, into Lee Jeno's lap. Pairing: NCT Lee Jeno x Reader Warnings: slow burn—I know, classic Cali work. Notes: Can I interest you with another two-part fic that's also a slow burn? No? Alright. Here's the first 14.7k words! Song prompt was Risk by Gracie Abrams <3 (btw i did not proofread this)

[Part 2]

You first met Jeno Lee on a particularly cool autumn afternoon. The kind of day where the wind carried a crispness that hinted at the coming winter, and the leaves crunched underfoot in vibrant shades of red, orange, and gold. The public library—where you spent most of the school break had always been quiet, but today, it was more silent than usual, the heavy wooden doors muffling the outside world’s chill.

You found yourself in the farthest corner of the library, where the oldest books resided, their spines faded and worn from years of eager hands. You stepped onto a ladder, reaching for a book that had been buried on the highest shelf, just out of reach. The book wasn’t anything special, except for the pretty spine and an interesting title that piqued your curiosity.

Your fingertips brushed the spine, but as you tried to pull it free, it resisted. Frowning, you gave it a stronger tug, unaware that on the other side of the shelf, someone else had their fingers wrapped around the very same book.

Thinking it was simply stuck in the array, you tried again, exerting all of your strength on one last tug. The book suddenly gave way, sending you off balance. Your heart leaped into your throat as you toppled backward, the ladder slipping beneath your feet. You had just enough time to gasp before you felt yourself falling, bracing for the cold, hard floor to meet you.

But instead of hitting the ground, you landed in something warm and solid. Strong arms caught you, holding you securely as you blinked up in surprise, your breath coming in short.

And that’s when you saw him.

It felt like the world had shifted into a dreamy haze—one of those cinematic moments when time slows down as the female lead and her love interest lock eyes for the first time. The world seemed to blur around you, blocking out everything and everyone, and sweet background music was playing in your head. 

His eyes were the first thing you noticed—deep and warm, dark brown in color, flecked with gold that seemed to catch the light in just the right way. His dark hair fell in soft waves across his forehead, slightly tousled, as if he’d just run his fingers through it. His jawline was sharp, but softened by the slight smile that curved his lips as he looked down at you.

He was effortlessly handsome, in the kind of way that made your heart skip a beat and your stomach flip all at once. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice warm and soothing, with a hint of genuine concern.

“Huh?” you questioned, your own voice sounding like a switch that abruptly snapped you back to reality. The dreamy haze dissipated, and you were left with the stark, embarrassing reality of the moment. You realized you were still cradled in his arms, your hands resting against his chest. Your face flushed as you scrambled to get down, muttering apologies.

“Woah, careful,” he said as he gently set you back on your feet, his hands lingering on your arms for just a second longer than necessary. 

“I’m sorry about that,” you managed to stammer, your voice barely above a whisper. “The uh… the book! It was stuck.”

“Yeah, you almost got hurt there,” he smiled, a slow, genuine smile that made your heart flutter.

You glanced down at the book he was holding—the one you’d been reaching for, and then back up at him, a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Thanks. For catching me. And for this.”

He chuckled softly, and the sound was like music, smooth and easy. “No problem. I just happened to pass by.”

“Well, lucky me,” you replied, chuckling bashfully. For a moment, you both stood there, the library around you fading into the background. There was something in his gaze, a spark of recognition that made you feel like you knew each other, even though this was the first time you’d met. 

Is this the part where you tell him your name? Maybe not? Shouldn’t he be asking for yours?

“Right. See you around then,” he said while you were busy thinking to yourself. Before you could gather your wits to say anything back, he gave you an acknowledging nod and walked away.

You stood there, dumbfounded, watching him go. It wasn’t until he disappeared around the corner that you realized you should have asked for his name. Your heart was racing, and you were feeling a mix of gratitude and something else, something that made your cheeks warm and your thoughts scatter.

You kept wondering who he was, where he was from, and if he lived in town. His image haunted your thoughts, making it hard to focus on anything else. At night, you lay in bed, replaying the scene, his warm eyes and gentle smile etched into your memory.

Who was he? And why did your heart feel like it was doing somersaults? Clearly, you should know by now what that means: you have a huge, massive, gigantic crush on this guy. And you don’t even know his name yet!

Funnily enough, you never saw him again after that. In the remaining days of your break, you frequented the library, asked your friends about him, and even went on night outs hoping he’d show up. But you had no luck. Was it really possible not to see each other again after that day? Maybe he didn’t live there. Your town was small, the kind of place where everyone knows everybody. There was no way you wouldn’t have known if someone like that lived nearby. Maybe he was just passing through.

That was probably it. As you traveled back to the city for the start of the semester, you knew you would never see him again. It might be easier to think he didn’t exist at all. It was a little frustrating, but you decided to let it go.

Yet it seemed like the universe wasn’t ready for you to let it all go.

On one particularly cold and rainy afternoon, you stood outside a diner in the city, frantically waving your hand at a taxi cab. Your umbrella might have been keeping your head dry, but the strong gusts of wind blew tiny drops of rain all over your jeans and boots. After several occupied taxis passed by, seeing one finally pull over in front of you almost made you cry with joy.

“Apartment X on 46th Street, please,” you told the driver as soon as you slid inside, barely managing to close the door behind you. You sighed in relief, your heart slowing down as the warm air of the cab wrapped around you.

But just as you were about to settle in, the door was suddenly yanked open. Startled, you glanced back, and your breath caught in your throat.

A man peeked his head into the cab, his messy hair plastered to his forehead, drenched from the rain. But despite his soaked appearance, that smile was unmistakable—a smile you easily recognized even after all this time. The rain pounded against the cab roof, but all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat, echoing in your ears.

Jeno’s smile widened as he took in your surprised expression. “Sorry to barge in like this, but it’s pouring out here. Mind if I share the cab with you?”

“Sure,” you said softly, audible enough for him to slide into the seat next to you. You caught a whiff of his perfume—fresh, woodsy, intoxicating. Instinct made you scoot over slightly, trying to make room without seeming too eager.

The cab started moving, and silence filled the space between you. You could feel your pulse quicken as you stole glances at him, but he seemed oblivious, focused instead on his phone. He looked just as handsome as you remembered—maybe even more so—though it had only been a few months since you last saw him. Somehow, it felt like you were seeing him for the first time. And there was something in his demeanor that sent a sinking feeling to your stomach.

He didn’t remember you.

You were sure of it now. The way he had smiled, the casual politeness in his tone, all pointed to a simple truth—you were just another stranger sharing a cab on a rainy day.

You knew you should say something—anything. Start some small talk, maybe a simple “hi.” Would that be weird? It shouldn’t be, right? You’re sharing a space, after all, and a small one at that. You could remind him of the time he caught you in his arms like you were in a rom-com flick or something.

Making friends had always been easy for you, but with him, every conversation starter seemed silly or wrong, and the fear of making a bad impression held you back. What if he thought you were odd for remembering? What if he didn’t care?

Then again, how could you possibly form a deeper connection with him if you wouldn’t even talk to him? Was he really so attractive to leave you dumbfounded each time? You took a peek to confirm and ended up meeting his gaze when you glanced at each other at the same time. You smiled meekly before quietly looking away.

The answer was simply a ‘yes’.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the taxi driver’s voice. “Where to, young man?” he asked, glancing back at Jeno.

Jeno appeared to think for a second. “Is the road to NCIT still inaccessible?”

Your ears perked up at the mention of your university. Did he go there too?

“I don’t think so,” the driver replied, shaking his head slightly. “But I’ll try to get as close as possible. Taco Bell near the intersection alright with you?”

“That would be good, thanks.”

Your mind raced with questions. Does he go to NCIT too? You could ask him about it, maybe bring up the sinkhole that had appeared on the road near campus a few days ago. But once again, your nerves got the better of you. All you could do was scroll through your phone, pretending to be engrossed in social media as you tried not to gawk at him.

The cab came to a stop sooner than you expected. You noticed Jeno shifting beside you, preparing to get out.

“Thanks a lot,” he told the driver, handing over his fare. Then, to your surprise, he turned to you with a warm smile. “Thanks to you too. Stay warm.”

And just like that, he was gone. The door clicked shut, and you were left in the backseat, feeling mild annoyance and disappointment. You stared at the space where he had just been, your thoughts swirling with frustration.

Seriously? You thought to yourself, trying to keep the frustration from bubbling over. You’d let him slip away without saying anything. Ugh, how could you be so awkward? A tiny part of you wanted to throw a little tantrum and scold yourself at the same time.

As the cab started moving again, you slumped back in the seat, watching the rain streak down the windows. It was a little bit of a letdown, but you sighed and shook your head, deciding to laugh it off. He was just a fleeting, unexpected moment in your otherwise uneventful day. A quick ray of sunshine, maybe.

In itself, it was a relief to know that he was in the same city. Hunting him down should be easy. For now, you’d just have to let this go and move on.

“No, you’re not—” Sienna gestured quote marks in the air. “—‘hunting him down’, whatever that means.

“Why not?” you whined, slumping back on your bed.

Your flatmate sighed in exasperation, crossing her hands over her chest as she stared you down. “It’s weird and stalkerish. Get to know him like a normal human being.”

You had told her about Jeno, from the first encounter with him back in your hometown to the cab ride with him earlier that day. “That’s the thing. I can’t because I don’t know him at all. I don’t even have his name,” you told her.

“Yes, and you’re an idiot for that,” she chastised, sitting next to you on the bed. 

You groaned, narrowing your eyes at the ceiling. “You are absolutely correct,” you said, shutting your eyes as you flail your hands in the air.

“Let it go. If he does go to NCIT, then you’ll see him again and you’ll talk to him like a proper girl,” said Sienna, tapping the space between your eyebrows.

Normally, if something like that happened to you, you would just let it go. Not that it has happened before, but if it did, you would just let it go. Not this one. You can’t. Somehow, you were convinced that you crossed paths with him for a reason.

So, against Sienna’s advice, you hunted him down. It was outside a diner where you met him again, and he got off near your university. Assuming you were around the same age, he most probably went to NCIT too.

“If he was, you would’ve met him already,” said Sienna, alluding to your congenial personality and tendency to befriend just anyone.

“That’s the thing! I do not know him, so he’s probably a new student. If he isn’t, then he’s probably from the Sci-Tech building,” you told her.

“Sci-Tech? Why Sci-Tech?”

You looked at her like the answer to her question should be obvious enough. “Because I don’t go there.”

Sienna snorted. “Your deduction skills are spot on,” she said sarcastically.

There was only one place in uni that you never frequented, the Science and Technology building. It was because you had no reason to go there. That building was for NCIT’s specialized programs, which were programs in Natural Sciences and Technology. It housed departments like Engineering and Mathematics, Biology, Computer Sciences, and the like. As a Foreign Languages student, you have everything you need and everywhere you have to be in both the Arts and Social Sciences building. There was no reason to go elsewhere. But that might change if your suspicion turns out to be right.

So as soon as Monday rolled in, you headed to the said building with one goal in mind—to see if your mystery man was there. The halls weren’t entirely unfamiliar; you’d seen them before during your freshman tour of the campus. But the faces were new, unfamiliar, and you found yourself smiling at those you recognized.

The task was simple—look around, find out if Jeno’s there, get to know him, and done. If you happened to bump into your friends from this building, you’d tell them you were looking for them. No way were you going to let anyone know you were on a “hunt” for a boy.

“Are you lost?” said a guy’s voice from behind you.

You sighed and rolled your eyes before turning to face him. Smiling, you said, “I was just looking for you, Renjun.”

Renjun cocked an eyebrow at you. “Why? What did you do?”

You clutched your chest, pretending to be offended. “Nothing? I just came to see you. Lunch is on me today.”

His face softened but he still scoffed. “Why didn’t you just text me instead of coming all the way here?”

“I had to remind you because you’re old and forgetful,” you joked, falling into step beside him as he started walking.

“I’m not old and forgetful,” he muttered, though you just giggled, clinging onto his arm. 

Your eyes scanned the halls, peeking into classrooms, but there was no sign of Jeno so far. Meanwhile, Renjun was complaining about Haechan and Yangyang spreading the flu virus all weekend.

“Thank God they’re okay now,” he grumbled. “I can’t last another day babying those grownups.”

“Why don’t you kick them out?” you said absentmindedly.

Renjun hummed as if seriously considering the idea. “I would if I could pay all 1500 by myself. Even the rent is annoyingly expensive.”

“Then why not move to the on-campus dorm?” you suggested, though you knew he was just complaining for the sake of it.

“It sucks.”

Just as you rounded the corner to the stairs, you spotted Jeno in the crowd. You gasped softly, your heart doing a little flip. There he was, just as handsome as he had been last weekend. You were right, after all—he really was from this building.

You watched him from a distance, talking animatedly to a few other students in front of an open classroom. You couldn’t help but stare, your heart doing a little flip as you took in his easy smile and the way he casually leaned against the doorway like he belonged there—like he belonged everywhere. Nothing of note could be said about his good looks, except that he continued to be as handsome as he did last weekend. He laughed along with the rest of his classmates, eyes crinkling cutely.

“What are you staring at?” Renjun asked, following your gaze. “Ah, I knew you had ulterior motives for coming here. Which one is it? Hyunjin? Jeno? Soobin?”

You glanced back at Renjun, grinning from ear to ear. “Which one is Soobin?”

He scoffed. “You came all the way here and you don’t even know his name?”

“I know Hyunjin,” you said, shaking your head. You pointed at the guy in the grey hoodie. “That one. Is that Soobin?”

“That’s Jeno Lee.”

You gasped, covering your mouth in mock shock. “His name is Jeno? Oh my god! It suits him so well.”

“And? Did you come here for him?” Renjun asked, raising an eyebrow as he peered at Jeno and his group. “Should I call him over?”

“No!” you exclaimed, quickly tugging him back. “Do you two know each other?”

He nodded. “Yeah, he’s Jaemin’s friend from high school.”

At this point, your smile was probably blinding Renjun with how bright it was. But before you could pester him for more details, he slipped away with a quick wave, escaping to his classes.

Information was easy to obtain from your friends. Barely a day had passed but you have learned all the important things you needed to learn about him. He was new at the university, having enrolled here only last semester. Four months ago, he was dating this cute girl from Biology but they broke up only a month later. No one knew why, but they did break up. He used to play basketball and still does. He’s an Electronic Engineering student and is said to be very intelligent. You also found out that he currently shares an apartment with Jaemin and Mark.

That night, you lay on your bed, phone in hand, scrolling through his profile. He was active on it, posting mostly about his workouts in his Stories and getting tagged in posts by friends. He played basketball for his previous school and based on the posts and comments from his friends, he was great at it. There were pictures of him with his team, others mid-game, looking focused and determined. There were also pictures of him just hanging out with lots of different people; some faces were recurring, but it was mostly different people.

You couldn’t help but wonder if this was how all crushes felt—silly and intense all at once, like a tiny spark that refused to fizzle out.

“I wonder if he’s as nice as he seems,” you thought, your heart fluttering as you looked at a photo of him laughing with his friends. His smile was the same one that had made your heart skip a beat the first time you saw it.

You tapped on the profiles of his friends, searching for clues about Jeno’s life. It was easy to tell which ones were close to him, and which ones weren’t. You even scrolled through the profiles of girls who seemed too close to him in pictures, hoping he wasn’t dating any of them. Based on your little “research”, he is single right now with plenty of admirers commenting on his photos.

You noted every detail, hoping to find common interests. His love for basketball intrigued you, and maybe you could strike up a conversation about it if you ever got the chance. Well, that is if you even knew a thing about basketball. You weren’t a big fan of the sport, but you would be if it was Jeno playing. If he was on your school’s basketball team, you would have joined the cheer squad. You didn’t have the skill for it, but you would have tried nonetheless.

A soft sigh escaped your lips as you let your imagination run wild. You closed your eyes, allowing the faint light from your phone to fade into the darkness of your room. Images of Jeno’s smile and the sound of his voice played in your mind like a cherished memory. The idea of seeing him again made your heart swell with excitement, looking forward to the next few days.

Then, realizing how far down the rabbit hole of your crush you’d fallen, you couldn’t help but laugh at yourself. “Get it together,” you murmured, shaking your head with a grin. But even as you tried to reel yourself in, the excitement of possibly seeing him again was too much to suppress.

There was no denying it now. You told your girlfriends that you had fallen in love with Jeno Lee from the Sci-Tech building.

“It was love at first sight. I just know it,” you said dreamily, twirling in front of the mirror.

Kayla raised an eyebrow. “You said love at first sight is a scam.”

“I know what I said,” you sighed, knowing she was right. You were a skeptic when it came to love at first sight. Sure, you liked romance and were a massive fan of romcoms. But love at first sight in real life? Total BS. “Obviously, I was wrong. I have to admit that now,” you added, a mixture of disbelief and excitement swirling within you. Part of you still couldn’t believe how quickly your feelings had changed.

Kayla and Sienna exchanged glances. Sienna smirked, her tone playful as she asked, “Are you sure you weren’t just blinded by his looks? That can happen to some.”

“Well… He did look handsome, but I’m sure it was more than just that.” You walked back to your dresser, sporting a reminiscent smile. “I know it sounds crazy, but there was just something about him. I can’t explain it. It’s like… like he was meant to be there.”

Kayla rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide her grin. “Next thing you know, you’ll be writing love letters and doodling his name in your notebook.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but a part of you couldn’t deny it. Maybe you would. “Hey, if it comes to that, don’t judge me,” you said, a teasing glint in your eyes.

“Yo! I have arrived!” came Haechan’s voice from outside your bedroom door, followed by heavy knocks. “Come on, come out now before I change my mind and leave your asses.”

You opened the door and raised an eyebrow at him, leaning on the doorframe as you sized him up. “First of all, the car isn’t yours. Second, how dare you bring your shoes in here.”

“Move. I’m not here for your ugly mug. I need my baby,” he retorted, trying to push you out of the way, but you wouldn’t budge.

“You move,” you shot back, playfully pushing his chest and sending him back a few paces.

Sienna giggled as she brushed past you. “You guys never stop fighting, do you?” she asked rhetorically, knowing full well the answer was ‘yes.’

“I hate her so much,” Haechan muttered to Sienna as she greeted him with a soft kiss on the cheek. “How are you putting up with her?”

You rolled your eyes at their PDA. “The real question is, how is she putting up with you,” you quipped, turning on your heel to fetch your stuff.

Yangyang’s SUV was parked outside, and you could make out Renjun’s figure sitting in the shotgun. As the four of you boarded the car, Yangyang glanced back at you in the backseat, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

“Hey, I heard you’re seeing someone from Sci-Tech. Is that true?” he asked, his tone teasing.

You furrowed your brows in confusion, about to respond, when Renjun sighed exasperatedly from the front seat. “I said she went to see someone,” he corrected, his voice calm but laced with mock annoyance.

Yangyang turned to Renjun, feigning innocence. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No, dumbass,” Renjun shot back, rolling his eyes.

“Wow. Renjun, you’re a fucking tattletale,” you blurted, pretending to be offended but unable to keep the smile off your face.

Renjun just shrugged. “Let’s just go,” he said, his tone final but light, signaling the end of the banter as Yangyang pulled out of the driveway.

On rainy days, you often carpooled with Yangyang, who generously offered to drive you safely to school. While the sinkhole repairs were still ongoing, the city had found a detour that made it possible for cars to access the street where NCIT is.

“How much longer do you think it’s gonna take?” Renjun asked as you passed by the sinkhole.

“Hopefully not long. The traffic in this part of the city is a nightmare,” you replied, leaning forward to peer through the space between Renjun and Yangyang as you looked outside.

“Mark’s asking if we’re still going to Felize’s for lunch today,” Haechan said, his eyes glued to his phone.

“Of course, man. We haven’t eaten at Felize’s in ages,” Yangyang replied with a sigh. “I miss their quesadillas.”

“Who else is coming?” Sienna asked, peeking at her boyfriend’s phone.

“No one else. Just Mark, Jaemin, and maybe Jeno.”

Your stomach did a little flip at the mention of Jeno’s name. “You’re going to Felize’s and you never told me?” you accused, feigning indignation.

Kayla cocked an eyebrow at you. “We talked about it in the group chat last week.”

“Why didn’t I know that?”

“Because you never check your messages,” Renjun said, not missing a beat.

Haechan chimed in, “And you rarely show up to our invitations anyway.”

“I do sometimes!” you insisted.

“Rarely,” Renjun shot back, smirking.

You grinned. “Well, today is your lucky day!”

“Oh, shut up. You just want to see Jeno,” Renjun teased, his smirk widening.

“Jeno?” Haechan repeated, his eyes narrowing as he looked at you suspiciously. “Do you like Jeno?”

“Mind your own business, alright?” you shot back.

After a long day of classes, you and your friends finally made your way to Felize’s. The familiar scent of sizzling fajitas and freshly baked tortillas greeted you as you stepped inside the cozy, dimly lit restaurant. It was a favorite hangout spot, a place where you could unwind and enjoy some of the best Mexican food in town.

The group quickly spotted Mark and Jaemin already seated at a booth near the window, waving them over. You all crammed into the booth, the chatter flowing easily as menus were passed around—even though you all knew what you were going to order.

As you looked around the restaurant, your excitement started to wane. You scanned the tables, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jeno, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Jaemin noticed your expression first and grinned. “What’s with the long face? You look like you lost something.”

You tried to play it off, shrugging. “Nothing. Just thought it would be more crowded.”

Haechan chuckled. “She was expecting someone in particular.”

“Someone whose name rhymes with… Den-o?” Kayla teased, her grin widening.

You rolled your eyes, but the small smile on your face gave you away. “Okay, fine, maybe I thought Jeno would be here. But I’m not disappointed. Just… mildly inconvenienced.”

“Mildly inconvenienced,” Yangyang mocked with a playful smirk. “I can practically see the broken heart emojis floating above your head.”

“Yo! Wait, what’s going on?” Mark asked, holding up his palms. Turning to you, he asked, “Do you like Jeno?”

“No,” you denied, but you were grinning from ear-to-ear. “Who is he anyway?”

“No, seriously,” Mark pressed, eye gleaming with interest as he turned to your other friends for answers. “Seriously? Since when?”

“Not long,” you replied, hoping they'd move on. “Just very recently.”

“Recently? Alright, that makes sense. We’ve been flatmates since he got here. I was wondering why you never told us,” Mark said, nodding..

“Right? I didn’t even know there were three of you in that apartment!” you groaned.

Jaemin smiled at you. “Too bad he isn’t here. He had other things to do.”

Renjun, ever the instigator, leaned back in his seat with a knowing smile. “You know, if you really want to see him, you could just text him and ask where he is. He might appreciate the effort.”

Mark nodded in agreement, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Yeah, or maybe we should’ve just kidnapped him and brought him here ourselves.”

Yangyang added with a grin, “Or better yet, we can all show up at his place with food and be like, ‘Hey, you missed out!’”

Haechan’s laughter was an insult to you. “Does he even know you? I heard you get tongue-tied at the mere sight of him!”

There was a chorus of disbelief from the boys at your table. Jaemin asked, still shocked, “You? Tongue-tied?”

Kayla chuckled softly. “Come on, guys. Don’t tease her like that. She’s just a bit  shy.”

“Oh god,” Yangyang exclaimed, rubbing his arms. “I got goosebumps hearing you say that.”

“Yeah, ‘shy’ and ‘you’ don’t belong in the same sentence,” added Haechan, pointing his finger at you.

You groaned, half-laughing as you covered your face with your hands. “You guys are the worst.”

“But you love us anyway,” Sienna said, patting your shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, though the smile on your face gave you away. Even though Jeno wasn’t there, you couldn’t help but enjoy the moment with your friends.

With the midterms fast approaching, you momentarily forgot about Jeno, focusing instead in making notes and studying. Instead of the campus library, you opted to the city library. You liked it there. It’s quieter, with fewer students, and more books to choose from. Except this time, instead of maintaining your streak as a recognized Most Diligent Reader—third place overall last year—you buried yourself in notes and textbooks.

One particularly slow weekend, you were absorbed in your study when you thought your eyes were playing tricks on you. There, leaning against one of the towering old bookshelves, was Jeno. He held a book in one hand, and his other hand twirled a pen absentmindedly. Your heart leaped to your throat, and a wave of nerves washed over you.

You quietly observed Jeno from behind the cover of your textbook, trying to focus on your notes. But despite your best intentions, your gaze kept drifting towards him. The way he casually flipped through pages and twirled his pen seemed to make time stand still. You watched as he moved from the shelves to a table across the room, burying his head into the book. You tried to concentrate, but your efforts were in vain as your mind wandered back to him.

The next day, you were back at the city library, hoping for another glimpse of him. To your surprise, Jeno was there again, looking just as engrossed in his studies as before. You couldn’t help but think that maybe he enjoyed this library as much as you did. Although that day, he studied little and slept most of the day.

One afternoon, Sienna showed up and immediately noticed your distracted state. She took one look at you and followed your gaze, rolling her eyes when she saw Jeno.

“Seriously?” Sienna said, sitting down next to you and grabbing your notes. “You’re here to study, not to gawk at some guy.”

You blushed, trying to regain your composure. “I’m not gawking. I’m just—”

“Just talk to him,” Sienna interrupted, her tone a mix of exasperation and encouragement. “He’s right there. How hard can it be?”

You felt your cheeks grow warmer. “I can’t just walk up to him. I’m—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “I’m shy.”

Sienna raised an eyebrow. “You? You’re never shy.”

“I know,” you admitted, feeling a bit flustered. “It’s just… different with him. I don’t know why.”

Sienna sighed dramatically. “Fine, I’ll do it for you then. But you owe me coffee.”

You shot up from your seat, grabbing her arm to stop her. “No, wait! Please don’t.”

Sienna looked at you, puzzled. “Are you sure? He seems like a really nice guy. It wouldn’t hurt to just say hi.”

You shook your head, giving her a pleading look. “I don’t want to rush things. Just let me handle it.”

Sienna studied you for a moment, then sighed and relented. “Alright, alright. I won’t push it. But you better get on with it soon, or I’m going to start making plans for you.”

You breathed a sigh of relief, and Sienna returned to her seat, shaking her head but with a smile. You knew you needed to muster the courage to talk to Jeno on your own terms, but now is not the right time yet. Of course that’s just an excuse, but you wanted to believe it.

Once more, you found yourself at the city library, where you spotted Jeno studying with Jaemin. You decided to sit at a table right behind them, carefully positioning yourself so that Jaemin’s back was to you. This way, you could observe Jeno without risking being seen by your friend.

As you settled into your seat, you pulled out your notes and pretended to study, though your attention was primarily focused on Jeno. You discreetly stole glances over the top of your book, trying to catch glimpses of his expressions and the way he animatedly explained something to Jaemin. You found yourself fixated on his lips, the way they moved and the way they’re so pink and plump.

Just as you were lost in the sight of him, Jeno’s gaze flicked in your direction, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment. Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly ducked behind your book, pretending to be engrossed in your notes. You could almost feel your cheeks heating up, and you cursed yourself for being so obvious. Surely, he didn’t realize you’d been staring at him, right? 

You were probably wrong. He definitely saw that.

Trying to regain your composure, you forced yourself to focus on your studies, though your mind kept drifting back to that fleeting moment of eye contact. You stole another glance from behind the cover of your book, only to find that Jeno had returned to his conversation with Jaemin, seemingly unaware of your presence. You let out a quiet sigh of relief, but the excitement and nervousness of the encounter lingered, making it hard to concentrate on anything other than him.

Exams arrived, and you couldn’t help but regret not studying as diligently as you should have. You knew you wouldn’t fail any of them, but you braced yourself for some disappointing scores. That did not stop you from attending an off-campus house party though. 

The party was in full swing when you arrived, and you were having a blast with your girlfriends. Amid the laughter and music, you spotted Jeno with his group of friends. Your friends, in high spirits, decided to make a bet involving a game of flip-cup. The stakes were simple: if you lose, you had to go up and talk to Jeno.

“News travel fast,” you snickered, eyeing Sienna in particular.

Sienna shrugged nonchalantly. “Wasn’t me. They found out by themselves.”

“Yeah, you weren’t as slick as you thought,” said Olive, tossing the cup towards you.

“Don’t worry, babe,” said Kayla, squeezing your shoulder gently. “No one’s ratting you out.”

As the game progressed, you tried your best to lose, but Flip Cup just so happened to be one of those games you were oddly good at. Every time you thought you were about to lose, you somehow managed to pull through. 

“Oh, come on! Just let her lose already,” Kayla teased from the sidelines, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

“You’re actually scared to talk to Jeno, are you?” Sienna asked with a grin, playfully nudging you. “There’s no way you’re this good.”

“I’m not scared!” you protested, though you were starting to sweat. “I’m just… strategically holding back.”

Your friends exchanged amused glances, clearly not buying your excuse. “You know what? I don’t even need this,” you said with a dramatic flair, taking a big swig of the spiked punch in your red cup. “I’m gonna go talk to him right now.”

“Oooh,” your friends chorused. 

With newfound confidence, you made your way toward Jeno’s group. He stood by the music console with a few others, talking and laughing. You clenched and unclenched your fists, trying to squeeze out the nervousness that was starting to creep back in. The closer you got, the more your heart pounded, your palms growing clammy. 

It would be easier if he was alone, you thought and it was like the universe heard your plea because his friends walked away from him, rushing somewhere else while cheering. You took a deep breath, trying to muster up the courage to approach him. Just when you were almost within reach, Haechan unexpectedly passed by.

Without thinking, you grabbed his arm, veering off course. “Hi! I’ve been looking for you!” you blurted out, trying to sound casual.

Haechan blinked at you, baffled. “What? Why? What did I do?”

You forced a smile, dragging him further away from Jeno’s group. “Nothing. Just wanted to catch up with you!”

Haechan gave you a suspicious look, noting how you kept glancing over your shoulder. “What’s going on? You’re acting weird.”

When you were safely out of sight, you finally let go of Haechan and waved him off. “Go away.”

Haechan pointed at himself in mock disbelief. “Me? Go away? You’re the one who dragged me over here!”

“Well, thanks for your service. I don’t need you anymore,” you quipped, turning on your heel and heading back to your girlfriends. You were welcomed by their disappointed gazes.

“That was so anticlimactic,” Kayla remarked, shaking her head.

“Oh, shut up,” you sighed, rolling your eyes, though you couldn’t hide the rueful smile tugging at your lips.

The rest of the night passed in a blur of laughter and drinks. By the time you got home, you were drunk but wide awake, whining to your friends as you sprawled out on the living room carpet. Squinting up at the ceiling, you muttered, “I’m home.”

“Yeah, you are,” Sienna replied, nodding as she watched you.

You pointed at the lightbulb above you. “But I don’t see Jeno Lee. He should be here.”

“He probably would be if you didn’t chicken out at the last minute,” Sienna scolded, shaking her head. “And you’re not in your bedroom, dumbass. Get up!”

You groaned, closing your eyes as you smiled. “Next time... maybe.”

Sienna rolled her eyes and nudged you with her foot. “Yeah, sure. We’ll believe it when we see it.”

Days passed with you casually crossing paths with Jeno more often. It was like the universe had decided to make him appear everywhere you went. You noticed that you both arrived on campus around the same time, late in the morning at 10:30. He was often at the quad, surrounded by friends or just passing by. Each glimpse of him was like a small thrill, a bright spot in your routine school day.

The public library was a hit-or-miss; sometimes he was there, and other times he wasn’t. Still, you went there every day out of habit, mainly to read and also to see him if he happened to be there.

You got to know him in this way, piecing together bits of his life through observations and casual conversations with others. You learned about his friends, his classes, and his easygoing personality. He seemed to be well-liked by everyone, always ready with a smile or a kind word.

But there was one place you rarely saw him: the food court. It has been a while since you found out about him, and despite having mutual friends, you have yet to talk to him or share the same space. Today, you walked into the food court and scanned the place for any sign of him, only to be disappointed by his absence.

You settled on the chair next to Kayla, fixing your bag. Sliding next to you, Kayla whispered, “You look glum. Haven’t seen your crush today yet?”

You rolled your eyes at her mischievous grin. “No. And I’m not glum at all! Especially not because of that.”

Sienna snickered from her spot next to Haechan. “Yeah, you are totally glum because of that.”

Just as you were about to retort, you caught sight of Jeno walking into the cafeteria. Your heart skipped a beat as you watched him navigate through the crowd, his easy smile drawing you in. He greeted a few friends with casual high-fives and settled into a seat with a group of students—Mark, Jaemin, and Yangyang among them.

Kayla nudged you, a knowing look in her eyes. “There he is.”

“Yeah, don’t care,” you said, but the grin spreading across your face was a clear contradiction of your words.

Haechan shuddered exaggeratedly. “You’re so creepy when you smile like that.”

You shot him a glare. “And? How about making yourself useful to me for once and make it so that we can have lunch together?”

Haechan flashed a challenging smirk. “Think you can handle it?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you opened your salad. “Never mind. I don’t need your help. I can manage my own love life.”

“Sure you can,” he jeered. “Isn’t that why you still haven’t talked to him after all this time?”

You were about to snap back when Sienna interjected, “Table manners, sweethearts.”

Haechan rolled his eyes, then mimed zipping his lips. “Your friend is annoying,” he muttered to Sienna.

“And your boyfriend is super annoying,” you retorted.

“Your friend is ultra—” Haechan started, but Sienna cut him off.

“Stop it,” Sienna chided sternly. He quickly complied, pretending to lock his lips. “Ugh, kids.”

In the afternoon, as you were walking through the Arts building, you spotted a familiar figure down the hallway. It was Jeno! Your stomach fluttered, and you couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing there. Curiosity got the best of you, and after some subtle investigation—okay, maybe a little eavesdropping—you discovered the reason. He had taken up Carpentry as an elective!

To make things even better, you were in that class! You had chosen it just for fun, but with Jeno there, your mind raced with possibilities as you found something new to look forward to. Did this mean you’d see him more often? What should you do? You have no idea yet, for now, you must go to class.

When saw him there, you could barely keep your eyes off him but you had to try. Though you didn’t have any chances to talk yet, you were content with just seeing him there, sharing the same space. 

Later, you told Sienna and Kayla about it, your head floating in the clouds out of sheer joy. They exchanged amused looks, teasing you mercilessly about your "carpenter crush," but they understood your fascination, even if they enjoyed poking fun at you.

Carpentry was scheduled every Tuesday and Thursday. On Thursday, as you were heading to class, you found yourself walking behind him. He was talking to one of his friends, his laughter echoing in the hallway. You couldn’t help but smile, feeling a warm glow inside.

In class, you worked on your project, stealing glances at Jeno every now and then. The room smelled of clay, and the sound of tools clinking filled the air. He was focused on his own work, unaware of your silent admiration. It was enough for now, you told yourself. Just being near him was enough.

But as you worked on your project, sneaking glances at him, you knew this was just the beginning. There was a quiet contentment in being near him, but a part of you couldn’t help but hope for more—just one conversation, one chance to see if your feelings were more than just a crush.

“What are your plans for the Sports Fest?” Kayla asked, nudging your arm. “I’ll be doing Badminton Doubles with Olive.”

In the living room of your apartment, you and your friends gathered around the coffee table, eating takeout from a fast food restaurant. Everyone in your close circle was there, and you had asked them to bring Jeno but apparently, he had plans.

You waved your hand dismissively as you swallowed your food. “Hard pass. I’m still healing from that awful injury last year,” you replied, massaging your right wrist.

During last year’s sports fest, you played volleyball for your department. You remembered the sharp pain as you fell on your arm, the way your wrist twisted awkwardly beneath you. It had long since healed, but the memory of that day still lingered, leaving you with an irrational fear of getting hurt again. It was an awful experience that you would rather not relive.

“I thought you’re completely healed?” asked Mark, taking your hand to examine your wrist. “Did you break a bone? I thought it was just a sprain.”

“I’m just exaggerating,” you snickered, retracting your hand. “My wrist is healed but my heart is not. It’s called trauma.”

“Yeah, I know what it’s called,” Mark chuckled.

You eyed him curiously. “What about you? Basketball?”

Mark nodded, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Honestly, I can’t wait to kick Yangyang’s ass.”

Across the room on the leather couch, Yangyang was gobbling his burger. Unable to speak with his mouth full, he flipped a middle finger at Mark, who just laughed.

“Ah, I almost forgot!” Mark exclaimed, looking at you with widened eyes. “Jeno’s playing too!”

The mention of Jeno made your face light up. “He is?”

“Look at you all bright and excited,” Jaemin teased.

Renjun smirked, patting his hands as he finished his food. “Watch her betray her department and cheer for a different team again. Like she did last year for her ex.”

“Oh my god!” you exclaimed, covering your ears and closing your eyes. “No bad words on the dinner table.”

Sienna leaned in with a smirk. “Wanna bet she’d cheer for the Humanities Department this year?”

Kayla chimed in, “Pass. We all know she’d support Jeno no matter what.”

You rolled your eyes, but the thought lingered. “We’ll see,” you mumbled, hiding your smile behind another bite of food. “I’ll be there for all your games, though. Moral support and all.”

The three-day Sports Fest dawned on NCIT with a strong air of festivity and excitement. Banners and streamers hung around the campus, bearing the crests and colors of each department. For the first two days, you cheered and supported your friends in their respective sports, while making sure not to miss each one of Jeno’s basketball games. In between games, you enjoyed the booths that the clubs had set up on the campus grounds. There were food stalls with a variety of snacks and meal sets. There were fair games with plush toys for prizes. Your favorite was the photobooth where you and your friends took lots of pictures to commemorate the event. 

The last day of the event was for championships. To showcase the camaraderie of the student body, everyone dressed in the colors of their respective departments, and the entire campus thrummed with cheers and enthusiasm for the day.

You wore a vivid blue shirt bearing the crest of the Humanities Department and throughout the day, you moved courts cheering for your friends in their respective sports. Haechan did well in his soccer game, and Kayla seemed to have secured the silver for your department. But the highlight of your day was the basketball championship.

It was a match between the Humanities Department and the Engineering Department. The covered court was booming with cheers from the students who filled up the bleachers. The school band played an upbeat tune, adding to the festive atmosphere. You and your friends went early to get the best seats to watch the game. The blue flaglets in your hand blended with everyone else on your side of the court. On the other, green long balloons were cheering for the Engineering department.

Players were warming up down at the court, stretching, and doing practice shooting before the game officially began. Mark spotted your group and waved two hands at you.

“Boo!” Yangyang jeered beside you with his thumbs down. He was salty after his Business Department lost to Engineering yesterday.

You looked for Jeno among the different faces. There he was, dressed in his uniform—white and green jersey, matching shorts, and sneakers that seemed to gleam under the bright lights. The uniform hugged his athletic build, showcasing his toned muscles and broad shoulders. He blended in with the team but the way he moved with an easy grace and confident stride made him stand out even more in your eyes.

“Close your mouth!” Jaemin teased, earning a chorus of laughter from your friends. “We don’t want Jeno to see you drooling.” 

You quickly clamped your mouth shut, feeling your cheeks heat up as Sienna nudged you with a knowing smile. Still, you couldn’t take your eyes off Jeno. The way he carried himself and the way his eyes sparkled with excitement made him look even more captivating. It was as if he was glowing, radiating an aura of coolness and charisma.

As the final minutes before the game ticked away, the energy in the court grew higher. You could feel your pulse quicken in sync with the rising tension in the air. The earlier games and festivities had been thrilling, but this match was the one you’d been waiting for. You couldn’t help but wonder if Jeno had noticed you in the crowd during his previous games, or if he was too focused on the game to even glance your way. The thought made your heart race, but you pushed it aside, deciding to enjoy the view instead.

As the game started, the energy in the court surged to new heights. You were on the edge of your seat, your heart pounding in time with the rhythm of the game. The Humanities Department was strong, but your eyes were only on Jeno and his team. Every time the Engineering Department scored, you couldn’t help but leap to your feet, waving your blue flaglets as if they were green.

“Go, Engineering!” you shouted, your voice ringing out loud and clear among the crowd. You were so absorbed in cheering for Jeno that you didn’t even notice the confused looks from your own department. It was strange, even to you, seeing someone in the vivid blue of Humanities cheering so passionately for the opposing team.

It didn’t take long for Jeno to notice your enthusiastic support. During a brief pause in the game, he glanced in your direction. Your heart skipped a beat as your eyes met, and a slow, amused smile spread across his face. You could feel your cheeks flush, but you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling back, your heart soaring.

Throughout the game, you continued to cheer louder than anyone else, your voice echoing across the court. Every time Jeno glanced your way, you felt a thrill shoot through you, making you cheer even louder. At one point, he made a particularly impressive play—a quick steal and a flawless layup—that had you jumping to your feet with a wild cheer.

As he jogged back down the court, he caught your eye again and flashed you another smile, a playful glint in his eyes that sent you straight to cloud nine. It was as if the rest of the world had faded away, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of shared glances and silent connections.

“Are you even from Humanities?” Yangyang teased, nudging you with his elbow. “You might as well be wearing green.”

You just laughed, too giddy to care about the odd looks you were getting. Nothing else mattered at that moment. All you could think about was Jeno—how his every move seemed effortless, how his smiles made you feel like you were the only one in the crowd.

The game continued, but you were already winning in your own way, basking in the warmth of Jeno’s attention. Mark had been grinning mischievously at you, clearly amused by your bold display.

The game was intense, with both teams neck and neck until the final quarter. The tension in the air was palpable, every dribble and pass holding the crowd in suspense. You were on your feet almost the entire time, cheering your heart out for the Engineering team, and especially for Jeno. With every basket, your voice rose above the rest, earning even more curious and amused glances from those around you.

As the clock ticked down the final seconds, the Engineering team managed to pull ahead by just a few points. The crowd roared as Jeno’s team scored the winning basket, securing the championship title. You screamed with joy, jumping up and down, waving your flaglets wildly. It didn’t matter that you were in blue—you felt like you were part of the victory too.

After the game, as the teams shook hands and congratulated each other, you noticed Mark heading your way, with Jeno walking right beside him. Your heart skipped a beat again, and you tried to calm your racing thoughts as they approached.

Mark grinned widely as he reached you. “Hey, Jeno,” he said, turning to his friend, “I’ve got to introduce you to the loudest cheerleader you had out there today.”

You felt a blush creeping up your neck as Mark gestured toward you. Jeno’s eyes sparkled with recognition, and that familiar smile curved on his lips.

“I am honored,” Jeno said, his voice warm and teasing. “I could hear you all the way from the court. Thanks for the support, even though you’re… clearly not from Engineering.”

You laughed, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. “I couldn’t help it,” you admitted, grinning up at him. “You guys were just too good.”

Jeno chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “We appreciate it. You should consider switching departments,” he added playfully.

You shook your head, still smiling. “I’m pretty attached to Humanities. I’ll always root for you though.”

“Good to know,” Jeno said, his eyes meeting yours with a softness that made your heart flutter all over again.

Mark smirked, clearly pleased with himself for setting up this interaction. “You guys are coming to the party tonight, right?”

You shrugged, glancing at your friends behind you. “We wouldn’t miss it!” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Great,” Jeno said, his smile widening. “Let’s celebrate, then.”

As the crowd began to disperse and the festivities moved off the court, you couldn’t believe your luck. As you walked out of the court, surrounded by friends and buzzing with excitement, you couldn’t help but feel like something wonderful had begun.

“The ship is finally sailing!” Kayla chimed as you exited the campus together with Sienna.

“About damn time!” Sienna exclaimed and the three of you squealed in excitement.

Tonight, you will talk to Jeno Lee. You had finally made up your mind about it. It should be so hard now, considering he now knows of your existence and you two had already been introduced. 

You arrived at the provided address with Kayla, wrapped in thick coats due to the cold weather. The house was a sprawling two-story with a large backyard, and it was already rowdy. Music blared from the speakers set up on the patio, and the air was filled with the sounds of laughter and chatter.

Inside, the party was in full swing and you had to lose your coats due to the hotter atmosphere. The living room was packed with students, some lounging on plush sofas while others danced to the beat of the music. Red solo cups and plates of snacks were scattered everywhere, and the whole house was filled with the aroma of pizza and chips. Green LED lights and the Engineering department’s green banners added a nice touch.

You were there to have fun, that’s a given. But you were mainly there to see Jeno, you wouldn’t deny that fact. It wasn’t hard to find him. He was standing near the snack table, talking and laughing with a group of friends. He seemed to be in high spirits, smiling and looking handsome under the warm glow of the lights.

He moved across the room, catching your eye, and for a moment, you froze, wondering if he noticed you. When he settled on a single couch and pulled out his phone, you took this as your cue to approach him.

“Okay. Calm down,” you told yourself, steadying your breathing. “You’re just gonna say hi. Tell him he did great at the game or something.”

With your heart pounding, you started walking towards him, rehearsing your words in your mind. Just as you were about five steps away, you noticed a girl walk up to Jeno. She had a confident stride and a friendly smile. Your steps faltered, and you hesitated, watching as they exchanged a few words. And then, in a moment that felt like it was stretching on forever, they kissed.

It was a brief but unmistakable kiss, a tender connection that spoke volumes. His hand around her waist was firm, and the smile he gave her should have been sweet, but it was painful for you to look at.

Your heart sank, and the world around you seemed to blur. The warmth of the party, the music, and the lively chatter all faded into a distant hum. A cold, empty feeling settled in your chest, making it hard to breathe. It felt as though someone had pressed pause on your world, leaving you standing on the edge of a scene you could no longer be a part of.

You turned away quickly, embarrassed and worried someone might notice you gawking. You took a deep breath, lifted your chin, and walked the opposite way, pretending you hadn’t seen anything. But the image was seared into your mind, refusing to fade.

You forced a smile at some students who recognized you, but your heart was aching so badly that you felt like crying. The excitement of the evening had dimmed, replaced by a feeling of quiet sadness. Still, you forced yourself to stay, determined not to let the moment ruin the night entirely. You were supposed to have fun here, after all, however difficult that might be now.

“Hey, you okay?” Kayla suddenly appeared by your side, his eyes searching your face.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied, forcing another smile. “Just needed some air.”

Kayla didn’t seem convinced, but she didn’t push it. Instead, she looped her arm through yours. “Let’s find something to drink.”

You nodded, grateful for the distraction. The two of you made your way to the kitchen, where a group of students were mixing drinks and chatting loudly. You grabbed a soda and pretended to listen to the conversations around you, though your mind kept drifting back to what you had just witnessed.

After a few minutes, Kayla nudged you. “There’s Sienna and Haechan! Let’s go say hi.”

You followed her gaze and spotted the couple near the back door, laughing with a group of students. She greeted you both with a big hug, immediately noticing your mood.

“What’s up?” Sienna asked, her brow furrowed in concern.

You shrugged, trying to downplay it. “Just tired.”

Sienna eyed you for a moment before nodding. “Well, this party better wake you up! Come on, let’s dance.”

You allowed yourself to be dragged to the makeshift dance floor, where the music was louder, and the energy was infectious. You danced along with Kayla and Sienna, trying to lose yourself in the rhythm. For a moment, it worked. You laughed and moved to the beat, letting the music drown out your thoughts.

But it wasn’t long before your mind wandered back to Jeno. You caught glimpses of him across the room, and each time, the image of him with that girl played on repeat in your head. It hurt more than you wanted to admit.

As the night wore on, you found yourself sitting on the living room couch, watching people play, talk, and drink.  Your mind floated to space, consumed by thoughts of Jeno. Everything had gone so wrong so fast. Suddenly, this whole crush thing felt ridiculous and stupid. How classic of you to jump into something without carefully measuring the fall.

Just as you were about to drown in your thoughts, Mark appeared from the crowd, smiling as he skipped over to you and plopped down on the couch beside you. “There you are! Having fun?”

“Hey,” you said weakly, trying to muster some enthusiasm. But Mark’s scowl told you that you weren’t fooling him.

“Apparently not. Is everything okay?” Mark asked, concern etched across his face.

You hesitated, then let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Just… tired,” you replied, chuckling softly as you leaned your head on his shoulder. “I should probably just go home.”

“Why? Shouldn’t you be talking to Jeno right now?”

“Ugh, forget it. I don’t like him anymore.”

Mark winced. “What happened? Did you find an ick that made you cringe?”

You exhaled sharply, glaring at him. “Go away if you’re just gonna talk about Jeno all night.”

“Alright, fine. I won’t,” he chuckled heartily, raising his hands in surrender. Then, he offered you his bottle of beer with a grin.

Without hesitating, you grabbed it and chugged the contents in one go. The cold liquid burned down your throat, and you burped a little too loudly, causing Mark to burst out laughing. You were annoyed at first, but his laughter was contagious, and soon enough, you found yourself laughing along with him. The heavy weight on your chest lifted even only for a moment, replaced by a warmth that spread through you, making everything a little more bearable.

It wasn’t difficult at all to push Jeno out of your mind: you just had to focus on other things. Mornings began with the shrill ring of the alarm, followed by a hasty breakfast and the walk to school. Classes became a sanctuary of focus. The workload was manageable, and you found a rhythm in balancing your assignments with extracurricular activities. You continued to be the congenial girl that you are, making friends here and there while keeping up with old ones.

Carpentry class, however, was a different story. Jeno sat just a few tables away, his presence a constant, aching reminder.  You occasionally caught glimpses of him, but your gazes never lingered anymore, concentrating instead on your projects.

Lunchtimes were spent mostly with Kayla and Sienna—Haechan too since he couldn’t seem to stand being away from his girlfriend. You shared stories and laughter over cafeteria food that ranged from surprisingly decent to downright questionable. You talk about your classes, your adjustments, and, occasionally, the lingering shadow of your crush. They couldn’t believe their ears when you said you didn’t like him anymore. When you refused to tell them why, they didn’t press for an answer.

Afternoons were reserved for your favorite spot in the public library. It was your quiet retreat, and if Jeno happened to be there, you hardly noticed. Your focus was on your reading and studies, pushing aside any lingering thoughts of him.

Evenings are quieter. You come home, tired but content, and reflect on the day’s events. You sit at your desk, do your homework, and occasionally glance at social media, where Jeno’s updates serve as a bittersweet reminder of a failed romance—not that it even began in the first place.

Fate had other plans though. Like a prank just to rain on your parade, you were paired with Jeno for a Carpentry project.

If this had happened before you discovered he was taken, you would have been over the moon with excitement, thrilled by the prospect of working closely with him. But now, all you could feel was apprehension and awkwardness.

“Looks like we’re partners,” he said, his heart-melting smile making it impossible to ignore the flutter in your chest.

“Yeah, looks like it,” you replied, striving for nonchalance despite the storm of emotions brewing inside you.

As you both settled at a table, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you and the project before you. You mentally scolded yourself, determined not to fall back into the crazy crush you’d put behind you.

“So, where do we start?” you asked, pulling out your notebook and your pen case out of your bag.

Before responding, Jeno tilted his head slightly, studying you with a curious expression. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Nervousness engulfed you. “What do you mean?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. 

“The taxi cab a few months back,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “It was pouring and I barged into your cab.”

You laughed shyly. “Of course. I remember.”

He nodded, leaning back slightly. “What about before that?”

“Before?” you asked stupidly, racking your brain.

“The library. You fell, and I—”

“Ah!” you exclaimed, suddenly recalling the day you first met him. You laughed softly, shaking your head. “How could I forget?”

Jeno chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, you remembered? Why didn’t you say anything?”

You scoffed. “Why didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “I thought you might not recognize me.”

Oh god, Jeno, if you only knew, you thought, suppressing a smile. “Well, now we know,” you said in feigned indifference. There was a moment of silence, a comfortable one, where the two of you simply looked at each other, a newfound connection sparking between you. 

“So,” you said, breaking the silence with a smile. You pressed a thumb on the sheet handed to you by Mr. Harris. “Shall we get started?”

“Sure,” he replied, his smile widening.

This could be it—the beginning of something new, a chance to turn a long-held crush into a real connection. And you would have been ready for it if not for the fact that he had a girlfriend. So you pushed your feelings aside and resolved to not step out of the line.

What started as an academic collaboration soon turned into something more comfortable and natural. You got to know each other in the few days you spent working together so far. Your task was to create a fully functional reclining chair, and from the outset, it was clear that this was going to be a challenging project. The first day, you both laid out the design, Jeno’s enthusiasm was infectious and it was clear that he was enjoying this class, unlike you who only signed up for fun. 

“I think we should go with a sleek, modern look,” he suggested, his eyes bright with excitement. You nodded in agreement, appreciating his vision and passion for the project.

Jeno was surprisingly meticulous with his measurements and cuts, his focus sharp and his explanations clear. You found his dedication impressive and his passion for the craft endearing. He showed you how to properly measure and cut the wood. His patience and willingness to teach made the learning process enjoyable.

One afternoon, as you worked on sanding the wooden pieces, Jeno shared a story about his childhood, describing how his father used to involve him in small woodworking projects around the house. His eyes lit up with nostalgia, and you could see the joy in his voice as he spoke. It was a side of him you hadn’t seen before, and it made you appreciate him even more.

In return, you told him about your own experiences, your hobbies, and the challenges you faced when balancing school and extracurriculars. Jeno listened intently, his smile genuine and his responses thoughtful. The conversation flowed easily, and you found yourself laughing more than you had in a long time.

During these sessions, you learned that Jeno was more than just a charming basketball player. He was kind, thoughtful, and had a dry sense of humor that made you chuckle. You also discovered that he was a great listener, always eager to hear your thoughts and ideas. Despite your resolve to forget about your crush, you couldn’t deny that he was easy to talk to and genuinely pleasant to be around. Funny how it was so much easier to get to know him and talk to him now that you decided to forget having a crush on him. 

Still, there was no point in hoping to make a special connection with someone who’s taken.

“You were really good at it,” you told him once when you happened to talk about the Engineering Department’s basketball win. You were in the workshop, watching him color the sketch you made for your project.

“Not good enough to be MVP,” he said, shaking his head without lifting his head. “Speaking of, you were really supportive then.”

You shrugged, mentally rolling your eyes at how silly you were at the time. “I’m a fan of Mark’s when it comes to basketball,” you said, saving face with a harmless lie. “You were amazing too, so I thought you deserved the cheers.”

Jeno chuckled heartily, eyes crinkling as he looked up at you momentarily. The mole under his eye was a cute distraction. “You’re praising me too much. I should take you out to dinner.”

You flashed a deadpan expression before you burst out laughing. Jeno watched you with a goofy grin.

“I guess that was too fast, huh? Should I have gone for coffee instead?” he said and you could swear he was flirting with you.

Rolling your eyes, you brushed your assumptions aside. “I am tempted. But I must decline.”

He shrugged, taking your rejection in stride. “I’ll try again tomorrow then.”

“Charming,” you mocked. “It’s a shame you’re in a relationship. I would have accepted.”

Jeno’s hand froze on the sketchpad, looking up at you with a confused expression. “I’m in a relationship? Since when?”

“Since—” you paused, realizing the tone of his voice just now. “Wait, you’re not?”

You stared at each other, confusion and bewilderment visible on your faces. Before either of you could break the silence, Mr. Harris arrived to dismiss the class.

“I have to go,” you told him, gathering your stuff in haste before rushing out of the room.

The living room of Renjun, Haechan, and Yangyang’s shared apartment was peaceful, the slow melodic music playing in the background bringing a tranquil vibe to the space. Sitting on the carpeted floor with their heads resting on the couch were Haechan, Jaemin, and Mark. The three of them had sheet masks on their faces, and on the coffee table sat a humidifier fogging the room with a sweet citrusy vanilla scent.

Renjun sat on the sofa, reading a book while also wearing a sheet mask. From the small kitchen, Sienna emerged with a glass of water.

“How’s it going?” she asked, beaming at the calming view of her friends taking care of their skin. It was her idea, of course. They do this once every two weeks, even calling it Spa Day.

“I look forward to this every time, Sienna,” said Jaemin before taking a deep breath. 

Kayla appeared next to Sienna with a smirk. “You’re doing God’s work, S. I doubt these boys would recognize a moisturizer if it smacked them on the face.”

“Or a sunscreen,” Sienna added and the two shared a laugh. “They’re running late, aren’t they?” she asked, referring to you and Yangyang.

“Well, Yangyang said he’s opting out because he needs to be somewhere today. As for our girl—” Kayla was cut off by the loud sound of the door slamming open. The sound briefly shattered the tranquility of the atmosphere, catching everyone off-guard and even causing Renjun to jolt up from his seat.

All eyes turned to the doorway where you stood with your hand on the door, huffing as if you’d been running. Your eyes were wide and color seemed to have been drained from your face.

“Speak of the devil,” Kayla quipped, walking over to you.

Haechan tutted sternly. “Did you really have to slam the door like that? You’re so dramatic.”

Ignoring Haechan’s taunting, you walked into the flat and stood in front of Jaemin and Mark, who both looked up at you curiously.

“What’s up?” Jaemin asked, grinning.

“Tell me. Does Jeno have a girlfriend?”

Mark’s brows furrowed. “Not that I know of,” he said, turning to Jaemin for confirmation.

Jaemin shook his head at Mark and turned to you. “No. He doesn’t.”

You dropped your bag on the floor and knelt next to Jaemin, placing your shaking hands on his forearm. “But I saw him kiss this gorgeous girl at the Engineering party last month.”

“Really?” he questioned. He pondered for a moment and you shook his arms impatiently. “Last month? Then it must have been Camille from Com-Sci.”

“Do you know her?” you asked, confusion and concern evident.

“Yeah, she asked Jeno out, but he turned her down. I thought they might have hooked up, but Jeno said nothing happened,” Jaemin explained.

You cast a suspicious gaze at him. “Are you lying?”

Jaemin scoffed. “No. Why would I lie to you?”

“So, he’s single?” you asked, your voice tinged with relief.

“Pretty much,” Jaemin confirmed.

“Does he… you know… sleep around?” you asked hesitantly.

Jaemin chuckled, shaking his head. “Not as far as I know. But if he did, I’d rather not talk about his sex life.”

You rose to your feet, heading for the couch and slumping on it, face first. Thoughts raced in your head, so many of them at the same time that it was almost incoherent.

Mark turned to you on the couch. “Wait, you said you didn’t like him anymore? Was that the reason?”

“Oh my god!” Kayla exclaimed, realization slowly dawning on your friends.

“You saw him kiss a girl?” Renjun recalled, looking lost and confused. “And thought she was his girlfriend?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice muffled by the soft couch. You flailed your arms and kicked your legs in frustration. “God! I was so stupid!”

Sienna sat on the couch, taking your head and gently placing it on her lap. “No, you’re not. It was a completely normal reaction. I’d think he’s dating someone too if I saw him kiss her.”

“Right?” you blurted, lifting your head to see her face. You shifted on the couch, sitting up properly. “But that was a total miss, wasn’t it?”

“Kind of,” Sienna shrugged.

“Yeah, you should have just asked,” Mark added, smoothing out the sheet mask on his face.

Kayla sat on your other side. “So if he’s single, does that mean you can take another shot at him? You guys know each other now, right?”

You smiled sheepishly. “I don’t know. I’m kinda bummed now. Although I’m gonna be honest, I’m relieved that he’s single. I just… lost the motivation.”

“You still like him though, right?” Sienna asked.

You nodded and the girls exchanged looks. Kayla said, “Then what’s stopping you now?”

The realization began to settle in. Maybe things weren’t as complicated as you’d thought. This could very well be the universe giving you a second chance. Perhaps now you can approach him without the weight of false assumptions.

You shook your head slowly, processing the revelation. “What am I even gonna do about it? It’s not like I had a shot in the first place.”

Jaemin chuckled mischievously. “I don’t know why you’re saying that, but I think you have a clear shot.”

“Yeah. You can’t give up now after everything you’ve done so far!”

Haechan giggled beside Sienna. “Did anyone else notice that whenever we do Spa Day, we get juicy girl conversations like this?”

Leave it to Haechan to ruin an otherwise lovely moment. As you laughed along with your friends, you felt a renewed sense of hope. Maybe this time, things could turn out differently.

The familiar scent of freshly cut wood and the sound of saws and sanders filled the air as you entered the Carpentry workshop. Your eyes scanned the room, landing on Jeno. He was already there, engrossed in his work, brows furrowed in concentration as he shaped a piece of wood.

Oddly, it felt gratifying to see him now knowing he wasn’t actually in love with someone. The sight of him always made your heart race, but today it felt different—more hopeful. You walked over to your workstation, trying to appear casual while stealing glances at him.

Jeno looked up and caught your eye, giving you a small, friendly nod. You returned the gesture, feeling a warm flutter in your chest. The knowledge that Jeno was single was a game-changer, but pursuing a relationship with him was an entirely different dilemma. You first needed to figure out if he even liked you at all.

Just the thought of being rejected was already bruising your pride and crushing your spirit. For now, you were resolved to act as normally as possible around him and avoid revealing your feelings.

You smiled, feeling a little self-conscious. Relax, you told yourself. It’s not like he—or anyone else—can read your mind. “Actually, yeah. Could you show me how to get this joint right?”

“Sure thing,” he said, his voice calm and patient. He walked over, and you held your breath nervously as he stood close to you. Trying to focus on his instructions, you found your gaze fixated on his lips.

“You got that?” he asked, eyes meeting yours. 

You blinked, surprised and confused. “Sorry?”

Jeno chuckled lightly. “It’ll be easier if I just show you. Here.”

He took your hands in his, placing them on the piece of wood. The warmth from his skin seeped onto yours, sending a blush to your already burning cheeks. You mentally scolded yourself for being awkward and reminded yourself to breathe or you’d pass out.

Unaware of your mental struggle, Jeno guided your hands deftly, showing you the right angle. “See? It’s all about the angle,” he said, glancing up and catching your gaze. You quickly looked away, cheeks flushing.

“Got it,” you mumbled, attempting to steady your racing heart. Whatever happened to not being obvious? you screamed in your head.

As he continued to explain, you found yourself relaxing, letting his steady presence and soothing voice calm your nerves. You managed to follow his instructions, feeling a small surge of triumph when you finally got it right.

“There you go,” Jeno said with a smile, his eyes twinkling with approval. “You’re a natural.”

“Thanks,” you replied, trying to sound casual despite the butterflies in your stomach. 

“Anytime,” he said, still standing close. 

As days turned into weeks, you found yourself admiring Jeno more and more. His dedication to the project was evident in every detail, from the meticulous sanding of each piece to the careful assembly of the frame. He was not just talented but also incredibly kind and encouraging, always ready with a smile or a reassuring word when you struggled with a task.

One afternoon, as you both worked on the chair’s reclining mechanism, Jeno glanced over at you, his expression thoughtful. “You’ve got a real knack for this,” he said, his voice warm with sincerity. “I’m impressed.”

Your heart fluttered at his compliment, and you felt a rush of gratitude. “Thanks, Jeno. I couldn’t have done it without your help,” you replied, meeting his gaze. 

Your admiration for him grew with each shared glance and quiet conversation. During breaks, you chatted about everything from school to personal interests, laughing together over jokes and enjoying companionable silence. The air between you was charged with a growing sense of familiarity and ease.

“Do you have any hobbies outside of this?” he asked one day, genuinely curious.

“I love photography,” you admitted, feeling more comfortable sharing your passions with him. “Though I’m not very good at it. I like to sketch too, sometimes.”

“Oh yeah. The sketch you made for this chair was awesome. It looked like you can actually touch the details,” Jeno said, a smile spreading across his face. 

“Yeah, you already told me that,” you chimed.

“Maybe you could show me some of your work sometime.”

“Hmm. I only show it to my close friends,” you teased, grinning at him when he clutched his chest pretending to be hurt by your words.

“Four weeks of being partners and I still don’t count as a close friend?” he questioned, face contorted in mock offense and curiosity.

“You're overreacting. Four weeks is only eight days for us, Jeno Lee. We have Carpentry class on Tuesdays and Thursdays only.”

“But we worked on this outside class last Friday.”

“Once. That’s nine days. Still not a lot of time,” you quipped. It was gradual but the boundaries between project partners and friends began to blur for you and Jeno, which is why you now feel comfortable just hanging out and joking around like this. Although you’re still gaga about him and get butterflies over the smallest gestures, you no longer get tongue-tied or nervous around him.

You went from sneaking glances at him in the cafeteria to sharing lunch together twice. From admiring him quietly in the quad or the library to smiling and saying ‘Hi’. You were definitely friends now, although not as close. It was a welcome change, making you look forward to every school day.

One particularly memorable afternoon, you both struggled with the final adjustments to the chair. You have been working on this mechanism for a while now and still couldn’t get it to work properly. You’ve done everything you possibly could, even getting hands-on help from your professor.

“Now, then,” Mr Harris said, wiping the sweat on his forehead. “Try that again.”

You nodded, feeling a surge of determination. Working together, you managed to align the pieces perfectly, and the chair finally reclined smoothly. There were quiet gasps in the classroom while you and Jeno stared at each other with mouths hanging open.

“Oh my god!” you exclaimed, hands flying over your mouth. Quietly, you added, “We did it.” 

Jeno’s smile was warm and relieved. “We did it,” he echoed.

.Overwhelmed with joy, you threw your arms around his neck, and he hugged you back, lifting you slightly off your feet. Realizing belatedly that you were hugging Jeno made you hyper-aware of the moment. You shyly pulled away, glancing anywhere but at him. Mr. Harris was clapping behind him, making you smile gratefully.

Being lifted made you hyper-aware, realizing belatedly that you were hugging Jeno. You shyly pulled away, glancing anywhere else but Jeno. Mr Harris was clapping behind him, making you smile gratefully.

“Thanks, sir!” you told your professor. 

“Mr. Harris was putting you up for failure when he assigned you the reclining chair,” one of your classmates quipped, walking over to examine your work.

You laughed lightly, watching your other classmates approach your worktable. Your eyes met Jeno’s among your classmates, and he showed you a thumbs-up which you returned with a smile. Your heart was beating wildly in your chest as your mind replayed the part where you were hugging Jeno over and over.

Jeno approached you with a proud smile in his eyes. “We did it!” he said, giving you a high-five that lingered just a moment longer than necessary. The brief contact sent a thrill through you, a reminder of how much you enjoyed being close to him.

Mr. Harris announced that the projects would be judged by other professors, which would impact your grades. Every pair had completed their pieces—tables, lamps, chairs, and more. While yours might not be the prettiest, you hoped it would get the recognition it deserved.

After class, as students cleaned up, Jeno pointed out something that made you laugh. “You’ve got a lot of pens and pencils,” he said, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. “Like, a lot.”

“That’s not even half of them. I keep buying them for no reason. It’s hoarding at this point,” you admitted with a sheepish grin.

“Hmm. I see,” he responded, still amused. He leaned on the worktable, his backpack slung over one shoulder. “You must write a lot. Or draw.”

“Like I told you before, I sketch. And I do write, but not as much as you think. Even if I did, the sheer volume of pens I have is excessive. I think I need to see a psychiatrist for this,” you joked, shaking your head.

Jeno shook his head, “I don’t think so. Everyone is allowed their own harmless obsession. Mine is probably weirder.”

Your curiosity piqued, you asked, “Oh really? What’s yours?”

He hesitated, a glint of embarrassment in his eyes. “Nah, you don’t wanna know.”

Sometimes it was frustrating that Jeno was completely clueless about your massive crush on him. If he had even the slightest clue, he’d know you were definitely—absolutely—totally, interested in anything and everything about him.

“Actually, I do,” you replied, trying to tone down your interest to the Not-So-Obsessed-With-Him Level. 

Jeno looked away, scratching his nape. “Forget it. Let’s just go.”

“Oh come on, you can’t say something like that and then not tell me!” you protested, playfully nudging him.

After some pestering, he finally confessed, “When I was in high school, I liked keeping confetti.”

“Confetti?”

“Not just any confetti. Only the ones from our basketball games. The ones where we win. Like a little memento.”

You smiled at his revelation, zipping your bag after you finished packing your stuff. “That’s actually really cute.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, looking away shyly with his ears reddening out of embarrassment.

“It is!” you insisted, letting him take your bag after he stopped you from wearing it over your shoulder. “Didn’t you say everyone is allowed their own harmless obsessions?”

“Alright… I guess?” Jeno shrugged, a shy smile making his cheeks burn. You walked out of the classroom together, your bag in his hand. “I have them in small ziplock bags.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Why ziplock bags? Don’t you have a jar or something?”

“I do, but it’s easier to organize them with ziplock bags.”

“How about a scrapbook? You could glue them in and write about them.”

“Uh… no thanks. I’m not at all artistic or craftsy.”

“You were good with woodworking though.”

“That’s different.”

The project is nearly complete. You realized how much you cherished these moments with Jeno. The reclining chair, with its smooth lines and functional elegance, stood as a testament to your combined efforts and growing friendship. But more than that, it symbolized the bond you had forged through hard work, shared dreams, and mutual respect. The realization filled you with a quiet sense of joy and hope that this closeness would continue to grow even after the project ended.

[To be continued in Part 2]

a lesson on style - ii . [ ljn | njm ]

pt. i, pt. ii, pt. iii, pt. iv.,  pt. v, pt. vi

you’ve always been content with being associated with one word and one word only: average. average in looks, academics and social skills, you’re just looking to graduate high school without causing disasters you’ll have to live with until you kick the bucket. when you’re paired with school king lee jeno for the semester-long physics thesis, you can’t help but think the entire situation has pretty much set itself up for failure. that is, until you strike a deal with your partner. alternatively: an au tale involving lessons in popularity, eleven consecutive B­ minuses, a secretly sensitive, chess­-loving jock, and an amateur sex tape.

pairing: jeno x fem!reader, jaemin x fem!reader verse: high school au { jocks!nomin ft. a super cute whiny ap physics genius renjun } rating: M sexual themes chapter warnings: none word count: 5.2k

author’s note: what if i said i wanted to post all 6 chapters of this already but i also need a ton of time to update so there’s no lag but i’m too excited for this fic so what do i even do with my life ANYWAYS enjoy :) 

                                                         *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“_________, is that you, honey?”

“Yes, mom, it’s me; I’m home,” you sigh, shutting the door with your foot. You hear the pounding of footsteps, and your mother appears, clutching the railing that prevented her from toppling over from the second landing. She grins widely, and you try not to comment on the fact that there’s still some powdery white stuff peppering the edges of her nose as you ascend the stairs.

You’re well aware that your parents had been the poster children for the hippie age, with their whole liberal, make love not war perspective towards life that they carried on with as they raised you and your siblings. Your mom still believes in all that ouija board, negative energy/positive energy bullshit with the weird healing crystal thing, and you’ve also seen your dad’s flamboyantly colored bell bottom pants with the super manly floral pattern at the ankles. While they are totally loving, totally nurturing parents who want the best for their children, sometimes it’s tricky to tell when they’re snorting it up in their bathroom. Once, you had walked in on them when you were looking for a pair of pantyhose you could borrow from your mom for some business attire thing you needed for school. You politely declined their offer to join them — you know, even if it was supposed to be a parental bonding moment, and stuff.

Other than that, though, they’re great. You guess.

“How was school, honey?” She coos, as though you’re five and not graduating from high school in the next few months.

“Oh, it was okay,” you walk into your room, and she follows you in as you pull Jaemin’s jacket off your back. “We’re having a Physics Term Project, mom, and you’ll never guess who my partner is — ”

“Baby, what happened to your shirt?” She interrupts you.

“What? Oh, that–” You try (see: fail) to glance at your back. “Yeah, it was just an accident, I’ll put it in the wash.”

“Oh, no need; let me,” without further ado, she approaches you and, with a tremendous tug, yanks your shirt up your torso and over your head.

“Mom!” You cry as she struggles momentarily with your shocked, writhing body.

“Hold still – ah. Here we go.” She looks triumphant as she detaches you from your clothes.

“Could you warn me next time?” You wrap your arms around your body, wrinkling your nose. She rolls her eyes.

“_________, I am your mother. I’ve seen you naked ten million times. I even birthed you from my womb, and you were naked then.” She ignores the affronted look that crosses your face. “Now, what were you saying about this physical project?”

“Physics,” You correct her. “Anyway, we got partnered up today, and guess who my partner is.”

“Ooooh, guessing games. I love guessing games. Did you know your father and I were planning to host a murder mystery party for our last anniversary? Okay,” she taps her lips with her finger. “Renjun?”

“No, he’s not even in my class.”

“Oh, that Chenle boy you went to junior prom with?”

“No,” You say, swallowing down the embarrassment that threatens to rise in your throat.

“Shame, I liked him.”

“Yeah, well he’s dating another one of your daughters now, so don’t feel too bad.”

“Huh. Oh, that really good looking boy who plays football next door? The one with the nice smile,” she says, and you cringe. She means Jaemin. Na Jaemin, your neighbor, who you’re pretty sure your mom has a mild crush on. Which is super duper weird.

“Ew, mom, don’t say stuff like that.”

“Well, he is cute! So is it him?”

“No, it’s not him. Close, though, they’re friends.”

“Okay, I give up. Tell me!”

“You give up so easily. Reconsider that murder mystery thing.” You pause, out of hesitation or perhaps for dramatic effect. “Lee Jeno.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “Isn’t that the boy you’ve been stalking all year?”

“I haven’t been stalking him!” You defend yourself, before muttering an addendum. “And it hasn’t been just a year.”

“Is he the one with the small eyes who’s always in the boy next door’s house?”

“Yea – how do you know that?”

“I have a window and eyes, honey, it’s really not that hard to notice.”

“Oh, well, yeah. That’s him.” How much time does your mom take ogling at Na Jaemin? Is there something going on that you need to know about? You’re fairly certain you weren’t up for anything happening like they do in those suburban TV shows from America – you know, where your classmate suddenly becomes your stepfather, and you have to call him “dad” in the hallway, and all the kids make fun of you and you become a social pariah, etc.

“He’s also good-looking, isn’t he? That Jaemin boy?”

“Yes,” you reply to cut the conversation short. “Mom, do you know how weird it is when you think one of my schoolmates is good looking?”

“I’m just commenting on them for you, honey. Your father is all the good-looking I need.”

“Uh huh,” you pick up Jaemin’s jacket, passing it to your mom. “Do you think that’d be done by tomorrow?”

“Which, the jacket?” She turns it over, examining the lettering at the back with an amused face. “Yes, I’ll have it dried by tonight. Why do you have the boy next door’s jacket?”

“Let’s just not relive the moment,” you suggest, and your mother shrugs.

“All right, fine.” She proceeds to exit your room, but not before calling out, “Just remember, I’ll end up assuming my own things!”

Ew. You hope she doesn’t go around assuming anything malicious, like that you’d snagged Na Jaemin’s letter jacket from him after you’d banged in the supply closet at school just before the janitor came in.

You sit down on your bed, taking your phone out from its dock. Deciding Renjun would be home from school by now, you punch in his number, humming a tune to the ringing. The fifth ring is cut short by a click and an out of breath male voice.

“Hello?”

“Renjun, you’ll never guess what happened today, all right, fine, I’ll tell you, I’ve been partnered up with Jeno in my Physics term project and oh my god, right, I can’t believe it either, anyway, I need your help, I told him I’d figure something out for our proposal and it’s due tomorrow but I haven’t got a clue what to do but I really need to impress him with something that’ll get us and A-plus for sure, so do you have anything that you could maybe sort of suggest for us to do?”

A pause blossoms.

“__________, this is you, right?” Renjun sounds miffed.

“Yes.”

“Jesus Chr— I’ve just gotten home, and I need to pee.”

“All right, fine, but hurry up,” you say impatiently, listening to the phone clatter down on a surface. Five minutes later brings a slightly less crabby Renjun back on the phone.

“Okay, kindly repeat, with more punctuation marks, your hopeless Lee Jeno delusion.”

“It isn’t a delusion,” you argue. “It’s for real, we’ve been partnered up for Physics and it’s great, but I don’t know what to do the project on.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Help!” You frown at his unwillingness to cooperate.

“Help how?”

“Help me think of something for the project!”

“You mean, do the work for you,” Renjun snaps.

“Never mind, thanks for the support,” you say tartly, preparing to hang up.

“Hey, ___________, it’s not that I don’t want to help you, but you’ll just spend all your time mooning over Lee Jeno and fall into a black hole with the project, so I’ll have to save the day and do everything the night before you pass it just so that you won’t fail.”

“So you don’t want to help me,” you challenge.

“I want to help you; I don’t want to help him,” he clarifies, like this makes everything better. “I’d gladly cross an ocean of burning coal for you, but I refuse to help that Jeno guy get an A he doesn’t deserve.”

“It’s a group grade, I deserve it!” You say defensively.

“If you’d stop swooning over him for like one semester you could get straight A’s, you’re totally capable of it.”

“Please,” you snort. “The only straight A’s I’ve ever had are sitting on my chest, and I’m not proud of it.”

He lets out a heavy sigh that the phone mixes with static.

“So? Will you help me?”

“Yes, fine, but I expect a lot of verbal worship for this,” he sounds resigned, and you bite back a huge smile.

“Great, can you come over?”

You hear him groan softly. “All right, all right. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. You could start researching.”

“You know I won’t.”

“Oh my go—”is the last thing he says before the line goes dead. Feeling accomplished, you put the phone back in place and slipped out of the room, strolling casually down the stairs. You enter the kitchen with full plans to raid the fridge for a snack (and, you know, maybe something for Renjun), only to find your sister seated at the table.

“Oh, _________, you’re off the phone, good.” She stands up and crosses to the kitchen phone. You can’t help but notice that the nape of her neck is speckled with little silver dots.

“Sooyeon, why do you have glitter all over yourself?”

“Oh,” she glances down at her body briefly. “The new cheerleading outfits are super sparkly, we tried them on today for flexibility issues.”

“Are you sure it’s not going to blind everyone in the stadium?”

“Yeah, they’re taking out the ones on the skirt, so it’ll just be on the top. But they look fabulous. Don’t you think so, baby?” She’s addressing the boy she’d left seated at our dining table, and you turn to him, watching him go slightly pink in the face.

“Um – yeah, of course.”

You went to junior prom with Zhong Chenle last year, after your parents had met his parents, new to town at the time, at their one-week attempt to “participate actively in religious activities”, and while that night was certainly a night to remember, it wasn’t exactly one you’d tell your grandchildren about with a sweetly nostalgic tone in your voice. You’d plucked up the courage to talk to Lee Jeno that night, especially since that was the only time you thought you’d get to look actually good in school, and for some strange reason you’d deluded yourself into fantasizing that he’d fall madly in love with you, sweep you off your feet and ask you to elope with him on some obscure island in Micronesia.

Of course, you’ve matured since then, but seeing him with Lee Gyuwon wrapped around his lean body just as you’d approached him kind of made you snap that time. In your fury and embarrassment (more of the latter), you walked the entire way home barefoot, presently forgetting about poor Chenle, who’d panicked, thinking you’d been tricked into having undignified sexual encounters with someone behind a bush.

Seriously. He’d checked all the greenery.

Of course, you’d talked to him the following day, and it was a painfully embarrassing experience for both of you (especially when he got to the part when he thought you’d lost your virginity behind a plant in the school greenhouse), but, luckily, Sooyeon had just been leaving the house for cheerleading practice and spotted him.

Long story short, you get to have mega awkward encounters with him almost everyday now, and your younger sister always stands there in witness.

Though, truth be told, if Lee Jeno didn’t exist in the world, Zhong Chenle wouldn’t be a bad choice, or something. He’s smart, in the same AP Physics class as Renjun (apparently, everyone’s in AP Physics but you), and he’s all gentlemanly and stuff, considering his parents are like pastors or saints or something super religious. Sooyeon adores him, and, thanks to the bubbly attitude that comes with being a resident high kicker at every football game our school participated, seems to make him much happier than you could ever. Alternatively, he makes up for whatever C’s she gets on her Chemistry tests. For some people, it really does work out.

“Why’d you need the phone?” You ask, turning away from the still-blushing Chenle to look into the fridge. You take out a donut from the half-emptied box.

“We’re ordering pizza; Chenle’s staying over for dinner.”

“Oh, okay.”

She puts the phone up to her ear before turning back to you, her eyes sparkling.

“_________, have you talked to Jisoo lately?”

“No,” you reply, mouth half-full of donut. “He’s always shut up in his room these days. I expect he’ll come out with a nuclear reactor soon.”

Sooyeon shakes her head, still smiling. “You haven’t been listening closely, have you?”

“Of course not. If there are noises coming from there, I really don’t want to be a part of the audience.”

“Oh you – hang on. Yes, I’d like to order a large pepperoni pizza, please, and…” she cuts herself off, now addressing the phone.

You and Chenle wait patiently for her to finish ordering, trying to avoid staring too long at each other. You both do your best to engage in a bit of conversation here and there, things like “So how’s school?” and “Fine,” but it’s clear no interesting things are going to be bouncing off the walls of the kitchen today.

When Sooyeon chirps the last “thank you!” and hangs up, you turn back to her, and she slides down into the chair she’d previously occupied.

“Aren’t you going to sit down?”

“Well I – yeah, okay,” you concede, wondering briefly if you should wait near the door for Renjun, who’s always impatient, before settling yourself down into the seat beside her.

“So, anyway, Jisoo’s taken to locking himself up in his room recently, and I noticed he’s also been tying up the phone sometimes late at night, which never happens —“

“So, he’s really ordering parts for a nuclear reactor?”

“And he’s taken to reading the magazines I accidentally leave in the bathroom; I saw him sneaking off with one and taking it into his room—“

“So he’s gay?” All the magazines you’d ever seen your sister own involved weird tips on how to make your boobs look two sizes bigger (something you probably should have perused at one point) and how to make men orgasm more than once (something you don’t for some reason, feel very ready for). You’re not sure if you’re surprised at the thought that Jisoo could be gay. On the one hand, no one in the house would bat an eyelash, but on the other hand, he also seems more likely to build a robot boyfriend than go out and get one.

“No,” A peal of laughter escapes your younger sister’s lips. “I’ve noticed he’s not eating much either, and he’s been asking me all these really odd questions about girls…”

“Oh.” Something began to dawn in the back of your mind. “Oh. You mean, there’s a… thing. A tiny one. With… yeah?”

“A girl, yes. I think.” Sooyeon grinned. “Isn’t it cute? Jisoo finally has a crush on someone!”

“I don’t really know if the word is cute…”

At that precise moment, Jisoo, with his eleven-year-old lanky figure and large glasses, walks in, holding an empty glass. Wordlessly, he walks to the sink, and begins to rinse the glassware. After a minute of silence, he speaks, his back still turned to all of you.

“Why are you all staring at the back of my head?”

The three of you turn away, unsure of why you’re embarrassed but definitely feeling like you should be.

“Sorry,” you reply sheepishly – well, you and Chenle do, while Sooyeon leans back forward to address Jisoo. “Hey, Jisoo.”

“Huh?” He mutters distractedly.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, never better, why?”

“Nothing, you’ve just been acting a bit odd these days,” she remarks before adding, “Oh, but not in a bad way, just in… an odd way.”

You want to do something, like kick her under the table, but your legs are too short, and you’re frankly afraid of what Chenle will do to you if he sees you roughing up his precious girlfriend. You content yourself to fuming at her and trying to catch her attention with ugly faces. Neither of these methods work.

“No, I’m fine,” Jisoo replies slowly.

“You sure? You know you can tell us anything.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, you know – things about school, friends, your dreams, hopes… girls… That sort of thing.”

You see the unmistakable red begin to creep around the base of the back of his neck. It’s a nasty family thing — the bright scarlet that makes you all look like you’re about to implode when you’re embarrassed or angry. He clears his throat. “Yes, yes, thank you, Sooyeon —“

“I mean, especially about girls.”

“Yes, I got it the first time around.” With finality, Jisoo puts the glass back in the cupboard and, without so much as a glance towards you, hurries out of the kitchen and back upstairs. You hear the door open and, for a brief moment, the music inside your brothers’ room grows louder until it’s once again muffled by the door closing shut. Metal. Ugh, that dumb, senseless noise.

“What about Jiho?” You think of your youngest brother, who’s the source of half the noise pollution that comes from this house.

“What about him?”

“I mean, has he got – I don’t know. A girl… thing?”

“Oh. Jiho? No. I’m pretty sure he’d sell his soul to a devil warlock or something before he went near anything with lady parts. Although,” she adds as an afterthought. “I have noticed he seems rather shifty whenever I walk in and he’s on the computer…”

The kitchen falls into a very, very heavy state of awkward silence. In that time, your mind forces you to envision your thirteen-year-old brother, in his goth-emo-punk-metal-almost-satanic phase, sitting in front of a monitor, trying very hard to conceal the fact that he’d just been perusing a 30-minute 480-px video equivalent of the kama sutra.

The doorbell rings just as you make a horrified face, and you get up, relieved to be able to leave this highly elevated state of discomfort. “That’s probably Renjun, bye,” you announce weakly, standing up and inching away from the kitchen.

“Is Renjun staying for dinner?”

“I don’t know; I’ll ask.” You hurry to the door and open it to reveal a somewhat out of breath Huang Renjun. You eye him and his body-wide sheen of sweat suspiciously.

“What happened to you? You look like you’ve just come from a jog across the border.”

“Excuse me for being late, your highness. You’d have trouble catching your breath too if you lugged this bag along,” with that, he slings off the strap of his backpack and flings the thing unceremoniously onto the ground. Wincing, he massages his shoulder.

“What,” you demand, eying his bag. “Is in there?”

“Well, everything we could – and probably will – need,” he kicks it inside, and you move to let him in. As you shut the door, you find Renjun staring at you with an odd expression across his face. You snap your fingers in front of his eyes, and he shakes himself out of the trance.

“Oh, sorry,” he blinks owlishly. “You look terrible.”

“Says the guy who’s wheezing like an old bat.”

“No, you look all… pale and sick. What did Lee Jeno do, drain your life source?” He chuckles at his own remark; you, on the contrast, don’t find it particularly amusing. “Did you just come from staring out the window into Jaemin’s house again? I saw his car parked in front of the driveway.” You resist perking up at this new information, choosing to morph your face into a sour, haughty look that Renjun doesn’t really buy.

“Ha ha.”

“No, really, _________, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you slump down onto the couch, trying to drag Renjun’s backpack of books across the floor. You’re too much of a weakling, so it’s not working out too well.

“You look bothered.”

“I am not bothered.”

“Did Lee Jeno steal your soul?”

“No -– I’m sorry, quantum physics?” you demand, pulling out a book after glimpsing the title from the mouth of the bag, the zipper having given way as you’d tried to fruitlessly yank at the bag.

“Be prepared for everything — you know what they say.”

“You really think I’m going to end up doing a project about… I don’t know, string theory?”

“That’d be a fun challenge,” he tries.

“Not even the smart people have proven it; do you expect me to?”

“You and your beloved Lee Jeno could.” He pauses, as if he’s just said the punch line of a joke, but you don’t laugh, and he decides not to either. “Alright, fine — no string theory, then.” Renjun takes the book from your grasp and tosses it onto the floor. “What do you want to do?”

“If I knew, you wouldn’t be here.”

He rolls his eyes but says nothing, choosing to pull out his books from his all-but-split bag. You lean back onto the couch and cross your arms.

“Sooyeon told me weird things today.”

“What? Has someone on the cheerleading team got crabs again?” He asks distractedly, leafing through a few pages.

“No, it’s about my brothers.”

“Oh, scary and scarier?” You grunt in confirmation, choosing not to comment on a terrible but slightly true set of nicknames. “What about them?”

“Jisoo might be building a nuclear reactor —”

“Really.”

“Or might be into a girl.”

“Omo.”

“And Jiho might be sacrificing his soul to the underworld—”

“Right.”

“Or he might be watching porn.”

“Well, your life certainly never lacks color, does it?” Renjun laughs. “Though some of those assumptions are a bit alarming.”

“Oh, no, it’s perfectly normal to want to put up your soul for sale,” you reply sarcastically.

“It’s all just phase stuff,” Renjun shrugs. “At least they’re not having sausage fights in their shared bedroom.” This is, perhaps, the most uncomfortable and agonizing pause you’ve experienced all day. Even Renjun has to shift in discomfort at his own words.

“Well, with that super nice suggestion, shall we move on then?” You prompt.

“Yes, please.”

                                                         *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Two hours and twenty-five minutes later finds you on your laptop, scrolling through your news feed on Facebook, while Renjun, ever the responsible best friend/tutor, tries to pull you away from it.

“__________,” he snaps. “Focus. This is your project.”

“I am listening!”

“All right, what did I say last?”

“Something about the water thing with a funny name that starts with M.”

“The Mpemba Effect,” he says tartly. “and I said that like an hour ago.”

“But that was nice, why can’t we do that one? I love water? Oh, that’s funny,” you chuckle, clicking the like button on one of those stupid cat meme posts.

“______________.”

“Look, Renjun, it’s a cat praising Jesus in a kitchen, you can’t tell me that’s not funny— ” you try showing him the picture, but it doesn’t seem to lighten his mood.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake — give me that—”

“No wait, I wasn’t done reading Lee Gyuwon’s super annoying status update—”

“_________, focus on your physics thing— ” His voice begins to rise dangerously.

“I am focusing,” you retort. “I’ve just been taking a break—”

“For two hours,” he snaps. “Not counting your five minute bathroom break!”

“A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do; that’s nature—”

“Fine! I give up!” He throws his hands up into the air, stuffing at least three books in one go back into his backpack.

“Renjun!” you whine as he gets up and begins to put on his jacket. “Renjun, come on, don’t be like that! I’m sorry—”

“__________, you asked me to come here and help you, and you’ve left me to do all the work once again and I cannot believe I wasted another two hours of my life being under appreciated again— ”

“I do appreciate you!” you cry. “I appreciate you so much!”

“Clearly not as much as a religious cat in a fucking kitchen!”

“You know I’m a stupid kid! Anyways, if you had a like button on you, I’d click it a million times!”

He pauses in the act of buttoning and eyes you warily, as though waiting for you to continue groveling – which, of course, he is.

“Come on, you know I think you’re much cuter and funnier than a cat.”

“It isn’t about the cat.”

“Then what’s it about? Look, I’m sorry, okay, it’s just —- physics really isn’t my thing, you know that, I can’t even pay attention in class.” You frown.

“It’s… ___________, come on, it’s not even about that. It’s like I’m not even here; you don’t -– are you even listening to me?”

“Wait, shh,” you raise a palm up, distracted. Your eyes are fixed on the screen, slowly widening in shock. Two notification bumpers had appeared in the bottom-left hand corner of your monitor while you had been trying to defend yourself.

“_______, I was just talking to you. This is exactly what I mean —“

“Renjun, look, look,” you beg.

“Oh, what is it now? If it’s another stupid obese cat with a burger, I’m going to strangle myself.”

“No, look,” You point at your screen, your voice growing hushed. A groan escapes his lips, but, after a moment of hesitant sulking, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he leans down to see what you’d been staring at. Following your finger, the expression on his face changes from confusion to irritation to defeat. He breathes out an immensely heavy sigh of exasperation.

Lee Jeno has accepted your friend request. Write on Lee Jeno’ timeline.

Na Jaemin has sent you a friend request.

“Jeno added me as a friend,” you whisper, as if the notification doesn’t make the fact clear enough.

“Uh huh. So did Jaemin.”

“Lee Jeno,” your voice is rising uncontrollably now. “Wants to be my friend.”

“Why are you acting like this is such a big deal?”

“Jeno added me on Facebook,” you near-scream at Renjun, even though his face is like five inches away from yours and he has to lean back to avoid the one grain of spit that leaps off your bottom lip.

“Facebook isn’t even real friendship! If Jeno were your friend, he’d be here helping you with your group project instead of me. I am the real friend here.”

“You don’t understand. I’ve been trying to add him for months. He’s finally added me back.”

“And that makes you feel good?”

“I feel like I could do anything now,” you laugh, giddy. Renjun isn’t sharing in your enthusiasm, though; he looks pretty sour, and his fingers rise up to his chest to continue buttoning his jacket.

“Well, I’m happy for you,” he mutters, and you ignore the fact that he doesn’t sound happy at all. “Why don’t you just text me when you need me again, like you always do?”

“Huh?” You look up distractedly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve been helping you for hours, and you’re paying more attention to a stupid friend request than me. You keep ignoring me for Jeno.”

You glance between him and the screen, confused. “I’m not trying to ignore you. I’m just… excited. I’m just happy. I really like him. I feel like this could be my one shot. Is acting this way so wrong? You know I’ve wanted to be friends with him forever. Maybe something more.”

You and Renjun stare at each other for what feels like hours; his Adam’s apple is quivering, like he wants to say something else but is just swallowing it. His cheeks are flushed, and his bottom lip is jutted out, but you have no clue why he can’t just be happy for you.

“Renjun —”

“No, you’re right,” he cuts you off, and his voice is weird now; kind of forced and thick, like he’s been eating too many lemons. “I’m sorry. I know how much this means to you. I know how much you like him.”

“You’re mad. I’m sorry if I wasn’t paying attention earlier. Really. The cats aren’t as important as you. I just get so bored of schoolwork easily. It doesn’t have anything to do with me not appreciating you.”

“I’m not mad about the cats, ________, I’m —”  He raises his hands, like he wants to punch the wall, but it’s not his house, and your mom could come down from all the yelling, so he just forces them down along with whatever he had been planning to say. “I’m not mad. I’m not mad, okay? But I really have to go now.”

“You’re not staying for dinner? Sooyeon ordered pizza. Pepperoni.”

“I do like pepperoni,” he mumbles, wavering. “But I… think my mom wants me home for dinner.”

“Oh. Okay,” you chew on your lip, unsure of what else to say; luckily, Renjun is bustling around, gathering his books and ripping out papers from the pad he’d been writing on while you’d been reading Lee Gyuwon’s status. He hands two sheets to you.

“Here. There’s a list on it that you can use. Research them first so you can see if you can do it. You can message me if stuff isn’t clear to you, but at least try using Google first.”

“I will,” you promise, standing up as he walks towards the door, letting the night breeze carry in as he opens it and checks his pockets for his valuables.”Um, Renjun?”

“Hm?”

“I’ll call you later, okay?”

He pauses for a second, letting out a sigh that escapes through the open door. You’re worried for a second that he’s going to make up a blatant excuse not to talk to you, but he nods slowly.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll text you when I get home.”

A feeling of relief spreads over you, and you wave him goodbye, telling him to be safe walking back.

When you run back to your laptop, you see that there’s a new message waiting for you. Virtually no one but Renjun and your aunt in Beijing messages you on Facebook, so you’re surprised to see it’s a new name. That surprise washes out quickly, however, because the excitement at the idea that it could be Jeno is quickly overridden by the actual reality that it’s from Jaemin.

Na Jaemin: i didn’t know we weren’t friends on here yet.

Na Jaemin: sorry again for what happened in the cafeteria. ㅠㅠ

You: it’s fine!

You: i’ll have your jacket back clean tmr

Na Jaemin: don’t worry about it!

Na Jaemin: i don’t need it any time soon

Na Jaemin: you can keep it if you need it ^^

You: I have my own jackets

You: it’s fien i’ll give it back

You: *fine

You missed a call from Jaemin.

Na Jaemin: sjdg

Na Jaemin: sry

Na Jaemin: Jeon is

Na Jaemin: Jeno is asking about the project ?

You: is he there with you?

You: please tell him i started working on it already ^^

Na Jaemin: he’s here

Na Jaemin: he

Na Jaemin: he’s adding you on fb he says

You: yes i saw!!

Na Jaemin: ajarf

Na Jaemin: sorry jneo is playing with my dog and the laptop

Na Jaemin: keeps getting hit

You: it’s fine!!!

Na Jaemin: he says okay abt teh project

Na Jaemin: he

Na Jaemin: he says nice profile picture

a lesson on style - iii . [ ljn | njm ]

pt. i, pt. ii, pt. iii, pt. iv.,  pt. v, pt. vi

you’ve always been content with being associated with one word and one word only: average. average in looks, academics and social skills, you’re just looking to graduate high school without causing disasters you’ll have to live with until you kick the bucket. when you’re paired with school king lee jeno for the semester-long physics thesis, you can’t help but think the entire situation has pretty much set itself up for failure. that is, until you strike a deal with your partner. alternatively: an au tale involving lessons in popularity, eleven consecutive B­ minuses, a secretly sensitive, chess­-loving jock, and an amateur sex tape.

pairing: jeno x fem!reader, jaemin x fem!reader verse: high school au { jocks!nomin ft. a super cute whiny ap physics genius renjun } rating: M for sexual themes chapter warnings: none word count: 5.6k

author’s note: because like two people have said they want chapter 3 i, a textbook people pleaser, have arrived :^) 

                                                         *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Your Facebook boasts a picture of you in Jeju-do last summer.

You actually haven’t changed it since then because you don’t think that a profile picture is worth anything, but apparently, Lee freaking Jeno really likes that shot of you standing by the shoreline in your I ❤️ JEJU t-shirt and your knee-length cut-offs, a disturbingly huge orange starfish in hand. He likes it so much that he’s not only looked at it, but he’s also asked his friend to tell you he has, which is just about the most flattering thing you could do with regard to someone’s profile picture without actually being the one to personally do anything about it.

In conclusion, the butterflies in your stomach aren’t just going crazy; they’re screaming their tiny lungs out.

Your first reaction is to call Renjun and tell him, but he’s only on his way home now, and, somehow, you don’t really know if he’s in the right mood to talk to you about Jeno (or, rather, to listen to you talk about him). You’ve also been staring way too long at your laptop screen without doing anything substantial, so much so that Jaemin is back on his keyboard, according to the three little dots that appear in the chat box again.

Na Jaemin: did I scare u off

You: no no omg I was just

You: taking notes

Na Jaemin: for wht?

Na Jaemin: by teh wa y is Zhong Cjelne at your house?

Na Jaemin: *Cehnel

Na Jaemin: *CHENLE

You: yes! why

You: do you need me to call him

Na Jaemin: no but can you pas s a messge

Na Jaemin: can u tell him isf]

Na Jaemin: jesus fuck ing crihtst

You: I don’t know how to pronounce that

Na Jaemin: sorry can u just tell him he needs to get his LT back from me

Na Jaemin: he didn’t make it to class 2day

You: sure!

You: by the way, can you tell Jeno thank you?

Na Jaemin: oh yeah sure

Na Jaemin: he says for what

You: for the profile pic thing

Na Jaemin: oh

Na Jaemin: ur welcome lol

Na Jaemin: for the record I think that’s a pretty cool starfish

You: thanks!

Na Jaemin: oh brbb dinner i see the baemin guy

Na Jaemin: nvm I think that must be your pizza then

Na Jaemin: enjoy!

It’s strange that you have to be constantly reminded that Jaemin only needs to look out his bedroom window to see what’s happening in front of your house, but you don’t really take the time to dwell on this when the doorbell rings and you have to get off your ass to answer it. Once you’ve paid for the food and shut the door, you call out to the rest of your family; you can hear doors opening and closing mixing in with the low thrum of groggy voices. Sooyeon and Chenle, however, have hardly left the kitchen aside from very briefly taking a walk down the block in the middle of your supposed brainstorming session with Renjun, and you find them in almost the exact same way you had left them, only their faces are morphed into these strange expressions that unnervingly remind you of how you sometimes look when you catch your reflection in the mirror as you daydream about Jeno. Except, well, they’re sharing a mutual look, in comparison to you just… fantasizing. You feel kind of intrusive, and Chenle’s smile suddenly shifting from adoring to abashed may have really set the awkward mood, but your sister remains supremely unperturbed, a quality you kind of wish you always had. She looks up at you with the same bright look she’s just shared with Chenle, which isn’t exactly the most comforting thing at present.

Or, maybe, she might just be beaming brightly at the pizza in your hands.

“Oooh, smells great,” she pipes up in a manner that suggests you’ve just slid it out of the oven instead of just dishing out 30,000 won for it. “I’ll get the paper plates.” You share another moment of silence with Chenle, who’s resorted to scratching the back of his neck weakly to alleviate any internal tension he might be feeling, until you remember you’re supposed to play virtual mailman.

“Oh, um — Jaemin says, er —“ you’re momentarily derailed when his wide eyes fix on you. “Jaemin says you need to get your long test back from him.”

“Na Jaemin?” He sounds slightly incredulous. “I didn’t know you guys knew each other.”

“Yeah. He lives next door.”

“I know that. But I didn’t know you were friends.”

“Oh — we’re not.” It’s your turn to scratch the back of your neck. “He just messaged me, I guess to tell you that.”

He hums in thought. “Okay. Thanks for passing the message. I’ll pass by his house before I leave.”

“Okay.” You know it’s not really any of your business, and you’re not dying to know the answer either, but you press on anyway. “Why does he have your LT though? I didn’t know you two were close either.”

“We’re not that close.” Something like a smile passes his face, so briefly that you may have imagined it. His eyes start traveling around again, watching your sister set out plates for everyone as the rest of your family trickles in. “He’s the TA for the class.”

“He’s the huh?”

“The TA — teaching assistant? For the AP Physics class. Didn’t Renjun tell you that? I’m sure he would have mentioned it. He’s been grading our tests for half the year.”

“No, he didn’t,” you can’t take out the surprise in your voice despite the intense desire to. “I didn’t know he was… like…”

“The TA?”

“No, I just… I didn’t know he was smart smart.”

Chenle has laughed in front of you, but you don’t think he’s ever laughed because of you. This feels like a momentous occasion only marred by the fact that your youngest brother is lifting his shirt up gracelessly to rub at his stomach as he yawns. Even still, you feel a little foolish. Not that you’ve ever asked Renjun about it — you’ve sort of felt like AP physics was a world not easily understandable and, thus, a world that you had no interest in actually attempting to understand. More than that, you’ve somehow felt like people on varsity don’t really care that much about academics; you’d always just chalked up not seeing Jaemin in your class as him being in another section of regular physics.

“Jaemin’s popular with the teachers. He’s been in every AP class I’ve been in. His older brother was kind of the same, so he probably has a lot to live up to. So far, he doesn’t seem to be letting anyone down.”

“Yeah…” you have no clue what to contribute to this conversation; you feel like you’re processing so many things the wrong way and in much too slow a pace, so you decide to just let go any desire you have to respond to Chenle and just sit down across him, still a little dumbstruck.

Dinner is uneventful because everyone apart from your sister and your mother look tired, and you feel like the last twelve hours have already taken their toll on your mental capabilities. They’re the only two people talking animatedly; Chenle doesn’t count because he doesn’t converse as much as he does make noises of affirmation when Sooyeon asks for it. You assume that you’re going to be able to go up and maybe actually think about your physics project (with intermittent fantasies about Jeno) in peace, and you almost do. Almost.

“By the way, _____________,” your mom’s mentioning your name brings you out of your stupor. “I have an early day tomorrow, so do you just want me to be the one to return that jacket you had me wash?”

“What?” You say, pretty stupidly.

“I can just pop on over next door and give the jacket back before I leave for work —“

“No,” you cut her off, alarm rising in your voice. “That’s fine; I’ll give it back myself.”

“Are you sure? You sometimes forget to —“

“Mom,” you beg, as your brothers and father, one by one, start falling back down to earth as well and blearily looking up from their pizzas to focus on you. “Please. Just let me handle it. I won’t forget.“

“Okay,” she shrugs, her tone enigmatically sing-song. “I’m just offering.”

“Wait, are you talking about Na Jaemin?” Sooyeon finally cottons on, which had been the uncomfortable start to a situation you were desperately trying to avoid. “He gave you his jacket?”

“He lent it to me.”

“Football players only give their jackets away to girls when they’re dating,” your sister's eyes are shining so terrifyingly, and your dad has actually straightened up his posture to look at you. Even your younger brothers look somehow interested in this development, probably because they can’t remember a time in their short lives where you’d actually had any dating news to share. “Are you dating Na Jaemin?”

For some reason, it’s Chenle’s face that makes you the most uncomfortable; he looks… amused, which isn’t bothersome, but it’s indicative of the questions he must be asking himself, like how could you have not known he was the TA to the AP Physics class when you were sucking face? You put down the crust of your pizza onto your paper plate, the bread having turned to cardboard in your mouth when this horrible conversation had launched.

“I’m not dating him. I’m not dating anyone. And if I did, it wouldn’t be him.”

“Why not? You don’t have to hide anything from us. Jaemin-sunbae is great. Did you actually know my cheerleading coach wanted him on the team because he’s so flexible?”

Jiho makes a gagging noise over her last few words that signals a bite of pizza had gone down the wrong pipe, but everyone ignores him.

“That… is totally not relevant. And a little weird for me to know. Anyway, he spilled coke on me this afternoon and just gave me the jacket to cover up the stain for the rest of the day. It’s no big deal.”

“Oh,” Sooyeon sounds disappointed, but it’s a mystery to you why she would. “That sucks. It would have been pretty cool if we could all go on like, double dates and stuff. And you could finally get dragged to a school football game without me having to do all the heavy lifting in trying to convince you.”

“Pass and super pass.” You fold your paper plate around your crust, standing up and tossing it into the garbage bag your sister had laid out for easy clean up. “I’m going up. I need to figure out the proposal for my term project.”

“I’ll lay out the jacket for you so you don’t forget it,” your mom brings up the same damn topic again, and you just choose to turn a deaf ear to it.

“I can give it to him,” your sister offers. “We practice on the same field.”

“Everyone, please,” you’re the only one standing up, which makes you feel even more like you’re giving a sermon. “Please just stay away from Na Jaemin’s jacket.”

“You don’t have to be possessive of it.”

“Will you shut up?” your sister desists when you emphasize the threatening undertone of your words, but she’s still smiling widely even when you leave the table, and she’s already poised to lean forward to talk to your mom, who looks equally as suspicious and nosy. Birds of a feather.

You make a beeline for the stairs and away from the dinnertime chatter, taking two steps at a time to your room, and your door swings open just in time for you to hear the message notification noise from your laptop, still open and running on 3% on your bed. After saving it from certain death, you lay down stomach-flat in front of it, surprised to see that a new set of messages have invaded your account.

Huang Renjun: home. See you tomorrow

Na Jaemin: also wait is it just me or was Chenle your date to junior prom last year

Na Jaemin: I swear I remember him asking me if I had seen you go into an empty classroom with someone else 

You ignore both open windows, minimizing Renjun’s and closing Jaemin’s entirely, all because a new window, blinking between white and blue, has caught your eye. 

Lee Jeno: hey 

Heat climbs up to your cheeks at an alarming rate, and you can see from the weak reflection of your face on your laptop screen that you’re grinning. Your fingers hover over the keyboard for an intense minute of you thinking about what to reply, and you type out various possible responses ranging from “how’s it going?” to just a single wink emoji, but your brain at least takes control at the last second and lets you type back a similarly casual “hey.” 

Less than two minutes pass, and the three telltale dots appear right next to the minimized version of Jeno’s profile picture. Your breathing catches at the sight of this, and you devour the words that appear in the consequent chat bubble. 

Lee Jeno: how’s the project coming along? 

You: it’s going great!

You: I have some ideas if you feel like discussing them a little 

Lee Jeno: I wouldn’t really know what to discuss

Lee Jeno: anything on that list of ideas that’s going to give me a sure pass in this subject lol 

Okay, so you don’t have ideas. That’s what Renjun was supposed to be here for, but you hadn’t gotten anything done. So far, you had that water thing with the weird name and zilch. 

You: um I guess it kind of depends on what you’re interested in! 

Lee Jeno: physics isn’t my strong suit so I’m letting u take the lead here 

You: okay, how about the Mpemba effect? 

Lee Jeno: which is? 

You:  something to do with water?

Lee Jeno: oh, cool, like swimming? 

You’re shot of ideas already. You don’t even know what it is, and you’re pitching it to meet Jeno’s pretty high expectations, which is just depressing. Quickly reopening your chat with Renjun, you send a panicked message. 

You: RenjNun HELP 

Huang Renjun:  ????

You: Jeno’s asking me for the topic for the term paper and I’ve got NOTHING

You: can you please re-explain the Mpemba effect and how I’m supposed to turn that into a good term project

Read 8:48 PM 

You see the little green dot disappear from beside Renjun’s name, and your heart plummets. Maybe he’s just having dinner really suddenly. Like, life or death, have-to-eat kind of situation. It would make sense, and it’s a lot less painful as an alternative to what could actually be the reason behind him suddenly ghosting on you. 

You: you know what, how about we just talk about the topic tomorrow? You: maybe we can decide then if we really want to do it 

Lee Jeno: oh, okay, sounds good to me

Lee Jeno: lunch tom? 

You: works for me! 

Lee Jeno: cool! see you : ) 

You only realize you’ve been holding your breath for the last part of the conversation when you exhale fiercely, fanning yourself with an open palm. So you’re having lunch with Jeno tomorrow. That’s… cool. More than cool. It’s a big fucking deal. An even stupider grin crosses your face as you roll onto your back, and you pay very little mind to the new message that pops up onto your screen. 

Na Jaemin: if you need any help with your project, don’t hesitate to ask! ^^ 

                                                *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You’d spent the entirety of the morning really looking forward to your lunch date with Jeno (date being a term you’d added yourself, but it seemed like a reasonable addendum), and you’d been trying to figure out what to pitch to him, even doing a quick Google search of easy term projects right before homeroom. You’d had many expectations for the one glorious hour you’d be eating with him, but in your excitement to get to that point in your day, you’d left out a pretty important factor. 

In your defense, Renjun hadn’t replied all night, so of course you were bound to put him on the back burner, right? Still, it’s common knowledge — tradition, even — between the both of you to spend your lunch break together, and Renjun wasn’t really prepared to suddenly forego this custom today, considering he didn’t know about your more important plans (which, again, was his fault considering he hadn’t bothered to message back). This little snag is the reason why you find yourself sitting next to a sullen best friend who’s more interested in picking out the sesame seeds from atop his gimbap roll than talking to you. 

“It’s not a big deal,” you attempt to get him to see reason again. “It’s just one lunch. You don’t even have to listen! He’s not going to stop you from eating.”

“Not verbally, but his presence will nauseate me so much that I’ll end up without an appetite anyway.”

You have to give it to him — Renjun’s penchant for drama is completely unmatched. Your temper flares a little, but you try to swallow it down to avoid any more huge scenes in the cafeteria. “You’re being stupid.”

“I’m being stupid? Suddenly you can tell when I am but you can’t see it in all of Jeno’s F’s?” 

“Will you stop taking jabs at him? We’re talking about your behavior, not his grades.”

“We barely have any classes together. Lunch time is the only time we really have these days,” Renjun’s voice has a twinge of bitterness to it that’s way too sharp to the ears. “Is it that hard to just meet him when I’m not around?” 

“For the record, I’m not forcing you to stay.”

“Oh, so you’d prefer it if I leave, then,” there’s no denying the sting in his tone. “Okay, that’s how it is.”

“Renjun, come on — of course I don’t want you to leave. Having lunch with you is always great; it’s just one other person for one day.”

“Any other person on multiple other days is fine! But not this person, ________________!”

“I can’t believe how many times I have to keep asking you why you hate him so much!”

“And I can’t believe how many times I have to tell you it’s the fact that you like him that I can’t stand!” 

“Ahem.”

A new voice joins the fray; both of you look up to see Jeno towering over your table, tray in hand and looking fairly confused. His eyes skip between your abashed expression and Renjun’s livid one, but he has the good sense to set his tray down carefully onto the table, choosing to keep his vision fixed on you. 

“We… were going to talk, right?” 

“Yes! Of course — sorry. We were just… chatting.” 

You pointedly ignore the disbelief in Renjun’s face, more relieved at the fact that Jeno at least seems to buy your stupid lie, taking a seat in front of you. He unwraps his sandwich, taking an endearingly large bite and chewing as he looks up at you with that extremely lazy, extremely sexy expression he often gets during class lectures. 

“So,” he starts. 

“So I have this list of possible topics, if you want to take a look at them really quickly before deciding—” You pull out a piece of paper to the tune of Renjun’s scoff. “We can totally go for something else if none of them match your goals.”

“Oh cool,” his mouth is still half-full of ham and white bread as he reaches over and takes the paper, skimming over it with an expression that could, to the untrained eye, be considered somewhat glassy. To you, it simply says casual interest. Very trendy. 

“So what is your goal, Jeno?” Renjun pipes up after ten minutes of uncomfortable silence and Jeno’s attempt to read through your atrocious handwriting, using one of his chopsticks to spear a piece of gimbap viciously. “Graduate somehow without getting anyone pregnant?”

Two pairs of eyes move to Renjun’s mouth, which is opening up a horrendously and unnecessarily huge way to accommodate his food. Your face is much more appalled than Jeno’s is, though, since there’s still a tinge of thoughtful confusion swimming around in his eyes.

“I mean, I haven’t really thought about it that much, but I guess that’s as good a goal as any.”

“I bet it is,” Renjun’s mouth curls up into a horrible smirk. “For you.”

“You know what I was thinking,” you cut him off, and Jeno, thankfully, turns his attention to you, deprived of the time to process Renjun’s comment. “We could try doing that one about the most efficient material to use as sunshade for automobiles since… since you… like cars. Don’t you?” 

“Cars are cool,” he hums nonchalantly. “We could do that.”

“Cars are cool,” Renjun mocks under his breath. You throw him another warning look, which he responds to by devouring another piece of gimbap. 

“If that doesn’t really float your boat, then there’s this one —“ you hesitate in reaching for the paper, but you’re already halfway through the process of leaning in, so you end up with your torso in an awkward horizontal position on the surface of the table. Jeno turns the paper slightly towards you, and you point to an item on the list. “This thing about the relational frequency between notes in harmony sounds pretty interesting too. I think.” 

“Oh, yeah,” he turns the paper back to himself, squinting at the words. “That sounds pretty cool too, actually.”

“How cool?” Renjun butts in again, ignoring you when you punch his thigh under the table, save for a wince that goes as suddenly as it comes. “Like, on a scale of one to ten, ten being as cool as skipping class for the new Fast and Furious movie, and one being as cool as taking advantage of naive girls to do work for you while you half-ass your way through the rest of the year.” 

The silence that ensues is common in all but nature. Renjun’s is a smug silence, while Jeno’s is one of total astonishment. Yours, on the other hand, stems from the rage bubbling in your chest, and it’s taking all of your energy not to blow a fuse. Angry you isn’t cute, and Jeno should never have to see you in a negative light. 

“Actually,” Jeno starts slowly, clearing his throat when his first word comes out a little raspy. “I… just remembered Jaemin and I were supposed to meet at the field at half past noon, so… I gotta go.” 

This is the closest you’ve felt like dying this year, which is saying something, because just yesterday you had had the contents of a coke can spill down your back. You barely manage an “okay” before Jeno gets up, taking his tray with him and walking towards the return corner in long strides. Briefly, you think you should apologize to him, but this thought is derailed by Renjun burping unceremoniously and patting his stomach in satisfaction. 

“Our cafeteria makes the best gimbap. Ever. I said it from day one, and I’ll say it until the day I die.” 

“Well,” you snap your head back towards him, lower lip quivering. “I hope that day comes soon.” 

“Woah,” he lifts his palms up defensively. “I literally asked him, like, two harmless questions. Does that really call for murderous intent?” 

“You insulted him! Your stupid questions were totally uncalled for, and you could have just kept your mouth shut, but you couldn’t even sit fifteen minutes with him and just let us talk about our project?” 

“Oh, right, your project, in the plural,” he rolls his eyes. “The one he’s contributing so much to, right?” 

“We’re bouncing ideas! I’m sorry we can’t be as intelligent as you in your high and mighty advanced placement classes, but we’re doing our best!” 

“Wait – we are doing our best? When are you going to stop talking for him?” His voice is rising now too, and a couple of freshmen sitting at the next table glance back at the both of you in mild interest. “He can’t even defend himself! He knows he’s just taking advantage of you, so why are you still defending him?” 

“Oh, right, of course!” You feign smacking your forehead, except the intensity of your movement actually does cause your palm to make contact, leaving what would be a slightly pink mark just below your hairline. “I forgot! I’m a naive girl that doesn’t know what she’s doing and is just so stupid that she doesn’t even know she’s letting some guy walk on her!” 

“You are letting him walk on you! You’re already busting ass on something he doesn’t even care about!” 

“I know what I’m doing!” You half-yell, slamming down your chopsticks with finality. “You think I don’t know I’m acting like a total fool? You keep making fun of me, telling me I’m stupid for liking him because he’ll never like me back. I get it, okay? I know what you think of him, and I know what you think of me, too.” 

“_____________, that’s not what I meant. I’m just saying you could do —“ 

“Better — yeah, I know! You keep saying that, but all I’m hearing is that you can’t just let me like him, you can’t just let me be happy, you can’t just support me even when this crush isn’t doing anything to you.” Your chair makes an awful scraping noise as you push it back, picking up your tray and ignoring Renjun’s shell-shocked face. “I know I’m acting like a total idiot around him, but I like him. And I know he’s never going to like me back, but I’m happy just liking him like this, and sometimes when you like someone, you’ll do stupid things for them. It’s just a harmless crush. You don’t have to be such a dick about it.” 

He opens his mouth to say something — a retort, or maybe an apology. You don’t feel like hearing either of those things, though, so you spin on your heel before he can utter anything, heading for the return corner first and slamming your tray down on the cart before storming towards the cafeteria door. It swings open just when you’re about to push (probably kick) it open, and you jump back, glaring a little blindly at the person coming through. 

“Woah,” Jaemin keeps the door open, stepping aside so you can pass. “Hey, _________________. I thought you and Jeno were supposed to — are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you huff, your voice indicating the total opposite. “Just reconsidering my long-standing relationships.” 

“… Meaning?” 

“Meaning I have a best friend position open right now if you know anyone willing to apply.” 

“Oh,” he looks a little befuddled; his fingers are playing against the bar on the door. “I’ll… keep that in mind, then. Did you and Renjun—?” 

“Who?” 

Jaemin’s mouth is hanging open, possibly at a loss for words at your vicious tone. You breathe in, the inhale shaky as it enters your lungs, and your fingers tremble as you wave the topic of Renjun away. “Sorry. I have to go. Jeno’s probably out on the field looking for you, or whatever.” 

“Oh — thanks,” he still looks flummoxed, but he doesn’t press, and he allows you to walk off in your cloud of anger and embarrassment in silence, his jaw still slightly slack.

                                                *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You spend the rest of lunch break and your free period crying in the library. You’re not even sure why you’re crying at all; all these horrible emotions overlapped and settled in your chest, and the only logical course of relief seemed to be just to cry next to the non-fiction aisle. In between hiccups, you bring your phone out, drafting messages to Renjun first then Jeno, both in paragraphs, but deleting them after reading them over and finding redundancies and typographical errors, simply allowing the next wave of tears to come streaming down. In the end, you only manage to send one message. 

You: I’m sorry. For snapping at you. You didn’t deserve that. 

Na Jaemin: No apology needed ^^

Na Jaemin: Totally unrelated, of course, but I heard that chamomile tea is good for calming ^^

At the end of the day, you get kicked out of the library for sobbing a little too loudly in the last half hour of your free period, and you just wander aimlessly through the second floor before sluggishly heading down for class. As you approach the classroom, however, the numbness that had replaced your frustration had been pushed aside by a grown dread; knowing that you have to see Jeno, that you have to sit next to him, and that you have to apologize for Renjun’s stupid behavior when you can’t even string two really nice sentences around him is stressing you out, and you walk into the room with your teeth gnawing at the skin around your nail. 

Jeno is already there, a sheen of sweat on his brow, his eyebrows knit together as he stares down at a piece of paper on the table. You shuffle up to him, trying to sniffle very quietly to avoid startling him, and he looks up at all the noise you make, his expression morphing into something that looks… apologetic? 

“Hello,” your voice sounds disgusting, like you had spent the better part of your day stuffing tissues up your nose — which, come to think of it, you kind of had. 

“Hey,” his response is careful, and it doesn’t invite any more immediate discussion, so you sit down, and he turns his attention back to the paper. Out of the corner of your eye, you see that it’s the list of topics you’d written down. His long fingers tap between a couple of lines idly. 

You don’t know why, but this somehow is… comforting. Couple that with the fact that he now keeps stealing glances at you, like he’s trying to figure out how to open another conversation at the right time. 

“Um…” he lifts his head up at the sound of your voice. “Jeno, I just —“ 

“I’m sorry,” he cuts you off suddenly, and his voice bursts like he’s been holding it in for the longest time. You’re perplexed, to say the least; was he trying to fill in the blanks for you, or something? This theory is just debunked when he plows on. “I’m sorry, _________________. I didn’t really —“ 

“Wait,” you had never imagined you would find yourself stopping him from talking, considering how much you liked listening to him talk, but you feel like the need to clarify the situation is more pressing at the moment. “Wait, why are you apologizing? I was supposed to apologize.”

“What for?” He looks genuinely shocked, and your hands make random gestures to the abstract past. 

“For — for what happened! During lunch!” 

“That’s what I was going to apologize for. That was just… it was terrible. I’m sorry.” 

“I know it was, but that’s why I was apologizing,” you feel like you’re missing something totally fundamental considering that Jeno’s face is just growing more confused by the second.

“You were the one that had to sit through that mess.” 

“Me? No, I’m — it’s not about me,” his brows lift in disbelief. “I mean… your friend said some pretty wild stuff, but —“ 

“Yeah, so I’m — sorry, are we even talking about the same thing–-?” 

“I’m saying sorry because —“ he inhales, a hand coming up to knead at his temple briefly. Oh, good. He’s having a similarly hard time understanding this, too. “Because you didn’t have to go through that. That was humiliating.” 

“For you, yeah, I’m sure —“ 

“But also,” Jeno raises a hand, silencing you. “Because your friend — despite all the shitty things he said, he was right.“ 

“What… do you mean?” 

His hand touches his lips, fingers skating across his lower one as if it’s trying to will the right words to come out faster. “I… I mean, I told you. I’m not good at this physics stuff. And I just don’t have the brain power to get this done. So I really was kind of hoping you’d… you know. Do it. With as little help from me as possible preferably. I’m not proud of this,” he adds quickly. “I’m just really used to skating by. And I kind of knew you would let me, anyway. And I’m sorry for thinking of you that way. I deserved that call out.” 

He looks so terribly hurt that you can’t imagine what other emotion you’re supposed to feel apart from sympathy. “It’s okay, Jeno.” 

“That’s the thing; it’s really not. I’m not supposed to be taking advantage of other people like this. Especially not someone like you.” 

Someone like you? You’re quickly going through all the possibilities of what that implies, so much so that you miss the moment in which Jeno leans a little closer to you. You come back down to earth to see him a lot more clearly than you had a second or two ago. 

“Can I make it up to you?” 

“Can you h-hu-h—“ you blubber, collecting yourself at the last second. “Make it up to me?” 

“I’m never going to be of any real help in this project, so it’d be unrealistic if I told you I’d pull equal weight. But I’ll do what I can, if and when you need me to,” he slips the paper of topics back to you. Vaguely, you notice he’s circled a topic in blue pen. 

“That’s… I’m fine with that.” 

“In exchange for you taking the reins on this one,” he taps the paper. “I’ll make sure you graduate as the coolest girl on campus. Deal?”

a lesson on style - iv . [ ljn | njm ]

pt. i, pt. ii, pt. iii, pt. iv.,  pt. v, pt. vi

you’ve always been content with being associated with one word and one word only: average. average in looks, academics and social skills, you’re just looking to graduate high school without causing disasters you’ll have to live with until you kick the bucket. when you’re paired with school king lee jeno for the semester-long physics thesis, you can’t help but think the entire situation has pretty much set itself up for failure. that is, until you strike a deal with your partner. alternatively: an au tale involving lessons in popularity, eleven consecutive B­ minuses, a secretly sensitive, chess­-loving jock, and an amateur sex tape.

pairing: jeno x fem!reader, jaemin x fem!reader verse: high school au { jocks!nomin ft. a super cute whiny ap physics genius renjun } rating: M for sexual themes ( there are allusions to sex but no explicit smut! ) chapter warnings:  word count: 7.6k

author’s note: i went quiet for a hot minute because a ton of nice things ate up all my weekends and a ton of terrible things ate up all my weekdays but im BACK with gremlin energy stronger than ever !!!!

tagging @justalildumpling​

Renjun, being the quintessential all-around nerd that he is, has told you a lot about what they talk about in his advanced placement physics classes. A huge part of their class’ previous term had to do with theoretical physics; it had been basically months of him trying to enthusiastically explain something wildly abstract to you, and you laying your head on his fairly tall pile of books checked out from the library, humming in agreement at opportune times, like when he’d catch his breath, to make it sound like you weren’t falling asleep on him. He’d told you about the uncertainty principle, the multiverse theories, the difference between loop quantum gravity and string theory — both of which, he’d said, had their merits, but he was ultimately a stringy universe kind of guy. A lot of the stuff he’d said hadn’t made much sense, and they mostly seemed impossible, which is why you’d stopped trying to pay attention by the end of the first month.  

With all of that information in mind, however, you have to say that this is the most absurd thing you’ve heard thus far.  

“That’s physically impossible,” you say without even thinking. Jeno, who has been grinning for the last two minutes leading up to his proposition, suddenly shifts mood, looking a little taken aback.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this,” you gesture to yourself as a whole, trying to ignore the inappropriately timed wave of tingles that arises when his eyes follow your hand. “Is not a shapeless slab of stone you’re going to be able to sculpt into something magical. I’m… I’m as good as it’s going to get. Which is fine, by the way.”

“Not really sure about the analogy,” he muses. “But I’ll go with it. I’m not going to try to re-mold you, or anything. We can just spruce it up. Kind of like putting Calvin Klein boxer briefs on that ripped naked guy by Michelangelo.”

“Wh — okay, I’m not even going to bother asking about the underwear brand choice.” You wave the analogy away. “You know that… getting a good, stardom-esque reputation like yours isn’t easy in high school, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s not impossible,” Vaguely, you note that he doesn’t reject the idea that he’s a high school superstar. “Remember Park Jisung?”

“The guy that stands behind you in games?”

“The running back, yes,” he confirms. “Two years ago, that kid was a total loner. He ate lunch under that big tree next to the teacher’s parking lot. Now he’s running for captain next year, and everyone in his level is friends with him. And he’s wearing contact lenses instead of glasses now. See?”

“I’m not sure how that last one fits in, but I’m also going to let it go for now. I don’t have two years,” you remind him. “We graduate this term. Well — hopefully.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “You don’t need two years. I’m just saying. You’re always with that friend of yours, but you could stand to widen your circle, and there are a lot of our classmates I know you’d get along with. You could get into some cool new things, meet new people, share new interests. Plus, we’d get to hang out a lot more instead of just, you know, doing,” he points disdainfully at the list of topics. “That.”

You stare down at the paper, but your eyes just stick to it blankly without reading, your mind trying to process everything instead. You don’t really care about climbing up the proverbial social ladder; average is pretty fine with you, and you’re not even sure what a better reputation is going to achieve at this point. Still, the most appealing part of this conversation is getting to hang out with Jeno — the one thing you’ve craved since puberty, probably. Honestly, it seems like a win-win; it’s not like you weren’t planning on doing the project, anyway.  

For some reason, it just feels too good to be true, though; you think there might be a snag, but you also can’t figure out what it might possibly be. You look up at Jeno for any sign of him faltering, but he’s just staring back at you a little expectantly, and it suddenly dawns on you that he’s worried you’ll say no.

Which is, frankly, laughable.

“Yeah, okay,” you say slowly, setting aside any hesitation you have. He lights up, that grin making a comeback on his face. “Yeah — why not?”

“Why not,” he echoes, looking exceptionally pleased. “For sure. Okay, well — awesome. So, I was thinking we could probably get some more headway with the project this week. You know, get it over with, rip the bandaid off quick and early, that sort of thing.”

“I’m free any time,” you say almost immediately, not only because it’s true but because even if it weren’t, you’d happily cancel all of your schedules for this. Luckily for you, your eagerness comes off as a simple fact, and Jeno clearly takes it as such.

“Cool. I have practice after school, though, so can we do it over the weekend?” You nod, and he takes back the piece of paper, flipping it over while uncapping his pen with his teeth. “Here’s my number; text me on Saturday morning or whenever and just remind me about it. If I don’t reply in ten minutes, call me. I oversleep sometimes, or sometimes I let my battery die out because I forget to charge my phone. In that case, you can call my sister to wake me up. We don’t have a landline at home because, well… obviously.”

“Uh,” you’re not sure what to do with this sudden onslaught of information about his daily life, and it’s almost hilariously surreal that he’s writing down his sister’s phone number under his own. “That — okay.”

“Also, is it okay with your parents if I park in your driveway?”

“You know where I live?” You don’t even bother masking the tone of surprise.  

“Well, yeah.” He looks amusedly perplexed. “You’re Jaemin’s neighbor. You’ve played Winner’s Really Really almost everyday since it came out. I can hear it from his bathroom.”

Right. Your lapse in memory makes you want to punch something — preferably yourself. “Oh. yeah. I should probably keep it down.”

“Nah. It’s a good song. Pretty sure that’s why Jaemin won’t stop asking me to play it in the car now.”

“Anyway,” you try to shift the topic back on track. “Usually, on weekends, my parents take the cars so the driveway’s empty, but their schedule’s kind of messy. They have, like, alpaca enthusiast functions sometimes, and sometimes they just stay home, so I can’t really promise a parking spot right now.”

“It’s cool. I can just park in front of Jaemin’s house, if that’s the case.”

“Is that okay with his family when you’re not even in their house?”

“Are you kidding? His mom invites me to their Seollal celebration like every year. I join their family for jesa like I don’t have my own family to do it with. She even calls me adeul. I could strangle Jaemin in his sleep, and she’d come in and ask me if I needed more heavy duty rope. It’s totally fine.”

You feel like a part of what he’s saying is a huge exaggeration, but it’s almost endearing that he and Jaemin have this kind of friendship. Briefly, your mind shifts to Renjun, and you wonder if you have the same kind of confidence in your relationship — then you remember you’re furious at him and shake the idea off before you start thinking about strangling him with some heavy duty rope.

“I’ll let you know if they leave anyway.” You take the paper back, index finger running idly over the dents in the paper that his writing his number had made. “Just in case.”

“Cool, just —“ He stops for a second as the teacher walks in, looking as disgruntled as ever. Jeno lowers his voice to a whisper. “Just text me.”

You nod, and he drops the conversation, turning his attention to the board where your teacher is trying to graph out a parabola. You try to focus on it too, opening your notebook to copy it down quickly alongside the equation he’s written to its right, except you have no clue where that figure came from and why he’s drawing it.

It also doesn’t help that you’re trying really hard not to stare at Jeno, who’s obviously not paying attention and is, inexplicably, smiling to himself, which is just giving you the worst (or best) kind of butterflies.

You don’t know why you’d expected things to change immediately, but whether or not they were supposed to, they don’t. The assumption was that because you’d be hanging out with Jeno, you wouldn’t need to worry about where to sit during lunch time, but he’s hardly in school for the last two days of the week; the crowd he’s with is still at their regular spot, and you understand that they’re probably friendly enough to accommodate you, but it seems like a stupid idea to approach them and say that you want to sit there because Jeno is supposed to be there.  

It gets worse when you see Renjun at your usual table, eating his donkatsu, and you make eye contact. His expression is unreadable, and you suddenly feel the overwhelming need to either cry or throw miso soup at his face, so you deduce that you’re still not ready to approach him. It doesn’t help that his backpack and a stack of three, unbelievably thick books is on the chair where you frequently sit next to him, like he’s doing all he can to shun you. In the end, you take a cue from Park Jisung of two years ago and make your way to the big tree near the teacher’s parking lot, settling down under its shade.

It’s actually not as bad as it had sounded when Jeno had talked about it; the cell service is surprisingly great, so you get to wedge your phone between your legs while you’re Indian sitting and watch more Facebook videos featuring samoyeds and rescued kittens on mute. You spend maybe five minutes in between to check Jeno’s profile, but you’re unsurprised to find that the last time he’d been active was almost three days ago; the most recent post was a picture from last month that he’d been tagged in by who you assumed was his sister.

Halfway through the hour, a shadow grows over you, blocking out the sun. You look up, expecting that it’s Renjun, seeking you out after more than thirty-six hours of stony silence, but it isn’t; it’s Jaemin, looking a little sweaty and breathless. From your position, you notice that he’s in muddied cleats instead of the traditional casual sneakers that almost everyone wears, and there’s a little ring of darkness around the neckline of his navy blue shirt.

“Hey,” he sounds as breathless as he looks. “Can I sit here for a sec?”

You nod wordlessly, still in the middle of chewing your donkatsu, and he busies himself with tossing his backpack down against the tree before following suit, collapsing next to you with a huff. He even smells a little sweaty, like he’s been out in the sun for long; even if it isn’t exactly repellent, you inch away slightly. Thankfully, he doesn’t really notice, with him so busy trying to find the right place on his scalp where his hairline cuts evenly. When he speaks up again, his voice is exceptionally casual.  

“You know this tree is infested with wooly caterpillars, right?”

“What?” Your mouth is half-full, though, so it just comes out as a garbled hnwaf?, and you jerk away quickly, precious bento box in hand. When you look back at Jaemin, though, he’s chuckling, back still pressed against the tree trunk.

“Kidding. Obviously.”

“Not funny.” You shift back in place, swallowing your food so that he can more clearly understand how unamusing that was.

“Sorry.” There’s a light twinkle in his eyes that says he isn’t though. “I didn’t have a better conversation opener. Anyway — why are you out here? This is literally the second least desirable place to have lunch.”

“What’s the first?”

“The boys’ bathroom on the third floor.”

You snort softly, putting the lid back on your bento box to avoid spillage just in case he decided to trigger panic again. “I’m just… enjoying the breeze and sunshine. Nature is such a thing for me. I also hear looking at greenery speeds up your metabolism.”

“Bullshit,” he laughs, and you’re amusedly taken aback by how comfortably he’s speaking around you. Then again, he doesn’t seem the type to talk any differently around anyone else. “Nice straight-faced lie, though. I would have believed you if I knew that definitely wasn’t true. I do hear it relaxes you, though — the looking at greenery thing.”

You laugh softly, leaning back (a little gingerly) against the tree, your bento box balanced on your knee; you can feel Jaemin’s gaze burning into the side of your face, clearly expecting an answer to his question, but the ideas of elaborating on petty fights with your only consistent friend or on petty desires involving his best friend both feel weird, so you just avoid the topic altogether, throwing your own question at him instead in an attempt to curveball the conversation into your favor.

“Do you know why Jeno isn’t in school today?”

Jaemin doesn’t answer immediately; you can tell he’s noticed you weaseling away from such a basic question, but, thankfully, he doesn’t push it after a brief moment of silence, simply reaching into his bag to extract a sandwich and an energy drink bottle. He takes his time popping open the bottle but doesn’t drink, twirling the cap between his fingers.

“He just does that sometimes, Jeno.” It’s clear in the tone of his voice that he’s choosing his words carefully. "He’s got… other stuff to do outside of school, so he suddenly ghosts. I’m sure he’ll be back on Monday, though. He usually shows up after the weekend, in my experience.”

“Other stuff?”

“It’s not really something I can explain or — you know. I don’t know how to, anyway. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Plus, it’s technically none of my business —“

“No — no, I get it. You don’t have to tell me.” It feels uncomfortable, anyway, suddenly prying into Jeno’s business, no matter how much a substantial part of your consciousness wanted to.

“But you want to know,” he takes a sip of his energy drink. “Because you’re nosy.”

“I’m not!” You want to cringe at how defensive your voice sounds, but it would just give you away more. “It’s just that, you know, he wasn’t around for class yesterday, and I haven’t seen him around today, so, I just…”

“I’m kidding, ________________. I know you’re not nosy. You’re worried about him because you like him.”  

Horror creeps into your expression; you watch, frozen, as Jaemin takes a large bite out of his sandwich. You can see the spam between the slices slipping down at the bottom, threatening to fall into the plastic bag. You lock eyes with him; he stares at you, but you can’t tell if he’s smiling because his cheeks are puffed out by all of that bread and filling he’s munching so diligently on. Denial is the first thing that pops into your head; it seems so easy just to say no, I don’t!, but you can’t bring yourself to. In the end, you just sigh in defeat.  

“Does he know?”

“Jeno? I don’t know. Maybe, but he also has this talent for not paying attention to stuff that seems obvious, so there’s the possibility that he doesn’t. We don’t really have a very in-depth feelings are valid relationship, so it’s not like we talk about it.”

“Is it that obvious, though?”

“Is Dongbangshinki’s Here I Am the best song in history?”  

“Debatable,” you snort half-heartedly. “But I get what you’re trying to say.”

“I know you think Winner’s Really Really is the best song, but,” he pauses, swallowing down his food and taking another enormous bite. “You should really expand your horizons more. For both our sakes.”  

“Really Really is a great song. Besides, Jeno says you’ve been playing it in his car these days.”

“It is an earworm kind of jam,” he admits. “But it doesn’t beat out the classics by a mile.”  

“Here I Am was released in 2010!” You argue. “That was like ten years ago!”

“No, it was released in 2012.” He says as-a-matter-of-factly. “And Really Really should be thankful for all Here I Am sunbaenim has done for it.”  

You don’t know why the sound of your laugh is so foreign until you realize you don’t really remember having laughed genuinely over the last week; between panicking over the strangely massive amount of attention Jeno had bestowed upon you and Renjun’s childish and, therefore, frustrating behavior, you haven’t found much humor in anything, and humor hasn’t really found you until now. It feels nice to just carry out a conversation without worrying it’s going to turn into a disaster or an argument, and you kind of like how Jaemin laughs even louder and a lot more obnoxiously than you do; some freshmen crossing the field in front of you actually turn when he starts guffawing.  

The silence that you both lapse into is a little less strange; you get to resume finishing off your donkatsu, and Jaemin enthusiastically inhales the rest of his sandwich. He’s flicking the bread crumbs off his fingers into the grass when he starts talking again.

“So you and Renjun still aren’t talking?”

“Wh — now who’s being nosy?”

“Technically, it’s not hard to deduce,” he crumples the plastic bag and smushes it into his backpack again. “You’re not in the cafeteria with him like you usually are. Plus, he punctured three holes into his quiz a couple of days back because of how hard he was digging his pen into his paper. I had to give him a new sheet.”

“Yeah, well,” you blow out air in a sharp, annoyed huff. “I hope he failed.”

“He didn’t, but for the sake of my curiosity, why would you hope that?”

“Because he’s just — he’s being a pain in the ass. He has been, for a while. Also, he has this really bad problem of talking too much even though it’s obvious you want him to shut up. And he thinks he’s hilarious when he’s just being mean.”

“To Jeno, you mean?”

“You heard about that?” You raise your eyebrows. “I thought you guys weren’t into talking about feelings or whatever.”

“We aren’t. Jeno literally said you know that Renjun guy? What’s his problem?, and I just naturally put the pieces together.” He shrugs.

“Yeah, well, I wonder that sometimes too.” You pluck out blades of grass aggressively, feeling your face heat up with residual fury from the thought of Renjun.

“Haven’t you guys been friends for years?”

“Yeah? So? He can’t be a jerk to me after all these years?” Your snippy tone cuts through your trance of anger, and you look back at Jaemin, who’s surprisingly not at all taken aback. He’s just looking at the dirty blades of grass in your fist with some mild form of interest. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s not like I know what you really fought about. Although,” he adds as an afterthought. “If it’s about Jeno, I really don’t think he’s worth losing a friendship over. Don’t get me wrong; I mean, Jeno’s great. He’s my best friend.”

“Your mom loves him,” you interject helpfully, and he hums in agreement.

“But it’s not like you have only one position for a male friend in your life. You don’t have to trade Renjun for Jeno, or anything like that. Maybe you guys can just talk it out.”

Jaemin’s fingers are idly playing with the grass as well; instead of pulling them out, though, he’s just brushing his fingers through them like they’re the fur on his sleeping cat. It strikes you that Jaemin and Jeno are weirdly nothing alike; Jeno’s substantial physique totally eclipses Jaemin’s fairly leaner one, and they even talk differently, not to mention the fact that the latter is clearly lightyears ahead of the former academically. Still, they’re close — kind of like you and Renjun were. Are? Should be?

“Yeah — I guess,” you let go of the grass, watching them fall, crumpled, back into the dirt. “I guess you’re right.”

“Besides, if anyone were to replace Renjun as your best friend and confidant, it would obviously be me.” The light humor creeps back into his voice, and you smile slightly.

“Obviously.” It’s weird to think of Jaemin as coming close to the level of a best friend, but it’s also starting to hit you that he’s talking more like a friend than a casual neighborhood acquaintance, a particular relationship development that you didn’t think would be possible at the start of this school year — or, well, two weeks ago, actually.

You can see streams of people walking out of the cafeteria back into the main building; lunch time is nearly over, and this fact is confirmed by Jaemin suddenly tilting his head back along with his energy drink, downing its contents in swift, audible gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing rhythmically. He lets out a refreshed exhale once he’s done, popping the cap back on.

“I have to get the class’s quizzes back from the faculty before I go in. Want to walk back together?”

“No, that’s okay,” you watch him shrug on his backpack, reaching out to fix the zipper that leaves it half-opened. He mumbles a thanks. “I’m going to sit here and finish watching this samoyed ASMR video until the bell rings.”

“Cool,” he stands, brushing off the grass and dirt from his jeans. “Well, see you around, _______________.”

You give him a wave, and he starts trekking across the field; you almost turn back to your video, which has been on pause since he’d arrived, but he calls out to you, walking backwards now instead of stopping like a normal person.

“By the way, you should know that ownership of my jacket comes with great responsibilities. More information to follow,” he calls out.

“Oh, shit,” you mumble to yourself; you’d forgotten about it, even if it’s been sitting on the chair by the front door for the majority of the week. You raise your voice to respond to him. “I’ll drop by later and give it back!”

“Don’t worry about it,” he waves away your words. “Whenever you remember.”

“I’ll do it after school,” you’re practically shouting now because he refuses to stay still. He gives you a thumbs up that looks minuscule from the distance between the two of you.

“I’ll hold you to it!” He gives one last wave, turning back around and jogging towards the main building.

You can see the little sweat patterns that are almost dried up on the back of his shirt, even if he’s so far away now; weirdly enough, they remind you of tiny angel wings.

This is the first Saturday in your life on which you wake up really early; you’re actually up to see the sunrise, which is something you haven’t seen since a Thursday during your second grade when you’d woken up, startled, to a stray cat making a mess of the trash cans in front of your house. You’re already oddly feverish and more than a little jittery from the moment you roll out of bed, which leads to you taking an hour-long shower that you use to create multiple scenarios involving Jeno’s visit. None of them end particularly well, especially the one where he drives up to your house only to tell you that he’s found a better partner before driving away. It’s at that point — as well as the point where you notice that the tips of your fingers have significantly pruned up — that you decide you’ve wasted enough time and water.

Still, even with the hour above you’ve killed, it seems way too early on a weekend to call someone, much less expect them. Now is actually one of the rarer times in your house that it’s fairly quiet, with only a few footsteps in adjacent rooms breaking the silence, so you take advantage of the opportunity to prepare. In this case, preparation really means taking out the piece of paper that had Jeno’s number, adding Jeno’s number, adding Jeno’s sister’s number, taking note of the project Jeno wants to do very briefly before deciding you have no tools to prepare for it, and then contemplating whether or not you should call Jeno or his sister now.  

Your final decision is to head down for breakfast and attempt to stop obsessing too much over the Jeno situation, and you’re surprised to see Jisoo at the table, a bowl of cereal in front of him that looks only a fraction of a percentage touched. His eyes are glued to his phone, and he’s scrolling madly away. He doesn’t even notice you as you open the refrigerator and let out a small noise of defeat as you learn he’s taken the last of the milk.

“Hey,” you finally speak up, setting down your glass of grape juice way too hard on the table so he snaps out of it; he fumbles with his phone, almost dropping it into his bowl of cereal. “Who are you talking to this early in the morning?”

“None of your business,” he mumbles, locking his screen.

“Okay. Well, it’s also none of my business, but your cereal milk is curdling.”

He looks down at the bowl, like he’s shocked to see that it’s somehow materialized in front of him, but he doesn’t respond, opting to shovel soggy cereal into his mouth to avoid having to speak. You both consume your food in silence for the most part, until he’s only got the last dregs of milk and some cereal he didn’t manage to stuff into his face swimming at the bottom of the bowl.

“You can’t tell Sooyeon noona,” he starts suddenly, and you put down your half-empty glass of juice.

“That’s a promise I cannot make without knowing what you’re hiding.”  

“It’s not bad. I swear. It’s just… if you tell her, she might do something about it, and I will literally never come out of my room again if she does.”  

You wrap your fingers around the glass, condensation sticking to your skin. “Fine. I won’t tell her. For now.”

“I’ve been… I’ve been talking to Kim Minjeong.”

Your mouth forms a tiny ‘o’, finally cottoning on to why he doesn’t want you blabbing to your sister; Kim Minjeong is in the same year as your sister, and she comes over sometimes after cheerleading practice. You like her, mostly because she’s undeniably nice and also because sometimes she brings egg custard tarts for the family, but you do know both of your brothers tend to avoid going down when your sister invites any of her friends over. You’d always naturally assumed that neither of them enjoyed the awkwardness that comes along with hanging around older girls you don’t know but have no choice to play host to (which is a specific and odd type of awkwardness, but a real one just the same), but that seems to be true for only one of your brothers now.

“Since when?”

“For a couple of months now. She — I don’t know,” Jisoo’s hands squeeze around his phone. “She’s so nice. She doesn’t treat me like a kid. Plus, I found out she watches Battlestar Galactica. The original and the remake.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a keeper. So what’s the big deal?”

“I mean, I like her, but I think she just… you know, she’s just nice to me because she has to be — because she’s friends with Sooyeon noona? And I don’t know if I should tell her I like her. And if I do, how should I tell her? And what am I going to do if she says she doesn’t like me back? And what do I do if Sooyeon noona finds out?”  

He lifts his eyes, looking at you expectantly, but you’ve been operating under the assumption that these questions are all rhetorical, and you have no response to offer. All you can do is shrug helplessly, which is extremely lame, and Jisoo looks even more devastated now.

“Well, how would you go about it?”

“You’re asking the wrong person,” you snort. “My signature move is stare and stutter. You having a conversation about Battlestar Galactica with a hot cheerleader is a lot, lot farther than I’ve gone.”

“Well, how did Jaemin hyung ask you out?”

“He — hang on — what?”  

“How did. Jaemin hyung. Ask you out?” He chops up his sentence like you’re a baby, and you smack his forearm. He doesn’t even flinch.

“He didn’t ask me out because we’re not together, as I repeatedly told you guys earlier this week.”

“Yeah, but some girls from my level saw the two of you near the teacher’s parking lot making out. Which reminds me — I think you have a couple of new… enemies from my year level. You should probably know that.”

“We weren’t making out! We were just talking. I’m —“ You almost want to say you’re loyal to Lee Jeno, but even in your head, it sounds a little pathetic. “I’m not into him. At all. Please don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Fine,” he sighs in frustration, as if it’s your fault that you’re single and therefore useless as a source of advice. “Well, what do you think I should do? If you were her — would you be creeped out by me asking you out?”

“Yeah. Because you’re my brother.”

“I mean if I weren’t.”

“Look, I can’t predict what she’s going to do; even if I were her closest friend, I wouldn’t know what the future was. Why can’t you just ask her out? If you’ve been thinking about it this much, then you’re obviously ready to try, right?”

“What if she says no? I’m going to have to live with Sooyeon noona knowing about it.”

“You’re going to have to live with her regardless, because she’s your sister,” you remind him. “And sooner or later, she’s going to find out. Personally, I think you should tell her. Sooyeon, I mean. She might be able to help you.”

“She might blab and ruin me. Sooyeon noona gossips so much.”

“Hey, watch it. I accept you looking down on me, but I will not have you have any negative opinions on our precious sister.”

“But it’s true,” he groans. You smack his arm again. This time, a tiny ow escapes him.  

“I know it is, but it’s her one and only flaw, anyway, and she’d never gossip if she knew it would affect you negatively. Talk. To. Her.”

“Fine,” he picks up his spoon, scraping off the soggy cereal that’s adhered to the bottom of the bowl. You flinch at the loud noise. “Fine, I will. But if this goes horribly, I’m blaming you.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” you say, raising your glass to your lips and finishing the last of your juice while your brother washes his bowl and retreats back into his room.

You can hear the rest of your family slowly waking up, and your mom is the next one to come down, announcing that she’s on her way to go to some quilt-making class that she’s been itching to go to for months. She asks you what you’re going to do today, and you talk about your project in as vague a way as possible so that she doesn’t continuously pry; luckily, she’s so excited about making a quilt today that she doesn’t even try to push it, simply promising to buy more milk on her way home from the class before heading out.

It still seems too early to expect Jeno, so you end up going up the stairs way too slowly, consequently annoying your youngest brother, who’s waiting to go down; he blows past you once you’ve reached the top of the stairs, muttering something about how girls always take their time. The end result of you trying to kill more time is you booting up the Sims on your laptop, making a new household and cheating your way into free real estate and a ton of money so you can move them into the fancier neighborhood. In the end, though, the yipping of the new dogs they’ve adopted gets to you, and you pause the game, finally picking up your phone.  

Unfortunately, it doesn’t even ring; the operator voice just tells you the number is unreachable at this time. It takes another five minutes for you to muster up the courage to call Jeno’s sister, who, to your relief, picks up after the third ring with a sleepy ‘hello?’

“Um… I’m sorry to wake you,” you don’t know why you’re whispering, but it just seems appropriate. “I’m… well, Jeno told me to call you if his phone isn’t ringing, so I just… sorry.”

“Oh,” there’s a pregnant pause that makes you wonder if she’s hung up the phone for a short, scary moment. “Oh, right; you’re probably ______________, right?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Yeah. Sorry. Jeno told me you might call. He’s probably got his phone turned off. I’ll go wake him up and tell him to contact you.”

“Thank you,” you’re still whispering when you hang up, and all the extra air escapes you in the form of a relieved sigh once the call drops. You return to your sims with a significantly lighter heart thereafter, and you even get them into cool new jobs before your youngest brother sticks his head into your room without knocking.

“______________ noona, Renjun hyung’s downstairs.”

You press the pause button so hard it actually sounds like the key has cracked, swiveling around in your study chair.

“Renjun? Huang Renjun?”

“Who else?” He sounds annoyed, but that’s how he usually sounds anyway, so you just brush it off. You think about telling your brother to tell him to go away, but your brother is already gone before you can finish deciding if you really want to do this, leaving your door ajar. With a groan, you slip off your chair, only momentarily distracted by your text message alert going off.

[ from; Lee Jeno ] hry sorry. 4got to charge my phone. Battery died. omw to u.

You don’t take the luxury of cooing over how cute his text sounds in your head, running down the stairs instead to see Renjun standing by the front door, twiddling his thumbs. He hears you charging down, looking up as you do so, and you can tell he’s swallowing hard because his Adam’s apple bobs dangerously in his throat. It’d be kind of funny if you weren’t equally as nervous.

“Hey,” he greets, his voice sounding a little choked up, like he hasn’t spoken for days — which, you know, is physically impossible for him.

“Uh. Hey. Why are you — what… are you doing here?” So maybe it comes out a little more accusatory than you’d initially intended, and you see that Renjun recoils a little. You feel bad about it. Kind of.

“I… um… we haven’t spoken for a few days.”

“I know that.”

“Right. Sorry. I was just hoping to talk to you.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m… I… you know.”

“Here to make fun of me? Like you’re so used to doing?” This time, his cringing brings about the slightest wave of pleasure in you, followed immediately by a larger, much more all-consuming attack of guilt.

“No, no. I came here to, you know. Apologize.”

“Oh.” You nod slowly. “I see.”

You wait for him to say something, but he’s just watching you, like he’s waiting for some kind of bigger reaction, except there’s absolutely nothing to react to, so you just give him a look that urges him to keep going.

“Right. Sorry. I mean — I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said back then.” He sighs, and it’s clear he thinks he’s digging his dignity’s grave deeper and deeper as he talks. “I have my reasons for not really liking Jeno. I don’t really know how much that’s going to change in the span of a few days. But I do know that I embarrassed you in front of him, and I don’t want to do that to you, ever. I’m sorry for that.”

“It was kind of embarrassing,” you agree.

“And, more importantly, I… I want to support you. I mean, I really don’t think you guys should get together, if I’m being honest,” he notices you bristling and hastens to add to his sentiments. “But I also know it’s not really about what I think. If you like him, and you’re happy around him, then… I’ll be okay with it. As long as he makes you happy.”

“We’re not together, Renjun,” you reply quietly. “I just like him. One-way crush — that’s it. It’s really, really not that big of a deal. I don’t want to fight just because I have a crush. If you liked someone, just liked them, I wouldn’t stop you from having feelings.”

“I know. I know you wouldn’t because that’s what good friends should be like. I should’ve been a better friend to you.” He takes in a shaky breath. “_______________, I’m really, really sorry. I hate fighting with you like this. Eating donkatsu alone without anyone to complain to about the moistness of the breading was torture.”  

You choke out a laugh, and it’s only then that you realize that you’ve been slowly tearing up. Even Renjun looks a little misty-eyed, which is weird for the both of you, considering that you only ever cry watching Ma Dongseok movies.

“It really was kind of soggy.” You agree, and he laughs loudly.

“So this is good, right? I mean… we’re good?”

“We’re good.” You and Renjun rarely hug, since there’s never any cause for it, but it seems appropriate to do so now; luckily, he must be on the same train of thought, because he envelops you in a tighter-than-usual hug. You spend a couple of seconds just standing in your living room, trying not to sniffle too loudly into each other’s ears.

“Anyway,” he starts up again when he pulls away, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve. “I have to go home and help my mom with her garage sale today, but I’ll see you on Monday?”

“Definitely.”

“Cool. Oh — one more thing. Do you… think you can tell Jeno I’m sorry, too?”

“No,” you laugh. “No way. You tell him you’re sorry yourself.”

“Aw, come on,” Renjun whines, emphasizing his reluctance to do so by stamping his foot childishly. “There’s no context in which I’d be able to get to talk to him alone, anyway.”

“He’s coming over here in a few minutes to start on the project with me,” you inform him, and he actually looks a little crestfallen at this new information. “You can tell him you’re sorry then.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, sitting himself down on the chair near the front door only to sit back up, looking up at you in mild disbelief.

“You still haven’t given Jaemin’s jacket back?”

“Oh, shit. Yeah. Well, I keep forgetting!” You defend yourself.

“He lives right next to you! You could even ask your brothers to do it if you promised to pay them 10,000 won!”  

“Yeah, but giving it back through someone else when I could just do it myself just seems so rude, you know?”

“And keeping it even though you have no reason to is polite in your head?”

“Shu— oh, oh, he’s here,” you cut yourself off as you hear the crunch of tires on your driveway, signaling that Jeno had parked in the spot your mom had left behind when she’d gone for her quilting class. Renjun flies off the chair and presses his back against the door before you can fling it open. “Hey!”

“Can you relax for one second? He’s getting out of his car. If you open the door now, you’ll look crazy.”

“Oh,” you pause, considering his words. “Good catch.”

A few moments later, the doorbell rings, and you shoo Renjun away from the door to open it. Jeno’s form is literally blocking the view of the outside, and you briefly wonder if this is more of a testament of his physique or proof that your family is just made up of small people. Or both.

“Hey, sorry,” he pulls off his baseball cap, which leaves his hair adorably flat and messy. “I overslept a little. Also, just in case, I brought my g — oh.”

Jeno stops when his eyes land on Renjun, who’s now miraculously standing behind you, looking like he wants to disappear. The look on Jeno’s face is stony, but he tears his gaze back to you anyway.

“Is this a bad time? I can come back. I’m sure Jaemin’s awake by now.”

“No, it’s cool. Renjun just… dropped by.” You step back so that Renjun is in the forefront, and he shoots you a withering glare. “He actually has something to say to you.”

“Does he?” Jeno doesn’t even sound interested, but he focuses on Renjun again anyway. “What’s that?”

“Look, dude,” you’ve never heard Renjun call anyone dude before, and it makes you snort, a noise which the both of them ignore. “I’m sorry about the other day. It was totally uncool of me, and I shouldn’t have said what I did. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“Oh,” Jeno clearly wasn’t expecting an apology, but he looks pleased anyway. “Okay. Well, apology accepted.”

“Thanks,” even though it’s what he’d wanted, Renjun doesn’t sound too enthusiastic about receiving forgiveness. “And I mean it. I give you both my blessing. You can… pursue this relationship without any more active, explicit judgment from me. Good feelings for everyone, and all that.”

“Okay,” you cut in, not missing the fact that he’d gone out of his way to add active and explicit to allow himself the sneaky sliver of opportunity to judge Jeno in silence. The latter is looking at him, befuddled again. “That’s all you wanted to say, isn’t it, Renjun?”

“I’m not even sure if all of it was what I really wanted to say,” he sighs defeatedly at you. "But yes; I’m good.”

“Cool,” you push him towards the door; Jeno steps aside to let him through, and Renjun walks out, looking a little dazed, like his body can’t handle the idea that he’d just apologized to Jeno and is in the process of going into total shock. “Bye, Renjun. See you on Monday.”

You hear him mumble something as he trudges away, and Jeno follows his movements in silence until he disappears down the sidewalk.

“Was that weird, or—?”

“Yeah, it was kind of weird,” you admit, ushering him in. “But he means well. Anyway, putting that aside, should we get started on the actual proposal?”

“Did he say he gave us his blessing?” Jeno suddenly starts echoing Renjun’s words like they’re only starting to sink in now.

“Oh. Yeah — I wouldn’t really think too much of it,” you wave it away as Jeno settles down on your couch. “Smart people tend to say crazy things. So, I was thinking about the topic you picked, and I think the physics lab has a digital multimeter. We can check if it has that option for measuring sound frequency.”

“Uh huh,” he still looks like he’s not latching onto the topic change, whacking his baseball hat onto his thigh idly. “Sounds good.”

“You know… I’m going to go and get my laptop first,” you announce. Jeno makes a sound of assent, and you run upstairs into your room again. Your Sims game is still going on, and your laptop’s fan is working on overdrive. You press quit a good ten times, not bothering to save the game and open up Facebook, typing out an angry message to Renjun.

You: WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU

Na Jaemin: ??????

You: oops sorry wrong send !

Na Jaemin: lol good morning to u too

You leave Jaemin on read, focusing on your mission to chastise Renjun and opening the right chat.

You: WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Huang Renjun: IDK WHAT HAPPENED THAT WAS SO WEIRD

Huang Renjun: I SAID BLESSING JDGJSSJSF

You: I KNOW I WAS THERE

Huang Renjun: I KNOW IM SORRYRIJSPJG

You: DOSIJGSJG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You almost make it out of your room before having to double back, realizing you’re leaving behind the laptop you came up to get, and run back down, finding Jeno in the same position with the same perplexed look on his face. He, thankfully, doesn’t notice how red your face is when you sit down.

“Okay. Sorry. Should we start?”

“What? Oh, yeah of course,” he shakes his head as through trying to break himself from a trance.

“So I was saying, we could probably borrow one of those multimeters from the lab, but we’d need a written request for that. Also, I think we need to figure out—”

“Sorry, I just really need to ask,” Jeno interrupts you, and your voice dies in your throat. “That thing Huang Renjun said —”

“I’m really sorry.” You sigh, realizing the topic is unavoidable. “It was weird. I’d say he’s not usually like that, but…”  

Jeno nods, staring at the inside of his cap, which is now settled on his lap. His long fingers are playing with the backstrap idly, and you wonder if what you’ve said is enough to make him drop the conversation. Unfortunately, you can tell he’s still on it when he looks up at you seriously, leading you to a sharp, uncomfortable inhale.

“You… didn’t tell him we were dating, did you?”

gorgeous ii | lmh ( ft. ldh )

part i

ever since your shower tryst with mark, donghyuck has been feeling left out, and he’s been hinting at it. not so subtly. pretty damn explicitly, actually. after multiple failed attempts at reassuring him you’re all still a well-oiled machine of a team, you’re left with only one solution.

interestingly, it’s not an option anyone seems to be too averse to.

pairing: mark x reader x donghyuck rating: R genre: humor, smut warnings: once again sorta pwp, basically hints at a mild level of polyamory kind of idk man, a threesome?? is a threesome a warning idk, mild mommy!kink for reader, slightly more pronounced daddy!kink for mark, mild baby!kink for donghyuck, some kinda praise kink for pretty much everyone, anal/double penetration, super brief impregnation!kink that i wish i had done more of but felt like it would be overkill, cum…play sjdfgj,,, light choking nothing major, more dirty talk, just. Nastie stuff i guess. please be sure that you are 18+ to read! word count: 16.6k

author’s notes : i’m simply deeply impatient and needed to post this i apologize :^)

You really should have picked up all the signs a little sooner.  

Donghyuck has never been good at acting, so he’s never been intensely successful at hiding his feelings; in fact, he’d once gotten a warning letter for looking so bored in class the teacher couldn’t overlook it any longer. In hindsight, it should have been obvious, given the way he’d been acting.  

Then again, it was fairly easy to pass off his recent behavior as regular Donghyuck, only intensified. He had always liked hanging out with Mark, which meant he mostly enjoyed hanging around you, too. He’d once crashed in your room when Mark had been out for a weekend visit to Jeonju to see some distant relatives and Donghyuck had left his room key card in the electricity slot, much to the ire of your own roommate. He’d asked the both of you to come with him to the MMCA in Gangnam because he wanted someone to take proof photos of him (your job) and read the captions on the artworks before explaining them to him so he could write his reflection paper for his Art Studies class (Mark’s much more unfortunate job). And, of course, he’d bullied you and Mark into confessing your feelings for each other to each other, although you’ve grown to suspect, almost to the point of confirmation, that he had done it not so much in the spirit of support for young love but more in response to his own intense desire to cut down on the immense awkwardness in the atmosphere whenever the three of you hung out.  

His expectation had clearly been that you two would kiss and make up before you took him out of campus for a dinner that he would wheedle you and Mark into splitting only two ways. Technically, that had all worked out in his favor, apart from the fact that in between the kissing and the making up, you had shared a steamy shower with Mark in the boys’ locker room that had ultimately ended with you scaring away the school janitor and had kept Donghyuck waiting outside in the rain (sort of) for the better part of an hour.  

He’d played it cool at first, so it seemed; he’d asked for details, which you refused to divulge in excess, and he’d promised to pester Mark about it later on when it was just the two of them, only he received the same — if not a firmer — kind of rejection from the latter. He’d even taken fairly kindly to the suggestion that he stay in Renjun’s room for a couple of nights in the week that followed so that you could, in his words, desecrate the living space with your love, which clearly implied that he’d expected the two of you to just be going at it in the middle of the common area.  

Over time, though, he’s grown fairly more wary of the implications of the relationship. It seemed to have started when he’d come home from class to find you both in the kitchen, where you had apparently been “making out next to the honey butter chips” he’d been so “excited to eat, and now it’s just ruined,” and he’d refused to listen to the argument that it couldn’t possibly be a health hazard considering the bag was still sealed. Or, it might have started a little before that, when he had to desperately run to Renjun’s bathroom to pee because you had engaged Mark in a steamier and much more enthusiastic reenactment of your shower room scene and had locked the door (something that, at the time, was for Donghyuck’s benefit). The conversation that had followed when you’d come out to an out-of breath and clearly upset Donghyuck had been sheepish and fairly uncomfortable for all parties involved, and you’d taken great care to gloss over the fact that he’d heard you repeatedly and not at all abashedly egging Mark on with a few choice nicknames and phrases.

Possibly the biggest issue, though, was the one time you and Mark had gone out for a date. There aren’t a ton of options around the campus area that have good food at a college-student-acceptable price, so there are only two options: this one supposedly Italian restaurant owned by a man who constantly ends a rundown of the specials with the statement that you can leave without paying if you don’t like the food — which you’ve long since considered but Mark says it’s unethical (something you think is kind of characteristic but still wholly unfair for him to say) — and the place you often go to with the boys that serves breakfast for dinner. You’d been trying to wheedle Mark into finally getting free pasta with you by breaking his moral code, and he’d finally agreed (possibly because you’d literally backed him into a corner after football practice and begged, among other things, on your knees), but the place had been full up, and neither of you were willing to stick around for half an hour in line. The alternative you’d gone to had been fine; for the first time in your life, you’d gotten to order something other than pancakes and sausages with egg, and you’d found out that the place did actually make good food that wasn’t meant to be consumed at eight in the morning.  

For the most part, it had been a great experience; the perks of being friends with Mark beforehand was that you had just skipped the awkward small talk phase altogether. In fact, it had been basically like a normal evening hang-out from before, except for the fact that Mark seemed less reserved than he had been when you were just friends. Also, you had never hung out with him as a friend with the knowledge that you had essentially strong-armed him into committing moral suicide at a snobby pasta joint by blowing him like half an hour prior. Even if you never actually got to eat said pasta. So there was all that.  

It had been going well until Mark had asked you to pour him a glass of water. In the middle of filling up his glass, you’d heard a tap at the window to your left accompanied by a shadow that loomed over your table. You’d snapped your head to the side to see Lee fucking Donghyuck, pouting at the both of you and pointing accusingly at the half-eaten spaghetti and meatballs on the table. His breath had been fogging up the glass to the point that his entire face was blurry, and you couldn’t really understand anything he was saying, but it had sounded a little like pancakes and without me. You had gaped so much at him that you’d completely forgotten Mark’s glass was already full, and the water had spilled out all over the table and onto his lap. By the time the fog had cleared up, you were more concerned with the problem of your boyfriend looking like he’d just wet himself, and Donghyuck had skulked off into the darkness.  

Since then, Donghyuck’s moods have ranged from teasing, to hesitant, to downright disgruntled. He’d constantly announce himself before coming into a room where the both of you were, which was kind of annoying when you were together in the library. Renjun had even once come to you during a lunch break, pleading that you and Mark take him back because he was tired of stepping on Donghyuck’s face every time he had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. You’d argued that there was a wall and a door separating Mark’s and Donghyuck’s bedrooms from each other, but he’d just fired back with the suggestion that you could chip in for some quality noise-canceling headphones. The worst was when Mark had told you — half-laughing, half-incredulous — that Donghyuck had canceled their shared Netflix subscription because he was worried all the rom-coms the two of you watch together while boning would appear on his suggested list. Mark had been more insulted by the thought of being associated with rom-coms more than anything else in that conversation.

You decided to more actively include Donghyuck into your activities at that time, and you and Mark made a pact to never act like a couple in front of him. It seemed clear that was what Donghyuck had wanted. Still, when you’d asked him out to study, it had felt kind of weird considering that you were a level higher than him and could only confer with each other, leaving Donghyuck to look sourly at you across the table like you were seducing each other instead of asking questions about the worksheet. There had even been an instance where you’d gone out for a morning jog together, but Donghyuck’s legs were much longer than the both of yours, and he ended up creating some distance between himself and the two of you, which had just led him to whine at the both of you to hurry up since you were probably lagging behind on purpose so you could find a way to slip away under the bleachers and bang one out before he’d made it around the track.

The pinnacle of tension arrives on a Thursday night, when you urged the both of them to keep Donghyuck’s favorite tradition and have breakfast for dinner. It seemed like a good idea, bringing back that one activity that represented your friendship, and even Donghyuck didn’t resist the suggestion. The problems only start when the three of you were seated in the exact same booth you’d been on during that date, a fact that Donghyuck seems to remember vividly as he stares at the table for a good, long, and wholly excruciating second before sliding in with an unreadably calm expression. You make desperate eye contact with Mark, who had been moving to sit next to you already, and he does this weird jerky reaction before he backtracks and moves to sit next to Donghyuck instead.  

A silence falls over the three of you after your orders are placed, and Mark is playing with his glass, turning it around and around idly. Donghyuck, on the other hand, is staring directly at you, still kind of blank, his hands folded on the tabletop. You open your mouth, and his eyebrows go up, but you realize you have nothing to say and shut it again.  

“So,” Donghyuck starts after a while. “Was the pasta here any good?”  

“It was okay,” you reply after glancing at Mark, who seems unperturbed by everything else, a talent you wish you could possess. “A little rich, but mostly okay.”

“Have you guys gone to that pasta place across the student center?”

“No, but we wanted to.”

“On another date, you mean.”  

You don’t miss the sadness in his voice; even Mark looks up at him, then at you, but offers nothing to say, for some absurd reason.  

“Well… that’s still up in the air,” you wave the topic away, but Donghyuck presses on, possibly convinced that this is all part of the required conversation friends that hang out should have.  

“You guys know that you can get free pasta there if you lie to the owner and say it wasn’t good, right?”  

“Yeah, I… we heard,” you admit.  

“We were actually thinking of going there,” Mark finally chimes in, although the timing is terrible and Donghyuck’s face darkens considerably. “But it was full up.”

“So you guys ended up here,” Donghyuck says, finally piecing together the bigger picture. “At our regular restaurant. That’s… cool.”  

You frown at Mark, who doesn’t even look remotely remorseful; he just shrugs, a small jerk of the shoulders that Donghyuck misses.  

That had been the longest silence you’d shared since… ever; you can’t even remember the last time that you’d hung out with Donghyuck and it had been this quiet. Mark was one thing, but Donghyuck, for the most part, liked to talk, and so did you. You distinctly remember the restaurant constantly filled with chatter, mostly from your table. What had you even talked about back then that had lasted for hours? You distinctly remember an argument about Iron Man’s fate in the last Avengers movie that had gone on until the waitress had told you to leave because she had to close down and go home to her kids. Now, you can’t even ask Donghyuck what he thinks about the weather.

The food that comes to your table is appropriate for the mood; it’s stale and a little bland, since nobody seems to like eating breakfast for dinner anymore, which just means reheated pancakes and microwaved hotdogs. Even with that topic up in the air, no one really says anything; at one point, you’re so bored that you check your phone to see that Mark has butt texted you a couple of times.  

Donghyuck’s first tiny outburst happens midway through the meal. You desperately want to add some kind of flavor to your food, but you don’t know if you’re up to breaking the silence. The result is you coughing loudly — twice, because Mark doesn’t pay attention the first time — and eyeing the little pitcher of maple syrup by his elbow. He doesn’t grasp it fully and reaches out for the napkin stand instead, which just leads to you staring more intensely at the syrup, furrowing your eyebrows at it like it’s supposed to help. All he does is throw you a much more intense look of confusion.  

Donghyuck, who appears to have been watching this depressing miscommunication between the two of you since the beginning, suddenly speaks up.  

“Do you want me to leave, or something? You can just say so.”  

“What?” You snap your gaze to him, shocked to the point that you can’t even acknowledge Mark’s intelligence belatedly returning to him as he passes you the maple syrup. “Of course not. Why would you think we want that?”

“I don’t know. This,” he points his fork at the two of you. A drop of maple syrup falls off of it and onto the table. “This weird eyefucking thing you two are doing.”

“We’re not eyefucking. I was asking for the maple syrup,” you clarify.

“Oh. Okay.” He doesn’t seem entirely convinced. “Couldn’t you have just asked?”

You have no response to this, and Mark throws you a patronizing yeah, you could have look that you pointedly ignore because you can only feel like it had been his fault for not understanding your blinks and squints anyway.  

The second scene happens when you’re finished and waiting for the bill. At this point, the silence, which had only been interrupted by brief and insignificant comments from either you and Donghyuck, had become so unbearably stuffy that you feel close to tears. In your exasperation, you try to catch Mark’s attention, hoping to get him to pull his weight by saying something. Unfortunately, he’s busy going through his wallet and rearranging the notes from the 50,000’s down to the 1,000’s, and he doesn’t see anything. You move to an alternative plan, which is to kick his foot until he notices, but when your foot collides with something hard, it’s not him that reacts first.  

“Ow!” Donghyuck yells, and you start, sitting up straighter and reaching out to him on impulse. “What the fuck was that for?”  

“Sorry!” You half-stand, unsure of what to do; Donghyuck is looking up at you like a wounded dog, which is as much as you deserve. “Sorry, sorry! I wasn’t — I didn’t mean — I was going for Mark!”  

“Why?” he demands, brow furrowing for a moment before they shoot up, and his expression morphs into one of disgust. “That’s nasty, noona!”

“What? No, I wasn’t — !” You throw your hands up, embarrassed and irritated all at once. “I was just trying to get his attention!”

“How?”

“I don’t know! He wasn’t looking, and it just felt weird, and I wanted him to say something!”  

“Really? All of this kama sutra shit while I’m around? You guys are just shoving it into my face at this point.”  

“Technically,” Mark says, now very unhelpfully and — more to the fact — uselessly. “We try to keep you out of the loop as much as possible.”

Donghyuck looks incensed, so this is clearly not the response he’d wanted. “How come I’m just supposed to sit here and watch you two make out without me and take it all in quietly? You could at least try to make me less of a third wheel when we’re together.”  

“Donghyuck, we’re not trying to make you a third wheel,” you reason. “I know it feels that way, but nothing’s changed.”

“Technically—” Mark starts again, and you kick him, this time with more precision, into silence. He falls quiet without argument.  

“It feels that way because it is that way. You guys are just living your best lives in love without me.” Donghyuck stands up, and you watch him do so with confusion and a ton of regret on your face. “Can we go back now? I have a presentation tomorrow and I want to make sure my PowerPoint doesn’t have any typos.”  

You watch in helpless disappointment as Mark obediently slips out of the booth so Donghyuck can walk out as well; after a moment of dumbly staring at them fixing their coat collars, you step out and join them. The restaurant’s lights shut off when you exit, and the three of you walk quietly back home. You feel Mark’s hand bump into yours a couple of times by accident, but on the third time, his fingers lace into yours, and he gives them a tight, reassuring squeeze.  

Donghyuck disappears into his room after announcing that he’s bought some new ear plugs from the pharmacy and had been planning on testing them out anyway, but the statement that you guys can do whatever you like seems half-hearted. To be safe, you and Mark take quick, separate showers before crawling into his bed. You keep the lights on because you’re fairly certain he’s going to fall asleep if he’s in the dark for more than ten minutes, and you want to make sure he stays up so that you can get some fairly substantial feedback when you unload the thoughts plaguing you since the restaurant experience.  

Still, you’re silent for the first few moments, trying to collect yourself into articulating your feelings. Mark is on his side, an elbow propping his head up, and his palm is laying on your stomach, rubbing it in small, gentle circles. The moments tick by, and neither of you speak until he bends down to press a kiss to your shoulder.  

“You gonna break up with me or something?” He chuckles softly after letting you have your long bout of silence. “I’m willing to beg if necessary.”  

“Isn’t it just weird?” You finally begin, ignoring his stupidly absurd question completely. He doesn’t even flinch at the volume difference between your voice and his. “I thought he was okay with it.”

“Me too. He even told me he was going to tell you he heard me jerking off in the shower after we studied for the Traditional History midterm if I didn’t confess to you.”  

“Yeah, and he — did you really do that?”  

“Obviously.” He doesn’t even turn red, or anything; Mark, since that day, has defied your personal expectations and grown immensely immune to feeling embarrassment when talking about the erotic. “That was too specific for me to make up.”

“What a coincidence,” you laugh. “I masturbated after that review session too.”  

“Really?”

“Your hair looked nice, plus you smelled super good.”

“I should go back to my old shampoo, if that’s what gets you running.”  

“I don’t really think it’s the shampoo,” you turn over as well, mimicking his position. His hand stays on you, now resting on the dip of your waist. “But about Donghyuck — is it mean that I feel like he’s overreacting?”  

“Not really, but only because it seems that way to me too. Like, now I have to pay for my own Netflix because he’s acting weird, which is just such a waste of money.” You think it’s a little bit funny that Mark’s still tied up on the Netflix issue, but you suppose that you’d be a little miffed if you had to redo your entire watchlist from scratch again too, so you opt not to say anything. “It’s really hard to overlook the fact that he thinks we’re doing everything in our power to stop being friends with him.”

“I know!” You say, louder than you should, and Mark’s finger flies to his lips as you both fall silent, listening for Donghyuck. You hear nothing, so you assume he hadn’t either. Still, you lower your voice to a much more acceptable decibel thereafter. “I know. It was like that time he spent playing annoying matchmaker had just flown out of the window.”  

“But we can’t blame him either,” Mark sighs softly, fingers drumming against your side. “Being a third wheel sucks. We all know that. We’ve all been there.”

“We’re not trying to actually exclude him when we’re together, though.”

“But we do.” He shrugs. “I mean, even without doing anything, we do. It’s already inherently different for him because he knows he’s not actually part of the equation.”  

“We can’t make him any more a part of this equation than we already have,” you frown.  

“I know that. Look — maybe he just needs a little bit of time to adjust. I’m sure he’s just reacting badly to change more than he is to our actual relationship.”  

“I guess,” you sigh again, heavily and more dramatically this time. “I just wish we could do something so he wouldn’t react badly at all.”

“We’ve tried. Maybe now just isn’t the right time.”  

The both of you fall into a thoughtful silence; you can see Mark’s eyelids getting heavy, and even you’re stifling a few yawns here and there. It seems the conversation’s mostly died out unresolved, but you’re not sure it’s actually ended; neither is Mark, who’s still watching you like he’s waiting for you to say something else. When you don’t, he leans in, pressing a small, sweet kiss to your forehead.  

The quiet is broken by Mark’s bedroom door flinging open. In the doorway stands Donghyuck, one earplug in his hand, the other wedged tightly into his ear. His bottom lip is jutting out already, which is a signal that he’s already prepared a full complaint report to file beforehand.  

“You guys could at least try to keep the sex down. There’s only two of you. There’s no way you’re having that much fun to make this much noise.”  

“We’re not even naked,” you respond in disbelief, twisting your torso to look at him. “We’re just talking.”  

“Oh.”  

Donghyuck rolls the earplug between his fingers, visibly embarrassed. You guess those things have been working well considering he hadn’t even heard you talking about anything before he’d burst in and make a small mental note to congratulate him on his great new investment. You watch him, waiting for him to say something — anything — about what’s bothering him and why he’s so intent on calling you out for the smallest things. Instead, he just gropes for the light switch on the wall next to him, pushing the button and plunging the three of you into darkness. He trudges away, closing the door behind himself while muttering something about energy conservation.  

You feel Mark shift; he takes the darkness as a signal that it’s time to sleep, so he lays down carefully on his side, his hand reaching out to rub at your back. Dismayed, you right your position, facing away from him and lying down as well. A moment later, you feel the warmth of his body against your back, and his breath blows lightly against your cheek.  

He dozes off five minutes in, and you know because his breathing becomes extremely deep and even. Even when you toy a little with his fingers, he doesn’t budge, and you lie there for what feels like hours trying to decode this weird situation. First the uncharacteristic silence and moodiness, followed by the weird experience in the restaurant. And now this, with him constantly expecting you to be ravaging each other, like his mind is just totally tunnel focusing on how everything you do is a byproduct of your being perpetually horny. It’s almost like he’s too weirdly interested in it, like he’s…  

You reach backwards, smacking Mark in the shoulder. He grunts in response but still doesn’t move, so you do it again, calling out to him. His grip tightens on your waist as he mumbles a sleepy what now?

“Do you remember what Donghyuck said in the restaurant?”  

“He hardly said anything.”  

“I know. But he said something weird about us.”

“What — that he thought we were eyefucking, or that he thought you were giving me a footjob?” Mark pauses for a moment. “By the way, out of pure curiosity, if we ever make a list of things we’re into, is that something you’d put or, like — because knowing you, I feel like it wouldn’t hurt to ask once —”

“No. No, he said something kind of wack, like,” you scrunch up your nose. “How come he has to sit there and watch us make out without him?”

“Yeah?” You can tell Mark is already drifting off again, so you turn around in an attempt to force him into the same epiphany you’ve experienced. Only one of his eyes is open and the other one is giving up pretty quickly too. “So?”  

“He was annoyed that we were making out,” you repeat. “Without him.”  

Carefully, almost comically, Mark’s other eye starts to open, and his eyebrows are also rising. He lifts his head off the pillow, gaping at you in sleepy shock.

“It can’t be.”

“You said we were leaving him out of the sex, and he looked really ticked off.”

“Yeah, because who wants to talk about sex over shit quality pancakes?”  

“There’s only two of you,” you mimic Donghyuck’s sleepy, irritated voice. “There’s no way you’re having that much fun to make this much noise.”  

Mark looks stumped. He’s actually reminiscent of a goldfish, his mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find the words. The only thing he can think of is a repeat of “It can’t be.”  

“Mark,” you say slowly. “What if we’ve been including Donghyuck in all the wrong things?”  

Surprisingly, it isn’t hard to convince Mark to play along. Maybe it’s because he’s not doing a lot of the proverbial heavy-lifting, or maybe he just knows there’s not much point in attempting to talk you out of anything once you’re convinced that you’re going to do it. Either way, he falls asleep in the middle of dazedly agreeing to what you’re planning, and when you wake up, he’s stuck a note to your forehead saying he’ll see you during practice and reminding you to eat your breakfast. Even Donghyuck is gone for his first class of the day.  

There’s a slightly new development when you go to practice after your classes, where the team captain, Sooyoung, instructs you all to go back to the locker room because the shipment of the new uniforms has finally arrived. You feel a slight twinge of resentment towards her, partly because the team had been waiting around under the heat of the afternoon sun for a good fifteen minutes before she’d arrived but also mostly because going back to the locker rooms means you can’t watch Mark do laps with the rest of the football team, a personal tradition you’ve always loved.  

Still, you don’t have much of a choice, and you allow yourself to be trooped back into the locker room with the rest of your team to squeeze yourself into the uniforms. The fact that you’d already gotten a little sticky from being outside makes it almost impossible to get yourself dressed in top speed, and it didn’t help that Sooyoung came to tell you all to hurry up so that you could try the new routine in the new devil’s suit. You don’t necessarily miss the old uniform, but this one, despite being more elastic, also has thick stripes of glitter around the collar and hem as well as in regular intervals on the skirt pleats, so you have to stay far from each other when walking to avoid melting together into one, gross glitter bomb.  

It pays off when you get back out, though, because the change is welcomed by the people on the field — mostly the players themselves — and it shows in small things, like how Jaehyun gets a face full of ball because he’s too busy checking his girlfriend out to pay attention to Jeno, who lobs the ball towards him with all his might, or like how Mark just stands by the ice box full of half-melted bottles of water with a blank, almost dazed expression until the coach calls him out by name.  

Football practice ends half an hour before cheerleading practice does today, considering you’d wasted time wrestling with your uniforms, but Mark patiently waits on the bleachers after his shower while you finish up. You actually think that his presence helps cut Sooyoung’s twenty-minute after-practice talk down to ten minutes because she keeps looking at him, like she’s worried he’s going to tell her to shut up, even though all he’s doing is staring ahead politely. When she dismisses everyone, you walk over to him, and he hands you a water bottle. You don’t miss the once-over he gives you before he decides to fix his gaze on your face.  

“Is this the new uniform?” He asks, as if he doesn’t know.  

“Yeah. Is it nice?”

“For sure,” he agrees. “It’s good you guys busted that out today instead of during a game. It looks like we have to learn how to get used to it. Me, especially.”  

“And Jaehyun.”

“And Jaehyun,” he laughs. “He’s still guilting Jeno into apologizing, even though we all know he wasn’t paying attention.”  

“I’m going to take a shower, then we can go back together. Did you do what I asked?”  

“Yeah. Oh — if you haven’t yet,” his fingers toy idly with a pleat on your skirt. “You should consider doing it in this.”  

“The fact that you’re actually actively participating in this is seriously attractive.” You run your fingers through his hair; the water keeps it stuck in the messy way you push it into. “I like your hair like this.”  

He chuckles, rejecting your hand and combing his hair forward into the neatness he’s so used to. You laugh when he smacks your hand away lightly as you try to muss it up again. “Go shower. I’ll wait out here.”  

You take a quick shower, only slightly derailed by the fact that you have to dash out to grab your towel, which you’ve left on the bench near your locker. When you come out, Mark is waiting by the door instead of on the bleachers, playing games on his phone. On the way back to his room, he tells you about how he had to leave that area because he thought that he’d heard Jaehyun moaning from somewhere under the bleachers, a sound he was not emotionally prepared to hear, and the thought that he’d been eavesdropping on something highly private and easily escalatable had driven him from his seat.  

When you get back to the room, though, you’re surprised that Donghyuck isn’t back yet, considering his classes had ended hours earlier. Mark theorizes that you’d scared him away, but you note that the food in the refrigerator is exactly as you’d seen it this morning when you’d grabbed breakfast, which heightens the likelihood that Donghyuck hasn’t come home at all. He doesn’t, actually, for another hour, during which you and Mark watch Blue Earth on Netflix simply because he doesn’t want the 10,000 won he pays every month to go down the drain. You’re halfway through the deep sea creatures episode when the door lock clicks and Donghyuck comes in, just as Mark is headed to his bedroom to take a call from his mom, who you distinctly hear asking about how well he’s treating you.  

“Nice suit,” you comment, noticing that Donghyuck dressed up for his presentation; you know he only has, like, one actually nice suit that he saves for events that require him to look decent and formal, considering the fact that he usually goes to class in ripped jeans and worn cotton t-shirts. “How’d your presentation go?”

You don’t actually expect a proper response, and you don’t get one; he just glares at you as he toes off his shoes and drops his backpack on the floor by the door. It’s a half-minute staring contest, with your innocent, questioning expression and his more venomous one, which ends when he stops in front of you, towering over your head and effectively blocking the television.  

“Where’s Mark hyung?”

“Talking to his mom about what a great girlfriend I am,” you reply. “Why?”  

“I have a bone to pick with both of you.”

“So pick away,” you reply, leaning back on the couch. “We don’t have to wait for him. I’ll get him up to speed when he comes back.”

“Fine,” he fishes around for his phone, extracting it from his pocket before opening it, angrily tapping on the screen and scrolling. You can hear his nails hit the glass with the force of his taps. “Fine. Care to explain this?”  

He shows you his phone, and you squint to read what he’s presented. It’s your Facebook chat with him, and on the top is the first thing you’d sent him this morning: a good luck on your presentation! message, with some very caring heart eyes and star emojis. Granted, you’d also accidentally pressed the middle finger emoji, but you’d quickly retracted that.  

“It’s a message that represents my utmost support for all of your academic endeavors,” you raise your eyebrows at him. “That you’ve cruelly seen zoned, so thank you for that.”  

“Not that — these,” he scrolls the chat further downwards for you.  

There’s a set of pictures under your earlier message, dated after practice today, none of which expose your face. The first one is focused on your chest, and you’re carefully tightening your arms closer together to push your boobs together, a selfie that had been fairly difficult to take and that you’d actually taken great pride in when you’d done it. The one under it is from a similar angle, except you’ve taken advantage of the amazing elasticity of the top of your cheerleading uniform to pull down the collar, the cup of your bra going down with it. Your thumb and forefinger are lightly pinching your nipple, and you hadn’t noticed earlier when you’d taken the picture, but there’s a smattering of residual glitter from the uniform that makes your skin look kind of awesome and mystical.  

The latter two had required a fair amount of logistic forethought as well as patience, since you had to wait for everyone else to leave before you could do it. You’re fairly pleased that they’d turned out pretty nicely; the third picture is a view of your ass, the uniform’s skirt pushed up over your hips to expose your underwear. Cheerleaders are technically required to wear cycling shorts under the skirt because, well, school rules, but you’d discarded them before taking the picture. You also usually favor function over fashion during practice, but since you’d prepared yourself for this moment, you’d decided to put your own preferences aside and worn something lacier and, consequently, a little more see-through. The last photo is a personal favorite, with you still in the same position, except you’ve pushed your underwear aside, revealing your pussy. As an added bonus, you’re also using your index and middle finger to spread your lips, which you thought was kind of hot at the time, except, by the look on Donghyuck’s face, it might have been overkill.  

Under all of those photos, you’d written one short and sweet message: All for you, baby. No lame emojis this time, because it had seemed like a serious matter.  

You look back up at Donghyuck, who’s clearly close to bursting with words with how red his face is.  

“We got a new cheerleading uniform today,” you explain, although you know it’s not really the reasoning he wants. “I was kind of proud of how nice it looked.”  

“I can barely see the uniform — you know what? You’re totally missing the point.” He looks like he’s gnashing his teeth. “That’s not even all of it.”  

He turns the phone back to himself, and you calmly wait as his taps grow increasingly aggressive. A minute later, he turns the phone back to you, showing you a different chat; Mark’s name is on top this time, and there’s only one picture. It’s actually kind of funny considering it’s a little blurry, but you greatly appreciate it nonetheless, considering it’s a photo of his dick, half-erect, while he’s standing in what appears to be the shower stall in the locker room. The exact same message you’d sent Donghyuck — the horny one, not the one about his presentation — is also under his single photo.  

You make eye contact with Donghyuck again, still fairly stoic. “Is that all of it?”  

He looks torn between being annoyed and nonplussed. “Is that all of it? You guys both wrong-sent me your couple nudes!”

“Do you not often get them, or something?”  

“I was at dinner, noona,” he clutches his phone to his chest now, like he’s afraid you’re going to nab it and start taking more naked pictures. “I was out with Renjun when you sent me these!”  

“So? You let Renjun look at your phone?”  

“No, of course not, but I—” he splutters, clearly befuddled by how calm you are about everything. “I don’t want to be eating something then have to see your accidental nudes to each other!”

“They’re not,” you correct him.  

“Not what? Nudes? These are, by every definition of a nude, nudes!”  

“I meant that they’re not accidental.”

You’ve seen Donghyuck stumped before, but you’ve never seen him this lost for words; after a brief, perplexed pause, he’s started making all these weird, breathy, disbelieving sounds, like he’s just forgotten how to form sentences at all. His knuckles turn white as he grips his phone even tighter.  

While he’s coming to terms with your statement, Mark quietly comes back in, having ended the call with his mother; you notice he’s watching Donghyuck carefully, but he says nothing as he sits down next to you. Donghyuck looks at him, like he’s expecting a sensible answer, or like a statement that this is all a joke, but Mark just sits there in the same kind of silence as you. You don’t even bother keeping him up to speed; it’s clear by his expression that he’s already aware of what’s going on.  

Two long, heavy minutes pass, and it becomes clear that Donghyuck isn’t going to speak. He’s just looking at you now, this sort of distant, glassy gaze on his face, his mind clearly working overtime and frying out. You decide to break the silence, since you know Mark isn’t going to.  

“Donghyuck,” you call out to him, and he apparently comes crashing back down to earth. “Do you want to have a seat?”  

“What do you mean they’re not accidental?” He finally demands.  

“Not accidental. Intentional? Deliberate.” You elaborate with a tone that suggests this should be obvious. "We sent them to you on purpose.”  

“But Mark hyung sent me the — the — this!” He flips his phone around again, almost losing his hold on it, to show Mark the screen. The latter just looks at it with mild interest.

“And when does Mark message someone the wrong thing?”  

“But you said! You said,” he turns the phone back to himself, eyes scanning the screen feverishly before showing it to you again, index finger jabbing at your message. “You said all for you, baby!”

“I don’t really call Mark ‘baby.’” You shrug. “I know you know that much now.”  

Donghyuck’s eyebrows have practically disappeared into his bangs, and his mouth is opening and closing soundlessly. Mark takes the phone from his hand, exiting his chat and going to yours, scrolling up a little to look at your pictures.  

“Nice,” he says appreciatively as he hands the phone back to Donghyuck, who takes it robotically.  

“Thank you.” You squeeze his thigh. Donghyuck just watches this exchange, disbelief still written on his face. “Donghyuck — I really do think you should sit down, or something. You look like you’re going to faint.”  

You watch him slowly go over to the tiny dining table in the kitchen, grabbing one of the monobloc chairs and dragging it back to his former position. He sinks down onto the seat, now looking at you with a renewed desire to speak.  

“You need to explain.”  

“Actually, I think you need to answer my question first.” You lean forward, and you see Donghyuck swallow. Hard. You also don’t miss the fact that his eyes flit nervously to your breasts, which have been pushed together slightly again as you rest your elbows on your knees. “Donghyuck, when you said you didn’t like being left out like a third wheel, what did you mean?”  

He fixes a bemused look on you, rubbing the back of his neck. “What do you mean ‘what did I mean’? Have you ever heard someone say damn, I wish I could be the loser third wheel to my best friends for the rest of my life?”  

“We’ve tried to do things with you, haven’t we? As far as we know, we’ve done most of the stuff we used to do with you before even until now, after Mark and I got together. We don’t do gross, couple-y stuff when you’re around. But we can tell that there’s still something bothering you. Isn’t there?”  

“Well,” his eyes flit to Mark, who’s just carefully and politely watching the events unfold. “Well, yeah. I just… wanted to sort of be included in stuff. More stuff.”

“Like?”  

He lets out a soft huff, but he doesn’t bother to say anything. Instead, you watch as his face grows redder, and he’s now refusing to make eye contact with either of you. Unfortunately, the only other thing in his immediate line of sight is your chest, which he has a spectacular view of from his seat, so he averts his eyes to the side, staring at the empty space beside you on the couch.  

“I’m going to just go out on a limb here,” you shrug when it’s clear he’s lapsed into another stony, embarrassed silence again. “And you can just tell me if I’m right, and if I’m wrong, Mark and I will sincerely apologize for everything we’ve put you through today. You just have to be honest. Okay?”  

You see him give the tiniest of nods towards the empty space on the couch.  

“Donghyuck, were you upset because you wanted in on the sex?”  

You’ve never seen Donghyuck this red; the reddest you’d seen him was during that Avengers argument, and even that look on him didn’t hold a candle to the state of his face now. He’s twisting his phone in his hands, agitated, and he keeps inexplicably glancing at you. After a while, he takes a shaky breath, once again keeping his gaze firmly away.

“I know it’s super fucked up.”  

“Not the most fucked up thing in the world, I’m pretty sure.”  

“Still sure it’s halfway up that list,” he sighs. “Look — at first, you know, it was… okay? I mean, technically, it still is, like, I’m not really mad that you guys are together, or whatever. But then, I don’t know — I got jealous, I guess? And it was kind of mixed in with how much I like you guys, and it was also this weird realization that, you know, maybe, maybe, I was kind of… attracted. To the both of you. I mean,” he flails his hands in an attempt to get the words to come out faster. “I mean, you’re both super hot.”  

“Thank you,” your joking voice harmonizes with Mark’s weirdly more serious and immediate response.  

“It was an extremely confusing period of time for me. So, I mean, obviously I got frustrated. Like, mentally, but also sexually. I shouldn’t have, but I guess I took it out on you guys.” His shoulders slump forward. “Sorry.”  

“First of all, thank you for your honesty,” you lean back onto the couch, and you hear him breathe out a small sigh of relief as he sees a window of opportunity to look at you again. “Second — I hope you don’t think you’re not super hot yourself.”  

“I mean,” he twiddles his thumbs; the shock and disbelief have left him, it seems, replaced by growing sheepishness. “I’m okay, I guess.”  

“That’s crappy modesty.” For the first time since he’d stormed in, he lets out a soft laugh. “Look — we’re sorry too.”

“You guys don’t have to be.” He looks up, a little alarmed. “I mean… you’re a couple. No one really wants their friend to just dive in when they’re supposed to be a third wheel.”  

“That’s the thing, though,” you shrug. “We don’t want you to be just a constant, unhappy third wheel.”  

You stare at Donghyuck’s phone, and he notices, peeling it away from his chest and looking back down at your messages with his brow furrowed. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Mark raise a hand to his mouth, probably to cover up the fact that he’s close to bursting out into laughter at Donghyuck’s constantly morphing comical expressions. He poorly disguises one chuckle as a cough.

Donghyuck seems to be stuck on buffering mode again, just opening and minimizing each picture in the chat ceaselessly. You place a hand on his knee, giving it a small squeeze to get him to look at you again.  

“What we’re asking  — you don’t have to do it, or whatever. But if you want to — if you really want to — just say so.”  

It’s a staring contest again, except there’s much less heat involved; Donghyuck seems to be mapping every plane of your face, trying to figure out if there’s any sign of insincerity. After a long moment, you see the corners of his mouth twitch, and his voice comes out soft.  

“You know I want to.”  

“Good,” you squeeze his thigh again. His eyes follow you as you stand, and he stays silent as you settle back down onto his lap, only sparing a glance at Mark like he wants some sort of confirmation. His gaze falls back on you as you comb his hair back with your fingers, a small smile playing on your lips. Donghyuck looks like he has a lot of questions, but he swallows them down as your fingers fall to his shoulders then to his chest, pushing aside the folds of his blazer. “If at any point, you feel like stopping — if it gets weird, or anything like that, just say so.”  

“I’m not going to.”

“I was hoping you’d say as much,” you laugh softly, helping him out of the blazer. Donghyuck isn’t by far the most muscular person you’ve met, but he’s naturally more substantial than most, and the fact that his inner shirt is kind of tight on him just highlights that. You can feel him shivering slightly under your fingers, which gives you the brief impression that he’s nervous, but it doesn’t show all that much when you start unbuttoning his shirt and he moves to help you, from the bottom up.  

His eyes keep shifting between you and Mark, like he can’t decide who to focus on more, but you catch his attention for a little while longer as you undo the knot on his tie, tugging it loose from his neck. The front folds of his shirt have fallen away from each other, hanging loose at his sides, and you can see now how quickly he’s breathing, his chest rising and falling erratically.

“You okay?” You whisper, hanging the tie over the back of your neck. You’re so close to him you actually hear him swallow slowly.

“Yeah, it’s just…” He licks his lips. Once. Twice. “This slow, sexy pace is coming at a bad time for me.”  

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’ve been pretty hard since I left the restaurant. You guys couldn’t have picked a worse time to send those pictures.”  

“We were assuming you’d just be home,” Mark’s voice is a welcome addition to the dialogue — low and a little gruff, a telltale sign of his arousal. “You usually are.”  

“Yeah, well I…” Donghyuck’s voice trails off as he fixates on your fingers, which are moving around your neck. You observe his jaw going slack, little by little, as he takes in the fact that you’re using his tie as a makeshift choker, the ends forming a lopsided ribbon at the base of your throat. “I…”  

“Go on. We’re listening.”  

“I… am so…” He inhales deeply, closing his eyes for a second like he’s rebooting himself. “I am… unbelievably turned on.”

“You like this?” You finger the ends of the tie, your smile growing as he nods. “That’s a little kinky of you.”  

“I’m kinky?” His laugh is part breathless, part incredulous. “I’m not even half the kinky you are, noona.”  

You lean in closer, watching Donghyuck’s eyes instinctively flutter close; your lips land on the bridge of his nose first, then the tip, before falling onto his mouth, where he tilts his head up just enough to meet the kiss firmly. It’s brief but sweet, and when you pull back, his head follows on impulse, trying to chase yours. When you lean in again, your lips land on his jaw, trailing up the sharp angle all the way up to his earlobe. Your breath on his skin is either tickling him or revving him up, because he grips your waist tightly, blunt nails digging shallowly into your skin.  

“I’ll accept that compliment,” you murmur, blowing more hot air into the shell of his ear. “But no one in this room isn’t at least a little bit kinky.”  

“Even Mark hyung?”  

“Even Mark,” you agree, trapping his earlobe between your teeth and tugging on it lightly. A soft gasp escapes him, but instead of pulling away, he only holds you tighter, pulling your hips closer to his. “But we don’t call him that right now, do we?”  

Donghyuck’s shoulders freeze; it’s clear he’s holding his breath. For a moment, you’re worried you’ve scared him off, and you stay still too, until you feel him exhale shakily. He gives a minute shake of the head.  

“That’s right. What do we call him?”

Not for the first time today, you wonder if what you’re doing is a little overboard for Donghyuck, especially since he’s being initiated into this weird situation where you’re essentially playing out some of your personal whims. You experience a slight wave of worry in the span of time it takes for you to ask that question and for Donghyuck to respond, but the wait pays off when he clears his throat a little and answers, voice barely above a whisper.  

“Daddy.”  

“What about you, Donghyuck?” You continue to whisper, only pausing to let you tongue slip out, the tip tracing the shell of his ear. “What do you think we should call you?”  

His breathing hitches again, and you have to hold onto his shoulders while he shifts in his seat so you don’t topple off his lap. When he speaks, though, his voice is surprisingly clearer. You don’t know if he thinks there’s a right answer, but he says it nonetheless.

“Baby.”  

“That’s good,” you squeeze his shoulders in assurance, and he returns the favor on your waist. “You’re already doing so well, baby. Are you looking at daddy?”  

His earlobe bumps against your tongue as he nods again, and you trap it between your teeth again, tugging on it until he makes a soft whining sound.  

“Can you tell me what he’s doing?”  

“He’s…” Donghyuck clears his throat, losing a little bit of the nerve he’d had just a moment ago. That, or he’s distracted, and you can’t blame him given his answer. “He’s — he’s jerking himself off.”  

“Is that so?” You pull away, unable to resist confirming for yourself. You’re not disappointed; Mark is still in his exact same spot on the couch, but he’s pushed down the front of his sweatpants, palming at his cock through his boxers. His eyes lift to meet yours when you turn, and a small smile lifts the corners of his lips. “Having fun on your own?”  

“Just enjoying the view,” he chuckles softly. The bulge pushing against the fabric just keeps growing. “You can pretend I’m not here.”  

“No way.” Your hands make their way back to Donghyuck’s chest, tracing spirals down his skin. He sucks in his stomach a little when your touch travels down to his abdomen, and he blows out the air against your cheek a moment later. “Audience participation is mandatory.”  

“At least let me appreciate it for a little while longer.”  

“Fair enough,” you turn back to Donghyuck, who snaps his head back up to your face like he’s been caught not paying attention. He really hasn’t though, having taken more of an interest in wondering how far down your hand is going to go and looking a little crestfallen that your index finger is just hovering above his navel. “What do you say, Donghyuck? Should we give daddy a little show?”  

“What kind of show?”

“I was thinking something along the lines of my mouth around your cock, but I’m totally open to suggestions.”  

Donghyuck doesn’t waste time deciding, nodding instantly before you even finish your sentence. “No suggestions. That’s the best suggestion. Please.”  

Mark laughs softly along with you, but Donghyuck can’t afford to be amused when he looks so desperate to have something of any value happen. You oblige, fingers finally completing their journey as they find their way to his slacks, undoing the fastenings and carefully tugging down the zipper.

Donghyuck initiates the next kiss, his hands suddenly coming up to trap your face in between his palms and turning your head up so quickly you don’t even register what he wants before he’s already pressed his mouth against yours. There’s a greater level of want, if not need, in the way he mouths at your lips, like he’s finally realized this is really going somewhere and he doesn’t want to waste time anymore. His mouth is hungry, taking your bottom lip between his teeth and sucking on it so roughly it starts to go a little numb.  

You almost forget you’re in the middle of something, but his hips give a little jerk as if to remind you, and you blindly get back to work, pushing down the front of his boxers and wrapping your fingers around his cock. He’s already hard, the tip slick with pre-cum, his cock twitching at your touch. Even if he’d been enthusiastic about your idea, he doesn’t free you from the kiss immediately; he deepens it, tongue finding its way into your mouth, curling up against the roof of your mouth and rubbing against your own. You give his cock a couple of slow pumps as a reminder, but he just moans into your mouth, fingers tangling into your hair.  

It’s you that has to break contact first, coming back up for breath. Donghyuck just stares at you, dazed, his mouth still parted slightly. Before you say anything, he’s leaned in again, trapping your lips in another brief but wet kiss. And another. And another. And another. When you press your free hand against his chest to signal him to slow down, there’s a thin line of saliva traveling between your mouth and the corner of his lips. You laugh softly, wiping it away with your thumb. “You’re very eager.”  

He holds your face again, giving you another firm kiss; his aim misses slightly this time, landing more on your upper lip. There’s a bit of wetness sticking to the bottom of your nose after. “Is that bad?”  

“Of course not. It’s good.” You take his hands away from your face, bringing them up to your lips instead. You press a kiss to each of his knuckles affectionately. “You’re so good for me, baby.”  

You land a final kiss against the tip of his nose before shifting backwards. His fingers are still clinging onto yours, and you’re holding hands even when you get onto your knees, easing yourself between his legs. You glance back at Mark; he hasn’t really moved, save for the fact that his cock is now fully exposed too, and he’s pumping it in that slow, almost torturous pace he loves starting with. You don’t see Mark touch himself often, especially since you usually form a party of two with him to get off anyway, but this is a rare sight you actually wouldn’t mind enjoying more often. His brow is slightly furrowed, dark eyes trained on the both of you, a thin sheen of sweat glowing across his forehead. When his eyes meet yours, you wink, way too salaciously for him to take seriously, and the laugh that leaves him is breathy.

Donghyuck gives your fingers a small squeeze when you turn back to him. From this angle, you’re more aware of how flushed his neck and how dangerously quick his Adam’s apple is bobbing, probably because he can’t stop swallowing in anticipation. When you inch your head closer to his cock, he grips your hands even tighter, until the tips of your digits actually turn white.  

“Relax, baby,” you whisper, trying to curl your fingers — in vain, unfortunately, because he refuses to let go.

“I can’t,” he replies a little hoarsely. “I’m going to cum fast. I don’t want you guys to think I’m a quick shot.”  

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassure him, twisting your dominant hand out of his iron grasp. Desperate to still have something to hang onto, his hand moves immediately to your head, gripping your hair in a haphazard half-ponytail. “I think it’s cute that you’re this excited.”

“Don’t tease me, noona.”

“I’m not teasing you,” you say calmly, but your index finger is enjoying its independence way too much, dragging down the side of his shaft lightly and drawing spirals against his skin as it travels back upwards. He lets out a short, sharp hiss. “I’m just telling it as it is. And if you want to cum, all you need to do is tell me where.”  

“What?”  

“Tell me where. Mark prefers the mouth, mostly.” He gapes down at you, shaking his head slowly like he’s not fully comprehending how workaday your tone is in comparison to what you’re saying. “Although you can obviously choose on your own.”

“Wh—” His question dies in his throat as his eyes fixate on your mouth, which is now wrapped around the head of his cock. You feel it twitch against your lips, and Donghyuck’s low, drawn-out moans are the rhythmic soundtrack to your endeavor. His grip on your hair tightens, and he starts a mantra of curses once your tongue begins rolling around the tip. “Oh my g— noona, you need to slow down, holy shit—”

Your giggle is muffled against his skin, but the vibrations just seem to spur him on; he clenches your hand like you’re dangling him off a cliff. His head is tilted back, and his chest is heaving dangerously. The hand in your hair jerks your head accidentally, but you power through it, moving your lips downward. His swearing only intensifies as you start to suck on his length, your mouth running up and down half of it.  

Donghyuck can’t seem to come to a decision on how to proceed; on one hand, he frequently wheezes out a “no” in between sentences he never finishes, but on the other, he’s starting to place pressure on your head in an attempt to lead it further down. You end up deciding for him when he hisses out an almost angry “fuck, that feels so good,” pressing your tongue up against the underside of his shaft. His cock throbs noticeably in your mouth again; the timing perfectly aligns when you look up at him just to see his eyes roll back one quick moment before he squeezes them shut. His mouth is slightly agape, and he can’t even bring his lips together to swear properly at this point.  

Another dangerous twitch of his cock signals that he’s close, and he confirms this when his head suddenly snaps down, eyes flying open.  

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” He shakes his head again, now looking panicked. “I want — can I cum on your tits?”  

You think that’s kind of a complicated decision considering you’re the only one in the room still fully clothed, but you don’t want to deny him, especially not when he looks so desperate. You pull your mouth away quickly, a wet pop sounding between you, and he finally releases your now-numb hand, using it to stroke his cock in your absence. Leaning back, you wrestle your shirt off; you’re about to work on the clasp of your bra too, but a gentle hand gets there before you. Mark has shifted closer for a better view, now unhooking your bra with the hand that isn’t stroking himself.

“Show off.” You grin back at him. He laughs softly, but the sound is drowned out by a slightly louder moan from Donghyuck. His head is in its previous position, tilted back, his bangs matted to his forehead. He’s sucked in his stomach, like he’s holding his breath just to stop himself from cumming. You tap his moving hand to tell him to stop, but he moans out a throaty albeit much more insistent no. Slightly amazed, you watch him shift forward in his seat, half of his ass hanging off the edge, leading his cock closer to you.  

It takes you a split second before you cotton on, and in that short interlude, his groans get exponentially louder, so you try not to waste any more time, leaning forward again so that his shaft can rest against your cleavage. It’s clear that your guess on what he wants is correct, because the fist around his cock loosens; instead, he presses his thumb down on his cock, making sure it stays flush against your skin as he starts to roll his hips upward haphazardly.  

You’re so new to the sight of this that you don’t even move; you just watch him rut against you, wondering why you hadn’t at least set up a camera so you could have a souvenir when this was all over. Surprisingly, it’s Mark that takes the initiative again; sacrificing personal pleasure, both his palms slip under your arms, pressing against the sides of your breasts and pushing them closer to the center. The friction Donghyuck is creating intensifies when they press up against his cock, and his reaction is immediate; his hips jerk up sharply, cock barely missing your chin.  

Donghyuck’s movements are more erratic now, and the flush on his neck has spread upwards to his cheeks. He’s so close, and the only thing you can do at this point is to egg him on.

“That’s so good, baby.” Your whisper is barely audible, but you know he can hear it, even with everything else he’s saying about how much he’s already losing his mind. “You’re doing so well. I bet you look so good when you cum, don’t you? Show mommy how much you want to cum all over me.”  

His hips give one last sharp lurch before a drawn out groan rips from his chest; you feel a splash of heat against your neck first. Donghyuck has all but slid off his seat, but he manages to right himself, pulling away from you slightly so he can fist at his cock again to coax his climax to completion. You let out a soft, appreciative noise as you feel his cum hit your skin in quick bursts.  

You smile up at him when he slouches back into the chair, breathing labored. Something like a disbelieving laugh escapes him when your gazes lock, and your grin just widens in response.  

“Mommy?”  

“Sorry. Heat of the moment, and all that,” you shrug. “Too weird?”  

“Kind of hot, actually,” he admits. “I’m not mad about it.”  

“I agree,” Mark’s voice sounds fresh in the situation considering how absent it had been for the better part of the blowjob. His hands are still against your breasts, now cupping them lightly instead of pushing them together. You lean back slightly, your head bumping into his shoulder.  

“It was nice to have an active audience too, actually,” you sigh softly, feeling Mark’s torso shake weakly as he laughs again. “Very helpful at the right time.”  

“I just took advantage of a sudden opportunity.” His fingers squeeze at your breasts gently. Donghyuck has caught his breath now, mostly, and he sits up a little straighter. His expression has gone back to looking a bit careful, which you’re disappointed about until he speaks up again.

“So… is that… really it?”  

“Why?” You bite back a laugh. “Did you want more, or something?”  

“Kind of.”  

“That’s good, considering I wasn’t really planning on stopping just yet.” Your hands move up your sides, overlapping with Mark’s. “Looks like you need a break, though.”  

“I really don’t,” Donghyuck answers quickly, almost talking over you.  

“How quick is your recovery time?”

“I don’t usually have a stopwatch on me when I jack off twice in a row,” he frowns. “I usually don’t jack off twice in a row. Isn’t it bad for your heart, or something?”  

“I don’t know. Naver it, if you’re curious,” you suggest.  

“No, thanks. Kind of a mood killer.”  

“True.” you shrug. “I guess we’ll just have to speed it up a little.”

Your fingers close around Mark’s hand, peeling it away from your breast slowly. He makes a small, disappointed sound but doesn’t resist, even when you let his hand go for a moment before taking his forefinger back into your grasp. Leading it back to your skin, you slide his finger over your nipple, Donghyuck’s release slowly gathering on his digit as you move it upwards. You hear Donghyuck inhale sharply as you bring Mark’s finger up to your mouth, your tongue coming out to meet it so you can lick off the residual cum.  

“Is she usually this horny, or, like… what?” Donghyuck sounds both scandalized and amazed.  

“This is definitely in the top ten list of horniest things she’s done,” Mark replies. You don’t miss the fact that his words are laced with a soft, affectionate tone. “Right up there with a morning blowjob and offering to eat my ass.”  

“You didn’t take the offer?”  

“We had a test the next day. Also, she was half-asleep when she offered.”  

“I would have done it if you had woken me up after ten minutes like you were supposed to.” You drop your hold on Mark’s hand.  

“I could tell you were tired. You needed rest, not another reason to rile me up into having sex four hours before a morning exam.”

You shrug as Donghyuck laughs incredulously. Mark, catching up to your intentions, starts using his thumb to wipe the rest of Donghyuck’s cum off your skin before lifting it back up to your mouth. “The offer still stands,” you say right before your lips wrap around his finger, suckling on it languidly. You’re excessively noisy about it, since that seems to interest Donghyuck.  

“I’ll take it up on another day,” Mark promises.  

“And the daddy thing,” Donghyuck presses on, even though his eyes are fixed on where your mouth meets Mark’s skin. “Whose idea was that?”  

“Who else’s?”  

“Noona,” Donghyuck shakes his head. “You’re a hazard to men, do you know that?”

You pull your mouth away, pouting. “That’s not the whole story. You’re telling it wrong.”  

“But you did start it,” Mark replies simply, going back to the task of slowly wiping your chest clean.  

“I said it as a joke, but it turned you on so much I just kept using it,” you elaborate.

“Fine. So that’s what happened,” he concedes. “But you still started it.”  

“But you love it,” you fire back. He chuckles, his finger coming back up to trace the shape of your mouth. The movement of it laces the last of Donghyuck’s cum onto your lips.  

“Of course.”  

Donghyuck’s cock visibly twitches as he watches you trace your tongue over your lips, slowly licking the cum off of them. He just gapes for a moment, even when you’re finished and smiling up at him again, then gently pats the side of his face like he’s trying to get himself to wake up.

“I’m going to have a heart attack.”  

“Story of my life,” Mark responds. You feel his heat leave your back for a moment as he moves to sit back onto the couch, but he reaches out for you again quickly, arms snaking around your waist so he can tug you onto his lap. You lean most of your weight back onto his chest, and his hands move down to unbutton your shorts, thumbs digging into the waistband in an attempt to push them down. “Help me out here, Donghyuck.”  

The latter leans forward as instructed, tugging down your shorts by the hem and dragging your underwear along with them. You have to lift yourself to help them slide it off, and when you sit back down, you press back against Mark’s hips, feeling the shape of his cock push up flush against your bare ass. His knees slip between your legs, pushing them apart to give Donghyuck a fair view of your pussy. He takes in a deep breath, as though mentally preparing himself.  

“We usually do this in front of a mirror,” Mark explains. “But I think it might turn her on more to know you’re watching.”  

“Oh, I’m definitely watching,” Donghyuck promises. “I don’t even know if I have it in me to fucking blink.”  

Mark laughs, but you don’t join him; what comes out of you is a slightly needy sound as you feel his fingers press up against your core. He slips one between your folds, tracing lines repeatedly along your slit, and your moans just grow louder with every time he brushes up against your clit. The sounds you’re making reach its first apex when two digits press down a little harder against the nub, rubbing with a fair amount of intensity.  

In most other instances, Mark isn’t one for a lot of talk; he’ll play along when he has to, but he isn’t instinctively prone to mouthing off during sex unless you prompt some kind of dialogue. You’re not sure if it’s also because Donghyuck is watching, or because this is just one of the rare times he’s feeling up to it, but even in the haze of your growing pleasure, you feel mildly surprised when he suddenly speaks up.

“What’s going on, __________?” His voice is low, muffled against your shoulder as he speaks in between the kisses he’s pressing against your skin. “Tell me. What’s happening to you right now?”  

“Oh my god,” you whimper, feeling him add more pressure against your core. “You’re… you’re rubbing my clit. Your fingers feel so good, fuck.”

He hums softly in approval. “What else?”  

Your answer comes slightly delayed as you moan, a longer, slightly more tortured sound as his fingers leave your clit, moving down to toy at your entrance. “I’m getting so wet, holy shit.”

“Wet for who?”  

“Fuck,” your voice comes out as an embarrassing, high-pitched whine. “For you, daddy. I’m getting so wet for you.”  

“Who else?”  

“For Donghyuck.”  

You feel Mark’s lips brush against the curve of your neck as he speaks again. “Should we show him?”  

You nod, unsure if you can still speak without everything just coming out as a mess, and Mark moves his hand back to your folds, his forefinger and middle finger spreading them. Your legs instinctively follow suit, shifting further apart, and Donghyuck’s mouth goes slack to the point that you can actually see a little bit of drool pooling near the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t even seem to be noticing the fact that he’s growing harder again as the seconds pass, too fixated on Mark’s hand, which has found its way back to your entrance. One digit dips into your core, and you tense around it. He starts to pump it into you, but the movement is too shallow, and your mind is honestly thinking about something else entirely. He knows this, you’re fairly sure, but Mark isn’t usually one to tease, so when he does, you let him get away with it.  

Still, you instinctively let out a frustrated noise, and he catches it. His finger slows in you, and your nails bite into his forearms as a tiny form of revenge. He doesn’t even sound perturbed when he speaks again.  

“What’s wrong?”

“I want…” You huff, hips moving in a bid for some kind of friction. “I want more.”  

“More?”  

“Cock,” You demand. “I want your cock, daddy.”  

His other arm frees your waist, moving to press his palm against your back. You take it as a signal to lift yourself, and your thighs get an unexpected workout as you wait for him to align himself under you. The same hand leads you back down, and you let out what might be the lewdest moan you’ve made for the day so far, feeling the familiar girth of his cock stretch you in that subtle, delicious way you’ve come to love.  

Mark doesn’t even wait for you to settle back down on his lap; you’re only halfway down before he lifts his hips to meet yours, burying himself into you completely. It knocks a little bit of wind out of you, but you won’t deny the fact that his eagerness is a peak turn on at this point. You’re glad that he’s firmly holding your waist, because you don’t know how much strain your legs can take anymore — partly because of practice, but mostly because Mark is funneling all of his energy into thrusting deep into you, which just renders you incapable of focusing on any other task requiring more than minimum effort.  

There’s slight movement in front of you; Donghyuck’s hand has found its way back to his cock, and he’s stroking himself to hardness again, his expression half-pained, half-amazed. His eyes keep moving back and forth, once again unsure on what to focus on. For a while, his gaze is fixed on your breasts, which are bouncing slightly with the force of Mark’s thrusts, but for some reason, he ultimately decides to focus on your face. His fingers tighten around his shaft for a moment.  

“Are you hard again, baby?” You ask the obvious, but he doesn’t seem to mind, considering the fact that he nods immediately. “Does it turn you on —watching daddy fuck me like this?”  

“Jesus.” He runs a hand through his hair, locks sticking out at odd angles. “Jesus Christ.”  

“His cock feels so good in me. He’s filling me up so well, baby. Can you see it?”  

He nods again. “This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”  

Your head tilts back a little when Mark bucks his hips up a little more sharply than before, mouth falling slack to allow a groan to escape; you feel yourself tighten around him, legs twitching in response. You think you hear Donghyuck call out to a deity again. When your head lifts back up, you lock eyes with Donghyuck again, and he speaks before you can think of anything filthier to say.  

“Can I fuck your mouth, noona?”

He’s already half-standing before you say yes, and Mark has to slow down for a moment as Donghyuck clambers up to line himself up to your mouth again. He doesn’t even need any prompting anymore, one hand immediately moving to tangle into your hair and keep your head still. He uses the other to guide his cock past your lips, and you notice that he feeds you more length than you had taken in earlier.  

Seeing Mark resume his movements is what gives Donghyuck the cue to start, too; he uses his hold in your hair as some kind of leverage, hips rolling forward in slow, controlled thrusts. There’s very little you can do apart from suck with whatever strength you have left and moan intermittently when Mark shifts down a little so he can pump into you at a different, slightly deeper angle. One hand has also found its way back against your pussy, picking up where it left off and toying with your clit. You feel your legs shake slightly with the overstimulation, and it takes a lot of concentration for you to keep yourself from going limp.  

In an attempt to stay preoccupied, you look up at Donghyuck. The sight of him feels almost criminal, with his tongue curled up against his upper lip and his brow furrowed with concentration. His thrusts are growing a little more confident, and with this newfound boldness, he pushes more of his cock past your lips. It doesn’t seem to be an accident, either; his hand leads your head forward a little every time, and if you had to guess, you had probably just about a quarter of his length left before you took it all in.

Suddenly, he pulls his hips away, and you gasp out a soft fuck when he frees your mouth, once again unable to focus on much else apart from Mark’s thrusting, which has also increased in pace and intensity. You’re practically praying in swear words, and Donghyuck has to call your name twice before you look back up at him.  

“Noona, do you think you can—” He swallows hard, fingers falling away from your hair. “Can you relax for me?”  

“I’m getting the dicking down of my life over here,” you rasp between moans. “I don’t think I can.”  

“I meant here,” his hand falls down to your jaw before tracing a line down your throat. His forefinger hooks into the ersatz choker you’ve fashioned out of his tie. “I want to see if you can take all of me.”

You nod, not even bothering to tease him about how uncertain he’s acting even when he’s asking for a goddamn deepthroating, and he tugs on the tie, once again bringing your slackened mouth closer to his tip. You feel Mark’s fingers tighten around your hip, and his hips start lifting up harder; the slap of skin on skin is obscenely audible, almost like applause as Donghyuck slides himself past your teeth again.

He doesn’t bother with thrusting anymore; it’s one smooth motion until your mouth is back where it had been a moment ago. You remember he’d asked you to relax, so you try not to give into your instinct to moan over and over, letting your jaw go slack. You know he feels the tension go down because he starts pushing forward again. Your tongue is pressed up flush against his cock, but you can’t move it at all. The rest of Donghyuck’s fingers join the one wrapped around the tie, gripping it a little tighter as he tugs you forward to meet his hips, and you have the good sense to breathe in right before he slips the remaining length into your mouth.  

The tip of his cock presses up against the back of your throat, and you feel the expected tears pool in your eyes and streak down your cheeks; you try to focus on Donghyuck’s expression, which is completely blissed out, but it’s a little hazy. When you start feeling lightheaded, you reach out to blindly swat at his thigh. He gets the signal, pulling away right before you can gag, but he doesn’t leave your mouth. Instead, he resumes thrusting, deciding to follow Mark’s quicker, rougher pace.

You’re pretty sure you would be moaning like crazy now, but you can’t even make noise properly. Without any warning, Donghyuck tugs at the tie again, and your throat instinctively loosens when you feel him pushing in deeper again. He stays there, buried in your mouth for what seems like forever, almost growling when he feels you trying to swallow around him.  

On his second withdrawal, he pulls out all the way; a long, escalating groan leaves you, and you feel your legs buckle suddenly as your climax hits unexpectedly. Mark’s arms wind around your waist, trying to keep you steady, but his hips move relentlessly, hellbent on keeping you going until your high ends. You collapse against his chest when it does, breathing heavily, your eyes closing halfway. Donghyuck inches closer, though, still lining his cock up against your mouth, and your tongue comes out to greet it, running messily along its side.  

“How was it?” Mark asks softly from under you, one hand gently rubbing your stomach.  

“Fucking amazing,” Donghyuck replies, watching you mouth at the tip before you suck on it languidly. “You’ve never tried?”  

“Not yet.”  

“It’s out of this world, hyung.” Your heart swells at the praise, and your mouth becomes a little more enthusiastic. Donghyuck lets out a shaky exhale. “Pro level.”  

Mark chuckles, the sound rumbling against your back. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“If you add that to the fact that she basically swears like a pirate, she could really make a career out of it.”  

“That is something that’s never going to happen,” Mark squeezes your waist. “Like, over my dead body.”  

“I’m just saying it as a hypothetical thing. You know. To drive the compliment home.” You try to interrupt them, but Donghyuck’s shaft is still pressed up against your lips, muffling the sound. He angles his hips away so you can speak. “Sorry. What was that, noona?”  

“More,” you breathe out. Donghyuck’s eyebrows fly up as you repeat yourself. “More. Please.”  

“Are you sure? You can take a break. Trust me, with what just happened, we’ll still be hard.”  

You shake your head, carefully pushing yourself up off Mark’s lap; you’re still fairly wobbly, so he has to keep his hand on your back just to make sure you don’t reel backwards. He looks up at you, wide-eyed, wondering what you’re planning. You motion for him to scoot back near the armrest, and he does so, adjusting himself horizontally once he understands what you want. He reaches out a hand to help you back onto the couch, where you straddle his lap for a moment before you raise yourself, reaching between the two of you to hold onto the base of his shaft. His teeth come out to dig into his lip as you once again take in his cock, biting back a moan.  

When you turn back, Donghyuck is still in the same position, watching you; he’s clearly wondering where he fits into this equation. You beckon for him to come closer, and he complies wordlessly. You need to twist your arm a little to reach out for his, leading his fingers to your mouth. Your tongue presses up against his digits, rolling around them slowly for a long, fairly intense minute before you let his wrist go.  

He cottons on belatedly, after you’ve leaned back down to press your chest against Mark’s, pushing out your ass. Your fingers grip your cheeks, spreading them slightly, and Donghyuck lets out a strangled noise.  

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” you murmur, pressing the side of your face against Mark’s shoulder.  

“Are you — I’ve — hold on,” Donghyuck falls silent trying to form the best possible sentence, which is, apparently, “How are you this calm about this?”

“What do you want me to do?” You laugh breathily. “Cry about it?”  

“Have you ever done this before?”

“No,” you admit. “So you better stretch me out, or we might have a problem.”  

“Yeah, okay, no pressure.” You feel the couch dip a little as he inches forward, and in the next second, his hand finds its way to your ass, helping you push your cheeks apart. “Why hasn’t Mark hyung done this?”  

“He’s too scared.”

“That you’ll get hurt?”  

“That he’ll cum right away.”  

Donghyuck barks out a laugh, and even Mark snorts a little. “What about me? I’m afraid of that too.”

“Yeah, but we already know you’re kind of a quick shot.”  

Something cool presses up against your ass, and in the next moment, Donghyuck is sinking the first knuckle of his forefinger into you. You let out a slightly surprised moan that he talks over. “Am not.”  

“We’ll see,” your words come out short as you hold your breath in anticipation. Nothing happens, though; his finger stays completely still. “Fuck. You’re really taking your sweet time.”

“You’d kill me if I just stuffed one finger in right away,” he complains. You clench around him unexpectedly, and he pulls his finger away. “Okay, can you not do that first? My finger is just going to get sucked in or something.”

“That was the idea. Hurry up.”  

“Are you always this impatient?” More shifting happens behind you, and a moment later, you feel something softer and wetter press up against your entrance. You jerk forward in surprise, but Donghyuck’s hands are keeping your hips steady, allowing him to lap at the puckered flesh. You let out a breathy, incredulous laugh.  

“He’s eating my ass,” you inform Mark, who grins up at you. “This is the kind of kinky shit I could have done for you instead of reading Homer.”  

“You passed the exam, which is more important than my personal pleasure.”

“Agree to disagree.”

Mark doesn’t reply, allowing you the space to moan as Donghyuck’s tongue lubes you up. When he pulls away, you try to crane your head back in an attempt to catch a glimpse of his lips, which are shiny with saliva. His hand moves towards you again, and he eases his finger in slowly until it’s in entirely. You start to moan a little more loudly once he starts pumping his finger, and Mark slowly starts rolling his hips up again to add to the stimulation. You have to tuck your face into the crook of his neck to soften your groan as Donghyuck slowly pushes another finger in, spreading them out carefully before he resumes pumping.  

You think you could pretty much get off like this, and you actually feel pleasure building in your stomach, but it’s a low-burning fire with how slowly they’re taking it. A couple of times, you try to push back against them, but Donghyuck in particular seems to be enjoying taking his sweet time. The third finger enters when the buzz of ecstasy has settled in your nerves, adding a bit of spark to the low thrum coursing through your body. Even Mark doesn’t see the necessity in speeding up yet. You’re breathing deep against his neck, inhaling his scent constantly and getting heady from it, and you don’t even register the fact that your mouth has been half-open for the last ten minutes, just letting low, weak moans pass through. At one point, you actually cum quietly again, even with that horribly slow pace, and no one says anything; Mark just turns his head, pressing a firm kiss against your forehead.  

“Please,” your voice is barely audible. “Please. Give me your cock. I’m begging you. I want both of you in me already.”

Donghyuck doesn’t respond, but he does acknowledge your words, slowly tugging his fingers out of you. A moment later, something hard presses up against you, and your moan escalates exponentially once you feel it stretch you. You have to constantly tell yourself not to tense up, but with how desperate you are, you can’t help but feel a little tightly wound, and there’s a small bite of pain when the tip of Donghyuck’s cock makes it past the first ring of muscle.  

Mark’s hands leave your waist, lacing into your fingers and squeezing them reassuringly. You’ve gone back to swearing again, your voice more guttural this time, as Donghyuck works his way further into you. His hands are back on your cheeks, trying to help himself in by spreading them slightly as he moves. It takes what feels like an eternity before he bottoms out, and you let out a long, heavy sigh of relief, belatedly realizing you’d been holding your breath this entire time.  

Donghyuck’s breathing is pretty loud at this point; his hands are roaming across your back aimlessly. “You’re tight as hell. How does it feel?”  

“Fucking incredible,” you whimper. “I feel so fucking full.”

You don’t know if they’d quietly agreed on something, but Mark and Donghyuck start moving at the same time, at the same pace. It’s difficult to decide which feeling to focus on, and you have to shut your eyes to block out anything else that might distract you from the pleasure. Your nails bite into the backs of Mark’s palms, but he doesn’t say anything against it; his breathing is coming out a little more labored too as he thrusts up into you.

Donghyuck loses his reluctance a lot more quickly than Mark, you’ve come to learn; once he’s realized you’re not complaining, he starts speeding up, trying to match Mark’s practiced intensity. You let go of Mark’s hands, letting them move back to their original position as you press your palms against the couch, lifting your torso up slightly. Donghyuck’s hands, on the other hand, find their way to your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers.  

“Harder,” you whisper, now fully adjusted to the situation. “Fuck me harder, please, please.”  

No one objects at this point, each one of you ultimately more concerned with chasing your highs. Mark adjusts himself under you so that he has more mobility, and his thrusts become sharper in tandem with Donghyuck’s. The moans leaving you are shorter but more frequent, breathless and a little too loud, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. A small part of you is astonished at the idea that twenty-four hours ago, it had never crossed your mind that you’d be naked in between your boyfriend and his best friend, but that small part is ultimately shunted by the knowledge that, twenty-four hours later, you are, in fact, in haphazardly planned threesome with the aforementioned people.  

You haven’t said anything for a while now, having lost your own ability to form anything coherent and replacing words with garbled moans. Your expression has probably been dazed for the last few minutes, and when you look down, Mark is staring intently at you. Without any prompt, you lean down, pressing your lips hard against his; his mouth moves against yours, engaging you in a messy and wet kiss that ends with his tongue in your mouth and you suckling on it. Donghyuck’s fingers are digging into your breasts, squeezing them tightly as he briefly interrupts his thrusting to grind his hips up against your ass. You groan in surprise, letting go of Mark’s tongue, and Donghyuck takes this opportunity to tug you up, holding you flush against his chest. His hands move in opposite directions, one hand snaking around your waist tightly, the other dragging up against your cleavage and landing at the base of your throat, tightening a little.  

“Want to tell us what’s going on?” He seems to be taking a page out of Mark’s book. “Tell us what’s happening to you.”  

The first thing that leaves you is a whimper; you’re pretty sure you’ve been speaking in tongues for the past five minutes or so, and your mind is blanking out. Donghyuck’s fingers squeeze a little more against your throat before loosening again.  

“Come on, mommy,” he whispers into your ear, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a second, trying to keep yourself from imploding at that second. “Talk to me. What’s happening to you right now?”  

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you hiss out, feeling his fingers tighten and loosen again. “I’m getting fucked so good, holy shit—”

“Yeah? So good you’re going to cum for us again?”

“Yes, yes, oh my God,” your voice is thick, and it doesn’t help that Donghyuck’s hand squeezes around your throat in increasingly longer intervals. “I’m going to cum so hard. Please — don’t stop, don’t stop—”  

You yelp as Mark’s hips jerk up sharply, stopping for a second before he continues; the result is him falling out of sync with Donghyuck, thrusting in just as Donghyuck pulls back. The new rhythm gives you very little pause, and you feel your arousal heightening much more quickly. You know that Mark, at least, is close; his eyes are shut, and he’s starting to moan lowly — usual tells you’ve noticed over time. The timing seems perfect, then, as Donghyuck presses his lips back to your ear.

“Where should we cum, noona?” He murmurs. “It’s your choice this time.”  

You’re in no real state to make decisions, so you don’t answer right away. The only prompt you have to do so is Donghyuck’s hand once again closing around your throat, cutting off your air supply for a sweet second before letting you breathe again. You’re so close, you can’t care about logistics, and moving would just ruin everything.  

“Cum in me, baby,” you reply hoarsely. “Fuck — please, cum in me.”  

Donghyuck gives your throat one last squeeze, a slightly longer one, fingers flexing against your neck as he buries his cock into you with a throaty groan. You feel the heat almost immediately, and your vision whites out around the edges for a moment before he frees you. You use the air that fills your lungs almost immediately, moaning unrestrainedly as you climax once again, pulsing around both of their cocks. Mark moves his hips for your sake, hitting your sweet spot help you ride it out until you come back down. Donghyuck gently pulls his hands away, and your spine suddenly feels like jelly; you collapse into Mark with a soft thud.

A moment of stillness follows, filled only with heavy breathing and the occasionally whispered curse word. The three of you stay that way for five blissful minutes, until Donghyuck’s phone starts ringing obnoxiously from his bag near the door. The call drops and goes to voicemail because he takes his time pulling out, wasting a couple more seconds to watch a bit of his cum dribble out with an appreciative hum. When the phone rings again, you swat him away, and he sprints across the floor to dig it out of his bag. It’s Renjun, you learn when he answers the phone.  

You and Mark watch him converse with Renjun naturally, like he hadn’t been deep up your ass a moment ago, talking about an assignment he had forgotten to do research on. When he says he’s going to go online so the two of them can discuss, he shoots the two of you a look, like he’s asking you for permission. Mark mouths for him to stop dawdling and get to work, and Donghyuck pulls a face as he picks his backpack and trudges into his room. You notice he peeks at the two of you surreptitiously just before he closes the door.  

“Good job, mommy,” Mark murmurs when Donghyuck is finally out of earshot. He pushes your hair away from your face, tucking locks messily behind your ear to keep them from falling into his face and tickling his nose.  

“I could really get used to that name, but I might miss the title he stole from me now and again.”  

“I don’t mind either way,” he chuckles. “They both kind of suit you.”  

“At least we worked that out,” you hum softly. “I kind of felt bad for him at the beginning.”  

“He pouted and got to cum twice. Things work out.”

You stare down at him, confusion suddenly seeping into your expression. “Yeah. But you didn’t. At all.”  

“I know. It’s not like I can cum like this,” he laughs. “You have to move off of me. Quick, too, because I’ve been holding it in forever.”  

“Why?” You ask, perplexed.

“What do you mean, why? Because I can’t reach your mouth from down here.”

“You don’t have to,” you press a hand to his chest, stopping him from moving up. He meets your eye, now confused too. “I meant what I said. I want you to cum in me.”  

Shock crosses his face. “But—”

“Didn’t you want to? The first time?” He nods, and you tilt your head questioningly. “Do you not want to now?”

“I do. I mean — it would be so hot, but I’m just — I mean, are you sure?”  

“I’m sure.” You lean down, pressing a kiss to his nose. “It’s okay. I want to feel you.”  

He looks up at you, unblinking, assessing your expression like he’s trying to figure out if you’re just pranking him. When he decides you aren’t, he nods, and you dip your head again to press your lips to his. His hands grip your waist once again, and you feel him start to thrust — slowly at first, his speed building gradually. Your hands are pressed to his jaw, thumbs running up against his cheek as you kiss him — adoringly, carefully.  

His movements still for a moment, and you think he’s already climaxing, but you only feel your body shift in position; the next thing you know, you’re lying back against the couch, Mark hovering above you. He thrusts in deeper, sharper, and you whine, reaching out to press your hand to the back of his neck and bringing his head down. Your foreheads touch, and there’s very little gap between your lips and his, but you don’t close it. Instead, you keep your gaze locked on his, letting the breath that accompanies your moans wash over his lips as his hips start to move more intensely.  

That same expression you know so well starts to form on his face again; his eyes, however, are still uncertain, searching yours, offering you room to back out. You shake your head, but his brow only furrows deeper.  

“I’m okay,” you whisper, only loud enough for him to hear. “Please. I want it.”  

“You’re sure?” He rasps out. His voice sounds a little broken, like he’s doing all he can to keep himself from tipping over the edge. “I can still… I can still pull out.”  

“Don’t,” your voice comes out a little more sharply. “I want all of your cum. Please, daddy.”  

“I—” You feel his cock twitch in you, and his eyes start to close again. “God, I’m—”

“Daddy, please,” you urge him, your fingers pressing hard against his sides. “I want it. I want your cum. I want your baby. Please. Fill me up.”  

“Fuck—” His hips jerk, and he snaps them forward, burying himself inside you. You feel his release a moment later, and you mewl softly, tightening around him. He doesn’t move this time, and when his eyes open, they immediately shine with concern. You shake your head, tilting your head up to press a reassuring kiss to his lips.  

Even with him slowly softening inside you, he doesn’t pull out; you stay in the same position for some time, exchanging light kisses. At one point, he leans in, pressing a kiss much firmer than the others, and when he pulls back, words that break the silence tumble out.

“I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’ve never… I’ve never wanted anyone but you. Ever.”  

You lie there, stunned at the sudden confession. Mark doesn’t even look remotely abashed or regretful; he just stares down at you, and it doesn’t even look like he’s waiting for a response. You reach up, trapping his face between your palms and inching your head forward to press another deep kiss to his lips.  

“I love you,” you murmur against his mouth. “I always will.”  

At your words, he tugs you up with him, gathering you into his arms. His lips rest on your forehead, unmoving, hand rubbing your back lightly.  

It would have ended an extremely heartfelt moment, if not for the soft cough that had caused you to look up and see Donghyuck standing by his door, now fully clothed and slightly amused.

“So you guys decide to act like a normal, loving, not-kinky couple now?”

last night on earth - i . | kdy

part ii, part iii

you soon find out that there are more dangerous things than the flesh-eating undead during a nationwide implosion. 

pairing: doyoung x reader verse: zombie apocalypse au rating: M for horror themes only ! genre/s: romance, horror/suspense warnings: brief but stil present mentions of and sometimes depictions of violence, mentions of and possible minor character death, language word count:  4.2k

author’s note: i have an unhealthy attachment to this fic and the plan i have for it so please don’t come for my neck !!!!!!!! i simply had to ;~;

It starts off at four in the afternoon with a series of emergency phone calls.

The first is a woman reporting an intruder in her house — nothing the department hasn’t handled before, and it just seems like an isolated criminal case, so they dispatch you and your partner, Youngho, to quickly investigate the situation. Even with Youngho’s less-than-lawful driving speed and his fulfilment of his desire to dramatically enter a house by kicking the door down when no one answers (because he’s always wanted to do that), you find the place lacking in commotion when you arrive. You don’t even have time to contemplate how eerily quiet the house is when both of your phones go off, and you hear the deputy chief’s voice, uncharacteristically ragged, yelling down your line.  

“You two better get your asses back to HQ,” he roars. Even with the volume of his voice, you can’t help but notice the phones ringing off the hook, trills constantly overlapping and being cut short by frantic co-workers answering them two at a time. “We’ve got emergency calls from all over the city, and now the mayor’s on the other line screaming at us to lock the whole city down.”

“A city lockdown?” You’re still expressing your shock to him when you feel yourself being dragged out of the house by Youngho’s unnaturally firm hand. It’s likely he’d gotten the same call from someone else, since he’s urging you to hurry up and get in the car, and he even helps you along by pushing down on your head and practically shoving you into the passenger’s seat. “What the hell for?”  

“Fuck if I know,” he says curtly. “Just hurry already. Chief wants to see everyone, but he wants to talk to both of you, too.”

“But we — ” the deputy chief hangs up before you can get another word out, which is just as well since Youngho had just floored the gas pedal, and the police car revs so loudly you actually feel your ears pop a little. “What the hell — who called you?”

“Chief,” Youngho answers. “Says we need to get back ASAP.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“Yeah, and while he was at it, we had some tea and crackers, and chatted about the weather.” He throws you a patronizing look. “He barely got five angry words out before he hung up.”

“That’s pretty weird.”

“For the chief? Not really.”

You end up agreeing in silence, watching the houses zip by from your window. Everything looks scarily empty in this area; it’s mid-afternoon, though, so you don’t really make much of it, since most people tend to be out for work or just coming home from school at this time. You’re not even really sure why you feel like the street seems so eerie, but you end up brushing it off, allowing your mind to focus on more substantial things, like the sound of static that strengthens and weakens while Youngho fiddles with the police scanner.

That plan of distraction works out for about five minutes, at which point you see an old lady on the sidewalk get tackled to the ground by a flurry of limbs.

Your extremely loud curse word harmonizes with Youngho’s, and the back of your head hits the headrest of your seat hard as he slams down on the brake, the car skidding sideways as its inertia is interrupted and it quite literally swings off course, barely missing a lamppost. The both of you scramble out of the car, pulling out your handguns and positioning them, Youngho’s hand a little steadier than yours, even if you don’t really care to admit it.  

The elderly woman is on the ground, her grocery bags a few feet away from her arms, which are limp for the most part, save a finger or two twitching helplessly in their attempts to reach out at her fallen food. Her attacker, probably a middle-aged man in a business suit, is hovering over her, almost motionless in a pool of her blood that’s slowly creeping past his knees. You’re the first to cock your gun — you can’t imagine why he wouldn’t just run away, but you also can’t imagine why a sensibly dressed human being might go out of his way to attack a harmless old woman.  

Youngho’s gun clicks a few seconds after yours, but the man doesn’t seem to be fazed by it; in fact, he hardly seems to notice, especially since, upon slightly closer observation, he seems to be retching or something over her body. You can’t even mistake it for crying because the sounds are just downright disgusting. Even Youngho’s face, as you observe from the power of peripheral vision, is contorted into this slightly uncomfortable expression.  

You dare to step closer, and Youngho follows suit, but the guy doesn’t budge anyway, too busy probably vomiting over the poor lady to care. It takes all of your willpower not to wrinkle your nose, but the distressingly wet sounds coupled with the new stench that assaults your nose makes it pretty difficult.  

Your partner takes the initiative to speak, because you’re not entirely sure what to say at this point. “Put down whatever weapons you have and step away from the body, sir,” Youngho’s voice is just as steady as his hold on his gun, which is extremely admirable considering that neither of you still have any clue as to what this man is up to. “Any sudden movements or attempts to flee will be met with gunfire.”  

You think the man might start running (as is expected) or might freeze up and beg for mercy (as is also expected), but you don’t expect him to wheel around and sneer at you with blood dripping down his chin and a pearl from the old lady’s necklace trapped between his teeth. The front of his shirt has been ripped open, too, and there are scratches and wounds — bite marks??? — on his skin, many still fresh. His expression isn’t angry, or terrified, or guilty; all you can see on his face is the raging desire to rip the both of you apart with his bare, bloody hands, and he makes this guttural, almost animalistic noise to confirm your theory.  

At this point, neither of you can be expected to stay composed, so both of you let out a panicked appeal to the Lord, turn to instinct, and fire your weapons.

There’s a reaction from him, sure — your bullet hits his chest and Youngho’s hits his shoulder, and his torso kicks back at the force of the impact. He doesn’t topple over, though; he stays snarling at the both of you, maybe a little more perturbed, while the two bullet wounds leak out more blood, even though he doesn’t seem to care about that either.  

“What,” Youngho breathes out; he’s lost a lot of his nerve, and he’s lowered his weapon about halfway, his disbelief taking over. “What in the fuck.”

The sound of Youngho’s voice causes the man to turn sharply to him, teeth bared as wide as his mouth can allow. You don’t know what possesses you to shoot again, but your finger presses against the trigger before you can make a better decision, and the bite of the bullet against the side of his neck causes him to change his target, his murky eyes now fixing on you. He moves himself off his knees in a strangely limp fashion, at which point, the idea that something really isn’t right hits you, and you pull at Youngho’s arm, which has once again raised quickly in response.  

“We need to go,” your voice is weak. “Like, right fucking now.”

Youngho stepping back is enough to confuse the guy, who’s now looking back and forth between the both of you like he can’t decide which one he wants to start ripping apart first. The decision doesn’t seem to matter to him at the end of the day, though, because he eventually puts it aside and decides to charge at you with his arms out, screeching horribly, a trail of blood and saliva still hanging off his lips.

“Oh fuck me —“ Youngho manages to wheeze out, panickedly grabbing your arm as well and dragging you back towards the car. You both fumble with the door, and it doesn’t help that you can just hear the growling getting closer. A stream of swear words fills the car as Youngho shuts his door and tries to insert the keys into the ignition.  

“Hurry up,” you half-scream. “Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up —”

“Will you shut up?” He snaps, finally jamming the keys in and bringing the engine to life.  

“Youngho, go!”

“Shut up!”

Both of you yell when you feel something hit the driver’s side of the car; it rocks a little, and you see hands clawing at Youngho’s window, nails screeching against the glass; Youngho manages to hit the gas just as the man’s snarling head comes up into view, and you feel a slightly less heavy thud hit the vehicle again as you leave his battered body behind in a frenzy of smoke and dust.

Nothing much passes between you at first; you’re both breathing so heavily it kind of feels like you’re sucking up all the oxygen in the car. Both of you start (Youngho almost hitting the brakes in full again) when you phone starts ringing loudly.

“Where the hell are you two?” The deputy chief bellows; you can actually hear his enraged breathing punctuate his question for a brief second. “I told you to get back here right away!”

“Sir, there was this man that attacked —“

“I don’t care what you two have been doing! Just be here in the next five minutes!”  

Even the click of the phone sounds angry, and you let out a groan, tossing your phone onto the dashboard. “Whatever your speed is, double it.”

Youngho is still evidently a little shaken, and he complies without question on the matter, knuckles white as his hands grip the steering wheel. “What the hell just happened, ________________?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Mental illness? Drug abuse, maybe?”

“He was eating her. He’d chomped down on half of her neck muscles in a minute.”  

“I don’t know, Youngho,” you repeat. “Did you ever read that story about that guy who ate another guy in Florida? He was sick, too.”

“Yeah, but he was shot to death by the police,” he reminds you. “Which didn’t happen, in our case.”  

“Bulletproof vest?”

“He was bleeding, dumbass.”

You decide to let the insult slide given that it was obvious the both of you were dancing around on your last nerves. Crimes for personal gain were one thing;  petty theft, home intrusions, bank robberies were all pretty standard and, while unlawful, hardly gave you the kind of creeps you were experiencing now. Homicides were a slightly separate issue and much more disturbing, but you’ve never had to deal with a case of someone killing someone, eating them, and then refusing to die when shot. Until today, that is.  

The both of you sit through the rest of the car ride in silence, Youngho weaving his way through the traffic jam at the rotary. He ends up having to turn on the siren, but it’s of little help, and the deputy chief ends up having to call you again right as you’re pulling up to headquarters. He’s red in the face and about ready to gnaw your heads off when you rush in, breathless and apologetic.

“Can it,” he puts up a hand as you open your mouth to explain. “I don’t give a shit. The whole city’s on lockdown process right now. The mayor wants our full attention on keeping civilians safe from the crisis.”

“What crisis?” Youngho bursts out; he hardly talks over authority, which sort of shocks the deputy chief into a brief spell of silence. “Sir, we’ve just seen a man murder an innocent woman on the street, and he —“

“There are bigger issues than that,” the deputy chief snaps. “Big mobs and mass riots have been cropping up all over different districts. Jung-gu and Mapo-gu have already shut down. We’ve been getting reports that a horde of people have just started raiding and attacking establishments and offices. The entire subway system closed down, too. We’ve already sent out some people to help mitigate the fighting and a bunch of other corporals to watch the city borders. It’s like the fucking purge, except no one knows what started it.”

“So why does the chief need us?”

“Ask him; he’s on the phone with the mayor right now, but he’s also been looking for the both of you. Maybe the next time you two are given an order, you’ll actually do it on time.”

He jerks an annoyed thumb to the chief’s office before stalking off, pulling out his phone to yell at someone else. You and Youngho exchange a look of alarm before walking up to the door. A silent, irritating debate on who should knock ensues, ending when you smack his scissors away with your paper and rap shortly on the door.

“Come in.”

You turn the knob and let the door swing open before pushing Youngho inside; he makes a noise of protest he has to kill immediately when the chief looks up with a grim face, putting the phone back in to the receiver.

“I’m assuming Deputy Choi has already told you about the situation in the financial district.”

“Yes, sir,” you respond simultaneously.

“The mayor wanted the city locked down, but he also wanted some of our people looking after the officials in this city. I’m sending out some of our corporals to guard the senators and high-profile conglomerate business owners in Gangnam-gu.”

Once again, you and Youngho turn to each other in confusion. “But, sir, we’re not —“

“What I’m getting at,” he silences Youngho, who sucks in his lips so far back he looks like an elderly man. “Is that I’m promoting you two. We’re short a few people who can do this job right, and you’re two of the only officers with enough years under their belt to qualify to some degree.”  

“Um — thank you, sir,” you start. “But I still don’t understand what —“

“Do either of you two know anything about Kangwoo Logistics?”

“They’re a shipping and manufacturing company,” Youngho answers, then adds under his voice. “My refrigerator is from them.”

“The family that owns it is living in Gangnam; their CEO is living Gangnamdaero and their COO is in Apgujeong. Flip a coin to see who goes where; I don’t care. I need both of you stationed at their doors and ready to gun down anything that might come after them.”

“What’s coming after them, chief?”

He sighs deeply as he picks up the phone, avoiding your eyes as he punches in a number and responds to your question.

“Hell.”

You and Youngho play two rounds of rock, paper, scissors that ends in a 1-all win. He calls dibs on keeping the police car, and you get to choose Apgujeong because it’s closer to your parents’ house, just in case you need to take a shower or raid their fridge, or something. The entire building is going to be locked down as well since all the other officers are on duty, and you’re both cleaning out your locker when the deputy chief comes around and tosses two bulletproof vests at you.  

“Promotion gift,” he says gruffly. “You’re gonna need it.”  

“Thank you, sir,” Youngho picks up his and slips it on; it sits well on his shoulders, whereas yours almost drowns you. You throw the deputy chief a distressed look, and he has the decency to respond with a sheepish one.  

“We didn’t really have a lot of options on hand. You can just pad it out with an extra shirt.”  

“Sir,” you tug off the vest, setting it on top of your bag. “About this afternoon — Officer Seo and I were hoping to bring it up with you.”  

“What about it?”

“We saw a man attack an old woman. At first we thought it was just a…” you pause; you don’t even really know what it seemed like, let alone what it was. “We thought it was just a random murder, but when we got closer he —“

“Attacked you?” You nod slowly. “What did he do? To the old woman.”

“He was… he was… eating her, sir. It looked like he’d taken a bite out of her neck.”

You expect the deputy chief to look shocked or, at the very least, disgusted, but all he does is sigh heavily, like he’d gotten really disappointing news. “It’s been happening all over the city. People randomly attacking others; and they all end up acting like rabid animals.”  

“But what is it, sir?” Youngho pipes in.  

“We don’t know. No one really does. Which is why you have to keep a good watch out. The chief’s going to have your ass if anything happens to them.”  

“They’re not politicians or anything,” Youngho, who’s been admiring his reflection surreptitiously in his locker mirror, finally slips off the vest and stuffs it in his bag as well. “What makes them so important?”

“Beats me. But the mayor asked for some of our people to be sent over to them, so that’s what we’re doing.”  

He ushers you out, reminding you to keep your phone lines open at all times, and you and Youngho pile into the car once again, setting off for Apgujeong. You hardly hit any traffic now, which is fine time-wise, but it’s also not normal for Gangnam at this time — couple that with the fact that most places have closed shop.  

“Even Starbucks is closing,” Youngho remarks in some awe. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a closed Starbucks.”  

“Will you focus on driving? We really don’t need another death on our hands today.”  

“Just type the address,” he says snippily, shoving the paper in your face and letting you key in the street name. The GPS rattles out directions, taking you down Apgujeong Rodeo Street and into the more residential parts of town.  

“Jesus Christ,” you press your face against the window, jaw hanging open. “They even trashed the cinema.”

“So we have ourselves some… popcorn-loving cannibals? Like, maybe they use it as a side dish to human flesh.”

“That’s totally disgusting.”

“I was just trying to lighten the mood. I don’t think — what’s his name? Kim Doyoung-nim is going to appreciate his bodyguard not having a sense of humor.”

“Bodyguards aren’t supposed to have senses of humor,” you frown. “And I’m not a bodyguard. I’m a police officer.”

“Yeah, well, starting today you’re a bodyguard with a cool badge,” he drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “We both are.”  

“We got a promotion, and you’re talking like this is the stupidest thing that’s ever happened in your career.”

“We got a promotion so we could be babysitters, ___________________,” he sighs, like he can’t believe you’re being this foolish. “Instead of being out there, helping people and saving the world, we have to coddle two rich dudes. We’re going to be going out and picking up their laundry and making sure they eat their vegetables before tucking them into bed. Please tell me what isn’t stupid about this situation.”

“They’re important people; the mayor asked for them to be protected.”

“Because they have a couple of cool boats and have a pretty good name in the kitchen appliances industry?”  

“I — just shut up,” you wave him off, folding your arms across your chest. He snorts, slowing down the car as he pulls into a narrow street with a row of huge houses. The street isn’t actually narrow by nature, but there are so many cars parallel parked on either side of the road that you feel like you have to suck in your stomach so that the police car can fit between them.

“Smell that? It’s the smell of pampered chaebol kids and the leather on their expensive sports cars.”  

“Give it a rest. Pull up here — right here.” You point to a mailbox with gold numbers on its side that match the address on the paper. “I think this is it.”

“Do you need help with any of your stuff?” Youngho calls out as you push the door open, and you wave off his question as you make your way to the trunk, pulling out your bag. You really do need to go to your parents’ place; apart from the vest, you only have one change of clothes and two pairs of socks. You make a mental note to call them about it.  

Youngho rolls down the window as you walk up to the mailbox, sticking his big head out. “Are you going be okay?”

“I guess so,” you adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder and pat your bulletproof vest reassuringly. “I should probably head in now. Let me know when you get to Kim Jungwoo-ssi’s house.”

“Yeah, I will. Let me know if Kim Doyoung-ssi’s house really does have six bathrooms, like I suspect it does,” Youngho laughs, but there’s no real mirth to his voice; it’s just for show, really. His expression softens when you don’t join in. “Don’t die, okay? I’ll kill you if you do.”

“Please,” it’s your turn to laugh, even if your voice is trembling a little. “You know we’re both invincible.”  

“Damn straight,” he ducks back into the car, rolling the window up. You stand on the sidewalk, waving at him, and you see the white of his palm wave back from inside the car as he drives away, trying really hard not to feel like this is some kind of last goodbye.  

You have to take two deep breaths to steady yourself before you walk up the driveway; Kim Doyoung clearly lives a comfortable life, with two sports cars parked in front of his house and a well — who the hell has a well in their damn garden? Maybe Youngho’s right — it’s wholly possible that this monstrously large mansion does have six bathrooms.

What it doesn’t have is a proper doorbell, however; you can see that there’s an intercom system with a camera, and it’s obvious that it would be the way to announce your presence, but you still spend two minutes checking out the door just to see if you can ring a more normal bell so you can avoid having to be seen by this guy without seeing him back. Of course, there’s nothing, so you either have to content yourself with the camera-bell system or knock.  

You can hear the trill of the music when you press the button; a couple of seconds later, you hear a male voice, a lot softer than you’d imagined, come through the speaker.  

“Who is it?”  

“Um — Kim Doyoung-nim? It’s Corporal ____________, from the Gangnam-gu Police Department.”

A soft sigh punctuates the brief and honestly awkward exchange; a couple of minutes later, the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with a young man. In his loose sweatshirt and pants, he doesn’t look like he could afford to pay the rent for one of the rooms of the house, let alone actually own it. Half his body is still behind the door; in the shadow it casts over him, you can barely see his face. The only indication that he is the guy you’re looking for is his question.

“How can I help you, officer?”  

“The mayor sent me. I’m here to protect you, sir.”

He’s clearly taken aback by this information because the door widens a fraction as he lets go of the knob. “Protect… me?”

“Yes, sir. There’s mass rioting going on in other parts of the district, so we need to secure your home right away.”  

He doesn’t respond immediately; you can hear the click of the knob as he turns it — once, twice, thrice. Finally, he sighs again, heavier this time.  

“I’m sorry for making you come all the way here, but you need to leave.”  

It’s your turn to be taken aback now, but you don’t express this feeling as silently; you sputter a little, whatever composure you had slipping off a bit more. “But — sir, my orders were to —“  

“I don’t need your protection,” he says more firmly now. “Good day to you, officer.”  

You can’t even imagine how thunderstruck your expression is when he shuts the door right in your face.  

a lesson on style - v . [ ljn | njm ]

pt. i, pt. ii, pt. iii, pt. iv.,  pt. v, pt. vi

you’ve always been content with being associated with one word and one word only: average. average in looks, academics and social skills, you’re just looking to graduate high school without causing disasters you’ll have to live with until you kick the bucket. when you’re paired with school king lee jeno for the semester-long physics thesis, you can’t help but think the entire situation has pretty much set itself up for failure. that is, until you strike a deal with your partner. alternatively: an au tale involving lessons in popularity, eleven consecutive B­ minuses, a secretly sensitive, chess­-loving jock, and an amateur sex tape.

pairing: jeno x fem!reader, jaemin x fem!reader    verse: high school au { jocks!nomin ft. a super cute whiny ap physics genius renjun }  rating: M for sexual themes ( there are allusions to sex but no explicit smut! ) chapter warnings: none!  word count: 10.9k

author’s note: is this twice as long as any other chapter? yes. do i believe it might be twice as devastating? also yes. side note, i sincerely hate proofreading and the thing i hate the most is trying to figure out where i applied italics and stuff because it doesn’t transfer over from google docs to this gosh darn tumblr text editor and i refuse to use the weird beta one so if anyone has any ideas on how to retain it please lmk :^(

tagging: @justalildumpling, @spiderrenjunfics

It’s a yes or no question, you tell yourself. It’s literally one answer, one word — yes or no. And you don’t even have to second-guess it, because you know the truth, and it’s not a complicated one. It shouldn’t be that difficult to answer.  With Jeno looking at you, though, you feel a little off-kilter, as per usual. Still, even with his gaze on you, you think that your response should be as normal, calm, and truthful as possible.

What comes out of you is a derisive laugh that clearly shocks the both of you.

“Wh — dating you — I wouldn’t — that’s preposterous,” you splutter out, gripping your laptop so tightly that you actually hear the bottom of I make a soft sound as the metal tightens. You’ve never used the word preposterous in any real life conversation, and it’s clear Jeno hasn’t heard it in a similar context either because he looks at you weird.  

“I mean, I’m not saying I’m mad about it,” he goes on. “I’m just wondering why he’d say that, unless you said something.”

“He — I — he — he’s crazy. All smart people are loopy,” you laugh again, and it sounds even grosser this time, with your voice going up really high and breathy like you’re being strangled to death. Which, come to think of it, you’re pretty much doing to yourself, figuratively. “That had no basis whatsoever. I would — I would never. Ever.”

“Never… date me?” His eyebrows shoot up so high they almost touch his hairline.

“Yes! I mean — no, no! I mean, I would definitely not say that we were dating when we’re obviously—” you laugh derisively again, which just causes Jeno to look even more confused. “We are clearly, obviously, clearly not. Not dating.”

“Obviously,” he repeats simply.

“Yes. That’s… I mean, obviously, I would date you, like in the hypothetical way, because… I mean, why not? but we — you know. We’re not. Dating. Definitely not.” Your heart rate, thankfully, is starting to decline from the thousand beats per second it had been going in; Jeno’s eyebrows are also calming down. “Right?”

“Right,” he confirms slowly.

“Right. So. I didn’t say we were to him. Or anyone. Nothing.”

“Oh, okay,” he finally says after a moment of silence. “That was just… plain out of the blue, then.”

“Totally,” you agree wholeheartedly. “So, so weird.”  

“Okay,” he shifts his position now, turning more deliberately towards you; you instinctively grip your laptop tighter, pressing it harder against your stomach. The bottom corners dig in, and in your peripheral vision, you can see that you’ve been pressing the A key down for so long that you have an AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA in your chat box with Renjun and he’s typed out a very concerned and confused WHAT IS TAKING YOU SO LONG TO TYPE. You move your thumb away from the keypad. “Sorry for the sudden question. I just wanted to clarify because, you know, I don’t want anyone else to think we are yet, or anything. And I definitely don’t want Huang Renjun attacking me for the wrong things, considering his track record.”

Your heart suddenly skids to a stop at the yet. He’d said it so offhandedly you were sure he wasn’t giving it much thought, but to you, this kind of felt like one of those weird, fever-induced dreams you had, except it seemed to be going fairly well as long as you didn’t factor in just how much you’d blubbered just now.  

“Um. Right,” is all you can say.

“That being said,” he jams his hat back onto his head, which is ludicrous considering he’s inside, but it just makes him look cuter, and you’ve never minded that. “Thanks for saying you’d date me. Hypothetically.”

“Oh — that. Right. You’re welcome,” you reply, and you desperately want to ask if he’d also hypothetically date you, but you sort of also don’t really want to know the answer. In the moment that it takes for you to tell your brain to quiet down, he claps his hands, startling you a little.

“All right. So. Project. Proposal. Graduating.” He points to your laptop, and you nod vehemently, shifting it against your stomach a little to make sure he doesn’t see the chat box with Renjun. “Let’s get to it, then.”

You hurriedly exit your internet browser and open a blank Word document. It kicks off slowly, with you taking a good fifteen minutes to format the title page because you’re not sure which citation style to use and also because you can’t stop thinking about the previous conversation, which causes you to misspell both your names wrongly. Luckily, Jeno doesn’t say anything, even though he clearly sees your blunders; the fact that he is clearly attempting to be interested (or pretending really well to be) in getting things done allows you to pick up a slightly more comfortable pace of discussion later on. He even agrees to do a lot of the supposed heavy lifting in the experimentation phase, which involves playing musical instruments, and you volunteer to do the mathematical work, which is the only thing you think you’ll be able to do in that part of the experiment anyway.  

Everyone in your house is up at this time, so it gets increasingly louder as the hours move on. There’s some kind of intermittent yelling coming from your brothers’ room that could either be Jiho gaming or Jiho getting strangled, but no one seems too alarmed apart from Jeno, who learns to let it go once you tell him that your other brother is in there with him and is probably the one strangling him, if the latter scenario is true. Either way, your dad comes out, banging on their room door to keep it down, which adds to more of the noise pollution.

Sooyeon also makes it down later than everyone else, dressed but still clearly out of sorts, stopping mid-yawn when she sees you and Jeno sitting together as you’re trying to drag out an explanation of what the significance of the study is.

“Oh. Good morning,” she sidles over to you, sitting on the arm of the couch next to you to peek over your shoulder at your laptop; you know she’s not really interested in your work, but her inherent nosiness makes her acting so natural. “What are you guys working on?”

“Physics term project.”

“Oh, right. You mentioned you guys were partners. How’s it going?”

“It’s going… well. Fine.” You bend your laptop’s monitor down halfway so she stops looking.

“Oh, I know you,” Jeno suddenly snaps his fingers, pointing his finger at her. Your sister looks up, beaming. “You’re on the cheerleading team. I’ve been trying to figure out who you look like since last year,” he turns to you, amused. “Can’t believe it took me this long. Small world. Hey, how come you’re not on the cheerleading team?”

“Because she wouldn’t give up Weightlifting Fairy Kim Bok Joo for late-night cheer practice,” your sister reasons out for you before you can find a cooler (and less honest) excuse. “Hey, dad’s taking me to the mall. Do you need anything? We’re also picking up lunch, so Jeno oppa, if you’re staying for lunch, the cuisine choice is all yours.”

“Raincheck,” you deflate at Jeno’s response. “I’m supposed to be having lunch with my sister. Thanks for the offer, though.”

“Can you get me a new USB drive?” You weigh in. “And not the crappy Daiso kind.”

“Okay. Text me so I don’t forget. Not now,” Sooyeon pushes down your hand before you can pick up your phone. “Wait ten minutes, then text me. Hey, dad, can we get tangsuyuk today?”

Your dad is by the door, two brothers in tow, having probably convinced them to leave the house as well, and Sooyeon joins them, pushing them all out hurriedly. You don’t miss the fact that she winks at you just before closing the door, and you resist waving her away.

“You… have a really big family.” Jeno finally speaks up again once you’re alone.

“Yeah. Sorry. It would have been worse if my mom were here. She might have tried to adopt you.”

“Jaemin’s mom technically has first dibs,” he lifts a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes a little aggressively. “Do you think we can call time of death on this for today? My eyes are falling out of my skull.”

“Sure; I can finish up the conclusion anyway. It’s just… repeating everything we said, but really fast. I’ll just e-mail you a copy for safety.” You save the document as he nods, working your trackpad so you can open your NAVER mail account and attach the file. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, suddenly feeling like an idiot. “Uh… sorry, but I just realized I don’t have your e-mail address.”

“Oh. Yeah,” he reaches out, and you retract your hands quickly, planting them firmly onto your lap. He starts typing away, pressing send and turning the laptop back to you with a satisfied groan. “Cool. So — serious question. Why aren’t you on the cheerleading team if your sister is?”

“Well, I was going to come up with a great excuse, but since I got ratted out — I don’t really like staying in school late. Plus, they practice on rainy days, which is not my thing.”

“I mean, we do too on the football team, and it’s usually fine. It’s weird; do you not dance? Or… I don’t know, cheer, or whatever?”

“I mean, I don’t fail PE, or anything. I just… never had the interest.” You admit, shutting down your laptop.

“I could talk to Jimin — you know, the captain? We’re pretty close.” He pauses, then adds an afterthought. “She’s dating one of the other guys on my team.”

“Who?”

“I’ve told you about Jisung, right? That enormous tree of a guy with the small face?”

“Kind of weird for a guy as tall as you to call a similarly tall guy a tree…” you trail off, and he laughs — laughs! Score for your unintended humor. “But yeah, I’ve seen him around.”

“Yeah, so they’re a thing. Anyway, what was I sayi — oh, yeah. If you want me to talk to her, give you a shot at it, I think she’d be open to it. You don’t have to be a gymnast or anything, I’m pretty sure.”

“That’s a really nice gesture, but I’ll pass.”

Jeno sighs, leaning back onto the couch and lifting one of his legs to cross it casually over his knee. He looks at you disapprovingly, which is a little terrifying until you realize he’s feigning it because his lips are curling up a little. So cute. “Come on, _______________. Okay — lesson number one.”

“What?” You’re at a loss, and you don’t bother hiding it this time. “Lesson?”

“I told you I’d help you get more popular, right?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think we were having lectures and quizzes.”

“No quizzes,” he corrects you. “Lectures, very brief. Five minutes tops. I have no time to grade anything.”

“Well let me just—” you grab your phone, trying to navigate to the voice memos app, but he takes it from you and plants it back onto the table. You note how his fingers brush yours briefly, leaving you frozen, your hand still shaped around a phone that isn’t in your grasp anymore.

“No need to record anything. Note taking is for nerds. Just listen to me. Be in the moment. Absorb it,” he instructs. “First lesson in being popular: don’t turn down things that will make you more popular.”

“Okay, that one was fairly obv — what are you doing?”  

“I’m texting,” he really is, unlocking his phone and scrolling through his contacts before he starts tapping away on his phone screen. “I told you; I’m sure Jimin will be more than happy to —“

“Wait — okay, stop, stop,” it’s your turn to seize his phone from him, but you don’t do so very smoothly, and it ends up falling midway from him to you, wedging itself into a crack in your couch cushions. Jeno doesn’t really seem like he minds in particular, but he does offhandedly reprimand you for it.

“You’re being a horrible student.”

“I’m not — look, no, thank you for… you know, going the extra mile to ask for me,” you fish his phone out of the couch, making sure to exit the messaging app. “But I can’t join the cheerleading team.”

“Why not? It’ll make you infinitely cooler. Is it because your sister’s on it? Because we can get her kicked out if you really want —“

“Wh— no, I don’t want my sister kicked out!” You raise your voice in tandem with your palm, and he desists, a little surprised at how loud you’ve gotten. “I’m just saying that it’s the last semester of high school. There’s no point in me joining. I won’t even last a full year on that team.”

Jeno falls silent, suddenly struck by the logic in your words. “Huh. I guess you’re right. I didn’t think about that.”

Now that you feel like it’s kind of safe, you perch his phone back onto his thigh, and he takes it, slipping it between his legs without a second thought. You try hard not to think about how his phone may have brushed against his… never mind.

“So I… you know, I appreciate what you wanted to do for me. Really; it was… extremely cool of you,” you say with utmost sincerity. “But as a plan, I feel like… there might be better ones.”

“That’s true,” he agrees. “But the lesson still stands. The things I recommend that you do, I really feel like you should do them.”

“I promise this’ll be the last time I reject your suggestions.”

“Cool. Well — we just have to think about what else we could do to help you get up that ladder.” He looks up at your ceiling, a little wistful, and you feel so useless that you just busy yourself with shutting your laptop down. This sudden silence drags on until he snaps your fingers and you start, turning your attention back to him. “Oh, I know. You can come to this party I’m throwing next week.”

“You’re throwing a party?”

“Yeah. I just thought about doing it. Like, right now.”

This time, you don’t even have to try to push away the idea that he’d just thought to throw a party for you; a surge of unpleasant memories arises to do the job. The last party you’d been to was back in middle school, and it had ended with you skidding across the floor because someone had puked on it. You were only lucky that the extremely furious parents who actually owned the house and didn’t know that there would be a party in their living room had caught you before you’d broken something of theirs.

You remember Jeno had been there. He was in a different section at that time, and you’d never spoken with him; in fact, you’re fairly certain you hadn’t known his name back then. But even so, he was still the coolest kid in attendance. Everyone liked that kid that was extremely tall and good-looking and also knew how to play the electric piano.

“That’s… cool.” You inhale a little reluctantly, and Jeno cottons on, looking at you warily. “It’s just… you know. Parties. They get messy. People get drunk. Puke. Make out.”

“Yeah. That’s what they’re for.”

“Not really my scene. Especially the puking part.”

“Oh god, I remember I was at this party once in middle school. Some kid had puked in the middle of the living room and some other poor chick had slipped on it. Hilarious.”

“Ha,” you feign laughter, and it sounds disgustingly dry. “Hilarious, yeah. Can’t remember that happening, but I’m sure that was super funny.”

“Come on. It’ll be fine. Besides, you said you wouldn’t reject any of the other stuff I recommended.” He tilts his head like he’s asking, but his face is pretty resolute. You wring your hands together, and he notices. “If I promise to make a no-puke rule, will you go?”

You know he’s doing this because he’s fulfilling a part of the bargain; it’s really more of an obligation to him than anything else, and that much is clear. Still, the way he talks, the way that he presses the subject makes it really easy to trick yourself into thinking he actually, really, really wants you there, which creates this huge, almost terrifying and overwhelming wave of elation that muddles you into agreement.

“Okay. I’ll go.” He smiles at your response, and the feeling in your chest just swells to a new height; it’s almost like he’s happy you’re going, or you can at least delude yourself into thinking that much.

“Awesome. I’ll let you know about the details, although it’ll probably be at Jaemin’s.”

You point to the opposite side of your house, in the general direction of your neighbor’s lot. “That Jaemin?”

“The one and only.”

“I guess it’s cool if I don’t have to look for a ride.”

“You can still hop into my car. Make a grand entrance. People will love that.”

“That’s okay,” you laugh again, but this time, it sounds genuine, to your relief. “But is Jaemin going to be okay with it? His parents?”

“Yeah, it’ll be fine. They all love me,” he chuckles. “Jaemin won’t say no, anyway. It’s not like we can have it at my place.”

“Why… not?” You suddenly get flashbacks of Jaemin calling you nosy, but you shake him and his loud laugh off once Jeno starts talking.

“Too small. Not good for entertaining. You guys would probably have to eat dinner in my bedroom.” He says lightly, jamming his cap back onto his head just as his phone starts ringing, a light blinking from in between his thighs. He looks down at his phone briefly before turning his attention back to his cap, making sure his bangs aren’t flattened by the rim. “That’s my sister. I’m supposed to pick her up from work. I have to get going, but hey — I’ll see you next week?”

“Yeah, definitely,” you stand with him, and he grabs his backpack before patting his pockets to make sure if he has everything valuable to him. You walk him to the door, opening it for him, and he steps out into your driveway, walking towards his car. You stand by the doorway, hugging your laptop. The assumption is that he’s just going to drive off, but he turns around as he opens the driver’s side door, pointing a finger at you like he’s just remembered something. You freeze in place, once again squishing your laptop close to you so hard that it makes a noise.

“You should probably text your sister about that USB drive, by the way.” he reminds you with a small smile before folding his enormous body and climbing into the car.

You don’t even have the opportunity to say anything because he’s shut the door behind him. Through the tinted glass, you see one pale palm move; it takes you a second to realize he’s waving at you. Your hand instantly shoots up, waving back at him as he pulls out of the driveway and back into the road.  

You wait for his car to zoom out of sight before you close the door, red in the face and ready to explode with joy.

Lee Donghyuck gives you back your proposals with a smile on his face near the end of the next physics class. Technically, he smiles like that all the time because he’s required to, but his grin looks a lot more genuine as he approaches you with your proposal, which Jeno takes from him.

“Cool topic,” he even comments, pointing a finger to the huge B-minus on top of the paper that’s circled in red ink. “You guys need to work a little on the content development, though, but it’s just the proposal. If you guys work even harder on other requirements, you’ll ace it.”

You seriously don’t think he expects you to actually ace anything, but you appreciate the quick pep talk, especially since Jeno actually looks impressed.

“I would have never thought I would have gotten a B-minus in anything for this class,” he whistles under his breath. You smile at him, not bothering to add the fact that B-minus isn’t as breathtaking of an achievement. Still, you think that if you can push each other — and also maybe Renjun into helping you out here and there — you might at least secure him a slot into the graduating class.  

You’ve gotten used to parting ways with everyone else in the class to have lunch together with Renjun, and even on days when Physics classes fall before lunch, you only linger a minute longer than usual to accord Jeno the traditional gaze of longing that he doesn’t notice before dashing off. This time, though, as you’re gathering your books and making to leave, Jeno stands up with you, slinging his bag over his shoulder.  

And there they are — the words you’ve always wanted to hear from him. Well, some of them.

“Want to walk to the cafeteria together?”

You look around to make sure he’s not calling out to anyone else, which becomes clear once you realize the only other person who’s left behind is Lee Donghyuck, and he doesn’t even turn at the sound of Jeno’s voice.

“Really?” You can’t even mask the elation in your voice, which just spikes when you see the corners of Jeno’s lips turn up slightly in amusement. “Yeah — yeah, okay.”

No one actually looks at you while you walk next to him in the cafeteria; the probability is that his height eclipses yours so much that you don’t even look that noticeable, and neither of you is causing a scene, which is always a great bonus. You have to take two steps for every one of his, but you also notice that he’s taking a much slower pace than usual, which can only mean that he’s making sure you can keep up.

You spot Renjun at your usual table, reading Lee Ho Cheol’s Panmunjeom anthology, which he’d posted about on his Facebook status over the weekend. The feeling of being able to like his statuses again was fairly nice, and you’d given it the little heart reaction. On instinct, your feet carry you towards him until you feel a warm hand wrap around your forearm. It covers more than half of that part of your arm, so it can’t be anyone’s but Jeno’s, and you look up in total shock as he stares down at you with equally strong confusion.

“Where are you going?” He asks, genuinely perplexed.

“What… are you doing…” you breathe out, feeling a little faint. He doesn’t notice that you look like you’re close to drooling on him since he’s starting to steer you away from Renjun. “What…”

“Table’s this way,” he says plainly, like this should be obvious to you. You can see that he’s headed towards where he normally sits, which is already filled with people, laughing loudly and talking over one another. You jerk your head back to Renjun, who has noticed you now and is watching you with an unreadable expression over the top of his book, half of his face hidden.

“Um — yeah, but I just thought —“

“Okay, so second lesson — don’t write this down,” he stops you from reaching into your pocket to bring out a pen. “If you want to be popular, you need to make sure you surround yourself with equally popular people.”

“Are these rules stuff you just sort of make up on the go, or…?”

He gives you an amused and patronizing look. “Obviously.”

“Okay — okay, but can’t Renjun sit with us?”

“He can if he’s not just going to ignore everyone by reading his book. Or if he’s not going to make any mean comments about anyone.”

You open your mouth, ready to promise he’s not going to, but you’re struck by the realization that he might just sit there and finish Panmunjeom without even saying hello. Even if he didn’t, you can’t guarantee that Renjun will be pleasant around everyone being noisy all at once about things he doesn’t really care about. Being pleasant around one person — Jeno — is already kind of a herculean task for him.  

“Yeah, okay, fine. But can’t I at least tell him I’m sitting here?”

Jeno slowly releases your hand, nodding. You try not to make it too obvious that you’re disappointed at how quickly that moment of contact had come and gone. “Yeah, okay. I’ll get my food and save you a seat, then.”

You wait for him to walk towards the cafeteria line, noticing that a couple of freshmen give way so he can go first; you can tell he smiles at them because they giggle as he walks by and grabs a tray. Making a beeline for Renjun, you also see that he suddenly lifts his book higher to cover his face, probably to hide the fact that he hasn’t flipped a page since.

“Hey,” you say, and he puts the book down, looking disgustingly innocent in his fake surprise.

“Hey. When did you get here?”

“Just now,” you slip into the chair across from him. “What’s for lunch?”

“Something they say is bulgogi but might be yesterday’s fake steaks cut into really thin pieces.”

“Okay, cool,” you don’t even look at the bowl when he tilts it your way so you can see. “Anyway, um, I really hope you don’t mind, but Jeno asked me to sit with him today for lunch.”

“Oh.” Renjun takes a bit of bulgogi on his fork, examining it with feigned interest before popping it into his mouth, chewing slowly. “I see.”

“It’s just for today. I promise. Are you — is that okay?”

He studies your expectant face, thumb brushing over the spine of his book. Your fingers are knotted on the table like you’re praying.

“Yeah, it’s okay,” he finally concedes. “I said I’d support you… so… this is me. Supporting. You. The both of you. If that’s already a thing.”

“It’s not, but you’re the best,” you reach out, giving his hand a squeeze. He mutters something that sounds like I know, taking his hand back and using it to shut his book.  

“But we’re still going to see Love and Thunder  this Saturday, right?” He confirms.  

“Ye— oh, wait,” his expression darkens considerably when you backtrack, looking a little sheepish. “I think I might have something to do over the weekend, so I can’t really make any promises right now.”

“Dude, seriously? It’s the movie of the year. What could be more important than three hours of Marvel hero ass-kicking?”

“Well, it’s just,” you drum your fingers against the table, trying to think of a less direct way to phrase such a basic statement. You come up with nothing, so you just come clean. “There’s a party…”

“You hate parties,” Renjun replies immediately. “You’ve haven’t been to one since middle school.”

“I know that, but —“

“Do you? Does it make sense that you know that you hate parties but are thinking of going to one anyway?”

“Well — you know. Jeno invited me.”

Renjun makes a slightly sour face, but it isn’t directed at you; he’s looking at Jeno, probably, seated a little way away. You turn to look apologetically at him, but you notice that he’s already looking your way, his eyes narrowed in effort like he’s trying to read your lips from this distance but can’t.

“What if something bad happens? Parties aren’t exactly the safest, cleanest, least traumatic events in the world,” Renjun points out. “You could turn someone’s house into a puke slip ’n slide again.”

“Or,” you raise a finger. “Is this the party I could go to so that I can forget about that event that happened ages ago and, thus, free myself from that trauma?”

“Thus? What is happening to you?” He shakes his head, fingers coming up to knead at his brow. “But — so no Love and Thunder?”  

“We can go the day after.”

“You’re not going to be too hungover?”

“No, of course not. Besides, it’s going to be at Jaemin’s house. If it gets too much, I can just walk home.” You can see he’s softening at the mention of it being in a nearby location and not in like, some abandoned warehouse. “Plus, you can come. You know, we can have fun together. Just… eat, dance a little, mingle. It’ll be fine.”

“Am I allowed to come?”

“Of course,” you don’t know if there’s a guest list, or anything, but Renjun seems to get along with most people in your level as long as their names don’t start with a J and end with a eno. “Please? We can even walk there together.”

“It’s like twenty steps from your house, so it’s really not the appealing case you think you’re making.” He sighs. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. And we can watch Love and Thunder the next day. But I’m holding you to that.”  

“Awesome,” your heart feels infinitely lighter, and Renjun even gives you a half-hearted grin. “Great — so, I’ll just — you know —“ you point towards Jeno’s table; Renjun nods slowly, picking up his book again.

“Yes, yes. Go on,” he shoos you away, once again pretending to grow immersed in his book, even though you know he’s snorting to himself when you give him an excited thumbs up before leaving the table.

You even feel like there’s a small skip to your step when you walk to the line, and the grin never leaves your lips as you get your tray and pile what really does look like fake bulgogi on your plate; the cafeteria lady is surprised by your expression, considering you’re surrounded by generally somber ones, and she mistakes your smile as you being excited to eat the food and tells you to take more. Somehow, you’re in such a good mood that you do, which earns some alarmed stares from the people behind you.

The conversation is in full swing when you approach Jeno’s table, and your heart jumps a little when you’ve noticed that he’s kept his word and saved a seat for you — right beside him, no less. His food is half-finished, and he’s talking to Park Jisung about what sounds like some massive multiplayer online shooting game, but he stops when you sit down.

“You guys don’t know _______________, right?” He addresses the whole table; a whole set of eyes lands on you suddenly as his voice rings louder than everyone else’s. “She’s my physics project partner.”

“Of course we know her,” the girl to Jisung’s right, Jimin, pipes up. “We don’t live under a rock, and we’re almost all in the same year, dumbass.”

“I was just announcing it for Jisung’s and Minjeong’s sakes,” Jeno fires back easily. “Who, by the way, aren’t in the same year level.”

“Well, address them specifically next time,” she laughs. “Hey, _____________.”

“Hello,” despite your excitement, your voice comes out way smaller than normal, and it even cracks, which causes you to clear your throat, a feat that mysteriously causes most people to laugh.  

“I know Jimin noona is dazzling to everyone,” Jisung says. “But just for the record, she’s taken. By me. Obviously.”

You stare at him, a little dumbfounded, as Jeno tosses a wilted leaf of lettuce at his face. It doesn’t even make it to the halfway point of the gap the table makes between them. Jisung sticks out his tongue childishly.

“Anyways, I told you guys earlier that we were having a party, this weekend, right?” He points at Jaemin, who, until now, has been quietly wrapping his bulgogi into his lettuce and stuffing them whole into his mouth. “Your house, dude.”

Jaemin rolls his eyes good-naturedly, still in the middle of chewing his food, but he takes one big gulp to respond. “Did you even ask me?”

“Does he ever?” Jisung contributes, amused. “Jeno hyung, why can’t we ever have parties at your place? Jaemin hyung’s house has like ten million pictures of his family that we might break.”  

“Okay, fine; my house. You guys better pull food weight this time, though,” Jaemin agrees suddenly, like he hadn’t been indignant a moment ago. Jeno looks satisfied with this response, not bothering to answer Jisung’s question, which is a little weird; you’d assumed that everyone he was close to also knew of the reason why he never held any events at his house considering the answer he’d given you when you’d asked the same thing had been so simplistic. You don’t take the time to dwell on this, however, since Jeno speaks up.

“I’ll bring the drinks,” he volunteers before adding, “Ice included, Jisung.” The latter makes a face at him, and everyone laughs again, and you presume it’s some inside joke. You smile for a second before you realize it probably seems disingenuous.

It’s weird, you think, that they’re so comfortable around each other, even with their seemingly different personalities. It had always just been you and Renjun, which suited you just fine, but it’s also robbed you of the opportunity to figure out how to interact in a much larger, more outgoing crowd, which is a missed opportunity you’re feeling the effects of now. People start piping up about what they’re going to bring, with Jisung getting a small smack upside the head from Jimin after he volunteers (again, apparently) to bring utensils and “himself, which is gift enough.”

“What should I bring?” You whisper to Jeno.

“Nothing,” he sounds surprisingly sincere and reassuring, not to mention he matches the volume of your voice somehow, making it seem like you’re having your own private conversation. “Just come and have fun.”

“Okay,” you half-wheeze, and he smiles down at you before rejoining the conversation, responding immediately when Jaemin speaks up.

“This time, you guys seriously need to stay away from my bedroom. And my brother’s. And my parents’. Actually, what I’m really saying is that you people need to unlearn how to use stairs.”

“You’re really going to deny your room any action?” Jeno fires back easily.

“I don’t want to go to sleep on a bed someone else made out on,” Jaemin sighs, in a heavy way that somehow causes you to think he’s probably been through it more than once before.

“No one just makes out on a bed.”

“We’re in school, Jeno. You know what I mean.”

“We’ve made out on a bed,” Jisung wiggles a finger between himself and Jimin, who tells him to shut up, something he does almost immediately, even if he and Jeno exchange a high five that creates a sound so loud you’re surprised there’s no physical aftershock.

“________________, Minjeong and I were going to go to the mall on Saturday morning,” Jimin calls your attention underneath Jeno and Jisung’s long arms. “Want to come with? We can have lunch together, too.”

“Oh — yeah, sure,” you agree, and she smiles so brightly and sweetly at you that you blush. Jisung was right about the dazzling thing, then.

“Cool. Text me your address and we can come pick you up.”

You spend the rest of your lunch mostly listening and learning about these people, and you’re somewhat thankful they don’t put you in the hot seat and just interrogate you about yourself. You find out that Minjeong’s trying to get her driver’s license soon, and Jisung had actually been interested in joining an entertainment company as an idol trainee before he’d found out that they confiscate your phone for years, something that ended up being a dealbreaker for him. You learn that Jimin is applying for a English Comparative Literature undergraduate degree in Seoul National University, which Jisung says is inexplicably both “the hottest and the most boring thing about her.”  

The weirdest thing you learn about this band of friends comes up when Jaemin suddenly stands, saying goodbye to everyone hurriedly before rushing off with his plate. No one finds this weird except you, so you bring it up.

“Oh, Jaemin hyung is on the chess team. He has practice during lunch once a week,” Jisung informs you when you ask.

“He’s on the what?” You glance at Jaemin, who’s walking out of the cafeteria at a brisk pace.

“The chess team,” he repeats without any further explanation. You look at Jeno, who shrugs at you.

“Yeah, he likes that stuff. Everyone in our year is a big nerd.”

“Except you and me,” you add, and his lips turn up again, seemingly pleased with your statement. There it is again — your heart flipping over and screaming wildly.  

“Exactly. Except you and me.”

You don’t actually expect Jimin to follow through with her shopping invite, but she actually ends up texting you on Saturday morning instead of the other way around, asking for your address again after saying that she’d gotten your number from Jeno. You’re so out of sorts when they arrive not ten minutes later that you actually have to double back for your wallet and your phone.  

Jimin has almost always been in a separate section from you in school, while Minjeong is a whole year below you, and they’re also extremely close, so you’d never really gotten the chance to know them, and your expectation is that this excursion is going to be an awkward and pitiful event. They end up being really nice, though, and Minjeong even asks you about your physics project with a tone of genuine interest, commenting about how Jeno is exceptionally good at playing the guitar. You also naturally assume that they’re going to just mill around the boutique area for clothes, but Jimin actually drags you around to some electronics shops to look for a gaming headset for Jisung, and Minjeong goes to three different pet stores to look for the right dog food.  

“You should have tried out for the cheerleading team,” Jimin says when the three of you have settled down at the food court with bowls of bibimbap. Minjeong wordlessly picks out the carrots from her bowl and dumps them in Jimin’s, who doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “We’re a little under the member quota right now. No one likes risking their lives on human pyramids anymore.”

“I can’t imagine why,” you say, and Jimin laughs.

“Seriously. It wouldn’t hurt for you to try. Besides, even if it’s the last semester, we could really use some extra members. Right, Minjeong?”  

Minjeong looks up at you, her egg dangling between her chopsticks.

“Do you want my egg, _____________?”

“Sure,” you reply, amused. She quickly lays the egg on top of your own, even going so far as to arrange them neatly so that their yolks are aligned. “Are you allergic to something?”

“She’s a picky eater.” Jimin explains, using her spoon to squash her egg’s yolk.

“I have a refined palate,” Minjeong corrects her, fishing out a stray piece of carrot and placing it in Jimin’s bowl.

“You eat like a baby.”

“Baby food is pretty good.” Minjeong admits. “The banana-flavored ones are nice.”  

“Gross,” Jimin laughs. “This is exactly why you and Jaemin broke up.”

“You and Jaemin dated?” You raise your eyebrows. Minjeong nods, mixing her rice methodically with her spoon. “What happened?”  

“He got tired of ordering banana-flavored baby food for her,” Jimin quips.

“Will you shut up? Anyway — yeah, we dated last year, really briefly. We just didn’t work out. I did some work for my dad over the weekends back then, so we just never got the chance to go on actual dates. We said we were going to take a break or something, revisit the dating thing when we were less busy, but we just kind of left it in the past, and we started seeing other people.”

“You started seeing other people, you mean,” Jimin corrects her. Minjeong nods, thoughtfully mixing her rice before taking a slow bite.  

“Yeah. Besides, it just sort of felt like a relationship of convenience. Like, we were both there, we were both single, so we tried it. It was okay while it lasted. We’re still friends.”

“But I’ve already heard about Minjeong’s boring love life six hundred times,” Jimin points her spoon at you, a grain of rice flying at high speed in your direction. “Oops, sorry. So what’s going on with you and Jeno?”  

“Oh,” you have to swallow your own spoonful of bibimbap hard because your throat has suddenly constricted. “Nothing’s going on with us. We’re just partners. And… friends?”  

“You’re not dating?”

“Not in the slightest.” Your mind flips back to when Jeno had said he didn’t want people getting the wrong idea about the both of you. Yet. Whatever that meant. “No way.”  

“Oh,” Jimin looks weirdly disappointed. “I thought you were, since he suddenly started asking about who you were seeing. We thought it was a trick question, like we were supposed to answer ‘him.’”  

“But you like him,” Minjeong says it like it’s not a question but a factual statement, which it is, but you still take a while to respond, feeling put on the spot suddenly.  

“I mean… he’s nice.”  

“And cute,” Jimin adds.  

“And cute,” you agree. She smiles triumphantly, as if this is some kind of game she’s winning. “But… nothing’s going on.”  

“Well, Jeno doesn’t date often. I mean, he goes out with girls. But I don’t think he’s been in a relationship for a while,” Minjeong adds thoughtfully. “Maybe he’s starting to think about getting serious with someone?”

“I don’t know.” You like the idea of it, but realistically speaking, it’s not like you two were that close. Then again, you also weren’t sure about how close any two people should be to start thinking about dating each other. It’s not like there’s some kind of rule book. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Coy answer,” Jimin sounds approving. “Definitely a sign that something’s going on.”

“Wh— no, I mean, I’m not sure about… you know, we don’t really talk—“

“You don’t really have to,” Jimin winks, and the seaweed pieces in your bibimbap suddenly get very interesting, even though you know the two of them are exchanging looks.  

They drop you back home after lunch, waving goodbye (with Jimin screaming out a see you later!) as they drive off, and you’re so exhausted from the walking and the fact that you’d had to carry Minjeong’s bags of premium dog food back to her car that you fall asleep the moment your body hits your bed. You wake up with a considerable amount of drool on your pillow and three missed calls from Renjun.  

“Not that it’s a big deal,” Renjun says when you call him back. “But I don’t know what to wear to parties.”

“I don’t think it’s a black tie event,” you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Just wear something casual? Cool? I don’t know either. Also, when did you suddenly start caring about how you looked at parties?”  

“You make it sound like I’ve never tried beforehand.”

“Your signature style is graphic tee and jeans, so…” There’s a loud noise on his end of the call and you hear him mumble a swear word. “What happened?”  

“The closet rod fell,” he whines. “Also, graphic tee and jeans are Jeno’s signature style too. He even had ripped jeans, which make him look more homeless than I do.”  

“Jeno’s jeans are artistically ripped,” you correct him. “Yours are ripped because your dog tries to eat them when they’re hanging out to dry.”

“And you don’t know if Jeno’s own dog has ripped his jeans artistically,” you can hear him struggling with the metal rod, and his voice becomes more and more muffled as you assume that his phone is sinking deeper into his neck as he holds it between his shoulder and ear. “I’ll call you back. Or — you know what, I’ll just be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Make it twenty, I’m still half-asleep.” You hang up and press your face into your pillow, falling back asleep until Renjun arrives within the promised twenty minute time span, chastising you for your lack of punctuality the entire time you sluggishly change your clothes. The only helpful thing he does is call your sister in to help you fix your hair, which she does enthusiastically as you yawn at your reflection and Renjun criticizes your poor scheduling even further while he plays online minesweeper on your laptop.  

“So we only stay for an hour, hour and a half max, right?” He confirms as you walk towards Jaemin’s house. The door is open, and there are people outside, already deep in conversation.  

“Right,” you agree. You don’t hold the fact that Renjun wants to leave quickly against him; for some reason, being around this many people is making you a little queasy, and you don’t know what people do in parties apart from truth or dare. Unfortunately, no one seems to be sitting in a circle around a spinning bottle when you enter; instead, all the furniture has been cleared out for a table that has food piled onto it, and the coffee table is stacked high with paper cups and drinks. Mark Lee and Jaemin are by the ice bucket, and the latter notices you first, waving at you.  

“Hey, ______________, Renjun. You guys made it,” Jaemin pushes a cup of what looks like Hwanta at you, taking Mark’s cup of soda as well and handing it to Renjun. “No traffic, I hope?”  

“Just the same old pile-up. It takes really long to get here, you know,” you smile, and he laughs easily.  

“So your parents are okay listening to trashy music from upstairs?” Renjun asks, looking around for any sign of parents.  

“No, they’re out for dinner with friends, and my brother stays in a dorm in college, so they’re not affected that much.” Jaemin looks like he’s about to say something else, but something beyond the two of you catches his eye and he mumbles an I’ll be right back before speeding off, disappearing into the crowd. Mark is pouring himself a new cup of soda, throwing Renjun a wounded look when he isn’t looking. You decide to strike up a conversation instead of watching him wait for Renjun to apologize for the technically stolen drink.  

“So has this been going on for a while, or…?”  

“No, it’s been maybe half an hour, or something. Oh, I think Jimin was looking for you. She’s somewhere—” He points around the room, clearly unsure. “Somewhere around here. I’m sure you’ll bump into her later. She and Jisung are probably groping each other in the garden or something.”  

“Since when did Yoo Jimin start dating Park Jisung?”  

“Since they sat next to each other on the KTX to Daegu over the break. You should ask Jisung about the make-out session that steamed up economy car A. He says seats 13 A and B still smell like her perfume and his cologne mixed together.”  

“Ew,” Renjun comments, and Mark makes a noise of agreement.  

You’re only half-paying attention to their disgust about Jisung and Jimin’s history of desecrating public spaces since you’ve spotted Jeno, who’s watching a group of juniors play what you assume is beer pong. You keep thinking about going over to him and saying hi, but you can’t seem to figure out when the right time is. Also, your nerves get the best of you, so you just stand beside Renjun as he starts a weird bonding experience with Mark Lee.  

Luckily, you don’t have to do anything at the end of the day; Jeno suddenly notices you, pushing himself off the window he’s been leaning against and walking over. You grab Renjun’s arm by instinct, and he lets out a sharp ow as you squeeze him. He manages to shake you off just before Jeno stops in front of you.

“_______________,” he looks pleased. “You made it. And… you brought Renjun with you.”

“Hey,” Renjun says flatly, handing his half-drunk cup of soda back to Mark, who takes it with a dumbfounded look on his face. “I think I see Donghyuck, so I’m gonna go say hi.”

He slips away before you can say anything, but Jeno doesn’t even look perturbed; he glances at Mark, who meets his eye then suddenly turns to walk off, and you hear him asking someone where the trash bag is.  

“So, are you enjoying?”  

“I just got here, but it seems great,” you try to sound enthusiastic even if you’re shouting a little over the new song that’s started playing. “Music’s a bit loud though.”  

“Makes awkward pauses less awkward,” he says sagely, and you can’t help but think there’s some logical inconsistency in that, but you just shrug it off, nodding up at him. “Did you get to try the pizza?”

“Not yet; why, did you make it with your own two hands, or something?”

“No,” he shrugs, grinning. “But I ordered it with my own voice.”  

You laugh as he does, but the sounds get drowned out by EXID’s Up and Down playing at full blast. He makes a motion, but you don’t catch on, so he just takes your wrist and leads you through a throng of people back to the beer pong game. Upon closer inspection, you see that the liquid inside is a lot darker than you expected.  

“It’s just cola,” Jeno explains. “We were thinking of buying beer, but most people here can’t drink anyway, so it would have been a waste of money.”  

“Smart,” you comment sincerely, watching the two guys on the opposite ends of the table consistently miss their targets. “So you just have to get the ball in the cups? And then what?”  

“The other person drinks. Hey, Jaehyun,” he calls out to one of the guys playing, who looks up and consequently gets hit in the cheek by a flying ping pong all. “Show _____________ how to play.”  

“She can just take Taeyong’s place; he sucks anyway.” This comment elicits a rude gesture from the other boy, and you notice they’re both wearing similar jackets with a logo you can’t really place but looks suspiciously official.  

“You both suck. Let her take a turn; I’m gonna go ask Jaemin if he has more ice or if we need to make a run.”  

Jeno places his hand on your back, leading you forward; the guy named Taeyong reluctantly steps aside as Jeno walks away, greeting some guy that looks familiar but who you also can’t place in your memory as he passes by.  

As it turns out, you’re not half-bad at beer pong; you manage to get Jaehyun to drink four cups of cola, which has him burping all over the place and begging for a break for his stomach. The party is in full swing now, but this is the part that starts to feel uncomfortable, and you excuse yourself from the game with the promise that you’ll play with the two of them again once you’re all of legal drinking age.  

The garden is no better when you exit; there are people in groups that you know you won’t be able to squeeze yourself into. You do actually see Jimin after a moment of scoping, but her limbs are intertwined with Jisung’s in the mini gazebo, and you don’t really want to interrupt, so you just head back inside.

The music is extremely grating now, and you’ve eaten two slices of pizza and downed at least three glasses of different kinds of soda, so you also feel a little bloated and sleepy. Jeno hasn’t resurfaced either over the last hour or so, and you think it’s high time Renjun must be antsy to get home. The problem is that you can’t find him in the living room or the kitchen; you actually knock on the bathroom after gathering up some courage, but the female voice that answers that it’s occupied makes all that effort go down the drain.  

You trust Renjun wouldn’t leave without telling you, but you’re also not sure why he would be missing for this much time. The fact that you’re just standing by the food table while people pass by, say non-committal hellos, and leave with pizza slices in hand makes it even more uncomfortable. In the end, you decide to text Renjun to meet you back at your house and weave through the crowd to get to the door.  

There are still people outside, and while some are leaving, others are also talking or flirting, and you notice that these are more people that seem familiar but unfamiliar all at once. They all look a little older, too; a couple of guys are all wearing sweaters with the same obnoxiously large logo you’d seen on Taeyong and Jaehyun’s jackets, and it dawns on you that these people must be from the university level, hanging at a party away from younger kids. You scan the grass for Renjun, but you don’t see him anywhere either.  

What you do see is Jeno standing extremely close to a girl who’s wearing a similar university sweater. He has one hand around a cup, but his other hand is sandwiched between the girl’s palms. You can’t really discern his expression, but his brows look knitted, and his mouth, while open, doesn’t seem to be moving.  

You feel like you’ve seen this scene before, back at the dance where you had snapped upon seeing Lee Gyuwon and Jeno together, leaving poor Chenle behind. You’d only recently learned to laugh about that situation, so this one comes as both a painful reminder and an unfortunate addition of scenarios that made you extremely uncomfortable. You have to placate yourself with the reminder they just seem to be talking, even if they are standing really close to each other; nothing is actually happening, save for the fact that you can sometimes see Jeno’s hand gripping the cup in his hand a little tighter now and again.  

All of this just goes out the door when the girl leans in, pressing a hand to his chest, and kisses him.  

A voice inside your head tells you it’s frankly masochistic to keep staring at two people kissing when you like one of them, but you just stand there, rooted to the spot, watching the girl wrap an arm around Jeno’s neck. He pulls away after a while, and his mouth starts moving really quickly. His eyes dart around, like he’s watching for something, until they land on you, and his lips stop mid-speech. The scene gets blurrier, and you think you’re going to pass out for a second until you realize you’re just crying a little.  

Soft fingers wrap around your forearm, pulling you away gently. You think it might be Renjun, who’s finally found you after all that hullabaloo, but when you regain some sense, your attention focuses on Jaemin, who’s leading you back to your house. He’s doing so wordlessly, without even looking at you, and the noise of the party fades into an easily ignorable buzz once you reach your driveway. He stops you right at your front door, pausing a little before facing you with a small smile.  

The part of you that hates yourself the most tempts you to look back, to see if you can still glimpse Jeno from this far away; your head actually starts to turn, but Jaemin reacts quicker, trapping your face between his palms and keeping your head steadily towards him. His smile grows a little, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and his teeth don’t show like they usually do.  

“Hey. Just look at me first, okay?”  

“Um,” is the only thing you can say considering you’re not sure if he’s doing this randomly or for some unknown reason.  

“Your hair’s kind of a mess, you know that? Did you get in a fight, or something?”  

“No, I was just… you know, there were a lot of people, so I probably bumped into a few of them,” your voice sounds distant, but you’re glad to hear that it still works and that you can form something of a coherent sentence. Jaemin laughs softly.  

“Yeah, it did get kind of crowded back there.” He starts to gently put strands of hair back into place, but it’s clear he has no clue what he’s doing because he sighs and drops his hands to your shoulders after a minute. “Anyway, you seemed a little out of it, so I thought you might want to go home for a quick break. If you want to go back, though, we can.”  

“No,” you say quickly. “I was… actually just looking for Renjun. So we could leave quietly.”  

“Well, usually, if you’re leaving a party, you’re supposed to tell the host,” he chuckles softly. “But since I dragged you here, I guess it doesn’t apply.”  

You want to laugh, but all your body seems to want to do is produce tears; you can’t even understand why you want to cry, considering you and Jeno aren’t dating, and he’d made that extremely clear. You suppose that it had just seemed like all the events were leading up to you getting together, although you may have just been reading between the lines when you weren’t supposed to thanks to your endless bounty of personal delusion.  

Either way, you didn’t want to cry about it — especially not in front of his best friend, who probably thinks it’s pathetic enough that you’re hopelessly deluded. You inhale in an attempt to calm yourself down, but all it does it signal your body into letting out a soft sob. Jaemin doesn’t move, and his expression hardly changes, save for the fact that the smile is back to its unnaturally small state. He actually looks like he’s… sad? That doesn’t seem right, though; maybe it’s really more like he pities you, which you can’t even blame him for.  

Still, he gently raises his right hand again; this time, instead of attempting to fix your hair, he gently places his palm against your head. Then lifts it. Then places it back down again. Soon, you’re standing in your driveway, crying silently while the guy from next door is awkwardly patting your hair like you’re a wounded puppy. It doesn’t last more than five minutes, but it’s still a fairly embarrassing period of time, and you wipe at your eyes aggressively while he retracts his hand.  

“Kind of stupid, huh?” Your voice is thick and ugly. “Crying after a party.”  

“Crying after a party, yeah. Crying after seeing someone you like kiss someone else? Not stupid at all.”  

“So I didn’t hallucinate?” You sigh, hiccuping yourself into a slightly calmer state.

“No, unfortunately. I mean, Jeno is — anyway, it’s not really any of my business, I guess. Do you want me to look for Renjun back at my house, or something?”  

“No, it’s fine. I texted him that I was going home anyway, so he can just come find me when he sees it, I guess.” You feel like your voice is childishly sullen, and Jaemin must think so too, because his smile grows again, like he wants to laugh. “But… thanks for walking me home.”

“I almost dragged you home.”

“But I used my two feet,” you crack a smile, wiping away a stray tear that’s just fallen from your eyelashes. “So I still technically walked.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” he agrees.

You both stand in front of your door, not moving; you’re not making eye contact either, but it doesn’t feel too uncomfortable. There are a ton of things you want to ask him, but all of your questions seem either too upsetting or too invasive, so you just stay quiet until Jaemin looks up again, focusing on something past your head.  

You turn to find Jeno approaching, and his eyes are flickering between you and Jaemin. His hands ball into fists for a second, like he’s steeling himself.  

Jaemin’s voice seems different when he talks again, and he’s not looking at you when he speaks. “I should get back home. See you, _______________.”

He brushes past Jeno, not looking back as he returns to the party. Jeno watches him go, making sure Jaemin’s past your property line before turning back to you.  

“You left so quickly,” is how he opens the conversation.  

“Oh. Yeah, it just got crowded. I lost Renjun, and I couldn’t eat anything more,” you explain lamely. “Sorry. I guess I should have told you.”  

“No, it’s — that’s totally fine. I just… I guess you really didn’t have a good time.”  

“I did; no, I totally did.” Up until a few minutes ago, you want to add, but there’s no way you would. Jeno nods, not really looking like he’s fairly interested in how much you enjoyed the party. “I found out I’m… pretty good beer pong, so that probably bumped my cool points, right?”  

“She’s my ex-girlfriend,” he suddenly blurts out, skewing the conversation’s falsely casual atmosphere drastically towards a topic you were desperate to avoid. You stand in silence, fairly stunned, and Jeno looks like he’s about to burst completely, his words coming out a little too fast because he wants to say so much. “She used to go to our school. A year older. We broke up during her last year; she said she didn’t want anyone from her past tying her down in college. I mean — we — she — we were over. It was fine. But she showed up tonight, I guess since she heard from Jaemin’s brother that there was a party… I didn’t know. She never told me. We just — I guess she thought we could get back together, so we talked, and she kissed me. But we’re not. Back together, that is.”  

“Uh,” you say, once again at a loss for words. “Okay.”  

“It didn’t mean anything,” he starts to slow down, looking a little relieved that he’s gotten the crux of the story off his chest. “She was a little drunk before she got here. It was just a spur of the moment — no, sorry. It was just a mistake. That’s it.”  

“It’s… I mean, it’s… it’s fine?” It’s not, you know, but you don’t know what else to say considering it’s supposed to be fine to you. “She’s your ex-girlfriend. You’re bound to still have feelings for each other. Also—”

“We don’t,” he interrupts you. “We don’t have feelings for each other. I mean, I don’t. For her.”

“Okay, but I also don’t know why you’re telling me all of this.”  

“Because. Because I know you saw us outside.”  

“I did,” you admit, still feeling the uncomfortable pang of distress at recalling the sight. It seems to be triggering your fight or flight instinct because you’re taking slow steps back, but Jeno is just moving forward with you too. Even when you run out of space to step, he’s still advancing, eyes focused on you, like he’s watching for your expression. “And it’s your right to make out with your ex-girlfriend. It doesn’t have anything to do with me.”  

“Doesn’t it?”  

“Does it?” You’re thoroughly confused now, and it looks like Jeno is too. “We’re just friends, aren’t we? We’re not really even that. My opinion on your relationships doesn’t really… matter.”  

“It does though. It does to me.”  

You fall silent, dumbfounded; your mind can’t decide on which feeling to focus on first, so you just stand there looking stupid. Jeno is standing really close to you now, and you can actually smell the fabric conditioner on his hoodie and the cologne that’s fading off from his skin. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“You like me.”  

It’s not asked like a question, but he pauses like he’s waiting for you to respond. You’re too close to him to feel comfortable enough to lie and deny, plus the situation seems so intense that the thought of doing something wrong doesn’t even cross your mind. You nod, and he doesn’t even look the least bit surprised.

“I’m telling you all of this because I know you like me. Because I don’t want you to misunderstand something like that.”  

“It doesn’t matter, though,” your voice is also soft, less because you’re trying to be quiet and more because if you speak up, you’re afraid you might start crying again. “You don’t have to explain something like that to someone who likes you just because they like you. It shouldn’t be a concern.”  

“But I want to,” he says firmly. “I want to make sure you know — I’m really not with that girl. What happened back there — it didn’t mean anything.”  

“But why?”  

He reaches out, and the action feels eerily similar to Jaemin’s; his fingers idly toy with loose strands of hair, but it doesn’t feel laden with the motive of comforting. Instead, his hand skims down the side of your face gently, stopping just below your jaw. You wonder if he’s noticed you’ve stopped breathing, but if he has, he doesn’t make it obvious. His thumb extends away from his hand, lightly tracing the height of your cheekbone.  

“Because I don’t want something like this to push you away from me,” he murmurs. “Because I want you to like me. Just me.”  

last night on earth - ii . | kdy

part i, part iii

you soon find out that there are more dangerous things than the flesh-eating undead during a nationwide implosion.

pairing: doyoung x reader verse: zombie apocalypse au rating: M for horror themes only ! genre/s: romance, horror/suspense warnings: brief but still present mentions of and sometimes depictions of violence, mentions of and possible character death, language word count: 5.5k  

author’s note: interestingly while i was at work the other day i found my original 10 chapter + epilogue plan for this so i guess past!me was kind of a real one 

The next five minutes involve the tedious process of you gaping at the door while you attempt to come to terms with what had just happened, your jaw opening and closing like you’re a goldfish; you trying to ring the doorbell again and talk through the microphone even though you know it isn’t on; and giving up on that entirely and rapping on the door, your knuckles growing redder with each knock.

“Kim Doyoung-ssi. Kim Doyoung-ssi?” You call out in increasing levels of volume and intensity. “I think we’ve had a little bit of a misunderstanding. Can you — could you please open the door? Kim Doyoung-ssi?”  

Your knocking grows weaker as time passes, mostly because your fist is starting to experience some kind of burning sensation that can’t mean anything good; you can also tell that this pain is in vain and that your current tactic is totally ineffective considering you’re still not getting a response.  

From the corner of your eye, you see an open window, just over the well in the garden. You end up calling his name, face tilted towards the window in the hope that he can hear you better. Nothing happens, save for the curtain blowing a little in the wind. Even standing on the stool next to the well doesn’t give you any kind of clue as to where he is, so after a few more minutes of futilely calling out to him, you just march back to the front door.  

“I know you can hear me in there, Kim Doyoung-ssi!” You finally reach the breaking point of your patience, which had already been worn down by two trips across town and your having witnessed a full on inexplicable cannibal attack. “I’m staying right here!”  

You toss your bag to the side and slump down onto the marble patio, your back finally getting some damn relief when you lean back against the cold, varnished wood of his big doors. There’s nothing else for you to do apart from play games on your phone, so you pull it out to see a couple of texts from Youngho.  

[ incoming ] 영호- just got to gangnamdaero. kim jungwoo makes his brother look like a beggar looool [ incoming ] 영호- what’s going on w/ u

you make an incensed noise and type back your reply so angrily you think your screen might crack.  

[ outgoing ] asshole won’t let me into his house!!!!!!

The more you think about it, the more your irritation grows; you can’t see a reason why he wouldn’t want some extra security. Was his entire property booby trapped, or something? What made him so complacent? And who turns down extra security that’s being offered to you for free? The only explanation you can come up for it is that he’s somehow convinced he doesn’t need your protection or doesn’t think you can do a good job of providing it for him, which just opens up another can of worms. South Korea isn’t really well-known for letting women take up civil protection positions. This is all just guesswork, of course, but even considering that he might think you’re not qualified to be his — as Youngho would put it — babysitter because you’re a girl is really riling you up.

Your phone trills again, signaling a new message from Youngho.

[ incoming ] 영호 - what do you mean he won’t let you in

[ outgoing ] i mean i’m just sitting out here after he shut the door in my face

[ incoming ] 영호 - does he know you’re a police officer? maybe he thinks ur just trying to get into his pockets [ incoming ] 영호 - or his pants lol jk just ring the doorbell again and tell him the mayor sent you [ incoming ] 영호 - kim jungwoo has an indoor pool

[ outgoing ] can you not text so smugly

[ incoming ] 영호 - i’m trying but he did just say i could use it whenever so it’s kind of hard

[ outgoing ] so much for protecting him

[ incoming ] 영호 - nothing’s going on here. It’s all clear. maybe the whole crisis is over? kind of like seasonal flu

[ outgoing ] you just want to go swimming

[ incoming ] 영호 - yeah i REALLY do ttyl gonna do a perimeter check

So much for Youngho criticizing all the rich people. You look up at the doorbell, wondering if you should try ringing it again, but the thought of doing so somehow makes you feel itchy on the inside. In the end, you decide to follow in Youngho’s footsteps and do a perimeter check, except you sort of feel like an intruder trying to figure out the right way to break into Kim Doyoung’s house. He has a pretty wide backyard with a substantially diverse bed of flowers, but there’s nothing much special here; it’s more typical “city-rich boy that spends more time outside” than outright ostentatious and lavish — at least, in comparison to what Youngho must be seeing, considering he’s already found an indoor pool. You count his windows, and none of them are open save the one, so it’s either he has a centralized air-conditioning system or he’s suffering in stuffiness because he just doesn’t want you inside. The latter possibility makes you feel a little better.

All in all, you note nothing out of the ordinary; you circle back to the front door in about ten minutes. You only note a couple of high-risk things: first, his house has a number of large windows that are latch-based, which means that anyone with decent knowledge on tools and how basic mechanisms work can probably break into his house, but he must have some kind of alarm system, considering how loaded he is. Second, and more importantly, a couple of rooms in his house are more glass than any other kind of material; while more of a natural disaster risk than anything else, you can’t rule out the fact that a mass attack on this place might use those rooms as an entry point. Heck, a couple of well-aimed bullets and those rooms become part of his backyard.  

You’re technically supposed to report all of this to him, but it’s not like you can at this point, so you just sit back down and take out your phone again. Youngho must be having the time of his life with a guy willing to give him a roof over his head for the night and a dip in his cool indoor pool while you have to figure out how you’re going to sleep on your clothes and use them tomorrow morning. You think about asking him to come pick you up or something or to at least tell Kim Jungwoo to talk some sense into his brother, but both of those options sound childish, which is why you end up putting them aside and just playing stupid match-three games.

The sun is more than halfway down when you get tired of playing; the street is still as quiet as it had been when you’d arrived, save for the crickets, but the slowly growing darkness makes the silence seem so much more sinister. You’re torn between ringing the doorbell again just to beg or running over to a convenience store to get some extra underwear and some beef jerky for the night when your phone rings, almost scaring you into screaming. It isn’t Youngho, like you’d initially assumed; it’s the deputy chief.  

“Corporal Seo told me you’re having some issues.” He sounds exasperated, like he can’t believe he still has to supervise you even until this point.  

“Um,” you can’t keep the sheepishness out of your voice. “A… little.”

“A little? I hope you’re not wasting anyone’s time here.”

“Kim Doyoung-ssi isn’t… keen on being protected. He sent me away.”

“God. Don’t tell me you actually left,” he groans.  

“No — I’m just out here.” You reply lamely. “At his front door.”

“Well, good. Stay there if you have to. I’ll tell someone to come check on you and bring you any necessities once we have a warm body to spare, but it’s not looking likely. We’re getting non-stop reports of escalation in Seollung and Samseong. Yeongdong-daero is practically a war zone now. More dead than alive there. We’re not dealing with anything normal here, so you need to be on your toes at all times.”

“Sir — what do you mean, not anything normal?”

“That attack you and Corporal Seo mentioned this afternoon? It’s not an isolated case. More and more people are turning rabid, like they’re sick and they’re infecting others by attacking them.” He pauses, and you’re sure it’s not for dramatic effect, but it still ends up dramatic when he continues. “They’re indiscriminate, vicious, and fast. There’s no easy way to gun them down. And the people they kill? They don’t stay dead for very long, either.”

“Then what do we do?”

“Are you a religious woman, corporal?”

“Not particularly.”

“Might want to start picking up a Bible if you have the time.” His consequent chuckle is dark, half-hearted, and leaves you more disturbed than amused. “Keep steady at your post. We’ll update you when we can get a man out there. In the meantime, make sure nothing happens to Kim Doyoung-nim.”  

You hang up with the feeling that you would have preferred it if Youngho had called, even if it were just to gloat about floating around in a nice, safe indoor pool. With a groan, you lean your head back against the door, watching the last of the sun dip down beneath the horizon. Somewhere on the second floor, a room is lit, and the light provides you with the minimal comfort that you’re, at least, not entirely alone.  

Seconds morph into minutes, and the minutes blend into the long stretch of an hour; you shift positions here and there, trying to not let your feet fall asleep in case you have to get up quickly, but, so far, your left leg is refusing to cooperate. At one point, you hear rustling near the hedges, and you have to deal with trying to get off your ass without putting too much weight on your foot, but it turns out to be a false alarm halfway through when a stray cat peers out, gives you a tiny glare, and stalks off to bother someone else’s trash.  

A little over an hour passes, which leads you to start thinking about long-term options, but even that train of thought is totally derailed by the fact that you really want to get cleaned up. You’re weighing how much of your dignity you’ll have left if you use the well as your last-resort shower stall when the door suddenly opens; you jackknife off it just in time to avoid falling backward onto Kim Doyoung’s feet.  

“You’re still here.” He observes softly, watching you scramble up and silence your phone, which had just been obnoxiously playing music at the highest volume. “Why?”  

“Like I said, I’m staying right here. My job is to protect you, so I’m doing just that.”  

“And you’re doing this to the grating tune of Sunmi’s Siren?”

“Well, I —“ you have to stop yourself from defending your musical tastes, but in the time it takes you to switch from an indignant mindset to a more professional one, he cuts you off again.  

“I’m not comfortable with a stranger sitting outside my front door overnight. And, like I said, I don’t need your protection. You would be doing us both a favor if you just went home, officer.”  

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that,” you say, inwardly pleased that your voice has regained a lot more of the firmness you need to make your point. “The mayor asked the police department to watch over you and your brother. This is me, acting on an order.”

“If you’re meant to be my bodyguard —”

“I’m not your bodyguard,” you bristle. Something like amusement passes across his face.

“If you’re meant to be protecting me, then you’re, in a sense, contractually bound to me. That means that I’m currently first in the line of authority. Just think of this as me… retracting the contract early.”  

“That’s really not how this works.”  

“Have a good night, officer,” he makes to shut the door again, but your irritation from the absurdity of the situation as well as your desperation to sit on a surface that isn’t just marble floor causes you to stick your foot in the doorway, effectively stopping it from closing all the way. Kim Doyoung looks down at it in some surprise.  

“Kim Doyoung-ssi, I don’t think you understand. The entirety of Seoul is on lockdown. There are people randomly killing other people with their bare hands in the street. These people — they’re turning into monsters that can’t be killed. I don’t know if this is a blow to your pride, but if I were offered protection from something like this, I’d take it gladly.”

“I know what’s going on,” he frowns. “I’ve been watching the news. And it doesn’t look like you’d be able to stop anything from coming after me, so why risk it?”

Your lips press into a thin line. “If you’re so bothered by it, then I can call the department and ask them to send their first free male officer to your house as soon as possible. But for now, you’re just going to have to deal with me.”

“What — no,” he has the audacity to laugh, and even in the cloud of annoyance that surrounds you, you notice that it’s a laugh that doesn’t really suit him. Guys tend to laugh loudly, without restraint, and oftentimes, sort of… ugly. Not this guy — the chuckle he creates is all teeth and soft sounds, sort of like he’s holding himself back. “It’s not because you’re a woman. I’m sure you’re just as capable as anyone else. I just don’t see the point in added security. That just means one more person dying because of me.”

“Like I said,” you repeat the phrase that’s sort of becoming trademark in this interaction. “It’s my job. We’re supposed to be putting our lives on the line for civilians — which, I think, include you.”  

“So you’re okay with that? Dying because of a stranger?”

“Dying because I’m doing what I have to — what I love to? That doesn’t sound bad to me, Kim Doyoung-ssi.”

“That’s very noble of you, officer,” his consequent smile isn’t as genuine as his laugh; it hardly reaches his eyes. “But I’m not keen on watching someone else die for me and living with the guilt that comes after that. I already have a lot on my plate as it is.”  

“Well, that just means I’ll have to do everything I can to keep us both alive, right?”  

Silence blossoms between the two of you; his fingers are rolling the doorknob idly, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Finally, he lets out a characteristically heavy sigh and opens the door a little wider.  

“I’m not comfortable with you staying outside, so you can stay tonight. I’ll call the mayor tomorrow and talk to him about duty relief for you.”  

You catch yourself just before you make a noise of relief and hurry to pick up what little you’ve brought. He’s already halfway inside when you straighten up, but he’s left the door open for you, so you quietly make your way in, shutting and locking the door behind you.  

“Living room, kitchen, study, bathroom, den,” he points to each room nonchalantly. You can hear noise coming from somewhere upstairs — probably a television opened to the news. “But you already knew that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Or was I wrong in assuming that you weren’t figuring it out when you were snooping around my house?”

“Wha —hold on, I was doing a perimeter check,” You say defensively. “I didn’t make a detailed map.”  

There it is again — that suppressed ghost of a laugh that comes one second and is completely gone the next. “Just trying to lighten the mood a little.”  

“My sense of humor isn’t that sharp.”  

“I can tell,” he turns away from you, making his way up the stairs before stopping halfway, raising an arm to point to the door closest to the landing. “This is my room. Feel free to use any other guest room tonight. Oh — except for the one furthest down the hall.” The puzzled look on your face probably gives away the fact that you’re thinking he must be full of ugly or kinky secrets, and while you don’t verbalize any of these thoughts, his response suggests that he read your expression accurately. “It’s my girlfriend’s room. She has a lot of valuable stuff there, and she prefers it when they’re left untouched; she’s really particular about that.”

“Is your girlfriend on the premises?”  

“Not now, no. She only stays occasionally, when work brings her into Seoul. Most of the time, she lives with her family in Daegu.”  

“Oh. I see.” You have no idea what to say to this, and he doesn’t invite any more conversation either, so you spend another minute staring at each other before you lamely announce, “I’ll… be checking the perimeter, then.”

“I thought you already did that.” He’s amused again.

“I meant — security systems. Here. Inside. Reinforcement planning.”

“Reinforcement?”

“Your glass rooms are just begging to be shattered.” You explain.  

“Poor architectural choices back when I first bought this place. But I’m assuming you’re not planning to nail bits of wood to them.”

“No, but I can see if we can install some kind of frontline barrier outside them. Do you have a CCTV system?”

“Not at the moment.” You stop yourself from asking what kind of rich guy doesn’t have a security system, but you once again assume he’s already anticipated that question through his follow-up statement. “Up until very recently, this has been a very safe neighborhood. No anomalies, no strange people hanging around my property until today.”  

“I did find an intruder cat a while ago,” you take a stab at being funny. That weak little smile creeps back onto his face.  

“I wasn’t talking about the cats.”  

Even though you’re supposed to put security first, you end up just idly milling around the glass room previously identified as the den — which is about the size of your apartment, probably — thinking of how much you want to shampoo your hair and how much you would actually kill to have some corn cheese from the nearest GS25. The moment you hear Kim Doyoung’s bedroom door close, you hurry up the stairs. It only takes you one other try to find a guest room (the first attempt being a pretty sizable bathroom) and five minutes to rid yourself of your sticky uniform and hop into the shower.  

You come out feeling like a decent human being again about fifteen minutes later, and your mood takes a pretty big spike upwards for about two seconds, up until your singular set of clothes reminds you that you’re really only here for one night, and you have no clue how you’re going to explain being relieved of the one job you were promoted for not even 24 hours in. You’re toweling your hair dry in an increasingly aggravated manner when your phone starts blaring again, and it’s actually Youngho this time.  

“Turn the video on,” he says, inappropriately gleeful. “I want to see you roughing it outside.”  

“I’m inside, you dick,” you snap, rejecting his request to switch to video twice. “Don’t you have a job to do?”  

“Yeah, and it’s going really well, thanks for asking. How’d you get him to let you in?”

“I didn’t really. He just sort of gave up on keeping me out. He says he’s going to call the mayor tomorrow and ask him to retract the order.” You pause before finally letting your anxiety get the best of you. “You don’t think I’m going to get demoted for this, right?”

“I doubt it,” Youngho, for the most part, actually sounds genuine. “It’s not like it’s your fault that Kim Doyoung-ssi is all about doing things himself. Worst case scenario is that you’ll get reassigned to some other similarly stuffy, rich, and ancient guy.”

“He’s, like, our age.”

“I know. You’re missing my point entirely. Just stop worrying.”  

“Yeah, you’re right,” you sigh, tossing the wet towel into the hamper. You’ve forgotten your comb, so you just wing it and go out of your room, haphazardly running your fingers through your hair to tame it to a degree. “So have you had any problems on your end?”

“Not at all. It’s way quiet here. Actually, I’m pretty sure half the people in this neighborhood don’t care that there’s something going on outside. There was a couple hosting a barbecue on their front lawn an hour ago. You?”  

“Nope, all clear here, so far.” The television sounds are louder this time, and they’re no longer coming from Kim Doyoung’s bedroom; they’re coming from the living room now, and the volume is up to full blast. You peek over the banister, but the owner of the house isn’t on any of the couches. “Just an empty street, the same way we found it.”

“I hope that means we can leave soon.”

“Yeah, because you’re having such a difficult time with Kim Jungwoo-ssi’s swimming pool there.”

“He’s got table football here,” he sounds pleased again. “And my guest room has a TV bigger than any of the walls in my apartment.”

“The shower in my room has nice water pressure,” you argue, taking slow steps down the stairs. “Also, I feel like you’re not really doing your job that well.”

“That’s very hurtful, and I’d like to bring this up during partner therapy next week.”

“I’ll let you, if we actually make it through the week.” You finally reach the bottom of the stairs. Youngho’s wheeze of a laugh brings a tiny, tired smile to your face.

“That’s very optimistic of you.” You’re about to bite back when you hear a brief clatter and a weak groan coming from the kitchen. Alarmed, you don’t even bother to hang up on Youngho; he’s still talking about the view of the city from his really big window while you hurry to the source of the noise. You don’t have your gun on hand, so you make do by grabbing an umbrella from the rack by the front door and rushing into the kitchen, holding it aloft.

You almost whack Kim Doyoung with his own umbrella, but you luckily stop yourself before it comes to that. There’s a metal spatula on the floor, and right next to it is a pan on its side, resting on the front of his oven and a half-cooked egg spilling out from its edge, the yolk slowly crawling towards your feet.  

“I’m… going to call you back,” you tell Youngho, who’s still babbling about how great Kim Jungwoo(’s house) is when you hang up.  

“The handle was hotter than I expected.” Kim Doyoung sounds abashed. For some reason, this makes him look… less intimidatingly closed-off and a little more personable. “I should have gotten a towel, or something.”

“Or an oven mitt,” you agree, tugging at the hand towel hanging on the refrigerator handle and picking up the pan. He watches you a little helplessly before deciding he’s being kind of useless and picking up the spatula, using it to edge the pan slowly into the kitchen sink. You both take handfuls of tissue to wipe off the mess of egg on the floor, but all you seem to be doing is spreading it around a little more, so you end up going for a quick solution method and pouring isopropyl alcohol onto it and letting a new batch of tissues soak it up.  

“I don’t want to sound like I’m telling you how to do your job,” he starts slowly. “But don’t cops usually have guns?”

“I was improvising,” you hide the umbrella behind your back. “I left my gun upstairs, and I thought you might have been in trouble.”

“Oh. In that case, I’m sorry for worrying you.”  

“I also don’t want to sound like I’m telling you how to do your job, especially because I, quite frankly, don’t even really understand what that is,” you toss the egg-wet tissues into the bin. “But wouldn’t someone who cooks with a pan that has a metal handle know that they have to hold their pans with protection?”  

“I don’t cook in this house,” he looks a little sheepish now. “I never have.”

“Personal chef, then?”

“No. I just eat out. All the time.”  

“So this huge kitchen space with its fancy appliances is basically your girlfriend’s territory only.“

“Actually, it just came with the house. No one really uses it. Well, until I tried to right now.”  

It dawns on you that the embarrassment shining through his face might be the product of him botching a meal he was trying to cook for you. It’s almost laughable, but you think it’s way too mean to even smile, considering the gesture was pretty polite, although the results were disastrous in themselves. “Let’s… try not to break the tradition of you not using your kitchen tonight. Did you really want an egg for dinner, or was that just a spur of the moment choice?”

“It was more of a that’s the only thing I have in my fridge choice,” he chuckles softly.  

“I guess it would be good to stock up on everything tomorrow if we — you, I mean — are going to be holing up here for the foreseeable future.” You try not to sound too bitter about having a deadline for when you have to leave, even if it kind of hurts your pride, but Kim Doyoung’s face morphs into something apologetic as he slowly rinses the pan and the spatula. “I can do that before I leave. It’d be better if you didn’t leave your house, just to be safe.”  

“How will you get to the grocery, though?”  

“I’ll ask someone to give me a ride.”  

“The person you were on the phone with?” He dries the pan off and sets it on the induction stove again. “Was that your boyfriend?”

“Oh — no, that was my partner. He’s with your brother right now, actually.”  

“I see.” He pauses like he’s weighing out his options before asking, "How is my brother? Is he doing okay?”  

“From what my partner told me, he’s fine. More than fine, actually. Youngho’s been enjoying your brother’s house since he got there.”  

He lets out a soft breath that could probably pass off as a laugh. “That’s good, I guess.”  

You don’t want to entertain an off-handed answer with anything to open another short-lived conversation, so you just go to the refrigerator, opening it to find, as expected, nothing more than a carton of eggs, some pomegranate juice, and a chocolate bar with a ribbon on it. You survey the rest of the kitchen for any indication of rice, but you can’t even see a rice cooker, so you decide you should just double up on the eggs.  

“I’m sorry,” he ends up creating his own conversation starter as you nudge the eggs around with the spatula. “For putting even this on you.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you’re sincere about this, and you hope it translates in your tone. “They’re just eggs. And I guess making sure we don’t starve to death is kind of like protection in a way.”

“All the same, thank you, officer.”  

“You’re welcome, Kim Doyoung-ssi. And it’s just ______________. Officer makes it sound like I’m arresting you.”

“Then it’s just Doyoung. Kim Doyoung-ssi makes it sound like you work for me.”

“According to you, don’t I?” His laugh is muffled as he ducks down to get two plates. You use the spatula to stab a haphazard half-line between the eggs, and you tip a serving onto each plate, which he then brings to the kitchen table. “Since you don’t cook, maybe it would be better if I got you some pre-packed food.”  

“Like?”

“Like ramyun. Or chicken wraps. Or those soup packets where all you do is add water.”  

“I’m sure I’ll find a way to not do that well, but the other things sound good,” he concedes. “I haven’t had ramyun in ten years, at the least.”  

“It’s good when you add egg to it. Or you can add kimchi. We should probably get you that, too.”

“I think that should be first priority,” he agrees, stabbing into his eggs; he inhales them to consume, like they’re noodles, which is an admittedly amusing sight. “Considering that’s the lifeblood of every Korean.”

“That, and rice, which you don’t seem to have in here.”  

“I don’t cook, remember? I can’t even remember the last time I used a rice cooker on my own.”

“Well, if you have one, I could teach you before I leave.”  

“That… would be appreciated,” he says slowly, starting to look uncomfortable as he slows down his eating.

“Um — are they not cooked well?” You ask, worried.  

“No, it’s not that. It’s just — I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to leave just because —“  

A loud banging interrupts him, and you both turn your attention to the living room. Doyoung is halfway up from his seat when you shoot up as well, holding out a hand to stop him from going to get the door. He, in turn, gives your umbrella a nervous and unconvinced look as you pick it up and head for the front door.  

It’s not even polite knocking; it’s the sound of someone’s fist assaulting the (very nice) wood of the front door — fast, heavy, and alarming. The closer you get to it, the clearer the voices behind it become.  

“Open up!” The words are slightly muffled, but there’s no mistaking the frantic tone. “Open up, please! Is anyone home? Hello? Someone, please — anyone, please let us in!”

Your hand is on the doorknob before you can think, but something stops you just before you turn it. Keeping Kim Doyoung safe is the highest priority right now, and opening his home up to strangers isn’t exactly at the top of the “what keeps people out of trouble” list. Even if the people behind this door are desperate, you wonder if, with everything that might be going on outside, you should be taking risks like this.  

Your fears are only solidified when the pounding on the door gets louder and more aggressive, punctuating troubling words. “Help us! Please, open the door — they’re coming after us, please!”  

You let go of the doorknob, watching it rattle for a second with the intensity of the knocking, before you move your hand to the deadbolt, fumbling with the little weight on the anchor. You’ve just about slipped it into place when Doyoung’s voice stops you.

“What the hell are you doing?” He demands; there’s no trace of quiet in his words now, and it’s so unlike how he’s been talking to you that it actually causes you to freeze. “Let them in!”

You throw him a look that you sincerely hope suggests how indignant you feel that he’s so willing to let random people in his house when you’d sat waiting for hours outside. “We can’t let people in here that you don’t know. That’s a cardinal rule in keeping you out of harm’s way.”

“They said they need help,” he presses. “Let them in.”

“Kim Doyoung-ssi,” you grit your teeth. “I don’t think you understand —“

“They said something’s after them. They could die out there. Are you going to have that kind of blood on both of our hands?”

The yells on the other side of the door are becoming somewhat incoherent; there’s probably at least two people out there, considering the rate at which the knocks are coming. Your fingers tighten on the deadbolt as you stare at Doyoung, whose expression is unwavering.

“Let them in, officer.”  

A sharp hit to the door breaks you out of your momentary trance, and you groan in frustration as you tug the deadbolt back and yank the door open.

Three bodies collapse onto the floor; you have to step out of the way as the tangle of limbs and heads scrambles into the living room. One guy is pretty much out cold, with another tugging him by the shoulders deeper into the house. The other gets to his feet, trying to get his bearings before fixing his eyes on you.

“Close the door, close the fucking door —“ He yells, panicked. “Hurry, close it!”

You don’t even get a good look at what’s beyond the foyer before your instincts just tell you to slam the door shut; you finally put the deadbolt in place. Another body slams into the wood, but this time, no words follow.

Only vicious snarls, chillingly familiar, come from the other side of the door. 

last night on earth - iii . | kdy

part i, part ii

you soon find out that there are more dangerous things than the flesh-eating undead during a nationwide implosion.

pairing: doyoung x reader verse: zombie apocalypse au rating: M for horror themes only ! genre/s: romance, horror/suspense warnings: brief but still present mentions of and sometimes depictions of violence, mentions of and possible character death, language word count: 7.6k  

author’s note: been a hot minute since i’ve done anything on this blog thanks to real life issues but A PERFECT UPDATE FOR HALLOWEEN METHINKS!!!!!!!!!! enjoy october, everyone! it’s almost the end of the year and you made it through such a tedious year <3

“Is everyone okay?”  

You turn to find the three newcomers in a heavily panting huddle; one of them is on the floor, his hand clutching his thigh. Kim Doyoung is in front of them, arms outstretched; it’s clear he wants to help them somehow, but he also doesn’t know how to. The result is him looking like a half-hearted scarecrow that’s, for some reason, breathing as heavily as them.  

You can’t blame him, though; you notice that your own chest is heaving, and your grip on the umbrella is so tight you wouldn’t be surprised if your fingers made permanent dents on the handle.  

The one who’d been urgently yelling at you to close the door is who responds with a brief but firm nod.  

“Thank you,” his voice sounds coarse, like he hasn’t drunk water for days. “You saved our lives.”  

“We just opened the door,” Doyoung says, voice back to its normal quiet and fairly calm state. “Hardly heroic.”

“Still more than what anyone else has done for us. We’d been trying to find someone who’d help us for more than an hour. We would have died if you hadn’t opened the door.”  

Doyoung spares you a tiny glance that you don’t meet; you turn your back to him, now locking the deadbolt without protest or interruption. When you face the group again, your eyes land on the floor; the other guy hasn’t picked himself up, and his head is resting precariously on the knee of one of his companions, face contorted in pain.

“What’s wrong with him?” You ask, using the umbrella to point to him.

“Like I said,” the first guy’s voice grows a little softer, and maybe a little sadder. “We’d been running for a while. Those things that were after us… well, they were a lot more aggressive than we thought they would be. We got jumped near Gangnam Station, and one got its teeth into Sungchan’s leg. He’s more or less okay, apart from the fact that it’s been getting harder for him to walk, which is why we needed to find someplace safe to stop.”

Those things. The source of all of this chaos was still shrouded in mystery. Your mind briefly flashes back to your disgusting encounter with that cannibal businessman, digging his teeth into that poor lady’s skin, and you press a finger to your mouth briefly to stop the little egg you’ve ingested from coming back up. It’s Doyoung’s voice that brings you back to reality.

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need. I’ll help you upstairs, and you guys can clean up and rest.”  

He takes Sungchan’s legs, and the other two take him by the shoulders again; you cringe at the horrible sound of pain that he makes. They make some sort of haphazard human gurney, slowly easing him up the stairs. You’re still frozen for the most part, watching them haul what is essentially dead weight up the stairs while emotions assault you every which way. Deciding standing in front of the stairwell is pretty unproductive, you make your way back to the kitchen, ditching the umbrella back in its receptacle on your way.  

The eggs are still on your plates; Kim Doyoung’s plate is almost as untouched as yours, and you pick up your fork, debating on whether or not to continue eating. It’d be a waste to not, especially since there’s not much food left and you’re slowly starting to realize that it really won’t be too easy to procure more food in the state the city is in at the moment. Still, you’re out of an appetite, and you don’t think it would be nice to offer this food to guests considering it’s been touched to some degree. The end result is you simply having a staring contest with your eggs, fork tightly in hand.  

The house is quiet; someone, probably Doyoung, likely turned off the television, since you can’t even hear the faint drone of the news channel. You let out a heavy sigh and are a little surprised when it comes out so sharp that you actually feel a bit of pain in your nose.  

You’re… angry. No — it’s not that intense of a feeling. Maybe frustration is better — frustration stemming from confusion is bubbling up in your stomach.  

Your job is to protect the people; you know this, live by it as much as you can. That, on its own, made the choice you should have taken at the door simple. People were in trouble, and you should have helped them. But you also had a huge job; you had to protect this one particular person, and letting strangers in, risking his life in opening that door really was not the way to do it. Still, did that mean that you were supposed to prioritize Kim Doyoung’s life just because he was richer? Did not doing your assignment also mean you were doing something wrong? And were you really supposed to save everyone just because you felt that was your job?

The headache you gave yourself caused you to stab a piece of egg on your plate viciously before taking your plate up off the table. When you turn to head for the garbage disposal, though, you find Kim Doyoung standing at the doorway, watching you with an unreadable expression.  

Nothing comes to mind for you to say, so you just place the plate down onto the counter.  

“You don’t have to feel bad. About hesitating to open the door. I get it.”

“I don’t feel bad,” you lie, tossing the fork back onto the plate; the clatter it makes is loud and obnoxious. “I still don’t think we should have let them in. My job is to protect you.”

“I’m safe, aren’t I?” He lets out an incredulous laugh that lacks mirth as a whole. It’s once again a little uncharacteristic for him, but it comes and goes so quickly that you don’t have time to dwell on it either.  

“You won’t be for long if I have to keep opening the door for everyone that knocks. You’re the number one priority here, and your house isn’t a fortress for everyone to hole up in. The more we let people in, the more you’re exposed to problems, and I’m supposed to stop that from happening.”

“You said yourself that you’re not my bodyguard. This is a temporary job.” He steps further into the kitchen. “You’re a cop. That doesn’t change just because you’re under my roof. If you want to protect people, protect them — people like them. I’d prefer it. It’d be for the best.”  

“I can’t save everyone either. That’s just not how it works. If the mayor wants you alive, there has to be a good reason, and I’m not going to be the one that gets you killed by poor decisions.”  

“And you’re going to be okay with that? Knowingly letting people die because you have to protect some guy you’ve never met and don’t care about?” He presses, his mouth giving way to the thinnest, slightest of frowns.  

You’re taken aback, to say the least. You hadn’t been expecting gratitude, but you also weren’t expecting a lecture — at least not one from someone other than you. This only exacerbates your frustration, and you end up feeling slightly defiant.

“Yes, I’m okay with that,” it feels like a lie again, but your pride is swelling to immense proportions. The only thing you can do is tell yourself that your answer is the right one. “If that’s what it takes, then yes. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary.”  

“Well, I’m not okay,“ he says firmly. “I can’t live knowing people died because of me. And I’m aware that I don’t deserve to be saved at the expense of others, so don’t go through the trouble.”  

There it is again — that strange, darkly heroic aura he gives off, that he’s not worth protecting. The silence that falls between you is interrupted somewhat by the groans and footsteps coming from upstairs. The entire house feels stuffy now, and not just because there’s more than double the occupants there had been an hour ago.

“Look,” Doyoung manages to break the silence again, a heavy sigh leaving him. He’s rubbing his face, and when his hand falls back to his side, you note the darkness around his eyes. “Forget it. It’s… we’re all on edge, obviously. We just need to rest.”

“You go ahead,” your words are terse, voice distant and robotic. “I need to… do other stuff. Update my partner. I’ll clean up here.”

It sounds like a load of bullshit, and it’s clear that he doesn’t buy it, but he nods anyway, slowly, like he’s still trying to figure out what to say. Instead, he settles on the expected, mundane answer.  

“Goodnight, offi — goodnight, _______________.”

You watch his back as it retreats, and you just stand in front of the counter for what feels like forever before you hear his door shut. Your body goes on autopilot, taking his plate and dumping the eggs, making a half-hearted mental note to figure out what the safest route to the nearest grocery store is after this.  

You do the dishes, only slightly derailed by the fact that there is literally no dishwashing rack out; it kind of makes sense that he wouldn’t have to do the dishes if he doesn’t eat here, you realize, but the thought of that doesn’t curb the annoyance you feel when you have to scale the kitchen counter to reach the rack, which is perched on the highest shelf of one of his cupboards.  

By midnight, you’re worse for wear; you head up to your room and take your phone out again, noticing that Youngho had called you a couple of times and even texted. When you try to call him back, though, it just rings out, which is kind of weird, since he usually has his phone at the ready for any emergencies. You want to worry, but the numbness that comes with tiredness convinces you that he’s probably just enjoying Kim Jungwoo’s hot tub or peeing, or something. 

“Sorry,” you yawn into your phone after his voicemail beeps. “Had a situation over here. We have three new civilians to take care of. Unfortunately, Kim Doyoung’s house has become a human sausage fest.” You pause because you know he’s going to need a bit of time to laugh at that; a small smile grows on your lips too, despite it feeling inappropriate for the situation. That smile slips off the moment you hear soft, pained moans and muffled voices coming from the other room, and you realize that the injured guy is probably next door. “Front yard’s currently compromised, but I’ll check in the morning again, since there aren’t much disturbances, for some reason. Call me when you get this.”

Tossing your phone away, you roll over in bed. There’s still something nagging at you about what Doyoung had said, telling you that you need to give it some kind of attention, but your exhaustion causes you to reject it, and you fall into a dreamless but still somehow troubled sleep.  

Youngho calls at around half-past eight, your ringtone jerking you awake unceremoniously. In your tossing and turning last night, you’d buried your phone under the excessive pillows on the bed, and the call drops before you can find it. A few seconds later, it starts up again, and you pat around hopelessly for another minute before you find it, answering the phone breathlessly.

“For fuck’s sake,” Youngho’s voice comes down the line, drowning out your hello. “I thought you died.”

“I thought you died!” You fire back, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. “You didn’t pick up yesterday either.”

“I was enjoying the home theater. There’s no service down in that room, so I left my phone upstairs. The surround system is killer, by the way,” he explains nonchalantly. “What happened to you? You said you’d call me back. Not to sound like the needy boyfriend you’ve always wanted, but I was kind of hoping you’d at least give me a better explanation.”

“There wasn’t much else to tell.” You untangle yourself from the sheets, standing to stretch your back in front of the window. The sky is unusually dark for the morning, especially since fall has just begun; you wonder if there’s a storm coming later. “Three guys came looking for a place to stay. They said… something was after them, and one of them got injured.”

“And you let them in?” Youngho sounds incredulous.

“It wasn’t my decision! Kim Doyoung told me to, and it’s his house, so I didn’t have a choice.”

“And? They’re still there?”

“Well, yeah. What was I going to do, kick them out in the dead of night?”  

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t seem right, _________________. They could be dangerous p—“  

Your phone makes a shrill noise, and you jerk it away from your ear in surprise; the screen flashes a warning and then goes blank, effectively cutting Youngho off.  

“Shit,” you mumble under your breath. You’d forgotten to charge your phone last night, and the battery had already taken a huge hit from all the game playing and music streaming you’d done outside of Kim Doyoung’s house. You’re plugging the charger into the wall when a soft knock comes from your door, and the man himself steps in.  

“Morning,” his voice is back to that quiet, aloof tone, like last night hadn’t happened at all. “Sleep well?”

“Yes. You?”  

“I slept all right.” He jerks to the door, expression morphing into something sheepish. “I was… standing outside for a little while. I didn’t want to interrupt you on the phone.”  

“Oh. Um — it’s fine.” Your phone dings, signaling to you that it’s charging, and you leave it on the windowsill. “That was just my partner.”

“Is anything wrong at my brother’s house?”

“Apart from the fact that your brother is spoiling my partner? Not much.”  

He cracks a smile before clearing his throat, tugging at the neckline of his sweater. You watch him move, his small hands fiddling with a stray thread that’s sticking out of the knit. The only relief you get in this situation is the knowledge that he’s feeling just as awkward as you are right now.

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally, and it catches you off guard. Your jaw slackens a little, and you grapple with what to say, but he raises a palm to stop you. “I know… I know your job is important to you. Your priorities are different, and… you seem dedicated to your job. The fact that I don’t want to be protected doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been told to protect me.”

Only three men in your life have apologized to you with any modicum of sincerity: your father, who’d pranked you so much into thinking that there was a monster under your bed that you’d lost days of sleep; Youngho, who’d accidentally shot you in the face with a paint gun during the department’s MT (you’re still not sure if this counts because he’d been laughing hysterically while doing so); and Kim Doyoung, who’s currently fiddling with his sweater and watching for your reaction.  

“I…” Your voice comes out broken and gross, and you clear your throat too, but you don’t miss the fact that he straightens up a little. “It’s fine. I’m sorry too. Everything you said last night… you were right, and I knew it.”  

“It’s still not my place to tell you what to do. You’re the expert in this case.”  

“I’m really not,” you smile weakly.  

“You still know more than me.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter now,” You dismiss the cursory part of the conversation with a wave. “The point is that everyone’s safe here. We should probably let go of last night’s guilt.”  

“Letting go of guilt,” he muses; his gaze isn’t on you anymore. In fact, it doesn’t seem like he’s looking at anything in particular at all, and that somehow makes you feel even less comfortable. “Is it that easy?”

“What is feeling guilty going to do? There’s no real point anymore. We just have to keep moving forward.”

“Right,” he comes back down to earth, it seems, and his fingers resume their movements. “Moving forward. About that — we’ve got three more people in this house, and I don’t think I have anything to feed a single one. I don’t know how much further forward we can move without supplies.”  

“Oh god,” you squeeze your eyes shut, kneading at your brow to relieve the sudden headache that comes with the arrival of another predicament. “Shit. Right — okay. You have… cars, don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” he replies slowly.  

“Great. Can I borrow your least expensive one?”

“You can take whichever you want, but I—“  

“I’ll be down in five, then,” you cut him off, looking over at your now-empty bag and wondering why you’d just asked for time when you don’t have any clothes to change into.  

He nods, stepping back out of the room. Your phone dings to life, and you turn back to it; it starts vibrating off the hook with a steady stream of messages from Youngho, the screen blinking annoyingly in its attempt to catch up.  

[ incoming ] 영호 - STOP HANGING UP ON ME [ incoming ] 영호 - I’m convinced you hate me [ incoming ] 영호 - tough bc you’ll never find a better, more attractive partner and also we’re stuck together for the whole year [ incoming ] 영호 - _______________ can you pick up stop being annoying it’s important [ incoming ] 영호 - are you watching the news??????????? [ incoming ] 영호 - I’m telling chief that I want a partner divorce you’re useless >:(

[ outgoing ] 영호 - my phone died you absolute pain in the ass!!!! [ outgoing ] 영호 - go eat your caviar croissants or something   [ outgoing ] 영호 - what’s on the news

“__________________.” Your head snaps up to find Doyoung still standing by the door, hand on the doorknob. He’s twisting it idly, back and forth, the lock clicking every now and then.  

“Oh — sorry,” you put your phone down, ignoring the fact that Youngho’s name keeps popping up on the notification banner right above a slew of middle finger emojis. “I thought you—“  

“No, it’s fine, I —“  

He stops when your ringtone goes off again; the piano introduction of Heroine is loud and a little embarrassing, and you pick up a pillow to suffocate as much of the melody as you can.  

He smiles, but this time, it almost reaches his eyes. You think that Doyoung’s face suits smiles as long as they’re not half-hearted or sad.  

“More Sunmi?”

“She’s a national treasure,” you defend yourself, pressing the pillow down harder against your phone.  

“Right. I’ll be downstairs.”  

Whatever he’d wanted to say leaves with him as he shuts the door quietly behind himself, and Youngho doesn’t miss the annoyance in your voice when you finally pick up the call. He takes his sweet time getting to the point of the conversation to get even at you.  

“The news says it’s some kind of wack infection. They’re not sure how it’s spreading or how it’s starting, but these people aren’t in their right minds. Remember that guy we saw yesterday?” He’d said when he’d finally gotten to the brunt of his call. “I’m willing to bet my mom’s car he was sick too.”  

“Then what do we do?”  

“We just do what we can. There’s no cure, apparently; I mean, people are still trying to figure it out. All we know is that antibiotics obviously don’t work against viral cannibalism.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I have to go out for some supplies, though.”  

“So, duty relief for you today? At least you’ll get to drive a cool car before you get fired–”

You hang up at this point.

Five minutes later finds you jogging down the stairs, and you spot Kim Doyoung and the guy from yesterday who’d explained what had happened. They were both looking up at the television, wordless beside each other; the screen flashed different, horrible scenes — buildings on fire, abandoned cars crushed against one another, and bodies. So many dead bodies. You see a flicker of disgust flash across Doyoung’s face as the screen zones in on a single, rotten arm, and he turns off the television.

“So,” you try to sound like you’re not minutes away from throwing up either, and the two men turn to you. “Which car am I taking?”  

Doyoung presents you with a key; it’s one of those button-heavy ones that don’t even need to be inserted into the ignition, and you take it gingerly.  

“This is the fancy key to your least expensive car?”

“The price is irrelevant,” he frowns. “What matters is that it works, and it works fast. Minhyung’s coming, by the way. Minhyung-ssi, this is __________________.”  

“I can drive,” the other guy, who you now know is Minhyung, volunteers. You nod, slightly relieved that you won’t have to be the one worrying about driving a car worth more than your life insurance among other things. “We checked outside, too; there’s no one there. I guess as long as they don’t see a target, they don’t care that much.”

“Great,” you push the keys into Minhyung’s open hand. “Let’s get going, then.”

Doyoung walks you both to the door, but instead of stopping by the doorway after he opens it, he steps out onto the porch with you. And down the stairs. And walks towards the car.

“Hold on,” you stop, and he stops too, alarmed. “You’re not coming with us.”  

“What?” He sounds incredulous, like this is the first time he’s considered you might say that.

“It’s too risky.”  

“We’re going to the grocery store. I’m sure I can handle that. ”

“And we don’t know what’s at that grocery store,” you frown. “You have to stay here. We’ll take care of your car. Well, I mean, he will.” You jerk your head at Minhyung, who’s slipping into the driver’s seat.  

“It’s not about the car. I want to help you.”

“And I want to protect someone that’s willing to actually stay protected. Only one of us can get what we want, Kim Doyoung-ssi.”  

He makes a face — at the return of the formal address, at your words in general, you weren’t sure. You sigh, looking back briefly at Minhyung, who’s just started up the car engine; the windows are tinted, but you can see through them enough to know he’s turned towards the two of you, waiting.  

“Look, you called the shots last night, right? I listened to you, and you were right. We got to help people. Let me have this one.” You try to smile weakly, but you think it kind of comes across as a grimace. “At least I can go back to the department and say I did what I could to protect you this one time.”

He stares at you for what feels like ages, but the moment is punctuated with a sigh and a reluctant nod. He steps back up onto the porch, and you offer him a reassuring nod of your own before turning back to the car, tugging the back door open and tossing your uselessly empty backpack inside before going back up to the passenger’s seat.  

Minhyung has the car radio on to the news, but it’s more static than voice, and you just end up dialing the volume back down before putting on your seatbelt.  

“Is Doyoung hyung not coming with us?”

Hyung? How close were they already? “No. I told him to stay. He’ll be fine.”  

Minhyung nods wordlessly, shifting gears into reverse and slowly pulling the car out of the garage. When he turns his face forward, though, he slams down on the break, and an undignified yelp of surprise leaves you.  

Doyoung is at your window, a fist raised to rap lightly on the tinted glass. You roll it down, trying to keep the panic out of your voice when you ask, “What? What is it?”

“Make sure to come back,” he says simply. Your face scrunches up in confusion.

“Of course. It’s just a supply run. Your car will be back in no time; don’t worry.”  

“No; that’s not what I — don’t —“ He sighs. “Don’t go back to the police station. Just come straight back here. Okay?”  

“But I thought you said —“  

“I know what I said last night. I’m saying this now.” There’s a hint of pleading in his voice. “Come back.”

“I — okay,” you agree, altogether befuddled. He lets go of the window, and you slowly roll it back up as Minhyung backs out of the driveway. You try not to keep eye contact with Doyoung, fiddling with your seatbelt even if it’s already fastened, but you know he’s standing at the porch, watching you both drive away with yet another unreadable expression.

You trade the radio noise in for the GPS once you’re firmly on the road, and it’s on silent; your guess is that Doyoung doesn’t like the annoying robotic voice telling him where to go, so you have to make sure Minhyung is looking at the screen from time to time. You like that he isn’t unbearably talkative and is fairly safe as a driver, and you think he looks smart enough, which is always a good bonus, considering that you’re used to Youngho as a driver and as a human being.

The residential area of Apgujeong doesn’t have any big marts nearby, so you end up having to look for CUs and Ministops on the map. Even the nearest one is a good twenty-minute drive away, which seems hardly practical considering you’re in a heavily residential area. Even if you like that it’s quiet, though, it feels wrong and pretty awkward that nothing breaks the extended silence, so despite the fact that you don’t particularly enjoy small talk, you start anyway.  

“Your friend,” Minhyung breaks his gaze away from the road to glance at you before turning back. “Sung… chan? Is he okay?”

“I’m not sure,” he admits, tongue peeking out nervously to wet his lips. “We’re not… we’re technically not friends. He and that other kid — Donghyuck — go to the same university, I think. We were just in the same bookstore when the fighting and madness broke out.”  

“Oh. So you… you work at a bookstore?”  

“Me? No; I was just there looking for some books for research.”

“Are you a teacher, then?”

“No,” he chuckles the way you would expect; it’s a deep, baritone rumble that’s fairly calming and not at all like the wheezing Youngho does that makes you want to smack him upside the head. “I’m working on a novel.”

“That sounds pretty neat. What about?”

“Well it’s — it’s complicated.” His fingers tighten a little on the wheel. “My editor’s been asking me to write a romance novel — you know, since a lot of people are into that these days. But it’s just… it’s not something I can write about well. I’ve never had a real interest in romance novels, so everything I make just comes out bland.”

“So what do you like to write about?”

“Science fiction, mostly.”

“Anything I may have read before?”

“Depends. How prolific a reader are you?”

“I’m not even sure what prolific means,” you laugh.  

“My books aren’t that big. Mostly because so much editing beyond my reach happens to them, they never look like what I’d wanted them to in the first place.” He sighs, turning into a smaller street. It’s equally empty here, for some reason, but it doesn’t feel like the safe, quiet neighborhood it’s supposed to be. You see a lone woman limping down the sidewalk, and you wonder, briefly, if she’s sick too. You don’t get a good look at her face, though, and Minhyung’s driving at a speed that doesn’t give you much opportunity to look back, so you let it go. “What about you?”

“I’m a cop. I actually got promoted to corporal fairly recently.” See: yesterday, but you don’t think it’s necessary to specify this.

“That’s great; congratulations,” he throws you a small smile. “No wonder you’re so protective of Doyoung hyung.”  

“Yes, well, it’s kind of my job to be.”  

“I can see that. I’m sure he appreciates it. Is that why you didn’t want him to come along?”

“Yeah. I don’t really know if he gets that helping out here more is just going to put him in more danger.”

“Maybe he does, though,” Minhyung’s eyes flit to the screen again; the destination is growing closer. “Maybe he just wants the chance to protect you, too?”

You sit there, staring at the road in front of you, trying to decipher what that means. The CU sign comes into view, and Minhyung slows the car as you approach the entrance.  

“But,” you start carefully. “Why would he?”

“I’m not a romance expert, but isn’t that normal for couples?”

“It is,” you say, your voice small so that he can’t hear how close you are to imploding from embarrassment. “Except we’re not a couple.”

Not for the first time today, Minhyung steps down hard on the brake. You both lurch forward, but no one makes a sound this time; your bodies just lean forward silently and snap back against the seats with soft thuds.  

“Oh. I thought… because you were staying in his house…”

“I’m just here on official business,” you swallow hard, staring out your window so that you both can avoid feeling even more awkward than you already do. “From the police department.”  

“He said… his girlfriend didn’t like people going into her room, so I thought —“  

“Yeah, that’s… that’s not my room. Sorry.”

“Oh.” His voice trails off into almost nothingness. “Sorry.”

He kills the engine, but the both of you just sit there in silence for a little while, letting the strange atmosphere ebb away. Thankfully, he doesn’t press the conversation further, and you step out first, with him following your lead. Your hand is at your waist, fingers brushing against the stock of your gun, but there are no disturbances for the most part, and you relax somewhat. You and Minhyung both head for the store; the little bell that usually jingles to announce a new customer is on the ground outside.  

The inside is fairly empty, too; there are canned goods and flyers on the floor. The microwave is half-open, and you notice that a now-cold sausage is on the dish inside. You start picking up the canned goods, stacking them onto a basket while Minhyung keeps the door open with his foot, bending down to push six-pack bundles of water outside near the front wheel of the car.  

“You think anyone’s in?” He’s whispering, and you don’t know why it feels appropriate to move as soundlessly as possible even if the place is deserted. Shaking your head, you pass him the basket of canned goods, and he starts nudging the water towards the trunk of the car with his feet so he can load them.  

You wander down the aisles, tugging on everything you think you might need — tissues, snacks, toiletries — piling them all up in your arms. The area feels unsettling, though, so you try to pick up the pace, stuffing anything useful between your arms. There’s a weird noise that hangs over the convenience store, and you realize later on that it’s radio static coming from the set behind the cashier’s counter. You guessed whoever was manning the till was in too much of a rush to leave to turn off the radio. Somehow, though, it makes you feel even more uncomfortable, and you quickly hand off the items to Minhyung, who’s having as much trouble cradling the things in his own arms as you.  

You hear it during your second round, when you reach out for a jumbo-sized bottle of shampoo on top of one of the shelves — a low groan that can’t be radio static, can’t be the wind, can’t be Minhyung from outside. A horrible chill runs up your spine as you turn towards the sound slowly, holding your breath.  

A man is standing by the staff room entrance on the other end of the shop; his posture is weak, arms limp by his sides, and he continues to make incoherent noises. It’s clear by his wrecked uniform that he’s an employee here, and it’s even clearer by the bloodstains on the uniform that he’s definitely not okay.  

Thankfully, his back is turned to you, and whatever had drawn him out of the staff room, he clearly couldn’t find; he’s still whipping his head here and there, trying to spot something anomalous, but he hasn’t found the sense to turn yet. Your arm drops, foregoing the shampoo bottle, and you slowly, carefully back away, your fingers twisted into knots as you pray for safety.  

You’re almost by the door when the worst happens; your left foot, dragging backwards against the floor, catches a stray flier and creates a loud, horrible crumpling sound.  

The employee turns his head back to a degree way more than any normal human can, spotting you between the aisles; he lets out a shriek as his body turns the rest of the way with him, and he charges straight at you, arms outstretched.  

“Shit,” your fingers fly to your gun, but he’s moving so quickly that all your body can think of is fleeing. You almost slip on the flier, managing to yank the door open, only to bump into Minhyung, who’s on his way back in and oblivious to what’s happening.

“________________, what —“  

“Move!” You don’t even have time to apologize for pushing him back so hard that he stumbles a little; the rabid employee smacks into the door, and something crunches sickeningly as he does.

“Oh, fuck me—“  

This feels like a horrible semi-dejavu moment, in which you’re yelling at Minhyung to get the car door open, and he’s panicking so much that he has no choice but to tell you to shut up while he fumbles around for the keys — except he doesn’t have a gun, and the employee doesn’t have an old lady to be distracted by.  

He comes barreling out of the convenience store, and he notices Minhyung first — Minhyung, who’s so frazzled by everything that he’s taken out what appears to be his apartment keys instead of Doyoung’s car keys and is trying to fit it into a keyhole in the driver’s side door that doesn’t exist. The employee lunges, and Minhyung effectively drops whatever he’s holding, running backwards with a panicked yell. This doesn’t work out well for him; his foot gets caught in a sizable crack in the road and he falls backwards.  

You leave the passenger’s side, running around the hood of the car while you take out your gun; in your hurry, you don’t get to aim well, and the first shot you fire misses and hits one of the backseat doors of Doyoung’s car. You let out an incoherent groan of frustration that’s drowned out by Minhyung’s more urgent noise; he’s trying to weaponize a bundle of water bottles, but it’s too heavy for him to fling in this position.  

You take another shot; it hits the employee square in the leg, and the close proximity causes the bullet to go straight through. Another disgusting noise sounds as he crumples to the ground, but he’s hardly demotivated, using his elbows and one working knee to advance towards your companion. Another shot — it goes through his chest, but it’s like he doesn’t notice.

“The head, the head!” Minhyung yells, scrambling back on his palms and ass. “Aim for the head, _____________!”  

You raise your arms slightly, taking another blind shot; it’s not a perfectly centered one, but it blows the top off the employee’s head and ends his advance effectively. Minhyung looks up at you, dazed and covered in a smattering of blood.  

“Thanks — oh, god,” he has to turn away to retch, scooting further from the now-limp body and patting around for his apartment keys blindly. He takes your outstretched arm once he finds them, hauling himself up.  

“How did you know a shot in the head would kill them?”

“I didn’t,” he doesn’t let go of your hand, looking a little pale, like he’s trying not to think about how he’d just seen someone die in high definition. His grip on your fingers is painful. “It just seemed like the most logical place to aim.”

He finally locates the keys in his pocket, taking one look back at the body and the water bottle pack that’s now covered in blood too. He grimaces, shaking his head, like he’s convincing himself not to go back for it. You have to pry your hands free from his hold before he ducks into the car.  

The ride home is absolutely silent; neither of you make an attempt to turn on the radio this time, and the twenty minutes going back seems like an eternity. You notice that Minhyung is driving even slower now, for some reason, but this doesn’t bother you.

The urge to call Doyoung hits hard, for some reason; it seemed like a natural course of action, especially since you needed to cushion the blow his emotions would probably take after seeing the hole you made in his car door, but you realize you don’t have his number. You think about calling Youngho too, but you just don’t move, staring dully at the road ahead until Doyoung’s house comes back into view.

Minhyung jogs to the back of the trunk to open it up while you make for the door, ringing the doorbell. When it opens, you’re surprised to see the other kid from yesterday in front of you.

“Where’s Doyoung?” You demand at the same time that he asks, “Where’s Minhyung hyung?”

There’s louder, more pained groaning coming from the second floor. “Doyoung-ssi’s upstairs. Minhyung hyung,” he calls out, pushing past you to help Minhyung with the supplies.  

You take two steps at a time to get to the second landing, noticing that Doyoung’s bedroom door is open. When you peek in, though, he isn’t there; the television is on again, and the news anchor is repeating warnings. Stay indoors. Ration your food. Arm yourselves as much as you can. This is serious, biological warfare.

Hushed voices fill the first floor as the front door shuts; you look down from the banister to see Minhyung and Donghyuck enter the kitchen, cans and water bottles in hand; the rest of the supplies are by the umbrella stand.  

“Doyoung-ssi?” You call out.  

A moment later, his head pops out from the room next to yours; his face looks grim, but he smiles at you nonetheless.

“You’re back. Did you get what we needed?” He steps out, quietly shutting the door behind him. His free hand is gripping an electronic thermometer and a capped syringe wrapped in a wet towel, and you eye them dubiously.  

“Uh — yeah, there’s food downstairs. What’s all that for?”

“It’s for Sungchan. We’re just monitoring his condition. Was the trip okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No, I’m fine. Minhyung’s covered in blood downstairs, but,” you raise a hand to still his worry. “He’s fine, too. Maybe a little traumatized, but physically fine.”

“Oh, good.” He nods. “I’m glad for that. Thank you for making the run. And, well,” he inhales, thumb running along the length of the thermometer. “Thank you for coming back.”

“Just doing my job,” you smile tightly.

“I know.” Something like ceramic crashes inside Sungchan’s room, and Doyoung turns his attention to it. “I’ll just… I’ll get that cleaned up.”

“I’ll help them move the supplies downstairs.”  

You both nod, but you watch him go first; it’s only when the door shuts that you head downstairs. Donghyuck and Minhyung have moved most of the stuff, leaving only a few bottles of shampoo and a couple of canned soups by the door. You pick them up and walk into the kitchen, finding the two sorting cans into Doyoung’s relatively empty cupboards. It’s funny that Minhyung’s found himself on the counter, trying to stuff cup noodles into the top shelf where the dish rack used to be. You probably looked equally ridiculous last night.

“Minhyung, you really need to go get changed. Nobody wants undead CU employee blood on their ramyun.”  

He chuckles softly, slipping off the counter. “That was the last I could fit up there, anyway. Donghyuck will help you sort the rest.” Minhyung makes to clap Donghyuck on the back, but the kid evades his touch, looking at Minhyung’s bloodstained palm like he’s expecting it to grow eight extra fingers. “Right. Sorry.”  

You divvy up the food in relative silence, only talking to introduce yourselves and agree on what to set aside for lunch. He keeps turning his attention to the door, like he’s waiting for someone to appear.

“Your friend — how is he? Is he getting any better?”

“I don’t really know,” he admits, emptying a can of soup into a pot and placing it onto Doyoung’s previously untouched induction stove. “Doyoung-ssi’s been checking up on him. I don’t think any of us know what to do, but he said his grandmother had some special medicine for infections that he could try on the wound.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“It’s deep, and he’s been running a high fever we’ve been trying to break since last night. He barely talks, too, and he won’t eat anything. We tried a couple of crackers he had in his bag for his hypoglycemia, but he wouldn’t take them.” Donghyuck sighs, dumping in a little too much salt and pepper into the pot. “I don’t even know what’s happening. We were just there for comic books.”

You help him ladle the soup into bowls before volunteering to call everyone down for lunch, jogging back upstairs. Doyoung clearly hasn’t left Sungchan’s room yet, since his door is in the same position as you’d found it and the television is still going. You shout down to Donghyuck to turn the den’s television on, deciding that he could listen to the news during lunch instead of leaving his bedroom TV on uselessly.

The remote control is on the edge of the bed, and you only need to take three huge steps to get in and reach for it, but it still is technically trespassing, even if all you want to do is help the man conserve some electricity. Still, before you turn the television off, you catch a bit of what the news anchor is saying.

“Remember, it’s imperative that you stay indoors. Avoid contact with these creatures. The virus spreads quickly through the bloodstream, and experts have still not found a cure. Keep any arms or improvised weapons close to you, and make sure to stay away from —“  

Your blood runs cold, and your fingers tighten around the remote control.

The virus spreads quickly through the bloodstream.

Your feet think faster than you, it seems, carrying you out of Doyoung’s room. You bump into a freshly-bathed Minhyung, and he raises his palms up like he’s being arrested.

“What’s with you and all this running?” He manages to ask before you shove him away, skidding down the hall as you pull out your gun. You rattle the doorknob only to find that it’s locked.

“Cover your ears,” you snap at Minhyung, who barely has time to do so before you aim the gun at the door and take a shot.

You can tell why Youngho likes the idea of busting down a locked door; the dramatic effect is so powerful, and you’ve now experienced it firsthand. You don’t have the time to dwell on how cool it is, though, especially since the smell of rotting flesh is what hits you the moment you push the door open.

Doyoung is seated, frozen at the edge of the bed; the syringe is still in his hand, but it’s uncapped now. Sungchan is lying back, pale and sweaty, his pant leg rolled up to reveal a deep, bite-shaped wound on his calf.

“_______________, what the hell are you —“ Doyoung starts, but he falls into a stunned silence when you point the gun at him.

“Come here. Stand behind me.”

“If you’d just explain why you’re holding a loaded gun in my guest bedroom—”

“Can you, for once, do what I’m asking you to do without the running commentary?” You hiss, and he stands slowly. You get a better view of Sungchan’s face, and it’s not pleasant; he’s biting down on his lip, but it’s clear the pain is too difficult to contain, and his eyes are constantly rolling to the back of his head. “Come here.”

“Just calm down.” Doyoung eyes the gun warily. “I have to help him.”

“Doyoung-ssi —“

“He’s hurt, ___________________. Just let me give him the medicine.”

“He’s going to turn into one of them.” You swallow hard. “I heard it on the news. He’s going to die, and then he’s going to turn into… into one of those things.”

Doyoung carefully sets down the syringe on the bedside table, slowly walking over to you. Instead of getting behind you, though, he places his small hand gently on yours; with a little added pressure, he pushes the gun down to face the floor. You look up at him, frustrated and confused, these feelings only exacerbated by the inexplicable calm on his face.

“I know he will.”

love on the floor | njm

exactly when does vice president na turn from the company’s worst nightmare into your favorite daydream?

pairing: chaebol!na jaemin x secretary fem!reader rating: vaguely M, but will very quickly escalate into a hard R in coming chapters genre: romance, fluff, (eventual) smut (in later chapters), chaebol!au warnings: jaemin isn’t really a total asshole but he isn’t great at the beginning either and i think that should be a warning, there’s probably some language use that deserves a bit of caution i GUESS, but tbh nothing much here because we want to pretend that this is a fic of chaste circumstances and not a lead-up to raunchy, depraved smut  word count: 16.4k

author’s note: first of all, the development of this fic is absolute SHIT because i love context too much and refuse to shut up at the beginning only to get antsy for the ending so if the pace is a little stop and go … it’s because i’m a Fewl !! and i totally own up to that !! and second of all, this is actually just a set-up for about two more shorter (?? what’s shorter) works that i’ve already been wanting to write but felt like i would be remiss in doing so without some kind of build-up to the relationship so :^) here we are ! heavily unbeta'd and miss lucy is a bit rusty but we carry on for the sake of enjoying oneself (and practicing writing once again) muah enjoy!

At least this job gets you free medical. 

Actually, all things considered, this is an excellent job with limitless benefits. You never have to worry about the three-level insurance, you have monthly paid-for visits to the dentist, and you sometimes get to use the company car for personal errands for as long as you meticulously check everyone else’s schedules and butter up the head secretary, Son Seungwan, just enough so that she feels mollified enough to let you have this favor (but not too much to the point that she catches on and gives you a ten minute lecture on the rising prices of gas post-the-turn-of-the-decade). Your rent’s well paid-for, and the apartment you’re staying at is comfortable, albeit a little smaller than most, although that’s just because you prefer spending your money on once-in-a-lifetime type things, like front row seats to a Paul Kim concert. You get 50% discounts at the company cafeteria, which boasts a pretty nice salad bar with more than just perilla leaves as the greens. The bathrooms even have luxury soap installed into the automatic hand dispensers, so you always come out clean and fancy smelling. 

All in all, the job’s pretty perfect, to the point that you don’t think leaving will ever truly be in the cards — except for the fact that you barely see your boss, which, as nice as it sounds on paper, is actually the most stressful part of the position. 

You’ve always been of the opinion that if Vice President Na Jaemin put his mind to something, he’d actually do it very well, but the running issue is that he hardly ever puts his mind to anything, especially when it comes to work. In fact, the only thing he ever seems to take seriously is having eleven hours of uninterrupted sleep, which you personally think is an extremely hard thing to achieve, leading you to the firm belief that if he channeled that energy into something less dead-to-the-world and a little more productive, things would be amazing. 

And maybe things would also be a little less distressing if his family would just accept him for who he is instead of expecting too much (or, actually, anything) from him, but Vice President Na is the only son of the family that owns the largest telecom company in the country, so his parents have a ton of huge expectations for him. His father, in particular, is clearly trying to prepare him to take over the entire business, something that the Vice President clearly isn’t keen on doing, based on the many arguments you’ve had to sit through alongside Head Secretary Son. The result is a lot of tension that’s only exacerbated by the Vice President’s desire to avoid more conflict, which he does by suddenly disappearing from the office for hours — sometimes days — at a time. 

So for as much medical, dental, and reasonably priced caesar salad as you’re getting from this job, you’re not entirely sure how worth it those things all are if they come with the task of you having to sit through twenty minutes of lecturing in place of Vice President Na Jaemin himself. 

“This is the last time,” President Na roars — not necessarily at you, but at you, in your general direction, while you stand helplessly in front of his desk, your hands folded across your lap and your head hung low. You don’t really feel terrified or hurt — more than knowing that the President isn’t shouting at you for your incompetence, you’ve also gotten used to being on the receiving end of these weird, indirect lectures and have thus come to know the exact standard of ‘sorry’ that you have to look for it to be over as quickly as possible. Still, you’re kind of annoyed that this particular spiel is taking up precious minutes from your afternoon break. Then again, you don’t know what you’d expected to begin with when you’d come back from the cafeteria after lunch and found the Vice President’s chair abandoned, leather cold, indicating that he’d been gone for quite a while. It’s about four o’clock now, and he still hasn’t come back, and all your messages to him have gone unread, as you’ve also grown used to. “You tell my no-good son if he isn’t back within the hour, he can live the rest of his life without my last name.”

You’re not sure if the implications of that will really sink into the Vice President’s heart enough to trigger the guilt it’s clearly trying to elicit, but you know better than to voice your opinion. You nod once, then bow at a perfect ninety-degree angle. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Four years of this, and he hasn’t learned a single thing,” the President continues, completely ignoring your useless and vaguely insincere apology. “Where’d he run off to this time?” 

You don’t know. You never really know. Since he actively tries to avoid all work-related things, he also actively tries to avoid you, something he does by never picking up the phone or telling you the details of his daily schedule anyway. You can only share what you do know, which is very little and, therefore, extremely useless, but you try to say it in a way that appears relatively helpful. “His schedule says he was supposed to have lunch with the foreign investors that are trying to connect Prime Video to the Korean market, but it seems he didn’t show up for that.”

Which essentially translates to: you have no clue. Again, all parties in the room — inclusive of Head Secretary Son, who constantly has to bear witness to the many threats Vice President Na receives via you — know this isn’t your fault, but it doesn’t make the vein that’s about to pop out of the President’s temple any less pronounced, nor does it stop you from bowing and apologizing again when he says “get him back in here before five o’clock or tell him he’ll never be able to step foot in this building again!” even though you know that the threat would probably sound more like a gift than anything else to Vice President Na. 

“And you,” the President points a vaguely accusatory finger at you. Your eyes widen slightly in surprise. “If he isn’t back here at that time, you can kiss your job goodbye too. You go ahead and tell him that. Let’s see if Jaemin will finally get off his ass if he knows someone else is going to have to suffer for his behavior.” 

The only person who sees your jaw fall open is Head Secretary Son, who’s now leading you away from the President’s desk and towards the door; the President has taken to staring at this huge family picture of himself, his wife, and the Vice President that’s hanging just behind his executive’s chair, all looking considerably happier than anyone in this situation feels. You hear him mutter something that sounds like “where did I go wrong with you, you punk?” before the door shuts close behind you.

“I’d say he doesn’t mean that, but we don’t actually know to what lengths he’ll go to get the Vice President on board.” Head Secretary Son admits, lifting two fingers to gently shut your mouth, still agape. “If I were you, I’d figure out how to keep him on a leash. The fact that he’s never around is probably ninety-percent of our current problems.”

“I can barely get him to respond to schedule reminders,” you groan; your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose like this will somehow stop the oncoming migraine. “Let alone get him to stay still. I was just about to put in a down payment for a car of my own, too.” 

You’ve never really been considerably attached to this job, mostly because there isn’t much to actually attach yourself to, but if you think about it now, it really is better than most, and this economy isn’t really kind to people who get fired from their jobs. You feel like puking at the thought of losing the free unlimited coffee in the pantry and trading it in for a life behind a convenience store counter, which is probably where you’ll end up, pessimistically speaking.

You excuse yourself from Head Secretary Son, who has the heart to look a little pitying as you trudge towards the elevator. You don’t even know where you’d start looking for the Vice President, especially since he spends quite a lot of his efforts trying to avoid having to communicate with you. You don’t even know what his habits are, which means you can’t make educated guesses on where he might have run off to, so the only route to go is to look in the immediately surrounding area and widening your search diameter as time passes.

Until five o’clock, of course — a deadline that, if unmet, will likely mean you also won’t be returning to the office either. 

You start off at the nearby bookstore, extremely skeptical that the Vice President would ever willingly go to a place that requires more effort even after you make a purchase. As expected, he isn’t there, but he isn’t in the nextdoor candle shop (also unlikely) either, nor do you find him in the hand-cut noodles shop next to that as well. You walk down the entire street for a good twenty minutes, pressing your face against the windows of stores shamelessly, to the ire of many startled and disgruntled staff, trying to look for a familiar head shape in the small crowds in them, but to no avail. Then, you think about calling him again, but when you pat the pockets of your jacket, you realize your phone is still on your desk, where you’d left it when you’d been summoned to see the President. With a loud groan and an annoyed clip clop of your heels as you stamp your feet on the pavement, you walk back to the office. 

In your frenzy to find the Vice President, you’d gone quite a distance, and your shoes simply aren’t made for long, aggravated walks; they start hurting your feet halfway back, and you’re pretty sure you have a blister behind the strap of the left one. Pride would tell you to tough it out, but you’d thrown that out at the thought of losing your job at the expense of a single man, so you don’t even hesitate to take them off and run back to the building. The big digital clock above the elevators says you have ten minutes left to find your boss, and you start thinking about using that time for better things — like packing your stuff up neatly in a box for when you get sacked. 

With the situation seemingly hopeless, you trudge to the first floor cafe, where the return counter has a pitcher of water and a stack of tiny paper cups. They’re tiny tiny, like the size of your thumb, so you have to keep refilling it just to start feeling a little more human. 

You’re on your third refill when you hear a giggle come from across the space. The barista’s just finished laughing at what must have been an extremely hilarious joke, or she might be flirting with whoever’s leaning over the counter to talk to her. A whoever that seems to be the exact same height and build as the elusive Vice President of this company. 

You accidentally toss the paper cup in the plastics bin in your desperation to get moving, worried that if you’re not fast enough, he’ll disappear into thin air again. Luckily, his attention’s completely focused on the barista, so he can’t go anywhere when you finally reach his side and huff, loud enough to interrupt what seems like an intimate-ish conversation between them. 

“Sorry, I was just — oh, it’s you.” The Vice President’s smile fades when he sees it’s you, someone he can’t charm out of what they’re supposed to be doing. You don’t think you’ve ever seen the Vice President smile at you in any capacity, anyway, except for maybe one or two slightly sarcastic smiles that are probably more fit to be classified as grimaces. “What do you want?” 

“I’ve been looking all over for you, sir,” you say, stiffly and a little quietly because you still don’t want to embarrass him in front of the slightly confused barista. “You haven’t answered my texts.”

You don’t have any way to check, but you’re pretty sure this is a safe enough assumption, which is corroborated by the Vice President bringing his phone out and checking the screen lazily before turning it back off. 

“Sorry. I don’t answer unknown numbers.”

You guess it makes sense that he wouldn’t want to save your number when he hates hearing about work, which is all you really try to communicate with him about, but it still stings considering it’s been two years and you’ve been using the same number since high school. It’s fine, you think. You really can’t expect much from him. 

“Well, your father’s been looking for you, too. He wants to meet you.”

“I’ll take a rain check, but thank you.”

“Sir,” your voice quivers with poorly quelled exasperation. “This isn’t an optional thing. This is very serious.” 

“I can see that, Briar Rose,” his eyes are trained towards your shoes, still dangling from your grasp, with a level of unabashed amusement. “Did he summon me from deep within the woods, or is this a new casual Friday look I should get in on?”

When his words are met with a stony silence, he sighs, pushing himself off the counter. His half-finished Americano is collecting a small pool of condensation under it, and you offer him the little handful of tissues you had gotten from the return counter and had originally been planning to use to wipe your tears in case you cried after getting fired so that he doesn’t waste time looking for something to hold his cup. He takes them without even a word of thanks, opting to instead say ‘lead the way, miss.’ You don’t miss the fact that he meets the barista’s eye with a considerably more genuine grin, raising a hand in goodbye to her before he strides ahead — before you even get a chance to lead the way at all — towards the elevators with you, hobbling on one foot to slip your shoe back on, not far behind. 

The President’s office must be sort of soundproof for instances like this. For the first time, you’ve been asked to wait outside with Head Secretary Son as the Vice President gets chewed. It doesn’t matter; you don’t really want to be in the middle of yet another round of shouting that has nothing to do with you in the same afternoon, plus you also know how the conversation usually goes: the President making very agitated threats and talking about his heart condition (even though the medical reports from their private doctor say he’s in perfect health) that the Vice President, who just spends the time looking boredly at his nails, will inevitably trigger. When you press your ear to the door for a minute, you actually hear something like ‘... strike you out of the will so that when you kill me, you won’t get a single won!’, and you can imagine Vice President Na’s exasperated sigh punctuating the statement. 

Ten minutes later, the room has gone quiet, and you step aside just in time for the Vice President to open the door and step out. You don’t even understand how he can look so unaffected after being ripped apart, but you suppose he’s also heard the lecture as many times as you have and is pretty much immune to all the insults. He doesn’t really have to make a show out of not caring, though, with his hands in his pockets and his lips pursed to allow him to whistle idly as he strolls down the hall to his barely used office. He’s been in it so few times that after long, inexplicable vacations, he sometimes forgets how to get there. You’ve always had to walk behind him just in case he gets lost or, worse, tries to make a run for it. You’ve never had to tackle him to the ground reciting the Miranda warnings, or anything, but he has faked left a few times just to give you a mild heart attack for the fun of it all. 

This time, he just walks, not bothering to joke you into trying to create a human wall he could just as easily push away. When he gets to his office, he lazily plops down onto his couch, extracting the Rubik’s cube he’d been working on for a few weeks now from underneath himself and spinning the top layer idly. He’s only ever finished the blue side. 

You just stand there, kind of perplexed and unsure of how to start the conversation. He’s still whistling, and you’re not sure if talking over him will count as interrupting him, which isn’t something you’re supposed to do. Thankfully, he stops after about two minutes of fiddling with the yellow side of the cube, looking up at you with a slightly surprised expression that somehow makes you want to cry. 

“Can I help you with something, Secretary ___________?” 

“Well, I…” You stutter for a bit, unsure of how to politely point out that he should be asking you for help with his job instead of the whole other way around. “Because… I just thought…”

“You can always leave a message with my secretary if you need time to figure it out.” He grins. “Oh, wait a minute.”

“Sir, don’t you think you should… I don’t know. Figure out your schedule, or something? Prepare for… anything?” 

“What’s that smell?” He lifts his nose to the air, suddenly curious, and because he looks so serious, you also start sniffing, but you can’t really smell anything out of the ordinary. “Smells… fresh. Very clean. A little like green tea.”

“Oh.” You awkwardly shift your weight from leg to leg. “I think that’s my perfume, but I don’t see w—”

“You smell very expensive, Secretary _____________.” He sounds genuinely surprised that you do, like he’s somehow saying he hadn’t expected you to have good taste. You have no idea where this conversation is coming from, so you chalk it up to him wanting to derail you from talking about work. “I like it. Very classy. Not too strong.”

“Sir, I don’t think now’s the time to be talking about perfume scents.”

“You’re actually quite pretty.” He sounds genuinely surprised again, but this time, it stings a little more. “I never noticed that before. How come?” 

You want to say that it’s because he spends most of his time and energy playing long-term hide-and-seek with you, but there’s also no polite way of putting that into words; even if there were, with the way you’re now bristling under his gaze, you’re not really sure you’d go the courteous route, anyway. You just decide to ignore the comment and question entirely, which you almost get to do.

“Wouldn’t you like to take a look at some of our upcoming projects? For instance, we’re just about to start negotiating the terms of this new partnership with Huawei —”

“You’re pretty, but you’re also pretty tense.” He cuts you off again, now looking a little dejected at this newfound information. You can’t understand why this disappointment in you actually hurts your feelings a little. “I think the cafe downstairs serves some tea, if that kind of stuff helps you.”

“Sir,” the one syllable is laced with weariness, and you knot  your fingers together in front of your lap. It probably looks polite, but it’s mostly so that you can feel like you have some semblance of control over anything, even if it’s just your own body fighting off the urge to grab him by the collar. “Please. If you could just take a look at your schedule — even just for tomorrow —”

“What’s the point?” His shrug is nonchalant, and he’s turning the cube over in his palm now, more interested in looking at it than witnessing your tired expression. “It’s almost six o’clock. I’ll deal with tomorrow tomorrow, you know what I mean? If my dad finally loses his marbles, I’ll deal with it all then. In fact, I might actually be okay with losing this department if it finally actually gets him off my back. I’ll also deal with that when it happens, probably.” 

Another long, uncomfortable silence blooms as his words sink in; not for the first time today, President Na has threatened the existence of your job, now alongside a good twenty other people’s, all for the sake of snapping some sense into the Vice President. However, like everything else, it seems to just be backfiring; Vice President Na doesn’t seem to care about anyone else in this department, most likely because he’s barely interacted with anyone else. You’re surprised he even remembers your last name, considering he once called the department accountant ‘Heejin’ even though her nametag clearly spelled out ‘Jinhee.’ 

It makes sense that the threat of abolishment means absolutely nothing to him, but it doesn’t make the knowledge of that any less distressing. He watches you curiously as you tug back at your ponytail, like it’ll once again stop the crawling migraine. 

“Sure a cup of chamomile tea isn’t in the cards today? I think I have the company card in here somewhere, although I can’t be sure that it hasn’t been cut off, based on my dad’s last threat—” 

“I’m fine; thank you.” You mumble, checking the clock. He’s wasted what’s left of the hour anyway, and the lack of change in his position just means he’s not going to change his mind for the rest of the time. “At least let me give you tomorrow’s agenda.” 

“Boring, but okay. Give it to me, then.” He yawns to make a point, and you offer him the tablet you tote around with you everywhere you go, just in case Vice President Na finally decides he wants to do his job. To clarify: that’s two whole years of you carrying that heavy thing around, with the Vice President only having touched it a handful of times. You’re mildly shocked that he actually opens it to check, because he barely does even that, but that all goes away when he yawns again, his expression glassy as he scrolls down aimlessly. “This is a lot. Can’t you just clear my schedules tomorrow? Actually, if I can make demands for real, I’d like to clear out my schedule for the rest of the year.” 

He stretches when he stands, ignoring your slightly agog expression as he pats you on the back, smacking his lips sleepily. “Good day’s work, Secretary _____________. Want to grab a beer? Have ourselves a little intra-department party? I’m pretty sure ‘intra’ stands for ‘us two,’ or am I wrong?”

You sincerely hope he doesn’t mean a goodbye party, but with his attitude right now, that might very well be. You shake your head, and he shrugs, like he wasn’t really expecting you to agree in the first place. “No thank you, sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He’s already halfway out the door, waving dismissively with his back turned to you. When you peek out of the space he leaves by opening the door, you can see about half the entire department’s watching, not even bothering to pretend to scurry back to their seats as he saunters out of the office. He calls out to you, his voice ringing clear even though he’s already out of sight. 

“We’ll see about that.” 

You come up with a master plan, but not before you scope potential jobs. 

You actually stayed an hour overtime at your desk looking for positions, but all of them pay lower than average or are about an hour’s commute away from where you live, so none of them seem worth it. The search ends when some people from the department come over to say goodbye and see your computer open to SaramIn, at which point they connect the dots and start to panic about their insurance. You shut your monitor off and spend another useless twenty minutes calming Jinhee, who’d started having a mild panic attack. 

In that time, your resentment builds. Why can’t Vice President Na simply get his act together? You suppose that there’s some indescribable burden to being in his position, but between him, a rich heir who owns two sports cars and lives in a paid-for house, and you, a public-transport-using, pays-by-the-month nine-to-five worker, you can’t really understand why he would be having it worse than everyone else who works under him.  If he worked even just half as hard as everyone else did here, he might scrape by. 

You can’t know if President Na’s anger was only short-lived or if he actually meant to downsize the company by getting rid of your department entirely, but you also know that if he’s serious, then there’s nothing much you can do about it, short of terrorizing the Vice President into stepping into bigger shoes.

So, that becomes your master plan.

It isn’t very refined, mostly because you think about it on the bus home, but the heart and spirit are there, and those are probably the most important things anyway. It’s that heart and spirit that motivate you to get up an hour earlier than you usually do, dressing quickly for the day before taking the company car from your place to downtown Apgujeong. You usually don’t take it on days that Vice President Na doesn’t come into work, which is practically every other day, but this time, you’re determined to see him into the office. The ride with Hyunsung, his official company driver, is quiet, save for the question he asks when you roll up to the Vice President’s driveway. 

“Are you sure about this?” 

“No,” you admit. He’d probably seen you chewing down on your thumb, some of your confidence taking a hit when you belatedly realize you could be shot with a huge privacy lawsuit if this doesn’t go the way you plan. But you do know a lot of secretaries that do the morning calls for their superiors, so this should be fine. Not that you’ve ever heard from those secretaries ever again. 

Vice President Na’s laziness seems to extend to all aspects of his life, including the fact that he doesn’t ever change his door’s passcode; it’s still the same numbers as it had been when he first bought the house a year ago and had you install his lock while he was missing in action from work, yakking it up with some farmers up in the Netherlands. He likes to do that — ‘see the world,’ or whatever, even though his wanderlust makes everyone else’s lives very difficult. At least it makes your life easy now, and you step through the door and walk quietly across his unnecessarily large living room. 

You’ve never been in here exactly, and you only realize very belatedly that this house’s design would be very frustrating for a break-and-enter criminal because nothing seems to be where it’s supposed to be. You learn the owner’s suite is actually on the basement floor, so all the climbing of those slippery stairs was for nothing. 

Vice President Na’s bedroom is bigger than your whole apartment, which also means he has a sizable bed and, thus, is completely out of sight under his gigantic covers. The only indication that he’s even still in there is that they’re rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern. You stand by the edge of the bed, on the side he’s closest to falling off of, clearing your throat at the tuft of hair peeking out from under the comforter. 

“Vice President Na? It’s time to go to work.” 

Your voice has been tempered down by years of this professional work, and this is easily the loudest and most demanding you’ve ever heard it. You’re not even sure you can do it again, but the muffled groan from under the covers is all the motivation you need to try. 

“Sir, you have a ten o’clock meeting with Samsung’s representatives for Apple. President Na also asked that we contact Amazon right away to reschedule the Prime Video deal.” 

“How,” his voice comes out first before he does, squinting up at you, completely disoriented. “The hell did you get in here?” 

“Sir, I’m your secretary.” You sigh, skimming over the fact that you’d walked into his big kitchen twice through two different entryways before coming into his bedroom. “I’m supposed to be able to get in here.”

“Except this is a first.” You think he’s about to get up, but he just shifts his weight, rolling over so he can cocoon himself tighter into his blankets. “Goodnight. There are eggs in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“I’ve already eaten, like a normal, functioning human being with a very important job that starts precisely at nine o’clock would.” 

“This seems like a very targeted comment, Secretary ____________. I’m not sure I appreciate it.” 

“Since we’re already having this conversation, I’m guessing you’re conscious enough to get dressed.”

To your relief, he actually does throw the covers off of him, leaning up on his elbows. You try not to balk at the fact that he’s shirtless, although you’re also not sure why this should surprise or bother you to begin with. He doesn’t even seem to mind; he just yawns, wide and unashamed, as he looks over at the clock. 

“It’s seven-thirty. This is insanity.”

“No, this is a wake-up call.” You offer him a neatly folded towel that he eyes suspiciously. “We need to get you in the office on time.”

“There’s really no point,” he sighs, scratching his head idly. “It’ll just be another boring day of talking to people I don’t care about. Someone who cares about it should talk to them. You care about it, don’t you?” 

“I won’t talk to them for you, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Because, frankly, I don’t get paid enough to be doing that.” 

He once again stares at the towel like he’s trying to will it to evaporate, but in the end, he only sighs louder and takes it from you, kicking his blankets off completely. You look up at the ceiling, not in prayer but to avoid the more embarrassing fact that he’s only in his boxers after all. Well — it’s embarrassing for you. He doesn’t even seem to care. 

“Something’s different.”

“Usually I don’t wake you up,” you offer the painfully obvious. “Or come here. Or talk to you.”

“Yeah, all that stuff,” he says dismissively, halfway through a yawn. “Did you have a life-changing experience recently?”

“Something like that.”

“Couldn’t it have been one where you decided to leave me alone for good instead?” He grumbles, more to himself instead of to you. It doesn’t matter, anyway; you already see he’s up and fishing socks out of his drawer, so you’re marching out of his room to avoid having to hear more of his complaints (and, quite frankly, to avoid looking at his broad back). 

However, the day thereafter doesn’t go as planned. You thought that waking Vice President Na up for an early day of work might shock him into doing something with the knowledge that it was urgent, but you’re not sure why you didn’t anticipate a scenario in which he’d fall asleep in the car on the way to work and you’d have to shake him into waking in the stuffy parking lot. He spends the rest of the morning out of sorts, ignoring you point blank when you try to brief him on the meeting. The meeting in and of itself doesn’t go any better, with him excusing himself fifteen minutes in by saying the pitch doesn’t seem all too exciting and innovative. You didn’t even know he knew the word innovative and, by the shocked faces of the Samsung people, they were of the same mind. 

By lunch time, you’re more exhausted than you’ve ever been, and a part of you is wondering why you wanted Vice President Na in the office in the first place when you’re already used to the much simpler routine of get up, work, eat lunch, get yelled at, work again. Sometimes, on slow days when Vice President Na is completely out of town for the week and President Na is out of things to yell at you about, you even get to just sit back at your desk and play old crossword puzzles. 

Now, you’re basically handholding him, but the weight that keeps him down is so heavy that you’re being dragged down, too. 

“You mean people do this every single day?” He shuts the folder with a contract that requires his signature that you’d given him just now, not even bothering to peruse the first page, much to your rapidly increasing ire. “This is ridiculous. Working makes no sense.”

“All employees come to work to do that, sir. It’s literally what makes up half their lives.”

“Except it shouldn’t,” he sighs, like this is a true global issue and not a problem of his own making. “Everyone needs to be able to do what they want and live life to the fullest.” 

“Not everyone can,” you point out flatly. “Some people don’t have the luxury of time even for that.”

“Then, they should. The more I’m in this situation, the more it feels like it might be better for everyone to have a little work break for — I don’t know. The next year or so.”

Vice President Na has his arm outstretched, handing the folder back to you. You don’t know if it’s what he says that causes your blood pressure to rise, or if its the completely unconcerned look on his face, or if it’s the fact that he’s holding the folder so lazily that the papers are starting to slip out on your end, requiring you to use two hands to keep them all from falling apart and creating a mess you’ll end up having to clean up anyway. Whatever it is, you snatch the folder from him with a little more aggression than necessary (or that you’d even care to admit). Even though it’s out of place, you can’t help but feel a small sense of triumph at the slight surprise in his eyes. 

“Did I say something wrong?” 

“No, sir.” You pause, mostly because you can tell he doesn’t believe you — Vice President Na is nonchalant, not stupid — and you want to give yourself a little bit of time to grapple with your pride before you admit the truth. “Yes, sir. It isn’t fair to your entire department for you to talk that way.”

“I’m saying the entire department doesn’t have to work this hard. It’s senseless. How are you supposed to live a good life if all you’re doing is sitting behind a desk?”

“Like I said, not everyone has the luxury of living your life. If they want even a little bit of that comfort you enjoy, they have to work very hard for it first.” 

“Then they should at least do something they enjoy. If this department goes down the drain —”

“If this department is abolished,” this is your first time interrupting a superior, and it already makes you want to throw up. “Then people will have a very difficult time finding a job in this market. More than that, a lot of people enjoy working for this company — quite genuinely, in fact. I don’t think it’s right to think that they’ll be happy while they’re jobless and floundering in this economy.”

“So you’re happy like this? You really want this job — this whole working under me situation?” 

“Well…” you trail off, your voice taking on a slightly thoughtful tone. It’s been a relatively long time since you’d entered this job, but you do faintly remember the feeling of excitement at getting this position — the desire to want to learn from the best in this industry, the anticipation of being able to meet and network with interesting and important people. Your first few weeks of work had involved wanting to spend as much time in Vice President Na’s shadow, in case you could pick up some important business tidbits from an entrepreneurial master… until, of course, you realized there wasn’t much you could stand in the shadow of to begin with. “These days, it isn’t ideal. But this job is a really good thing for most of the people who work here.”

“Then it sounds like you have more to gain from me working hard than I do.” 

You can’t contain your disapproving frown, and your voice comes out a little sharper than you intend. “Doesn’t it bother you at all, sir? Knowing almost twenty people could lose their jobs in the blink of an eye? Think about all the people who look up to you and rely on you — they’ll have to suffer because of this. They might never find a job that matches their needs, and a lot of them have families to take care of, too. If you can do something to make sure they have these good lives you keep talking about, why not do it? I know you’re capable of that. You’re capable of doing much more than what you’ve been doing thus far.” 

Vice President Na is quiet for a moment before leans over on his desk, lacing his fingers into a loose combined fist and putting his weight on his forearms. One of his forefingers detangles itself from the pile of digits and curls inwards, beckoning you closer. Your grimace is probably obvious, and you lean in a little warily. He lifts himself off his chair slightly so he can whisper in a low voice, as if you two aren’t the only people in this wide office. 

“If you care about it so much, then ask a little more nicely.” 

Your light breakfast almost makes a reappearance, and you draw back in mild shock. He also leans back, significantly more relaxed than you, looking unperturbed as he settles back against his chair. You two engage in a very uneven staring match, until he gestures for you to proceed, looking expectant. 

“You want me to beg for my job?”

“Not what I meant, but I could accept that,” he hums. “I just think you could throw in a please while you’re guilting your boss, at least.”

Gawking probably doesn’t suit you, but you do it anyway, wondering how you managed to find yourself in this position. This morning, you had been strictly guiding him through what to do, and now you’re paralyzed in front of the Vice President, feeling very foolish for saying so much out of turn. You couldn’t even get through a whole work day before seeing your grand master plan slip down the drain.

But there is, at least, some small comfort in what he said — the part about guilting, which, if you squint hard enough, seems to be implying that this conversation has left him with a small amount of guilt. You don’t think it’s that much, but it’s a miracle he feels it at all, so you take the horribly subtle win and inhale deeply.

“Please, sir.” The words are very thick and reluctant, unsticking from your throat. “This department really needs you.” 

He stares, very unnervingly, without saying anything, but there’s something in his gaze that makes you vaguely certain he’s actually thinking about it. In fact, he actually looks a bit serious, which isn’t anything you’d ever think you’d be able to characterize him by. That impression easily falls apart when he claps his hands, once but very loudly, startling you into jumping a little. 

“Ah, how could I turn down such a nice request?” Vice President Na is grinning from ear to ear, something you’ve never seen him do in the context of the office, much less a few feet away from you. His smile is actually kind of nice, if you don’t think about the fact that it seems to be smug at your expense. “Since you asked, I guess I’ll have to try my best, or whatever it is people do in this damn company. I guess that means you owe me now, Secretary ____________. You’re very welcome.” 

The silence that once again blooms as you stand, motionless, in front of Vice President Na is suddenly interrupted by the sound of chairs scraping back all at once. The floor vibrates a little as the entire department troops out to the elevator area so they can go to lunch. You only watch stupidly as he also stands, shrugging off his jacket and flinging it over the back of his chair. “See you, then.”

“Where are you going, sir?” 

He looks a little surprised that you even ask. “To lunch. Do I have to ask for your permission for that, too?” 

“Are you… coming back?”

“You want to come along with me and make sure I don’t run away?” He smiles even wider, which you didn’t even think was possible. It makes you awkwardly uncomfortable to know he’s taking a lot of pleasure in joking around with you, mostly because you were kind of hoping you’d get him to take things seriously in a serious manner, not in a … whatever this is that’s making you feel like you’ve lost a game manner. 

“A little bit.”

“Ask a little more nicely, then.” 

“Never mind,” you mumble. “Have a good lunch, sir.” 

He snaps his fingers a little comically before turning to the door, flinging it open so he can join the now thinning throng of people leaving the floor. “Thought I almost had you there. Well, if you need me, you know where to find me. Or not.” 

In the end, to your utmost relief, Vice President Na does, in fact, stay inside the entire time he has lunch. You’re not sure if this is the product of you sitting two tables away, trying to will an imaginary chain to his wrist so he doesn’t bolt off or because he’s still feeling a little affected by everything you said earlier on, but whatever it is, it works. He just eats his club sandwich in peace, picking off the crust easily and double dipping the fries that come with it in his ketchup. At some point, he looks up and notices you burning holes into his torso, so you quickly have to avert your eyes in shame. You think he laughs at this, but you can only see out of your peripheral vision at this point, so you can’t be sure. 

You’re supposed to have one hour for lunch, but he eats quickly and gets up before the whole hour is over, so you end up throwing your half-eaten wrap and following him. Again, you’re not sure what’s funny, but he’s chuckling to himself as he holds the elevator door open, waiting for you to run in next to him. 

“Relax, miss secretary. I already said I was going to do my best.”

“No offense, sir, but I don’t know what that looks like, so I have to be careful.”

“Fair enough.” He hums, letting the door close on its own. “But you should still take it easy. You’re pretty t—”

“Tense. You said so yesterday, sir.”

“That’s two times you’ve cut me off in a single day.” He doesn’t sound very annoyed about it; in fact, he’s still got that amused, inside joke tone to everything he’s had all morning. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were gunning for an insubordination report.”

You don’t think that’s fair for him to say, especially since you haven’t really had much of an authority figure to be subordinate to for most of your career in this company, but you keep your mouth shut since saying so is exactly what would be on the first line of an insubordination report. 

When you arrive back at his office, you take the time to discuss what you should be doing from now on. It’s an extremely messy exchange, with you two grappling between terms you can’t agree on. For instance, Vice President Na thinks that it seems only fair that he should really only be coming in after one o’clock, but you’re insistent on making sure he gets to work on time, since most important meetings happen within that time period (a fact he already seems to know but chooses to ignore anyway). You end up agreeing on bringing him in for the standard nine-to-six for as long as he never has to work overtime. You also find it necessary to iron out the fact that if he has lunch outside, he has to actually come back, a statement he once again finds very amusing for some reason, as if you’re the weird one in this conversation. 

And to his credit, he tries to stick to his word. It isn’t exactly a walk in the park, especially not during the first couple of weeks, but you suppose that habits are very difficult to break when they’ve been so easy to acquire and nurture over many years. More than once, you’ve arrived late to meetings to the disapproving gazes of Head Secretary Son and President Na. However, the latter finds he has less to say these days because Vice President Na’s presence in said meetings had, before this time, been nothing but a pipe dream for everyone. 

You also notice he starts taking the time to ask about things he doesn’t understand, as opposed to his initially brash or sometimes completely unresponsive approach, which has turned out better results when it comes to business lunches with investors and potential partners. Even the Samsung people, who are extremely wary of him during the callback meeting, come out of their next encounter with the Vice President looking vaguely more satisfied than they did the last time (the bar isn’t that high, considering they’d left shell-shocked previously, but you’ll still take the improvement).

Of course, with all the time you end up spending with, chasing after, and vaguely lecturing (only when the need truly arises) Vice President Na, you also learn some things about him that you hadn’t expected, like how he doesn’t really like milk in anything he drinks (but especially coffee) and that every third Sunday of the month, he meets his old high school friend Lee Jeno, the son of the guy that owns half the residential high rise condominiums on this side of the Han. Apparently, they play badminton together — he had told you that when he’d caught you wondering about the super out of place little kid’s karate trophy among other more adult, official ones in his living area. The trophy goes to whoever wins the match of the month, and according to the Vice President, he’s been ‘wiping the floor with that bastard’s handsome face for half a year straight.’ Although you can’t verify this by anything more than the slight blanket of dust on it, you think it takes nothing out of your pride to applaud him like this is an amazing thing. It also does you no harm to see him swell with misplaced pride about a kid’s karate trophy. 

You also notice that despite how healthily he eats at the office, he has a bad habit of craving deep fried food in the afternoon, which is why, over the last few weeks, you’ve been accompanying him to the corndog street stall two blocks away, a few days a week. He’s even had to borrow loose change from you a few times to because he always forgets that no street vendor likes to receive crisp, fresh-out-of-the-bank fifty-thousand won bills, but you just let him have it; his heart’s in the right place when he orders an extra one for you without even asking. You realize that he has a fairly good memory for as long as he’s concentrating, and that he likes to spend late nights watching the shittiest horror movies ever known to man (his words, much to your bemusement), and that when he listens attentively to you telling him about the day’s agenda, his left ear twitches a little when your voice hits it. 

Somewhere along the way, you realize that Vice President Na is a charming, outgoing, and fairly capable person, and in doing so, you also realize that he seems to be, for lack of a better word, your style. 

You can’t really believe it either, and you’re not even sure when it started. In between sitting with him in the company car and handing him forty-page agreements he has to look over carefully (very carefully, as you’ve taken to reminding him, so often that he starts saying it before you do now, which has only somehow endeared him further to you and not annoyed you the way you were sort of hoping it would), the small non-work related part of your consciousness had decided that it needed a more complicated situation now that things were going relatively well.

To be fair to yourself, liking him isn’t a huge distraction; most of the time, you’re both so engrossed in something you desperately have to finish that you don’t even have time to think about it. Instead, it kind of catches you off-guard, like when he’s double dipping his french fries into his ketchup, or when he smiles at you (politely to him, probably, but overwhelmingly charmingly to you) before he leaves the office, or when his brow’s furrowed in (a total shocker) concentration as he reads. 

Then again, everything about Vice President Na seems to be catching you off-guard these days. This much is proven by the fact that instead of the normal silence that you’ve grown accustomed to being greeted by when you enter his house, there’s a lot of noise coming from one area that can only mean either that someone had broken in to mug him or for some reason, he’s up before you need to wake him. 

It’s nothing you have to call 911 for, but it still paralyzes you to see him, surrounded by opened jars and a particularly dirty bread knife as he stands in front of his fancy toaster, drumming his fingers on the counter impatiently. 

“If you have a minute to spare, could you bring my laptop into the car?” He asks without turning around. His hand, still holding the bread knife, points towards the bar counter on the far end of the kitchen, where the laptop is still whirring away. 

“Of course, sir. Um,” you gingerly shut the monitor, putting the laptop to sleep and tucking it under your arm. “Were you… working this morning?”

“No, I was playing a riveting game of bridge against the computer AI.” He turns to you, grinning. “Of course I was working, miss secretary. What do you think I’d be up this early for?” 

You try to think of an answer, but nothing comes to mind — Vice President Na hasn’t ever woken up early for anything to your knowledge, anyway — so you just nod and bolt, unwilling to bear witness to his smile this early in the day. When you come back, particularly less red in the face, you find him topping one of two sandwiches with the last slice of bread to complete it. He takes one, as you expect he would, and you stand there, trying to look polite as you essentially observe him eat.

This isn’t something very unusual; ever since the first time you’d done it, you’ve been watching him out of habit. So far, only the motivation’s changed from you wanting to make sure he doesn’t bolt to you simply enjoying the view of his profile when he eats. Of course, he probably doesn’t know this, but he’s also just gotten used to you watching him and probably finds it funny — as suggested by his perpetually amused expression — that you still think, after all this time, that he’s going to make a run for it. You don’t actually mind it; you get to watch him for free, and he has something to laugh about, so everyone kind of wins. 

He’s halfway through the sandwich when his expression turns quizzical. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Eat,” you echo hollowly. “Eat what, sir?”

“A delicious, handmade, gourmet peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich.” When you don’t move, he pushes the plate with the untouched sandwich forward towards you like he thinks you can’t understand anything he’s saying. “What? Are you allergic to something?”

“No, but…”

“But?”

There’s no but; you don’t have a good reason to decline other than the fact that accepting it feels weird, but refusing him when he’s looking at you this expectantly is just as awkward. You rub the back of your neck as you walk over, not missing the look of triumph that crosses his face as you pick up the sandwich and take a bite. It’s good, but you don’t really think that has anything to do with his culinary skills, based on what it is; still, he looks like he’s patting himself on the back for this feat. 

“Thank you, sir.”

“Secretary ____________, I hope you can count this as a momentous occasion for the both of us.” He chuckles. “You get free breakfast made especially for you by your direct superior in the comfort of his own home, and I finally get to learn what all the settings on my toaster are for. Between you and me, I think mine’s the better achievement.” 

You’re still in the middle of eating when you laugh, and you hastily raise a hand to cover it — only Vice President Na catches your wrist halfway through, so quickly you vaguely choke on the bread that’s only partially down your throat.

“I’ve never seen you laugh,” he looks as surprised as you feel, although probably for a different reason. “I don’t even think you’ve ever smiled at me, specifically.”

“Oh.” You need time to respond, mostly so you can swallow but also because you need to collect yourself from your shock. There seems to be a lot of that going around this morning. “Sorry. Should I do that more often?”

“I mean, if you ask like that, it’s kind of disingenuous,” he laughs. “But I like it. I like knowing you’re not just in a constant state of stress because of me. Feels even more momentous than the toaster thing.” 

He loosens his hold, and you manage to take your hand back, now refusing to meet his eye. “I’m not… stressed by you.”

“Not anymore.”

“Not anymore,” you agree, and he looks particularly delighted when he sees the corners of your lips turn up again. “Not for a while. And not that my opinion matters, but you’ve been performing above expectations, sir.”

“You’re right,” he hums, taking the plate and putting it in the sink — a problem he seems to be saving for later. “It doesn't matter. But I like it, all the same.”

You’re willing to chalk the morning off as a wonderful anomaly, especially since the rest of it passes as it normally does, with a generally quiet car ride (you’ve also learned that Vice President Na likes to listen to rap music on days when he wants to avoid falling asleep in the backseat, which is equal parts amazing and amusing) and a fifteen minute briefing of what he has on his plate today. He disappears for the better part of the morning and even the whole lunch hour, but you expect this because he has a business lunch with the representatives for some Norwegian appliance company that’s looking to break into the Korean market. You can’t imagine many people want a state of the art rice cooker alongside their monthly internet bill, but it’s polite for him to go anyway, and the prospective partner seems very on edge about company secrets. It’s one of those meetings you aren’t allowed to come along to, which means that you’re missing out on a few hours of Vice President Na trying to iron details out with a couple of old guys. 

While you eat, you’re once again struck with the random notion that it feels weird not to be around the Vice President. You’ve been working together regularly and in a very close capacity, which basically means that you’re always in his shadow. It’s the life you were kind of hoping to have at the beginning and were deprived of for a good two years. Now that you have it, it feels weirdly natural — so natural that it’s unnatural to not have his voice ordering you around in that easy tone or his aftershave lingering in the air directly above you. 

You throw the tissue you used to wipe the oil from your egg toast off your mouth onto the table, crumpled and wilted. 

You miss him, which is ridiculous considering you don’t even know what there is to miss. Your relationship, while admittedly lightyears ahead of the starting point it had been at back then (again, not a great standard, considering you didn’t even have a relationship before this period of time), is nothing close to the point of being what it should be for one to miss the other. 

And yet, you look forward to seeing him, watching him do something from afar, helping him whenever he needs you. You like the fact that he still sometimes fakes left when you’re accompanying him back to his office, and you do this thing where you pretend to be annoyed even though it makes you happy to know he won’t go anywhere. You like the little sounds he makes when he eats his super unhealthy corndog as if he’s eating it for the first time every single time (see: very unnerving and slightly disturbing but altogether amusing mmmmmmmmmms). In fact, if you didn’t have a vivid memory of telling him off from way back then, you feel like you could easily convince yourself that things had always been like this — that you two had always been together, happily at work. 

You’re not surprised that he isn’t back from his meeting even when you get back to your desk after lunch, but you do feel a pang of dejectedness that lasts for a few more hours — time which you spend lazily looking over a contract he’d signed yesterday that needs a fair amount of amending and re-signing. It’s hard to pretend to care today, for some reason, especially since your mind keeps going back to peanut butter sandwiches and some ridiculous vision of Vice President Na standing in the middle of your tiny studio apartment’s kitchen area. 

Your reverie’s broken when an envelope falls onto your desk, covering the page of the contract you’d been glassily staring at for the last hour and a half. You’d drawn the same circle about twenty times already, and the paper’s all dented from your efforts. When you look up, Vice President Na is staring down at you, grinning from ear to ear. 

“Miss me?” He drums the envelope, the paper muffling the noise of it all. “Oh? I was joking, but it looks like you actually did. That’s twice in a single day, Secretary ____________. You’re setting a very high record.”

You try to tamp down the smile on your face upon seeing him, clearing your throat so that you have an excuse to press your lips together. You guess it doesn’t work because he just keeps smiling, anyway, or maybe he’s just in a really good mood. “Did your meeting go well, sir?” 

“Is Lotteria the national fastfood chain? Too bad I don’t work for anyone because it kind of feels like I deserve some kind of reward.”

“Could we say that this partnership is its own reward?” 

“It doesn’t have the same ring to it,” he sighs. Once again, his forefinger taps the envelope, calling your attention a little more clearly to it. “I know we’re on a tight schedule for this, and I hate to ask this so late of you, but —”

“Of course, sir; I’ll have it in your hands first thing tomorrow.” 

You’re already gathering it up along with your other (vaguely unfinished) paperwork when his whole palm comes down, trapping the envelope and everything else you’d been intending to carry under it. Your hands go up like you’re being held at gunpoint, your eyes wide. 

“On second thought,” Vice President Na muses, a little too serene for someone who’d just scared the living daylights out of someone else. “How about I take care of the Samsung deal you’re looking over, and you can handle the Norwegian contract?”

“I haven’t… really made a lot of headway with it, if I’m being honest.” You’re hoping he doesn’t ask you why because you’re too embarrassed to come up with a lie on the spot and will inevitably have to confess your random attraction to him under these terrible circumstances if he does. Luckily, he just shrugs.

“All the more reason to split the work, then.”

The still mildly stern part of you is begging to point out that he’s giving you a whole new set of documents to look over anyway, so it’s not even like you’ll have less to do, but the larger, more endeared part of you tells it to shut up and mind its own business. “I thought the crux of our agreement was that you’d never have to work overtime.”

“Because I look like such a stickler for the rules, don’t I?” He snorts, waving you in with the same envelope, and you concede.

Working next to Vice President Na isn’t anything new to you; you’ve been doing it everyday for a while now, especially if he needs you to be quick on call. Ever since you’ve realized his presence makes your heart beat a little faster, you’ve promised yourself not to let that fact show at all when he’s around, something you’ve been quite careful about perfecting. 

Something’s different, though, when it’s after official hours. Maybe it’s because the floor is quieter than it is during the day, so there’s nothing you can listen to but the sound of pen scratching on paper and Vice President Na’s steady breathing. The only real interruption is when Hyunsung knocks on the door to ask if the Vice President is going home; the look on his face is panicked and confused, like a puppy that’s just been dropped off at the mouth of a dumpster site, when he’s told that Vice President Na will drive himself home, so he can just leave the keys. 

Maybe it’s also because it’s pretty dark outside, and while you’ve worked into the night a few times, it’s usually alone or with some other poor sap that has even more backlog than you do — it’s never been just you and the Vice President, who seems supremely unperturbed by the fact that he isn’t at home doing… whatever he does at home after work. You can only guess at it (or wish you knew). 

That makes one of you that’s keeping busy, although you know it should be two. The fact that you’re distracted by his presence all of a sudden is only exacerbated by the mutually exclusive headache that the paperwork you’re looking over gives you. You don’t know why you had expected it to be in Korean, but you and your intermediate level English struggle to keep up with all the little things you have to look through. Sometimes, you can’t tell if the clauses are actually confusing or if you’re just the poor product of your middle school education. It strikes you more than once that Vice President Na had gone through this, somehow, himself — talked to people in a completely different language, probably with ease. You can at least be proud of yourself for being right: for as long as the Vice President puts his mind to something, he’s able to do it — perhaps even well. 

What shocks you after an eternity of silence is the hand that extends towards you, forefinger lightly nudging your chin. You sit up straight like a bolt of lighting had gone through you, meeting Vice President Na’s thoroughly and inexplicably amused expression. Your jaw slackens in shock, but his finger just stays there, like it isn’t invading your personal space. Like it just belongs there.

“What are you doing?”

“What—” you splutter, bemused at the fact that you hadn’t asked the question first. “What are you doing?”

“You keep moving your mouth. What — are you praying or something?”

“No, I —-” You gesture at the contract page you’ve been trying to stumble through for the past twenty minutes. “No, I’m just… I’m reading?”

“You’re…” The start of a laugh escapes him, and you really don’t know what’s so funny. “You’re reading aloud?”

“I wasn’t making any noise, I think,” you grumble, sounding a little more defensive than you’d care to admit. 

“You read silently aloud, then.” His eyes twinkle at this information, although why it should elicit this reaction also completely escapes you. “Why? Because it helps you memorize it or something?”

“My English isn’t that great,” you admit begrudgingly, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “Sometimes I need to mouth the words to understand it.”

And he does the most outrageous, inexplicable thing: he gently cups your chin, making sure you can’t turn your head to look away in embarrassment. Now you have to look at him, red in the face and close to exploding. 

“Don’t you think that’s a little too much, miss secretary?”

You can’t ask what; your voice isn’t working. You just open and close your mouth around the syllable, and after a couple of attempts, he starts copying you, evidently having a better time than you are based on the grin stretched across his face.

“What? What? That you’re doing something this cute in front of me is what I mean. You’re obviously going overboard, and I don’t think it’s very nice.”

He retracts his hand as quickly as he’d used it to close the distance between you, and your hand immediately comes up in its place, almost cupping your jaw like he did. It definitely doesn’t give you the same tingly feeling, so that’s an obvious bust.

You and Vice President Na have a sudden staring contest with amended rules: you blink a hundred times a minute at him while he laughs quietly, leaning back on his chair like he doesn’t have a care in the world. It confuses you and kind of enrages you, but you also find your heart thumping away in your ears like it’s trying very hard to remind you that Na Jaemin makes you feel alive. 

“I— I just—”

“Coffee? I could use some coffee. You look like you could use some too.” He stands, buttoning his blazer with one hand like he has someplace important to go. You’re still so shell-shocked that you don’t even try to stand up to help him, a fact which he notices very clearly. “Oh no, I’ll do you this favor. You sit tight and read your contract. I’ll be back. Keep doing that cute thing with your mouth.” 

Vice President Na finds you exactly as he left you: still wondering if you should be offended at his teasing or enamored by his touch and, more importantly, what the hell his deal is. You have a million questions that need answering, but the only thing you blubber out when he comes back is “Why?” 

“Because you’re amazingly fun to tease,” he responds simply. “And because it’s true. I find it extremely cute. I find you very cute, Secretary _____________, in a kind of good girl, cool girl kind of way. It’s a little confusing to me too, but I think this slightly stern but overall gentle aesthetic of yours is actually growing on me a little.”

“Sir, I—”

“While we’re taking a break,” he interrupts you. You guess it’s probably the right time for a break considering there’s no way you can work in peace now. “Do you constantly have to call me that?” 

“What else would I call you?”

“My name,” he suggests, taking a sip of coffee. You ignore the shit, that’s hot that comes out of him as he puts the paper cup down gingerly on his desk, looking a little bit betrayed by his drink. “Jaemin. Many people call me that.”

“People who are close to you, you mean. Like your family or… your friends.”

“Are you saying you don’t think we’re close? Or that we aren’t friends?”

“Sir, I work for you.” 

“So by that alone, we simply can’t be friends? Et al?I think you really are being too much now, Secretary ____________.” He folds his arms across his chest, tutting disapprovingly as he leans back on the edge of his desk. You try not to think too hard about the fact that he does it very close to you, at an angle optimal for viewing the leanness of his form. “After all those times you broke into my house—”

“To get you ready for work.”

“— walked into my bedroom—”

“Only whenever necessary—”

“— gone through my things while I’m half naked in bed like you’re trying to organize a charity drive—”

“Because you need to get dressed, not because I have some perverted agenda —”

“—eaten the food off my kitchen counter, too—”

“You told me to!” You get to your feet, the contract slipping from your lap in your enthusiasm to defend yourself. “You offered it to me!”

Whatever happens next is completely out of your control, and you know this because the room spins without you moving by your own will. Vice President Na must have been an expert dancer in his past life, or something, because after that one dizzying moment, you find yourself leaning against the edge of the table he had been just a second ago. Warm hands are on your waist, tucked under your cardigan, the heat bleeding through your shirt. 

And the Vice President’s smile is inches away from your face, still mischievous but much gentler than any other time before. 

You’re not sure if you’re paralyzed or if you just don’t want to move, but the reason doesn’t affect the outcome: all you can do is stare up at him, once again dumbfounded after a small outpouring of words that ends in some kind of forced defeat. Except this particular surrender doesn’t feel so sore, for some reason. 

“Even when you’re angry, you’re still pretty, you know that?”

“I wasn’t… angry,” you mumble under your breath, afraid that talking louder will scare him off. You don’t even think he’s listening all that much to you, considering that all he does is tuck your hair behind your left ear and completely change the topic. 

“So, tell me, Secretary ____________. Is this still a situation where we’re not close at all?” He pauses for a moment, probably to let you answer, but you don’t say anything. You’re pretty sure your swallowing nervously is the only true sound you make. He seems to be eager to do a lot of the talking anyway, which is absolutely fine by you. “Or have I completely misread all your cute little signals?”

“Well — no, but I didn’t send any signals.” Obvious ones, at least. You’d been pretty sure you had tried to keep it under wraps as much as possible, but you’re starting to realize it’s a little possible you’re not as great at pretending as you think you are. 

“Not on purpose, probably. Although you really almost got me with the one-man show vibe you have during lunch hour.”

“I… didn’t think you knew, if I’m being honest.” Honesty is the only thing you have right now, anyway, especially since Vice President Na has pretty much confirmed, in his own way, that he knows about how you feel. Now you can only wonder if he’d noticed before you even came to terms with it yourself, and the thought of that being a real possibility urges you to grab the still-steaming cup of coffee and douse yourself with its contents. 

“For a while, I was pretty sure you were messing with me. I would never,” he adds just as you say it too, mimicking your astounded tone up to the lilt. “Which is why I started thinking about why else you might be looking at me so intently. You weren’t sitting there objectifying me, were you, miss secretary?”

“Sir, I would never,” you repeat, and he mouths the same words again in his amusement, although silently this time. 

“I think I would have been okay with it if you were. Or would be, even until now. For the record.” 

“I wasn’t.” 

“You sure? No shame in it. Totally fine. Not sure about anyone else, but I’m totally okay if someone else thinks I’m eye candy in the privacy of their own minds. I am, I think, a fine specimen of a human, if I do say so myself.”

“I really wasn’t, sir.”

“You should have, then. Lost opportunities.”” 

“I could argue that I was just worried you’d leave and not come back.”

“You know I wouldn’t do that to you,” he hums. “Not anymore, anyway.” 

The ‘to you’ is what stumps you into another silent spell, but this time, Vice President Na doesn’t attempt to fill in the void. He just starts running his eyes over your face, like he’s trying to read something there or maybe memorize your features, or something. At some point, you start thinking about how this kind of silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, contrary to your expectations and with interesting consideration of the fact that he’s still holding your hips. Apart from the idle skimming of his thumb over the curve of your pelvic bone, he doesn’t move — nearer or closer, which is probably for the best since you don’t know which one you really want more at this point.

Again, when you gather some part of your wits, the only thing you still know how to ask is “Why?”

“Because,” he replies immediately, simply, like the answer has always been very clear and you’ve just been too ignorant to figure it out. “You said that I could, not that I had to.” 

It’s hot. Isn’t it hot? You don’t know what he’s talking about, but your body already reacts on principle, and you have to stand-half-lean there with your entire face burning and Vice President Na’s body heat washing over yours like an electric blanket.

“I don’t know what that means, sir.”

“It means I didn’t do this for my dad or just because you told me off in the comfort of my own office.” He bites down on his lower lip to keep himself from laughing (yet again) at you as he witnesses, from the best seat in the house, your face turning almost purple with the effort of keeping down your embarrassment. “Although that played a bit of a factor in it. I couldn’t tell if it was rude of you to say so much or kind of cute that you did despite knowing you were being rude. But that’s besides the point.”

Good, you think. If he manages to hit you with another cute in this timeframe, you may easily cease to exist. 

“You know firsthand, anyway, what my dad always says. You must take on the responsibility you were born with. You have to do your job. You must remember that you owe your life to my achievements.” He mimics his father’s gruff, booming voice amusingly well, to the point that you can’t stop yourself from laughing. His facade breaks easily, and you think you hear him mumble cute under his breath again, although you choose to ignore it so your knees don’t buckle completely (something that you think would be very embarrassing with you so close to him). “I don’t think he’s ever once said an encouraging word to my face. And if there’s anything I can confidently say I won’t do, it’s doing what people only say I need to do. It’s my life, you know what I mean? I’ll do what I want.” 

“You’re saying you suddenly wanted to work because I said you could?” 

“More like I wanted to see if you were right.” He muses. “I was pretty sure I didn’t have the personality for it. Or the attention span. Or the skill, either.”

“I think a couple of those things are still up in the air, sir.”

“One compliment and you’re already gunning for another insubordination report.” Vice President Na’s voice is a low, casual hum, but you notice the grip around your waist tightens for a brief moment. “At first, I figured I’d just show up to get everyone off my back, but I realized along the way that I’m pretty good at this being at the helm business. I’m sure you’ll agree. Hopefully because you want to, not because you also have to.”

“I do agree.” Your reply is wholehearted, and the Vice President’s smile widens. Your chest swells so much that you think you might explode right in front of him. “Because I want to.”

“Please don’t misunderstand me, miss secretary. I’m not attributing all my successes to your impulsive words.” He teases, although his eyes stay gentle despite his tone. “The efforts were still all mine. However, I’m not too proud to admit I had a very responsible first mate by my side, for whom I am very grateful. Although I hope this doesn’t mean she’ll pluck up the courage to ask for a raise considering how well I pay her. I think. Does she get paid well? Maybe I should ask Park Jinhee from accounting.” 

“She won’t,” you laugh softly, not missing the fact that he’s finally learned her name. “And she’s not really doing this for the salary, even if it is a nice bonus.” 

“What’s she doing it for, then?” 

As a job, this was really mostly about yourself — or it was, in the beginning. You’d terrorized Vice President Na to some degree because of the innate tendency towards self-preservation, and when that felt a little one-sided, you also considered everyone who might lose their jobs if the department got cut. It had been, for the most part, an act of pure desperation, so strong that you were willing to point fingers and raise your voice (only a few decibels, because you’re not a crazy person) at your boss. Now… that wasn’t really part of the equation. Maybe you had gotten used to the fact that the Vice President wouldn’t be going anywhere, so you’d stopped worrying about your and everyone else’s jobs, which all seem to be on a smooth path alongside the captain of the ship.

But if you had to be honest to yourself, part of the reason you’d grown a bit complacent about thinking about the fate of the department also had to do with the fact that you genuinely enjoyed being next to the Vice President. Mornings spent helping him prepare for work were regular highlights in your week, and the looks of approval you received from him every time you helped him finish a particularly difficult task were second to none. Always being close to him, always being the first and last to see him in the day, simply being able to look at him -– silly as that all sounds, they now play an undeniable factor in your desire to wake up and go to the office every single day. 

“I did it for you.” You answer, and because the answer’s honest, it feels completely natural to say. A pause slowly lengthens between you two, though not nearly as tense or borderline uncomfortable as you thought it might be this time around. A slow smile stretches over the Vice President’s face, but his words don’t easily take the straightforward route this time, either.

“Should I take up with the human resources department the fact that you’re outright breaching the terms of our contractual workplace relationship? How am I?” He speaks over, with you again, your voices overlapping. You can’t help it — you laugh at the absurdity of how well he’s come to know your responses, from the word choice to the lilt in your voice that signals some level of affront. When, exactly, did Vice President Na start committing the things you said and did into memory? “You’re seducing me, miss secretary. Before you say you’re not — you are. You are, without even knowing it. You’re winning me over, telling me all these sweet nothings to tickle my heart — I believe in you, Jaemin. I love working with you, Jaemin. I did it all for you, Jaemin, because you’re obviously the best in the whole world, ho ho ho.”

“I never said it like that.” 

“You might as well have.” 

“Should I stop believing in you so that we can avoid a scene, then, or is the damage to your good standing too far gone?”

“Rather than stopping something already in full motion, I think it might be better to make certain amendments to our current agreement.” Vice President Na reaches for the pen tucked into his breast pocket — the gold clip catches the fluorescent light and momentarily blinds you as he brings it up between you. He brings it to one side, then to another, and your eyes follow it, amused but also admittedly a bit hypnotized.

“What kind of trance are you putting me under, sir?”

“The kind that gets you to stop calling me that,” he chuckles. “Among other, more important things on my agenda.” 

You have an excellent view of Vice President Na’s stellar smile from the back of the meeting room. 

The deal he closes three days later goes even better than expected; not only does he bring Amazon into the fold after weeks of (surprisingly consistent) hard work and no small amount of beguiling charm (owing to the fact that he’d offended said Amazon representatives earlier on in his still relatively short-lived career), but he also manages to snag Samsung Electronics’ participation. As an already existing subscriber to the company-provided phone plan, you’re pleased to find out that you’re entitled to twelve guilt-free months of Prime Video as part of a new promotional deal, which you can now enjoy on nights you aren’t working overtime — something you’ve racked up more of as you’ve found yourself striking more of a work-life balance, thanks in large part to the Vice President’s steadily active involvement in all things on the ‘work’ aspect of the scale. Your first goal is to finally get past the first episode of an animation everyone in the department is raving about (but that you haven’t seen more than five minutes of, in actuality, because the horrible subtitles and sluggish 144px stop motion-esque have, until recently, adamantly deterred you from enjoying anything about the story).

Standing a fair distance away from the executives, you wait for the flurry of handshakes and accompanying congratulatory statements to die down; it takes quite a while, considering the sheer volume of people, and the thickest throng has come to gather around Vice President Na. At one point, all you can see of him is the slightly unruly lick of hair that’s sticking out above the rest of the considerable crowd of balding men around him (the sole crow’s feather a mountain range of gray). All their voices overlap, and you’re only able to catch key phrases — brilliant young mind… knack for business! … just like the President… bright future ahead, you know? 

Fifteen minutes of conversation and bellowing guffaws pass before Vice President Na emerges, adjusting the front of his blazer as a result of too much handshaking. Behind him, still speaking to one of the  marketing executives, is President Na, who shoots his son a surreptitious look you’ve never seen him wear in your considerable number of years in the company’s employ  — one of triumph and pride. The Vice President, however, is intently loosening his tie and scanning the room, stretching himself just a fraction taller above everyone else to get a better view throughout. 

You wait, wondering if he’s looking to speak to someone, lost in that host of black and gray suits — the Amazon media director, perhaps, or the in-house designer that also seems to be trying to catch his eye, for some reason (you sense the needy greed for a sudden promotion that seems highly unlikely in such a setting), but even though his vision passes over them, however briefly, Vice President Na doesn’t seem satisfied.

That is, until his eyes land on the corner of the room you and Secretary Son have backed yourselves into to allow the higher-ups room to mingle. 

One beat later, and the corners of his mouth are pulled up — a soft, knowing smile directed in your general direction. You glance at Secretary Son, maybe out of instinct, maybe somehow out of panic — as though you worry she’ll somehow come to chastise you, but she’s too busy trying to re-buckle her thin coat belt with rapid-fire tsks. She seems acceptably preoccupied, so your eyes flit back to the Vice President, whose eyebrows are now slightly raised, the telltale signs of a growing grin now playing on his lips as the front of his teeth begin to peek out from the seam. Another cock of his eyebrows, lifting them higher, tells you he’s waiting for some kind of message — an indication that you see him too, maybe, or… perhaps, oddly, any sign that you’re as proud of him as everyone else in the room is. 

You can’t help it  — you laugh, louder than you’d have originally liked to, a hand coming up over your mouth as Secretary Son’s head snaps up from her waist, bamboozled at your quick but sudden outburst. She throws you a look that suggests she firmly believes your mind has snapped, quite like a stale breadstick in a derelict Italian restaurant, but it’s worth it; Vice President Na looks satisfied at this — though, why he would be, you haven’t a true clue. 

As the managers and members of the board file out of the room, both you and Secretary Son inch closer to your respective direct superiors; you both stand a few steps away as the last of the executives drag their feet, still hoping to share one last handshake with either of the two, until an elderly Mrs. Kwon’s surprisingly firm grip is finally shaken off by a sheepish President Na. He turns to his son, who’s still hosting the remnants of a genial smile on his lips, clearly poised to say something. For some reason, you expect the senior to berate the former, simply out of sheer habit, but he does nothing of the sort. 

“Jaemin-ah,” his voice is gruff but not at all begrudging; it’s a low rumble of triumph. “Who’d’ve thought? My boy… you brat…”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental now, dad,” the Vice President teases, to which the President chortles heartily. 

“Old men like me have the right, much more than anyone else.” You’ve never seen the President wear an expression even remotely close to softness, but you see it in his gaze now; it strikes you, then, that although you’ve always known the two to be related, this is the first time you can confidently say they resemble each other to the cores of their being — a view of happiness, somewhat mirrored in each of them. “I’m proud of you, son. You did everything I hoped you would — no, no… more than that, even.” 

“I’ll take most of the praise, thanks,” Vice President Na replies with his characteristic cheek. For a moment, so quickly you think you may have missed it, his eyes flicker to you. “But I can’t say I could’ve done it alone.” 

“Punk,” President Na snorts, yanking on his son’s earlobe; you and Secretary Son have to avert your eyes with expert speed to avoid being caught snickering at the slightly juvenile “ow, dammit,” that the Vice President groans out. “One big closed deal, and your head’s this big? I better not catch you floating away to a Las Vegas casino after all this.” 

“Give me some credit; I’d at least visit the desert first.” This time, when the Vice President glances at you, his father’s head turns too, and you stand up straighter at the unprecedented onslaught of attention. “Besides, I’ve got someone here to keep me anchored now.”

“Good work, Secretary ____________,” President Na offers you a rare smile that truly has you feeling like the world has turned upside down: the President in an agreeable (almost ecstatic, though you’d never say that out loud) mood, the Vice President doing his job not just in general but actually commendably well, and not a single strand of baby hair sticking up from out of your ponytail. Inconceivable. 

You bow, murmuring a thank you, and Secretary Son quickly follows suit for the formality of it all before she strides over to the President, who’s leaving his son with one last thunder-like clap on the back before he’s leaving the meeting room, still jovial when he catches up with the suspiciously lagging figure of Mrs. Kwon by the door. 

Vice President Na starts to follow suit, walking towards the other end of the meeting room; you quickly scurry behind him, still clutching your tablet, blinking a low battery warning, to your chest. You’ve come to grow accustomed to the ‘secretary’s pace’ over the last few weeks as well — always close enough to help, never too close enough to step on a superior’s toes.

But in the moment you fumble to silence your device, you end up stepping into someone’s shadow; glancing up at the Vice President, you find yourself looking at not the familiar view of his back but that of his side profile (one you’re actually also familiar with, though you refuse to admit to the level of familiarity). He’s slowed his pace considerably, allowing you to naturally fall into step with him, and even this, he expects a response from you somehow — he asks for it with yet another wiggle of his eyebrows. You laugh again, shaking your head, and yet, inexplicably, it seems to be exactly the reaction he hopes to see.

The department floor erupts into applause when the two of you pass through the glass doors; a flash of mollification crosses the Vice President’s features before he’s back to his signature light humor, raising a palm up in receipt of praise. Park Jinhee is clapping with only her left hand smacking the side of her mug, a few drops of coffee streaming down the handle side on impact. One of the team managers rushes forward, eager to shake Vice President Na’s hand, and, riding his high, also yours, pumping it up and down with so much vigor that you mumble a quiet ow behind a strained smile. Only the Vice President’s hand on your shoulder, steering you away, saves you from what feels like possible dislocation. 

He’s still waving at them like this is a pageant and not his day job, even as he guides you towards his office door; you have to use your elbows to push it open and effectively help you both avoid ramming into frosted glass. The applause dies down as your somewhat conjoined figures disappear through the doorway — you first, albeit convolutedly, your heel still holding strong in the job of keeping the door wide open enough for Vice President Na to saunter through before you let it swing shut to a now relatively silent office floor. 

His hold on your shoulder doesn’t let up, though; it’s still urging you forward, towards his desk, and you open your mouth to say something along the lines of I’m gonna break my hip if we keep going this way, but just as your throat conjures up the first syllable, he turns you around, letting you rest light against the edge of the table. 

In a pattern reminiscent of three days prior, Vice President Na’s hand finds its way to your waist, utterly comfortable in a way that mystifies you; he acts like it belongs there, as natural as the smile that’s still playing on his lips. 

“Sir, you realize it’s the middle of the day?” 

“You realize that we had a deal,” he corrects you, brow furrowing in feigned sternness. “Hold up your end of it, miss secretary.” 

“Only if you stop calling me that.” 

“Now, that absolutely was not part of the contract.” 

When you laugh this time, he chimes in; there’s a harmony in your voices that has your posture softening. You feel airier, your heart much lighter, and when you look up at him, you can’t help but flush at his expectant gaze. 

“You realize it’s the middle of the day,” you repeat, carefully, the words suddenly somewhat unfamiliar on your tongue — the next two syllables, most of all. “Jae… min.” 

Odd as it is, you’re rewarded with the pleased look that takes over his features; he takes a moment to exaggeratedly revel in this new occurrence. 

“Better. Much better. You could still be a bit more comfortable with it, I’d say, but… baby steps?” 

“Please re-prioritize your day, si— Jaemin.” The terse tone you’re going for is brutally marred by your blunder, which has his shoulders shaking from laughter. “Someone could very easily walk in.” 

“Who’s going to fire me?”

“I can think of one person.”

“You heard him. I’m proud of you, Jaemin. You’ve completely exceeded my expectations, Jaemin. You are the light of my life — my favorite son, Jaemin, ho, ho, ho.”

“Sir,” you sigh. “You’re his only son.”

“We had a deal,” he repeats, letting the return to habits slide, and there’s a laughably childish air to his words. “I’ll… file an insubordination report. Breach of contract as well. Tsk, tsk, miss secretary. Not on such a momentous occasion.” 

“Some might classify this as threatening behavior.” Your eyes are soft, though, when they meet his humored gaze. “If you want a reward… ask a little more nicely.”

A soft snort — his fingers dig lightly into your waist, and the next second, he’s lifting you off your feet and settling you lightly atop his desk. his palms never leave you, even after you’ve been placed; they’re increasingly warm beyond the fabric of your top. 

“____________,” he murmurs, saying your name so naturally that you could almost believe he’s referred to you as nothing else for as long as you’ve known him. “Kiss me.” 

Your own hands find their way behind his neck, but he does most of the work in closing the gap anyway; you’re not even sure who, between the two of you, gave that first sigh of longing, of relief. Perhaps it was both of you, all at once. 

Jaemin still tastes like the coffee you’d given him this morning — not a trace of richness, but a bittersweet and earthy twang that’s signature post-Americano. There’s even a hint of mintiness from the nervous handful of Tic Tacs he’d had just before the meeting started; you find that out the moment his tongue swipes against yours, leaving behind the invisible bite of menthol. And then there’s you, a clean taste that settles against his teeth, subtle first but growing stronger until you’re satisfied with the notion that you may linger there for some time — even after you pull away, slightly breathless.

“Congratulations to me,” he breathes out, trademark grin flashing bright again. “So what happens if I close next month’s Disney Plus deal?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer; his hand’s already skimming down, over your hips, following the path of your thigh. Your hand reaches out on instinct to stop him, but he’s oddly more aware of his surroundings than you give him credit for (or maybe, you’re just that predictable to him). He meets your palm, fingers lacing into yours and allowing him to lift your wrist to his lips. There, you feel the warmth of his kiss again, and he uses his hold to bring himself even closer, until he’s able to press his face into your neck. 

“Sir—”

“Jaemin. You call me Jaemin from now on, remember?”

“Sir.” You’re adamant. “It’s work hours.”

“You’re not tense.” 

He doesn’t move his head; in fact, you feel him burying his face further into your shoulder. In this position, there’s no real way for you to pull away — there’s also no real desire for you to do so, anyway. 

“No, I’m not.”

“Good.” Warmth again on your skin — his lips leave an invisible mark just above your collarbone. “I like you best like this.”

“What? Not tense?”

“Happy,” he corrects for accuracy. “Happy that you’re with me.” 

You fall silent, not because you’re not sure of what to say, but because you don’t need to tell him that he’s right. 

Moments later, his fingers find their way into your ponytail; the index hooks into the elastic, bringing your hair down. You feel his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, he’s inhaling your perfume again. 

“Green tea. Something floral. Jasmine? Maybe a little bit of citrus.” He lifts his head but stays close, warm breath washing over you. “It’s so you. Fresh. Pure. Beautiful.” 

The gap between the two of you doesn’t last for too long thereafter; he kisses you again, and your heart lifts to find that your taste still lingers somewhere there. It’s longer because it’s slower — less playful and more exploratory, until he pulls away to a much more breathless you. How he finds the air to talk even after is miraculous to you. 

“Be mine, miss secretary.” 

You blink — once, twice, at his serious expression, wondering if it will break and give way to more humor. But he waits, unwavering, until the last piece of resistance you’ve clung onto is washed away — the last thing that made you, for a second, deny that you were in love with him. 

His smile slowly mirrors yours as it grows. 

“Like you could ever get rid of me, Na Jaemin.” 

a lesson on style - vi . [ ljn | njm ]

pt. i, pt. ii, pt. iii, pt. iv., pt. v, pt. vi

you’ve always been content with being associated with one word and one word only: average. average in looks, academics and social skills, you’re just looking to graduate high school without causing disasters you’ll have to live with until you kick the bucket. when you’re paired with school king lee jeno for the semester-long physics thesis, you can’t help but think the entire situation has pretty much set itself up for failure. that is, until you strike a deal with your partner. 

alternatively: an au tale involving lessons in popularity, eleven consecutive B­ minuses, a secretly sensitive, chess­-loving jock, and an amateur sex tape.

pairing: jeno x fem!reader, jaemin x fem!reader verse: high school au { jocks!nomin ft. a super cute whiny ap physics genius renjun } rating: M chapter warnings: none word count: 8.1k

author’s note: this was actually supposed to go on for a lot longer but... it might've reached a solid 13-15k and i just thought it would be better to split it into half-ish, so nothing major happens, although i definitely enjoyed yet another mc/jaemin real talk session that i also hope you enjoy! :^)

tagging: @justalildumpling, @spiderrenjunfics (no longer available, please give me your new url if you're still interested!)

You think now is as good a time as any for you to say something that’ll easily impact the trajectory of your life forever; after all, Jeno’s essentially given you the floor after such a strange and honestly shocking turn of events. You’re aware of the fact that his thumb is still traveling across your cheek, more idle as an action than anything else, but you seem to be experiencing the feeling as something closer to an out-of-body experience than an actual first-hand one; the tingles they send to your heart are weird and blurry, like your body can’t process his touch well enough to understand it fully. You suppose it’s because of your confusion at what he’s saying, which leads to your second option: asking him what he means. 

There’s little to interpret at face value, but what his words do is essentially unlock a torrent of other weird questions in your head. For instance: how long had he known that you liked him? Had he known this entire time? Did something you did make it painfully obvious? If he wants you to like him — and, as he says, only him — does that mean he’s essentially accepting your feelings? Does this mean… he likes you back? 

You assume this is one of those moments where, because your mind is going a million miles a minute, a lot of time feels like it’s passed even though it’s just been a small handful of seconds. This assumption is quickly broken by Jeno’s expression of concern. 

“_______________? Say… something.”

“Um,” you start before you can even figure out what you want to say. The easiest answer comes to mind: It’s always only been you. But that’s weird, and this isn’t a 90’s Western movie, and if it were, you certainly wouldn’t be the eloquent main romance interest, even if Jeno’s gaze could easily fool you into thinking that. You think about making a joke, but you’re befuddled and also fresh from tears that — if Jeno’s abrupt story is actually true — were totally useless and unfounded in nature. 

Also, you’re really not that funny to begin with.  

“I just…” you try again, and his eyebrows raise slightly in anticipation for your next words. Nothing else comes out after a few seconds, though, and he realizes this is just another false start, his hand falling onto your shoulder (maybe he’s tired of trying to coax it out of you with the thumb-on-cheek method, which admittedly had you clamping up more than anything else). 

“You can just tell me how you really f—”

“I think I have to go.” 

No. No. Why would you say that? The surprise on his face quickly morphs into something that looks almost crestfallen, an expression you’d never imagine seeing on bright, confident Lee Jeno, let alone ever be the cause of. His hand slips from your shoulder quickly, like he’s now worried touching you will electrocute him. 

“Oh. I’m sorry — I didn’t… mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m… I’m not.” You’re not, are you? “Maybe a little, but it isn’t really you —”

“Something I said, then—?”

“No, I…” Your fingernail digs into the pad of your thumb, with you trying to use the sting of the pain to jolt you out of this nervous, inarticulate state. “I just don’t think… I have anything of value to say right now.”

“What makes you think that?” 

“Because…” Grappling for words is like trying to break through the surface of water; you’re almost there, but somehow you’re still floundering, and that only seems to be making it much worse. “Because I never really thought about what I’d do… if you really found out I liked you.” 

When you say it, it suddenly makes sense. For some reason, you’d always lived your life shuttling between point A (liking Jeno quietly in the comfort of your own mind palace) and point Z (fantasizing about your life with him where you live in a quaint townhouse with a cute mailbox and three kids), but you’d never really given much thought to all the points in between, especially not one that contains a scenario in which he’d find out and seemingly be okay with it, which, based on the current conversation, somehow seems like a reasonable thing to assume about him. 

You’ve always wanted it — him knowing, him accepting it, maybe even him liking you back —  but it kind of felt like, deep down, you hadn’t really believed it would ever happen. 

And you were kind of content with that, because you wouldn’t ever really have to deal with the complications of it. Right now, you’re feeling unprepared and a little exposed, weirdly vulnerable to his gaze. It once again, for the hundredth time tonight, it seems, triggers some kind of flight instinct in you that has you looking anywhere but at him all of a sudden. 

“You can think about it… now,” he suggests carefully. Being put on the spot doesn’t really ever bring out the best in you — a fact that might be known to people who were actually paying attention to your failed impromptu speech about whale hunting in your sixth grade English class — so you just pretend that the silhouette of Jaemin’s front yard tree is supremely interesting to you all of a sudden, never mind the fact that it’s about a few inches from Jeno’s ear from your vantage point. You don’t really want to see his expression right now, especially if that means it’ll only fluster you back into speechlessness. 

“I don’t really know if I can,” you admit. From your peripheral vision, you see what seems like a flash of discomfort pass across Jeno’s face; you’re sure you just imagined it, considering you’ve never imagined cool, aloof, king of your heart Lee Jeno as exuding anything other than utmost confidence. Still, his next words do make you question that notion twice over. 

“Did I… misunderstand something? Is it that you don’t have feelings for me?” 

“No, I… you know. I… yeah, I do, but I just —”

“You’re seeing someone else?” 

“No,” you say more fiercely, and for a brief moment, you’re so appalled at the thought that your eyes flicker to his, which ends up being a terrible mistake because the confusion in his gaze is so profound that the guilt in you swells tenfold. 

“Because I thought… maybe the reason Renjun and you —”

“He’s — honest to God — he’s just my friend.” 

“And Jaemin is…?”

“My… next door neighbor?” You blink rapidly at the lights still coming from his house, wondering now what Jaemin has to do with all of this in the first place. For someone who seems like he would be extremely uninvolved in this general progress of events, he seems to crop up time and again, weirdly always around when you need someone. Maybe it’s a neighbor thing, or maybe he’s a little nosier than you thought. But thinking about another element in this situation is starting to give you a headache, and you’re way past the time you’re usually already in bed avoiding homework and watching shitty dating reality shows instead. “I don’t really understand what he has to do with this either. I just don’t think I’m prepared to have this conversation at all.”

“But you like me, don’t you?” 

It’s weird, actually, now that you think about it — why does he have to confirm the fact time and time again? It’s almost like he’s worried, although you can’t imagine why he would be. More than anything, you’d kind of assumed that he would find that information pretty repellent, but with the way he’s asking in earnest, it almost seems like he wants to keep the knowledge of that like a talisman. 

“I do,” you admit, mostly because it’s out in the open, but also partially because you’ve made the mistake of looking at him again, and you start wondering how he could even wonder when everyone seems to like him (you, perhaps, to a somewhat unhealthy degree). 

“More than them?” 

“I—” Your brow furrows, another wave of confusion washing over you. But his eyes are much too honest in their questioning, and you speak before anything else can come to mind. “More than anyone, Jeno.”

What looks oddly like relief settles on his face, and you notice only then that his shoulders have been tensed up because he seems to relax them all of a sudden. “Oh. Good. Great. So listen, now that we’re on the same page, I—”

Jeno’s interrupted by one of the guys in a university sweater calling out to him from across the two lawns, voice booming to a degree that sets off a few annoyed dogs in your area. Jeno raises a hand to signal him to wait, his mouth still open on whatever words he wanted to complete his sentence with, but the sounds he was trying to make quickly die into silence anyway, drowned out by a huge crash inside Jaemin’s house. 

You’re not entirely certain of what he wants to say — on the bright side, he could have been ramping up to a point that could easily make all your dreams from middle school to now a perfect reality, but he also could have been setting you up for some kind of grand, embarrassing failure — not by his design or by malice but just by the pointing out of the fact that you two lead different lives and things would likely never work out, anyway, but it’d be cool that you liked him in your own time, and he’d allow it as long as you didn’t get drool all over his notebook in class. 

Either way, you don’t think now, with a bunch of inebriated college people shouting profanities on Jaemin’s lawn and a gaggle of high school kids panicking about what sounds to be a broken table and a whole bunch of pizza on the floor, is the best time to be processing those things.

“I actually,” Jeno turns his gaze to you again, strangely alert, like you’d just whistled for a dog’s attention. You’ve never seen him like this, and it’s weird to think that, at this awkward moment, you can still find him painfully endearing. You have to shake yourself out of the grip of the already beckoning force that tells you to sigh dreamily about how adorable he is. “Think I should really be heading inside. Looks like they also need you for some kind of damage control, anyway.”

The same college kid calls for Jeno again, dragging out the vowels of his name kind of annoyingly. Jeno sighs, nodding slowly enough for you to know he’s caught on — this probably isn’t the right time to have such a weirdly heavy conversation.

“Yeah. I probably need to help clean up, anyway. No one’s going to want to do it, and Jaemin’s already chewed me out for bailing on mop duty a few times.”

“Why’d you bail?” 

“Just… got busy, personally.” He looks sheepish, and it doesn’t take a bunch of lightbulbs going off for you to cotton on as well. Now, you’re just wishing you hadn’t asked, so you didn’t ever have to imagine it. Still, what’s done is done. You have to focus on keeping the discomfort out of your face this time. “Um… that’s not important, though. Anyway —I’ll talk to you soon, okay, ________________? Like… maybe we can catch up at school? You know, talk about our thing — the project, I mean — and like… et cetera?”

“Yeah, for sure.” Your smile’s weak, and so is your joke, but you should at least try to hold up casual pretenses as much as he does, even though he’s obviously much better at it. “I’ll tell on you to Hwang if you don’t, you know.” 

His laugh is soft, but it at least sounds genuine; his smile still reaches his eyes, which already makes your heart feel a little lighter. But instead of trekking off immediately, he lingers, strangely, until his grin winnows down into just the ghost of a smile on his lips. Even weirder are his hands, slightly outstretched towards your waist, like he’s trying to cross the gap between you (even if it’s admittedly very minimal) but suddenly decides not to. The result is him looking strangely stiff and uncharacteristically hesitant, but you chalk it up to him simply not knowing how to end such a weirdly situated conversation. You know you’d have an even worse time doing it if it were up to you, so you can’t really blame him. 

In the end, he closes the dialogue with ‘see you around, ________________,’ and a quick pat on the shoulder, which, if you think about it, seems a little disappointingly different from when he’d had his hand against your cheek a few minutes ago. Then again, you’re not sure you could handle something like that again, anyway. 

You watch him walk off back towards Jaemin’s house, and some pitiful, pathetic part of you is expecting him to look back, say one last goodbye to you, or something, but the university guy that had belted his name out so vigilantly just swings an arm around Jeno’s neck and drags him to a corner where a bunch of other similarly dressed people, to whom Jeno starts talking to almost immediately. 

Cutting this conversation short was probably for the best, anyway; you have no idea what he would have said, but you’re very sure you wouldn’t have been prepared for it either way. You trudge into your house and up into your room, already mentally prepared to spend the rest of the night obsessively mulling over what it all meant and what he had really been planning to say at the end. The process starts some time in the shower, while you’re shampooing your hair and you embarrassingly remember the feeling of Jeno’s hand tangled in it. The moony expression that the thought of it leaves on your face is present up until you see how stupid it looks in the fogged up bathroom mirror. 

Renjun still hasn’t texted you, which is honestly starting to be a source of mild anxiety because you can’t be sure if he’s dead in a ditch somewhere or just ignoring you for some unknown reason. Whatever it is, you leave like three messages wondering where he’s at and asking him to call you. You’re on your fourth message, which is asking to confirm about tomorrow’s movie (something you’d almost forgotten about save for the fact that you’d remembered this would be a point of argument for you both once again if you spaced on it) when a notification pops up that once again gives you a heart attack. 

Lee Jeno: u looked pretty tonight, btw :) 

You: oh!! thank you…!

You: you looked great tonight too…! :) 

Lee Jeno: haha… cute :) 

Lee Jeno: goodnight, ____________ :) 

This is the most emojis you’ve ever seen used in a single brief conversation, and you can’t help but feel like it might be a little juvenile, but it doesn’t even matter because Lee freaking Jeno called you pretty and cute in the span of five minutes. Your thumbs are shaking as you type back a typo-laden goodnight that takes you a full other minute just to edit before waiting a little more, but nothing else comes. Maybe he’s driving home, or something. You toss your phone onto your bed, away from easy reach, before you can start overthinking what this silence means again. 

Your reflection in your window mirrors the same scene you’d encountered in the bathroom: you, hair bundled up in a wet towel, bare-faced with a stupid grin across it. You’re so caught up in the act of reeling from Jeno’s three texts that you belatedly notice a square of light beyond your bedroom window. You almost duck out of sight when you see a shadow there, thinking about crying bloody murder, until you realize it’s Jaemin, who’s watching the ridiculous expression on your face with a curious gaze from a distance. He’s still in the same clothes he’d worn to the party, but you can see, even from this far away, that there’s this dark patch on it that looks suspiciously close to the way your shirt had on the day his coke had emptied itself out on your back. That must’ve been from the crash earlier, you deduce. 

You think he’s just zoning out facing in your direction, and you find there’s no need to meet his gaze, but there’s still something a little unsettling about having someone spacing out in your general direction, so you reach up to pull your blinds down. Your hand almost reaches the string, but Jaemin’s hand suddenly starts going up too, like it’s trying to follow you, and you freeze in your movements. His keeps going, though, up until it’s close to his face, and suddenly, he’s moving it side to side, in some weird regular pattern.

He’s waving, your tired, overworked brain tells you belatedly. The string of your blinds tickles the tip of your fingers. 

Unsure and a little self-conscious, you wave back, hoping he doesn’t notice that you were about two strong pulls away from drawing yourself out of sight. This is clearly the right response, because even from this distance, you can see the brilliant white of his teeth as he smiles, fully and unabashedly, at you. 

The first thing you do when you wake up the following morning is check your phone. You’re not even really sure what you’re looking for — maybe a text from Jeno, who, if you think about it now, probably has nothing to say in response to your boring ‘goodnight’ anyway (but you can still dream), or maybe a missed call or two from Renjun, who should at least be offering you some explanation as to why he was completely out of sight after parting ways with you and Mark Lee last night. 

Unfortunately, there’s nothing on your screen, apart from the stupid 번장 notification that tells you the pocket punch board you’ve been wanting for no good reason has been discounted by the seller to a price you still can’t reasonably afford anyway. 

You certainly can’t do anything about Jeno’s lack of contact, and to be completely honest with yourself, you’re not even really that sure if you want to. Something about yesterday’s conversation, while not exactly a train wreck, makes you very nervous to have a full conversation with him, and you’d much rather it stick to very basic, kindergarten-level things, like ‘you look cute’ and ‘haha’ and ‘:)’, but since that isn’t completely in your control, you decide you simply don’t want to do anything about it.

Renjun, however, is a completely different matter. You don’t understand why he’s ignoring you if he is, considering you had spent the better part of the night (at least, the parts during which you weren’t crying on your lawn) looking for him, so this silence, if deliberate, doesn’t seem fair or even reasonable. You decide that it’s much too early to be getting an earful from you in the end, so you just send a very emphatic ‘WRU?????????????????’ through both text message, KakaoTalk, and Facebook Messenger to him, hoping the repetition of both sentiment and punctuation mark through multiple platforms is enough to faux-yell to him what you’d otherwise be real-yelling to him over the line. You can’t tell if it gives you any sense of comfort to see he hasn’t been online and active for the last 15 hours. 

All the tossing and turning of last night, courtesy of the endless loop replay of “I want you to like me — just me” Lee Jeno edition, had consequently left you worse for wear; you’d gotten up at the rising of the sun (something you’d sworn never to do during the weekend) and had opted to just stay in bed for another hour, trying so hard to get over the feeling of his fingers against your skin that you end up committing it to long-term memory. The sunlight peeking through your blinds is what gets you to throw off your covers and admit defeat to the fact that sleep would never come back at this rate, and you decide to just head down, rubbing the lethargy out of your eyes before you make a poor man’s breakfast. You’re halfway through the jelly slice of your sandwich when your sister comes through the doorway, yawning loud to announce her presence. 

“G’morning, bedhead baby,” she greets, and you use the non-knife-holding hand you have free to rake through your hair. “Big rager last night, huh?” 

“Yeah — wait, how’d you know?” 

“We live a door down from Jaemin oppa’s house? Na Jaemin? Our next door neighbor and his whole family? We can see out the window into his lawn? Sometimes we get our sidewalk trash cans mixed up with theirs? Hello?” Sooyeon smirks, albeit a little sluggishly, as you wave her grating words away. “I saw you out there with him, you know.”

“With who? Where? Who?” You demand, your jelly-laden knife freezing in mid-air, the grape blobs slipping dangerously off the edge onto the middle of your bread.

“You. And Jaemin oppa,” she says each syllable slowly. “In front of our house.” 

“Oh.” 

“So usually how these conversations go is: I bring up a juicy piece of information pertaining to you, and because you experienced it first hand, you have to then expound on the piece of information, thereby making it juicier. ‘Oh’ doesn’t cut it. Not by a long shot.” 

“There’s not much to tell.” You wonder, briefly, if you’re now obligated to bring up the Jeno aspect of the night — which, for all intents and purposes, honestly felt like more of a big deal than anything else — but you quickly decide against it, chickening out when she approaches you at the counter and starts unscrewing the lid of the peanut butter jar. That might be giving too much away, considering she didn’t even seem to notice that you’d been bawling when you’d crossed the property line. “He just walked me back here.”

“Oh, yeah, because that’s what people who live next to each other in a not-so-close-knit community do: walk each other two steps home, to keep the baddies away.” 

“He’s just a naturally nice person, I think. Most people are, aren’t they?”

“I thought you guys were close. Didn’t he give you his varsity jacket? That sounds like a closeness thing.” She knots her index and middle finger together, and you slap it away. 

“We’re close only in the same way as you are.” When she gives you a quizzical look, you sigh. “Proximity-wise.” 

“Still doesn’t explain why he was out there, caressing your hair lovingly.”

You freeze, as opposed to Sooyeon’s comically relaxed posture as she scrapes the peanut butter across your other slice of bread. “He… was not. Caressing me. My hair. Lovingly.”

“I have eyes for the sake of seeing.”

“There was just something in it. In my hair. A leaf.” 

You’re not sure why you lie; the largest part of the reason is that you don’t want to have to go into the horrifyingly awkward details of your emotional state last night, but there’s something oddly nagging at you that you can’t quite place. It takes a minute of staring at your sister spreading the peanut butter evenly across the bread and humming to herself while closing the sandwich up that you realize that you don’t want her getting the wrong impression about anything.

Which is weird, because there’s nothing to misunderstand. 

Jaemin, albeit the fact that he’s been chattier to you as of late, more so than any other time in your life, is still just your neighbor. Maybe he’s graduated from being your sort-of acquaintance to something that vaguely resembles an arm-distance-ish friend, but the notion that you’re anything closer than that makes you feel a bit strange — almost like it… scares you, which is extra weird to think about, because there’s actually nothing inherently harmful about being casual buddies with some guy who lives close enough to wave at you from his window. 

Maybe it’s because it’s Jaemin, and that’s what might be tripping you up the most. He’s not just Jeno’s friend; he’s practically some kind of counterpart to him, and it feels weirdly like a line you can’t cross. Or maybe it’s because… Jeno had asked you about him last night, which had made you feel even stranger. Like he’d been worried about something — like Jaemin was a no-go zone for him, specifically. 

As you dully watch your sister take a bite off of your breakfast, it dawns on you: maybe you just don’t want people to think you like anyone other than Jeno. 

“Okay, well, you know better than I do,” she singsongs in a tone that tells you that you actually don’t. Sooyeon doesn’t press, but she also doesn’t make you feel like the conversation is over — even if she trills I’m going back up; thanks for the sandwich in that same voice before leaving you alone in the kitchen with half of it on the plate. 

Because the truth is that you don’t really know; you don’t know what’s so unsettling about being associated with Jaemin. Your sister’s not aware of the intricate ins and outs of your (delusional) relationship with Jeno, apart from your (apparently evident to everyone) crush on him, but you also know she’s not really deeply invested in where your heart lies; all she does is make conversation, as is her personality, as a form of bonding you’ve never really quite been able to navigate well. 

You just don’t get why the mention of Jaemin, now, makes you feel… something. What that is, you’d rather not dwell on. So you just won’t. 

You’re walking out of the kitchen, cheeks filled with peanut butter and jelly, when you see block letters on cloth, spelling out a familiar last name: Na. 

You still haven’t given back Jaemin’s stupid jacket. 

Today is the day, you decide. This seems to have started the whole conversation to begin with: the jacket that somehow brought Jaemin two steps closer into your life, the article of clothing that had opened the door to what shouldn’t even be a talking point between you and anyone else. 

This should be the proverbial swan song for this whole topic; you snatch up his jacket (and immediately regret doing so in such a brutish manner, noticing you’ve got a few specks of breadcrumbs on the lettering) and head out of your house, your bedroom slippers absorbing morning dew as you march yourself over to your neighbor’s. You should’ve done this earlier, really; there was no reason for you to hold on to it. 

Honestly, you’d just forgotten, given that you were more preoccupied with things that started with L and ended with ee Jeno, but you’d rather not extend any more misunderstandings. 

And even if Jeno isn’t here to see this grand closing gesture, maybe, just maybe, this will help you stop feeling so cagey about everything he’d asked last night. 

I want you to like me — just me. 

Because why would he even think you liked Jaemin at all? Or make it sound like he thought you did? Ridiculous. Unfounded. Kind of alarming. 

There’s noise in the air the closer you get to the Na household porch; it sounds a bit muffled, like it’s fighting the breeze, but you realize thereafter that it’s music coming from a tiny speaker sitting on the hand railing. It’s playing Dongbangshinki’s Here I Am, and something about that song stirs your stomach into swooping ten miles down as you approach. 

Your initial plan was to ring the doorbell and pray that Jaemin was still knocked out cold on a Saturday morning so you could pass the jacket off to one of his parents and be done with it, but you’ve no such luck; it seems like he’s an early riser, considering how he’s seated right there, on a wicker chair by his door, hunched over a half-played chess board. There’s no one across him to block his view of you coming up the steps, and he looks up the moment he hears the creaks of the wood under your feet. 

“Hey, ______________,” he doesn’t look surprised; in fact, he looks a bit relieved, for some inexplicable reason. “Didn’t think you’d be up so early.”

“Could say the same for you.” You have no idea what causes heat to flush across your cheeks; has Na Jaemin’s gaze always been this intense? “Um. Good morning?”

“Morning.” His laugh is an easy one; it always has been, and it kind of suits him, you note, before you realize how weird it is to think that. “What’ve you got there? Gift for me?” 

“Wha — oh, yeah, I mean — no, but it is for you.” You hold up his jacket, hooked on your forefinger, to reveal it to him. “Sorry it took so long to give it back.”

This time, he actually looks a bit taken aback. “Did you stop needing it?” 

“Um… I haven’t really used it, if I’m being honest.”

“Oh. Well, there wasn’t any rush. You could’ve kept it for as long as you needed. No pressure, or anything. I’ve got others.”

“You don’t need it at practice, or anything like that?”

“No; most guys don’t even keep theirs. They give them away, for… you know. So it’s no big deal.”

You fall silent; for some reason, his tone makes it seem like he wants you to keep it, which is just preposterous. You instead hang the jacket onto the back of the wicker chair opposite him and step back, like you’ve just set up a land mine you’re afraid of detonating. 

“Well, thank you all the same. I really… appreciate your help. That day. You know.” You’re not sure why you can’t form any sentences long enough to signify you do actually belong in the same year level as him, but he at least doesn’t comment on your ineloquence.

Instead, he just stares for a bit, at the jacket and your retreating hand, before piping up over his music. 

“You wanna play a round?” 

“What? Oh, I’m…” You wave your hands aimlessly. “I’m not good at chess. Actually, I barely know the rules. Plus, you seem kind of busy playing against… your imaginary friend?”

He chuckles again. “Just playing myself.”

“Trying to outfox the old fox?”

“Sometimes it helps to know how you’d get out of a sticky situation you made by your own doing. Helps you see what your opponent sees when it all boils down to it.” He gestures again at the chair across him. “Humor me a little. It’s not as fun just talking to yourself.”

You hesitate for a second; you came here to return the jacket, and that much was done easily, albeit a little more awkwardly than you ever wanted to. Jaemin’s aura is laid back and friendly, but you’re not sure why you’re teetering on the edge of panic again. Jeno’s words seem to be echoing in your head.

And Jaemin is…?

Jaemin is your next-door neighbor, it’s true, but you can’t say that’s really your only point of connection; if it were, he wouldn’t be expectantly waiting for you to take the seat across from him. And when you look at his hand now, idle against the chessboard, you can’t say you aren’t thinking of the way it patted your hair soothingly the night before. All that does is make you wonder the exact same thing Jeno asked you. 

What is Jaemin to you? A friend, perhaps, and definitely a nice person — nice enough to help you out, keep you company during a few low points. He’s a person willing to listen to you, funny enough to lift your spirits, and genial enough to not break your fingers for returning his things way too late (a low bar, but a good one nonetheless). Na Jaemin is a good individual, with pretty good music taste (based on the fact that his playlist, trudging on next to him, is now playing H.O.T.’s Happiness), and a good disposition about him that seems to make no small amount of people gravitate towards him. 

But you don’t really want to dwell on what Jaemin is to you; more than that, you can only really be reminded of what he isn’t. 

He isn’t Jeno. 

And Jeno knows you like him; he’s not only noticed it but confirmed it multiple times in a single conversation. Surely, then, nothing else should matter to him — or, for that matter, to you. 

You swallow down the refusal and nod, trying not to read into the fact that Jaemin’s face lights up when you pull the chair back and settle down on it. 

“So let me get this straight; you don’t know how to play chess?”

“I know a couple of pieces go in weird directions,” you admit. “That’s about it.” 

“Perfect.” His long fingers drum against the wood of the table. “I’m going to whip you into competitive chess-playing shape, my young pupil.” 

What starts off as a casual, humor-filled lesson on the roles of each chess piece suddenly becomes an actual lecture; you’re not sure if Jaemin is getting a kick out of instructing a rookie like you on the different plays — which are infinite, a fact he’s drilled into you several times — or if he’s really just enthusiastic about the game (no, sorry, sport, since he’s chastised you about three times on this terminology already), but whatever the reason is, you have chess pounded into your brain for the better part of an hour. By the time he asks you to actually start playing against him, the sun’s fully up in the air and you’ve had to tie your hair up to keep it from sticking to your neck. 

“I’m glad you got home safe last night,” he hums, pushing his black pawn to meet yours in the middle of the board. The Italian Game, he called it — not to be confused with serenading someone over pasta, a different kind of Italian game. That had gotten a long laugh out of you. Your hands flit over the white pieces, unsure of your memory. You only respond when you’ve moved your bishop to the same row. 

“Well, it was a very long and tumultuous journey, but I managed, with some help.” 

His knight comes out next, smoothly and quickly; you pause, rubbing the back of your neck. Surely, there was something else he’d taught you? 

“What a chivalrous, ah, knight, that person must’ve been.” He raps a knuckle onto the table, starting you out of the act of racking your brain. “Perfect joke. Well-timed. Excellent chess pun. I think I deserve an award.”

“Does whooping my ass two moves into the game count as a prize?”

“I don’t want to rob you of the feeling of hope this early in the match. Take your time,” he chuckles, leaning back against the throw cushion behind him. He fiddles with the speaker, and the songs skip one by one, until he lands on a song you don’t know — some Japanese track that sounds suspiciously like an animation opening. It’s lively and admittedly a bit loud, and Jaemin hums to the guitar riffs with surprising accuracy. “Anything interesting happen when I left?”

You freeze for a moment, your fingers still hovering over your own knight in hesitation. You know what he’s asking, and for some reason, you’re tempted to tell him — then you remember that it actually isn’t really his business, and you don’t want to embarrass yourself. 

“Not really.” You feign casual disinterest as you move your knight above your pawn line; from here on out, you have no clue what to do. Jaemin, on the other hand, is so sure-footed about his own skills (which are infinitely more advanced than yours) that he doesn’t even take his eyes off you to look at the board as he moves his next piece. You’re stuck thinking about what to do again — in the game, that is. Not about his gaze, which you try to avoid. “Just, you know. Talked with Jeno for a bit. Nothing major.”

Nothing major to him, you remind yourself. To you, your entire world had just been flipped over onto its belly.

Jaemin hums again, this time in understanding, but you notice (from your very surreptitious glances of him) that this time, it seems like he’s choosing what to do. You think it’s for the game, but when he counteracts your own (poorly planned) move with a swift response from his own pieces, you get the odd feeling he’s trying to choose his words carefully. 

“Was it a conversation where you all got along?”

You hadn’t argued, but you’d never really thought about the whole stint long enough to classify it as good or bad. You supposed it wasn’t anything horrible in the end, although the fact that it had robbed you of precious hours of sleep wasn’t exactly the best outcome. But Jaemin’s not watching your expression now; he’s intently looking at the board, even if he’s not the one about to make the next move. 

You get the feeling he’s suddenly avoiding eye contact too, which is weird, because he’s never been one to shy away from looking you straight in the eye. For some reason, that makes you feel like he doesn’t want to hear an answer. 

“It was fine. Nothing… bad happened.” You know that’s true, but somehow you feel like it’s still not truth. “He explained… stuff. Who she was. Why it happened. Totally understandable stuff, I think.” 

You choose not to mention anything apart from that — that he’d asked you to like him, nor that he’d asked you about your relationship with Jaemin. More than deciding it wasn’t going to be anything contributive to the conversation at hand, you also just didn’t want to. 

Jaemin stays silent for a while; he moves his piece, then taps his queen — for some reason, he’s letting you know something about his next move. What it is, you haven’t puzzled out; it’s not like you know which direction he’d be taking, and even if you did, you’d surely not know how to respond to it, anyway. You guess he’s just throwing you a bone, but why he would, you also just don’t see the reason for. 

You’re pushing your pawn hesitantly diagonal to capture one of his when he speaks up again. 

“Did he tell you how it ended? With the two of them, I mean.”

He says it so calmly, capturing your bishop with his queen in the process, that you feel like you’re just talking about the weather and who won yesterday’s league basketball match. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, clearing your throat, but you only actually manage to shake your head. 

“She cheated on him. Some college guy that she met during her orientation; you know she’s older than him, right? He’s never dated seriously since then. I think he was really hung up on her for a while — until recently, that is. I think. He hasn’t been that close to many girls.” 

“That’s… that’s awful.” You’re not sure why Jaemin’s telling you this; it honestly feels illegal to know. “I didn’t think… anyone would. Cheat on him, I mean.” 

“Even good-looking bastards like him can have rotten luck.” Jaemin’s smile borders on wry. “I don’t know why she showed up, honestly. Word probably got around… but she probably just wanted to know what would happen if she stirred something up with him one last time. He likely didn’t see it coming.” 

You stare at the board, unsure of what to say. It makes sense, but something doesn’t really sit right with you either — why Jeno would let her come close to him at all, let alone allow her to completely eliminate the distance between his mouth and hers for longer than a second. Even thinking about it makes you want to throw up all over again. 

“But deep down, I don’t know if Jeno completely got over her.” Jaemin continues, snapping you out of your short trance. “For a while after, they kept in touch. I think they even tried to work it out, but… obviously, it wasn’t easy. Until now… I’m not really sure.” 

“Why,” you swallow hard. “Why… are you… why should I…”

“It’s not easy to be a player when you don’t know much about the game, is it?” He’s still staring at the board, but you get the sense that he isn’t just talking about chess. “Like I said, Jeno’s a pretty complicated guy. It’s not really my place to say anything, but…” Jaemin’s eyes flit upward for a second, and he offers you a small, almost pitying smile. “I think you need to know anyway.” 

“But it has nothing to do with me. His life… I mean, his ex, and stuff.”

“I’m not too sure about that. If you like him that much… doesn’t that just mean you want to be part of his life?” He topples a pawn of yours, but you barely register the clattering noise or the fact that he drags it unceremoniously off the board. “I think you should at least know what you’re getting into. Jeno hasn’t liked someone seriously for a while, but you seem… to be the opposite. How much do you actually know about what he’s like?”

You don’t know why that kind of hurts your feelings; maybe it’s just because you have to face some kind of truth about how you don’t know much about Jeno’s private life, as badly as you want to. You even have to hear about it from someone else — someone easily kicking your ass in a dumb chess match. 

“I think everyone has baggage,” you say slowly, pushing your rook forward. You realize it’s trapped behind two different pawns, so you’ve essentially backed the piece into its own corner. Jaemin doesn’t seem to care; he’s too busy executing what clearly is a ten-stage strategic win on the other side of the board. You don’t really care.

“That’s true,” he concedes, toppling your knight. “But some more than others, I think.” 

“If he wanted me to know, he would’ve told me, right? Yesterday, I mean.”

“That’s may also be true, although I can’t say that with absolute certainty.” He looks thoughtful, and the pause gives you a bit of reprieve — enough to make a bad move that you instantly regret the moment you put your one remaining bishop on a square. Something like amusement flickers across Jaemin’s face, but he doesn’t make a move immediately. “Do you know what makes chess such a great game? In my opinion, anyway.” 

“No?” The uncertainty in your voice is from a lack of understanding at the sudden shift in topic. 

“Whenever you play someone, you get to see what they’re like — what their priorities are, you know?” His finger lands on a rook, inching it back and forth with idle intent. “You see how their mind works, what they’re like when they’re winning or losing, and what they think of you. Check, by the way.” 

You’re silent as his rook captures your bishop, and he picks your fallen piece up and sets it aside with his growing pile of white. 

“I’ve actually asked Jeno to play with me a few times, just for the fun of it. Sore loser,” he laughs lightly, one hand reaching out to lower the volume of his music. You notice the opening bars of Winner’s Really Really come through moments before it’s toned down. “Doesn’t really know or care about the rules, but he really likes to win. That’s kind of what makes him the star player on the team, actually. He really hates being backed into a corner, but all that focus on winning kind of tunnels his vision sometimes. Leaves him open to some attacks from another angle. He really hates that — which is probably why we barely play chess together in the first place. Apart from the fact that he thinks it’s boring.” 

You’re staring at your pieces, now very pitifully winnowed down in number, and you feel stuck. You’re not sure what to do, but you’re pretty sure any move is going to make you look dumb in front of Jaemin, who’s clearly a pro — so much so that he seems to know what you’re going to do before you even decide yourself. 

“You know what I like about your playing style, though?” He interrupts your train of thought again. You look up from the board, bemused; you’ve just been struggling to humor him since your first move, and it obviously isn’t working, since he seems more invested in the conversation than in the game. “You’re just trying your best, even if you’re new at this — even if you think you’re going to lose.” 

“I just don’t want you to think I’ve forgotten everything you just said,” you respond, smiling weakly. 

“You can’t always predict what’s going to happen in a game, even if you know the pattern anyway. Isn’t that just natural about anything in life?”

“You seem to know, though,” you grumble, tugging on your ponytail. You throw in the only option you have left: pushing your queen in front of your king as a last line of defense. “You’re barely paying attention to the board.”

“It’s just constant practice — a lot of hard work on my part. I don’t mind the grind of it, if it gets me somewhere good in the end.” 

“So is that the kind of player you are? Just… a hard worker?” 

“Maybe. I like to look at things from every possible angle. I guess that’s why I like chess when most people find it a headache.” He picks up his queen, rolling it in his palm. “Although, I guess Jeno and I have one thing in common — as players, that is.”

“What’s that?”

“I also really hate to lose.” 

His queen knocks over your own with a pitiful clatter, taking its place on the board. When he picks up your piece, instead of adding it to his knockout count, he offers it to you. You take it gingerly, opting to focus more on it than on the soft smile that’s now playing on Jaemin’s lips. 

“Checkmate,” he announces lightly. “Good game, _____________. You’ve got the makings of a star player.” 

“You’re patronizing me, aren’t you?” You sigh as the two of you start resetting the board; you have to watch Jaemin’s pieces get rearranged to position your own. 

“Only a little bit. I see a lot of quiet drive in you.” 

You place the last of your pawns in a neat row; the board looks like it hadn’t even been touched. “Jaemin, how did you and Jeno become this close? You seem… I don’t know.”

“Yeah, we’ve definitely got our unique quirks,” he chuckles softly. “But Jeno and I… we just go way back, I think. When you’re friends with someone from a young age, you tend to grow with them. He’s a good dude, really, even if our personalities are different, and it’s always a fun event so long as he’s around. Well — mostly. I’d say a good ninety-nine percent of the time.” 

You pointedly ignore the sheepish smile he throws your way. 

“You said before that you’re not the type to… you know, share your feelings, and all that. Then how do you… like what do you guys even talk about?”

“What do you and Renjun usually talk about?” Jaemin grins. “Anything and everything, really. Movies, games, why the jerk from Yongsan International gets on our nerves when he chews his gum. We just… have a tendency to be interested in the same things, no matter if our perspectives are different.” 

While talking to Jaemin is fun, you can’t help but feel like he has a tendency to speak in riddles. You still don’t really see any strong similarities in their approaches to their interests, similar as they may be, but what do you know, anyway? It isn’t like you and Renjun are exactly peas in a pod on paper.

His eyes lose focus for a second, hitting somewhere behind your ear before they quickly turn back to you. You have no idea why this makes you feel a little put on the spot. 

“Hey, you want to have brunch here? My mom makes a mean soybean paste stew.”

“Oh,” you press your hand against your stomach, wondering if the swooping feeling in it is from hunger or something unrelated. “No, I actually just ha—”

“_____________?” 

You swivel around in the chair, and your heart stops; you're not the least bit prepared to see Lee Jeno standing at the foot of Jaemin’s porch steps, a quizzical look very clearly etched on his sharp features.

last eden - i . | lmh

part i, ii, iii

only one thing has ever mattered to you, in this lifetime, and in all others : mark lee — even if he doesn't know yet, and even if he may never remember.

pairing: mark x reader verse: canon/idol!verse, soulmates trope rating: T warnings: none, possibly some mild language, like... one very tame mention of making love ig word count: 4.3k

A/N: yeah i have a lot of these fics that i'm repurposing that i desperately want to post so i can continue them so please look the other way at my random over enthusiasm i beg !! my only long-standing mark fic is actually gorgeous, and while we do love a good raunchy piece, i love mark way too much to keep it to just that. this was my first ever fic on my old blog, and i'm quite attached to the idea despite the fact that it's actually very difficult for me to write. i changed the name because i actually love this song by maktub (anything he puts out is gold to me), which i think generally fits the vibe of the story, so give it a listen if you're interested! so i hope you all enjoy this idol!verse soulmates fic! (help a gal out by reblogging, liking, and leaving a few kind words if you're so inclined!)

“This isn’t really your best idea.” 

You know this. You’re fully aware of the possible and endless risks as well as the minimal benefits. But you have to go. The thing that Heehyeon, your roommate, doesn’t fully understand is that this could be your one and only shot, and it could mean life or death. And you know that sounds pretty dramatic, but it really is. you don’t really have all the details (when, where, how, the important stuff) but that doesn’t matter to you right now. 

What really matters is that today is NCT’s comeback stage at M! Countdown, and you have to be there. 

Unfortunately, this isn’t one of those things you have to go to because your a die-hard fan and you just have to support the group and do all those fan chants and lie to your mom about going to the library when you’re really staying over outside a company building for hours just to wave those silly, expensive light sticks that look like they came out of the factory a bit funny. Sure, NCT’s music was nice (enough), but that isn’t really the reason why you told your mom not to come over this weekend because you would be out on a company team building retreat (as if they actually do that). More than anything, you knew you had to take this chance to see him. 

When you don’t respond, Heehyeon presses on with a firmer tone, as if she’s determined to convince you even though you both know nothing is really going to stop you at this point.

“Listen to me, _____________. You are going to a tightly-packed music show with at least a hundred other fans, and you are going to stand in the middle of that dense crowd and — and what? Stare up at him. That’s it. He’s not going to see you; that stage is so high up he’ll probably only catch a look at your forehead, and that’s if you make it up front. And since we both know you’re neither the tallest nor the luckiest person in the world, you know the odds are against you. You’re probably going to get pushed to the back, or stampeded, and it’s going to be messy, and you’re going to push, and they’re going to push you back, and your make-up is going to fall apart, or whatever. Is this really worth it?”

“I told you,” you try to sound patient, but the idea of being buffeted away from the stage by a large wave of sweaty bodies causes more discomfort than you had originally anticipated thanks to her colorful and supremely unhelpful description. “If being near the stage doesn’t work out, I’ll wait out back, near the exit, and —“

“Oh yeah, and ambush him. Because you’ll be the only one there, and because that’s totally safe.” She drops the slightly (well, pretty) judgmental tone when she sees your bottom lip quiver. “I’m not… I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to reach out to him. But this doesn’t sound like the best way, _____________. Security is so tight there, and NCT’s security is even more wary. Even if you do manage to get close, what in the world are you going to say?” 

“I— I’ll figure it out once I’m there.” You purse your lips; surely I love you; we’re meant to be together wouldn’t be that hard on your end, but the more important question is: did it sound sane? You didn’t express this doubt, though. Doing so would give your roommate more ammunition to turn back at you; you’d play it by ear when you actually got around to making eye contact with him (if that ever happened at all). And — well, maybe you wouldn’t have to say anything. Maybe, just maybe, this time, he’d remember you.

At that thought, you feel an initial wave of laughter, closely followed by a second, much more painful wave of nausea. Of all the absurd things you could think of, that was probably the most ridiculous. 

“This isn’t a good idea,” she recapitulates, shaking her head. “You know what they do to people who stalk idols and say they’re really going to get married to them, or whatever. You know what they’d call you.”

“But I’m not crazy like that,” you argue.

“I know that, but they don’t know anything about you! You’d be labeled a sasaeng. They’ll probably think you’re one of those girls that sneak into their dorms and sniff their underwear before selling them on the dark side of Taobao through a weird Chinese proxy or something.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” You ball your fists at your side, feeling a little betrayed. Heehyeon, of all people, should be able to understand why you had to do this, even if it was ludicrous. She had remembered you, reached out to you before you could even place her. She’d heard your story, understood that you had been waiting years for this moment, even stopped you on other occasions when you were about to do the same thing you were planning now, saying it wasn’t the right time. “I don’t have any other way of contacting him. I don’t even know if this is going to work, but you know I have to try, and I feel like this is the right time. I have to see him. I have to — I have to be with him. I don’t need your blessing to go, you know.”

There’s a palpable tension hanging over you now, and Heehyeon’s expression has gone mostly unreadable, save for that twinge of worry still present in her gaze. The soft sound of regular, heavy exhales punctuate every few seconds that pass, and you realize a little later that it’s your breathing, which has turned a bit heavy from the energy spent sort-of yelling at your roommate. 

“I know that,” she finally sighs. “I know that, _____________. I just wish you used a different way. Like, a safer, less crazy one.”

“I would use one if there were one.” You frown. “I’m not going to do anything stupid, like attack him. I would never do that.”

She doesn’t say much anymore, opting to watch you instead as you stuff a few more essential things in your bag. A hat. A fan. a bottle of water. Heehyeon had tried to coerce you to buy one of those cheering kits with those slogans, but you didn’t want to waste your money on it, and, truthfully, you didn’t want his name hanging on your walls like some sick reminder in case he rejected you.

“What did you tell your manager?” She asks in a clear attempt to lighten the mood. 

“I told her I was sick. You know she never really asks as long as I find someone to substitute for me,” you sling your bag over your shoulder, standing straighter. “How do I look?” 

“Pretty damn healthy,” she notes. “But also kind of crazy.” 

“I’ll see you tonight, Heehyeon,” you roll your eyes as you make your way out of the room. Before you close the door, she makes one last quick remark.

“Not if I see you on the evening news first!”

You have to take two buses to get to Sangamsan-ro. Even though the traffic is generally mild, the buses make too many stops and wait too long for old ladies with their fruit baskets and newspapers to get on. The wait is making you anxious, and you think about getting an orange to abate your growing hunger, but you’re also so nervous that you’re sure you’re going to spew it all out onto the bus floor anyway. So, you content yourself with listening to music and fiddling with your fingers in your lap. 

All you have in your phone is NCT’s music. The files were so large that you’d had to delete everything else you used to listen to and a handful of pictures too (mostly selfies that would have never seen the light of day, anyway) just to get them to fit. You used to only listen to the Korean versions, but you’d found all these little nuances in how Mark raps his lines depending on the language, so you’d started listening to the English and Japanese releases too, even though you can’t understand a lick of anything but ‘baby.’ Most of the time, you skip over to the relevant (see: Mark-filled) parts, already having memorized their timestamps to a kind of sick degree. 

It was kind of dumb, and sort of selfish, but you had never really identified yourself as an NCT fan anyway. If you had been an active part of the groups following, people would have probably called you an akgae. You were really only concerned with one member, and it was that member’s voice that filled your ears when you’d plugged your earbuds in and put the volume up.

The first time you’d seen him was in your last year of college. One of your college friends had asked you to accompany them to a Nature Republic outlet downtown. Despite your general lack of interest in make-up at that point in time, you’d gone because she’d promised to buy you a corndog. What you’d gotten instead was a large standee of a handsome guy smiling at you and holding out a pot of aloe vera gel. 

You knew his eyes. Even though his features changed a million times in your memory, you could never mistake his eyes for anyone else’s — soft, warm, brown eyes that you’d stared into for truly an eternity. His were eyes you could never forget, were never allowed to forget. You could remember the millions of times they’d smiled up at you in those past lives you were haunted with, twinkled with mischief and laughter in your presence, borne deep into yours on hot summer nights as you made love. Of all the uncertain things in all of the lives you remembered living, these eyes acted as your anchor. 

You’d almost forgotten you were there with a friend until she’d called out to you, telling you to step inside the shop. Trying to sound disinterested despite the fact that your heart was pounding, you asked who the guy in the standee was. Mark, she’d called him. Mark of NCT. He was an idol, a rapper in one of those up and coming groups that was starting to gain a lot of attention within the general public because of their ‘cool, chic concepts.’ At that information, your heart had fallen into a pool of acid in your stomach. 

Other times were hard, but not this hard. Most of the factors that had kept you or torn you apart were much larger in scale — war, famine, other natural disasters. This, out of all the other times, seemed to be the most difficult; he wasn’t an ordinary man anymore, but a god among men — a god you couldn’t be allowed to approach. You had ditched your friend the moment she’d gotten her change back at the counter, citing a sudden time of the month as the root cause, and dashed out and back to school, sparing only one last glance at the standee. 

You’d been waiting for him for years, carefully looking for any sign of him in the people around you, but you had grown tired and had come to believe that maybe, in this life, you had been set free — that he didn’t exist, and the curse would be over. However, as you pored over each and every teaser, music video, advertisement, and blurry, noise-heavy radio interview you could find even a sliver of his face in, you realized that the curse had come back, and in a much larger force than you could ever imagine. 

You’d stared at your desk for the longest time that day; the sun had dipped out of sight already when you’d sighed yourself out of your trance. It had never been this difficult. Having the Memory was mostly the worst thing ever, but its usual perk was that you could pick him out a little easier, and he was never too far away — nobody you ever knew in your first life ever was. They just kept coming up again and again, running around in little circles throughout time and space, and you recognized them in a way you’ve come to grow familiar with. It’s a tug, sort of like a tickle in your stomach, and you knew then that he was close by. The signal only stopped when you found him, and it usually wasn’t that hard. From there, you were responsible for weaving the same kind of story — one in which you would fall in love, be happy for a period of time, and then… well. 

Heehyeon has the Memory, too. She’d remembered you from a previous life, too, and picked you out of a packed line at a coffee shop, striking up one of the most awkward conversations you’d ever had the displeasure of being a part of because she hadn’t been sure if you remembered her. It was only when she mentioned that you seemed like someone she could be good friends with and that you also seemed like you just happened to like your coffee black with two sugars did you realize that her sudden onslaught of friendliness was a sign she might be like you: unable to forget. She’d actually once asked you if you’d tried just letting him go, and you’d responded with a resolute no. At this point, it was too hard to call him a lost cause, even if he really seemed it. How could you stop loving someone you know you’ve loved for millennia? 

He’s extremely handsome in this life, you’ve noted. Girls were falling all over him, which only made things ten times harder. A couple of years back, some rumors of him dating a labelmate had come up. Heehyeon had talked you through that long night of you clutching tissues in a fist and sobbing about how you didn’t want this anymore, how it was never fair, how every single time you had to find him was just growing more and more difficult until it seemed to reach an impossible arc. But, mostly, you’d cried because you hated the possibility — probably the confirmation — that he didn’t remember you at all. 

You didn’t really expect him to, but you always hoped. Every life, you would approach him, and he would be a clean slate. It was a tiring process, one you wished you weren’t constantly responsible for. Some days, you resented him; how could he live his life carefree, without even the notion that you two were meant to be together? Most days, though, you just longed for him. Him, and a happy ending. 

You let out a sigh as the track changes. His voice greets you again; over time, you’ve noticed it sounding even cooler, more impactful. He’s doing well for himself. And here you are, attempting to make yourself stand out in a pool of fans he probably can’t even see clearly. Nice.

You get to listen to about half of the newly released album before you realize you’re nearing your stop. Sidestepping a couple of baskets of oranges, you make it to the door and dash out. Heehyeon had drawn you a crude map to CJ E&M, and you’d been skeptical of it at first, but you realize now you would have gotten lost and missed the stage long before you got there if you had gone in blind. You’d make sure to thank her when you got back. If you did actually come back in one piece. 

Heehyeon also hadn’t been joking; the line outside looks like it would fill a whole section of Jamsil. You’d heard of the dedication of some of these fans, but you’d never seen it like this, nor had you ever actually been a part of it. Kids were really up at three in the morning in support of NCT. Many of them are probably here specifically in support of Mark, you think. Sure enough, the people you line up behind are holding holographic slogans with the print “Mark-yah!” You swallow hard, trying not to regret your decision not to partake in that. 

It feels like hours before you get even close to the door of the building. The chatter has died down a little, but not by much; even with less people ahead of you, the noise pollution increases in tandem with the excitement in the atmosphere. You’re not excited, though. You’re sick to your stomach, wishing you hadn’t come alone and wondering if you were going to regret this. Probably. Luckily, a couple of teenagers behind you strike up a casual conversation starting with “ah, it’s getting more humid now,” and you take turns complaining about what the weather would probably be like later on in the day before you start talking about NCT. They’re both Jaehyun fans, and you think about whether or not you remember meeting him in a past life. Nothing really rings a bell.

When you tell them you’re here for Mark, they giggle. 

“We know,” they chime. “You’re wearing blue.” 

“It’s his favorite color,” you say, a little defensively. 

“Everyone knows that. Everyone here wearing that ocean blue is a Mark fan. Didn’t he say so once?” They dissolve into laughter again, but you say nothing. Maybe he had said that recently. Then again, his favorite color has always been blue — the color of the sky and the sea he seems to love so much. 

The line grows shorter and shorter, and your ankles feel like they’re starting to swell. You’ve been standing for a good two hours now, and you regret not having bought one of those NCT membership cards that get you up to the front of the line. It’s really no surprise that you, the two Jaehyun fans, and the others in the line behind you are all squished in the back, just like Heehyeon had said you would be. It takes a good twenty minutes before the lights dim down and the stage lights start up, and you hear the buzz that increases in volume right before it becomes a collective deafening shriek from the crowd. The light sticks go up, and you’re momentarily blinded by the large stars that blink NCT in some weird logo form before you get your bearings again. By that time, the members have begun trooping onto the stage in a single file, and you forget your swollen ankles as you tiptoe and crane your head for a better view. 

He’s there, your mind screams. He’s right there. You’ve got a whole crowd in front of you, but he’s right there. 

The Jaehyun fans are losing their mind too; he’s talking, asking them how they found the album and encouraging them to keep supporting it. Typical idol stuff, you assume, but the fans go wild in an attempt to reassure him that they will. They all speak in a line, and you note Mark will be last. When the mic is handed over to him, the fans start screaming again. You feel like you want to yell as well, except you’re not sure if you’ll say something actually coherent that other people will hear. Instead, you tiptoe a little higher, fixing your pretty bad eyesight on his face and perking your ears up. 

“You’re all here so early,” he starts. “How long have you been waiting for us?” 

A flurry of numbers fly across the room. He smiles in this genuinely affectionate way even though his eyes can’t focus on a single person in the dark, and your heart stutters at the sight.

“Do your mothers know you’re here?” He’s teasing now. “You can’t tell them that NCT is the reason you’re not sleeping well, you know. Everyone, make sure that you eat breakfast and rest well before school today, okay?” 

While the crowd screams in response, you let out a little whimper. It’s a weak, pathetic sound, but it essentially sums up how you feel, seeing him like this from so far away. 

The pre-recording starts, but you barely catch anything. You’re too small for this kind of life, and you get so tired of tiptoeing that you actually do try to push your way through the crowd. Of course, this is fruitless, and you end up squatting by the back wall of the room, sipping on your water conservatively and listening to the Jaehyun fans do the chant religiously. 

NCT performs the song two more times before they’re saying their goodbyes. You muster up the energy to stand again and make a beeline for the exit before everyone else can smash their way through. The sun is almost up now; beads of sweat form on the nape of your neck as you round the building, trying to find the indicated spot that Heehyeon had marked as the back exit of CJ E&M. You worry about how you’re in the wrong place for about ten minutes until you see the two Jaehyun fans turning the corner quickly, obviously with the same goal as you: to catch NCT as they leave the building. 

In no time, the fans have gathered at the spot again, and it seems like they’ve multiplied tenfold; the chants are louder and there are girls with gigantic cameras trying to shove you away from the spot. Security from the company camps out in front of you, their gazes shifting from the door to the crowd and back again. 

People around you roar the moment the doorknob turns. Nine of them file out, now in regular clothing, surrounded by their own security. You feel a surge of force behind you, trying to push forward, and someone’s camera lens hits you hard in the side of the face. You barely have time to cry out in surprise, caught in what would have been a scream of pain, when you see him. 

In the growing light, Mark looks like a king. No — like a god, actually. Everything on his face shines even when minimal sunlight strikes it; his teeth help, too, brightening his face as his mouth hangs open in an easy laugh. He’s talking to Doyoung and has to face him, his sharp jawline being the first thing anyone can see from that perspective, and it’s that angle that creates all these alarms in your head. 

For some reason, you’ve blocked out the noise around you. Even the pain from the camera lens attack isn’t bothering you as much anymore; you feel like you’re in an aquarium, and all the screams are on the other side of the glass. Your vision tunnels; all you can see is him. 

You’d promised Heehyeon you wouldn’t do anything stupid. Again and again, she’d asked you and drilled you and reminded you that you weren’t supposed to do anything that would get you into trouble. Even with those promises you’d made, she’d still doubted you. Later, when you’d tell her this story, she’d roll her eyes and yell I told you so!, because, well, she did tell you. And, when you’d look at it in retrospect, you’d see that you should have listened. 

Right now, though, you’re walking. Somehow, the camera lens that had attacked you had turned its gaze onto much more important targets; the guard stationed in front of you grunted in pain and reflexively retracted his hand after the lens made contact with it. It wasn’t a long movement, but it was enough for you to be pushed forward by the crowd. Enough to get your feet moving. 

Other fans had stopped trying to break through; though many were still hysterical, most were trying to take pictures of the members as they climbed into the van. One by one, they were disappearing before your eyes. No, you thought to yourself. Your chest tightened. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think that the noise behind you has gotten much louder. Not now. He hasn’t seen me yet. Not yet, please. 

You don’t realize that your feet have picked up the pace, and you’ve broken into a short sprint before the building security could catch you. It’s too late; he can’t leave his post, and he only has to hope that NCT’s staff are well-equipped to fend off a running girl. They are, but they’re too busy helping the members that they’re caught unaware — just long enough for you to be within an arm’s reach of them. 

Mark is almost in the van; he’s caught off-guard, too, and he doesn’t realize that something’s not right until you’re already there. Security grabs his arm and tries to tug him out of your reach and into the van at the same time that a strong hand grapples at the back of your shirt. Doyoung, who had been by Mark’s side, tries to use his arms to shield you from his friend when he realizes who you are targeting, yelling out something you can’t really understand. 

It’s a ten-second long struggle of limbs in which you hear your own “Let go of me!” harmonize perfectly with Mark’s frantic “What the —?” Somehow, though, you’re able to fight through Doyoung’s arms and grip Mark’s wrist with a sweaty palm. The contact causes him to turn back reflexively, eyes wide in shock. 

His eyes. God, please, won’t he recognize me? Your fingers close around his wrist a little more tightly. Your mouth is dry, and your throat is on fire. You’re wasting precious time. You only manage out a weak, “Please, Mark, it’s me,” before he’s twisting his wrist away. The arm that gripped your shirt moves to lock around your waist, and you’re hauled, empty-handed, away from the van. Awareness you’d lost slowly trickles back into you. The crowd isn’t screaming at the members now; they’re screaming at you. They’re angry. As you’re dragged away, you vaguely note that the Jaehyun fans you were with are fuming behind the security guards still keeping them in place. 

The security guard that carried you off like a rag doll plants you in front of him, and he lets go of your waist but still keeps his grip tight around both your forearms, which have been twisted behind you. You have no choice but to watch from afar as the members drag Mark into the van, looks of concern etched across their faces. They ask him if he’s hurt, and he shakes his head. Right before the door closes, he quickly glances back at you. Your heart sinks for the second time today as you see something in his eyes you’d never seen before. 

Fear. Mark is afraid of you.

last eden - ii . | lmh

part i, ii, iii

only one thing has ever mattered to you, in this lifetime, and in all others : mark lee — even if he doesn't know yet, and even if he may never remember.

pairing: mark x reader verse: canon/idol!verse, soulmates trope rating: T warnings: none, i think! word count: 9k

A/N: i have not properly proofread this as i finished kinda editing at like 2am in what felt like a fever dream so if you see any mistakes, shoot me a quick message!

Going home is a traumatic experience, to say the least. You don’t actually get to leave the venue right away because, try as you might, you can’t escape the iron grip of the security guard who’s all but glued you down to the ground. You can’t do anything except watch the van speed off while a bunch of fans try (in vain) to follow it. You might have tried to follow it, too, except you already know you’re swimming in boiling water with the current viewing public (plus a couple of really miffed guards) and you might have gotten trampled on anyway.

You end up spending the next three and a half hours down at the police station. At first, you’re worried that they’re going to take your picture or something, but since you don’t have any kind of criminal record — well, until now — you end up waiting the entire time just to hear the chief of police grumble about how it’s too early for this kind of mess and why do all of these girls do all these crazy things for boys that don’t even know them. You don’t say much for the ten minutes it takes him to write your report and lecture you about how strong, young people should do something more substantial with their time and try to pick up skills that will help the community and sharpen one’s mind in pursuit of wisdom, which is really just a roundabout way of saying stop jumping idols. You leave the station with a heavy heart and a new strike against the justice system.

The bus stop is a no-go for you; it’s surely packed with fans who’ve no doubt spent the rest of the morning skipping class, eating breakfast, and probably talking about how outrageous you had been. The subway probably isn’t an option, too, so you end up taking a cab all the way back to your place, except you don’t actually have enough money to pay for the entire fare, so you’re forced to alight four streets away instead. You walk for about twenty minutes before realizing your body is crying in outrage for food; you hadn’t fed yourself at all this morning, save for the ten or so sips of water you had in the back of the M! Countdown studio.

With less than 10,000 won in your pocket, you end up just going into the nearest 7-11 and buying a triangle gimbap to avoid passing out completely on the street. You eat it just as slowly as you walk, partly because you want to savor it, but mostly because you want to avoid having to look Heehyeon in the eye.

Heehyeon. She probably knows everything. No, scratch that — you know she knows. She spends so much time on the internet that you’re sure she’d have her mind fused with a robot if she had enough money. Plus, she’d specifically told you not to do anything dumb, so of course she’d have kept an eye out for the actual dumb thing you really did.

When you arrive at your apartment, you linger behind the door. For some reason, you think about knocking, even though it’s your place and you have a key. You feel unfamiliar and unwelcome — pretty much the effects of ostracising yourself from the general public with just one dumb decision. Even though you decide there’s nothing for it except to face it head on, you try as much as possible to be silent when entering, hoping that Heehyeon has decided to skip out on all things digital today and just take a really long nap.

Of course, with the trajectory of your luck today, it’s no surprise that she’s sitting at the table with her laptop open and a half-eaten apple in her grasp, her free fingers scrolling quickly through what you assume to be the longest comments section ever. Her expression is tired — not sleepy tired but about-to-give-up tired. She doesn’t even have to look up for you to assume a guilty expression while you linger by the doorframe that separates the small kitchen from your living room.

“So what’d you get?” She asks, tone flat.

“A really long lecture and a couple of scratches on my forearm,” you try to sound light, but your attempt only causes the mood to darken a little more. “I didn’t have to pay a fine, or anything…”

Heehyeon glances up at you. You can tell she’s deciding whether or not to comfort you or chew your head off. Luckily, she’s intelligent enough to create a third option under the correct assumption that choosing either of the first two approaches would only end in tears for everyone.

“There’s still some pizza on the counter.”

It’s silent as you extract a slice from the box; the sound of the chair scraping against the floor raises the tiny hairs on your arm and the back of your neck at how loud it is. You don’t eat yet, though; you watch Heehyeon click click click click away, chewing on your bottom lip. It feels like a time for confession, but you’re not even sure where to begin. Before you can open your mouth to really say anything, she beats you to the punch.

“For future reference, when I say ‘don’t do something stupid,’ I mean—”

“Yeah,” you swallow hard. “You mean ‘don’t try to rip someone’s arm off in an attempt to get them to remember you.’ I know.”

“Okay, good. I’m just checking because this isn’t like back then in Greece where police didn’t exist.” She peers over her screen at you, expression unreadable.

“Rome was a better time, though.“ It had been a simpler time. No one had to wear socks with sneakers. You didn’t need an 8 to 5 job. Most importantly, Mark was in love with you. Your lower lip trembles at the memory.

“You all died in a natural disaster,” she reminds you. “But yeah.”

You two lock eyes properly for the first time, and something bubbles up in your chest. You’re not sure what gives you away; maybe it’s your flushed cheeks, or maybe it's the shaky inhale, or even the dangerous flutter of your eyelashes, perhaps. Whatever it is, Heehyeon has her laptop monitor down and is reaching over to clasp your hand in hers just before you burst into tears.

She doesn’t say anything, knows that words won’t really work right now. She just lets you cry it out, and you spend what feels like an hour shifting between weak hiccups, broken sobs, and unholy wails. You only really slow down when you feel like your throat is on fire already, and you have to sluggishly reach into your bag and dig out the water from earlier. Heehyeon’s thumb skates across the back of your hand idly as you try to make up for all the fluids you’ve lost; you even end up sloshing a good amount of the water down your front.

The passing of ten or so minutes sees you in a better state by a fraction; your eyes are puffy and your lips are swollen, but at least your lungs are processing a better amount of air now, and your nose, albeit being congested, has stopped running so much. It’s at this time that you find you still know some words, so you manage to blubber them out to your roommate.

“H-he looked at me like I wasn’t e-even human,” you choke out. “His f-f-face was so — I’d never seen him like th-that. He was mad — no, he h-hated me!”

“_____________, stop it.” She says firmly, and you’re not sure if she means stop saying that he hated you or if she means that you should stop crying, which is what you’re already threatening to resume. “You and I both know that your approach won’t win any congeniality awards this year, but he doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t even know y— okay, I’m sorry, I just meant —“

She’s torn between exasperation and pity as another sob resurfaces, and it takes her at least fifty I’m sorry’s and one trip to the fridge to get you another bottle of water to settle you back into silence. At this point, you’re cried out; your entire being is begging for sleep and you can no longer breathe through your nose.

“But you’re r— right.” You hiccup defeatedly. “He doesn’t even know me. I don’t know how to even get close to him. I just want to give up.”

Heehyeon lapses into silence, and a small voice in the back of your mind tells you she’s biting her tongue. She knows you won’t give up, but you can see she wants to support this decision. A part of you resents that, but in this state, you can’t help but feel like she would be right. Not trying would be a lot easier than trying.

“This just… means that you have to go down a different route. Try another less aggressive, less crazy way.”

“Everyone there must have thought I was crazy,” you groan. When she chooses not to say anything, she only confirms it. “What are they saying? Now, in the comments — what are they saying about me?”

“Nothing out of what would be ordinary.” She tries to spare you, her hand already pressed hard on her laptop, but you manage to move it away from her and turn it to face you instead. For a moment, Heehyeon looks like she wants to stand up and leave you in case you throw a fit, but she remembers she owns half the place, and the result of this is her half-standing before stopping and sitting back down again; she knots her fingers together nervously as you skim down the page she has open. The text isn’t surprising, but it’s not like the knowledge of that soothes your tattered spirit anyway.

NCT’S Mark ATTACKED BY SASAENG FAN

After NCT’s M! Countdown pre-recording today, Mark of NCT experienced a distressing event. As the idol group was about to leave CJ E&M Ent. Building, an unknown sasaeng fan broke through security and tried to abduct him. Area management was quick to apprehend her, and she has been taken to the appropriate authorities. Staff members quickly confirmed with us that Mark is safe and uninjured. His members are currently with him.

NCT will appear on M! Countdown for their special comeback stage tonight at 6PM to perform their newest title track, Favorite (Vampire).

TOP COMMENTS

[+1113, - 17] Ah seriously… it’s 2021 and sasaengs are still like this? Stop wasting your time on your oppas like this and study for your exams… stupid.

[+743, -122] NCT is really this popular. While I don’t condone any sasaeng activity, you can’t deny this is the result of being this famous…

[+556, -98] I was there when this happened. Really, it was crazy. She really looked like she was going to rip his arm off. I thought for sure he would die. So embarrassing…

[+89, -77] Desperate f***s. Haha. Does she really think Mark will fall in love with her like that? Ah,, really. It’s kind of funny. Dumb b****.

[+179, -2] The security should really be tighter. ㅠㅠ Mark-ah, don’t be discouraged!

Your insides have disappeared; there’s this dry hollowness in your stomach that allows you to push the laptop away without a word. Your pizza is still on your plate, but the crust is stale now and the most prominent topping on it is your tears. It’s a good thing that you’re not that hungry anymore.

“They… can’t be expected to understand,” Heehyeon tries carefully. You don’t say anything in response because you know she’s right, but it doesn’t make you feel much better. It also doesn’t make you feel much worse because, really, how much further down can your heart go? “I know you don’t really want to hear this right now, but I think it would be better if you just stayed low.”

“I know that.”

“Okay. I’m just — you know. I’m just saying.” You can tell she’s run out of comfort to offer; she’s no longer sure what to expect from you now that you’ve hit the top three on the checklist of what she had prepared for, which was (1) cry, (2) hate yourself, and (3) look at netizen comments that never promised anything good. You know that she’s willing to play it by ear and try to help, but you’re too tired. You had been up at the crack of dawn for virtually nothing, and you just wanted to crawl in the dark hole you called a room, sleep for ten years, and eventually die.

Except even that wouldn’t be an escape for you. Not really. Just another fresh start into a harder life.

When you stand, Heehyeon does too, and she holds out her hands carefully like she’s worried you’re going to keel over. You both know she doesn’t have the strength to actually carry you, though, so you bear with the sluggish, lead-like feeling your limbs seem to be constrained by and trudge into your room.

“I’ll turn up the air conditioning,” she says, breaking the silence. “I know you don’t like getting sticky when you sleep.”

You open your mouth, but nothing but a pitiful sound comes out. She waves it away, knowing what you mean. You’re thankful she’s this sensible at the best of times.

“For what it’s worth, __________, I—” she checks your expression again, just in case, before she continues. “I’m sorry this happened to you. But if there’s anything I know about you, it’s that you’ve never failed to make it work. I believe in you, even if you don’t really believe in yourself right now.”

Another sad noise escapes you, and Heehyeon nods in understanding, giving your arm a little squeeze before leaving to tamper with the temperature controls.

You should have noticed how dark the sky was today.

You should have, but you don’t because you have too much on your mind today — too many things to do. The main street is a fifteen minute walk from your house, and you have to be home by noon. There’s simply no time to take note of the weather.

You have to be more careful of where you step these days. The town had never fully recovered from the quake of 62, and the cracks in the pavement had deepened when the rainy season had started up; shallow, murky puddles now pepper the road, and you weave around them while trying to avoid any human collisions.

Everyone around you is wearing thicker, heavier clothes now. The turn of the season is near. It’s probably why the sun isn’t beating down on you, even if it’s close to its high. You tuck your limbs closer in as you cross the road, watching your feet to ensure you don’t slip on the rocks when you hop on them. There’s about a ten-inch interval between each one, and you have to make sure you land on just the right spot where your foot can fit. One misstep means a sandal drenched in sewage.

For some reason, Via dell’Abbondanza isn’t as crowded when you arrive there. For a main street, it’s a little too quiet. You can hear the harmony of sighs coming from the different stalls lined up on either side of the road. Not much good business today, then, you think.

You make a point to jingle your relatively small coin purse as you approach one stall. A flurry of limbs reveals the merchant’s son just standing up, trying his best to look attentive. He’s about your age. You’ve only seen him a few times as a child, and even fewer times as you grew up; when you left the merchant’s side of town to get married, you’d forgotten him, along with every other boy and girl that lived in that area. You’re sure you know his name, but you can’t quite place it; you know his father more, as he’s usually who greets you with fresh produce every week.

You express your mild surprise at seeing him by saying, “You’re father’s not well today?”

“Gout’s acting up again,” he answers. The lives of the somewhat rich weren’t always fabulous, you guessed, but you had never stayed long enough to really find out. “It’s just me today. What can I get you?”

“I’ve got a list.” Your eyes sweep over the goods, spread out before you, and you absently hand it over along with the sack. Tanned hands move swiftly, making sure to fit all the produce your tiny pouch can handle. “Do you have anything sweet?”

“I’ve got some fresh apples,” he offers, hand hovering over a bright red pile of fruit.

“Maybe something a little more special.”

He pauses for a moment before abandoning your sack, only half-filled with produce, to go to the back of the stall. Two minutes of rummaging results in him extracting a tiny bag from a box and spilling its contents onto his palm. Even in the grim light, they shine like gold pieces — small, round things rolling around in his hand. You lean forward to take a closer look.

“What are they?”

“Honey drops. Some men from India came with them last week. They say the Greeks love it.” His fingers curl in a little. “What do you need something special for?”

“It’s for my son. We’re celebrating his birthday today.”

The merchant’s son doesn’t say anything anymore; he turns his palm sideways and lets the honey drops fall into your pack. You stand in silence as he finishes off your list, tying the sack neatly up with the rope again. When you’re digging around for the money, though, he speaks.

“You were very young when you got married.” It’s not what you’d have expected, but you nod in response all the same. “Your father… he was upset. My father said he didn’t see your father for at least a month here. He let your brother manage the goods.”

“He was more upset that he didn’t get the dowry he was expecting out of me,” you say, tone rather clipped.

“So, it’s true, then? You ran away with a farmer. That’s what people say.”

“People still talk about it?” You frown. “It’s been years. I love him. I don’t regret it.”

“I never said — I’m sorry if you felt like I was criticizing. I’m not. I just didn’t—” he sighs. “I just think it must be nice.”

“To be gossiped about?”

“No. To marry for love.”

A dull silence follows, and you’re not sure how to react to his words. Instead, you ask, “How much?”

“Just twenty denarii.”

“And the honey drops?”

“You just take them,” he shakes his head. “For your son. Think of it as a gift for him.”

You offer him a small smile before counting out the silver pieces carefully. He cups his palm under your hand, skin brushing briefly against yours as you tip the money to him. Something like electricity runs up your arm and hits the back of your neck, and you both draw back sharply, looking sheepish.

“Thank you. Give your father my best,” you say, rubbing your neck.

“I will. Have a good day.”

Even though it’s noon when you get back, you can’t find the sun; the wind that blows against the back of your neck is hot and dry, though. Your son’s face is flushed when he runs to the door to meet you, but at least he doesn’t look uncomfortable; his eyes are wide with excitement. At the age of three — well, four today — he’s got too much energy trapped inside his tiny form, and he constantly tries to release it by running the perimeter of your tiny home. As you sit at the table, he resumes his crusade, sometimes standing on his tiptoes by the window and yelling “Domitian is our savior!” You’ve never figured out where he’d learned that, but you know it always tires him out a little faster, so you just let him be.

Around what feels like his hundredth time around the house, he sticks his head out of the window again. Instead of screaming the same praise for the emperor, he ends up saying, “Papa’s home!” Your head snaps up, and, sure enough, there’s a playful little knock on the door not a minute later. Your son almost trips over his chubby legs as he goes to open the door, revealing your husband, sun-kissed skin covered in a sheen of sweat and a wide grin across his face. More noise ensues as your son lets out a happy squeal at being swept up in his father’s arms and carried over to the table, limbs flailing fruitlessly. His arm collides with the side of your face gently when your husband leans down to press his lips to your forehead, and you let out a surprised laugh at the contact.

“I didn’t think they’d really let you come home early,” you say as your husband sets your squirming son down on a stool before taking his own seat. He starts unpacking the rest of the produce you’d left inside the sack.

“I said I couldn’t miss this special occasion,” he chuckles. “Besides, it looked like it was going to rain, anyway. What’s this?”

He rolls a honey drop between his calloused fingers. Your son stops making a fuss on his own and turns his attention to the sweet, eyes widening.

“Gold?” He whispers. Your husband bursts out laughing.

“Son, if we ever had this much gold, I could give your mother the life she truly deserved.”

“Stop it,” you smile, shaking your head. “You two are all I could ever ask for. I’m the luckiest person alive.”

“Frankly, I think that’s me, but let’s agree to disagree.” He flashes you another grin you can’t help but mirror. Your son reaches over and tries to grab the drop when you’re not watching, but your husband is smart enough to hide it in a fist and put it back in the sack where it can’t be reached. “Let’s save that for later. Should we pray first?”

The meal is filled with small talk. You tell your husband about the merchant’s gout. He tells you about one of the men who work with him on the field who had been caught and punished for stealing a bit of barley. You make him promise never to do that, and he pretends to be hurt by your lack of faith in him before making the promise, coupled with a kiss to your palm. Your son finishes his food quickly and goes to the window to yell one more time before asking the both of you if the emperor had greeted him a happy birthday. You assure him of it.

The food and the running around (at least, in your child’s case) quickly makes you sleepy, but your son insists that you both sing him a birthday song before you take him in for a nap. You don’t have that gift, so you let your husband lead, opting to clap along instead. Two minutes later, your son is yawning so widely you can see the back of his throat, and you pick him up to bring him to bed.

“What about the gold drops?” He asks sleepily.

“They’ll still be there when you wake up,” you promise. He concedes and lets you cart him off.

You’d only just seen your son off to sleep when you feel it — the first wave of something. It’s mild at first, but it’s quickly followed by a second, longer one. You stumble out of the room to find that your husband is also standing up, brow furrowed.

“An earthquake?” You ask.

“It could be,” he mutters. “But it—“

The third one is accompanied by a terrifying sound; it’s a deep rumble that passes through the earth under your feet and resonates in your chest. Instinctively, you run forward, and your husband wraps you in his arms. You both look out the window.

No one is on the street now, but you can see a few heads also peeking out of their windows. All their eyes seem to follow the same line, and you quickly direct your own gaze to what they’re so focused on. When you see it, you let out a weak gasp. Your husband’s hold on you grows tighter.

The thick outline of the volcano is different today; more than just its normal conical shape, you see a thick cloud of thick, gray smoke rising up from its tip. The cloud is moving fast — too fast to be something you could shrug off. Your husband seems to think the same thing, because he lets go of you quickly but keeps a hold on your arm, towing you towards the room where your son rested.

He can barely get out the words “we have to leave” before he’s interrupted by the sound of an explosion. You don’t see it, but you feel it instantly; the air grows alarmingly hotter, almost burning your skin. A new smell enters the hot wind; it’s sharp and unpleasant, sticking to the back of your throat.

There’s another tell-tale rumble in the floor, and your son screams in confusion as he sits up in bed. You land by his side, holding him close to you. You say it’s fine, but it’s not.

Another explosion. It’s much louder this time, maybe because people are screaming outside. You’re screaming too, face pressed into your son’s hair. It’s much too hot now. Too hot, like the air is setting you aflame completely.

The last two things you feel are your son’s tears dripping onto your knee and your husband’s form pressed firmly against you. It’s his body that catches most of the impact when the last explosion sounds off and you’re completely engulfed in ash.

When you come back into consciousness, you notice that your shirt is sticking to your back. Despite Heehyeon turning down the temperature, you’d still sweat through the nightmare. She’d been kind enough to leave you a glass of water by your bedside. You throw her a silent thank you as you throw your head back and gulp it down. You drink almost desperately, as if you’re trying to wash the last of the ashes out of your throat.

You ask your boss if you can leave work early when Heehyeon texts you that you have an “urgent package” a few days later. You’re pretty sure it’s for the fansign event. She lets you take the rest of the day off, but she can’t hide her exasperation.

“NCT models for Nature Republic,” she says pointedly. “You get to see them all day.”

“It’s not the same thing as seeing them in person,” you defend yourself.

“You go to a fan sign to see how pretty they are. What’s the difference?”

You feel like telling her that the difference is that in a fan sign, the love of your life is a real, three-dimensional person you can talk to and not a life-sized standee at the front of the shop, but you don’t really want to argue. She had just given you the day off, anyway.

“Just remember you’re working double shifts this Monday.” She says this like it’s a punishment, even though weekdays mean later opening times and less customers. “Sejeong has already covered for you twice this week. It’s a good thing she’s okay that you’re such a big NCT fan.”

There are two big boxes by your door when you get home, your face still flushed from running up the stairs; one has already been ripped open, and a big chunk of what was inside has already been extracted. You can hear the sound of ripping plastic and the regular sigh coming from the kitchen, and you enter it to find your roommate with a cutter in her hand and at least twenty NCT albums spread out across the table. She’s in the process of opening one of them, peeling off the cling wrap and shaking out the papers inside.

“You know you don’t even have to open them, right?” You say slowly. “They don’t stick the ticket inside. They do the draws on the websites, so all you need is the receipt.”

“I know; you told me that,” Heehyeon leans back, tossing the free Genie streaming pass to the side. “I’m looking at the photocards.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“They’re all the same. You shouldn’t have bought it in bulk.”

“I had to,” you frown. “They say it’s better to get a whole range of entries instead of sparse numbers.”

“Well, you also got a whole range of Kim Doyoung photo cards.” To prove her point, she tosses a photo card in your direction. “Oh, and one Taeil card. So far.”

“No Mark?”

“No; it’s what I’ve been looking for.” You think she’s acting really considerate and touching for you until she says, “They’re the ones that make the most money often. Him and Jaehyun”

“You can’t sell my photocards.”

“Why not? You have at least ten Doyoungs right now. What are you going to do with them; make a Kim Doyoung photocard fort?”

You ignore her, taking an album instead and peeling off the wrapping. You leaf through the first few pages, but it’s the Chinese version, and you can’t read it, so you just skip to where all the extra goods have been stuck. When you turn the photo card over, you sigh. It’s just Jaehyun.

You don’t even get through the entire stack that Heehyeon has laid out on the kitchen table before you give up. Obviously, the photo cards aren’t urgent, so you just let her collect them with the Genie passes and move on to the boxes again. You nearly break a nail trying to rip open the other box, but it’s worth it; you manage to get your hands on the receipt, wedged between two albums, and the list of lottery entries for the fansign has been stapled to it.

Heehyeon has given up too, and she stands by the doorway as you scan the numbers. “So how many entries do you get?”

“Depends on how many albums you buy.”

“Well, how many albums did you buy?”

“A hundred and fifty,” you respond, not batting an eyelash.

“You crazy bitch,” she sighs heavily. “We could be living in a better apartment if you hadn’t thrown all your money at NCT.”

“At Mark,” you correct her. You may be a crazy bitch, but you’re also pretty loyal. “Our apartment is great now, anyway.”

“So if you do get a fan sign pass, what’s the plan?”

It sounds like a test or something, like there’s only one right answer to the question. There really is only one right answer, and you let her hear it. “The plan is not to attack anyone.”

“Good. I approve of this plan. But I’d sleep better knowing that I could actually make sure you stuck to it.” Her expression says what she doesn’t verbalize. Unlike last time.

“I’d be lucky to get one fan sign pass, let alone two.”

“Maybe you should let me take the one fan sign pass instead. I’ll give Mark your love.”

You make a motion to throw an album at her, but she doesn’t budge, knowing fully well that you won’t attack her with anything that expensive. She just sticks out her tongue in reply.

The announcement comes up later than expected; Heehyeon’s laptop is out on the kitchen table again after a quick argument about who should clean up the albums (apparently, since they’re yours, you are also responsible in some way; you’d played rock, paper, scissors with her, and had promptly lost). You put up a SuaSua page that autorefreshes the Synnara website while you eat dinner. Heehyeon tells you about how someone at her office had stuck a ripped bag of popcorn into the pantry’s microwave and had caused the butter to explode and leak out of the appliance, leading to the entire floor smelling like burnt popcorn. You ask her if that “someone” was her, and she starts talking about how the weather today was unusually hot.

Synarra’s website crashes for a good ten minutes, showing only a white page with a proxy error, and you realize they must be adding the announcement already. You grab the laptop and yank it towards you while Heehyeon inhales the rest of her rice quickly before moving her chair closer to yours and sticking her head closer to the monitor. A chipped gray nail drags down the screen, leaving a long fingerprint streak, and she says the numbers out loud as you check the list.

“98?”

“No.”

“121?”

“Nope.”

“How about 145?”

She loses almost all of her saliva trying to carefully read out the numbers, but there’s such a short list drawn from a slew of album sales that you’re slowly losing hope. Only about a hundred people will be able to enter the fan sign. You glance back at the boxes by the door, wondering if they’re enough. You’d thought so at first — 150 albums were a lot — but now you’re unsure. Heehyeon says something you don’t catch.

“What?” You ask dumbly.

“I said, do you have 322?”

“Oh-“ You check the first page of the list. Nothing. You’re holding your breath when you flip the page, your eyes more carefully counting the numbers. 317. 318. 319. God, please don’t let it stop there. 320. 321. “Yes, I—”

The paper is snatched out from your grasp before you can complete your poor word choice. Heehyeon’s jaw falls steadily lower as she counts the same numbers and arrives at the magic one.

“You crazy bitch,” she says for the second time today, but it’s less accusing now; in fact, it’s more of an awed whisper. “It actually worked.”

“You’re sure it says 322?”

You both take turns checking, but there’s no denying it. Your number is there. You’re going to the fan sign.

“This is crazy,” Heehyeon murmurs, and she sounds like she really thinks it’s the single most astonishing thing she’s ever seen in all of her lives. “I’d already written out my comforting in-case-you-didn’t-win speech.”

You don’t say anything in response; your mind is much too far away, focused on a week from now, on a day you would see Mark again. It wouldn’t be like M! Countdown. You’d be calmer. You’d be able to explain yourself. Maybe, just maybe, you’d be able to set things right. It’s a gamble, facing him again, but at this point, you feel like fate is finally starting to take your side, and you’re too high from running with it to think about all the cracks in the road.

Heehyeon takes you to CGV Apgujeong on the Saturday of the fansign a week later. There are a number of fans on the orange subway to Apgujeong station, and you panic momentarily in the fear that some of them might recognize you as That Sasaeng from Hell, but they don’t even pay attention; they’re too busy talking to each other, flipping through their albums and showing each other which gifts they want to give to the members. One of them has a goodie basket, and you tilt your head to read the card attached to it.

Mark oppa, please eat these snacks and gain some strength. Czennies are always with you!

It hits you again that the fan demographic for this group isn’t exactly the work a full time job kind, so they have to call him oppa. When you point this out to Heehyeon, all she does is give you a patronizing look and ask if you’re just jealous that you’re not the only one who can lovingly call him that. You ignore her for the rest of the train ride until she tries to make it up to you by dragging you into a coffee shop and buying you a churro.

Even though there are only 100 winners, the crowd at the building is at least five times larger. It’s M! Countdown all over again with the line, except only a select few can really go inside, and the others are just hanging around with their cameras to see if they’ll be able to get a glimpse of NCT. No one bothers you, and you start to realize that maybe less people had seen you in full during The Incident; maybe at that time, you had just looked like a very aggressive blur of pink. It also helps that Heehyeon is chatting to you loudly while dipping and re-dipping her churro into her chocolate so that you can keep your mind off of your building anxiety.

Of course, that dam breaks the moment security says only people with the winning albums can go through the door. Instinctively, you cling onto Heehyeon, and you realize you actually do want her in there with you. She’s the one that has to extract herself from your hold.

“Go on, _____________.”

“I’m terrified,” you admit, fiddling with the sticker on the album that says 322.

“It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Just remember what we talked about.” She leans in closer to whisper. “Keep your cool. Explain yourself. Say sorry for the other day, and give him the thing.”

You make a face. Right. The thing. While fans had brought their little dolls and gift baskets and toys, you had a letter — a stupid, handwritten letter that you tried to explain yourself with in the vaguest way possible (to avoid looking even more like a lunatic than you probably already do) while also begging for forgiveness for your attitude. You aren’t very good with words, so Heehyeon had stood behind you coaching you through what to say. All in all, the letter’s a mess, but at least you’re not going in empty-handed.

The elevator’s the only way to the theater where the fan sign is going to be held, so they let you in by batches. When it’s your turn, you get stuck between the wall and another fan the wrong way, the handle bar of the elevator digging into your stomach. You spend what feels like ten whole minutes like two uncomfortable inches away from Mark’s huge face on the poster that runs along the three walls of the elevator before you arrive at the fifth floor of the building and everyone trickles out of the cramped space. At this point, you’re absolutely nauseated, but you’re not sure if it’s because of the whole handle-punching-you thing in the elevator, or if it’s because you’re growing more and more nervous at the prospect of seeing Mark again.

The auditorium is full when you’re ushered to your seat, and you get to stay near the back, which is elevated so that you can see everything, albeit from a distance. Three long tables have been stuck together on the little stage they have set up in front of the theater screen curtains, and there are nine chairs set up in a row behind them. The sea of fans in front of you houses a good number of pink dots, and you remember what those Jaehyun fans at the M! Countdown pre-recording had said about how you could pick out a Mark fan by the color of their shirt. You’re not one of them this time, though; Heehyeon had told you not to draw any kind of attention to yourself, and a violently fuschia shirt was the antithesis to that advice. You content yourself with miserably counting how many people are wearing pink.

You’re in the 20 or so range when a loud cheer erupts from the crowd, and you start; you had been so busy counting that you hadn’t noticed that the staff and security had taken their place around the stage, soon followed by the NCT members themselves. They enter in a line, waving at the crowd enthusiastically. Johnny, who is leading the line and takes the farthest seat from the starting point, is throwing out a flurry of finger hearts that the crowd goes wild over. When they’re at their places, they do their greetings before taking their seats, and the fans quiet down to listen to Mark, who is starting off the opening ment and talking about how he’s really happy about this comeback.

You lean forward in your seat, your eyes trained on only him. Mark looks different today from when you last saw (some would say attacked) him. Today, there are no traces of make-up on his face, no hair products in place. His skin looks dewy and bright, and he’s wearing glasses, perched just on the edge of his nose. They move when he scrunches his nose as he laughs, and he has to push them back to keep them from falling when he leans forward to look at the other members down the line. The white shirt he has on is a little too big for him, but it looks comfortable. Seeing him on stage for a performance is different, you realize. He looks so… at home like this. So normal. So happy.

It makes your heart ache even more.

There’s nothing to do but wait for your turn, and it’s a long time until then. The process goes on a per-row basis to avoid a messy and overcrowded stage, and you watch as fans enter the line one after another, stopping to chat with each member. Some of them have obviously done this before — at least, enough times to be comfortably chatting and laughing with members who remember them. Others are a little more starstruck, and they come off the stage crying, their tears spilling over on their albums — more specifically, Johnny’s face, since they usually have the books open to his photo.

The more people that go up, the more unsure you are of this whole scenario. You wish you could be the kind of fan that they would remember fondly, but most of the members hadn’t even seen you properly when you’d run up to Mark. Probably the only person that would remember you apart from him would be Doyoung, and your only interaction with him had been him trying to pry you off his friend. Chances are, you’re going to end up like the other kind of fan that just broke down during the course of the fan sign, but maybe not for the same reasons.

When the row in front of you is led to the stage, you start feeling sick. You think it’s because you’ve been sitting too long, but, deep down, you know it’s you fears eating away at your insides, and this is only confirmed when you’re advised to stand, and you actually raise a hand to your mouth, pressing two fingers against your lips tightly just in case your churro decided to make a reappearance.

The walk to the stage is horrendously long, and even though you know the other fans are too busy leafing through their signed albums, you feel like you’re under scrutiny. The staff make sure you go up one by one to avoid some kind of traffic jam, and when it’s your turn, you feel your knees go weak. You’re not sure what you look like, but you can’t look that great. The staff at the front of the line asks you to hand over your album and follow the other fans, who’ve had to kneel in front of the idols. You’re inwardly thankful, because there’s almost no strength left in your calves.

The first member in line is Taeil, and he greets you quietly and without fuss. The staff member hands him your album, and he asks for your name. You barely manage to choke it out, and it’s embarrassing when he has to ask for it again. It’s worse with Yuta, who’s so intimidatingly attractive that you actually feel the need to scoot backwards onto your knees. He even asks you to spell out your name because your voice has gone too small.

“You seem so nervous,” he laughs. “Is this your first fan sign?”

“Um,” you answer unintelligibly. “Sorry?”

“No, no. I don’t mean it like it’s a bad thing. But don’t be nervous in front of us. We like seeing our fans happy.”

“Yes. I’m… happy.”

He spares you an amused glance as he’s finishing up his signature. You don’t know what’s so funny, unless you look paper-white and that somehow sets his funny bone off. Luckily, Taeyong isn’t the excessively talkative type — at least, not the kind that makes you feel like you’re under a lamplight in an interrogation room — and the only thing Haechan asks you is if he should call you “noona,” to which you also smartly reply with “uh.” You can’t remember when his birthday is; all you can think about is trying to keep consciousness. He just writes “noona” next to your name, anyway.

When you get to Jaehyun, you truly feel like you’re going to throw up. Mark is right beside him, talking to another fan animatedly. You hear him say something about ghost pepper noodles. He can’t take spicy food, you remember. Your head is light, and the room is spinning, and is that a halo around Mark’s head?

“You must like Mark, huh?”

When you look back at Jaehyun, it looks like a bright light is shining behind his head as well. He only spares you a quick glance, his entire body leaned forward to sign your album carefully. You lick your lips, unsurprised to find them bone dry.

“I — sorry,” you say quietly, and he laughs easily, signing across his torso in the picture. You briefly consider that these people have a weird sense of humor.

“No; it’s fine. Mark has so many fans, doesn’t he? It’s because he’s really talented and humble.”

“You’re… talented and humble too,” you mutter carefully. He chuckles again.

“Thank you. What did you say your name was again?”

“______________.”

He scrawls it messily above his signature before tilting his head back to look at the overall effect of his handwriting vandalizing his own photo. The last stroke of your name just touches his forehead in the picture. “_____________, I hope you continue to love and support Mark and NCT, then.”

Jaehyun pushes your album to the side towards Mark, but your hands are already outstretched to receive it. There’s this long, awkward pause where you’re just cupping thin air and he’s just staring at your hands, and you want to apologize again, except you’re not sure what to apologize for. He just bursts out laughing again, and takes your hand in his to shake it so you don’t look foolish. There must be a lot of static in the air, because the moment your palms make contact, the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, as if you’ve been weakly electrocuted.

He must feel it too because he draws back quickly, and his eyes, previously crinkled with laughter, are now wide and alert. On you. Your stomach drops as an unmistakable expression of recognition reforms his features. His jaw drops.

“Hold on—“

You’re screwed. He must recognize you from The Incident. You open your mouth, but you don’t even know what to say, and before you even have a chance to form a word, the girl beside you inches closer to kneel in front of Jaehyun; the staff behind him is motioning for you to move faster. All you can do is shoot him one last pleading look before you move in front of Mark, and  he’s still staring at you, a little dumbfounded, as you side-crawl further away.

Mark is talking to Doyoung, unaware of the hold-up you’ve caused. They’re sharing a joke, and Mark’s laughter rings in your ears. You actually feel yourself drowning out all the noise around you and focusing on the sound of it. All you can hear is that laugh, coupled by the erratic beat of your heart that feels like it’s about to rip through your chest.

It happens again — that slow-motion, tunnel vision thing you’d felt right before you’d rushed towards him last week. You think it’s nerves at first, but you quickly realize it’s your body warning you of an impending disaster.

He turns to face you, his eyes a little glassy and unfocused from laughing. He doesn’t recognize you for a moment, slim fingers already reaching out for your album and uncapping his pen. It’s only for a split second, really, but you lock eyes in that small span of time. The realization seeps through his gaze as his memory feeds him the information you fear the most.

Mark drops his pen at the same time that he pushes his chair back; the movement is so sharp and violent that the table he’s sharing with Doyoung and Johnny scrapes forward, hitting your chest — not too hard, but enough to knock a little wind out of you. The members look up in alarm at the noise, and it’s only aggravated by Mark’s loud voice hitting all four corners of the auditorium.

“It’s you—!”

Doyoung is the second to recognize you, and he stands up, looking still disoriented but mostly angry, and he jabs his index finger in your direction as if he wants everyone to know you’re the one Mark is referring to.

You don’t know what to do; you put your hands forward, but this just seems to cause an even larger riot. Staff are by your side in a second, and this burly guy grabs you by the elbow and hoists you up. A vague memory of him as the same guy who’d grabbed Mark after the pre-recording pings in the back of your mind, but you don’t have time to worry about that. You go up without resistance, but your gaze is still fixed on Mark, who is now just staring back at you in alarm, half his body hidden behind another security guard who’s shielding him, as if he thinks you’re just going to propel yourself forward and strangle the life out of someone.

Everyone at the table is standing now; even the fans are on their feet, looking livid. Suddenly, everything in your field of vision swims, and you feel the tears spilling over your cheeks, leaving hot, wet streaks of make-up that can’t look attractive.

“Mark,” your voice comes out weakly. “Mark, please. Please — just listen—”

Even if he were to really listen, you don’t have time; you’re already being dragged away by the staff, and they take you through the fire exit to avoid a bigger scene. This entire time, you’re looking back at the table, and you’re trying to call out Mark’s name, but he’s refusing to look your way now, shakily taking his seat as the staff realigns the tables. The only time you stop yelling is when the fire exit’s door slams shut.

It doesn’t take long for you to sober down, and you try telling the staff you weren’t planning on doing anything weird, but they aren’t taking any chances. Two big guys keep your arms practically pinned to your sides as they escort you to the first floor, where building security had called up the police again. You at least feel a little lucky that they don’t parade you out up front where everyone can see you.

You desperately want to call Heehyeon, but they’ve confiscated your phone and your wallet, so you just sit in the back of the police car, trying not to scream. You hadn’t even done anything, but he’d panicked anyway. You’d already spent your time regretting The Incident, but this, by far, was its worse effect. If you ever showed up in front of him again, you’d probably be given a real restraining order.

No one talks to you at the police station; they’re so busy trying to deal with other cases of misdemeanor here and there that they actually just let you sit by the door for twenty minutes. You could leave, but you don’t; you’re not taking any more chances right now. Eventually, you’re led into a temporary holding cell next to a shoplifter, and you’re suddenly glad they’ve confiscated your valuables.

It’s quiet, save for the footsteps of the shoplifter that’s pacing agitatedly. She keeps forgetting she doesn’t have a watch and actually checks her bare wrist every so often, as if she’s waiting for someone. You let out a long sigh and press your back against the wall for a second before you realize you don’t know what’s been near it, and you shoot up straight again, your features morphing to express disgust. Your cellmate snickers.

Heehyeon must know something’s wrong already. By now, everyone’s left the auditorium, and it won’t take a public service announcement for her to catch wind of something bad happening in the fan sign. She’d have to ask security about you, then wait for a cab to get to the police station. If she’s as smart as you think she is, she should be outside trying to bail you out of your overnight stay.

Your spirit lifts for the first time since the fan sign as you see the officer that apprehended you come back into the holding areas. He stops in front of your cell, gesturing for you come forward before getting the keys to unlock the cell.

“You’re letting me go?” You confirm, watching him struggle with the keys.

“Your friend paid your bail,” he drawls out the word friend, like he’s disgusted by the idea that Heehyeon is paying for your release. “He’s signing the papers outside.”

He?

You’re nothing short of confused when you exit the holding area, and your eyes immediately scan the police station for Heehyeon. There’s no sign of her though.

The only person you recognize is NCT’s Jaehyun, standing taller than almost everyone in the room, grinning and gesturing for you to come over.

last eden - iii . | lmh

part i, ii, iii

only one thing has ever mattered to you, in this lifetime, and in all others : mark lee — even if he doesn’t know yet, and even if he may never remember.

pairing: mark x reader verse: canon/idol!verse, soulmates trope rating: T warnings: none, i think! word count: 5.7k tag list: @kikookii

a/n: quite frankly i am having a terrible headache so if you see any bad slip ups once again please feel free to let me know!! literally no mark presence in this chapter (i apologize) however, it's integral to the story, plus you have quite a bit of jaehyun to bridge the gap, so ..................... here we go !!

What’s weird is that he gives you back your album. He casually hands it over alongside the release papers like you’re still in the auditorium and not exiting the police department, with a bunch of officers casting the both of you befuddled looks. Some guy by the water cooler seems to recognize Jaehyun and promptly drops his paper cup. The water stains his pants in a supremely unattractive way, but he just keeps on staring, kind of agape.

Who can blame him, though? You’ve got this tall, handsome guy coming out of the precinct jail all smiles with this really confused girl right behind him; the scene just… it makes no sense. At all. 

When you’re finally past the front doors, you open your mouth to ask him a question — any question — but nothing comes out; you’re not sure which one to prioritize. You just end up scratching your neck and saying “um,” which he responds to with a sincerely interested look, but you have nothing, so you just kind of stare at each other until even he starts looking a bit awkwardly placed.

“I couldn’t get anyone else’s signature on it anymore, but I thought you might at least like to have it back,” he gestures to the album, tucked between your side and your arm. “You know, fond memories.”

You’re sure that’s a joke, but neither of you laugh. He’s looking at you expectantly, like he wants you to have this big revelation, or to, like, start freaking out at least, but all you can do is look down at your release papers with this numbness in your chest. His name is on the signatory line: Jung Yoonoh. Like, you’d always know some of their names were stage names, but it wasn’t like you cared enough to research and memorize everyone else’s names and birthdays and favourite foods. Information on Mark was already too much, anyway. 

Still, seeing his real name also made him more… normal. Even if he is still freakishly tall. You have to crane your neck slightly to maintain eye contact with him, and you can’t be too close, or you’ll just have to bend your neck back to a really bad angle. 

“Your signature… looks different on this paper,” you observe stupidly.

“Yeah, well… I can’t really put a big, obnoxious autograph on a legal document, can I?” he chuckles. 

“Why did you — I mean, you didn’t have to, but thank you, but — why?”

“Why did I bail you out?” He looks away slowly, out towards the busy road. It looks so dramatic that you almost want to look around to see if you’re accidentally trapped in a primetime drama series with him. “Well, for one, I know you’re not crazy.”

That’s good. Not necessarily the NCT member you wanted to convince of your sanity, but it’s some kind of progress.

“But more importantly, I think it’s important that you’re aware that there are always people who are going to help you.”

That was way too much depth considering you’d just formally met each other about an hour or two ago. He turns back to you, a small smile still playing on his lips. You smile back — although it feels more like a grimace. 

“Thank… you?” You let the last syllable of your thanks hang awkwardly, unsure if he wants to just drop the conversation or something, but he looks at you expectantly, so you feel compelled to continue. “I mean… That’s nice of you to say so, and I’m grateful that you think that I’m not crazy — I’m really not — but I just… feel bad.”

“Bad?” It’s his turn to look bemused. 

“Bad, yeah. I mean, you’ve got so much on your plate without having to go through all this trouble just to help a fan you don’t know. I’m not complaining,” you add quickly. “I’m just saying… you… you didn’t have to. I could have called my friend or my mom, or something. The point is, you didn’t have to go out of your way and hassle yourself for a nobody you’ve never met.”

“We’ve met,” he raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, like two hours ago.” 

“I kind of remember seeing you further back,” he says slowly.

“Okay, but that day doesn’t count,” you say, sounding dismissive, but you’re honestly just embarrassed he remembers you diving at Mark after the M! Countdown stage. “We didn’t even talk. I don’t even know if anyone else apart from Mark and Doyoung got a good look at my face. My point is —”

“I got a pretty good look from the car,” he replies simply, and you can see he’s struggling to keep down a smile. “But I mean—”

“My point is,” you press on. “Thank you. For today — for bailing me out even if I’m just some crazy fan and for, you know, assuring me that you don’t actually think I’m crazy.”

He waits for a second, then a huge, toothy grin spreads across his face. “That’s it?”

“I guess.” It felt kind of anticlimactic. You’re confused, yes, but under that, you’re really just grateful. And confused. But mostly grateful. 

“You’re welcome, then,” he says simply. “But if you’re really thankful, maybe you should take my advice when I say you should think about taking a break.” 

And now you’re stumped again. “What?”

“Take a break,” he repeats himself. “Try not to overexert yourself too much and get into this kind of trouble. Times are hard these days, and they’ll only get harder.”

“Is that your best fortune cookie impression?” 

He laughs again — loudly this time, so much so that the police officers stepping outside of the building shoot him a surprised look. “No, but I think it’s a pretty good one, don’t you?”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“You will,” he says, and although his words are mysterious, his demeanor is weirdly cavalier; he just shrugs his shoulders. “But it always takes time for it to sink in. When it does, you should call me.”

“I should huh?” 

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wrinkled ziplock bag that turns out to contain your phone. The front of the bag has all of your details, and some vindictive police officer had written CONFISCATED on it with a thick red pen. 

“I put my number in there; I hope you don’t mind. I’m not, like, randomly hitting on you, or anything weird like that, in case you were wondering. I just think you might want to keep in touch even after this.” He makes a slightly pained face. “Um, it’s also been ringing a lot. Your friend is probably looking for you, but I didn’t want to invade your privacy and answer it.” 

“I can tell,” you reply, fishing it out of the bag and unlocking it. You have eleven missed calls and a bunch of KakaoTalk messages. “How in the world did you unlock my phone?”

“I guessed your passcode. It wasn’t hard considering how much I already know about you. Call it an educated guess.”

“How much you — okay,” you don’t know if your agitation is a result of feeling slightly violated now or just residual trauma from today’s events as a whole. “You need to be straight with me and tell me what you’re saying, really.” 

“I’m NCT’s Jaehyun, and I just bailed you out of jail. I can be as mysterious as I want.” 

“Those two reasons literally don’t make sense!” you half-shriek. 

“Don’t yell; people might think I’m kidnapping you,” he actually looks around like he’s worried. 

“I’m the one with a criminal record in this conversation.”

“Did they really write you up as a criminal?”

“I’m pretty sure I saw them write that I was charged with viol — that’s besides the point,” you quickly haul the conversation back to the topic. “I don’t understand anything that’s going on here, and you sound like you’re saying something important, but all I hear is some weird guru babble.” 

“If I try to explain everything here, we’re just going to have a hard time. Besides, there’s no real learning if I just tell you everything.” You feel like you’re going to scream again, but you don’t really want to be caught harassing another idol, especially one that’s helped you, so you just bite your tongue. Hard. "You’re tired. I’m tired. People are looking for us. I need to get to practice, and you… need to… um, do stuff. Have dinner. Go see a movie, or something. I’ve got free passes, if you want them; they’re probably in my wallet somewhere —“ 

“Pass on the movie,” you say firmly. “I just… Okay. I’m going home. I’m going to process what just happened, crawl into bed, and then die, maybe.”

“Before you die,” he interrupts. “Call me. After the whole processing thing.”

“Before I die, I will consider calling you. Even though I don’t know why I should, and especially because that’s very weird, considering we’re not even friends.”

“I paid your bail,” he pouts. He pouts? In this day and age? “What else does it take to be your friend, then?”

“Clear responses.”

“Well, if that’s what it takes, we’ll be friends when you process everything that happened today and you inevitably call me.”

You awkwardly see Jung Jaehyun off, waiting for his cab to leave before calling Heehyeon back. Just as the car is about to move forward, the driver presses on the break again, and he rolls his window down. Jaehyun is beside him, craning his neck so you can hear him clearly when he says call me, okay? You make a half-hearted grunt that he takes for assent and finally allows the driver to speed away. 

“What happened to you?” Heehyeon screams into the phone the moment she picks up. “There were tons of policemen outside CGV! One of them said someone got arrested. Did you get arrested? Please give me at least one bit of good news today and tell me you didn’t.”

“I was… hauled away and put in time-out?”

“You’re so — oh my God, tell me which police station.” 

The moment you finish giving the address, she hangs up, and you can only assume she’s on her way. You end up standing outside of the police station for another twenty minutes, alternating between just looking guilty and playing 1010 on your phone. You hear your name being called out by a clearly incensed voice, and you turn to see your roommate charging at you, lips pressed in a tight line. Your palms, admittedly, get just a little sweaty. 

“Don’t start,” Heehyeon raises a hand. Her cheeks are flushed, probably because she’s minutes away from exploding and she’s also been running. Her chest is heaving, probably for similar reasons. “I had to hear from some kids that a crazy fan leapt over the signing table, pushed aside Doyoung and Jaehyun, and kissed Mark full on the mouth! I told you not to do anything crazy, and you had to do the one thing that made you look the craziest!”

“I did no such thing!” You argue, slightly affronted. “Why would you even believe I’d do that?”

“Because you’re not above that when it comes to Mark!” 

“I still have my dignity,” you retort.

“Do you? Do you really?”

“I didn’t do anything. I literally didn’t!” You cut her off before she can start again. “I was just moving along the line, ready to give him the album and the letter, and he and Doyoung recognized me —“ 

“More people recognized you? That’s just great —“

“The point is, I didn’t make any kind of scene!” You huff; despite knowing that this is somehow your fault, you can’t help but feel like people have blown this issue way out of proportion. You had only had a brief, harmless spell of hysteria once, and now you’re crazy? “I was just doing what I had planned to do. It just didn’t go as planned.” 

“I’ll say,” Heehyeon’s face is considerably less red; perhaps she’d come to believe you, or maybe she’d always just been really good at not blowing up at you for all of your strange decisions. She eases herself in front of you, sticking out her arm to call a cab. Her voice becomes muffled as she crawls her way into the far end of the backseat. “The whole first floor was a mess. Other people thought there was a bomb threat. They said a whole bunch of fans got arrested. How the hell did you get out?”

“I got bailed out,” you shift your weight between your feet before you follow suit. You can’t wait until this story gets even weirder, considering that the cab driver is looking at the two of you suspiciously. Heehyeon doesn’t notice, or if she does, she doesn’t mind, so she gives your address to him as he starts moving forward. 

“How — is your mom in town or something?”

“No, it was… you know.”

“I really don’t,” she replies, tiredly. You can’t blame her. Her heart has probably experienced just about the same amount of distress as your own. 

“It was… Jaehyun. You know.”

“Like, your manager?”

“Wh — no, I mean, Jung Jaehyun.” When her face draws a blank, you sigh, turning away. You pass by an Innisfree, and then a Nature Republic. You should really figure out how to make up for all the hours you took off from work. Somehow, you feel embarrassed about a lot of things. “You know. Jaehyun? From NCT?”

“I know of him.”

“Well, he paid my bail.” 

There’s silence in the backseat now. Heehyeon isn’t even making eye contact with you; her face is uncomfortably unreadable. The cab driver makes a turn and ups the volume of the song playing on the radio.

“Okay,” Heehyeon says slowly, after her long and strange pause. “New question. Why?”

“Good question,” you respond, blowing out a bit of air in frustration. “I don’t know.”

“Did he bribe you? To stay away from Mark?”

“No,” that would have made more sense, though. “He said we were friends and demanded that I call him soon.”

“Maybe it’s, like, a cry for help. Maybe SM Entertainment is just holding him hostage and he needs you to bail him out.”

“This isn’t a soap opera, you lunatic.”

“Yeah, you’re right. There would have to be another annoying girl competing for Mark’s affections while the main girl suffers in silence. Or, plot twist, you’re the annoying girl.”

“Well, he seemed like he was being genuine,” you ignore her last comment, although you do meet it with a standard eye roll. “He even broke into my phone and gave me his number.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” she pauses again, this time to snort. “Although anyone can break into your phone, now that I think about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’ve got a one-track mind. Anyone who can see that knows exactly what your passcode is. And I’m sure he saw that, considering he saw you lunging at Mark.”

“I did not lunge! And my passcode is fairly secure.”

“0802.”

“What?” You say defensively. 

“It’s 0802. Your passcode. It’s Mark’s birthday.”

“Lucky guess,” you mutter, shifting your vision away once again as she snickers behind her hand. 

You and Heehyeon split the cab fare and trudge up to your apartment; both of you look worse for wear, and she flops down onto the couch while you fiddle with the air conditioner’s remote. 

“You think he’s in love with you?”

“Who? Mark? I doubt it.”

“No; I meant Jaehyun.”

“I doubt that even more,” you sigh, pushing her feet off the couch so you can settle on it with a groan. 

“You’ll never know,” she pokes your thigh with her toe, and you swat at her ankles. “Maybe he likes girls that are kind of possessive.”

“I am not possessive!” You want to yell, but your fatigue is catching up to you. Instead, you smack her calf; a satisfying whimper escapes her.

“If you weren’t, you would just let him go.”

“You know why I can’t, you dumbass. He’s my soulmate.”

“What if that’s not a real thing? What if you’ve just been with him all this time because you keep finding a way to track him down?”

“Why would I have the memory to keep finding him if we weren’t meant to be together?” You say exasperatedly.

“All I’m saying is that you should think about taking a break. Go on vacation. Or a blind date.”

“You—“ you turn to her, your brows furrowed. “You sound like Jaehyun.”

“How so?”

“He told me to take a break,” you recall slowly. “Told me not to overexert myself. He said something about times just getting harder.”

Heehyeon sits up and stretches out; you hear her back crack. Her shirt rides up a little when she shrugs. “What does that mean?”

“Beats me. It’s kind of why I thought he was a little out of it.”

“Well, I’m telling you to take a break. If you’re not going to take it from him, take it from me. Knowing you’ve spent all of your lives chasing after Mark is tiring.” 

A strange tingle runs down your spine. “Wait, what did you say?”

“I said you should take a break.”

“No, not that,” you say impatiently. “The other thing.”

“I said knowing you’ve spent all of your lives chasing Mark is tiring, so you should give it a rest for a while.”

“Knowing I’ve spent all of my lives…” you echo. Your fingers curl into your palms, nails digging into your skin. Heehyeon tosses you a slightly confused look. “Do you think —no way. It can’t be, right? Not Jaehyun?”

“What ab —“ she freezes, her jaw suddenly going slack. You lick your lips, waiting for her to say something affirming, like no way, or you’re crazy, but she just meets your eyes with a slightly panicked expression. 

“Jesus Christ. You need to call him now.”

Jaehyun actually sounds really happy when he picks up. There’s music playing in the background, and you can hear voices talking over it. His own voice echoes a little in whatever space he’s in, and his breathing is slightly labored. 

“Did you get home safely? Did your friend come pick you up?” 

“I don’t want to be rude, but since you’re busy and probably have very little time to talk, can I be the one asking the questions this time?” 

“Okay — actually, it really isn’t a good time right now,” he hums. You want to scream with frustration, but you know idol’s lives are just the worst when it comes to having leeway for free time, so you swallow it down. “Are you free later tonight? You can ask whatever you want.”

“Like, 7:30, 8 pm?”

“More like past midnight,” he says, and now he has the audacity to sound a little sheepish. “Sorry. Tight schedule.”

“I have work tomorrow,” you half-whine. 

“I don’t really know when our next off-schedule is. Maybe in a couple of weeks?”

You can’t wait that long. Even the thought of waiting until 8 PM was already a little tortuous. But since he’s giving the answers, you have to play by some of his rules. “Fine. 1 am.”

You make plans to meet at a coffee shop in Garosu-gil, and he’s nice enough to promise you a ride home, even if it’s kind of out of the way for him. You hang up just in time to avoid Heehyeon yelling out I love you, Jaehyun! from the kitchen. She snickers when you throw an oven mitt in her general direction. 

A lot of the boutiques in the area are half-closed already, and there are very few people making their way down the street when you get out of the cab at a quarter to 1. You’re glad the street is fairly narrow, enough for only foot traffic, with all of its shops stuck together, but it’s still a fairly long stretch of road. You take your time strolling down the street, assuming that Jaehyun will be late considering he’s got a pretty tight schedule.

So you’re surprised that you see him by the window of the otherwise empty cafe, playing Gardenscapes on his phone. He notices you walk up, laughing at your alarmed expression as you pick up your pace considerably and enter the cafe.

“I thought you’d be late!” You hiss, using a fierce tone so as not to call attention to the embarrassment that’s probably clear in your overheated face.

“Hey, I can be punctual when I want to be.” He pockets his phone as you sit down across him, slipping your bag off your shoulder and kicking it under the table. “Smooth.”

“I was assuming you’d have some really heavy schedule to attend to, so I took my sweet time walking. You didn’t even text!”

“I didn’t want to hurry you or stress you out. You already kind of look like you stress yourself out.” 

You have no response to this, mostly because it’s true. You just stand up, mutter something unintelligible, and march off to the counter, ordering a cup of iced chocolate before sitting back down.

“So,” he leans forward, lacing his fingers together on the table. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Physically, yes. Mentally? Still pretty confused.”

“You said you had questions.”

“Yeah. First of all, how do you know what my passcode for my phone is?”

“What — Mark’s birthday?” He laughs at your frown. “Educated guess. You should really think about changing it.”

“I don’t think it’s that predictable if you aren’t a fan.”

“Is that really the thing you’re most concerned about right now?” 

“No,” you chew your lip, suddenly nervous. He doesn’t change his position, just kind of… sits there and waits really patiently. Both of your eyes follow the waiter’s hands as he sets down your iced chocolate a few inches away from Jaehyun’s half-finished iced Americano. “I want to know the truth about you.”

“Okay — my name is Jung Jaehyun. I was born on the 14th of February. My mom’s name is —” 

“No, not that stuff,” you wave his oncoming spiel away. He pretends to look affronted, which you also manage to ignore by taking a sip of your drink. “You know what I mean. Why did you bail me out? Why are you so friendly towards me when we’ve never met before? Why are you talking to me like you know so much about me?”

“What do you mean? We’ve met before.”

“How long ago?” 

He twists his cup in its saucer; a little puddle of coffee has formed around the base of the cup. Jaehyun seems really interested in it, suddenly. “Before I answer that, can I ask you something?” 

This conversation really isn’t going as planned. Then again, you had also refused to take Heehyeon’s advice to strap Jaehyun to a chair and tickle the answers out of him. Now you’re not really sure if you regret that decision. “I guess so. What?”

“What do you know about the Battle of Volgograd?”

You make a face that very clearly amuses him. “I only took Korean history in college. Even that was an elective. I know next to nothing about the rest of the world.” 

“Nothing? You don’t remember anything from it?” 

“Why are you asking me for a lecture on European history?”

“I sometimes dream about Russia. Like, really clearly,” he keeps turning his cup in its saucer. “But, like, I know what it looks like now, sort of, but it’s not really that way in my dreams. It’s more of like, a really bad war zone. Everything’s messed up. So many people are dead. Pretty sure I killed some of them? It was just a really bad time. In my dream, I mean.”

“Sure,” you’re turning your own cup, too. You’re not sure if he’s doing the same thing because he’s just as anxious and nervous as you are. It’s like there’s suddenly this blanket of tension over your heads, with a big revelation about to come out, and you just want to will it to be revealed faster. 

You lived through that time in Russia. Except it wasn’t called Volgograd; it was called Stalingrad back then, and it was at the brink of destruction. You later found out that the Soviet Union had won, but it wasn’t like you could be happy about that news, considering what you’d lost.

“What’s so weird is that Mark was in my dream, too,” Jaehyun continues. “Like, I know that it was him, even if he looked kind of different. It’s so weird, but I didn’t call him Mark, obviously. But he talked like him and acted like him, so I knew.” 

“So it was just all nine of you in Russia, or something?”

“Like, in NCT? No, just Mark. It wasn’t an ensemble cast, or anything.”

Your heart is pounding. It’s the kind of proof you need, but you feel like this moment is so tense that you don’t want to interrupt him. You just take a really big gulp of iced chocolate. 

“Mark and I were really close because we were both in the army. Before we slept every night, he’d look at a picture of this girl. He kept saying he wanted to go home to her. Like, he didn’t want to die without ever seeing her again. He’d write her letters, but sending them was too difficult and expensive. He just kept saying the fight wasn’t worth it.”

Jaehyun is looking at you, but you can’t make eye contact. His fingers drum against the surface of the table, more and more agitatedly as the seconds tick by. You actually hear him swallow before he continues. 

“Things got bad. We thought we were going to lose. The commander sent us out on some kind of suicide mission, and it should have gone fine, but you know how things are in war. Something always manages to go wrong, and we were gunned down. I barely made it out alive. Mark was badly wounded, and the medic tried to help, but they couldn’t bec—“

“Stop,” your voice is shaky. “This isn’t what I was asking about, Jaehyun.”

He looks apologetic, but his words are firm. “At least let me finish.” 

“I just need an answer to my questions.”

“These are my answers. They’re convoluted and weird, but it’s the best proof I have.” 

You can’t say anything after that, so you just keep your eyes on the table, your lip trembling a little. He takes this as a cue to keep talking. 

“Anyway, the medics told me that time was running out. If we stayed there for much longer, we’d all die. Mark has always kind of been this weird hero, you know? He makes all these weird sacrifices no one expects him to, and he’s just okay with it. And it was like that in the dream; he told me to leave, and he pulled out that picture he’d always kept in his jacket pocket and gave it to me. He made me promise to get her out of the city and take her somewhere safe so she wouldn’t get hurt if the Soviet lost the war.”

You’re not sure if it’s the lighting or the time, or maybe it’s just the weight of this dream on Jaehyun’s shoulders. Either way, he looks eerily older now, like his face is way tired and a little sunken. The dark circles around his eyes are pretty prominent without make-up, you note. 

“I went AWOL. I was pretty done with the fighting, too. The commander looked surprised that some of us came back alive, like we were just dispensable. That same night, I took Mark’s stuff and left camp. He wrote the girl’s address on all of the envelopes he kept his letters in, so I thought maybe she’d at least like to have them. What was so weird was that when I looked at her picture, I knew her. She was an old schoolmate of mine, and her dad and mine sometimes had drinks together.” He chuckles with little humor. “Kind of weird, isn’t it? You run into people later on in your life when you’ve just nearly forgotten all about them.”

“Did you find her?”

“Yeah, I did. What was so fucked up though was that when I told her, she didn’t even really cry. I was worried she’d gone into shock, or something, but she just took the letters, gave me something to drink, and told me to go back to the front.” 

“I’m guessing you didn’t.”

“No, of course not. I mean, not only did I not want to die, I also didn’t want to not do the last thing Mark asked me to. So we left. I helped her get back to her parents in the province. After that, the dream just kind of skips randomly. I never saw her again, though. She must have gotten married, or something. Who knows?”

“She didn’t.”

“It was just a dream,” he replies carefully. 

“Well, she didn’t.” You frown. “She never married.There was no point. He was supposed to come home and marry her.” 

“That’s not a very happy ending to think about.”

“It’s not, but it’s what happened.” The entire time he’d been telling his story, your stomach had felt hollow; now, it feels heavy with lead, dragging your heart down with it. Jaehyun’s hand reaches out instinctively, but he draws it back, fingers curling into a fist. 

“I wouldn’t know, but I’m sure you would. Considering that was you, and all.”

“How many do you remember?” You ask. 

“Vividly? I’d say maybe five. I’m sure there are others, but it’s kind of hard to keep track. I just know you’re always there. So is Mark.” 

“I don’t remember,” you admit. “I mean, I don’t remember you. When you tell me this story, I can remember it, but I never thought it was you, over and over.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m doing things differently this time around,” he smiles slightly. “I never told you before that I remembered you. Not sure how that’s going to change anything now, but at least I’m trying that.” 

“So, if I asked you if you remember anything about, say, Rome —“ 

“It was your son’s birthday. That day of the… uh —” 

“Right,” you lean back in your chair, shaking your head. “Okay. This is… fine, I guess. Kind of weird, but fine.”

“______________,” him saying your name is shocking, and it throws you off for some reason; your eyes shoot up to meet his. They’re very clearly concerned in a way that makes you feel both vulnerable and exposed. “I’m not acting like I know what you’re going through. But I’ve seen it over and over, from a close distance, at least. You’re more and more unhappy. I can’t begin to understand what kind of connection you have, but is it worth it to suffer this much every time? For one person?” 

“Are you implying that he’s not worth it?”

“Of course not. I’m just trying to wrap my head around why you would keep doing it knowing that something terrible will happen anyway.”

“Why?”

“I mean, you could change course,” he shrugs. “I’m trying it. Who knows? Maybe now that I’ve told you, I can stop remembering everything, and we can meet in the next life as totally new people. That’s why I suggested you take a break; do it for yourself. Why would you repeat the same shitty cycle?”

“Because I love him,” you reply, simply, and more firmly than you had at any other point in this messed up conversation. “Isn’t that enough?” 

Both of your cups are empty, save for the last dregs of your drinks. Jaehyun stares at you, both his hands wrapped around the curve of his mug. It feels like a whole lifetime stretches out before you before he sighs and lifts his cup to his lips, draining the last of his coffee. You watch him, befuddled, as he pats around his pockets and brings out his car key. 

“Okay,” he says, with a weird sort of finality. “Let’s get going, then.”

“What, that’s it?” You can’t even hide the disappointment in your voice. Somehow, you thought you’d be talking a lot more. But, then again, what more was there for you to figure out? “We’re leaving?”

“Yeah; I’m going back to the dorm,” he stands up, pulling a bill out of his other pocket and going over to the counter to place it in the tip jar. You scramble around for your bag, pulling it over your shoulder as you stand up as well.

“Oh,” you feel foolish and a little impertinent for asking, but it is the middle of the night, and you feel like looking slightly demanding is better than hailing a cab at this ungodly hour. “Will… I get to go home first?” 

“Yeah, I’ll drop you off there for sure. But we’ll just stop at the dorm for a bit.”

“Okay,” you don’t really feel like you have a huge say in this, and it’s not like you’re complaining yet, but you’re still slightly confused at the abrupt ending to this conversation. You express this as you try to keep up with Jaehyun’s much longer stride. “Do you gas up at the dorm, or something?”

He laughs. It’s really, really loud, especially for this time of night. “No. I was thinking, tonight, maybe I might talk you out of your bad life habits, but it’s obvious you’ve always been set in your ways. So we’re going with plan B.”

“What the hell is plan B?” When had there been a plan A? Why was this all becoming so weirdly convoluted?

Jaehyun helps you into the car, reminding you about the seatbelt before making his way around the front and climbing into the driver’s seat. 

“Plan B,” he jams the key into the ignition, turning it until the engine purrs to life. “Is getting you and Mark in the same room without him calling the police on you.” 

“I don’t want to be rude, but have you actually thought this plan through? The past couple of encounters didn’t go well. At all.”

He adjusts the rearview mirror before turning to you; his teeth are white, gleaming in the dark as he grins. 

“You know what they say. Third time’s the charm.”

sweet cream, cold brew | lmh ( m )

something about mark lee keeps you up at night, and you’re pretty sure that it isn’t the lingering smell of espresso on his shirt.

alternatively: mark is shy until he isn’t.

read the second part here!

pairing: nerd!barista!mark x reader verse: college au rating: r ( minors, do not interact! ) warnings&tags: unprotected sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, slightly possessive/jealous dialogue, mark has a thing for tummy bulges because why not, implicitly that also means he has a big dick, a slight???? exhibitionism kink (not actually something that happens, only talked about), johnny exists in this simply to trigger something vaguely feral in mark, reader is a little bit assertive and schemes to get mark's attention, jaehyun is a nosy lil eavesdropper, i think that should be it?? word count: 26.4k

a/n: hello so this was a mess and honestly not a fic i would say showcases my best plot-wise but… what can I say apart from booty wurk mark has me in a chokehold and I needed to release some thoughts and feelings !!! please do not expect too much from the development of the story; i fear it’s quite long and choppy because my ideas were all over the place and i was wringing my hands and brain constantly and i was eager to get to the spicy parts !! this is also not beta’d/proofread, it’s currently almost 1am, and i’ve been writing this on and off for a full week with very few breaks so it honestly felt like a fever dream for me LMAO please forgive any oversights and mistakes; i’ll try to go back on them another day and fix them little by little! finally and …most importantly belated happy birthday, my beloved morkly!

p.s. this will probably be flagged as ‘mature’ by tumblr, which means there’s a high likelihood it won’t appear in tags or searches. please consider reblogging to boost the fic, if you feel so inclined!

You’ve heard tell of how caffeine has inherently addictive properties. 

The more of it you have in your lifetime, the more likely you are to experience symptoms of withdrawal whenever you try to have orange juice for breakfast in its stead. It sounds bad, actually, considering most addictive substances are, but you suppose that its benefits somehow outweigh its milder drawbacks. You’re not much of a coffee connoisseur the way some people — see: your best friends, Yeji and Jisu — are, trying one cafe after the other in pursuit of being able to nominate the winning beans of 2023 (an annual heated debate they participate in for no better reason than their own slow and useless entertainment during their six-hour long breaks), but you do know you’ve only ever experienced good things from having a cup every so often: better energy, a more focused approach to mental activities, and the ability to drive through fifty percent of a road trip without needing pop punk music blasting out of your speakers to keep yourself alert. 

The three of you are generally particular about the coffee you drink, only in different ways. While your friends have a tendency to demand only the best from any establishment — lest the staff hear fiery commentary about the flatness of the brew or the evident coarseness of the grind — you, on the other hand, are a singular individual of rather simple tastes. All you need to survive long days is a glass of vanilla sweet cream cold brew. No modifications to the sugar level or fancy new milk types are necessary; you’ll drink it as it’s served in a grande cup (or a venti, when things prove particularly grueling). 

Of course, you’re strict about other things in the experience of consumption —  like where it’s served and, more importantly, who serves it to you. 

While Yeji and Jisu have rated the Liberal Arts building’s on-campus Starbucks branch as a five with the strict label of POEO — ‘passable on emergencies only’ — branding the menu as “nothing revolutionary” and criticizing most baristas for subpar brewery, you happen to be extremely drawn to the place. Initially, you may have argued that this has to do with the fact that it’s walking distance from most of your classes, confined to the same general compound on campus, so you can always grab a quick recharger whenever needed, no matter how short the timeframe to do so is. Sometime later on, you may have found yourself asserting that the layout of the cafe, albeit small, is very convenient, considering that every table is situated next to an electrical outlet, so you’re never out of battery (important to other students for their laptops and powerpoint presentations, important to you because you have an unhealthy obsession with passing time on TikTok, scrolling past video after video of ASMR girls clicking their twenty-inch long acrylics with their crazy candyland designs), and this makes you feel at ease. 

A month ago, you finally came clean to yourself and, soon after, to your friends, and they came to understand, albeit begrudgingly and with no small amount of amusement, what made this Starbucks unbeatable in your eyes; it had one thing no other coffee shop could lay claim to.

What you know of Mark Lee is accrued from two major sources: long, surreptitious glances in the Modern World History class you share, and irritatingly brief interactions when you place your order from the other side of the counter behind which he stands, long fingers always poised to punch in your order at the speed of light. Sometimes, those encounters get cut even shorter when irate upperclassmen start prattling their orders out before you can even say anything past your own, except even this has its own consolation prize — an apologetic smile at you that seems only for you, although you’re not sure how much of this assumption is true. You’ll just believe it as you feel it. 

And what you’ve learned about Mark Lee has funneled down into two key points for you: first, he is single, a fact you were clued into when a group of his friends came to the coffee shop and sat around the table next to you. You hadn’t been eavesdropping; they’d just been pretty loud, but you’d also perked your ears the moment the one everyone seemed to call “Hyuck” — you aren’t sure if it’s his full name or a nickname, and you don’t particularly care — had leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper about having a vague master plan to set Mark up with an old high school friend’s younger sister that he was just waiting to spring on said Mark, busy slaving away on their six impossible orders near the espresso machine. 

You don’t really know what became of that plan, nor if anyone had telepathically been on your side to outright call it crazy (someone should have had a better reason than you, anyway) since the next moment, Hyuck’s voice becomes significantly louder when it orders the one named Jisung to collect the completed coffee and snacks waiting for them on the counter. However, you feel safe in the assumption that even if it had happened, no repercussions had followed, seeing as Mark still presently comes and goes from his shifts alone and in no clear hurry to meet any cute girls that are sisters of high school friends of his friends. Or, maybe you’re just ignoring what could be truth, but that’s whatever. 

Second, you’ve learned that Mark Lee should not actually be your type — at least, in theory. 

Saying you’re out of his league would be a bit juvenile, but if you had only so many words to describe the situation, you’d say so under duress. It isn’t so much that he’s beneath you in any way, but your interests and general social circles run different routes. Yours tend to be more classically patterned after constantly changing trends, and the people you interact with all seem to have similar goals; you like to call it ‘vibe networking,’ which, from experience, involves connecting with both groups and individuals that are equally aware that they will benefit in some way from any resulting acquaintanceship — whether it be by climbing the social ladder a couple of rungs or being able to call in a quick, off-the-charts favor for something very important and/or very exclusive down the road. You and your friends spend a significant amount of time in a year watching your style and image, something quite a lot of kids in the first couple of years of college tend to do, which means that while you don’t particularly like to spend your time following your grade trajectory, you do have quite a lot of pseudo-friends that all seem to offer something entertaining or helpful to you. 

Mark, on the contrast, prefers to keep his circle very close to his heart, it seems — that which acts as a receptacle for all his interests. You can tell that he likes to be up to date less with trending movies and more with comic books, a separate beast of a world that’s rather unknown to you. More than once, you’ve overheard him chat with his friends about Spider-man Issue Number Whatever-It-Is or engage in somewhat lively (sometimes rowdy, thanks to the Hyuck fellow) discussions about some webtoon you’ve come to understand is called Solo Leveling, which seems to have to do with monsters and hunters — two things you know next to nothing about. You’ve also never seen Mark holding anything remotely close to a magazine; his hands are always filled with either a freshly opened comic or a beat-up textbook. Maybe once or twice, you’ve seen him on his phone, but when you peeked over (surreptitiously, of course) on those occasions, you were met only with brightly colored panels and a singular word: BAM. 

In conclusion — you and Mark Lee live very different lives, likely never truly meant to intersect. 

And yet, you want him — not even in a way that speaks only to your curiosity, but in a manner that feels slightly delusional. More than once, you’ve found yourself having to shut your jaw close after realizing you’ve been watching him steam milk with your mouth slightly agape. Maybe it’s his side profile, which gives you a great view of the way his jaw tenses every time he puts whipped cream on someone’s frappuccino. Maybe it’s his eyes, which always seem to twinkle like he’s harboring some special secret every time someone in line asks for his recommendation on how to spice their order up. Maybe it’s his hands, steady and agile, with just the right showing of veins through the skin to tell you they’ve probably got significant strength to them too. Or maybe it’s just his mind — that thing he always manages to show off in class, working faster than lightning even when the rest of you are in your natural eight-in-the-morning stupor.

Whatever the reason for your interest, Mark Lee makes sure the Liberal Arts building’s Starbucks has you as a regular customer. 

You’re fully aware that this is the twenty-first century, which is why you could, as Yeji and Jisu have so kindly made known, simply ask him out. Under normal circumstances, you would have.

Unfortunately, in this particular area of your life, separate from all others, you’re something of a traditionalist. 

Actually, you just want to know what Mark asking you out would look like. Curiosity has fully gotten the better of you — how can it not, with how he breaks eye contact with you the moment it happens by accident in class, or with how pleasantly and shyly he smiles when you say ‘hey’ to him once you’re about to order? You’d like to see, first-hand, as a recipient of the experience itself, what he would look like taking control of a particular situation like that — something someone like him, so mild-mannered and laid-back, never really seemed to do upfront. 

You’d like to think you’ve given him clear signs. There’s a reason you always come in during his shift times, and it’s the same reason for why you have the same damn drink from the menu over and over again despite not even caring too much about coffee in the first place (something he admittedly doesn’t know and probably wouldn’t puzzle out, given how often you’re in that Starbucks, anyway). It’s that you want him to remember you.

Selfishly, it’s that you want him to think just a little bit more about you every single day. 

But if he does, Mark has never made it very clearly known; apart from taking your order in his genial customer service demeanor or letting a look of brief recognition pass his face over when you cross paths in the hallways, he’s never really shown heightened inquisitiveness about you. For all your differences, only you seem to actually care.

Frankly, that frustrates you, because if you have to think about him unhealthily, it would only be right for him to do that for your sake too. Still, you’ll shrug that hit on your pride off for as long as you can get his attention one way or another.

All you really need is for your plan to pan out as well as you think — and hope — it will. 

The thing is, you’re not even that bad at math. You’ve never really excelled at it, of course, but you wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re in dire need of help from anyone — the kind of help that feels like babysitting, at least.

However, Mark Lee doesn’t know that, and you’re not compelled to make that fact known to him when you notice that he’s leaning on the counter with his elbows, shoulders rolled forward and head bent down. He’s twirling his ballpoint in hand, wrist hovering over a worksheet, and you’re briefly distracted by the rapidly moving shadow underneath it.

His head snaps up when you gently knock on the counter, and the rest of his body follows suit, straightening as he shoves the paper away, one edge crumpling in on itself as it meets resistance in the form of the pastry display glass.

“Hey — hi, _________.” He knows your name, says it easily, and while you’d like to believe it’s because of his unprecedented interest in you, you know that it’s just because you’re always here and always having him write your name on the side of your cup. “Can I get you the usual?”

There’s no particular reason you order what you do; maybe it’s just rooted in the fact that when you first asked Mark for a recommendation, he said that the Vanilla Sweet Cream Cold Brew was pretty good, and you were inclined to believe him (while pointedly ignoring the fact that it was, at the time, a new item all of the baristas were required to push to indecisive, slightly moony-eyed customers such as yourself). Whatever the case, you found the drink generally palatable, and you were also able to score the first of many smiles that fed into your two-semester-long infatuation with him, so it was basically a win-win scenario for all. He even got to do his job by getting some rube (see: you) into trying a new product.

“Hey, Mark.” You’ve long since given up pretending that you don’t know his name and have to check the tag on his cute green apron (why is it cute? You don’t know. It’s the same, standard, Starbucks green, but Mark makes it look homely and natural, somehow). You’ve been here way too many times over the last academic year for a nonchalant, were you talking to me? approach to work, anyway. “That, plus a lemon loaf, if you don’t mind. What’ve you got there?”

His eyes follow the trail of yours over to his wrinkled worksheet. “Oh — no, sorry. It’s nothing.”

“Is it secret?” Your bottom lip juts out, and you see his Adam’s apple bob dangerously, a small telltale sign of minute nervousness before he lets out a short laugh. “Didn’t know we kept stuff from each other.”

You don’t know what makes you say that so naturally. The both of you don’t do much beyond exchanging pleasantries.

“We — uh, well, it’s just a worksheet. For Park Hyosung’s class. College algebra?”

“I’m in Kim Junghwa’s. Can I have a look? I want to know if you’re suffering just as much as I am.”

He pauses, considering your request for a moment, likely wondering if there’s any harm in it before he smooths the paper out and turns it towards you. His handwriting’s a little messy, but his solutions are extremely neat. You see, like, one erasure, max. You also don’t see anything that interests you — except the name written at the top. Still, you can see at a general glance that more than half of his answers are correct; the logic of his organization is way too elegant and his writing’s too sure to be anything else. You whistle low, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Something wrong?”

“Pretty much the opposite. How is it that you’re doing this without breaking a sweat?”

“Oh, well — it’s not…” He doesn’t even know how to brag. Yet another item in the perpetually growing list of things you find cute about Mark Lee. “I mean, anyone… can?”

“I must not be anyone then.” You meet his quizzical look with a wry smile. “Either you guys are leaps and bounds ahead, or I’m really not going to make it through this semester.”

Another silence passes, just for a fraction of a second — short enough to be passable to others, but long enough for you to wonder if your humor code isn’t up to par with the rest of the world’s — before Mark’s chuckling lowly. His large palm comes down, covering a majority of his answers in the process.

“You’re kidding. I’m sure you’re doing just fine.”

“Mark, look at this face.” You gesture to your evidently dumbfounded, blank expression. “Does this look like the face of someone that’s doing just fine?”

You’re pleased to hear another laugh from him; you don’t know if he really finds you funny or if he’s just the type to be easily amused. You don’t want to know, anyway; assuming is better than actually finding out.

“That bad, huh?” He slides the worksheet away again, like he’s afraid his correct answers are going to offend you into leaving the cafe. Instead, his hands start working on your order, grabbing a cup and scrawling the shorthand of the drink on one of the little boxes. “Ever think about getting a tutor, maybe? If you really feel like you’re drowning, that is.”

“A tutor? I guess that depends. Are you free on weeknights?”

The marker makes a soft screeching sound as he drags it down with too much force, ruining the penmanship of your name. Mark takes a moment to stare at the mistake on the plastic before he looks at you, pointing the rim of the cup towards himself. “Sorry — am I free—?”

“You said I should get a tutor, right?”

“I thought — no, sorry, I was thinking more like one of those department-assigned tutors you can ask the faculty for, or something.”

“Oh. Are you not one of them?” You sigh, albeit a little over dramatically. Thankfully, he doesn’t really cotton onto your acting, too caught up in befuddlement at the turn of the conversation. “That’s a bummer. I was kinda hoping that if I was going to ask for help, I’d get an actual genius. You know — someone like you?”

You can tell by Mark’s expression that he’s torn between denying your compliment again and responding to your actual question; he looks both relieved and miffed when the student behind you clears her throat.

“Sorry, but— you know that there’s a line, right?”

You both apologize, Mark’s much more sincere than your own, and you step aside. His gaze follows you for a moment before it snaps back to the next customer, his voice abandoning that bemused uncertainty it had taken up with you. You don’t really mind; as far as you’re concerned, any dent in his barista persona when he talks to you is a step in the right direction.

You hang around the pick-up area, receipt in hand, watching Mark clear the line before moving to the actual stations near the kitchen area. There’s a concentration on his face that you find all the more attractive; he has a habit of chewing on his bottom lip when he’s trying to focus on getting the drizzle just right inside the cup’s cylinder.

He tends to try his best at everything, you figure. Not an unattractive quality — not by a long shot.

Mark finishes your drink first; the milk’s still only seeping, cloudy, into the coffee when he brings it over. He doesn’t even have to call your queue number, opting to meet your eye — albeit slightly nervously — instead. You reach out to hold the cup, a calculated move that allows you to brush hands against his without him being able to pull back on instinct. He doesn’t, nor does he really seem to want to, but his jaw tightens as a flush creeps along the curve of his ears.

“You really won’t help me?”

Your question’s abrupt, almost a little demanding, even if your voice is sweet. You’re not above asking this much, anyway, even if you technically want him to make the first move. The redness sinks down to his earlobes.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t really say anything,” you tease. The cup’s on the counter now, so he can easily relinquish it to you at this point, but he still hesitates, only one hand slipping out from under the heat of your palm. He uses it to rub the back of his neck, chuckling softly, and you take this as a green light. “What time does your shift end?”

“Five-thirty. You sure you wouldn’t want someone better?”

You pull your cup slowly to yourself, and his hand, still lightly trapped by your own, follows for a few inches before he’s withdrawing, the counter between the two of you forcing the distance. A smile follows the shaking of your head, and you take a small sip of the drink before you respond simply.

“There’s no one better than you.”

Mark is a prompt kind of person; you learn this when, at five-thirty, he comes over to your table, tugging his apron off over his head. Of course, you might attribute that to his overall personality, but the fact that you spend the remaining two hours of his shift casting him glances from the left side of the coffee shop might have also been a contributing factor. The looks you give him aren’t even furtive; they’re deliberately long, so you never miss whenever he looks over to you from time to time.

He doesn’t hold eye contact for very long (he does it well enough when he’s talking to customers, but it’s not like you’re ordering another cold brew from across the room at that point), but you can read snippets of his thoughts through the fleeting gaze exchanges. He’s curious as to why you’re asking for help, now, of all times, when the semester’s more than halfway over. He’s surprised that you asked him, of all people, because he just can’t conceive of a world that isn’t within a television show where this kind of abrupt, overt request makes sense. He’s flattered that you even asked him out of the blue. He’s equal parts anxious and eager to know what’s meant to happen after his shift, once he starts fulfilling your request.

Most of all, he’s unsure if he’s reading you right — if what it feels like you’re doing is something he’s attaching too deep a meaning to. If he’s right in reading your signs.

You don’t really mind it; you like knowing that Mark somehow wears his heart on his sleeve, even if he tries to remain neutral for the sake of appearances. You also bask quietly in the fact that he’s looking at you twice as much as he ever has in the time you’ve loosely known each other. Still, his bubbling confusion and inquisitiveness seem to be interfering with the rest of his work, especially when you notice that he’s been wiping down the surface of a table two down from where you are for more than seven minutes.

In the hopes of easing whatever tension might be in his heart, you offer him a small smile, but that’s only met with his eyes immediately glazing over and inching a couple of centimeters above your forehead, where the story of Starbucks’ origins is drawn out in a faux-manga style. He pretends to find it interesting, as if he hasn’t seen it a million times from coming into this establishment day after day — you know it well enough, and you don’t even have to, considering you don’t work here — and you can’t do anything but hold back your laughter.

A small part of you says you should just give him the affirmative answer to his biggest question, but every other cell in your body says that it’s no fun if he doesn’t ascertain it for himself.

He has his school bag and textbook in tow when he approaches, taking the seat across from you. There’s a steely resolution on his face, like he’s been emotionally preparing himself for such a daunting task, but it eases up the moment you laugh lightly.

“You don’t have to act like I’m going to eat you.”

“I’m still not sure why you’re suddenly asking me to help you,” he admits. He’s also very honest, you note. Again, not an unattractive trait. “I’m not complaining. I just didn’t think you even had an opinion of me.”

“Why’s that?” You’re genuinely surprised. Mark drums his fingers on the front of his textbook, thoughtful — less for the sake of thinking what to say and more for the sake of considering how to say it. It’s clear he wants to avoid calling attention to the fact that before now, you two have had no reason to run the same track, let alone sit together and talk at a coffee shop, as if you’ve always been the best of friends.

“Genuinely just thought I was the guy who gave you your afternoon coffee every day,” he finally settles. Your eyes widen, and another laugh escapes you — a little louder this time, enough to call the attention of a couple of jumpy freshmen nearby.

“Well — let me put it this way.” You lean over slightly, cupping your chin in your palm. “Was I just the girl you made coffee for every day until now?”

There are clear cogs turning in his head; his eyes unfocus slightly as he thinks of the possibilities. His silence suddenly makes you somewhat nervous; your tone had been confident, and you’d only said that to prove a point, to push him in the right direction, but you realize that you hadn’t previously factored in the possibility that he might simply say yes — or, worse, say no just to avoid hurting your feelings.

You watch his lower lip curl in; he uses his tongue to smooth out the skin that’s slightly dried from work fatigue. You would much rather it peeked out, so you could imagine it against your own. His response is mumbled in a lower register, but you catch some key syllables — didn’t… not … stranger — pretty … you?

“Sorry?” You ask patiently, but the fact that he turns red and laughs again — something you realize is not only a trademark of his personality but also downright delicious of him to be doing — is all the answer you need to let the apprehension seep from your shoulders. “I didn’t catch that.”

Mark clears his throat. “No, I… didn’t think of you that way. I mean… you’re my classmate.”

“Sure,” your tone’s breezy, but the somewhat sloppy confirmation of interest in you makes your heart soar. He just needs more of a push. “And we’re basically friends, right?”

“Yeah.” His voice is unsure at first, like he can’t seem to wrap his head around the concept. You can tell that Mark’s notion of friendship is likely based on shared interests, of which you admittedly have none. Technically, if you were his friend, you’d spend less time just telling him the exact same order every single day and more time sitting around a table trying to learn how to play Magic: The Gathering with him. Still, he takes one long look at your grin and suddenly gains confidence in his next words, as if it somehow convinces him that the briefness of your old conversations had been a mutually agreed-upon thing and not the product of social distance between the two of you. “Yeah. We’re friends.”

“Right. Friends help friends, don’t they? I’d definitely feel more comfortable having a friend teach me than some stuffy upperclassman I don’t know.”

You see Mark’s lips move slightly, in such small movements you could have imagined it as breathing if you didn’t care too much (which you do). He mouths, to himself — friends help friends. For some reason, that boosts his conviction even further, and he nods.

“Makes sense. Well — for as long as you don’t mind me, then.”

“Mind? I asked you, so I should be saying that.”

“I’d never mind — I mean, of course I don’t mind.” He’s quick to correct himself, and you have to stop your own hand from reaching out to try to satisfy your curiosity, the desire to know just how hot his cheeks get when he blushes. “More than happy to help, actually.”

“And I’m more than happy to be here.” You beam at him, and he mirrors your smile. You don’t know what it is about the look on his face — the brightness in his eyes, or the slight lift of his eyebrows, maybe — but it gives you the impression that he might be feeling at least a fraction of what you are: the feeling of your heart lifting off a few inches from your rib cage. “Since we’re on the same page, I hope — should we get to it?”

From the moment that Mark opens his textbook to a chapter on inverted parabolas, he assumes a personality you feel you haven’t seen from him before. You realize that you really do know him in only two limited capacities — his classroom persona that seems to really only view himself and the material, focused on the board and the professor’s words (even up until the useless anecdotes) to absorb as much information as possible, and his more genial customer service form, always happy to assist in the trained, easygoing way you’ve come to meet so often.

Right now, he’s a blend of both, yet somehow neither all at once. He’s quick to catch the parabolas you draw, either wrongly or downright poorly. Despite initial hesitation, he always manages to say something; there’s already a pattern to how he does it, from his slightly awkward, “Ah, sorry, actually —” to the way his finger traces over what you’ve written, outlining the right curve. You find his interruptions so endearing that you start drawing them wrong purposefully — not enough for him to realize your schemes in their entirety, but enough to cast you a few amused glances, like he can’t imagine why you’d map out such an absurd graph. You get the feeling he wants to actually laugh at how ridiculous you’re acting, but he can’t tell if you’re seriously struggling or not, so he settles for a smile he thinks he does well in keeping to himself, but that you catch anyway. He’s patient, even when you have to rip out pages from the back of his notebook because of your ‘mistakes,’ like he’s still catering to your request for an extra pump of syrup for your coffee on sleepy days.

But there’s also that side to him that comes out when he suddenly remembers the distance between you that, before today, had felt unlikely to be closed. It peaks at odd moments, like when you’re borrowing his pen because yours is currently holding your slowly unraveling bun up, and your fingers brush against his. It surfaces abruptly when you lean in to watch what he’s drawing until he realizes how close you are, arm lightly grazing his, and his pen freezes, ink blotting on the paper for a second. It’s in those times that you can almost hear his brain churning out questions — like he’s wondering if you’re just oblivious or if you’re doing something on purpose that he can’t quite believe. Like he wants to ask you what’s on your mind, but he just doesn’t know how.

If he asked, you would reply without missing a beat. The answer, after all, is simple (him). But Mark never raises the question, only does something without fully acknowledging what he’s doing — the adjustment of his glasses on the bridge of his nose, the ruffling of his hair as though to shake off his thoughts, the clearing of his throat to normalize his tone before he explains something you’ve just asked about. There’s always that light tinge of pink to his face that makes him look even more endearing, and it fades and returns every so often for the better part of two hours.

By the time he rubs oncoming fatigue out of his eyes, the sun has already set; there are far fewer people around you at this time, and for as much as you like spending time with him and breathing in the scent of his shirt — always a tinge of Downy, barely cutting through the much more overpowering scent of espresso and sugar — your back has begun hurting from your front-heavy posture and determination to have your face as close as rationally possible to Mark’s. Still, you don’t miss out on the fact that the act of him cracking his neck to relieve tension makes your lips curl inward, trying to stifle an inappropriate noise in reaction to the view.

“I feel like I talked your ear off,” he pipes up, sounding a bit sheepish. “Sometimes it’s hard to know when to stop once you’ve gotten started. I’m just hoping I didn’t bore you to death.”

“Meanwhile, I’m here hoping you aren’t sick of my questions already.” You smile, closing your notebook and hanging the clip of your pen on the spiral. Your arms stretch up first, followed by your back, a light twist to relax your posture into normalcy again. Mark’s breathing falls quiet, like he’d been preparing to say something in response but had let it die in the back of his throat instead. You let your eyes drop, expecting to see him looking at you, as he mostly has been — on and off — since his shift ended, but his eyes are far lower than yours, the telltale redness now growing in evident splotches across his cheeks.

The hem of your shirt has ridden up; while there’s nothing outrageous about it, there’s a short expanse of skin that it reveals, for a brief moment. His eyes are slightly glossy, brow furrowed like he’s trying to find a solution to something he can’t fully understand. You’re not even sure about what he could really be looking at, or if there’s something he’s just thinking of that caught his attention while his eyes focused on a rather unfortunate spot. To test your theory, you suck in your stomach slightly alongside an inhale.

It should be objectively funny to watch Mark blink unevenly, left eye going first before his right tries to catch up, but you manage to stifle your laughter — poorly, though, because you end up coughing a little and breaking him out of his strange trance. You avert your eyes quickly enough for him to look vaguely relieved that you hadn’t caught him looking. So he thinks, at least.

“Anyway.” You feel bad that you have to tear his mind away from whatever faraway land it must be trying to burrow a hole in; the dazed expression on his face dims into hastily hidden embarrassment. You don’t want him to feel awkward, so you just busy yourself with packing up, making an unnecessary show of stuffing your notebook back into your bag as if it isn’t half-empty at this point. “I really appreciate you taking the time to help me.”

“Any time.” His first attempt is a little raspy, maybe from overuse of his voice today, so he clears his throat and tries again. A slow smile builds on your lips. “Any time, really. I’m glad that this is actually helping you; you pick things up surprisingly fast.”

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll probably be ready to tackle it on your own again, I’m sure.”

He smiles reassuringly, but all you can think about is how that’s not good. You should pretend to be a little dumber next time, or this will end much too prematurely.

The next five minutes pass in silence; you don’t expect to be knee-deep in conversation anyway since, as much as you try to convince him, you aren’t actually anywhere close to being those kinds of friends yet. There’s an unspoken rule to the give and take of things, where he pauses for you to get an item off the table and push it into your bag before he does the same with his own belongings. Neither of you really intersect paths, save for the moment you both grab your phones and stand at the same time.

His jaw falls open like he’s preparing to say something, then shuts as if he’s better decided against it. You decide to take the initiative to say what you’re assuming he wants to. “Same time, same table?”

“Oh — uh, yeah, for sure.”

You want to ask him to walk out with you. You want to lace your fingers with his, tug him out, and kiss him under the green and white glow of the sign outside. You want to know if kissing his collarbone means you’ll taste a hint of coffee. You think about doing it all somehow, especially since he’s fighting back a slight smile at the promise of tomorrow.

But it just isn’t the right time.

Instead, you place a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. The slow movement of his throat — yet another hard swallow — isn’t lost on you, and his eyes land on where the two of you connect. With a grateful smile, you bid him a soft goodbye, taking your leave first.

You don’t look back — at least, not until you’re fully in the cover of the darkness outside. On the gravel path, just out of reach of the lamplight, you chance one last glance back into the store. Mark is still rooted to the same spot, his backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at the table like he’s dissociating from what just happened — like he can’t believe the last couple of hours.

Your smile grows when you see his own, and his hand comes around to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly like it gives him small comfort to let him know that it was real.

Baby steps, you remind yourself. You’ve already got one foot in the door, after all.

As the days trickle by, you fall into a more comfortable standing with Mark; there’s a routine to your meetings that seems to eliminate the initial and abrupt awkwardness of that first day. You come into that Starbucks at four, greet Mark, who doesn’t ever have to ask for your order, and spend the next hour and a half slowly sipping on it until the ice has thinned and watered down your drink substantially. In that time, you allow yourself to do whatever you want (as if you’ve ever done otherwise anyway), and what you usually want the most is a good view of him. You therefore use most of the minutes you have on hand to regard him from different angles — from the side when he’s frothing milk, upfront when he turns to leave cups on the pick-up counter, from the back when he’s clearing tables — interspersed with moments of checking your TikTok feed, clearing group chat messages, and sometimes re-curling your bangs with a portable iron from the school’s co-op center, a relatively new purchase you tote around these days. You do essentially anything in between to avoid acting too suspicious while he works.

Sometimes, you catch Mark’s eye too; the more your meetings increase in number over the course of a few weeks, the more deliberately he looks over at you, and the longer it lasts. You feel like you’ve made significant progress when your gazes lock and he smiles slightly, albeit a bit unsurely, instead of turning away like he used to. The other day, he’d even passed by while apologizing for how long you always waited for him — not that you ever minded, something you made a point to clarify with him before he walked away, carrying a couple of chairs from the back room with him to replace rickety ones.

That he’s able to transport them easily, as if he’s lugging a bag of apples from the grocery, does not escape your watchful eye.

What you like the most is that you start to learn more about him in a way that isn’t fueled only by your expectations and, therefore, limited by your imagination. You find out that he’s from a close-knit family with a rather cushy background, and this barista job is just for interest funding and experience, in that exact order. Most of his earnings are funneled into the things he collects, which apparently isn’t limited to comic books and special edition blu-rays with director’s cut but also a rather stupendous amount of PopMart blind box figurines. Apparently, he particularly likes the Skullpanda series even if he hasn’t completed it yet; your last session together had adjourned thirty minutes earlier than usual so that he could catch a pre-rush hour inner circle train to Hongdae, where the flagship store was set to open on that day. He’d promised to show you his pulls (as long as they weren’t embarrassing dupes). You learn that he likes to listen to loud music when he studies to stimulate his mind, and he has a playlist that’s just a jumble of songs from Punk Goes Pop volumes that makes him feel empowered for some absurd reason, like he’s going against the grain. You don’t really get it, but you do like that spiced-up rendition of Ariana Grande’s Problem that he let you listen to once.

Of course, there are things that you find out not through conversation but through continued, closer observation. You notice that he likes to put on chapstick even if his lips aren’t particularly dry, but he does worry on them often, most especially when he’s thinking hard about something. He has a habit of saying honestly… at the start of every other sentence, as if he’s concerned you won’t take his word on anything, even though he’s just talking about how unnaturally hot it was at noon despite it still being spring. He has long eyelashes that you’re equal parts attracted to and jealous of, and he bites the inside of his cheek whenever he wants to pep himself up after grueling shifts. He plays beats you’re not even sure he knows he’s creating against his knee with his fingers, so enthusiastic and consistent in this habit that you want to offer your thigh instead. His shoulders always go first before he laughs, and he does this thing where he raises his hand to cover his mouth at the start of it, which is a shame, because you’d do anything to keep seeing him smile like that — or, better yet, to be the reason for it.

Then there are those things you notice he tries to hide. He always turns his face halfway to the side when he blushes, something he seems to do without fail every time you smile at him. He has to temper the intensity of his grin when you take the time to compliment him on how cool his shirt is, or how nice his hair looks today, or how smart he is, like he doesn’t want you to know how good it makes him feel even if you want him to feel good about it, around you, because of you. Sometimes he denies it for the sake of responding, and his voice always lilts on the first syllable in his refusal to accept what you say, even though he knows you won’t take it for an answer.

And after a couple more careful experiments, you notice that Mark, out of the many things he’s interested in, seems to have a particular thing for your stomach.

You don’t know if it has anything to do with him not really seeing much of it in real life in his own time or if he just has his own kind of fixation on it, but you start to cotton on by the fourth time you meet. An hour of being hunched over a table that’s not at the greatest height in relation to your neck and torso has you stiff, and you’d leaned back in your chair, arms pulling to the air, hoping your spine might feel like realigning if you exerted enough tension pressure that way. Your shirt hadn’t ridden up this time, considering it had been tucked into your jeans, and it was because of this that you’d caught a flicker of something new in his face that you hadn’t seen before.

You could have sworn it looked like disappointment.

Of course, he hides it quickly, as he does with most of his emotional candor, but it’s enough to make you suspicious — enough to make you wonder if Mark is also just keeping something to himself. Or maybe you’re just projecting your own presently secretive nature onto him. Regardless, you think it’s odd that whenever you stand up or stretch, his eyes almost immediately fall to your midriff, like he wants to challenge your clothing into a staring contest before he thinks better of it.

You don’t mind, anyway. He can look as much as he likes. Maybe when the weather’s warmer, you’ll even cater to that interest and wear a crop top. Hopefully, that’ll be the push he needs to act on human instinct and ask you out or, like… bend you over. Maybe.

You’re often plagued with these kinds of thoughts in between the ones you try to keep as family-friendly as possible — now, more so than ever.

Sometimes, it’s easier, especially when you’re caught up in talks with him; despite the fact that he doesn’t seem like much of a conversationalist when it comes to generic matters, when either he or you are enthusiastic about a particular topic, he has a tendency to get carried away. There’s nothing impure about how his eyes light up when you remember to ask him about the movie he saw with his friends over the weekend or the way he hums old Nickelodeon cartoon theme songs under his breath whenever he’s looking for a page in the textbook. It’s more of a situation where you’ll observe something and immediately run with it despite it being an objectively normal action.

Like right now, as you’re watching him turn his pen between his fingers. Now, while he’s shaking his knee in mild impatience, as if he’s trying to will the answer to the worksheets you’ve both been trying to get through for the better part of the day faster. You’d made copies of the problems your professors had assigned and exchanged them under the premise of being able to practice more intensely.

However, whereas Mark is actually focused on solving, you’re just watching him out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he’s ever been told that his fingers are fuck-worthy on a singular, unique level or if it’d feel good for you to ride the thigh he’s currently moving, jeans and all. You consider the feeling of his warm palms on your bare waist as you do it, and you end up wondering if that’s what crosses his mind whenever he sneaks glances at you, too.

You’d know the answer to all those things if he’d fucking ask you out. Maybe you could do it after all. Maybe you should, instead of relying on slowly increasing the probability over such a long period of time. Maybe if you asked nicely, Mark might pull the shades down on the storefront windows and rail you against the glass.

You’re so lost in thought that it genuinely startles you when he plops his textbook over the worksheet, rattling your eraser dangerously close to the edge of the table. You’re still clutching your heart while he rubs his eyes a little too violently.

“Can’t,” he groans, and his neck gives into the weight of his head, allowing it to loll backward. “I feel like the numbers are just melting into each other. I swear, I thought I could read words out of them.”

“Maybe we were a little too ambitious with the double worksheet agenda,” you admit, even though you’ve barely gotten past half of yours and certainly haven’t touched a single item on his. “Should we call it a day for now?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, although he still takes the time to encircle his final answers before clapping his palms to his cheeks (an act that has your mind dangerously close to wandering off inappropriately again) to wake himself up. “Woah. I didn’t even notice how dark it is already. I’d say time flies when you’re having fun, but I’m not too sure about the ‘fun’ part of it…”

You trace his gaze towards the glass; the moon’s already out, surrounded by a smattering of low-light stars. You hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, probably because your mind had been on R-18 mode for most of the afternoon. Also, the days are getting generally shorter, but that fact doesn’t make you feel as embarrassed, at least.

“You got a ride?”

The question once again shocks you out of your small trance, and you turn back to him with wide eyes. “Well — no. Wait, I didn’t know you had a car. Why’d you take the subway, then?”

“Oh — no, sorry, I… don’t.” He looks suddenly sheepish, eyes dropping to the shiny surface of the table for a moment before they snap back up, as if he’s actually actively reminding himself to look at you. “I was wondering if you wanted me to — actually, more than that, are you going home already? Not that you need to stay; it’s not that important, but…”

You try to gloss over the fact that he had just been about to initiate another huge step in the right direction (i.e. offering to walk you home) by beaming at him, maybe a little too widely, if only to mask your disappointment at the sudden shift in conversation. “I have nothing waiting at home for me but a sandwich dinner and Singles Inferno, so hit me with whatever it is.”

“Oh, cool.” His lips turn up, and the corners shake, this show of happiness once again tamped down by his own inexplicable desire to maintain a safe distance. How are you supposed to tell him you’re desperate to bridge that gap without using those exact words? “I came from the flagship store yesterday — the one in Hongdae that I told you about?” He allows the smile to widen slightly when you nod in genuine understanding. “Got the last six boxes of the collection I’ve been trying to finish.”

You whistle appreciatively. “Can I ask you for a loan on my next phone bill? You know, once I’ve upgraded to something pricier.”

“Nah — just itching to complete the set,” he laughs. You wonder if he’s been doing that more often because he knows its crippling effect on you, though you doubt he’s that sly. Again, maybe you’re just projecting too much of your own motivations onto him. “This was probably about two months of saving up combined.”

“No new Iron Man issues to look out for, then?” Your voice is warm even though it takes on a teasing tone; Mark’s hand rubs the back of his neck, and his expression is a little sheepish, but you’re happy that the times he used to go completely quiet, opting only to blush at your attempts to act more familiar with him are pretty much gone now.

“Maybe next month.” You also like that he doesn’t really treat his hobbies as secrets, neither out of shame nor snobbishness. He explains these things to you the same way he does the topics you study — with an air of contentedness, like he’s happy someone listens to him without interrupting. On your end, you have no qualms with listening to his voice for hours, wondering when he’ll stop using it to greet you when you come through the door and when he’ll start saying your name in a way that makes you feel like you’re the only one he sees whenever you’re near. It’s a win-win situation (sort of). “I was actually debating between this collection and a really rare copy of Spi— well, never mind that. I just thought — since you were asking me a bit about blind boxes last time. You know, if you wanted to. With… me.”

As much as he’s become comfortable talking to you about things that don’t involve coffee orders and school, you can’t say that you aren’t doing your fair share of the work in connecting the dots; the demand for your efforts is exponentially higher in moments like this, when you think he’s trying to ask you something but can’t seem to find less-than-eager words to avoid what he thinks might spook you.

Luckily, he augments his fragments with action; reaching into his backpack — which you notice seems to be bulkier than usual — he starts extracting small brown boxes, all with the same design; it seems, for lack of better words, aesthetically gothic, and you reach out to pick one up, turning it over and examining the print on each side with vague interest. Mark starts laying them out on top of each other until there’s a small, somewhat unstable pyramid in front of him, then shifts his attention fully to you, just as you’re putting the box in your hand atop all the rest.

“I’d love to.” You beam as he does, and there’s a wondrous relief in his eyes that tells you he’s glad you manage to catch onto his words — or lack, thereof — surprisingly well. “For as long as you don’t blame me for any bad draws.”

“The contents have already been decided by my own hand — sort of,” he chuckles. “Point is, I would never do that to you. But I won’t lie; I kind of want to rely on your luck a little more.”

“What makes you think I’d have any of that running through my system?”

“Not sure — beginner’s luck, maybe? You just kind of look like one of those kinds of people to me — like… you’re just made of good things.”

You don’t know how to take this compliment; on the one hand, it’s easily one of the sweetest things Mark has ever said to you that doesn’t involve anything with actual sugar content. On the other, you know you’re not as lucky as he makes it sound, considering you’re still striking out on getting past the borderline of friendship with him. All you can do is smile, nodding and making to move closer to him by sliding into the next seat.

It’s hard to ignore the sight of him stiffening; something like surprise mingled with both fear and interest flashes strong across his face, but you don’t do anything to acknowledge the slight change in atmosphere, choosing to settle down comfortably and clap your hands. “So. What are the rules? What can I do, and what can’t I?”

“Uh.” His throat constricts at the right moment, the syllable getting caught and causing him to clear his throat. You know that this is the nearest you’ve ever been to him, the sleeve of your shirt tickling his arm. Upon closer, albeit brief inspection, you note that he’s also rather veiny. That doesn’t do your impurity any favors. “Not… really rules, or anything like that. Just — these are the ones I’ve been looking for. Not that you can really control it, but in case you were curious about that.”

You squint intently at the scaled-down images he points out. There’s one that looks like a penguin caught in an oil spill; another that seems to be in a polar bear costume, dozing; and — “What’s… halo? Halo…bios?”

“It just means marine life,” he answers quickly, like the thought means close to nothing to him to know something that obscure. Whoever said that smart is the new sexy wasn’t joking. “Like… all things that live in the ocean, that kind of thing.”

“And you know this because?”

He pauses, looking thoughtful. “I’m not sure. I guess I must have just learned it when I was curious about what it meant some time ago. Isn’t that how we all learn things?”

You shake your head incredulously, and he smiles a little apologetically. “You never cease to amaze me.” Your nail drums against the silhouette of one with a question mark on it. “What’s this supposed to be? Can you draw your own figurine, or something?”

“No.” He’s clearly amused, but his expression’s still patronizing enough for you to not feel too bad about saying something idiotic. “It’s a secret design — a money drainer, basically. You could buy a full set of this and still not get it. Some people will open hundreds without any luck, so it’s really rare.”

“You don’t want it?”

“I try not to get too caught up in the secret thing,” he admits. “Otherwise…”

“No rare print comic books for the rest of your life, basically?”

He taps his nose, and you both share another laugh. It’s nice, you think, to have come this far — to be someone Mark can share his interests and thoughts with. You may have been stretching the word to its limit when you first punched your way into his social life and called yourself his friend, but it feels more real now, more natural to think about and say. Even if he still sometimes seems to be hyperaware of the gap between the both of you, there’s no denying, at least, that it’s been significantly reduced, and this much is a testament to that.

“Well, leave it up to me. I’ll let all of this beginner’s luck rub off on you,” you announce with overflowing albeit unfounded confidence.

You both decide to open a box each at the same time; Mark suddenly panics and asks you not to unseal the foil bag right away without looking at the card inside first, earning him one slightly alarmed look followed by a burst of laughter at his pained expression when you pretend to rip open the packaging. Comparing pulls, you identify them using the set chart — your luck doesn’t seem to be operating at full capacity yet because you can only offer him the card of one that looks like a floppy pigeon, which he responds to with a slightly apologetic grimace before saying he’s already pulled that thrice in the past. He, on the other hand, is turning the card of the polar bear over in his palm, trying not to make you feel bad for your duplicate pull by slipping it under his textbook when your eyes land on it.

The second round isn’t much better; both of you manage to pull something he’s already added to his collection, and as you’re ripping the seal to your third box, he pauses and watches you. You think it’s because he’s concerned about the obvious shit luck you’ve had thus far and wants to snatch it from you before your negative energy transfigures whatever’s inside into something he doesn’t want, and you’re just about to offer the half-opened package to him before he pushes the one on his end to you.

“No way, Mark.” Your eyes are wide, a palm up to reject it. “If that turns out to be another dupe by my hand, I’m literally going to walk into oncoming traffic.”

He has to control his amusement at your words so that it doesn’t completely shake his voice into incoherence. “I picked all of these while I was there, so if anything, you’re only riding off my bad luck. Besides, this is your first time doing this. I want you to have fun.”

“But,” your voice is pained. “Your money.”

“It’s not a big deal. With how few I need to complete them, I was definitely bound to run into more repeats than new ones.” He taps the front of the textbook — or, at least, the part of it not buried under the figurines and sealing tapes yet. “Probability mathematics.”

“I thought we already ended the study part of the day,” you grumble but concede, putting aside the one you half-opened to tear the top of his. You’re careful when you shake out the foil packaging, making sure to place it upright on the table before extracting the card. Both of your faces fall — yours more than his — when you see it’s a repeat of the polar bear.

“Almost. It would’ve been a pretty lucky pull earlier, so it’s technically not bad,” he tries to reassure you, but you childishly feel like you’ve been the sole source of his disappointment thus far. “Try the last one.”

It’s irrational, but you’re suddenly anxious about it. For some reason, you’re worried that this will topple the carefully constructed ladder you’ve propped up against Mark’s tower of social defense. Even if he’s being genial about your rotten pulls, you don’t know how much of it is just resignation to dismay on his part.

You say a small prayer, then fully rip off the seal; you don’t even take out the packaged figuring anymore. You just shimmy the card out of the box, turning it over when you notice it’s upside down.

For a moment, your shoulders deflate. It’s closest to this pastel purple figurine in the middle of the line-up, its stupid puckered lips almost taunting you. He hadn’t even mentioned it as something he’s looking for, so you almost feel like this has come to a horrible full circle. But then he grabs the box, checks the list, and looks back at your card again. He looks shell-shocked, and you’re not sure if it’s the strong air conditioning directed towards the two of you or if it’s just his hands, but the image he’s holding is shivering slightly.

You look more closely at it, and something just doesn’t feel right. Color palette aside, there are notable differences — different colored lips, a more intricate ear design, and closed eyes. It’s…

“Dream eater,” Mark’s voice is hushed, almost reverent, and very, very close to your ear. “It’s the secret one. You’re… incredible.”

“What are you talking about,” your words are just as raspy; you’re not sure if you’re actually choked up with emotion or something — over a figurine, you have to remind yourself. “You picked all of this. I just ripped open the box.”

The hush that falls over the both of you feels very concrete, weighty on your shoulders. His fingers creep towards the foil packet — the only one he actually opens because there’s no way he’s not keeping it. The shiny purple head gleams under the fluorescent, the glitter around the star and moon designs catching the light as he turns it left to right, like he’s worried it’s a fake. You can tell why people want these things so much; there’s a thrill in you that lingers, makes you feel warm and alert. It’s anticipation, despair, excitement, and triumph all in one sitting.

You’re stroking the smooth curve of the design by the ears lightly when Mark speaks up again and says the most outrageous thing.

“I want you to have it.”

“What?” You actually have to pop your ear canal in front of him with your pinky to make sure he knows how ludicrous he sounds. “This is… you said it was crazy rare.”

“Yeah. And you pulled it, with your magic. That’s like… unimaginable luck. Even more than beginner’s luck.”

“Like I said, I literally just opened the box.”

“No — you have like… the golden touch.”

“Please,” you hiss, a genuine testiness to your voice. “Do not. I was just here for the ride — the experience, and all.”

“Seriously, take it.”

“Absolutely not—”

It’s a chaotic moment of him trying to hand you the figurine and you outright rejecting it, with both your palms working hard to push it back to him. Instead of nudging the plastic back, though, you end up placing the full force of your hands against his fingers.

There’s no actual spark when you touch, but your reactions make it feel like there might as well have been; you even lock eyes in startled unison, like you can’t believe that just happened, before you pull away quickly, Mark drawing the figuring back to his torso while looking away towards the counter, where a lowerclassman is wiping down the stains. You want to scream at your warped reflection in the window. You barely initiate contact with him, but you imagine that if you ever did, you would prefer to not be saying something as abjectly negative as absolutely not while doing so.

Your mind flails in an attempt to mitigate the issue and water down the embarrassment, and clearly he’s struggling to figure it out too, because he pipes up before you can piece your thoughts together.

“No, really.” His tone is a lot milder and, consequently, a lot more persuasive this way. “You should take it. I want you to.”

“It’s not mine. This is your thing — your hobby.”

“That’s why I’m giving it to you. I swear — I want you to keep it.”

“Why?”

He lapses into silence again, but his face is much redder than earlier. His mouth opens in an attempt to say something, but he just manages to uh his way back into a state of quiet, which gives you a chance to speak instead.

“We can… share it,” you suggest. “Shared custody…. ish.”

His eyebrow cocks involuntarily, and his jaw falls again, but all he does in actual response is nod — slowly at first, then with more sureness to the act.

“Yeah. We can share it. I’d… like that.”

You’re glad that the bulk of the awkwardness has fizzled out fairly easily, and when you think about it, this feels like a pretty good course of action; you like that it’s this little link between the two of you now — something you share that no one else can touch.

Mark, you notice, is smiling as well — more to himself than towards you, it seems. His thumb grazes across the face of the figurine, slow across the lips, and you’re once again falling into a pit of nonsense by wondering when he’d do that to you.

“Thanks for staying with me, _________,” he finally says, and your heart jolts and melts all at once. “And for… doing this. For chatting with me. And giving me your luck, and all that. Great way to end the day… with you.”

You say no problem, but you instantly regret it when you realize you could have just said it didn’t have to end just yet.

“__________? Hello? Come back down to Earth?”

“Shut up,” you sigh at the guy seated across you — Seo Youngho, an upperclassman, your Gender Studies classmate, and current project partner, waves in front of your face. You shoo his hand away, which only joins his other one as he throws them in defeat above his head. “Stop moving. Be quiet. Don’t talk.”

“That’s the same thing as shut up and be quiet. What’s up with you?” He demands. “Fifteen minutes ago, you were full of ideas. Now I feel like I’m talking to a wax figure.”

You’d been engrossed in your report for the last hour and a half, and the subject matter is admittedly something you enjoy — the role of gender in Twenty-First Century Korean marketing and advertisement, a title Youngho had taken more than ten minutes to type into the Google Docs header because he was pissed off at how the numbers looked like in the fonts he chose. He’s an enthusiastic classmate and someone you’ve come to be friendly with, not only because he’s genuinely approachable but also because he has fits of nosiness and talkativeness at the strangest moments, so a chunk of your relationship is mostly based on social terrorism on his part. You like him well enough most of the time — save for the last fifteen minutes of this hour.

Because Mark had just come in for his shift fifteen minutes ago, and suddenly Youngho is much too noisy for your taste, and his head is honestly way too big to the point that it gets in the way of your opportunities to see Mark behind the counter. You even resent him for choosing a booth instead of your usual table all of a sudden, because your view of the central barista’s area is much more limited from this angle, especially since the huge espresso machine is in the of your field of vision.

You’re also (currently and abruptly) mad at Youngho because you remember that he’s the reason you’ve had to skip out on a couple of sessions with Mark. Like, it technically isn’t his fault that you have a lot of research to do for the literature review section of the paper, nor is it his fault that this is your final requirement that comprises a whopping forty percent of your grade, but like… you’ll blame him anyway. So you’re much more irritable, and you’ve definitely been missing Mark’s presence. In fact, you kind of just want to shove Youngho’s balloon head away and call Mark over to sit with you, but you’re not that much of an animal to actually do that.

Probably.

There had been inquisitiveness across Mark’s face when he’d come in; his eyes had trailed to the table at which you usually sat, surprised to find two guys hunched over a single phone there instead of the usual you, waiting for him with your eyes bright and your smile wide. You’d like to think it’s because he’s gotten as used to seeing you as you’re used to waiting to see him — like he just expects you to be there.

You hadn’t really known how to call his attention to where you were, especially since Youngho was prattling very matter-of-factly about the academic journal he’d unearthed yesterday and how he thought it would be useful in reshaping the methodology of your paper (whatever). There was a moment in which you briefly considered ordering another cup of coffee just to get in line to talk to him, but your hands were already shaking from the venti you’d had to keep yourself from passing out in front of your partner.

So you’re more than relieved when, half an hour into his shift, Mark finally steps out from behind the huge machine, a mug of water for himself in hand, and turns away from the front of the store to drink it — only for your eyes to lock as he twists his torso in your general direction.

The mug stops just inches from his lips, but you could swear he smiles at you briefly when he recognizes you, so you return the favor. Youngho’s face contorts into abject befuddlement, turning around to see what you’re grinning at.

“Oh, you poor sap,” he snorts, finally letting the puzzle pieces fall into place.

“What?” You’re still distracted even if Mark has taken a gulp of water and is now attending to a gaggle of girls still in the throes of discussing what to order.

“What what? You gonna spend the rest of the day eyefucking Mark Lee from over here? At least let me get a different table.”

“Shut up,” you repeat sullenly, coming back down to his level and finally — albeit reluctantly — meeting his eye (just because Mark isn’t looking your way). “What were you saying about the sample size?”

“That it’s much too large to be feasible, a point we closed twenty fucking minutes ago,” he says pointedly. “Is it a thing for baristas or a thing for smart guys?”

“It’s a thing for Mark Lee,” you sigh, following Youngho’s suit and shutting your laptop close. You’re at least glad he’s not annoyed that you’re delaying work for a crush, or maybe he’s also just equally lazy at this point. “You ever look at someone and think you would give it all up for a chance to hit that?”

“No, because this isn’t a porn movie, and I’m clearly not the main character in whatever’s going on in there.” He jabs at your forehead; you swat his hand away again.

“Well, I would.”

He rolls his eyes. “So do it, dumbass.” He says this so simply, like he can’t imagine why you’d be holding yourself back, which is a valid thing to feel, except it’s not really any of his business.

“Can’t.”

“Because?”

“Because it doesn’t fit into my elegant master plan. Also because I want him to ask me out. I just want that victory.”

“Oh yeah, there it is.” Youngho leans over, wiggling his fingers at your ears like he’s greeting a next-door neighbor. “Hey, delusion. Good to see you. Do you even understand how crazy it is that you’re taking a Gender Studies class while waiting for your dick-in-shining-armor like a damsel in distress?”

“Asshole,” you grumble, violently opening your laptop monitor again. “Get back on Google Drive.”

Thankfully, Youngho complies, and the next two hours pass in relative silence and productivity, with you hammering out a vague references list that he promises to format in your stead so you can ‘spend more time dreaming about Mark Lee between your legs.’ You want to strangle him, but there are far too many people in the cafe for you to get away with it. Also, aforementioned Mark Lee would only be a witness to your criminal record, and while you think there’s something romantic in killing for love, or whatever, you’re not sure it’d make the best impression on him.

“Next week’s my birthday,” Youngho announces as he stands to tug on his jacket.

“Congratulations,” you say wryly, peeking over his bulletin board torso to see Mark tugging off his apron and picking up his school bag. Your heart hammers in your chest as he looks over at you briefly, and something like embarrassment passes over his face before he busies himself with neatly folding the fabric. “Go away.”

“Usually people look uncomfortable for not knowing and then start thinking about what gifts to get the celebrant, but I always felt you were kind of a revolutionary.” He snaps his fingers right in front of your eyes, and you look up at him, a little offended. “I’m having a get-together — and by get-together, I mean it’s gonna be a rager. You should come.”

“When?”

“Next Thursday.”

“Can’t,” you chew on your lip, wondering if Mark is leaving. His movements seem particularly slow, but you wonder if he’s just taking his sweet time because he has nothing better to do. Of course, he would have something better to do if Youngho stopped fucking obscuring you from him and vice versa. “Busy. School… whatever.” Not completely untrue. Most of what you do with Mark has to do with school.

“This moony-eyed thing is just not for you, I fear.”

“Are you going to be here all day?”

“Are you? Why don’t you just fucking ask him out, you lunatic?” You can’t imagine why he sounds so exasperated. It’s not like this is his problem — or his business, for that matter. “Maybe if you did, you could fuck him and move on with your life and be an actual contributor to society’s development.”

“Has anyone ever told you how nosy you are?”

“Constantly.” He brings his palms down on the table, the thud shaking you out of another oncoming stupor. “Think about it. Maybe it’ll make you stop making that stupid face.”

“You’ve got a stupid face,” you mumble, sulking as he pinches your cheek as a goodbye before heading out of the shop.

At least you finally get to see Mark in full, glorious view — and you get to watch him come closer, although his stride is somewhat cautious.

“Hey.” Even his voice sounds unsure — almost like the way he used to sound earlier in your friendship. “I didn’t want to interrupt you and… your friend?”

“Oh. Well, you wouldn’t have been interrupting,” you inform him, completely genuine. “He was spouting a lot of nonsense.”

“You guys seemed pretty close.”

“I guess it’s a proximity thing,” you sigh, and Mark raises his eyebrows slightly in question. “We’re partners.”

“Oh.” The way he draws out the syllable is slow. “That definitely makes sense.”

The silence stretches out between the two of you again, with Mark checking his shoelaces. You almost grab your head; it hadn’t occurred to you until now how damaging missing meetings with him would be to your friendship. You feel like you’re slowly being dragged back to square one, and you want to give him an explanation.

“He’s actually… I haven’t been able to see you because I’ve been working on something with him.” you offer, trying to answer a question he didn’t even ask. “Sorry about that. I swear I’ll be back on track tomorrow.”

“No, no — I completely understand.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Thank you… for telling me, though. I— uh, appreciate that.”

“I’d love to see you tomorrow, though.” You try injecting more pep into your voice. “I’ve really been behind on my algebra. I’ve definitely been drowning without you.”

“Oh, yeah.” A small smile graces his lips, but you can’t tell if the reluctance behind it is from fatigue or something that looks oddly like sadness. “I’m down for tomorrow. Same time, same table, right?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

“Cool. See you, _________.”

You watch him turn on his heel, walking to the front door, and something like fear mingled with desperation clutches your heart. Fuck the traditional route, you think. You don’t know what it is about how he’s acting now, but it’s making you feel like he’s slipping through your fingers. All that hard work — there’s no way you’re letting him go.

“Mark, wait.”

You’re at his side, fingers curled into the sleeve of his jacket before you can figure out exactly what you want to say. You feel as surprised as he looks at your sudden liveliness in action, and his gaze trails from your clenched fist to your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize this whole position.

Your exhale’s shaky, but even still, you try not to sound overtly self-conscious when you ask, “Do you like Chinese food?”

Something in the furrowing of his brows tells you he can’t seem to see where this conversation is headed, and that slightly bothers him. “I like it well enough. Why?”

“There’s this really good dim sum buffet near my mom’s office. We tried it before — the Xiaolongbao is awesome.”

“Hey, that sounds pretty cool. I love Xiaolongbao. I’ll definitely have to check it out then.”

You want to tear your hair out. “How about — you know, checking it out with me? Tonight? You know… together. With me.” You already fucking said that.

You’ve never seen Mark blink this rapidly; he looks like he’s trying to crunch large numbers in his head. A small part of you actually worries that he’s malfunctioning, but just when you think he’s going to glitch out completely, he clears his throat. It bothers you how uncomfortable he looks. “Tonight? Oh man… it’s my cousin’s birthday tonight. I can’t… reschedule. Well, obviously. Maybe some other… time?”

Your ‘oh, yeah’ is small, and so is the ghost of Mark’s smile. You can’t help but feel like he’s pitying you a little, although he doesn’t seem like the type, but the thought of it alone makes you want to puke. He makes no motion to move, and you think he’s extending this awkward moment out on purpose until you realize you’re still hanging onto him and he has no way of telling you to let go nicely.

Fingers unfurling from his sleeve, you take a careful step back, but when he walks away, it feels like you’ve gone much, much further away.

The worst part is that you can’t even figure out why.

Luckily, the next few times you see Mark, you manage to rebuild a rather shaky bridge back to where you had been. You even manage to strong-arm him into sharing an apple fritter one afternoon, and you know it’s a bit sad to think about it a particular, untrue way, but you can’t help but pattern what you’re doing into some kind of pseudo-date. Pathetic isn’t a word you normally associate yourself with, but you’ve been borderline desperate for progress where there seems to be none, so you take small victories where you can get them.

Unfortunately, you haven’t been able to revisit your stupid dim sum plan; sometimes, he says he has somewhere important to be, but most of the time, it’s actually your fault. No — it’s Youngho’s fault, because he keeps bothering you to finish the project. You’re aware that he can’t do it himself, but since he’s informed of your current plight, he could at least stand to be more sympathetic.

And you hate the way Mark looks every time you splutter out that you have to take a rain check for that reason; it’s not even disappointment, or something, which would be much more understandable. It’s this mysterious kind of faraway look, where his eyes glaze over a bit and he seems suddenly very lost in thought — or completely dissociated. He never strays away from his normal response of “next time, then,” but that ‘next time’ fades into the weekend and into the start of next week, and you have to spend every other evening with an annoying Seo fucking Youngho on a Google Meets call instead of eating soup dumplings loveshot style with Mark Lee.

Thursday night rolls around, and the former performs the most irritating stunt yet: blowing up your phone with so many KakaoTalk messages that it almost buzzes off the table during your session with Mark. Luckily, he seems to have learned a thing or two from his comic books, catching it before it hits the floor.

“You sure you don’t want to answer it?” He asks, gingerly handing the phone to you like he’s afraid it’s going to explode from all the pinging.

“Without the shadow of a doubt,” you sigh, flipping the screen downwards. Buzz.

“It kind of seems important. Or, like… urgent.”

“He’ll live. Unfortunately.”

Mark falls silent, fiddling with the page he’s on. He’s neatly highlighted the formulas on the page with blue ink, and his finger keeps scratching at the slightly wet paper. Buzz.

“Didn’t you say you two were partners?”

“Yes. Also unfortunately.” Youngho is actually a great person, but you kind of hate how Mark’s paying more attention to his texts than to you right now. “What did you get for number ten?” Buzz.

“A hundred and twe— are you really just going to let it keep ringing like that? What if he’s… I don’t know. In trouble? Like, he needs you?”

You smack your phone on its back, hoping that the punishment reaches Youngho because he absolutely is in trouble — only with you. “He’s just making a racket because it’s his birthday and he probably wants a bunch of people to trash his parents’ house, or something.”

“Sounds like fun.” The dubious tone in Mark’s voice indicates that his idea of fun definitely isn’t that. Buzz.

“Not really, but I assume he’ll only pipe down if he manages to get his way.”

“He must really want you there.”

There it is again — that weird, distant expression that makes you feel like he’s trying to free himself from the tethers of the earth. You close your textbook in defeat; it wasn’t even like you got the answer to number ten correct anyway. Buzz.

“He just wants everyone there, I bet. But I probably should show up so he shuts up.”

“Oh — yeah, okay. We’ll call it a day, then?” He’s avoiding your eye as he starts packing his things, which is actually impressive because you have practically nothing but your book to keep in comparison to his pencils and protractor, so you just stare, willing him to look at you.

You want to know what’s going on in his head. You want to know what’s going on in his heart — what he thinks of you, why he seems warm one second then almost like a stranger the next. You want to know if he knows you like him and if him not doing anything even if he knows is a sign that he doesn’t like you back. You want to know if he’d let you kiss him, if he’d kiss you first, if you can meet not because of sweet cream cold brews or algebra but because you just want to be together.

You just don’t know how to ask. For as much as you like him, for as much as you want him, you haven’t figured out the most basic part of this — if you mean anything more than a two hour talk to him at all.

“Mark.” This feels awfully like the dim sum conversation, only somehow ten times more disastrous. “Come with me.”

“Sorry?” The appalled look on his face makes you squirm in your seat.

“I don’t really want to go, but maybe if we go together… we can just hang out a bit and leave once it’s boring… I think it’d be fun,” you explain lamely, deciding at the last second to drop the with you that had originally come with your sentiment.

“I don’t think your… partner will like someone uninvited showing up.”

“I’m inviting you.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“You’d be, like, my saving grace or something — my excuse to scram. We’ll say we came right from a study session; we only popped in halfway through for the sake of greeting him a happy birthday. Then we can just go. We can say — uh, we’ve got more work to do.” You’re practically begging him at this point, and you don’t even get why. You just don’t want him to leave looking the way he does — confused and a little detached. You want the Mark that had smiled at you while giving you your coffee — the one that had kindly pointed out an arithmetic mistake in the most gentle way possible. You want to open blind boxes with him, whine about your rotten luck, and part ways with his warmth still against your coat sleeve.

You don’t know what comes over you then, but you pluck up the courage and initiative to slip your hand in his. He stiffens a little, but you don’t care; your fingers squeeze his in urging.

Something in his expression breaks — cracks first, then falls away, before he’s nodding, still looking vaguely thoughtful.

“If you think it’ll help you, then… okay.”

The bus ride to Youngho’s neighborhood is uneventful because it’s quiet. You stand close to Mark at all times, but you barely touch, save for the times your knuckles accidentally brush his when you lurch forward slightly as the vehicle comes to a dangerously abrupt stop. He doesn’t ask anything about the party or the company that’ll populate it, which is just as well, because you don’t have a clue.

You know it’s the right house because the door’s wide open and there’s music coming from inside; you can’t make out much more than the deep bass pumping through the concrete, but you’re pretty sure it’s making your heart jump in your chest even more than it already is. There are quite a few people you vaguely recognize on the lawn, and even more that you absolutely don’t; a good number of them glance at you and Mark as you step through the threshold then look away, probably deciding you’re of no real consequence or harm to their moods.

Youngho’s easily spottable because of his massive height; he towers over the rest of his guests, and the red plastic cup in his hand calls even more attention because he’s lifted it over everyone else’s heads. You throw Mark an apologetic glance that he responds to with a short nod before you dive into the crowd alone, trying to weave your way to where you’d last seen Youngho.

“Bro, finally!” Youngho greets you, pretty much shouting over the music. “Where’s the gift? Did you leave it on the table?”

“Happy birthday, Youngho. Do you know how close you were to being blocked?”

“I see you brought mister espresso with you,” he ignores your comment completely, nodding to Mark. When you turn back to see him, you notice he’s squishing his arms closer to his sides, trying to minimize the space he takes up. “So what? Y’all get to hook up already?”

“No. I brought him here because we were in the middle of something and someone,” you stop, offering him a pointed look that’s also ignored. “Wouldn’t stop texting.”

“Cockblock,” the guy next to Youngho, who you now realize has been eavesdropping, singsongs. “Oh, sorry. You looked angry when you stomped through the crowd, so I wanted the juicy details. Name’s Jaehyun.”

You take the hand he offers you briefly, introducing yourself. When you say your name, realization dawns on his face, and he jabs his forefinger at you.

“Oh, dude. You’re that girl — the Starbucks Showstopper.”

“The what?”

“That’s what his friends call you.” He scratches his ear, seemingly racking his brain for more information. “I’m with Mark and a couple of his friends — Lee Donghyuck and Na Jaemin — in College Algebra.”

You completely gloss over the fact that you’ve finally found out the real government identity of the mysterious figure named ‘Hyuck.’ “They… talk about me?”

“From time to time. Not really. Once or twice. Donghyuck only calls you that because Mark apparently keeps blowing them off to hang out with you.”

“How do you know this?”

“I have ears. It’s not hard when they talk like no one’s around.”

You shush Youngho’s exclamation of and you’re saying I’m nosy?, your heart hammering hard in your ears, practically drowning out the music. “What… what else did they talk about?”

“Not sure. Something about not seeing you that often these days. Jaemin teasing Mark about getting dropped now that you don’t need his help anymore. Donghyuck piling on and saying you’ve got a boyfriend.”

“What?”

“Don’t shoot the messenger.” Jaehyun still inches away from you when your voice rises in pitch and decibel. Some people around you start, then move away as well, as if scared you’re going to incinerate them. “They were just teasing him that you probably ditched him after you started dating someone. Your partner in some project, or what.”

“Oh gross.” The realization hits you like a speeding truck. Youngho’s expression is affronted.

“First of all, you bitch. Second of all, as if I would date someone who didn’t even buy me a gift. Or want to come. Or yelled at me after coming. Wow — now that I think about it, you’re terrible, _________.”

“Oh, shit; that someone was you?” The only person that isn’t tense in this conversation is Jaehyun, who laughs point blank at Youngho’s sour face. “I think they were offering to put you into one of their Death Note notebooks. Sucks for you, hotshot.”

“What a smudge on my good name,” Youngho sighs mournfully. “On my special day, too.”

“I desperately need you two to be quiet for one second. I have to — where’s Mark?”

Even when you stand on your tiptoes, you’re not nearly as tall as the two of them; it’s Youngho, with his freakish height, who manages to spot Mark by the bowl of nachos, looking as though he’s trying to decide if they’re safe for consumption. You hardly excuse yourself; actually, all you say is a distracted “later” that dismisses Jaehyun’s cooing that something’s going down and you should clue him into all the mess later as a thank you. Your appreciation of his sudden and somewhat short-lived presence in your life is still up in the air.

Mark’s busy making a sour face at the sip of punch he’d just taken; he only straightens up when you’re right in front of him, putting his cup down next to the nachos. “Hey. Did you get to find… um…”

“That’s not important.” Your hand bunches the fabric of his jacket in a death grip, something he barely has time to register, let alone question, before you’re tugging him through the throng of people. You want somewhere quiet, somewhere private, and you initially consider the lawn, except you know it’s strewn with cups and has stragglers debating whether to go home or not. You can’t risk any of them being expert eavesdroppers like Jaehyun, so you make a beeline for the stairs instead.

“We’re not leaving yet?” He has to shout over the music, but there’s no resistance in his stride; he follows you up and waits patiently, although a little perplexed, as you check the doors on the second floor. Two are locked, one is a bathroom, and the other is a messy, musk aftershave-scented place you can only presume is Youngho’s room. Talking in front of a sink and a toilet doesn’t feel like it’ll be very productive, so you just drag Mark into the bedroom, kicking aside the crumpled shirt on the floor — which you could’ve sworn you’d seen Youngho wear for class yesterday. “_________, what’s going on?”

“Mark Lee,” you burst out, ignoring the fact that his eyes widen slightly at your tone. “What’s your fucking deal?”

You don’t think you’ve ever sworn in front of him before; that much is evident when he continues to gawk silently, unable to find words to respond to your question. Or maybe it’s just the volume and force with which you demand an answer. The problem is that you don’t even know what kind of reply you want. A small part of you nags that this is uncalled for, especially at this level, with you practically caging him into an unknown room. In fact, even now, you’re still embarrassed at your behavior, wondering if you’ve gone too far and stepped over a line between you.

But the source of all your frustrations is, in fact, that line — one so strangely drawn, clear at some points and almost invisible at others. Sometimes, he seems simply content with the barest minimum of friendship: talking to you, helping you, politely laughing at your (terrible) jokes. But there are also times he blushes too hard for it to not mean anything, times that he makes you feel like you could mean a little something more to him too.

Yet, from there, he wavers, stepping back so as not to get entangled in something you don’t understand — like when he grows distant every time you mention Youngho to him. You don’t understand why he would unless he echoed, even just a little, the longing in you. But you also don’t get why he stays and builds more walls around himself, like he’s determined to ignore all the other signs — like he doesn’t want to know if it’s really true and will just accept the assumption that it is. You hate not knowing where you stand with him, and while you could easily ask, you know you don’t want to.

And for a long time, you’ve convinced yourself that it’s because you want to see Mark step out of his comfort zone and initiate something, but the ugly truth is staring at you: it’s simply just that you can’t stand the idea of seeing him come to the conclusion that you can’t be anything more to him than someone he makes a sweet cream cold brew for every so often.

There’s a moment of tense silence between you two, where you’re just staring at each other — him, perplexed, and you, agitated — and the only sound that passes is the faint but unmistakable voice of Youngho going who has the cake cutting knife? from somewhere down below. You try not to get caught up in the fact that Mark still looks cute when he’s dumbfounded.

“Sorry?”

“What,” you repeat pointedly. “Is your deal? Why have you been acting so weirdly around me these days? I thought — I thought we were… getting closer. I thought… we…”

You’ve confirmed it now; you’re the epitome of cowardliness. You can’t even say I thought we liked each other — because you know that you do, but you still can’t honestly, assuredly tell if he does. Maybe you just read too deeply into the smallest things — smiles before he asks for your order, glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking, sharing the dream eater figurine — to fuel your own emotions without really checking the depth of his.

“I thought we were cool,” you reroute your words, and they come out flat and lame. “But just when I think you’re warming up to me, you suddenly pull away. Like… you’re afraid of me. Or you don’t like me. I don’t know.”

“It’s not — I don’t — I’m not afraid of you,” he stumbles over his words, and even in the darkness of this space, you see his face turn bright red, very quickly. His feet shuffle, not because he’s lost his balance but because he seems to want to get rid of a sudden restlessness. “I do like you. We are — we were getting — we’re close. We — we’re friends. You said that, and we are.”

“Is it only because I say we are that you agree?”

“What? No, I—” His hand passes over his face, slowing at the curve of his chin. “I really like being friends with you. I like being around you.”

“Then why do you act so weird these days? Like — you’ll be fine one moment, then you’ll back off, like you suddenly remembered you don’t want to be around me.”

“It’s not like that. I’m — I don’t get…” He takes a deep inhale, recalibrating himself for a moment before his voice comes out again, less strained this time. “I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

“How could I?” There’s something more than confusion coloring your voice; there’s hurt, too, and he looks as surprised as you feel at hearing it. “I wanted to be your friend. I was the one that asked you to hang out. I was the one who wanted you to talk to me, to help me, to go to a goddamn dim sum place with me. Why would I feel uncomfortable? Or are you just using this as some roundabout way to say you feel uncomfortable?”

Mark falls silent, and you don’t know why this speaks volumes all of a sudden. His eyes are trained to the tips of his sneakers, which are rising in soft bumps every few seconds; he’s curling his toes inside them. You feel like you’ve gotten the worst answer possible, and something grows cold in your chest.

“You feel uncomfortable around me.” You rehash, but it’s no longer a question. “You don’t know how to get rid of me.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“You think I’m only using you.”

“No.”

“Then what?” Your voice breaks, no longer out of anger, but a desperate sadness. The moment your eyes feel hot and prickly, you decide you want to end the conversation. It’s embarrassing, you think, for someone like Mark Lee — whom you like, who only ever sees you as a friend — to see you get choked up at a fucking birthday party at someone else’s house.

A beat later, you’re mumbling a half-hearted forget it, and you detest overdramatics, but you hate the idea of being in a room with someone who’ll never return your feelings even more right now; you push past him, already on the thought of calling a cab home instead of taking the bus so that no half-drunk businessmen coming from their company dinners see you crying.

But something warm wraps around your wrist, then closes over your hand, and you’re unable to move, Mark’s palm pressed against the back of yours. When you look back, you notice he’s still not looking at you, but his ears are practically on fire with how red they are, and you feel his fingers tighten slightly, tremble slightly against yours.

“It’s not that. I didn’t ever want you to think — I heard about you two. That you were dating someone. Seo Youngho.”

“What does that matter?” Your words come out a little more bitterly than you expect, and you have to remind yourself to reel it in. “That doesn’t explain your discomfort.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he repeats, still evidently careful in choosing his words. “Because you wanted to be friends.”

“I don’t understand,” you state bluntly. In the back of your mind, you note that Mark’s grip keeps tightening and loosening, unsure of whether to keep holding on or let go. But there’s something else, too — the soft graze of skin against yours, his thumb gliding over your knuckles.

“That was all you said you wanted to be, right?” He waits for a response, but when you don’t give him one, he lets out a shaky breath and continues. “You kept saying — we were friends. You wanted us to be close like that. I just wanted to respect it, even if…”

“Respect what?”

“That you didn’t want… anything else.”

The music downstairs is a bit tamer now; you hear the door opening and closing every so often, signaling guests leaving here and there, but there are still enough footsteps downstairs for you to know that there’s a crowd Youngho hasn’t gotten rid of and therefore has to attend to. That much is good; you’d get slapped with a homicide charge if he came up here all of a sudden.

“You were jealous.”

Mark’s fingers pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment. “I tried to stop. I don’t have a lot of practice with — well, I didn’t know how to approach the situation. I thought I was still acting normally; I didn’t think… I didn’t want you to feel weird and stop hanging out with me just because… I couldn’t fix it.”

“Your friends are assholes,” you mumble, and he finally meets your eye, equal parts startled and amused. “We aren’t. Weren’t. We never were dating.”

“Even without that, I thought… it was a bit embarrassing. Liking someone like you — someone as pretty as you, as nice as you — I thought it would make you feel weird. Then you’d start avoiding me too. Or, worse, you’d keep doing it just because… you… felt bad for me.”

You don’t know what you find more ridiculous — that you hadn’t seen figured it out or that you could have avoided all of this if you’d just been a little more honest with him too. Mark’s hand starts loosening around yours, a little too much, and you turn your palm and grip his hand before he can escape. He stiffens again, just like earlier, but you now understand better why he does.

“I just wanted to keep hanging out with you as much as I could. I thought… It’d be fine, just spending time with you, and I’d be able to like you for a while, on my own, then…” He looks a little pained. “Then just let you go. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry you couldn’t let go?” You sigh softly, your palm guiding his until they connect, face to face, and you can finally lace your fingers into his. There’s no resistance, but his hand trembles slightly in yours still. “If there’s anything you should be apologizing for, it’s that you ever thought of doing it.”

Something clears in the air, lightens in his expression, and he chuckles, albeit a little shyly still. “It’s because I never thought someone like you would like someone like me.”

“I like you.” And it feels right to say it now, not at all out of the blue, never in fear of an answer he’s already given. “I like you when you smile at me every time you ask for my order. I like that you never get impatient when I’m getting my answers wrong. I like seeing you excited when you talk about a new series you’re looking forward to — something new you really want to collect. When you blush, when you laugh loudly, when you spin your pen in your hand — I like you in all those times.”

“Even when I’m jealous?”

“Especially when you are.” Your free hand comes up to cup his jaw, and you’re reminded of the fact that you’ve wanted to feel the strength of the angle under your palm for ages now. It’s not at all a disappointment, and your heart flutters irregularly in knowing you could’ve done this a long time ago, but it doesn’t matter because you’re doing it now, and fuck if Mark Lee doesn’t look good this close to you. “So be jealous — because now, you know you can be.”

Kissing him is better than you imagined, and you’ve imagined a little too much to be embarrassed at this point; there’s a heat to his lips that matches the one across his face, an upturn to them that makes you smile too. The setting’s not at all an expected one, but you’ll take it, not because it’s dark or because it’s private but because Mark’s in here with you, and you would have kissed him in a brightly lit football field full of people for as long as he’d let you.

You’d like to think he’s flushed for a reason other than shyness when you pull away, even if his laugh is quiet and breathy. In fact, when you murmur not enough, he’s the one that closes the gap this time, offering freely what you ask for with such little eloquence. The natural trepidation in his mouth relaxes, gives way to a curiosity that keeps you locked for so long that you forget you need to breathe, much more intent on finding out if Mark’s tongue tastes as good as you’ve imagined for so long.

It doesn’t; it tastes even better.

It’s still not enough, not by a long shot, but you have to resurface before you pass out like this, and even he looks a little dazed when you pull away — not in a bad way, with a grin on his face that you can only classify as endearingly goofy: slightly lopsided and a little shy, but with an unmistakable air of satisfaction.

“Months,” he mumbles, his lips still dangerously close to yours. Your eyebrows rise in questioning, and he laughs in that infectious way that makes you want to join in without even knowing what the punchline is. “I’ve been thinking of kissing you for months.”

And you do share the laughter this time, not out of amusement but of a happiness that spills without restraint. “But you’re suddenly holding back now?”

“Just letting myself bask in the moment, I guess. Letting it sink in so I remember everything.”

The two of you stand there quietly, still trying to fully parse the progression of events, and a small part of your mind registers that Mark’s thumb is still drawing circles on your skin. It’s also not enough — this touch, this closeness. You know now that he’s been thinking of you for months, and it reminds you that you spent that time dreaming of him too. And you remember you’ve always wanted to be even more familiar with him, and suddenly the desire is overwhelming; he’s right here, and you don’t ever want him out of your grasp again.

“Where are you going?” He’s only curious for the sake of it; there’s no alarm in the question because you keep your fingers tightly woven in his, tugging him along as you walk past him to the door. He’s still staring in wonder after the lock clicks shut. “What’s… happening now?”

“You waited months to kiss me, right?” He nods in response at your question. “I’ve been waiting just as long to have you too.”

His mouth falls open, but he doesn’t manage to say anything; his jaw tightens just as quickly when he feels your free hand trail down his chest, feather-light and asking for a green light. Your index finger stops just above his navel and draws back slowly, but not before you feel the shiver that runs down his torso.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you murmur, giving his hand a little squeeze. “But I just want you to know — I want to. I want you.”

A thoughtfulness settles on his face, and his eyes graze over yours, trying to read your seriousness. You don’t know how honest you look, but your words hold enough truth in them. A silence stretches over the next minute, but to you, it feels like an eternity, and you lose the test of patience somewhat, smiling softly at him.

“You don’t want to?”

“I—” His tongue peeks out, running over his bottom lip. “I do. It’s not that I don’t want to, but…”

“You seem worried.”

A hesitant nod. “I’ve never — well, no, I have, but not — with someone like you.”

“What’s someone like me?” You laugh airily.

“Someone pretty like you — I don’t know. Someone who seems to know exactly what they want. Someone who seems like… they could do better than me.”

“Mark.” You can’t keep the incredulity out of your voice. “I do know exactly what I want. I want you. The rest — I don’t care about. As long as it’s you, I want it.”

He cracks a smile, half of relief, half of disbelief. You don’t miss his hand coming up to press, warm, against your waist. “For real?”

Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt — an anchor to bring you closer, until the tips of your noses are brushing. “For real.”

The third time you kiss is slow, almost careful; there’s lingering worry in the line of his mouth that your lips try to ease until his slightly part under the movements of yours. You feel the tension leave his form in waves — first in his shoulders, then in his arms, until you’re able to press yourself closer and feel the slight give of his frame against your smaller one. He’s radiating an immense amount of body heat that’s pricking your skin and keeping you alert, and you’re hyperaware of the smallest things — the weak tremble in his mouth, the slight roughness of his teeth under your tongue, the ridges of his palate above it.

He tastes nothing like what he smells, you learn. Instead of the air of earthy coffee stuck to clean linen, you inhale a combination of spearmint and mild saltiness that’s made slightly sharper by the lingering splash of alcohol from his accidental sip of punch earlier. You decide then and there that this disparity is important to you; it makes you feel like you’re the only one who can have this experience — that everyone else can know his scent, but now, only you can know what Mark Lee tastes like.

You have to keep your wits about you to avoid this addictive stimulation of your senses; you let go of his hand only to lock your fingers around his neck, and there’s a show of trust in how he lets you lead him backwards, until his knees are hitting the edge of the unmade bed. The kiss breaks as he’s forced to settle on the mattress, and he looks up at you in what can only be described as a quiet kind of awe. He doesn’t complain when you place your hands, heavy, on his shoulders, using his sturdy form to keep you stable as you move to straddle his lap.

“I feel like,” his voice is hoarse as he speaks up. “We should have picked a different location. Someone… could walk in.”

“I locked the door,” you remind him, a light reassurance in your voice. He doesn’t say anything immediately, but it’s clear there are cogs turning in his head, and you think it’s unfair that he’s thinking way too hard about something else that isn’t you, right now, in this position. In a bid to rectify this, your face presses into the side of his neck, breathing in that familiar scent and leaving a light kiss on his skin right after. Your lips mark the moment he swallows hard at the contact. “Besides, would you really be that unhappy if someone did?”

His hands tighten against your waist, prompting you to leave another kiss against his collarbone. “What — what do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t like it if someone — say, Youngho — walked in to see me on your lap like this?”

The silence that follows your words is tense, and you can tell that Mark’s breathing has become shallower. Again, you can feel his throat constricting slightly, and you can’t help but laugh breathily as you nip at his skin, just under his Adam’s apple. He’s surprisingly easy to tease, you realize — quick to turn speechless and prone to hanging onto your words.

To say that you wouldn’t want to use that to your advantage would be a downright lie.

“Tell me,” you urge, your tone deceptively gentle. “You wouldn’t want him to see you kissing me like this? To see me wrapped around you, begging for more, saying your name over and over? You don’t want him to watch you take me — so he knows you’re the only one that can?”

A strangled groan punctuates your words, but it comes from him; his fingers dig hard into your side with barely constructed restraint. “What do you want from me, _________?”

“I want to know if kissing me was the only thing you wanted for months.”

You pull your head away, nudging his chin with the tip of your nose. Another groan escapes him, and his head tilts back slightly, almost like he’s praying. But when his gaze comes down to meet yours at your level again, you see a firm resolution in his eyes that stirs your heart — which takes off the moment he shakes his head, slowly but surely.

“Then,” you whisper. “What do you want from me?”

He doesn’t say so much as shows; he takes from you your breath, steals another kiss that’s now firmer and more openly demanding. Suddenly, his mouth can’t seem to stay still, trapping your lower lip in between his, drawing out your taste until it mixes with his against his teeth. You feel your head growing light again, and you’re pleasantly surprised that it’s suddenly become difficult to keep up with his lips, asking more from you without restraint. A hum of need sounds in the back of his throat, vaguely dissatisfied, and he’s telling you wordlessly that it isn’t enough right before he attaches his lips to the base of your neck, just above your collar. You think he’s just about to return the favor, but a laugh leaves you when you realize he’s taken it a step further, his teeth grazing your skin lightly, soft nips signaling how eager he is to sink his teeth in with only his slowly weakening self-control stopping him from doing it. Mark’s breathing is slightly labored when he pulls his lips away, warm breath fanning over your chest.

“It’s crazy — and stupid,” he croaks out, voice slightly raspy. “But I want it, and I don’t.”

“What do you mean?” Your fingers drag into his hair, combing it upward messily from his nape. He leans in for a quick kiss that’s somewhat misplaced, landing on the corner of your mouth instead of squarely atop it.

“I want them — him to see us. To see me with you, kissing you — fucking you, too. I want everyone to know we’re like this.”

You’ve never heard Mark say anything so forwardly before; a sweet, warm flush builds in your face, pleased at how comfortably he manages to say it — pleased that he’s saying it to you. “Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t want him to see you.” There’s a bluntness to his words, but hiding behind them is an undertone of pleading — a serious request. “I don’t want him to see how pretty you look. I don’t want him to see you when you’re bare, or how you look when I’m inside you. I don’t want him to see—”

His voice wavers and dies, and you wonder if he’s embarrassed, but when you read his expression, you see an unyielding longing. A smile tugs at your lips, and your hand comes around to cup his chin, thumb extending upwards to drag his lower lip down.

“You don’t want him to see what’s only yours.”

He swallows hard again, but he doesn’t wait long to nod. Understanding passes between the both of you, silently but completely, and Mark presses his face to your throat, feeling the hum resonate as he places another long, firm kiss there.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, in a way that almost feels like he wants to convince himself of something impossible to believe. He doesn’t even wait for your affirmation, prefers to read it in the way you shiver lightly once his lips travel further down. His kisses trail past the collar of your shirt, and his hands are unabashed in how they seek skin, pushing the fabric upward so he can settle the palms of his hands, warm against your waist. Oddly, they don’t travel upwards; they only brush against the dip, down slightly over the upward rise of your hips, then upwards again, almost soothingly. It’s almost like he wants his mouth to meet them, but he stops halfway, sidetracked by the curve of your breasts.

He barely pulls away, only does for a moment, enough to meet your eyes.

“You’re only mine,” he repeats, his voice softer now. You realize he’s still waiting for some confirmation, and when you do, you’re quick to give it to him — quick to erase any doubt.

“I’m yours,” you affirm in the same tone, in the same careful volume. “Only yours, Mark.”

Whatever else he wanted to ask for, he knows you’ve given assent; that much is clear when he buries his face between your tits, inhaling your scent. You briefly wonder if he might feel just as intoxicated around you as you do around him, if your pleasant dizziness in being this close to him, in tasting and smelling him is something he experiences too, but you don’t get much time to dwell on it the moment you feel his lips part, a slight wetness seeping through the fabric. He’s kissing your chest, teeth grazing just above the cup of your bra, nipping without any real objective other than to feel the pad’s slight resistance to his mouth.

You almost miss what he says as he shifts his head, lips brushing over the curve of your breast — another breathless ‘mine’ that isn’t ever punctuated; his lips still stay parted, mouthing at the cloth, like he’s desperate to feel what’s underneath through it. There’s pressure where his tongue presses flush against the shape of your tit, tightness whenever he chooses to nip, attempting to take the flesh and all that’s between you and him between his teeth.

Not enough, you think, even when a whimper of need bubbles out of you; you want to be closer, your thighs pressing against the sides of his. You’re close in almost every way, but you still inch yourself further forward, enough to feel the taut hardness in his jeans. Your hips settle right there, letting fabric ride against fabric as you center yourself.

No sooner do you press yourself flush against him do you gasp; the light sting sends a jolt up your spine when his teeth close around your nipple through your bra, and when you look down at him, you see the corners of his mouth pulled up in evident satisfaction. He’s quick to atone, his tongue dragging your shirt slightly upwards in his attempt to soothe, and for some reason, the push of fabric and the barely-there feeling of motion leaves you tingling.

“Mark.” Your voice comes out in a whine, but in the haze you’re in, you don’t really have a clear idea of what you’re asking for. All you know is that you want more of him, and for as much as he’s already given you in kisses and words, you aren’t even halfway down the list of everything else you wish you could demand from him. You say the only thing that comes to mind — the only thing that really encompasses what you feel. “Mark, I want you. I want more of you.”

His hands on your waist are replaced by the significant tightness of his arms, locked around your torso; you don’t even have the time to take in your awe at the fact that he can easily carry you, turn you over until you’re on your back, until he’s already eased one knee between your legs.

The way he looks down at you is a mixture of hesitation and desire, but the former’s erased when you reach out for him, murmuring another ‘more’ so you can pull him in. With one palm pressed against the mattress, he lets his free hand graze against your side again, bolder in its movements, and his fingers trace a path up to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh through layers. Your back arches upwards in response, eager for more contact, for touch that’s almost there but not quite, and he smiles when you make a noise of frustration from his fingers tweaking the soft nub of your nipple.

“Mark, please—”

“Would you really let him see you like this?” His thumb’s still idly grazing over your breast, following the rise and fall of its curve. You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice level despite the growing want that threatens to break through it. “Would you really let him watch you… get fucked?”

You shake your head, and his brow furrows.

“I’d let him watch you fuck me,” you correct him, and the confusion in his face gives way to pure satisfaction the moment you make this nuance clear. “It has to be only you.”

His grip tightens briefly against your breast again, and he leans down, pressing a surprisingly chaste and brief kiss to your lips.

“Then I’ll unlock the door next time and give him a show.”

You don’t know if it’s what he says or what he does after — his hands bunching your shirt upward until the hem’s just below your neckline — that makes your breath hitch, but you decide it doesn’t matter when you realize you’d much rather be focusing on the journey his lips take, slick against your stomach as he presses languid kisses down to your navel. His fingers hook into the waistband of your jeans, the weight naturally pulling them down, and you see his muscles tighten for a moment as he stops himself from tugging them off completely.

Mark’s mouth is unparalleled in its attentiveness, seemingly intent on making sure he’s covered every inch of your stomach in warm kisses, but you only realize he’s somehow stalling when he starts the cycle again, his nails digging into the taut elastic of your jeans as though to remind himself to curb his desire.

You take the initiative instead, raising your hips slightly to signal your want, acutely aware of the fact that you brush lightly against his thigh when you do so. His eyes lift first, followed by the rest of his face, and he’s watching you quietly. You might have thought he was unsure of what to do all of a sudden again, but his knee pressing closer, an unmistakable pressure against you, is enough to tell you that he’s only curious to know what else you’ll do.

The second time you grind against his thigh, his hands catch your hips, keeping them aloft just long enough for him to tug the band of your jeans downward; he peels them off you with surprising ease, returning to the same position between your legs, hands still firm on your waist. With that done, he only has the thin garter of your panties left to curl his fingers into, bunching it into his fists when you roll your hips up one more time. You manage a shaky noise when you feel the stark difference — the roughness of the denim against you, the stick and drag of flimsy cloth. Mark lets out a low but unmistakable hiss.

“I can’t believe—” his idea is cut short by the movement of your hips again, and his grip tightens, knuckles pressing into your skin. “Can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“What am I supposed to do,” you breathe out, the sound momentarily getting stuck in your throat. “So that you know it’s real?”

His fingers relax their hold, palms now pressed against your thighs; they travel between your hips and your knees, a soothing and thoughtful motion. “God — I don’t know. I just want — I just want you so badly. Like… I’m going to go crazy if I don’t have you now.”

You lean up, your weight resting on your elbow, and your other hand reaches out; Mark meets you halfway, bending just a little lower to press his cheek against your palm. There’s something intimate, something so giving about the way he turns his face to your fingers, pressing a fluttering kiss just under your thumb. The tips of your fingers trace the shape of his lips, even when they pucker again under your digits.

“Take me,” you murmur quietly. “Right now — from now on, every part of me is all for you.”

His exhale is shaky, but his fingers have a sureness to them; they slip under your thighs, cradling the backs of your knees, and lifting until they’re folded over your chest. You don’t even have the time to wonder if you should feel exposed all of a sudden; his breath warms the inside of your thigh as he presses his lips there — not a kiss, just a touch as he speaks.

“I want to taste you,” he mumbles, partly distracted with the act of inhaling the mild scent off of your skin. “Every inch of you — I want to know just how sweet you are.”

He lets his hold on your thighs relax, letting them fall apart; he busies his hands with your panties instead, hooking a finger into the strip of cloth just covering you. It’s clear you’re both aware that the fabric sticks light to your skin, poorly masking your wetness, and interest mingled with hunger flashes across his face as he pulls it aside.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, sounding like it’s a comment more for himself than anything else. His gaze flickers to you for a moment before it moves back to your pussy. “The prettiest fucking girl in the world.”

The pressure of his thumb between your folds causes you to forget what you wanted to say, and you know Mark had been nervous, but you realize that it doesn’t mean he’s supremely inexperienced by any means; there’s a quiet, understated confidence in the way he rubs slow, thorough circles, moving upward towards your clit. Your face, your neck, your whole torso feels flushed, but you power through the instinct to tilt your head back so that you can keep watching him — the minute changes in his expression, the slowly building strength in his touch.

“I want to taste you,” he repeats, looking up at you. “I want to know what you taste like when you cum against my mouth.”

You’re not sure if you’re gawking because you can hardly believe Mark Lee — your eternally blushing, mild mannered campus crush — had said all those words strung together into such a lewd sentence, but you’re sure as hell not going to deny him. Your hand travels down your torso, and he watches, curious at first, then awestruck when your index and forefinger settle against either side of your folds, pulling them apart in offering.

His eyes end up transfixed on your pussy again, observing how your fingers ease your folds further apart the more he massages his thumb against your slit. His mouth is slightly agape, intent on drinking in the sight, unaware that you’re trying to memorize this view of him too — Mark Lee, touching you, wanting you, eager to take you fully.

“I’ve always wanted to see what it’d look like with your face between my legs,” you say in a hushed tone, but he catches it anyway, briefly looking up at you again. “I’ve always wanted to know what your tongue would feel like against my pussy.”

Your index finger bumps against the tip of his thumb, and he stops its motions, allowing you to move his digit down until the pad of it hovers just in front of your tiny hole. You can see one cheek tucked between his teeth, bitten to muffle the groan you wish you’d heard louder.

“Won’t you show me?”

You think you hear him rasp out a ‘fuck yes’ before he bends down, pressing his half-open mouth against your pussy. The squeal of delight that leaves you is half-strangled as his thumb curls, hooking into your entrance. It starts a shallow, distracted motion, with his attention funneled much more clearly into keeping his tongue working. Flush against your slit, it drags up, and he releases a guttural noise at your taste, lips pursing slightly on the way back down — like he can’t stand not trapping every drop of wetness with his mouth.

The intensity of his tongue, the idle thrusting of his thumb — you’re not sure what you want to focus on more, and the result is you whimpering incoherently at the starkly contrasting combination of the two. Mark moves his mouth like he’s never tasted anything as good in his life; the sounds between your thighs are wet, sloppy — almost embarrassingly so — but you don’t have the presence of mind to dwell on that because Mark Lee is eating you out and that’s really all that you can think of.

The tip of his tongue suddenly flicks upwards; you keen, long and low, when it starts to circle your clit in that same intense, circular movement his thumb had gotten you used to. Your sensitivity skyrockets, and you’re completely unable to control the upward bucking of your hips, but Mark stays supremely unperturbed, his free arm winding under your thigh to keep the both of you steady. Your noises are growing embarrassingly loud, and you realize just how needy you’ve become when you vaguely notice that there’s a pattern in what you’re saying — his name, over and over again.

“Did you do that too?” He asks softly, his words slightly muffled against you. “Say my name, I mean — when you thought of me.”

“God, yes.” Your voice comes out strained, teetering on the edge of slurring. “So many times — every single fucking time.”

“Promise me something.” He lifts his head, and you see a fieriness in his gaze.

You nod — at this rate, whatever he’d ask you to do, you would without question. “Anything.”

His thumb presses in deeper, up to his knuckle and you reflexively tighten around his digit, but he keeps it anchored there, pushing down against your walls. He drinks in your gasp, the widening of your eyes, the way you chew on your lip with a singular kind of contentment on his face.

“Promise me — from now on, you’ll make sure I’m always there to hear it.”

The only kind of assent you’re able to make is a moan as he dives down again, mouth buried in your warmth, his nose pressed tight against your clit. His tongue moves in strong strokes, broad swipes that push your folds apart further, and his thumb, while not moving, increases in pressure to the point that you feel a heaviness adding to the growing pleasure. Your hands fly down, seeking some kind of sense and reason, and you thread your fingers into his hair, grip tightening as your climax builds in stride.

“Mark, I’m—” close, you want to say, embarrassingly so, but the moment he hears his name, his lips attach to your clit, and there’s suddenly so much more pressure as he sucks, almost like he’s desperate to draw out your orgasm. He chooses this of all time to start moving his thumb again, and this time, his movements are anything but slow and idle; they’re filled with the intent to drive you over the edge. “Fuck me, oh my god—”

“I want to,” he murmurs, pausing for just a moment to drag the tip of his tongue around the nub. “God, I want to. Let me see you cum first; let me taste how sweet you are.”

His thumb stops, buries deep into your pussy, and you’re not sure why this, of all things, is what pushes you beyond control; you’re only half-sure you say his name when your orgasm hits, the rest of your consciousness much too clouded by pleasure. He doesn’t stop, revels in the way you squirm under him as he hums low and keeps his tongue working against your clit. His licks become longer, more thorough as you come down from your high, your cries softening into whimpers as his tongue both attempts to clean you up and makes you messier in the process. His arm is still curled around your thigh, keeping you from inching away from him, even if instinct and stimulation are telling you to.

You’re barely lucid when you sit up, and Mark inches back, somewhat startled; you grab the front of his shirt, and the sight of his mouth, slick and glistening from your wetness, only makes you more curious to know what you taste like on him. You find out how tangy it is, how rich the two of you are together on his lips, and you’re able to fully appreciate the skill of the mouth that kisses you deeply, leaving traces of you against your tongue and teeth.

“Please — fuck me.” It’s the only thing you can say at this rate, only half-coherent and still trembling with desire, but Mark doesn’t seem to care that you’re stuttering over such a simple request. His thumb wipes traces of saliva off the corner of your mouth, kisses it clean for good measure, then straightens up, his hands working at his belt. You almost miss the fact that his hands are shaking slightly as he undoes the buckle and tugs it out from the loops.

You want to help — it’s the least you can do, after all, and your fingers push the button of his jeans out through the hole, his hands working in tandem to tug the zipper down. However, your movements falter when you hear a noise from just outside the room — the sound of the doorknob being jangled, the thud of a body gently hitting the door, as though worried it’s stuck. You glance up at Mark, ready to reassure him, but he either hadn’t heard or doesn’t care because he’s too busy stepping out from the pool of denim at his ankles, and you get completely sidetracked by the bulge straining against his boxers.

You almost ignore Youngho’s voice grumbling ‘Jesus Christ, now of all times? from behind the door, but you leverage it instead.

“Should we let him in?” You ask, tone innocent despite the evident deviousness in your words. It pays off, though; Mark’s cock twitches unmistakably under thin fabric, and he actually looks like he’s considering it. “You’re just about to fuck me, after all. Weren’t we going to — what did you say? Put on a show?”

He worries on his bottom lip, like he’s unsure if you’re serious, but in the end, he shakes his head, reaching out to smooth your hair away from your face and ushering you to lay back down. The lips that meet your forehead are gentle, almost apologetic.

“Not now,” he murmurs against your skin. “Right now, you’re all mine.”

You laugh lightly, nodding, and he chuckles too, but the sound of it slowly dies down when your finger hooks into the garter of his boxers. You can feel his breathing hitch as you tug it down, the elastic catching when it meets the shape of his cock, but you don’t make any move to free it just yet — for some reason, you want to see him do it.

“Show me.”

He complies without hesitation, one hand dragging the elastic down over his thighs, the other curling around the base of his length, and your face flushes as satisfaction works through your system at the bare sight of him.

Mark Lee is big — not monstrously so, but enough for you to make a pleased noise as your hand joins his, fingers barely wrapping around his girth. You give his shaft a gentle squeeze, and his exhale stutters, watching you stroke him, long and thorough in your movements. Your palm swipes over the tip, leaking precum, allowing it to slick up your hand enough to keep your movements smooth. You’re fixated on the tension in his lips, the throb of his cock against your palm, and the way his gaze never leaves your face, like a small, amazed part of him still can’t believe what you’re doing, even if you’re both half-naked already.

“I want to suck you off,” you plead, grip tightening slightly. He grits his teeth, stifling another groan, but he shakes his head clearly enough for you to slow your movements in mild surprise.

“Can’t — not now. I need to be in you so badly.” His breathing’s sharp and heavy, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “You don’t even know — how long I’ve wanted to feel you.”

Your hold relaxes, and you let him maneuver you, his renewed hold on your hips dragging you closer to the edge of the bed. In this position, he can spread your thighs further, and you angle yourself optimally — enough for him to get a full view of your pussy, wet and still aching from your last orgasm.

“You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to know how tight you are,” he continues, and there’s a faraway look in his eyes that makes you think he might be entrenched in fantasy. “How much I would have killed to see you — have you like this. I’m not gonna be able to wait anymore.”

His fingers dig into your sides, thumbs stroking your stomach in a weak pattern. The underside of his shaft presses against your folds, still half obscured by your panties, in a way that’s heavy enough to make you mewl, your hips reacting before your mind can, and he hisses softly as he feels his length glide along your slit before you relax your stance again.

“I can’t wait,” he reiterates, a breaking in his voice that sounds almost tortured. You don’t want him to either, want to see him buried to the hilt inside you, and you raise your hips again in need. “I want you so much it’s driving me crazy.”

“Then take me.”

And you’re not sure if it’s a demand or a plea, but he no longer stops himself; his hand fists his cock a few times, coating the slick of precum along his length before he lines the tip up with your entrance. His other hand’s flush against the inside of your thigh, a light pressure ensuring he always has enough space to fit himself between your legs — enough space to bottom out completely.

Mark’s considerate in his pace — maybe he knows he’s big, or maybe he’s just naturally careful, but he allows you the time to adjust to the stretch. Your nails almost puncture holes into the sheets, your grip so tight you wonder if it’s just to brace yourself or to hang onto the last threads of your sanity. He’s only halfway in, but you’re pushing fullness already, and he stops when his cock meets slight resistance, looking up at you in concern.

“You’re not—?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” you reassure him softly, and it’s true; the adjustment brings about slight discomfort, but it’s almost nothing to you — not compared to how much more you want. “Give me everything; I want all of you inside me.”

He pauses still, trying to read your expression for any lies, but when he can’t find any, he nods, his jaw tensing as he presses both palms against your thighs, keeping you open as much as possible to accommodate him. He doesn’t even stop when you whimper, feeling a tightening twitch in your pussy that also causes him to groan, until inch by inch, you’ve taken him, his hips flush against yours.

He doesn’t move — not yet, his eyes trained to where you’re connected like he’s once again unable to believe what he’s doing. You hear him mumble something to himself that you want to hear too; you squirm slightly, and he hisses through his teeth, looking up at you and finding the questioning in your face. He offers you a small smile, albeit somewhat strained.

“You’re tighter than I thought.”

“You’re bigger than I thought,” you hum, and neither of you is really to blame; the tight fit, the slight breathlessness it leaves you with, is perfect, you think — just what the both of you need. “Did you often think about fucking me?”

“Probably just as often as you’re making it sound like you thought about having me fuck you, I think.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you warn, but there’s no real heat in your voice.

“I won’t. But it makes me feel good — knowing you wanted me just as bad.”

“I still do.” Your gaze is lazy, a little hazy, even if you’re anticipating so much. Even just the feeling of Mark, throbbing inside you, is already slowly building the pleasure in your stomach again; you wonder if you could cum like this, given enough time, given enough patience. “I’m still waiting for you to fuck me. God, Mark— please.”

He chuckles good-naturedly, but even that’s drowned out by the long moan that leaves you once he draws his hips back; your body’s mildly shocked into a new adjustment, feeling a sudden emptiness that’s quickly mitigated by him filling you back up again. The pace is slow, almost torturous, although you know he isn’t doing it to get a rise out of you. He wants to ease you into speed, careful to help you adjust fully; his restraint in his movements is all the more evident on his face, in the furrowing of his brow and the determination in his gaze. Even with that, he can’t help what he says, so intent on controlling everything else he does that he lets his words spill out over your noises.

“Pretty,” he grunts out, and when your walls twitch around him, he accidentally thrusts sharper — just enough for you to whimper a little more loudly, and he has to reel his strength back again. “God, you’re beautiful. I should’ve told you sooner how much I wanted you. All those times I had to imagine you wrapped around me like this, wondering how much tighter you’d get once you came on my cock. All those times you drove me crazy while I was alone, when I could have been in you— I could have found out how good you felt. How pretty you’d look under me. And you’re still even prettier, even better than I ever dreamed.”

There’s an erratic melody of moans under his words, spilling from your mouth, and the fact that he riles himself up enough to increase his speed slightly doesn’t escape you. He’s a little less careful now, seemingly entranced by the view he gets, watching his shaft disappear into you only to come out glistening, and a part of you hates the idea of snapping out of his reverie, but the majority of your thoughts now lean towards wondering how much more you can get him to break free of his own self-imposed restrictions.

“I wanted to ask you so many times.” His eyes snap up, coming back into focus as he takes in the sight of you, flushed, hair tousled, gaze darkened. “Almost every day — I sat there, thinking about how all I could do was go home and fuck myself, frustrated you weren’t doing it for me. I should have taken you home with me right then and there — should have let you watch me touch myself thinking of you, should have let you touch me into cumming on your fingers.”

His breathing staggers as he leans in, eager to see you clearer, to hear your words, slowly becoming airier as they come out. For a moment, his gaze falls, torn between watching him move into you and meeting your eyes, but he ultimately chooses the latter once you speak up again, your tone even more hushed than before — like it’s meant to be a secret between just you and him.

“But there were times I wanted you even more than that, to the point that I almost felt like I couldn’t wait.” His eyes widen slightly, a few precious seconds of wondering if he understands what you mean, right before you confirm what he thinks. “I thought about making a move right then — I should have kissed you. I should have asked you.”

“Asked me what?” His voice is gruff with the effort to keep himself in check despite the fact that it’s clear to the both of you that it won’t last.

Your lazy smile’s illusionary; it hides the triumph swelling in your chest at knowing that he asked exactly what you hoped him to.

“I should have asked you to fuck me in front of everyone there.”

“God,” his eyes squeeze shut, his grip tightening. “Please. I can’t—”

“I should have bent over for you there, begged you to stretch me out right after our session,” you continue, bordering on merciless. “Mark, you don’t know — how badly I wanted to be on your lap, your cock in me, with everyone watching. How much I wanted you to fold me over that table, have people watch you pound me, have them listen to how good you make me feel. No one would ever even wonder; everyone would know I’m yours.”

You pause, allowing his eyes to fly open once again, and there’s a pleading in them that’s begging for release. Your eyes soften along with your voice, but you’re this far gone; you should at least see it through.

“And everyone would know you’re mine too.”

“Fuck,” he growls, and his hips stutter before new resolve fills him, his hips driving into you with the force of a strength you didn’t even know he had in him; your thighs tremble at the intensity, at the renewed impact, and feeling him drive his cock deeper into you has you crying out somewhere between a moan and a sob. “Fuck, _________. If I had known you’d thought about me like that — God.”

It’s your turn to shut your eyes for a while, allowing yourself to focus on his movements, breaching your tightness even faster now. You feel his hands skim up your sides again, fingers digging into the fabric of your bra and pulling them down until your bare tits are cupped in his hands. You shiver as his thumbs pass over your nipples, toying them into firm nubs.

“One day,” he hums out, his voice giving way to a slight hoarseness again. “I’ll do it. I’ll fuck you in front of him — in front of Youngho, in front of everyone. I’ll let them wonder how tight you are, how fucking warm you are, and I’ll let them leave knowing no one can know but me.”

It’ll never happen, you both know, but something about agreeing to something so absurd is what has your body almost shaking in longing, and it’s what causes him to press in deeper, folding your legs closer to your torso. Your hands do what little they can to help, keeping your thighs apart so as not to obstruct his view. You can tell it’s somehow not enough, not really all of what he wants when his brow furrows, and he shifts his weight, pushing into you at a new angle.

The stark difference has you gasping before you can control it. Immediately, Mark stops, and you’re already shaking your head before you even hear him say anything, presuming he’s paused out of concern. But before you can say you’re fine, his hushed voice cuts through the silence.

“Do that again.”

“What?”

“Do it again,” he mumbles, sounding distant. “Breathe in. Suck in your stomach.”

You’re not one to complain at such a simple request, albeit a little odd, so you comply, inhaling enough to tighten your torso. You’re surprised when you feel his cock twitch inside you, and you blow out the air alongside your question. “Mark, what are you—”

“I can see it,” he says in utter disbelief. “When you’re like this, I can — I can see my cock inside you. Just a bit.”

Your eyes follow his gaze, fixed just below your navel. From this angle, without any movement, you can’t see a thing, but you assume he’s not one to abandon fucking you so intently without good reason, so you press your palm against your stomach, just above your pelvis. Nothing really feels significantly out of place — up until the point when Mark draws his hips back again, and you feel the backward slide of his cock.

Your throat tightens, and you don’t really understand the feeling that spreads in you — a unique kind of arousal, knowing how deep he is inside you and how you’re taking all of him in despite the fit, because of the fit. Your hand falls away, allowing Mark’s to take its place, and he exerts just a little more pressure against your stomach in an attempt to get the most out of the experience when he thrusts back in. He groans, feeling the bulge push back up, and he quickly picks up the same pace, renewed in intensity so he can experience the rapid rise and fall he creates under his palm.

The faster he goes, the harder he presses, and you’re not sure if he knows it, but the onslaught of friction is what’s making you whine and squirm even more; you’re trapped, in the best way possible, in his hold, your hands back to clinging to the backs of your knees like a lifeline. Pressure from the outside builds on the slowly growing pressure inside, a knot in your pelvis that’s coiling so tightly you feel like you can’t breathe. If Mark notices how close you are, he doesn’t make it known; he’s busy feeling the outline of his cock against your stomach, and when he looks up at you again, his eyes are hazy.

“I would fuck you every single day, every single hour if I could feel this every time,” he whispers in a way that’s almost reverent. “Let me — I want to keep seeing you like this. I want to feel how deep I am inside you, too. Let me fuck you all the time.”

You nod, and your first attempt to say something is just another choked sob. When you do manage to get something out, it’s broken in tearful stutters. “M-Mark, I’m s— I’m so close… I’m — fuck—”

“Do it.” It’s not a harsh command but an urging made on short breath; through your misty vision, you see tension in Mark’s face and shoulders, like he’s bracing himself for something too. You barely register the ping in the back of your mind, too focused on the way he’s pressing his palm harder on your stomach, the way his hips quicken their pace — he’s close too. “Let me feel you — want to feel you cum all over my cock.”

You inhale, not to speak but to let out a loud whimper; your teeth dig into your lower lip as you try to stifle the moans that threaten to follow, but in the end, you whine out his name. Your thighs threaten to close, trembling as you finally reach your climax, an impossible explosion of pleasure, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut so that you don’t get dizzy from the stars that burst around your vision.

“Fuck.” Mark’s voice is strained, his one hand still firm against your stomach, the other sliding against the inside of your thigh. “You get even tighter — you feel even better when you cum.”

“Mark,” you hiccup, unable to do anything but flutter around him as he pistons harder into you. You don’t even know what you’re asking for when you say ‘please,’ but he somehow seems to, and you trust that your body’s saying something you can’t fully detect in this state, with your mind floating in the aftermath of ecstasy.

“I know,” his tone is soothing in contrast to the intensity of his thrusts. “I’ve got you. Just a little more — where do you want—?”

You blink slowly, his words sinking in at too leisurely a pace; his hips stutter dangerously before you’re able to respond. You barely even do that, your hand gently brushing over the one against your stomach, but he catches onto the meaning quickly enough.

You’ve never heard your name said in such a beautiful way; hearing him moaning it lowly is enough to make you whine again, and that noise is drawn out when he shifts and slips out of you fully. Your brain’s fuzzy, but your senses are at least sharp enough to drink in the perfect sight of him cumming — the way he leans his head back, jaw taut and eyes shut, as he pumps his cock and the heat of his release against your skin, pooling against your stomach once he finally cums. You see a shiver run through him, and then he’s still for a while in this position, the both of you basking in the afterglow of your highs.

You’re still weak and sensitive when Mark finally comes back down, a lucidity you don’t have right now coming back into his gaze. All you can do is smile when he leans in, catching your lips in another kiss — one that’s surprisingly soft and slow in comparison to everything else, but still leaves you breathless when he pulls away.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs, and you hum in agreement, your body limp as you watch him move off the bed and pull a handful of tissues from a box on the desk on the opposite wall. Even his hands are gentle when he scoops you up, shifting you until your head can lean against the pillows. They carry a scent you’re not used to, and your nose scrunches, rejecting the change, but that’s quickly overpowered by Mark’s familiar coffee-and-linen one when he presses next to you, careful as he wipes his cum off your stomach and thoroughly cleans between your thighs. From somewhere down below, you still hear hushed voices, and the front door slams shut again. People are still in the middle of leaving, but you know Youngho will likely run out of guests soon, and this makes you feel like the timing’s suddenly become urgent.

“I want to date you properly,” you start, slightly slurred but unmistakably blunt. Mark’s gaze snaps to yours, slightly amused, as he balls the tissues up in his fist. “You never asked me, so I’m asking you.”

He looks perplexed. “I just never thought you wanted me to, so I didn’t try.”

You reach up, locking your fingers into his hair and using your grip to pull him down. Your kiss is a little demanding, with a tinge of excess frustration, and he pulls away laughing lightly.

“Do you still think I don’t want you to?”

Mark hums thoughtfully. “I think you made a lot of things clear tonight. On my end, I was happy enough to be near you.” He smiles down at you, and in the faint light, you can see the flush slowly return to his cheeks. “Having you like this — dating you… there’s no way I’d say no.”

Your shoulders relax, satisfied with his answer, and you beam up at him — an act he easily returns, breathtaking and endearing all at once.

Moments later, you feel his arm wind around your waist; he allows you to lean into his side, his other hand crossing over his lap to stroke your thigh. His face turns, pressing a kiss to your hair, and you feel his lips move, hear the quick rush of a whisper. You tilt your head, eyes slightly wide in questioning. “What was that?”

He shakes his head at first, trying to pass it off as nothing. But when it’s clear your curiosity won’t abate, he chuckles softly, his hand gently cupping your chin so that you can only look at him. His thumb strokes your bottom lip gently, as if trying to coax the same words out of your mouth before he murmurs them to you one more time — and this time, he sounds fully convinced of them.

“You’re all mine.”

salted caramel | lmh ( m )

you hadn’t been aware that mark’s jealousy followed the rules of baseball — three strikes, and he snaps?

read the first part here!

pairing: barista!bf!mark x reader verse: college!au rating: r warnings&tags: unprotected sex, mentions of creampies (although not an actual one), hickeys, possessiveness and jealousy, exhibitionism, sort of phone sex in conjunction with said exhibitionism, oral (m!receiving), mark has an understated but unending obsession with mc’s stomach, tummy bulges, we always love an implicit bigdick!mark, donghyuck is kind of a little shit and basically he has to cross a few lines for this “plot” to get to where it gets word count: 20.3k

a/n: this is a bit rushed and panicked because I basically wrote it in a feverish 2.5ish days… i’m so sorry that the pacing might be a little off, especially since I can never tell if it’s actually too fast or not. this is also unedited and unbeta’d but oh well because i never edit my stuff before posting and just re-edit when I re-read! regardless, i hope it’s something that you can enjoy, and i couldn’t pick between sweetest bf ever!mark and hottest mf ever!mark, so i guess you get a little bit of both!

if you liked it, please consider reblogging to support (especially because this may get flagged for mature content)!

You should have noticed it the first time, but in your overall defense, you find most things that you take note of about Mark Lee to be more on the highly positive and greatly endearing side — or, maybe, you just have a tendency to paint him in that kind of light.

You can’t really help it; he’s still got that halfway shy, softly adoring look in his eyes whenever he sees you, which is more often now than ever before, and you just can’t do anything but reciprocate, if only to see his eyes grow a little brighter. You wonder if Mark’s aware that if this were a Shakespearean scenario, you’d easily fall on your sword for him without question, for as long as he asked, but you don’t think there’s any pressing need to remind him — not with the way you spend most of your free time figuring out ways to be with him. You’re certain he should know, what with the fact that every time he looks at you, even just a glimpse, your gaze is always on him, ready to make eye contact whenever he turns his head — something he often acknowledges with one of those signature blushes that spread like wildfire across his cheeks, up to the tips of his ears.

It also should be unmistakably clear that you’re head over heels for him, given how at least once a week, he’s got his face buried between your legs in an attempt to hear the thing he wants you to say the most (see: his name, in varying pitches and decibels) — but if he doesn’t notice then, you can’t hold it against him; Mark’s mouth is so attentive that you doubt his mind is anywhere else apart from what inch of you his tongue is going to meet next in that moment. At least, that much is true for you.

He should at least know, what with you waiting for his classes to end so you can walk to Starbucks for his afternoon shift; you even race the twenty-minute distance to the Department of Mathematics, still holding your European Renaissance History textbook from your last lecture, just to make sure you’re there right as he gets out — a fact he has to know is an act of devotion, considering how often he finds you heaving for air and leaning your back against the brick wall outside the Accounting 150 Lab. Even his professor knows you as Mark Lee’s admirer, which is all well and good, but if you had the breath to spare, you’d correct his terminology for accuracy. Girlfriend. You’re Mark Lee’s girlfriend.

It’s a fact you don’t mind reminding him of but that you actually have to do quite often, because when you call Mark the appropriate counterpart — boyfriend — his eyes still widen, like he’s hearing it for the first time. It’s cute, just like everything else about him. You just have to wonder, at times, if he doesn’t believe you.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter; you’ll just keep telling him.

You don’t have any classes with Mark this semester, which is a shame, considering your favorite pastime over the last few months had just been to stare at his side profile and wish he’d look over so you could kiss him, but the fact that you spend almost every day with him now, using that time to remind him of how much you want to kiss him and actually getting it to do it right then and there, pretty much more than makes up for your previous schedule of daydreaming.

However, hanging out with him doesn’t always mean you’re just with him; you came to learn this after the first week of the new semester, and you’ve now gotten used to the fact that with Mark Lee sometimes comes his band of tall, often loud friends.

The loudest by far is Lee Donghyuck, the mysterious figure last semester that you’d only known by one syllable, now easily recognizable (and no longer enigmatic by any means to you) by his booming voice and even more demanding personality. He’s supremely outgoing, a trait you can’t say you mind, but there’s an interesting contrast between Mark, who tends to say things after carefully considering his ideas, and Donghyuck, who seems to just burst out in fits of impulsive rambling that often leads to some kind of semi-structured debate. It kind of gives you whiplash, in a funny, slightly perplexing way.

The whole friend group likes to meet up at Starbucks while Mark is on his shift, and now that they’ve come to know you as that girl Mark didn’t teach a single thing in College Algebra to but still somehow got lucky with (something you’ve wasted immense efforts into correcting but have ultimately failed to do so), you now find yourself sitting with them, all somehow waiting for who appears to be the nucleus of this group to stop taking coffee orders and hang up his (cute, but you’re the only one that thinks so, actually) green apron.

Again, you don’t mind it; new people aren’t an issue to you, and you’re also interested in finding out more about Mark through those closest to him. You get to see the few ways they’re alike in contrast to the staggering number of things that make them amusingly different from one another. Despite the broad spectrum of their intersecting interests, you’ve come to learn, through the conversations you’ve had to sit through over the last month, that they have varying opinions on said interests. For instance, you know they’re all into video games, Japanese manga, and long-winding fantasy movies, but every conversation takes flight the moment there’s even a spark of dissent from one person — and the source, usually (and quite unfortunately), is Lee Donghyuck himself.

Today is no exception.

“Dude, you’re crazy,” Zhong Chenle practically seethes. Whether by sheer coincidence or actual desire, he’s the one who most often finds himself staring Donghyuck down, trying to bend the latter’s will into admitting defeat. Donghyuck, on the other hand, has mastered the art of looking supremely unperturbed, especially when Chenle is in the heat of his rage. “The ninth was the worst, hands down.”

“Art and rendering were so solid.” Donghyuck raises a finger, and you’re not sure if it’s to start off a list or to shut Chenle up. You don’t want to ask, anyway, too busy finding amusement in the shifting expressions of despair, rage, anguish, and murderous intent on the latter’s face to speak up. You presume that’s why everyone else isn’t stopping them — or maybe they’re just preparing their own defenses and points to raise. “Intuitive combat and flawless combo chains. The fucking open world? Which other installment in the franchise offers that much depth in the gameplay?”

“Depth? Do you even hear yourself right now?” Chenle grips his head so tightly that when he pulls his hands away, there are actual red marks across his forehead and temple, and his bangs are askew. “What kind of depth comes from cloned movesets? The character designs are so stupidly traditional too. And—”

“There’s a unique kind of beauty in familiarity.”

“The open world was a disaster,” Chenle plows on. “It was so empty, and the map was the farthest thing from intuitive. It’s quite literally the worst thing KOEI has ever done. That’s exactly why they went back to the limited map strategy in later installments. Even the spin-offs.”

“I thought the grappling and ambush systems were pretty intuitive. Ingenious, even.”

It’s a singularly amusing sight — Chenle is one insult to his pride away from imploding, and Donghyuck is just checking the dirt under his nails like he’s waiting in line to take his school ID photo. Park Jisung, one of the quieter ones in the bunch, tries to diffuse the tension by clearing his throat and going ‘I actually really liked the Age Of Calamity Zelda one they released with all the different campaigns,’ but that just goes unnoticed by either party.

“You once failed an ambush play just because you were stuck behind a wall you couldn’t scale. Don’t say shit about the ambush and grappling mechanics.”

“Unlike some people sitting around this table, I learn from my mistakes. That’s also probably why some people — not naming names — just can’t appreciate the artistic beauty that is Dynasty Warriors 9.”

Donghyuck doesn’t even look up from his cuticles when Chenle explodes.

“You’re fucking impossible!”

“Can you guys relax?” Lee Jeno, who had somehow miraculously found the space and silence in the breaths between the entire argument to doze off, opens one eye, only slightly irate. “You’re making a scene over a dead game franchise.”

“It’s not dead; they’re on hiatus,” both Chenle and Donghyuck chime in together, apparently finding a moment of unique solidarity to shoot Jeno down before going back to glaring daggers at each other. Jeno shrugs, gives everyone else at the table an I tried kind of exasperated expression, and settles back into his seat, the one eye already closing before he’s fully folded his arms across his chest.

Your eyes wander away from the group over to the counter. You’re thankful for the fact that most of the time, you just get invited to share a table with them without necessarily being trapped in the middle of a conversation — especially one as heated as the one Chenle is prolonging while jabbing his finger accusingly at Donghyuck, as if he’s trying to pin a crime on the latter instead of just explaining why Donghyuck’s opinion is ‘borne of ignorance.’ When they’re all caught up in their business like this, you end up being able to revel in your more or less unobstructed view of Mark behind the barista’s station, where he’s busy piping an extra helping of whipped cream on top of a strawberry frappuccino for a kid that’s already jumping up and down next to the pick-up station.

The biting winter had already given way to the first signs of spring, and the Starbucks Mark works at has a supremely effective central heating system that allows people to shed their coats. This works in your favor, considering Mark wears nothing but a button-up shirt over his apron while he works, and he’s got this habit of rolling up his sleeves so they don’t catch any stains. You’re pretty sure he has a second motive, though; surely, he’s aware of how the view of his arms, muscles tightening under his skin whenever he even lightly grips something, drives you crazy. You’d bet a month’s allowance he’s doing it on purpose so that you start entertaining the thought of yelling at everyone in the branch to fuck off so you can grab him by the front of his stupid shirt so you can kiss his stupid face. Or ride it.

And for some inexplicable reason, he still has the audacity to act like there’s nothing amiss. When he looks up at you right after pushing the frappuccino towards the little girl, his eyes still brighten, almost innocent in their gaze, the corners of his lips turning up surreptitiously, hiding the smile he seems to save for only you from everyone else in the room.

You smile back, but when he turns away to take someone’s order, you let out a heavy sigh and take a long sip of your vanilla sweet cream cold brew until you start reaching the last dregs of it under the ice. Your brain pretty much cries out in protest, but you know it deserves as much as a mental cold shower for entertaining the thought of asking him to bend you over the counter at five-thirty in the afternoon in a Starbucks.

Stupid Mark. Stupid brain. Stupid fucking people in the room.

The warm breath in your ear alerts you to a slowly approaching presence, but you don’t have the reflexes to turn back to its source before it starts talking.

“Got anything to add to either of our cases, ___________?”

“What?” Your palm comes up to rub your ear as Donghyuck pulls away, laughing lightly. You’re sucked back into the foreground of the conversation, but you’re just as lost now as you had been before you started tuning them out in favor of your lust. “Uh — no. Sorry. To be honest, I know nothing about… sorry, what were you guys talking about again?”

“See, that’s how normal people act,” Jeno grumbles, both his eyes flying open this time. “Instead of hosting a presidential debate about Dynasty Warriors.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” You’re quick to add, and Jeno looks mildly amused at your attempt to still mollify the rest of the group. “I’m sure I would have liked it. If, you know, I actually had been introduced to it at any point in my life.”

“And if you had, I’m sure you’d have the taste to assert alongside me that the seventh installment was revolutionary,” Chenle sniffs, but he’s looking more pointedly at Donghyuck, who’s still ignoring him, save for the fact that he’s now looking at you instead of at his nails (which doesn’t feel like such a great upgrade).

“Nah, she’d be on my side. ___________ looks like she’d appreciate a good, scenic open world and grappling system. Right?”

“Uh…” you say smartly.

“Man, shut up.” Chenle throws his hands in the air before he stands up, his chair scraping against the floor as he pushes it back with astounding force. “Got me so pissed off I need to pee now.”

You have no idea what the correlation is between getting annoyed and needing to use the bathroom, but even if you wanted to bring up your doubts — which you don’t — Chenle is long gone before you can get your thoughts together. It’s only when he’s out of earshot that Donghyuck leans in, almost conspiratorially, to whisper to you again.

“Actually, I think the ninth sucks too. But isn’t it kind of funny how worked up that fucker gets?”

“To be honest, I’ve never known anyone with quite your talent in riling people up,” you admit, and even though you’re not sure what kind of meaning you want attached to that, you notice that he decides to take it as a compliment all on his own, his chest puffing out in pride. “Too bad I have no idea which opinion is really right, or I’d weigh in, too.”

“Not a Dynasty Warriors kind of girl, then?”

“No one is, Hyuck,” Jeno snorts, shaking his head. “You two are the only people I know who still played that past the fifth installment.”

“Fair. I nurture a love for old franchises.” Donghyuck leans back, looking supremely satisfied at how he’s managed to tick off one of his most important ‘to-do’ points of the day. “So what’s your poison, ___________?”

“What’s that mean?”

“You a Gardenscapes kind of girl? Tekken? Maybe you like some good ol’ fashioned LoL?”

“I honestly don’t have the hand-eye coordination to play,” you confess. “I know Mark likes to play PUBG from time to time. I mostly just sit and ask questions, though. The few times I tried playing with him, I swear any normal person would’ve cried. He had to babysit me like crazy. It was a miracle he didn’t throw me out.”

“She even tries to play with him,” Donghyuck whistles lowly. “Dude, how’d Mark get a chick like you?”

“Meaning?”

“You’re way too good for that dope.” His laugh is light and good-natured. “Never thought a moony-eyed weirdo like him would actually wind up with his dream girl — which he’s called you, more than once, by the way. Fucking disgusting, but… I get it. Doesn’t make it less crazy or weird to hear, though.”

“Sorry to put you through that.” You smile, using your straw to stir the contents of your cup. A warmth spreads through your shoulders and down your arms to the tips of your fingers as you digest what Donghyuck’s just said to you, and you find your eyes trailing back to Mark, who’s pulling off his apron. His eyes are already fixed on you, and when you lock gazes, he mouths a wait for me that makes you want to squeeze the life out of something in pure joy. You settle for a soft sigh. “I guess it won’t help if I say your friend over there’s my dream guy.”

“It absolutely will not,” Donghyuck groans, faking a gagging noise that has you laughing. “But tell you what — if you ever get tired of Mark playing PUBG and ignoring you like the clown he is, I’ll find you someone else more your speed.”

“No thanks,” you snort, taking the last sip of your drink. “More than that, I’d just want to be some kind of helpful to him if I ever play with him again.”

“We can help you with that too,” Jisung volunteers. “Jeno taught me the basics. I’m sure he can teach you too.”

“Yeah, and I’m guessing you’d be a better student than mister “how come you didn’t tell me I had to focus the crosshairs myself” over here,” Jeno chuckles, surreptitiously pointing at Jisung when you cast him a questioning look.

“I’m pretty good at sneak attacks myself.” Donghyuck makes a show of pretending to slice your neck before grinning smugly. “We’ll take care of you. Mark won’t know what hit him next time.”

“What’s happening to me next time?”

You feel Mark before you see him, his hand landing on your head lightly and smoothing your hair back in an idle, gentle motion to announce his presence. You look up at him, already beaming, and he returns the favor as his hand settles on your shoulder.

“We were just talking about replacing you. Both as a friend and as a boyfriend, for your poor little dream girl here who’s just too nice to turn you down.” Donghyuck lies like it’s second nature; you wonder if that’s a Finance major thing or just a him thing.

“And you’re offering that to someone who didn’t ask for it?” Mark snorts, nudging Chenle’s bag over so he can sit in the empty spot.

“She’s so caught up in your sticky little web that she can’t struggle against you.” Donghyuck feigns a heavy sigh that suggests he feels sorry for you before he puts a hand on your free shoulder, shaking his head in a convincing kind of pity. “I’ll save you, so don’t worry. Mark can’t keep his grubby hands on you forever. Whenever you need to be saved, I’ll come a-running to free you.”

There’s a tightness on one shoulder that disrupts the balance of your torso, and you find yourself leaning closer to Mark. Your hand finds its way to his knee, giving it a light squeeze under the table, and his grip loosens by a fraction. Donghyuck’s as quick to let go as he is to hang on.

“We were just talking about PUBG,” you correct, and Mark’s eyes snap to you. “I was asking for help — you know, so I won’t drag you down the next time I join in?”

“I don’t mind whatever you do in-game.” He’s quick to comfort you, even if you don’t actually need it, but it feels warm and cold “I’m just glad you wanna try it with me.”

“No, but I kind of want to learn too. So it can be fun for both of us. Also so you don’t have to keep avenging me after five minutes,” you laugh. Mark cracks a smile then, and you don’t realize his expression had been slightly harder until it softens under your gaze.

“Then I’ll teach you next time.”

“No, I want to surprise you with how cool I get. And then next time, I’ll even beat you.” You turn to Donghyuck, slightly unsure. “Uh… I can beat him, can’t I?”

“If you play different teams, yeah,” he confirms. “Trust me. I’ll help you kick his ass.”

“Or we’ll both kick yours,” Mark chuckles, his grasp now tightening and loosening intermittently. He’s massaging your shoulder lightly, and you end up sinking deeper into his side. You don’t miss the slightly nauseated amusement that passes across Donghyuck’s face nor the way he mouths ‘sap’ to Mark, who ignores this comment in its entirety.

“Yo, hotpot at seven? Renjun’s asking,” Chenle announces as he returns to your table, his phone in one hand and a crumpled paper towel in the other. “Jaemin can’t make it, though. Study group or whatever shit he always says.”

“I’m down,” Donghyuck immediately replies, and Chenle’s eyes shoot heavenward, like he’s already asking for the divine strength to not sock Donghyuck in the face later.

“Can’t,” Jeno yawns, both his arms outstretched as he tries to move the sleep out of his spine. “Pre-test tomorrow.”

“Dude, it’s a pre-test,” Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “You don’t have to study if they’re just testing how much you know before studying.”

“Gotta study all the same.”

“I gotta pass too,” Jisung looks actually apologetic. “I promised my mom I’d help her move some stuff to my aunt’s place tonight.”

“Boring,” Chenle grumbles before turning to the both of you. “Lovebirds?”

“Rain check,” Mark shakes his head. “Family dinner. My brother’s home for the weekend. How about Monday instead? Most of us can’t make it anyway. At least Jaemin doesn’t have study group either.”

“If that’s even what that weirdo’s doing,” Chenle sighs, already punching in a message to send to Renjun. “Fine; I’ll ask about Monday. You guys better actually reply to the goddamn group chat. I can’t coordinate in six different private chats ever again.”

“You can put my name down already,” Mark casts you a sideway glance, and you nod immediately. “Two names, actually.”

“I’m good on Monday too. When we see each other again, I’ll bring some prospects for you to sift through,” Donghyuck adds to you, and you laugh. “Cool guys. Jocks. I know this upperclassman all the girls say is really hot. I think I still have his Messenger from when we did a group discussion last semester.”

“I’ll have Mark look at them so he can reject them all for me,” you promise. Donghyuck feigns affront before looking at Mark in utter disbelief.

“How the fuck did you snag a girl like this, man?”

“I’m pretty sure she once told me I… what did you say?” Mark glances at you amusedly. “I had some moves, I guess.”

“You mean stutter and blush in her presence?” Donghyuck can’t decide how to look at you without being even the slightest bit offensive; he just settles on incredulity. “And that won you over?”

“Most powerful move in the Mark Lee playbook,” you shrug, grinning. “Had me from the first ‘um,’ and he’s had me ever since.”

“You lucky son of a bitch,” Donghyuck snorts, and neither of you misses the slightly abashed but unmistakable smugness in Mark’s face when you lean in to rest your head on his shoulder.

The second time it happens is on that Monday, in a far more noticeable capacity. You just aren’t quick enough to read the signs, as usual.

But in your defense (again), it hadn’t felt all that significant.

“Fuck, this is spicy,” Na Jaemin sucks air in through his teeth and lets it out in a sharp whistle that’s broken by a laugh that’s not necessarily at anything funny. Maybe he’s just laughing at the sheen of sweat across his forehead that he has to wipe off with the other side of his napkin.

Miraculously, the hotpot plan pushes through, with no small amount of effort in coordination on Chenle’s part; he’d even texted you just to make sure he’d gotten the head count right, despite the fact that Mark had already confirmed your attendance twice over. Even the often elusive Na Jaemin, who always seems to have one or another study group to attend on most nights, manages to come and is currently busy mixing his peanut sauce in his little bowl with such vigor that you can’t help but wonder if he’s not trying to drown the mala-flavored strips of meat in it completely.

“That’s why I said you need a bowl of water for dipping, you dimwit,” Donghyuck points his chopsticks at Jaemin’s messy plate in a way you can only describe as nagging, even if that’s actually impossible. “You’ve got super mala breath now.”

“Don’t know about me, but I can smell yours all the way from over here,” Jaemin quips back with an easy kind of nonchalance, hastily ducking the balled-up napkin that goes flying across the table. It lands on the floor behind his chair harmlessly.

It’s nice, you think, that Mark’s friends like to invite you to their outings now; despite all the jokes they’ve made at his expense, they’ve been consistently open to having you around. You’re not necessarily the type of couple that acts in a way that disgusts people into moving to a completely different table anyway, and you allow their conversations to unfold easily without ever interrupting, so you think that this arrangement works for all parties involved.

They’re even louder outside Starbucks, you’ve come to note; the restaurant is significantly busier than the cafe anyway, filled with people on their company dinners, so Mark’s friends all seem to want to rival that boisterous energy. Weirdly, you like it, even when they’re already half off their seats and one (Chenle) is just about to strangle the other (Donghyuck). The laughter flows freely, and there’s a messiness to the whole affair that makes it impossible to feel uncomfortable.

Even Mark pipes in occasionally, offering his opinion on topics he knows much more about than you, and you can’t help but admire how everyone listens to him when he starts to speak, even if he has nothing realistically important to say. His friends might find it odd that you’d been so drawn to him, but they just don’t know that even they’re victims of Mark’s natural magnetism, also falling quiet and eager to hear his voice, his light-hearted laugh, in response to the things they say.

But even when he’s mostly distracted by conversation, there’s a part of him that continuously pays attention to you in his own way. He nudges his ginger and soy sauce bowl towards you with the side of his wrist so you can dip your beef in, even if you’d adamantly declined him giving you your own bowl of it in the first place (you’d always thought you were peanut sauce or nothing kind of girl, but one sneaky venture into Mark’s sauce proved you wrong). His hand hovers over your head when you drop your chopsticks and bend over to pick them up from where they’ve rolled under the table, making sure you’re bump-free when you resurface.

And his palms always, always settle somewhere on you, no matter what he’s doing. If one hand is busy feeding himself, the other is intent on warming your thigh, passing over the denim in slow, steady strokes. His fingers tickle your knee when you laugh, just to make you laugh a little harder — you’d even almost kneed the table at one point, much to Huang Renjun’s alarm. But the most common place for his arm is around you, fingers lightly bunched into the side of your shirt, like he’s worried loosening his grip on you further will cause you to vanish. It keeps him close to you, keeps his scent and warmth washing over you in gentle waves, so much so that you often have to remind yourself that he’ll be the target of much light-hearted mockery if you so much as lean into him and rest your head on his shoulder.

But it’s hard to resist it, especially when his hand seems to be intent on outlining every curve on that side, passing over your hip and dipping into your waist. The motion allows him to slowly but surely lift the fabric of your shirt, up until there’s just enough of an opening for his palm to slip under, and suddenly it’s much warmer on that side, with the light roughness of his hand grazing at your skin. His fingers always stretch apart, like he’s trying to feel as much of you as he can, and the pads of his digits have a tendency to graze the plane of your stomach — his nails sometimes even travel featherlight just next to your navel, etching out words you can’t really decipher. Like he’s writing a message just for you.

It makes you feel like no matter what he’s doing, a part of his mind is always on you.

“You guys want to see that new horror movie? The Ghost Within, I think it’s called,” Jisung asks the group from over at the other end of the table, having to raise his voice significantly to make sure it isn’t swept away by the raucous laughter from across the restaurant. “I think it’s coming out in a week or two.”

“I’d be okay with it,” Renjun shrugs, although he doesn’t look enthused. “Kind of looks like a cliche horror with all those cheap jump scares and shit, but I’m down if you all are.”

A wave of assent passes over the group in general, but you notice Mark doesn’t immediately respond. You take this opportunity to lean in and confess your stance.

“If I have to sit around and watch a ghost pop out at me from a big-ass movie screen, you may never again see me in the same wonderful light you do today,” you warn. “Remember me as I am, not as I will be, Mark Lee.”

He snorts, coughing lightly as a mixture of ginger and fishcake sticks in his throat. “Yeah — we’ll pass, I think.”

“Scaredy-cat,” Donghyuck teases, and you’re surprised that Mark doesn’t come to his own defense. There’s something romantic in him not wanting to be the one to sell you out, but you suppose there’s also a kind of chivalry in being the one to take the bullet.

“Actually, I’m the one who can’t handle it well,” you smile in apology. “Sorry. I don’t have much of a reputation, so to speak, but what elegance may be attached to my name, however misplaced, is something I really want to maintain. At least until I graduate.”

“In short, you don’t want Mark to see you scream and cry,” Chenle deduces. You can’t even find fault in him figuring it out so quickly.

“Bingo.”

“Well, we can solve the problem,” Donghyuck claps his hands, getting everyone’s attention for no good reason. “__________, you sit beside me, and Mark can sit on the far end of the row. With how dark it is, he won’t see anything, and I get to sit next to a cute girl in a movie theater. Win-win.”

“Thanks for the offer,” you laugh, shaking your head. “But it’s not a win-win if I accidentally grab your hand out of instinct.”

“It is to me,” Donghyuck winks, and you feel Mark’s hand stop brushing over your stomach. His fingers curl in lightly, almost like he’s trying to make a fist but can’t quite get to that point out of personal restraint. “Or better yet, you could do what we all think you should do and dump Mark for someone you won’t be ashamed to cry in front of. I, for one, would not even bother to comment on whatever emotions you’re going through in the middle of a movie, so what do you say? It’s a pretty sweet deal, in my humble opinion. Me versus Mark Lee. The showdown of the century, right here in Hai Di Lao.”

You’ve noticed that the more Donghyuck piles onto his little teasing rampage, the more forcefully Mark tugs you over; his fingers aren’t just skimming over your skin but have now grown into the habit of gently pinching it, as if begging for your attention. It feels nice but also a little urgent, although it’s hard for you to understand why; the whole foundation of this group is built on teasing each other until someone (Chenle) snaps and lobs a bottle cap at someone else (Donghyuck), so it should be normal for Mark to be at the receiving end of some light banter.

“Should we ask the hostess to referee the match, then?” You ride along with the joke.

“No way. You’re the one calling the shots.” Donghyuck sits up a little straighter, putting on a smug face. “Okay, pick, __________. Me or Mark; who’s got the better punches?”

You make a show of acting thoughtful, even tapping your chin to pretend considering it deeply, but there was never any doubt on your choice. Still, you can’t really decipher the sudden slowness, the light tremble in Mark’s palm as it travels to your hip, where it settles, heavy, over the curve.

“It’s a complete knock-out,” you finally announce, grinning. “Championship belt goes to Mark.”

“Man, if I had a girlfriend as straight-shooting about her feelings for me as you are about your feelings for Mark, I’d propose in a day, max,” Jeno groans, half-exasperated and half-amused all at once.

“Man must’ve saved a nation or something in his past life,” Donghyuck grimaces. “No way he deserves a girl this hot and crazy about him. Hey — got any tips on stopping natural disasters or something? I could use a sexy, loyal girlfriend in my next life. Or maybe I’ll just poach yours in this one and see what it feels like.”

“I would actually deck you, so don’t even try it,” Mark snorts, his arm now winding full around your waist. You’re flush against his side, and he uses this opportunity to do something he doesn’t often do in front of his friends: show explicit affection by pressing a light kiss just behind your ear. It tickles, his breath grazing your earlobe, and you giggle, squirming in his hold. All he does is smile and pull you in tighter.

The bill’s split eight ways, but Mark’s fishing out cash to pay for your share even before you can get your wallet out from the bottom of your bag; it’s one of those quick, instinctive moves he likes to use on you, where he pushes the money and sends the bill back to the staff before you can even protest in full, so you have to settle on thanking him by returning the earlier favor — landing a peck on his cheek, which flushes a warm and contented pink the moment your lips make contact.

You just pointedly ignore the snickers that run around the table, particularly from Donghyuck and Jaemin.

The group splits ways at the front of the school dorms; most of them head in after their goodbyes, while Chenle backtracks towards his apartment building off-campus, mumbling something about how he hopes his roommate’s in because he accidentally left his key in the bowl next to their doorway. Mark should be piling in with the rest into the dorms, but he has a habit of insisting that he take you to the subway station; you’ve long since given up on convincing him against tagging along, mostly because he looks slightly hurt whenever you try to get him to stay put. You’re not going to complain anyway; for as much as you like being around Mark’s friends, it’s even better when you have this little slice of alone time despite the hassle it brings him.

Your fingers are linked when you walk under the street lights, the campus road leading to the station entrance significantly less busy at this time of evening; it’s cool enough for you to have an excuse to press yourself into Mark’s form, and he accepts this additional burden with an immense amount of grace, his arm finding its way around you again. Two minutes later, his palm is pressed against your bare skin once more, rubbing small, gentle circles just above your pelvis.

A part of you wonders if you’ll be able to do this — lean in, flush against him — when the summer heat starts to stick, but rather than really worrying about the logistics, you realize you’re more hung up on the idea of spending this summer with him.

“Sorry,” Mark murmurs out of the blue. Your eyebrows shoot up, and he looks down at you sheepishly. “Isn’t hanging out with my friends kind of driving you crazy?”

You hum in thought before shaking your head in resolution. “Not really. Not in a bad way, at least. I like how close you guys all are — and how big the group is. It’s usually just Yeji and Jisu with me, and they’re definitely not as rowdy. The change of pace is pretty fun.”

“Yeji and Jisu,” he echoes. “Your best friends. I haven’t met them yet, have I?”

“Not yet. Jisu started a part-time job across town, so we can’t get our schedules to align right just yet.” Your hip collides gently with his. “Should I let you, though?”

“One day… I think it would be nice to hang out with a less migraine-inducing crowd for a change.”

“I’ll tell them, then. They want to meet you.” You crane your neck up slightly, lowering your voice into a hushed whisper that’s completely unnecessary. “They want to know if you’re as cute as you look in your pictures.”

Mark draws back, laughing incredulously. “How do they know what my pictures look like?”

“I stalked your Instagram and showed them,” you answer simply. He throws you a funny look that’s equal parts disbelief and amusement. “They liked that one with the Spider-man costume.”

“Please don’t,” he groans, passing a hand over his face. “I should have taken that down, but I didn’t think anyone would care.”

“Why? I like it.” Your hand’s the one that manages to slip under his sweater this time, fingers trailing down his stomach; you feel him suck it in for a second in surprise before he lets out an exhale.

“I can’t ever understand what’s going through your head,” he chuckles, and you think it’s unfair that he manages to extract your hand from under the fabric while his is still firmly pressed against the side of your stomach. “You saw that and still wanted to date me?”

“Mark Lee, you simply underestimate how much I adore you. It’s kind of hurting my feelings at this rate.”

You’re just a few inches shy of the circle of light cast by the subway station sign. Your feet try to bring you forward, but Mark lingers behind, just outside the curve of soft white on the pavement, and his hand slips from under your shirt. You turn, and his hand skims down your arm instead, fingers locking around your wrist. With the slight distance between you, it looks like you’re caught in motion.

“I still can’t wrap my head around it sometimes.”

“What?”

“I just look over at you and feel like it’s not real. Like you’re going to disappear, and I’m just going to wake up from a dream and see you the next day, just some other stranger who doesn’t even know my name.” He licks his lips, and you want to reach out and kiss him already, but you know he isn’t done talking. “And I’m going to remember how much I liked you in that dream, but you won’t ever feel that same way.”

“You know I’m right here, though, don’t you?” Your fingers mimic his, squeezing around his wrist. “You can feel me. I’m here with you.”

Hesitation flashes across his face even when he nods, and you notice his eyes flit down to his shoes before looking back up at you — a habit of avoidance you know he’s trying to correct. “Sometimes I have to wonder if they’re right.”

“If… who’s right?”

“Them.” He jerks his thumb back in the general direction of the school dorms. “The guys. You know — when they ask me how I got a girl like you… the truth is, I don’t even really know. They can’t believe it, and it’s so crazy to me that I still sometimes can’t myself. So I start wondering if—”

You don’t let him finish this time; it’s rude to interrupt, you know, but you also know that what he’s about to say is probably something neither of you wants to hear anyway. Your lips connect with his, firm and demanding, and his words die in his throat, melting into a soft groan that vibrates against your skin. When you pull away, you don’t create the same distance, and Mark’s hands find their way to your waist, slightly trembling.

“They’re wrong,” you murmur, a quiet strength in your voice. “So stop wondering and just be with me.”

A smile starts tugging on the corners of his mouth, and the next moment, he’s nodding in assent, in wholehearted agreement, and the next kiss you share is one he starts, far more gentle than earlier.

“Next time I catch you entertaining nonsensical thoughts, there’ll be consequences.”

“Are you threatening me?” His laugh is colored with incredulity.

“Yes.” Your tone is firm, but your grin gives away too much of the jest. “Maybe I’ll ground you for a week, or something really childish.”

“I’d take it if you were with me.”

“That’s not how it works,” you snort, gently flicking the tip of his nose. He scrunches it on impact. “You’d be in solitary. You must reflect on your actions and all that nonsense. Meanwhile, I’ll be out having some good hotpot with everyone else.”

“If that happens, promise me one thing, then.” He maneuvers your stance until you’re both back in the blanket of darkness, just out of reach of the subway entrance. “Don’t sit next to Donghyuck.”

“And let him and Chenle give me an earful about how bad-slash-good the first Human Centipede movie was all over again? I think not.”

“No, really.” Mark buries his face into your neck, and you hear the quiet inhale as he breathes in your scent. On instinct, your hand comes up to thread through his hair, nails gently scratching at his scalp. “I don’t want you sitting there and hearing him talk your ear off about how much I don’t deserve you or that he’ll help you find someone better.”

“You know he’s just joking — and I’m just joking, right?”

“Just promise me.”

You pause, wondering if it’s in your best interest to tease him for whatever act he’s pulling, but there’s a shortness to his breathing that makes the whole situation feel weirdly tense. He’s really waiting for something — an answer. The right answer, maybe.

“I promise,” you finally say, and you know you’ve said the correct thing when Mark’s lips press a soft kiss to your collarbone, like he’s sealing in your vow.

On the third time, Mark pretty much gives up.

The strangest thing is that it starts at a time when you’re not even actually together; if you had to pinpoint the exact moment, it probably had to be when Donghyuck had walked you to the dorm from library. No — maybe even before that. Somewhere in the time you’d spent in there, he’d thought up yet another way to push Mark’s buttons. You just didn’t really know the exact minute he’d first seen you with Jung Jaehyun.

You don’t know how Jaehyun does it; he skips half his classes and somehow doesn’t even get in trouble, let alone fail. You’d only met him last semester, but he was just about the only person who was halfway familiar in your Anthropology 120 class, so you thought you could at least feel comfortable enough to chat with him about the weather or what had happened in the last meeting. You don’t expect him to strong-arm you into being something of a literal proxy for him; the first week of the semester, you’d spend almost each lecture period gnawing on your nails and fretting over the fact that your signature for attendance looked nothing like his. By the second week, you’d already come to realize that it doesn’t matter because he had only attended one lecture — the first one — thus far and your professor was as clueless about Jaehyun’s handwriting as you. By the fourth week, you had resigned yourself to being his slightly unwilling associate for his random escapades, allowing him to copy off your notes and turning in his homework for him.

Now that you think about it, that’s probably how he does it.

You sacrifice your free time for him today, caged up in a library for pretty much the afternoon. You can’t help but resent him, not just because the whole room is stuffy and the librarian keeps passing by, clucking to remind people not to litter between shelves, but also because you’d much rather do things that are important to you — like pretending to flirt with Mark for the first time when you place your order and watching him act like it’s the first time you’re saying something so sweet to him, except he’s definitely not pretending. Instead of watching Mark’s face color that cute shade of pink and that sweet little smile pull at his mouth until he’s basically biting his lips back to stop himself from grinning, you have to bore yourself with the sight of Jaehyun trying to decipher your handwriting.

“You should really be more legible with your strokes.” He has the audacity to chastise you as if he’s the one doing you a favor by giving you constructive criticism.

“You should really come to class more often,” you bite back, although there’s no real heat to your words. You just look out the window and watch the sun sink down behind the university hospital building, wondering if there’s a chance you’ll still be able to catch Mark before his shift ends.

“Would if I could.”

“You actually fucking can,” you say tiredly, and even the way he turns the page is so impossibly slow. “Can’t you just take a picture?”

“Nah; writing it down carefully really helps my retention of this kind of stuff.”

“So take a picture and then write it down carefully.”

“With your ridiculous handwriting? I’d probably fail.”

“So come to class and write it yourself!”

Your hiss increases in pitch, and it calls the attention of the librarian over to you. She swoops in, clicking her tongue, but she’s not even looking at you. Her eyes are zoned in on Jaehyun, who meets her gaze with so much innocence it’s hard to imagine you’d wanted to smack him two minutes ago.

“Jung Jaehyun,” the librarian snaps in an undertone. The slow, punctuated way she says his name suggests she knows him fairly well — and not in a great way. “I see you’re back in here after your probationary period.”

“Sorry for the trouble, Mrs. Park.” He grins up at her, looking anything but apologetic. “I promise I won’t get in your way again today.”

“And this one—” She points to you, and you point to yourself in shock at being pointed to, and Jaehyun’s pointing at you and mouthing ‘this one’ with excessive mirth in his eyes. “Isn’t another one of those girls you plan on defiling my sacred space with?”

Jaehyun says ‘we didn’t defile anything’ at the same time you say I’m going to throw up, and the librarian just adds to the noise by shushing you on top of that jumble of words.

“I’ll be keeping a close eye on you two,” Mrs. Park warns before stalking away, tutting at a library assistant for wrongly shelving a volume of Encyclopedia Brittanica.

“Please, Jaehyun,” you groan, crossing your arms over the table and flattening your forehead against them. “Just hurry up. Release me.”

He ignores you, still leaning closer to your notebook to decipher your handwriting. “I would like to set the record straight and make it known I didn’t fuck anyone in the library.”

“What’d you get probation for, then?”

“Just making out.” You notice he has the energy to grin wickedly even without meeting your eye, even while he’s still scrawling on his own notebook, and you groan something incoherent and irate once again. “What are you in such a big hurry for, anyway?”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” you grumble, raising your head. “That some people might want to do better things than sit here and watch you write stuff for ages?”

“No,” comes his simple reply. You bop your head onto your arms a few times in the hope that the impact will shake you out of this nightmare and you’d find yourself waking up in Mark’s arms instead, but you have no such luck. “By better things, do you mean fucking Mark Lee in someone else’s bedroom? That’s real defilement, by the way.”

“How’d you hear about that?” You squeeze your eyes shut and growl under your breath. “Fucking Youngho.”

“You doing that too?”

“Shut — please, would you hurry?”

He pointedly purses his lips in an effort to keep himself from letting out what you can only assume is, by the glint in his eyes, a witch’s cackle. “Almost done, man. Relax a bit. So did you guys get together — like, together together?”

You initially contemplate not telling him, but Jaehyun’s nosiness is probably going to reveal the truth to him sooner or later anyway. “Yeah. What’s it to you, though?”

“Nothing. You’re lucky.”

For the first time today, you feel like Jaehyun has finally said something right. “Yeah — yeah, I am.”

“I bet his friends don’t seem to think so.”

“Is this something you know because it’s a guy thing or because you’re so nosy that you just can’t help but listen in on every other juicy conversation around you?”

“A bit of both,” he chuckles. “Mostly just because I know Lee Donghyuck was giving him a hard time about it last semester.”

“I noticed that too — a bit, anyway. But it’s just banter, I think.”

“Probably. Imagine being his friend and getting a girlfriend; it’s like… the perfect ammunition for teasing. But I’m pretty sure half of the things that come out of his mouth are jokes meant to annoy.”

“What about yours?”

“I get it,” he sighs, shutting your notebook resolutely. It makes a thud that alerts the librarian two tables away, and she glares at you like you’re climbing onto Jaehyun’s lap in the middle of the References on the Korean War aisle. “I’ll set you free. Thanks, by the way, for letting me copy from you. Same time next week?”

“Or how about you look up the schedules for our classes and actually come instead of piggybacking off of my efforts and making snarky remarks about my handwriting while you’re taking advantage of my goodwill?”

“Sounds like too much effort on my end,” he yawns, waving you off as you stuff your notebook into your bag. “Later, ___________. Say hi to Mark for me. The normal way — not the girlfriend way, please.”

You stick your tongue out at him before you make a mad dash for the door, ignoring Mrs. Park as she shushes your footsteps on the marble. You’re so intent on fishing your phone out of your bag that you almost ram the door into the person standing behind it.

“Oh, fuck— Jesus, I’m sorry, I wa— wait, Donghyuck?”

“Great to see you too, ___________.” He rubs his jaw where the edge of the door grazed it. “You in a rush?”

“I was just about to go see if Mark was still at Starbucks.”

“His shift’s probably almost over. I’m headed back to the dorm if you wanna tag along.” When you nod, he starts leading the way, breaking the silence again soon after. “Were you in a study group, or something?”

“No,” you jerk your thumb backwards towards the minuscule form of Jaehyun, who’s now busy wasting time and space playing something on his phone where you’d left him. Donghyuck’s eyebrows shoot up. “He’s my classmate who never comes to class. I was just lending him my notes.”

“Oh, Jaehyun, yeah.” Donghyuck snaps his fingers. “We were classmates last semester. He never went to class either, but I don’t know who he mooched off of to pass. You guys close?”

“Not really. I just fell into the trap of being too nice to him.”

“It’s funny,” he hums, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Jaehyun seems more your speed. On paper, at least.”

You can’t help but look taken aback, and Donghyuck laughs at your expression. “What do you mean, my speed?”

“Not sure.” He pauses, trying to find the right words to explain himself. “Someone who’d fit more into your social circles. Someone who probably likes Formula One and considers men’s health magazines to be classic literature.”

“That’s your impression of my social circle?”

“You know what I mean. People like Jung Jaehyun or Seo Youngho. I literally thought you were dating him last semester, so it was totally crazy to hear you asked Mark out.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Like… you asked him out. Not even the other way around. That’s ridiculous.”

“Why?” You know he doesn’t mean anything bad by it; Donghyuck has next to no filter, and something about him being unable to process your relationship is honestly a little funny. “A girl can’t ask a guy out?”

(You try not to think too hard about the fact that up until you’d cornered him in Youngho’s room, you had been praying to whatever god could hear you to convince Mark Lee to do the romanticist thing and ask you out.)

“Nah, dude. Like… a girl like you asked a guy like him out.”

“I didn’t ask him out because he was a guy like that,” you say pointedly. “I asked him out because he was a guy I liked. I wouldn’t have asked anyone else out if it weren’t him.”

Donghyuck falls quiet for a while, and only the crunching of the leaves underfoot accompanies your walk. “You really like him that much, huh?”

“I’m crazy about him.” His nose scrunches up like he’s been hit with a horrible smell, and you laugh. “Can you stop giving him a hard time? Or tone it down? I know you probably don’t like it—”

Donghyuck’s chuckle is light and easy. “I’m not teasing him because I hate it; let’s be clear on that. I actually really like that you guys are together. I’ve never seen him this happy with anything or anyone.”

“Then why are you—”

“Because he’s Mark.” A devilish grin creeps up his features as he holds the door to the dorm lobby open for you. “And teasing him is my favorite thing to do.”

You shake your head; you can’t help your amusement, but you’re not sure you fully understand this kind of friendship. You suppose if Mark is okay with it in its totality, then there isn’t much you can say to change it either.

The next twenty minutes pass in comfortable back-and-forths; Donghyuck is, as you already have learned, an expert conversationalist, and while he doesn’t aggravate you the way he does Chenle, he does manage to navigate a quick-fire kind of exchange of thoughts and information that allows you to see the speed at which he thinks. There’s barely any lag between when he digests what you say and when he responds. You suppose there’s a measure of wit in that, but it’s also a little bemusing to see someone speak without at least running it through the conscience checker every once in a while. You decide you’ve never met anyone quite like Lee Donghyuck before.

He’s in the middle of asking you what the Anthropology professor is like because he’s planning on taking it as an elective if he can when you notice a familiar figure pushing into the lobby, backpack swinging on a folded elbow.

“Mark!” The brief confusion on his face morphs into a surprised joy when he spots you on the couch, even though a bit of it lingers upon recognizing that Donghyuck is seated next to you. He walks over in long strides, and your posture straightens to meet his palm as it comes down gently against the crown of your head again; it bumps lightly, causing the both of you to laugh.

“Hey, you.” His voice is warm and fond in its greeting, and you beam up at him. “Did you have a busy afternoon?”

“Unfortunately. Did you just get back from your shift?”

“I passed by the co-op to check out the new university letter jackets. Design’s pretty dope.” He nods towards the elevator. “You wanna head up for a little bit?” You almost get to respond before your companion cuts in instead.

“Hey. Can’t you see we’re having a riveting conversation over here?” Donghyuck sniffs, making a show of hitting Mark’s shin lightly with the heel of his shoe. “Have some respect.”

“Is the conversation so riveting that I can’t take my girl for the evening at all?”

You mouth out a no, but Donghyuck’s flair for dramatics has him humphing and shoving Mark’s hand away from your hair. “Yeah, man. At least let us finish up.”

“What’s this even about?”

“How Jung Jaehyun asked her out in the library today,” Donghyuck replies easily. You start, shaking your head immediately, but Mark’s jaw slackens a little upon hearing this. Donghyuck continues loudly over your protests, and you can’t keep your voice straight because you’re adamant and yet, somehow, still laughing incredulously in your shock. “Oh, dude, let me tell you. He had his arm around her like this — and he was giving her the bedroom eyes… I wouldn’t have blamed her if she folded, honestly.”

“Mark, no,” your stupid gasp comes out as half a giggle as a result of Donghyuck trying to reenact his imaginary scenario. He’s slung his arm across your shoulders and pulled himself in, doing his best expression of a pleading dog’s gaze, which is both perplexing and hilarious. “He’s just kidding—”

“Then he got all close like this—” Donghyuck presses his forehead against yours, and the view he allows himself blocks him from having to look at Mark. You, on the other hand, are still trying to resist a misunderstanding, your palms up and every part of your body that can move shaking vehemently, but you can see Mark’s face turn a violent shade of red you can’t remember having seen from him before. “Spoke all low — you remember he had that sexy, husky voice, right? ”

“He’s just messing with you,” you wheeze out, trying to extract yourself from Donghyuck’s hold, but he only tightens his arm around your neck, almost to the point where you can’t inhale properly.

“And he said ‘you’re the hottest chick I’ve ever seen—’ then you know what he did, Markie?”

Mark doesn’t respond; you’re not even sure if he can, considering his Adam’s apple is bobbing dangerously like he’s one misstep away from exploding. You laugh again, stupidly, because you don’t know what else to do; you know Donghyuck’s teasing him, and you know Mark usually takes it in stride, but you’ve also never seen the latter look so focused on anything that didn’t involve a math problem or eating you out. “No, really, nothing hap—”

You don’t even have the space to finish your sentence. Donghyuck’s too quick when he grabs your face and plants a comedically sloppy kiss on your cheek, bursting out in laughter when he pulls away. You can only sit there, probably as stunned as Mark looks, raising your hand slowly to wipe the spittle Donghyuck left behind in his wake.

“Oh, Jesus,” Donghyuck rasps out between snorts. “Your face is priceless, man.”

“Not funny,” Mark grumbles, and there’s a hoarseness to his voice that makes you feel like it’s barely controlled.

“Also not true. I just bumped into her on the way from the library. We were talking about one of her classes or whatever.” Donghyuck dramatically wipes the tears from his eyes, and you sigh, nudging him. “Sorry, sorry. I couldn’t resist. Man, don’t even worry. She’s downright crazy about you. Even if Jung Jaehyun had asked her out—”

“Anyway.” Mark reaches down, lacing your fingers together, pulling you up and closer to his side like he’s worried you’ll catch Donghyuck’s crazy. “If that’s all of it…”

“Yeah, yeah. You two lovebirds go moon over each other already. I just love seeing your face like that.”

Mark snorts, yanking on Donghyuck’s earlobe punitively, and the latter cries out sharply (and a little exaggeratedly) at the pain. Mark doesn’t even seem to care; he leads you to the elevator and punches in his floor. You barely have time to call out a belated ‘bye’ to Donghyuck, who acknowledges it with a raise of his palm, before the doors slide shut.

It’s a slow elevator, given that it’s an old building, and the first couple of floors pass without much noise between the two of you. You’re not unaware of how tight Mark’s grip is on your hand, but you don’t comment nor take it against him. By the fourth floor, you’re raising his hand up to your lips and pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

“Nothing happened.” You confirm his unasked question, and you see a modicum of tension leave his shoulders. “He was just messing with you because he thinks it’s funny.”

“Yeah, I know.” Even if he says it like that, there’s still lingering doubt in his voice. “Were you with Jung Jaehyun today, though? Is that why you didn’t show up?”

You nod. “He was copying my notes for Anthropology. Guy barely shows up to lectures, so he borrows my stuff. I can’t believe he hasn’t been suspended yet. Or punched in the face by the people he leeches off of.”

“No kidding.”

You step out on the sixth floor with him. Even if you already know where Mark’s dorm is, you let him lead the way, and he ushers you into an empty and dimly lit living space while taking his shoes off. His roommate barely seems to be around; you’ve seen him all of two times, and it doesn’t look like he’s here either right now. You pause anyway, listening to any signs of life just to be sure, but when you both confirm that there’s no one but the two of you, you busy yourselves with turning on the lights and plugging in the water dispenser.

You work in relative silence; it isn’t anything unusual since you’ve done this a million times, and you’ve come to learn that small talk isn’t necessary when you’re just washing your hands or opening the refrigerator aimlessly even if you know you both plan on ordering in. But there’s a weird aura around Mark that you’re not sure how to place; he doesn’t seem like he’s mad, but there definitely seems to be something off — a problem, at least, that you’re not sure you know how to ask about.

So you just try to diffuse whatever it is by completely ignoring it.

“Pizza or Chinese?” You ask, flopping onto the couch as he plugs the television into the outlet. He looks up at you, and you notice his eyes are slightly dazed, like you’ve just woken him up from a dream. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse the first time he says it, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, sorry.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“We just had pizza, so I’m thinking Chinese is the better option. Cream shrimp? Fried rice? Not the salted fish one, though, maybe.”

You hum in assent, but when he straightens up from behind the television, you extend your arm to him, attempting to clarify yourself. “I mean, what are you thinking so hard about?”

“Nothing.” His answer’s a little too quick. A moment of awkward silence passes where you telepathically tell him you know he’s lying and he has to come to terms with his horrible lying skills, and he sighs, crossing over to the couch and settling beside you. Immediately, he tangles your fingers together, belatedly returning the favor from the elevator and brushing his lips across your knuckles. “He didn’t ask you out, right?”

You know he knows the truth, so you decide to bat your own question back at him in an attempt at rhetoric. “What would it matter if he did? The answer would have been the same, real or imagined.”

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose, inhaling slowly. There’s a red flush on his neck that’s only started fading, it seems. You reach out and skim your finger along the vein that runs down the side of his throat. “I know. I don’t like it all the same. I hate… even thinking about it, actually.”

“Really — nothing happened. If you don’t count the fact that I almost strangled him for keeping me there — which I’m sure you’d agree doesn’t count as anything in favor of him.”

“I heard Jung Jaehyun’s kind of a playboy.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.” His head lolls to the side, and his eyes hold a sadness that pulls at your heart. “It means he really could have made a pass at you. Or you could have — I don’t know. In the end… I just worry.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Your lower lip juts out, and his eyes widen slightly, his head shaking before his mouth can even work out a proper response.

“No — I mean, yes, absolutely. It’s — I mean, it’s just—” He inhales again to gather his wits, two fingers still rubbing his forehead. “I trust you, without a doubt. I don’t trust other people — not around you. Not Jaehyun, or Youngho, or—”

“Or Donghyuck?” You smile a little apologetically at his embarrassment, clear on his face when his eyes stray from yours. “Mark, you know he’s only messing with you, right? I thought it was a funny thing for you guys.”

“It’s not funny if it’s about you,” he mumbles, more to himself than to you. He looks up at you again, chewing on his bottom lip. “I know. I’m trying to control it. Sometimes… I don’t know why it gets under my skin. I guess it’s because it could happen — you… finding someone else. I kind of hate the thought of that.”

“And if I said I hate it even more than you?”

His gaze softens, something like relief passing over his features, but the rest of his body still holds a significant amount of tension; you know by the way he’s running agitated circles on the back of your hand. You gently tug on his arm, allowing yourself to use it as an anchor to shift your weight. Mark makes a soft noise of inquiry but says nothing more, waiting until you’ve maneuvered your body to settle on his lap.

The view is reminiscent, and you can see that the core memory you share flashes through his mind too. A small smile, still somewhat reluctant, plays on Mark’s lips, and you hate that it’s all you get right now, so you rectify this by leaning down and leaving a small, chaste kiss on them. You pull away much too soon, and his head follows in response to the distance, chasing your lips until you’re realistically too far to reach. His arm extends instead, swiftly tucking your hair behind your ear.

Your fingers close around his wrist, and your head turns, continuing the kiss against his palm — short and firm.

“Stop doing that.”

His eyebrows fly upward in questioning, his other hand freezing in its trail up your thighs. Even his breath seems to catch, and what’s left of it comes out as a raspy whisper. “Stop being jealous? I’m… I’m trying.”

You shake your head. “Stop being sexy when you’re jealous.”

The ‘what’ he seems to want to ask dies in his throat, his mouth only able to form half of the word before you interrupt, your lips taking in the rest of the syllable. When you kiss him this time, there’s a slow hunger to it; your teeth find his lower lip even before he’s able to get into the rhythm of kissing you back. You just want him to know — everything about him drives you wild, even when he doesn’t know it.

You’ll never grow sick of the taste of him, you’re sure; today, he tastes even more enticing, the hint of something rich mixing in with the stronger flavor of coffee on his tongue. It’s familiar and comforting, and it’s only when you break away, both your faces flushed from a prolonged lack of air, that you puzzle out what the taste is — the lingering aftermath of a vanilla sweet cream cold brew, one he must have prepared in anticipation of you this afternoon.

You briefly squeeze your eyes shut and thank whoever’s listening for the gift of Mark Lee.

“Mark,” your murmur, your voice much softer, intent on coaxing him into releasing his worries. “You know, right?”

His ‘hm’ is only half-there in focus, the rest of his attention on his hands, which have found their way to your ass and have started digging his fingers into the flesh beyond your jeans. You have to tilt his head up with one finger under his chin, and there’s a whirlpool of emotion in them: curiosity, desire, and, interestingly, a quiet, almost suppressed kind of anger.

“If it isn’t you,” you whisper. “Then there’s nobody else.”

You see his jaw tighten, feel his grip against you do the same, and his brow furrows, like he’s trying — much too hard, and for no good reason — to stop himself from tipping over. You don’t like that either; if he’s there, you think, you should take him over the edge.

“But if you want them to know so badly, then…” You tilt your head to the side, exposing more of your neck, bringing the expanse just a little closer to his mouth. “Why don’t you go ahead and put your claim on me?”

You swear you see his pupils dilate right before he presses his mouth to your skin. With a low, almost pained groan against your neck, he latches his teeth in lightly, and you feel the soft sting, the increase in pressure the moment he starts sucking a mark just above your collarbone. There’s a wet, messy pattern to his movements, always punctuated by the sweep of his tongue to soothe your flesh. Even with that, his movements are slow and careful, still gentle in the way he’s handling you, but you feel it anyway — all of his tension’s concentrated in his grip, the way he keeps you close, hips pinned against him as if he’s worried anything less will cause you to disappear.

“Every time you worry, remember you can do this.” You pause, your breath catching in a lilt as his teeth dig in a little more fiercely. “You’re the only one that can.”

His lips detach with a soft groan, fingers squeezing your ass tight for a moment. Warm breath cools against the damp patch on your neck, and a second later, you feel his mouth graze against the few inches of skin, sensitive and slightly raw. “I know. It’s just not fair.”

You hum in questioning, but he doesn’t answer immediately; his mouth busies itself just under the mark he’d surely left, already starting up the same routine. You’d let him, and you want him to, but you want to hear his voice more. Your fingers tangle into his hair, and you use that hold to ease his head back, urging him to look up at you. It’s almost a mistake, seeing him like that — lips slightly swollen and definitely slick with his own saliva, parted just a little to reveal teeth he’d been desperate to nip your flesh with again. It crosses your mind that Mark has a mouth made for kissing — no, that isn’t accurate.

A mouth made for you to kiss.

“What’s not fair?” You ask softly. Even now, he takes his time in answering, his eyes falling close for a second; you watch him swallow, lick his lips, breathe in before he speaks, and all of those mundane things he does somehow make you lose your mind all the more.

“How badly I keep wanting you,” he breathes out, his eyes slowly opening. “And how it makes me think everyone wants you just as much.”

His hands leave the curve of your ass, traveling up your shirt, resting against your sides. He holds you like he’s careful in trying not to break you, his fingers spread wide to make sure his thumbs almost meet against your stomach, but there’s a smoldering headiness in his gaze that tells you he’s thinking a little too hard about wanting to break you.

“I touch you like this, and I think that everyone would kill to do the same.” His fingers squeeze against your flesh, inching upwards until they rest just under your breasts; his thumbs stroke the curved underline of your bra. “I think about kissing you and it feels like everyone’s thinking it at the exact same time. I look at someone next to you, even if you don’t know them, and I wonder if they want to pull you close, if they want to feel you against them just as much as I do. When I—”

He inhales sharply between his words, and the exhale comes out somewhat shaky. For a moment, he grits his teeth, jaw flexing in an attempt to keep himself in check. You worry he doesn’t want to continue — doesn’t want to let you hear it, but it feels so important that you can’t let it go. “Tell me.”

“When I think about fucking you,” he breathes out, voice barely audible. “Whenever I look at you and think about how much I want to feel you around me, feel you cum around me… I just know everyone else wants the same thing, and it’s driving me crazy because… because they can’t.”

It’s there again, flashing in his eyes — a determination that reads almost like fury.

“They can’t,” he repeats, his voice firmer. “I won’t ever let them. Never.”

You don’t stop him this time when his mouth reclaims your skin. You let his thoughts fuel the need in his movements, allow yourself to move only in reaction to what he does — the tilting of your head to give him more room, the tightening of your fists against his shirt to keep yourself steady. A surprised mewl leaves you when you feel his teeth pinch against your flesh again, and it’s harder, sharper this time, his quiet anger finally dictating his strength. You grapple for words, but they come out in weak gasps.

“It doesn’t — doesn’t matter,” you manage to whimper out. “How many people think that way, how much they want me that way. I only ever want you.”

His breathing is caught, warm, in the pocket of space just between you and his mouth; it tingles against your skin, tickles your senses into heightening. Your fingers unfurl, pressing against his chest, and you can feel his quickened heartbeat thrumming under your palm.

“God, please,” he murmurs, the soft peck of a kiss landing against your collarbone. “Please, tell me.”

“Mark, I’m yours.” There’s no teasing in how you say it; it was never meant to rile him up. It even escapes sweetness, the romanticism it usually comes with when you remind him on any other occasion. This is a promise to him, something you’re reinforcing as fact, something that can’t ever change. “I’m always going to be yours — no one else’s. I’ll never let anyone have anything that’s yours. Ask anything, take everything you want. I’ll never say no to you. Only you — always you.”

You know something’s different in a number of ways; his arms circle around you, but instead of keeping you firm and stable in his lap, they’re tight, squeezing a whine out of you, holding your torso flush against his. His face never leaves the crook of your neck, but you hear — feel — something there — a soft growl of need, of frustration that begs release. Suddenly, you find yourself off the couch; you barely have the presence of mind to wrap your arms around his neck and tighten your thighs against his sides before he’s carrying you to his room, kicking the door open and letting the rebound of the impact against his wall slam it shut behind him.

You’ve been in Mark’s room before, so there’s absolutely no need for you to take in the scenery when he sets you down on his bed. It doesn’t matter anyway, even if this were your first time; Mark’s crawling over you, his face flush and eyes sharp with hunger, and he looks so enticing that you wouldn’t want to pay attention to anything else around you anyway. His limbs cage you in, arms on either side of your shoulders and his knees just by your thighs, and you don’t really know why he’s already panting, but it just makes you want him all the more.

“Never,” he groans out, leaning down to nose against the patch of skin his mouth had worked on. “I’m never going to let anyone take you, ever. You’re all mine.”

His name fades on your lips, carried away by a moan when his mouth reattaches itself to your neck; it moves, almost frenzied, to renew the mark he’d left, make it a deeper red, a slightly bruised purple. You’re usually careful not to do anything that will require any attention or cover-up after, but Mark seems a little too far gone to care, and you realize you like him best this way.

Even with all the attention he gives your neck, his fingers are busy; they work on the button of your jeans, sliding them down with the help you offer by raising your hips. They only reach halfway down your thighs, his reluctance to come back up for air stopping him from peeling them off completely, but it’s all he seems to need for now.

Eager fingers ease between your thighs, two at once, pressing against your folds. You’re unable to spread your legs like you usually do, but this tightness makes you all the more sensitive, and you keen as his digits fit themselves into your slit. Frustratingly, they don’t move right away, and you have to raise your hips again just to get some sort of friction. Even then, Mark doesn’t take the hint — or, perhaps, the bait — keeping a light pressure against your clit without doing anything else. His focus is still on your neck, now slightly aching under his lips, and when he finally pulls away, you see a look of triumph on his face. He tilts his head back slightly to admire his work — the blooming dark patch you’re sure he’s left where your skin tingles the most.

“If I said I wanted to mark you all over, would you let me?”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t ask for it?”

He chuckles, tightening the pressure of his fingers against your clit; you say something that sounds halfway between ‘Mark’ and a sob.

“I want to, so badly.” He admits, gaze still fixed on your neck. “I’d want to see you walk out of here, walk into class covered in them. I’d want people to ask you how you got them, and who gave them to you. And I’d want you to say it proudly — that it was me who did it. That I fucked you all night and made you mine over and over again.”

“Why don’t you?” His eyes snap up to you, a small smile forming on his lips. “I want to say that too. Let me brag about having you. Let me tell everyone how good you always make me feel. Then you can tell everyone who doesn’t believe you, too — how I let you take me every single time. Show me off and tell them to look at how you made me yours.”

Another laugh escapes him, but there’s more disbelief than humor in it; he seems to find it amazing, that you can just agree with what he says, no matter how strange he thinks it is.

“Show you off? If I mark you in other places, do I have to show them every part?”

“Do you not want to?”

“I want to, and I don’t.” He pauses, slightly amused, and you know he’s remembering the first time you fucked. “I don’t them to see your body, but I want them to see what I did to it. I don’t want them to look at what’s mine, but I just want them to know it is.”

“Then you can fuck me in front of everyone and make them watch you ruin me completely.”

He shakes his head, even if desire flashes clear across his features. He busies himself with actions while he mulls it over, tugging your jeans down alongside your panties and casting them aside before he straightens up. His eyes rake over your form; you’re bare from the waist down, your shirt halfway ridden up, the underside of your bra peeking out from under the hem. Again, his eyes land on your neck, and his smile widens slightly.

“Can’t.” He decides finally. “You’re too pretty for that.”

You hum thoughtfully, and he raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t move, even when you sit up, shifting yourself so you can tuck your calves under your thighs — not even when you reach out to undo his belt or tug down his zipper. He only reacts a little when your hand presses against his hardness through his boxers, the girth now easily familiar to your palm.

“What about something like this?” You ask, inching closer to the edge of the bed. You’ve started slow strokes against him, the fabric creating extra friction, more heat under your palm, and you watch his jaw clench as he swallows back a soft grunt. “Would you let them watch me do this for you?”

“Let me think about it,” he chuckles softly, and you nod, letting your fingers work to make your point. You don’t have to undress him completely to get what you want; all you need is to tug down the front of his boxers to free him, and you already have him wrapped in your palms, stroking his shaft to full hardness.

“Think faster,” you urge, and he shakes his head, slightly bemused. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t even want them to watch me jerk you off?”

“At least give me a full minute.”

You laugh lightly, whispering a ‘fine’ before you press a soft kiss against tip. He inhales sharp through his teeth, already sensitive, and you waste no time in letting your tongue flick out against the smooth head. He doesn’t need the lubrication, realistically; his precum’s already leaking from the tip, mixing in with your saliva as you run your tongue around it. All you do is make him a little messier, a little slicker, your spittle running down his length.

Taking Mark in your mouth is a demanding task, but one you’re always up for; there’s something uniquely satisfying about letting him fill your mouth, inch by inch, and watching his breathing hitch and stutter until your lips are closer to the base than to the head. What you can’t reach, your hand always squeezes around, eager to make sure he feels good completely. His expression is sublime when you draw your head back the first time, sucking as you do so — his eyes are half-lidded, and he doesn’t stop the moan that falls from his lips. His gaze is fixed on you, hazy but still able to drink the sight of you in, and you’re not sure how, but you almost feel like you could get off to watching him watch you taste him.

You try, somehow, vaguely conscious of the movement of your hips; you’re grinding at nothing at first, so your knees give way just enough for you to press yourself against his sheets. It’s slightly uncomfortable, a strain in your thighs that you’re not really used to, but you don’t care; Mark’s sharp inhale at seeing you attempt to grind your pussy against his mattress is pretty much as arousing as anything else. His cock twitches hard in your mouth, and you suck just a little harder, a little messier, your head bobbing down to meet your hand, still firmly wrapped around his girth.

The room’s filled with nothing but slick sounds and soft groans; Mark’s hand has found its way into your hair, tangled into a makeshift ponytail, and while he isn’t guiding your mouth to do anything, you can feel his hips stutter then start to move, pulling back when your head does. He tries to hide it, tries to keep himself steady, but pride blooms in your chest when you note that he can’t; he wants to feel like he’s fucking into your mouth, into your hand, the way he does when he takes your pussy.

It’s relatively quiet for that time, nothing but muffled moans from you that mix in with his noises, but you only realize you’d been waiting for an answer to something when he speaks up again.

“It’s… still a no for me.”

Your movements slow, your gaze lifting to communicate your mild confusion to him. You don’t want to ask; you just don’t want to lose the taste of him on your tongue just yet. He looks down at you, smiling with overflowing tenderness, almost like he’s apologetic.

“Even just this — you’re too pretty when you do it.” His hand reaches down, thumb stroking over your cheek. “I can’t let anyone see what you look like when you’re like this. They’ll keep thinking about you doing it for them. And you’d only do it for me — right?”

You nod immediately, your response causing your mouth to slip down his shaft just a little more. It elicits a guttural noise from him, one that fuels you into sucking him just a little harder, your enthusiasm overtaking your restraint. His fingers have let go of your hair, stroking it back into smoothness, almost comforting in their movements.

“God, I wish you could see yourself; you’d know what I mean,” he continues to murmur, his voice just a little louder over the eager, wet noises you’re making. “How pretty you look with your mouth wrapped around me. How perfect you are when you’re kneeling like this for me — how happy you look when you’re sucking me off. I can’t share that with anyone. Fuck — not ever.”

Your mouth draws back, completely this time, and your tongue presses against the underside of his cock. You lick a long stripe up his shaft, moaning softly at the light throb you feel, and you watch him tip his head back. The groan that follows soon after is almost close to a frustrated growl, ending in a whispered ‘shit’ before his eyes land back on you. He watches you press kiss after kiss against his tip, coaxing the precum out even more, and you take special care to leave more down each inch of his cock until you’re finally able to release your hold on his base so you can leave the last one there.

His hand combs your hair back before it falls to cup your chin, his thumb swiping at the corner of your mouth to gently clean up the froth of spittle there. You smile up at him in thanks, and his thumb sweeps over the seam of your lips to follow the slight curve.

“So pretty,” he repeats, and your cheeks glow pink under the palms that caress them. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Pretty as hell, fucking perfect — and you’re all mine.”

You kneel up again, chasing his lips with your own, and he locks you in his arms as his tongue slips its way past your teeth, the aroma of coffee still on it. He leaves today’s taste of him against your tongue, on the ridges of your teeth, until you feel like you’ve all but consumed him, and you whimper softly when he pulls away, urging you to turn around and lean back into his chest.

His mouth reattaches itself to the same spot; it’s like a home base for him, and he breathes in your scent from there before giving the same patch of skin a light suck, almost as if he’s worried it’ll fade in a few minutes’ time if he doesn’t give it attention.

“Show me.” Hands slide down to your hips, squeezing them lightly, like a prompt for your response. “Show me how pretty you are for me.”

His palms never leave you, not even when you detach yourself from his chest and bend down; your elbows meet the mattress, but your hips stay raised, giving him a view of your pussy. Your gasp easily turns into a moan when his digit dips into your wetness again, his other hand pushing gently at your asscheek to keep you open.

You think he’s about to slip his finger in, the tip brushing against your entrance, and you tense in anticipation, but it doesn’t happen; he continues to run his finger down your slit, careful not to linger against your clit for too long. The result is that you tighten around nothing, and you hear him suck in a breath as he watches your hole grow smaller for a second. You laugh breathily, resting your chin against the backs of your hands, one folded atop the other. “Pretty enough for you to fuck?”

“Do you have to ask if you already know?”

“I want to hear it anyway.”

His finger slips into your hole, finally, and you keen softly as he breaches the first ring of tightness. He doesn’t really move it, just tests your tightness, feels you contract around him as if to know what his cock will feel in a few moments.

“Your pussy’s too pretty not to fuck,” he manages out, and his throat sounds as tight as you feel. “Seeing it like this… makes me think there’s no way anyone can resist. It’s exactly why I can’t let anyone see you like this.”

You hum as his finger presses in deeper, and you know it’s nothing in comparison to the real thing, but you like feeling that mild stretch, the depth it reaches all the same. “How should we let them know, then? That I’m all yours.”

His finger stills, and you hum softly, swaying your hips to shake him out of whatever trance he’s in. He’s grown quiet, but there’s a thoughtfulness in this pause, like he’s seriously considering your question. You laugh lightly, ready to tell him you’re just egging him on until he fucks you, but he slips his finger out of you, leaving you clenching around nothing again. You can’t help the confused noise that comes out of you, but you at least know he isn’t completely backing away, his other hand still firmly on your ass.

“Mark, what—”

You get your answer in the thud that interrupts your question — he’s tossed his phone onto the bed, having it land next to you. Something in your blood runs hot, and your fingers tremble when you pick it up. You see yourself reflected in the blackened screen — excitement in your eyes, your lips glossy from your blowjob.

Mark’s silent as you let the meaning of his actions settle; wordlessly, he slips his finger into you again, followed by another one this time, and you shudder in pleasure at the difference in the stretch. He doesn’t ask, but you can tell he’s wondering if he’s gone too far— if you think he’s crazy. He lets his fingers stay anchored in you, unmoving, waiting for you to say something, but from where he is, he just can’t know the smile that passes your face.

Finally, he tries to speak up. “We don’t have to— I just meant—”

“What’s your passcode?”

He breathes out, the exhale quivering as much as you probably are. “Your birthday.”

Your smile only widens when you tap the screen to life and see a picture of you — you don’t even remember when he’d taken it, but it’s a shot of you sprawled on his bed, bundled in his blanket and reading something that looks oddly like your textbook for your European Renaissance History class. It’s grainy and dimly lit, a stolen photograph of you, but it makes your heart swell, and you laugh lightly as you key in your birthday; the screen unlocks, allowing you access to all his applications.

“What’s funny?”

“Just thinking about how you should replace this wallpaper.”

“To what?” He sounds bemused.

“The view of me you have now.”

His fingers curl in you, pressing down against your walls, and you push your hips back in a bid for more friction; you hear him hiss out a ‘fuck’ under his breath, and his hand digs harder into the flesh of your ass.

You open Mark’s contacts, scrolling down aimlessly. Most of the names, you don’t recognize, but you see a few familiar ones crop up here and there. He doesn’t ask, only starts pumping his fingers into you in quiet anticipation, wondering how far you’re willing to take it, how much you’ve bought into this crazy idea.

“Mark,” you call out, and he hums in response. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“With my life.”

“So if I called Donghyuck right now—” His fingers hook into you, the delicious pressure on your walls making you squeak instead of finish your sentence immediately. You twist your torso to meet his eyes, and you’re slightly surprised but not at all displeased to see something crazed lingering in his gaze. “How much of a show would you want to put on for him?”

He shifts his weight, his knee sinking into the mattress as he slots it between your legs. This change in position allows him to angle his fingers a little differently, driving down into you with a force that makes you squirm. You almost forget you’ve asked him something again until he leans in closer, his murmur almost drowned out by the slick sounds of his finger pressing into your hole.

“Just… enough for him to know you’ve always been mine.”

Your thumbs are shaking when you scroll through his contacts again, up and down until you find the right name — Lee Donghyuck — and Mark watches you intently, wordlessly, as you press his number, start the call, and put it on speaker.

The wait feels like an eternity, with Mark’s finger slipping in and out of you in a steady, languid pace as you watch the line connect, but in reality, Donghyuck really only answers after the fourth ring. “Yo, Mark.”

His voice is casual, lacking in any sort of expectation; you can hear explosions and gunshots in the background, and you’re willing to bet he’s in the middle of an action movie. You’re proven right when you hear random English babbling soon after.

“Hi, Hyuck.”

“___________?” He sounds genuinely confused that it’s you that greets him. “Where’s Mark? You okay?”

“He’s right here with me; don’t worry.” Your voice is a soft croon, and he has to lower the volume of the television to be able to hear you better. “We’re totally fine. What are you up to?”

“Watching Resident Evil. Uh, is there a reason you called?”

You want to draw out the lie of something casual for as long as you can, but Mark doesn’t let you. His fingers push, suddenly forceful, into you, and you let out a soft cry into the receiver. You look back at him, eyes wide with amusement, and he shrugs, having at least enough sense to look slightly abashed at his experiment.

One moment, you’re listening to a female voice shout something, and the next, Donghyuck’s side of the call is silent except for his breathing. When you don’t bother explaining what had just happened, he takes matters into his own hands.

“Hello?”

He sounds equal parts affronted and amused, like the shock of it has tickled him. You can’t help it; you laugh too, but it’s quickly cut off by another whine when Mark pulls his fingers out. Donghyuck makes an incredulous noise.

“Now, what the fuck is all this about, you freaks?”

“You kept wondering why I ended up asking Mark out,” you evade his question with another one. “Should I tell you why, if you’re that curious?”

“No way. Have fun, weirdos,” he laughs, and the line goes dead a second after.

You snort out a laugh, and Mark mumbles something that sounds vaguely like that was crazy before he leans down and presses a kiss to the small of your back. You make to turn so you can finally face him, but you’re distracted when his phone screen lights up again, and Donghyuck’s name flashes across it.

You exchange amused glances before you pick up the call, and you don’t even get a ‘hello’ out when his voice rings out, sharp and clear.

“But pretending I am,” he says, as though he hadn’t hung up the call a few seconds ago. “Exactly what kind of answer would I get?”

“The kind that’ll hopefully shut you up for good,” Mark pipes in instead of you.

“What’s that even going to sound like?” Already, Donghyuck’s activated whatever toggle in him that gets him to push Mark’s buttons. This time, though, you can’t say it works against you; you feel Mark inch closer to you, and a moment later, the fat tip of his cock nudges against your entrance. “I bet you can’t even get her to yawn, man.”

Mark doesn’t have to respond; you do it for him when he pushes in, torturously slow, as if to draw out your moan. It works a little too well, with you keening into the phone, and yet no part of you is acting for his sake. As familiar as the stretch is, it’s not something you’ve ever been able to commit to memory fully, and it feels like a new breaching of your tightness each time. Your legs fold in slightly, a useless movement that attempts to get you adjusted to his size faster, but Mark interprets it as discomfort, his hands tightening on your hips.

“You okay?” He sounds genuinely worried for a second, forgetting that Donghyuck’s still on the line. Your cheek brushes against his sheets as you nod, trying to meet his eye even in this position to let him know you’re being honest.

“Fucking big, Mark.” You hear Donghyuck tsk from his end, and you laugh breathlessly. “You don’t like knowing he’s big?”

“I just hate that fucker,” Donghyuck quips back easily, but there’s no seriousness in his voice. If anything, it sounds a little raspy, with him clearing his throat soon afterward.

“Well, I’m crazy about him,” you whisper into the call, and your breathing hitches as Mark finally bottoms out, groaning at your tightness. “I’m crazy about the way he touches me, the way he tastes. I’m crazy about how big his cock is, how deep it gets when he’s inside me, how he stretches me out — fuck—”

Your verbal rampage is cut short by a loud moan as Mark draws his hips back and pushes forcefully into you; you haven’t fully adjusted, and you’re even tighter now from what you’re saying, so the friction inside you is nothing short of delicious. He starts a pattern of thrusts, not bothering to build up from his usual slow and steady pace — hearing you talk that way and knowing that Donghyuck is listening is enough to get him to abandon self-imposed restrictions.

“Mark,” you whine out, accidentally pushing the phone a little further away as you reach out blindly for him behind you, and he catches your wrist to let you know he’s there. “Mark, fuck, it feels so good—”

You tighten around him as if to prove your words, and he growls in response. You find yourself having to press your cheek in a little harder into the mattress as he gathers your wrists together into one hand, pinning them to your lower back, and it’s with that hold on you that he leverages his thrusts, pumping into you a little harder each time.

You’re not completely unaware of your surroundings, but it takes a while for you to process the sounds coming from the phone’s speaker — labored breathing, the sound of a zipper being pulled down. You want to wonder if this is working a little too well, but nothing comes from your mouth apart from soft whimpers, and it’s all the cue Mark needs to be the one to fill in the relative silence himself.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he whispers, and you feel his lips press between your shoulder blades. It feels like a chaste kiss at first, but he leaves his breath there, still flitting over your skin as he continues to speak. “I’ll never get tired of how pretty you are — how pretty you always sound for me. Doesn’t she sound pretty, Hyuck?”

“Fucking pretty,” Donghyuck agrees, though his voice sounds somewhat distant. You can only sob back a quiet ‘fuck me, harder, harder,’ in response.

“Can you imagine how much prettier she looks under me?” It’s almost a full-blown conversation now, but even if Mark’s addressing Donghyuck, the rest of his attention’s fully on you. He adjusts his stance, still keeping his hold around your wrists as he angles himself deeper into you, causing you to cry out and squirm in pleasure. With your face pressed against the bed and his weight driving down into you, you feel utterly trapped, in the best kind of way. Mark, in the way he is now, is inescapable, almost incorrigible, and he pistons deeper into your pussy, his free hand brushing your hair away from your shoulder so he can leave a kiss against it. “Bent over, legs spread just a little, all for me to take. Pretty little hole wet for me, and so fucking tight. Can you imagine that?”

“I’m doing it right now.”

“It’s a thousand times better in person. Trust me.”

The same hand slips between your thighs, two fingers spreading your folds apart; the middle one circles your clit in a pace that matches his thrusts, sudden and shocking, and you arch your back upwards slightly with a choked noise. He finally releases your wrists, and you claw at the sheets helplessly to keep yourself somehow upright as the force of Mark’s hips, their impact against the backs of your thighs, pushes you forward, closer to the phone again. The stimulation is merciless, endless, and in the haze of your pleasure, you wonder if you should make Mark a little more jealous everyday if it gets him to act this way.

“Mark, I…. I’ve been— s-since—”

“Not yet,” he whispers, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as if to bring you back to reality. You shudder at the pain, the pleasure that accompanies it, and when you squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, you notice that a few tears escape your eyes. “Hold out for me a bit, okay? Please. It’s not enough. Not yet enough.”

You wonder if ‘enough’ is a concept the both of you even understand when it comes to wanting each other; already, you feel desire pooling in your stomach, threatening to spill from you, and clenching around him isn’t helping you stop it the way your body seems to think it’s supposed to. It also doesn’t help that Mark’s fingers are relentless, one still drawing tight, heavy circles around your clit, and the other creeping up under your shirt to tug down the cup of your bra, letting a breast spill into his warm palm. He kneads with an unusual — but not unpleasant — roughness, and you squeak out incoherently as he tweaks at the hardened bud of your nipple, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger.

“Hold on for me a little,” he continues murmuring, even after you shake your head and whisper ‘can’t’ to him over and over. “Do it for me. Tell Donghyuck — tell him how good it feels. How much you want to keep feeling me inside you.”

You don’t even know what to say; the pleasure that washes over you, the new kind of roughness that Mark exhibits has you drawing a blank, and you can only whine in a last attempt at protest, only for your tongue to start moving on autopilot, fueled by your want.

“It’s not enough,” you echo — and even if it feels like it is, even if it feels even more than you can possibly handle, something tells you that it’s true. “Not enough — need to feel you more, Mark. God, I want to feel you stretch me out, fuck my little hole into the shape of your cock— until no one else can fuck me but you—”

“What,” Donghyuck breathes out, his exhale coming across as static. “The fuck.”

You don’t have to explain; your babbling’s doing most of the work in that regard anyway, and you can tell by the wet, staccato noises on the other end that Donghyuck can easily piece together the scenario anyway. He’s jacking off to the both of you, something in your mind whispers, and the notion of that alone has you tightening around Mark’s cock. The change doesn’t go unnoticed, and his fingers sink deeper into your flesh; you cry out softly when you feel a jolt of pleasure as he gives your clit a sudden pinch.

“How much tighter can you get?” He sounds incredulous but also, interestingly, proud — there’s a smug tinge to his voice that arouses you even more. “Does it feel that good?”

“Fuck, yes,” you breathe out, the syllables quivering in your throat. “So good I’m going to lose my mind. Let me — God, please, let me—”

“Not yet,” Mark mumbles, and you whimper as he slows and slips out of you, his hand gently rubbing your folds in what feels like comfort — a small apology for his overt enthusiasm that you don’t even really need. “Just a little more. I need to see it.”

“See what?” Donghyuck’s voice is barely above a whisper, hoarse and pretty much muffled by the sound of his hand pumping his own shaft. Your head’s light, so your body moves on its own when Mark inches away slightly, giving you room to turn yourself around and lay on your back. You’ve barely even settled when he lifts your hips, dragging you closer to him and easing your thighs apart to slot himself between your legs.

His cock weighs heavy, pressed up against your folds, and he pushes his hips in a superficial thrust to get them to spread. His eyes fall briefly on your swollen clit, the wetness that you left on his shaft, even more of it still leaking from your hole. When he looks back up at you, there’s something triumphant in his gaze.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he coos, so lovingly it’d be hard to imagine his cock still sliding against your folds if you couldn’t feel it yourself. “I’ll never get enough of your perfect pussy — so perfect that it was made to take me.”

“See what?” Donghyuck presses, an impatience now coloring his voice. Mark chuckles, nodding at you and mouthing silently. Tell him.

Your inhale’s shaky, quivering like the rest of your body, and you don’t ever break away from Mark’s gaze, even as you speak.

“His cock fucking me in my stomach.”

Donghyuck’s ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ is drowned out by your cry of need as Mark pushes back into you. There’s no lag time now, no wait for any kind of adjustment; he takes you in one motion, until you feel his hips hit the backs of your thighs again. Your walls flutter around him, unable to process his size fully, and all that comes out of you is a string of messy mewls that’s constantly interrupted by the wet sounds of his thrusts.

Your body feels almost weightless, the only thing you can understand being the feeling of his cock pumping into you, stretching you out further. You’re only able to shake yourself out of the reverie when you feel his hands push back against your thighs, folding you in half, before they crowd atop your stomach.

“God, I need to feel it,” he groans out, his palms skimming under your navel, searching. “Please — do it for me.”

Even with your brain muddled, you don’t even have to try to figure it out; you let him feel it every time he asks. You inhale, deep and slow, until your stomach sinks, and the walls of your stomach flatten against his cock, which pauses briefly in its movements as he revels in the newfound feeling.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and you flush in pleasure, in satisfaction at his praise. “Love seeing my cock inside you.”

He adjusts himself before he starts pumping into you again, burying his shaft all the way to the hilt each time; each thrust is followed by a soft sob from you, and you reach out, planting your hands on top of his. You obviously can’t feel his cock under your palms, but you don’t have to anyway; the fit’s tight enough that it feels, ridiculously, like he’s fucking your whole body, like he’s pressing into the deepest part of your core. You just want him to feel it more — the movement of the bulge under his hands, the resistance it has to push through to get to your stomach.

“Love feeling me inside you,” he continues, and his breathing stutters then, signaling that he’s also barely hanging on. “Love seeing how pretty you look when I rearrange your insides.”

You mouth out a disbelieving ‘what the fuck’ that earns you a simple smile, but Mark’s unrelenting in his movements anyway, his palms completely covering your stomach.

“Dude, I wanna see it too,” Donghyuck reminds you both of his presence when his voice comes through the speaker. “Put her on video.”

“No way,” comes Mark’s swift, firm reply. Donghyuck makes a noise of protest. “This is just for me.”

“Selfish as hell, calling me without really sharing.”

“The point wasn’t really ever to share.”

Mark’s hands suddenly press down on your stomach, and you stifle a soft scream; the pressure increases tenfold, as does the tightness of the fit, his cock brushing against your walls in a way that makes you feel breathless — it makes you feel used. Your hands fly up, fingers locking behind his neck, and you squirm under him, knowing fully well that you can’t escape anyway — not that you really want to, anyway.

“Mark,” you warn him again, your voice thin and airy. “I can’t anymore — I really—”

“I got you,” he murmurs — something you’ve come to learn he always says, always wants to let you know. He’ll be here until you break, until you can’t take anymore. “One second, okay?”

“Bro, what? Are you serious—” Even Donghyuck sounds confused, although his voice is tight too; he must be close, your mind weakly registers, but it doesn’t matter. Mark, albeit reluctantly, slips one hand away from your stomach — for a good cause, he must think, and you learn what it is when he ends the call, effectively cutting off Donghyuck’s complaints. Your eyes widen in confusion, but all Mark’s gaze is to you is reassuring, gentle, and he leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips before he answers your unspoken question.

“Can’t let him hear you cum,” he murmurs against your mouth. “That’s only for me, isn’t it?”

You nod, letting the movement of it brush your lips against his. “You’re the only one I’ll cum for — the only one that can make me.”

Above your head, his phone is trilling noisily; the vibrations course through your back, weak but persistent, and for some reason, it heightens your arousal all the more. Mark ignores it completely, single-mindedly focused on pistoning into you with the bulk of his strength. His hands push down just under your navel, increasing your awareness of the feeling of his cock, him fucking you, coaxing out your climax.

“Do it. Show me how pretty you look when you cum for me.”

You don’t think it’s possible for him to inject any more strength into his movements, but he proves you wrong time and time again; the wind’s knocked out of you as he braces himself and fucks you harder, sharper into the bed, and the only noises you can make are weak whimpers and choked sobs. Your mind’s so overrun with pleasure that your climax hits your body first before your mind fully parses it; your back arches again, and you mewl out something broken, something that sounds like his name as you come undone.

Mark still doesn’t relent, the tremble in your legs somehow only inspiring him to put more power in his thrusts. Even through the dazedness that comes with all the stimulation, you can see the fine details you’ve come to know so well — the tightness in his jaw, the growing flush across his collar, the quick heaving of his chest. He’s close too, so close he’s just holding himself back out of sheer force of will to make sure he can watch you come down from your climax completely. You don’t know why he has to, but you want to see him let go too, and you scramble for words, for more touch — pressing your thighs firm against his sides to keep him close, locked — just to get him there.

“Will you mark me up one last time?” You breathe out. He reacts almost instantaneously, moving to lean down and press his mouth against the still-untouched side of your neck, but your palm on his chest stops him from doing so. Surprise crosses his face, followed by slight confusion. You squeeze your thighs against him, trying to make your point, but even then, his brow furrows. “Mark me — inside.”

His eyes widen, and his hips stutter before they resume pace, his fingers digging into your stomach almost painfully as he tries to keep himself in control. “I— no, you know I can’t…”

“Do you want to?” You egg him on, your hand dropping from his chest to land on top of his again, adding to the pressure until you’re sure he can feel every small movement, every throb of his own cock inside you. “You can, you know — make me yours, from the inside out.”

“God — we can’t; you know we’d be in so much trouble.”

“But I’d let you anyway, if you wanted to. Do you ever think about it, Mark?” Your fingers toy with his, almost like you’re having a casual conversation instead of a situation in which he’s deep inside you, already aching for release. “Fucking your cum deep into me, letting it seep into my stomach — making sure no one else can fill me up?”

“Jesus,” he growls, and he reluctantly slips his hands out from under yours to grip your thighs. Realistically, he has enough strength to peel them away, have you release him, but his hold just tightens, not really making any motion to do so. You see the thought flash in his eyes, serious even just for a moment. He thinks about it all the time.

“Think about it,” you urge, your voice soft but close to a demand. “And every time you do, remember one day, you will — because you’re the only one that can.”

He tilts his head back, letting a growl rip from his throat, and he finally manages to push your thighs apart. You let him, let them fall apart so he can slip out of you. You watch him shift upwards, his knees on either side of your torso, and you’re met with the erotic sight of him fisting his cock in front of you, urging himself into completion. You do the only thing you can think of to help; you open your mouth wide, pushing your tongue out, silently asking for his load.

“Even when you do that, you’re fucking pretty,” he groans out, and his thumb presses his cock down, resting the underside flush against your tongue as he rocks his hips. “How much prettier are you going to look with my cum all over your face?”

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out, and you don’t have to respond; he gets the answer he wants with one last thrust against your tongue, and you close your eyes briefly, allowing yourself to drink in the taste, the smell of his cum as it streaks across your cheeks, all over your lips. You hear his release as it comes too — the soft rumble from his chest, the release of air that gently whistles through his teeth.

When you open your eyes again, Mark is looking down at you, a warm flush creeping up his cheeks and ears again; he’s breathless, panting as he comes down from his high. From the daze of his climax, a slightly sheepish look of apology crosses his face, and he reaches down, seemingly without any real plan, to clean you up, only to withdraw, slightly bemused, when you shake your head.

A laugh escapes him when you shimmy out from under him, straighten up, and extend your arms upward, puckering your lips in slight demand. You think he might reject you, but Mark doesn’t even hesitate longer than a second. He swoops down, capturing your lips in a fierce kiss, and your thighs press together tight as you enjoy the feeling of his tongue swiping away his cum from your bottom lip before he takes it between his teeth, sucking softly as if to clean you completely.

When he pulls away, his head dips into your shoulder; again, his face turns to press against the mark he’d left, and his teeth nip at the soft bruise that’s already begun to blossom. Satisfied by the soft noise you make at the sensitivity you feel from the contact, he breathes out, long and steady, against your skin.

“Just… can’t get enough of you,” he finally exhales, pressing another kiss to your neck; it’s gentler, situated just under your jaw.

“You don’t ever have to think about having enough,” you whisper, leaving a light nuzzle against his shoulder. “Just always think about having more.”

He lets out a breathy laugh, but he nods, accepting your offer anyway. A moment of silence passes, where you’re wrapped up in each other, his weight against you in a blanket of heat, and it stretches to what almost feels like an eternity — if not for the phone suddenly ringing again, Donghyuck’s name coming up on the ID. You both start, and Mark reaches over, fumbling with the sides of his device before he finds and toggles the silent switch.

“Seriously,” he grumbles, watching the call drop just for it to start up again, the screen flashing.

“We kind of left him hanging, to be fair.”

“No fairness.” Mark tosses the phone to the foot of the bed, where it lies, facedown and buzzing. “He got more than he deserved today.”

You watch him as he slips off the bed, rearranging himself before clipping his jeans button back into place. He whispers a gentle ‘be right back’ and exits the room, leaving the door only slightly ajar. You hear the water run in the bathroom, and a few moments later, Mark returns to your side, holding a damp towel.

He leaves a kiss after each light swipe across your face, as if to apologize for the pain he thinks he might be causing; you laugh, partly because it’s ridiculous, but mostly because you like it. He cleans your mouth last, even though there’s already nothing left, just so he has an excuse to leave a long, lasting kiss there.

You think it’s the last you’ll get for now, but he surprises you by bending down even further, hiking your shirt up your torso again. His hand rests on your thigh, keeping himself balanced as he presses a flutter of kisses around your navel, lingering at the exact spot that sits above where he knows his cock hits every time he bottoms out in you.

“One day,” he whispers into your skin before he looks up at you, his eyes shining. “I’ll really make you all mine.”

“Dummy.” Your voice is just as low, and you pull his head up again, enjoying the brush of his hair against your hand, the swoop of his jaw under your palm. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Every single day, considering I’ll never get tired of it.”

You hum, not one to deny him of what he asks anyway; you push him back onto his calves, climbing back onto his lap; it’s your favorite way to be near him, you decide, with almost nothing between you, almost everything of yours touching everything of his — like you fit in him perfectly. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, feeling their soft rise and fall as his breathing steadies, and you squirm a bit, if only to make sure his arms are locked securely around you — to make sure he won’t let go. Just like that, in his arms, you say it again — a truth, a fact, and a promise.

“I already am.”