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starsstuddedsky · 9 months

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What? Like It’s Hard?

gn reader x soonyoung

summary: With the help of a little bit of bleach, Soonyoung is certified legally blonde–complete to last minute-dedication to scoring as high as Elle Woods on the LSAT. While he has no interest in law school, he’s notorious for never turning down a dare. So how does a frat bro in serious danger of failing his senior year get a 179? He asks the smartest person he knows.

Or, studying for a law test has never seen this much chemistry.

genre: fluff, angst, non-idol au, uni au, friends to lovers, opposites attract

warnings: swearing, drinking, food, arguing, a couple sex jokes, one spicy scene at the end but no actual smut, refusal to acknowledge feelings, what's the word for beyond oblivious????

full wc: 24.3k

playlist! - i'm not very good at this but i tried to add songs alternating between yn and soonyoung :)

a/n: hello!! first of all, sorry this so long! it's been a very very busy summer. thank you to everyone who has continued to show interest in the story, it's really kept me going. i honestly have no idea what this is anymore but i hope it does not disappoint :) as always i appreciate feedback of any form <3 thank you again for reading and have a lovely day! finally, happy scoups day :)

a/n2: a special shout out to @chocolatemilk139 for being my beta and for helping me fact check... why do i keep writing about lawyers when i know absolutely nothing about the field.......

“Nope.” You grab your backpack, shoving your laptop inside, but he gets to your water bottle before you can reach it.

“Come on.” Soonyoung pouts his lips.

“I won’t do it,” you say.

Soonyoung hugs your water bottle hostage against his chest, dark blue hiding in the crook of his elbow, bright against the pale pink sweater he wears. It’s an unusual choice for him, normally clad in baggy jeans and loose t-shirts. Still, the color highlights his new hair, blonde bordering on white. Hardly the first time he’s done something insane for a bet.

“Please! I’m desperate!” He cries again, stepping closer, though he keeps a firm grip on your water bottle. You never should have told him how emotionally attached you are to it; you should have known it would be held against you.

“No,” you say. You sling your backpack on, just in case he gets any other ideas. The other students shoot dirty looks at you, actually in the library to study (like you were, until Soonyoung arrived). So you grab him by the arm, rolling your eyes at how he jerks the water bottle out of reach.

“Walk and talk, we’re not doing this here,” you say, folding your arms over your chest.

“Come on, how hard can it be?” Soonyoung asks. “It’s just a test.”

“Just a test?” You snort. “Soonyoung, you are aware that most people don’t apply to law school on a dare?”

“I don’t have to get into law school!” He says, “just get a 179 on the LSAT.”

As if that makes it any better. You eye Soonyoung and his tight grip on the plastic. Maybe it’s a lost cause and you should just swing by the bookstore to get a new one instead. But that water bottle has butterfly stickers that have survived since freshman year and a dent from the time Jun tried to use it as a weapon in a fight against Jihoon (that was declared a draw when the bottle busted open and doused both of them equally); it holds memories better than water and you’ll be damned if you let Soonyoung hold it hostage.

“That’s actually harder,” you mumble. From the corner of your eye, you can see him tucking the blue bottle under his right arm, farthest from you. This won’t be easy, especially since you saw the poorly disguised thirst trap of him and one of his frat bros at the gym: those arms are not to be underestimated.

“I’ll pay you!”

“With what money?”

Soonyoung pauses. You’ve reached the exit by now, sunlight warming you through the glass doors. He turns to the sunlight, and you know he’s pretending to be a main character from an artsy film (not that he’s ever seen on). He takes a deep breath, as if he already regrets what he has to say next.

“Okay, I’ll offer you the only services I have.” He turns to face you, eyes on the floor.

“Oh my god, Soonyoung!” You shove his shoulder. “You are not selling your body for a test!”

“But it’s all I know!” He says. He pokes your arms. “You could have so much muscle if you lifted just twice a week.”

“Oh.” You blink at him. “You meant working out?”

“What did you think I meant?”

You feel heat rush into your cheeks. You push the door open, praying Soonyoung doesn’t notice. “It doesn’t matter,” you say, not daring to check if he’s following. “I don’t have time to workout.”

“Then what do you want?” Soonyoung asks. He stays just out of reach, adjusting his grip so that the water bottle hangs from his hand. “Please, I’ll do anything!”

“Why do you need me?”

“Because you’re the smartest person I know,” he says without hesitation. In the three years of your friendship, you’ve learned that the only time Soonyoung isn’t serious is when he flirts.

“You are,” he insists. “Plus you’ve already taken it, so you’re my best chance. My only chance, it’s not like I have a good track record with tests.” He gives you a lopsided smile as he tries to pretend like he’s joking. But Soonyoung has always been easy to read. You see the sparkle in his eyes dim, and you remember freshman Soonyoung–when he failed the midterm and holed up in his room in the frat house for two full days, not even venturing out to drink. It’s that damn sparkle that gets to you. He isn’t paying attention anymore, water bottle hanging loosely from his hand, but you can’t bring yourself to snatch it.

“You can pass it,” you say with a sigh. “It’s about studying correctly.”

“I don’t know,” Soonyoung says. “I’ve never really studied.”

“Well, that’s what I’ll teach you.”

Soonyoung freezes, grabbing your arm. “Seriously?” When you turn to face him, his smile is so bright it warms you from the inside out, hotter than the actual sun on your skin. He throws his arms around you, wrapping you in a hug so tight he lifts you off the ground. Your heart does this strange thing where it hops into your throat. Your arms come up as a reflex but his embrace is too tight for you to even hug him back.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” He shouts. He doesn’t let go, even when he sets you back down. He loosens his arms just enough to look at you, the full force of his smile directed at you. “I swear you’re welcome at the frat house any time, I’ll buy you anything you want when I have money, I’ll drive you wherever you want if I can get Seungcheol’s car, I’ll do whatever, just thank you, thank you, thank you.”

You know you should answer, or say something, but thinking is too much when he’s so close you can smell the strangely sweet combination of laundry detergent, cologne, and sweat. You push out of his arms, snagging your water bottle on the way out.

“It’s whatever,” you mumble. Though his arms aren’t around you anymore, you feel strangely hot, like your blood is boiling, and your heart still pounds.

“It is not whatever,” Soonyoung declares. “I swear, whatever you want, I’ll do it.” He holds a hand over his heart and if it was anyone else you’d think they were joking but it’s Soonyoung: he’s deadly serious.

You can’t handle his gaze anymore, turning to study your beat up sneakers. “Really? You’ll get my first edition copy of Pride and Prejudice from Jun?”

“I’ll get that book back.” He glances at you. “It is a book, right?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Though there’s been some good adaptations.”

“That’s the one with the zombies?”

“Zombies?” You frown. “Oh my god, do you mean Pride and Prejudice and Zombies?”

“That’s not the original book?”

“No,” you say, laughing. “The original is Jane Austen, in the 1800s.”

“Oh,” Soonyoung says.

“I’ve actually never seen that one,” you say. “It’s the only adaptation I haven’t seen.”

“How many movies are there?”

“Well, there’s the 1940 adaptation, the BBC series that’s widely regarded as the most faithful adaptation, the 2005 Kiera Knightley movie that’s iconic, plus the Lizzie Bennet Diaries, which is a vlog-style Youtube adaptation. Then of course there’s Jane Austen’s other works, like Persuasion, which, the new one, for the record, was a terrible adaptation.” You stop when you realize you’re dangerously close to going on what Jihoon calls ‘an Austen tirade.’

“I liked the movie,” he says after a pause. “I don’t know if it was that good, or close to the books. But it was fun.”

“I’ll have to watch it, then,” you say. “I know it’s the obvious choice, but Pride and Prejudice really is my favorite Jane Austen novel. Good luck getting it back from Jun though. He’s studying abroad this semester.”

“He’s the friend from your history class?”

“No, that’s Jihoon, my roommate,” you say. “Jun was in my language class.”

“I thought you hated everyone in that class.”

“Oh, I did,” you say. “But Jun is friends with Jihoon, so he sort of just became my friend too.”

Soonyoung hums, saying nothing else. You don’t recognize the song, though you tend to mostly listen to classical music when you study or whatever Jihoon blasts from his room, so it’s not that surprising. The melody is nice, though. Well, Soonyoung’s voice is.

“I really am grateful,” Soonyoung says. “I know I was begging, because I don’t think I can do this without you–well, I don’t know if I can do it with you, but you’re my only hope and–I’m rambling again.” He flashes a smile. “The point is, thank you.”

You shrug, feeling shy under his gaze. “It’ll help me study anyways,” you say. “You learn a lot when you teach.”

“I thought you already took it?”

“I only got a 150,” you say, sighing. “I need at least a 165.”

Soonyoung nods, forehead creasing like it always does when he’s lost in thought. “Thank you anyway.”

“Well, you swore to do whatever I tell you,” you say, desperate to change the subject. “Don’t think I won’t abuse that.”

“Oh, YN,” he says, “I’m counting on it.” He even winks.

You cough, choking at the outright flirting. Soonyoung hasn’t tried a line on you in so long you thought he’d used them all. He isn’t serious–it was engraved in his DNA the second he became a fully fledged member of Sigma Beta Tau but it’s not like many people flirt with you, so it’s hard to stop your heart from jumping.

You check your phone, unable to look him in the eyes. It’s 2:18 now, prime naptime if you can get back to your apartment before Jihoon gets back. But if it’s past two, unless he lied to you at the start of the semester, that means Soonyoung should be in his data ethics class. “Hey, don’t you have class right now?”

Soonyoung glances at the time on his phone. “Shit.” He takes off, sprinting across the grass, dodging three picnics and narrowly avoiding getting rocked in the back of the head by a frisbee. He pauses at the edge, turning back around to wave wildly at you.

“Thank you!” He shouts. The picnickers glance between you and him and you can feel the blush returning. Soonyoung doesn’t notice all the eyes on him, waving like a goofball one final time before sprinting off again. Like a whirlwind, he’s gone again, leaving you to stroll across campus and wonder what you just signed up for.

Soonyoung’s brow furrows into a frown, lips pulling together in a pout. He rests his chin on his hands, looking up at you from the table like a puppy that knows he’s in trouble. “That bad?”

“Your analytical reasoning was good!” You say, not wanting to destroy him just yet. “The logical analysis wasn’t that bad either, you just need practice.”

“Wasn’t there a third section?”

“The score for reading comprehension was pretty bad.” Horrendous, actually, but you can’t tell him that, not when he’s deflating faster than a balloon at a knife throwing contest. He sits back, head knocking lightly against the back of the stiff library chairs.

“We can work with this! It’s really not that bad,” you say. You reach out instinctively, wrapping your hands over his hands. Your thumb rests against the soft smooth skin of the back of his hand, the rest of your fingers brushing lightly against his calloused fingers. You jerk back when you realize what you’re doing, patting his hands once and grabbing the workbook in front of him as if it’s what you meant to do all along. You study the upside down words, not daring to look at the disgust that’s probably painted on Soonyoung’s face.

“You can start with practicing the logic problems,” you say, flipping through the work book. “I’ll figure out a strategy for the reading portion.”

Soonyoung heaves a sigh, sitting up and hunching over the workbook. You flip open one of your old workbooks and try to pretend like you’re not trying to melt away from embarrassment.

“This isn’t very much teaching,” Soonyoung says without looking up. “Lots of problem solving.”

“I don’t really know what I’m doing either,” you say. “I just watched a lot of youtube videos when I was studying last year. I should have known better than to take it over the summer, though.”

Soonyoung glances up. “How come?”

You chew on your lip. You’ve known Soonyoung for a while now, but you’ve never talked to him like this, mentioning any real things other than complaining about roommates. Soonyoung would listen, probably say the ‘right’ things, but it’s a study session, so you just say, “Just not good timing.”

He nods, returning to his humming. You turn to your own workbook, trying to figure out how to get Soonyoung to actually read the passages for the reading comprehension. Twenty minutes pass in an instant and Soonyoung drops his pencil, sliding his journal with the answers back in front of you. You flip to the answer key, scanning between the two.

“When are you taking it again?” Soonyoung asks while he waits.

“Just before Halloween,” you say. Exactly 38 days from now, according to the IMPENDING DOOM countdown clock on your phone.

“That soon?”

You shrug. “I wanted to give myself time to take it again in case I bomb it and it had to be before midterms, so, yeah.”

“Is it really that bad to take all your tests at once?” Soonyoung asks.

“I mean, finals week pretty much kills me every semester. I actually thought I was cutting it close with only two weeks between it and midterms.”

“Is November cutting it too close?”

“Depends on when in November you plan on taking it,” you say, “though you probably won’t be able to take it again if you don’t like your score.”

“Not a problem for me,” Soonyoung says. He doesn’t waver against your raised eyebrow. “I’m getting that 179, first try.”

“You’re that confident?”

“In you.” He winks. “Also the bet is off if I don’t get it on the first try.”

You nod. “Yeah, that makes more sense.” You glance at your calendar. “

“November 18th.”

“That’s not too bad, you dodged between midterms and finals, there should be plenty of cram time.”

Soonyoung shrugs. “I just scheduled it so that I would get the results before the Christmas party.”

“I didn’t think you would be the religious type.”

“Oh, I’m not,” he says. “The frat has this annual post-finals party before people go back home for holiday break, usually on the last day of finals. There’s no way I’m letting Seungkwan get away with my hard earned Playstation, and there’s no way he’d miss the party.”

“You can’t just buy your own game?”

“It’s a console actually,” he says, “and that’s not the point.” You prepare for some lecture about honor or frat code or something overly dramatic and inspired by any of the countless war propaganda movies he loves, but he closes his mouth.

“I guess it doesn’t really matter,” you say. You turn back his sheet, half the answers marked with a dark blue X because red feels too cruel. “You’re clearly committed.”

He sighs at the answers, flipping back to the first question and frowning. You think the conversation is over, but without looking up from glaring at the right answers, he says, “You should come.”

“To?”

“The Christmas party.”

You stare at the top of his head but he doesn’t seem to notice. You wonder how he manages to keep his hair so blonde without ruining his scalp but you don’t see any dandruff. “Me?” You finally say.

“You said you’d come, like, freshman year,” he says. “You never did.”

You did promise, back when you saw him for class every day. But frat parties weren’t your scene back then. They aren’t your scene now. Nothing about blasting music and binge drinking appeals to you, and yet Soonyoung peeking at you from his notebook makes you feel guilty anyways. He looks at you like he really doesn’t understand why you wouldn’t want to go.

And that’s the worst part: for Soonyoung, you would go. When he looks at you with the damn Soonyoung Sparkle, you’d do anything.

“I’ll… think about it,” you finally say.

He looks at you for a moment longer, then nods, like he didn’t really expect you to say yes. You try not to feel like you’re letting him down.

“Can you explain this one to me,” he asks, turning the book so you can see it from across the table.

You skim the question, which turns out to be a series of questions about stained glass windows. You take a moment to glance between Soonyoung’s answers and the correct ones.

“Walk me through your process,” you say.

“Okay, I start with…”

“Soonyoung, are you even listening?”

He blinks at you, lifting his head from his arms. “Something about strategies? For reading?”

You snap the book shut, shaking your head. You open your mouth, speech on responsibility and studying on the tip of your tongue but one look into Soonyoung’s Sparkle Eyes (patent pending) and all the words are gone. You really need to figure out how to get around that super power.

“Come on, it’s so nice out,” he says. “We should be outside.” He grabs your hand. “This is not studying weather, this is dating weather.”

“Soonyoung your test is in two months, you seriously want to skip?” You don’t dignify the second part of his complaint with a response. The idea of Soonyoung on a date makes your stomach flip.

He sighs. “No, but it’s October, we won’t get many more nice days, so can we at least go outside?”

You hesitate a heartbeat too long and Soonyoung jumps up. He closes the workbook, knocking loose papers off the table and sending highlighters of every color flying in every direction. The chaos earns a couple side eyes from the people around you and a full on glare from the person directly next to him, but Soonyoung, as Soonyoung as ever, doesn’t seem to notice. He picks up the papers and highlighters, shoving them into his backpack without a folder and slinging it over his shoulder. You can only follow him, grabbing the drinks before he tries to carry them along his laptop. When it comes to Soonyoung, mixing liquids and technology is more dangerous than mixing alcohols. You haven’t forgotten The Coffee Incident, flooding his backpack at 8 in the morning.

He drags you out of the library, though you don’t put up much of a fight. Soonyoung makes you want to relax, just a little, and when he smiles back at you as soon as he steps out of the sunlight, you find you don’t regret a thing.

Soonyoung pulls his emergency blanket out of his blanket, passing it to you. He’s more prepared for naps than any class he’s ever taken but the thin fabric is soft so who are you to judge? He heads straight for the quad, which is already filled with people, some groups of friends, too many obvious couples with heads in each other's laps or arms wrapped around each other. Soonyoung settles down in a relatively unpopulated corner, taking the blanket back to shake it out the blanket a few times before laying it flat on the ground.

Soonyoung groans when you pull out the workbooks as soon as you sit down. “There isn’t anything more fun to study?”

“Soonyoung, it’s the LSAT,” you say. “It’s not really meant to be fun.”

“But–”

“You’re the one that wanted to go outside,” you remind him, tapping his arm with a pen. “If you’re too distracted we’ll have to go back into the library.”

He gazes at the other people laughing for a long moment before turning to face you again. You raise your eyebrows and he takes the workbook from your hands, flipping it open to the sticky-note bookmark.

The next twenty minutes are relatively quiet, the only noise coming from the chatter of the people around you, too far away to clearly hear, and Soonyoung humming while working through practice problems. You’re not sure if he even realizes he’s doing it, though he bobs his head slightly. You wonder what Soonyoung is like when he isn’t trying to get out of studying–even outside of the party invites you’ve avoided, you rarely see him on campus (because you aren’t on campus when you don’t have to be). You almost went to dinner with him to celebrate passing the business class freshman year where you met him, but you got food poisoning and he never rescheduled.

It’s for the best, though. Even like this, tutoring him minus payment of any kind, you can tell that spending too much time with him will be dangerous. He flirts so easily it feels genuine, and even though he can be ridiculous, he’s never been anything but lovely to you. And it doesn’t help that he’s hot. He glances up, as if he can feel you staring, but he just flashes a smile at you and ducks his head again. Damn frat bros with endearing charms that melt you like the perfect grilled cheese.

Perfectly blue without a cloud in sight, the sky is an empty canvas above you. The air is just the right temperature, just between hot and cold, the sun ensuring that it never dips into the latter. Just the slightest breeze kisses your skin, lifting the edges of the papers but never flipping them. Soonyoung was right: the perfect date weather.

“Soonyoung?” You turn your head to see a dark haired man standing over you. Wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and sides ripped open, you figure there’s a 80% chance he’s one of Soonyoung’s frat brothers.

“Seokmin?” Soonyoung frowns.

“You were actually serious?” Seokmin asks, gesturing to the books. “You know Seungkwan said it as a joke, right?”

“Yeah, but a bet is a bet,” Soonyoung says. “And I really want his Playstation.”

Seokmin snorts. “You know he only said it because he knows you can’t do it.”

“I’m not like I’m losing anything by trying.” Soonyoung sets his lips in a sharp line of determination (which you recognize from the dining hall when he sweet talks his way into free cookies). Seokmin raises his eyebrows at his aggression but eventually decides it’s not worth the fight. Instead, he plops down on the blanket, making a little triangle between the three of you.

“You must be YN,” he says, extending his hand. His easy smile and the way he sat down without waiting for an invitation reminds you of Soonyoung. Unlike the faux blonde, it feels foreign and you shift a little closer to Soonyoung instinctively.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you lie. Seokmin’s eyes curl into little half moons when he smiles, apparently not noticing your awkwardness. You can’t help but feel like he’s intruding as he turns to Soonyoung and asks him to explain what he’s doing. Soonyoung explains it well, though it helps that he was working on the analytical reasoning section.

It’s because he’s interrupting Soonyoung’s studying. That’s why it bothers you that he’s here, even though Soonyoung doesn’t seem to mind and Seokmin seems genuinely interested. Unfortunately, the revelation doesn’t stop you from wishing Seokmin would just leave.

“I don’t know how you do any of this,” Seokmin says after Soonyoung explains the next problem.

“It’s easy!” Soonyoung says. “Half the time the answer is in the question, you just have to know where to look!”

“Quoting me?” You raise your eyebrows.

“Well I did learn from the best!”

“So cliche,” you mutter but the compliment gets you smiling anyway. You look up to find Seokmin looking at you. He has a strange look on his face, frowning, but not angrily. He looks a little bit like when Soonyoung can’t decide between the right answer and the second best option. He doesn’t look away when you catch him staring.

“What?”

He pauses a long moment before answering, as if pondering how to answer. Finally, he says, “I like you.”

You stare at him. Soonyoung had been diligently working on practice problems but his head jerks up at the words.

“I mean, you’re a cool person,” Seokmin quickly says. “Good tutor for Soonyoung.” After hearing his name, Soonyoung grins and turns back to underlining in the workbook.

“Tutor?” You say. “I really don’t think I’m doing all that much.”

Seokmin shrugs. ”I don’t know many people that would spend this much time with someone if they aren't helping. Besides, either way, I’ve never seen Soonyoung this dedicated before.”

“That’s because you don’t dare to bet against me,” Soonyoung says without looking up.

“He might have a point there,” you say. Soonyoung takes a moment to smile at your support.

“What I’m trying to say is that you’re cool,” Seokmin says.

“Thank you?” You wait for him to say something else but he sits back and rests his hands behind him, stretching out in the sun a little more. Sighing, he tilts his head toward the sun.

“Seems like the weather will turn cold soon,” he says. “This might be the last warm day of the year.” He glances at Soonyoung. “And you’re spending it here instead of pre-gaming the Tau party.”

Soonyoung’s pencil freezes. He peeks up at Seokmin, then at you, then shrugs. “I take my bets seriously.”

“Whatever,” Seokmin says. He lays back fully, half of his body sticking off the blanket into the grass. “What are the Ke$ha lyrics? ‘The party don’t start ‘til Soonyoung walks in?’” He doesn’t wait for a correction. “I think I’ll wait until you're finished and we’ll tear it up together.”

Soonyoung glances at you, then unsuccessfully tries to hide his laughter at your expression. You don’t mean to be rude, but Seokmin really just invited himself all on his own and crashed your picnic. Study date. Outdoor study session. The name doesn’t matter, what does matter is it’s only supposed to be you and Soonyoung.

“He’ll fall asleep in about five seconds,” Soonyoung whispers. “He doesn’t actually care about the party, he just likes my nap blankets.” On that point you can’t really blame Seokmin.

“As long as it doesn’t disrupt your studying,” you say.

“Right,” Soonyoung says, more to himself than you. “That’s what’s important.”

You aren’t so oblivious that you miss his bitterness, but you are enough of a coward to decide not to ask about it. How do you even ask about something like that? You can barely answer his questions about the LSAT, so feelings? No chance.

You flip open your own workbook and set a pencil case down to keep the book open and ignore the soft snores from Seokmin. Soonyoung hums, the soft breeze carrying the gentle tune to you and easing you into a false sense of comfort, planting the idea that it’s always been like this and it always will be. But Soonyoung will take the LSAT in November and you will graduate in the spring and there won’t be any more excuses for seeing him, let alone laying out in the sun with him. Letting yourself enjoy this moment has dangerous consequences for your heart.

And yet you enjoy the warm sun on your skin and hum along with Soonyoung anyway. Seokmin is right: this kind of day won’t last long.

You jump awake at the sound. It takes you a moment to register where you are, to blink the sleep out of your eyes and recognize the stiff library chairs, the yellow tinted lighting of the study rooms on the third floor. Built like a prison cell with no windows and stained linoleum floors, you aren’t entirely sure how you fell asleep. The last thing you remember is working on your essay on Sense and Sensibility, which was rather difficult since you haven’t had the time to finish rereading it. Your book rests on the table next to your open laptop, screen dark.

A second knock reminds you why you woke up in the first place and you turn to the door. Through the glass door you see a student with a backpack hanging off their shoulder, half smiling. They turn the knob, opening the door just enough to stick their head in.

“Hey, sorry, I think I have the room scheduled,” they say.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I lost track of time,” you say, slamming your laptop shut and shoving everything into your backpack. To their credit, the other student doesn’t rush you, even apologizing and telling you to take your time. But if you’ve lost the room, that means the two hours you had booked the study room for–the two hours you designated for writing the essay and doing problem sets–were spent asleep, which means the LSAT cram schedule has been completely thrown off with only three days before the test.

You groan as you step into the elevator, pressing the button for the fifth floor. The farther up, the more intense the quiet levels get. Hopefully it won’t be so quiet that you fall asleep, but since you got a nap, you should be able to power through an all-nighter. It wouldn’t be the first time. You brace yourself to check your phone for the time, though being kicked out of the room means you already know your fate. 9:08 means that you have a little less than three hours until the library closes. You’ve done more with less time.

The first couple desks are occupied by students but you don’t stray, heading for a familiar corner, ignoring the empty desks that line the stacks. Your corner, that you found freshman year during finals season when you couldn’t find an empty desk, is perfect: hidden behind the encyclopedia shelves with a light directly above it, only three dicks carved into it–all on the underside (discovered on a particularly bad day where you found it most comfortable to lay underneath and rethink your entire life). You smile at the small comfort, striding through the stacks with Sense and Sensibility still in your arms.

You nearly drop the book when you see the backpack, abruptly turning despite the fact that it must have been obvious to whoever stole your corner that you were headed there. You feel rage boiling up and threatening to spill. You close your eyes, reminding yourself that the corner isn’t actually yours. Still, as you settle into a desk facing a giant window that reveals the dark campus, you can’t help but feel bitter. Your thoughts stray to the desk that should be yours, even as you pull out your computer.

BATTERY LOW

The words light up your screen, mocking you before the screen falls dark again. You dig in your backpack for your charger that you always slip into the main pocket. You feel your underused pencil pouch, the single journal since you keep most of your notes on your laptop, LSAT prep book, your three folders, and no charger. Even when you look inside and lay the entire contents of your backpack on the desk in front of you, the only charger you find is for your phone. Which means the longer laptop cord is probably sitting on your desk, all the way back at your apartment.

A twenty minute walk back, twenty minutes less for writing your essay. You can start it on your phone, maybe, though the thought of switching between reading the Sparknotes and typing already exhausts you. It’s moot anyways, since all you can do is sit and stare at the desk, covered in the contents of your soul. This is what your life has become: a stack of paper that weighs less than the digital universe on your laptop that’s all contingent on a $15 charger that abandons you when you need it most.

In the end it isn’t the rage that gets to you. It’s the hilarity of it all, how silly it is that your life is dictated by something so stupid.

The fifth floor decrees silence, so you make sure that your sobs don’t make a noise. You can’t control the tears but you can hold your breath. When your head starts to feel light and your lungs are desperate for air, you can breathe through your mouth and inhale as slow as you can to keep the shakiness to a minimum. You can do everything you can to hold it together, even when you’re falling apart.

Someone taps you on the shoulder. You lift your head, ready to face a tired librarian kicking you out but instead you see bleach blonde hair and a forced smile over a furrowed brow.

“What are you doing here?” You whisper, glad for the quiet because you don’t trust your voice to support you.

He holds up a thick, leatherbound book. LSAT for Dummies. “Extra reading couldn’t hurt, right?”

You blink at him. The only times you’ve seen Soonyoung in the library on his own has been with a thick blanket and closed eyes (it’s how you know he sleeps with his mouth open, just a little). You can’t quite believe he’s in front of you and yet he takes a step closer and doesn’t vanish.

“What are you doing here?” He asks.

“Shhh,” you say, holding your finger to your lips to get him to quiet down, even though there’s no one in sight. “Quiet floor.”

He nods, looking around as if he’s waiting for someone to kick him out. He turns to look at your desk, the contents of your backpack still strewn about. He tilts his head but doesn’t dare raise his voice to ask. You know he hasn’t missed the tears, still wet on your cheeks.

You done? He mouths.

Not even close, you think, but you nod anyways because it’s the easier answer. Soonyoung doesn’t hesitate, gently closing your laptop and sweeping everything into your backpack. You watch as he dumps it all into the biggest pocket, zipping it up and slinging it onto his back. He tucks the law book under his arm and holds out his other hand for you to take.

“Come on,” he whispers. And you take it, let him pull you out of your chair. The walk to the elevator; out of the library; toward the edge of campus; nothing feels far when Soonyoung doesn’t let go of your hand. You follow him in a daze, clinging to his hand in the off-chance that all your luck rides on him–like if you let go, you’ll lose your tether to this planet.

Soonyoung rarely walks in silence and today is not an exception. He rambles about the only member of the frat capable of cooking that apparently can’t do anything without creating a giant mess. Even as he complains about the guy, Soonyoung can’t help defending him, explaining in mouth-watering detail how good his food is.

“One time he crowd sourced some steaks and did a grill for the new pledges and they all thought it was a prank or something and nearly cried when he actually let them eat them. I think they burnt their mouths from eating it too fast, afraid someone was going to take it away from them.” Soonyoung stops at the edge of campus. He glances at you, a question in his eyes. Where are we going?

“Soonyoung,” you say. Squeezing his hand feels natural. “I don’t really want to go back right now.”

He nods, squeezing your hand back. “You want to go for a ride?”

“You have a car?”

“Nope.” Soonyoung fishes his phone out of his pocket and makes a call. You can only hear Soonyoung, who says, “I need a ride,” and “Pick me up by the duck statue,” and then he hangs up.

The edge of campus that Soonyoung drags you to is right next to the athletic fields, which explains why there is a giant statue of the mascot that towers over you. It has three of its own personal spotlights and shiny claws from fans rubbing them for good luck, despite there being no official tradition. You only went to one game, mostly to confirm you would rather be anywhere else (except maybe the bathroom of the stadium). Either way, the only thing you do know about the statue and mascot for your school is that it is not a duck.

“That’s a raven.” You point at the statue.

Soonyoung frowns between you and the hunk of metal. “Oh, Larry?”

“It has a name?”

“Well, there’s the official name, which is like, Midnight Rain or something, and the frat name.”

“And the frat name is Larry?”

Soonyoung shrugs. “I didn’t choose it.”

“And you call it a duck, too?”

“It looks like a duck.”

You study the statue. You aren’t an ornithologist, but you’re pretty sure ducks have webbed feet instead of talons, and different beaks. Plus you’ve never seen a pure black duck. But you’ve spent enough time with Soonyoung to know it doesn’t have to make sense when the frat is involved (in fact, you’ve found sense is rarely involved in their decisions).

“We just call it the duck. Or Larry, when we want to be formal.” Soonyoung jumps at the honk of a horn. You turn around with him to find an obnoxiously red convertible parked against the curb. The driver’s smooth black hair is styled to look effortless, hair falling just above his eyes, and he wears sunglasses despite the fact that the sun went down three hours ago. He might be attractive, if he wasn’t trying so hard. You never thought you had a type, but someone like Soonyoung, who wears clothes that he likes and sticks his hair straight up because he thinks it looks funny–that’s more your style.

“Here’s our ride,” Soonyoung says. He starts walking, pulling you with him, still holding your hand. You aren’t sure if he even realizes, but you’re in no hurry to remind him.

“Hey Josh,” he says.

Driver (Josh, apparently), finally pulls off his sunglasses. “Soonyoung, you have a friend.”

“I’m YN,” you say, wishing your voice didn’t sound so scratchy from crying.

“Oh, I know,” he says, a twinkle in his eye that flirts between danger and fun. “I’m Joshua.” You try not to feel unsettled by it. He raises an eyebrow as Soonyoung slides into the backseat and you sit beside him. “Am I just an Uber to you?”

“Seungcheol is out and I knew there was no way you would let me drive your car,” Soonyoung says.

“So, yes?”

Soonyoung shrugs and laughs at Joshua’s expression.

“Where are we headed?” He asks with a resigned sigh as if he’s used to Soonyoung’s antics. Has he done this before? You frown. Why does it matter to you if he’s done this with someone else? You’re so busy with the internal war, you miss Soonyoung’s answer.

“Seriously?” Joshua asks. “It’s a weeknight.”

“Like that’s ever been a problem for you.”

Joshua glances at you. “You’re okay with this?”

You pause. You don’t actually know where Soonyoung said to go. But it’s Soonyoung, your heart says. You're inclined to agree with it tonight. “Yeah.”

He shakes his head and mutters something you don’t catch and kicks the car into gear. Before long, you are flying down a two lane road you didn’t even know existed. The wind starts to pick up with the top of the car down, blasting your face. Though your nose is still stuffed from crying, the air fills your lungs, tasting like dead leaves and unnatural warmth courtesy of climate change. For the first time tonight, you can breathe.

The clock reads just shy of 1 am by the time the car stops. As soon as the rumbling engine cuts out, another noise takes over, drowning everything else out. Crashes too rhythmic to be thunder, the blows softened by tall dunes illuminated by the car’s headlights that Joshua didn’t turn off.

Soonyoung turns to you with a grin. “Ready to have some fun?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, jumping out of the car instead of opening the door, ignoring Joshua’s shout. He sprints toward the crashing waves.

Joshua shakes his head, opening his door and ushering you out from the back. He even closes the door behind you, folding his arms over his chest and walking slowly to the beach with you. The headlights cut out but the moon and stars shine enough to see where the boardwalk ends and the sand begins. Soonyoung’s movement gives him away more than any light, running alongside the water and dancing with the tide.

You clear your throat. The ride cleared your head enough for you to feel properly embarrassed about meeting someone right after sobbing. You shudder to imagine how terrible you looked when he first picked you up, clinging to Soonyoung like he was the only thing keeping you alive. A blush forms just at the thought of it.

“So, you do this often?” You ask.

“Do something truly insane because of Soonyoung? All the time.” Joshua laughs. “We don’t usually end up this far away though, and usually someone’s life is in imminent danger.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” you say, watching Soonyoung strip his socks and shoes off and toss them behind him. One sock gets caught in the wind and blows back toward you and Joshua.

Joshua stops before the two of you can catch up to him. You turn to look at him. It’s difficult to read his expression in the moonlight but he frowns like he’s not sure he should say something. Eventually he says, “I’m going for a walk down the boardwalk.” He glances at Soonyoung, then back at you and smiles. “Have fun with him.”

You watch him turn around and trudge back up the sand, wondering if all of Soonyoung’s friends are this strange. Maybe it’s just being in a frat. You grab Soonyoung’s sock and set it with his shoes, smiling when he turns around and waves like a maniac.

“It’s the ocean!” He shouts over the crashes.

“You’re soaked!” You shout back. He glances down and apparently finally realizes his shirt is wet, clinging to his shoulders already. He strides back toward you, grabbing your arm and pulling you closer.

“My shoes are not coming off!” You warn him.

“Just come closer!” He says. “It’s amazing!” You stand with him at the edge of the water, watching it rise in the darkness and draw closer and closer. It crashes on the sand first, a violent move, kicking up wet sand and mixing it with white water. The frothy white water creeps forward, until you have to dance backward. Soonyoung stays in the water, letting it wash around his feet.

“It feels better like this,” he says.

“My feet are covered in enough sand,” you say, though he does look like he’s having fun. The water must be freezing this time of the year–it would feel so nice running over your skin. But you’d end up with wet socks and even more sand in your shoes to clean out.

Soonyoung holds out his hand. “You’d like this.”

You chew on your lip. Normally you’d laugh in his face and say ‘not a chance.’ But normalcy has never been running three hours away to the beach in the middle of the night when you have class at 9 in the morning. You pull off the sneakers without untying them and pull your socks off, setting them next to Soonyoung’s and joining him at the edge of the water. His hand isn’t out by the time you return but he slips it into yours when you join his side.

Another wave crashes and you watch the water creep forward, faster than you expect it to be–and you’re right, it’s freezing, but Soonyoung’s right too, it sends an icy shock throughout your body that sends a tingly rush up from your toes to every nerve in your body, setting them on fire. You squeeze his hand and laugh.

“Good?” He asks.

“I love it.”

You don’t know how long you stand there, holding onto Soonyoung’s hand and letting the water wash over you. After a few waves, it doesn’t feel cold anymore. You stand until your feet are buried in wet sand, each wave sending you lower and lower.

“My feet are freezing,” Soonyoung eventually says.

“Mine, too.” You lift your feet reluctantly, already missing the coarse sand and cold water. You have to let go of Soonyoung’s hand to put on your socks and shoes, shuddering at all the sand in your socks. The cotton became damp from sitting too close to the water, your shoes faring the same. Yet you don’t regret a second of it.

You stand up and stretch, feeling your spine pop. When you turn back around, you almost scream. You manage to contain it to a gasp, a wheezing Soonyoung’s name. He blinks at you innocently, like he isn’t standing in front of you with his shirt in his hand.

“What are you doing?” You choke out.

“We’re at the beach,” he says. “I have to take pictures.”

“And you need to take off your shirt for that?”

“Why? Does it bother you?” He smirks.

Muscles have never been a selling point for you. The “people” you’ve crushed on have all been smart or kind, crushes of intellect rather than bodies. His toned abs, sculpted shoulders, the way his body curves gently as he allows you to stare at him–normally it wouldn’t get to you at all (other than the embarrassment of being this close to a shirtless man for the first time in a long time). But it’s not just the muscles. It’s Soonyoung, your Soonyoung who calls you at four in the morning to tell you about the movie he just finished and is too endearing for you to truly be annoyed at. It’s the Soonyoung that gets lost in the Engineering building even as a senior. It’s the Soonyoung that drags you to the beach in the middle of the night just to make you smile. Yes, it bothers you. No one should be this incredible and hot.

“No,” you mumble, failing to convince yourself of the lie.

Soonyoung seems to be done teasing you, dropping his shirt into your hands. He walks a little closer to the waves, apparently not bothered by the chilly ocean breeze. He starts to pose, then raises his eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to take pictures?”

“Where’s your phone?”

“The camera’s broken,” he says. “Just use yours and you can send them to me.” He continues to pose, flexing his arms as subtly as he can which isn’t particularly subtle (though the muscles are even more impressive in person). You are tempted to reach out and feel the tension, before you realize you are staring again.

You numb to Soonyoung in this half-dressed state as you take the pictures. The frat must have a professional photographer or something, because Soonyoung knows how to pose. Despite some of the angles and positions seeming awkward, each picture comes out as if from a photoshoot. He only gives you a few instructions on taking pictures, and compliments you way beyond your talents.

“Just like that!” Soonyoung says, breaking his model face to grin at you. “You’re really good at this.”

“You can’t even see the pictures,” you say. You bite your lips so you don’t smile. Apparently that doesn’t matter, because he keeps posing. It’s a good thing you just upgraded your phone storage because you estimate at least a thousand pictures are taken for each pose.

“Are you guys done?” You jump at the voice next to you. Apparently Joshua returned from his walk, sneaking up using the crashing waves as cover. “We should head back soon if you want to make your morning classes.”

“Definitely want to,” you say. You haven’t gotten any work done, but that’s no excuse to skip class. Soonyoung pouts but doesn’t argue.

“Perfect!” Joshua claps his hands together. He shoves you toward Soonyoung and grabs your phone. “One more picture together and we’ll go.”

Being at a distance worked perfectly fine but those muscles have you frozen in place again. Soonyoung throws an arm over your shoulders and grins like you do this all the time. His biceps press through your jacket, the flex of the muscle exactly as you imagined it, not that it stops your heart from thundering.

You can’t help but steal a glance at Soonyoung. Despite feeling like you’ll malfunction at any second, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. Soonyoung’s features look soft this close, even the sharp cut of his jawline. You want to study every line of his face, each curve, memorize it until the way his lips slowly curl into a smile is carved into your heart. Spending the rest of your life here doesn’t seem too bad.

“Let’s go,” Joshua says, breaking whatever magic froze time for you. You are left with cold toes and sand in your sneakers as you march up the dune and back to Joshua’s car.

“I just cleaned it,” he groans, looking at all the sand you and Soonyoung tracked in.

You mumble an apology but when you try to offer to clean it for him, he shakes his head. “Nobody touches my baby.”

You glance at Soonyoung, who followed you into the backseat again. He rolls his eyes at Joshua, smiling in a way that you know means he isn’t serious. You smile back at him and click your seatbelt into place.

“Address?” Joshua asks, handing you his phone. You punch it in and hand the phone back. 3 hours and sixteen minutes.

Joshua whistles, seeing the arrival time of 4:53. “Remind me never to do this again.”

“The beach was your idea,” Soonyoung says. His words slur a little.

“Just go to sleep already,” Joshua says. The engine rumbles on and he pulls away from the empty boardwalk.

“‘m not even tired,” Soonyoung says, fighting a yawn. He slouches and leans against the headrest, rolling his head to look at you. “You have class in the morning?”

“Not until nine.”

“That’s good.” He doesn’t succeed in fighting the yawn this time. His blinks become longer and longer, eyes closing more than opening. It’s like watching the energizer bunny shut down.

“Soonyoung?”

He opens his eyes and you think maybe he’d wait for the rest of his life for you to say something.

“Thank you.”

“Always.” He smiles lazily. “I swore I’d do anything.”

His sworn loyalty. It should be fun, having a boy like him dedicated to fulfilling your wishes. But what would it be like if he wasn’t sworn to you? If he did these kinds of things just because he wants to?

You didn’t think you were tired but the next thing you know, Soonyoung gently shakes you awake.

“We’re here,” he says in a quiet, very un-Soonyoung voice.

You blink at him, trying to figure out why your neck hurts so much, frowning at the unfamiliar surroundings. From the rear view mirror, Joshua watches you. Right, instead of writing your essay, doing the problem sets, or any of the readings, you went to the beach. You wait for the guilt to set in but it doesn’t come. None of the anxieties from earlier in the evening (the technical part of your brain reminds you it was the night before) overwhelm you.

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat. Your mouth tastes nasty but before you can say anything, Soonyoung hands you a water bottle. You take a sip before saying thank you.

Soonyoung unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’ll walk you up.”

You nod, grateful you don’t have to ask him. The night has been a full adventure on its own yet you aren’t quite ready for it to be over. At least you aren’t ready to say goodbye to Soonyoung.

There’s still something you want to tell him. You want to tell him that you like his blonde hair, even though everyone else thinks it’s ridiculous. You want to tell him that you lied earlier, you nearly lost your mind seeing him shirtless. You want to tell him that you feel proud when he gets the right answer on the first try, that you think his concentration frown is cute, that you’ve never enjoyed studying like you do when he’s by your side. You want to tell him that on your worst days, days like today, just being Soonyoung makes it better.

But you learned a long time ago tired ramblings and drunk confessions are siblings. They both end in heartbreak and twelve packs of ramen.

So you ride the elevator with him and watch the lights flicker. You never cared when Jihoon brought his friends (well, Jun) over, but the carpets that look dirty no matter how many times they’re cleaned and beige walls are even worse tonight. You can stand to live in a boring apartment, but not a dirty one.

“This is me,” you say, gesturing to 808. You turn your back on the door, facing Soonyoung instead. He looks radiant under the fluorescent hallway lights, which really isn’t fair. They make his bleach blonde hair look natural, highlight the blemishes on his skin, easy to see when he’s this close.

You should go inside and he should go back down but neither of you move. For the second time tonight, you are frozen in time with Soonyoung.

The floor creaks and you jump, turning around at the same time, accidentally knocking into Soonyoung’s chest as you turn to face the noise behind you. Jihoon, gym bag over his shoulder, frowns at you across the hallway.

“Are you seriously just getting back now?”

Shit. You never texted him. “Um, Jihoon, this is Soonyoung,” you say. He waves behind you. “Soonyoung, Jihoon.”

Jihoon folds his arms. “I’ve heard about you.” You glare at him, which he ignores. “You’re taking the LSAT on a dare?”

“You’re the one that wants to be a music producer?”

Jihoon raises his eyebrows and looks at you. “You’ve mentioned me?”

“Only the worst,” you say, smiling at him.

“I thought you were at the library all night?” Jihoon says.

“We went on an adventure,” you say. You show him your sandy shoes. He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. It’s clear he knows he interrupted something, but the stubborn asshole doesn’t move.

You turn back to Soonyoung. “Goodnight,” you say, resisting the urge to hug him.

“It’s morning,” Jihoon says.

“Goodnight,” Soonyoung says, glancing at Jihoon. He pauses and fidgets with the hem of his shirt but finally gives you a half hug that feels more like a bro hug than anything else. He disappears into the elevator then pops his head out a final time “Send me the photos!”

You turn to Jihoon. “I forgot to text you.”

“I figured I’d wait until the morning to call,” he said. “Even if you were kidnapped there’s still a 90% chance you’d figure out a way to show up for class on time.” He turns the key in the lock and strides into the apartment. You’re too tired to argue back, especially when he’s right, so you just follow him into the apartment.

“I like him,” Jihoon says before you vanish into your room.

“Should I find you a wedding dress?” You say. “Soonyoung is single.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes and grabs a protein shake from the fridge. “Why do I even bother?”

You don’t wait for him to leave first, peeling your shoes off in the entryway where you can sweep up the sand and practically fall into your room. It’s race to change into an old t-shirt before you collapse onto your bed.

You set an alarm for 8:30 and check fifty times to make sure it’s actually set. Then you open your camera roll, shaking your head at the countless pictures. You choose twenty non-blurry ones before your eyes start to droop. You scroll to the bottom and click on the pictures Joshua took. Soonyoung grins for the camera, his easy smile as captivating on your phone as it is in person. You are staring at him, a soft smile on your lips and hearts practically bugging out of your eyes. It’s so ridiculously obvious how you feel. You send him his thirst traps and keep that picture for yourself.

It takes a week for you to realize Soonyoung never posted the pictures.

The weight of the world has the decency to wait until you’re home to fall on your shoulders. You hold your keys up and can’t push it into the lock. If you didn’t do well today, it means the past two months have been a complete waste–all the studying, the assignments you got low grades on because you were studying, the nights you spent at your desk–wasted and doomed to repeat.

All but the time you spent with Soonyoung. Even if you fail (again), he should at least score decently, and you can’t consider that a complete waste.

You raise your key to insert it into the lock but the door flies open. Jihoon glares at you, arms folded over his chest. “What the hell is taking you so long, your boyfriend is here.”

You peer past him and find Soonyoung lounging on the couch, feet resting on the coffee table. He sits up when he sees you, grinning and waving. You wonder if he’s been there since you told him you were finished. You make a mental note to get Jihoon his favorite protein shakes.

“How did you know I was here?”

“Me and your boyfriend heard you shaking your keys in front of the door for like twenty minutes,” Jihoon says.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you mutter, praying Soonyoung didn’t hear either of you. You push past Jihoon, letting him lock the door behind you. Soonyoung jumps off the couch as soon as you drop your bag, almost tackling you in a hug. You pretend not to hear Jihoon’s scoff as he locks himself in his room again.

“How’d it go?” He asks, squeezing you one more time before letting go. You try not to feel disappointed about it. “I mean, I know you did amazing, but how do you feel? Was the room super hot or super cold? Did the proctor give you the evil eye when you turned in your paper because they were secretly trying to sabotage you?”

“No?” You frown. “And the room was fine, I felt pretty good about it, but I felt good last time, so I don’t really know, I just really don’t want to take it again.” You sigh. “I know you want to know as many details as possible for your test, but I really, really don’t want to think about it right now.”

Soonyoung grins and pulls out a package of White Claws and a bottle of vodka from a plastic bag that you just noticed sitting on your coffee table. “That’s perfect because I brought a gift from the whole frat.”

“That seems pretty on brand,” you say.

“And a gift from me.” He digs again and pulls out a DVD. Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

“You’re kidding.” You say. “I think I have to be drunk to watch that.”

“You don’t have faith in my taste in movies?” Soonyoung asks but he pops open the first drink and slips something shaped concerningly like a knife out of his pocket and stabs the can, chugging it before it can really spill on your carpet. Before you can register what he did, he tosses the empty can on the coffee table, immediately scrambling to straighten it. “Sorry, force of habit.”

“Soonyoung, I don’t think I can keep up with you,” you say, sitting slowly onto the couch.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m a lightweight,” he says. “I definitely should not have chugged that.”

“I guess I better catch up,” you say, unscrewing the vodka and pouring a shot in the little paper cups that Soonyoung brought. The acrid scent curls your lip but you knock it back as fast as you can, forcing it down when you miss the back of your throat and it burns your tongue. Soonyoung hands you a can, the lime flavored seltzer pushing the nasty flavor out of your mouth.

“Yeah, I’m terrible at that,” you say.

Soonyoung shrugs. “I’m not one to judge. You should have seen me as a pledge.”

You grin at the mental image of Soonyoung wearing a fake toga made of bedsheets. “I bet you were adorable.” You take another sip of the drink (which tastes significantly worse when you aren’t comparing it to straight vodka) and miss Soonyoung scrambling for words.

“I can’t drink this,” you declare, setting the can down. You cross the room to the fridge, opening it and studying the contents. Soonyoung follows you, resting his chin on the door and glancing inside.

“Jihoon does most of the cooking,” you say, feeling self-conscious. Not much populates your fridge, a package of chicken breast and a carton of eggs. A couple containers of take out that are either two days or two weeks old sit in front, and the drawer of fruit that is filled with apples from Jihoon’s mother definitely smells funny.

“I live in a frat house, this is heaven.”

You flash him a smile and grab the orange juice, shaking it as you grab a glass from the cabinet (thank god Jihoon did the dishes last night). Soonyoung follows you back to the couch and waits for you to pour a glass and add two shots of vodka. You raise the glass and he takes your rejected White Claw and clinks it.

“Cheers,” he says, sipping this one instead of chugging it. He sets it down and leans against the armrest so that he can face you. “How did you meet Jihoon, by the way? He seems like a pretty reserved dude.”

“Yeah, sorry if he was short with you, he isn’t half as mean as he pretends to be,” you say.

“We actually talked a lot.” He pauses, tilting his head as he thinks about it. “Well, a lot about working out. I think I could turn him into my gym buddy with enough pressure.”

“I would pay to see that,” you say. Jihoon tried to bring you to the gym exactly once, and you have regretted it ever since. The soreness haunts you, but you think Soonyoung might be one of the few people on the planet that could keep up with him with those arms.

“I didn’t know you were into that,” Soonyoung says with a giggle. You roll your eyes.

“You know for a fact that’s not what I meant,” you say, “and to answer your question, we lived in the same dorm freshman year. He was next door, and both our roommates were psychotic, so we ended up trading. We’ve been living together ever since because I’m the only one that can put up with his annoying ass. Also he cooks and keeps me alive during finals.”

“I can’t believe I was a dorm assignment away from living with you.” Soonyoung shakes his head and pretends to sigh. “Fate isn’t on my side.”

“Don’t you live in a frat house?”

“Semantics,” Soonyoung says. He pauses. “Semen-tics.” He starts to laugh and though the joke is far from funny, you find yourself giggling too.

“You’re drunk,” you say.

Soonyoung points at you. “I’m pretty sure you’re drunk too.”

You tilt your head from side to side, trying to think at first but the motion feels nice, toeing the line between dizzying and comfortable. Right, you were checking if you were drunk. You have your answer, but you don’t want to stop spinning just yet.

“Do you really want to be a lawyer?” Soonyoung asks. You freeze with your head on your right shoulder, frowning at him. “I mean, like, how do you know?”

“It makes good money,” you say. “Well, corporate law does. Everything going according to plan, I’ll be out of debt before I’m thirty, retiring at 65.”

“But how do you know that’s what you want?” Soonyoung asks. You wonder if he’s asking you or himself. You think about the first day you met him.

It was the first day of your sophomore year, 8 in the morning in the worst classroom in the Armhayer Building at the end of a dead end hallway with no windows. The business program had a required career building course and some cruel administrator decided to make the other available class clash with the other required business class for the year, so half the class was people you were stuck with for the full year. Despite its reputation, the business school at the university seemed to only accept idiots.

You settled for a long semester of biting back your eye rolls and yawning through class, choosing a seat in the front so that at least you won’t have to look at anyone else. And for fifteen minutes, you struggled to keep your eyes open.

Then Soonyoung walked in.

He was out of breath, telling the professor that he got lost several times and someone gave him the wrong directions. You didn’t really pay attention to him until he dropped into the seat next to you. Fully prepared to give him a side eye and judge him for the rest of the semester, Soonyoung flashed a smile at you and apologized for disrupting you. He was so obviously not your type, yet when his head dropped on your shoulder, you didn’t wake him up. Two classes later when the professor told the class that you would be in a semester-long partner project, you didn’t hesitate to say yes when Soonyoung asked you.

Soonyoung hadn’t ever taken the class seriously, going through the motions and doing the bare minimum for most of the assignments. You never paid any attention to it, but you realize that he never actually told you what he planned to do with his life, always asking you what you planned to do with your copious amounts of money. Now you wonder if it was because he really doesn’t know.

“I want stability,” you finally say. “This plan is stable. Safe, as long as everything goes according to plan. I guess it’s not as cool as dreaming about being an astronaut or whatever, but it’s what I want.”

“I think it’s cool. Knowing what you want to do.” Soonyoung says with little enthusiasm.

“You don’t have any idea?”

He shrugs. “I have to be smart to do the things I want to do.”

“You are smart.”

“You don’t have to pander to me, I’m not looking for your pity.”

“Soonyoung.” You wait for him to look you in the eyes. “You are smart. This isn’t pity. Sure it takes you a little longer to read things, and you have to work a little harder to answer some questions, but that doesn’t mean you’re not smart. You’re just as capable as me, more capable when it comes to emotional intelligence. Have you ever noticed that wherever you go, someone is always waving to you? I don’t think there’s a single person in this world that doesn’t like you. Don’t downplay how important that is.”

He chews on his lip and you know he doesn’t believe you. How many people have told him he’s dumb? You want to drag every single one of them here and make them apologize, make them realize how special the boy in front of you is. Eventually he shrugs. “I’ll just end up being an intern, and then I’ll be so charming they’ll promote me without realizing I don’t know what I’m doing and I’ll become a CEO that pays people to do the job for me.”

You smile and shake your head. “We can vacation together in the Bahamas.”

“Please, that’s where the semi-rich people go,” Soonyoung says, lifting his head from the back of the couch. “We’ll have our own islands and sail past each other.” This time when he smiles, the sparkle glints, just a little. His bleach blonde hair sticks in strange angles from rubbing against the couch, looking a little like a fuzzball. You reach a hand out and pat it down, except the hair is fried from being bleached so many times and almost breaks under your hand.

When you pull your hand down, Soonyoung is staring at you. Except staring isn’t the right word. He looks at you like no one else ever has, a thousand unsaid words behind his eyes, a language like no other that maybe only you can understand. Those dark eyes, so soft and warm, begging you to drown in them. He’s a siren, luring you in with a song of desire that only you can hear.

You don’t realize you’ve leaning closer until you fall forward, catching yourself on his chest. Soonyoung’s hand flies to your waist, moving so fast it must have been reflex.

“Sorry,” you mutter but you don’t get off him. Resisting his eyes from this close is impossible. Soonyoung blinks at you, frozen. It occurs to you that you’re almost kissing him. All you have to do is lean forward, press your lips against his. Would his lips be chapped? Would he kiss you back? Would he make fun of you for being a terrible kisser? You hold your breath, wondering if you are about to find out.

You jump at the bang of a door slamming shut. You push off Soonyoung’s chest, back to your side of the couch until your back slams against the armrest. The pain is almost enough to sober you up and you realize exactly what you were about to do. You can’t bear to look at Soonyoung staring at you so you look at Jihoon instead, who doesn’t seem to realize that he interrupted anything by walking into the kitchen, headphones blasting music so loud that you can hear it. He grabs one of the takeout containers from the fridge and finally notices you and Soonyoung staring at him.

“What?” He shouts over his headphones. You shake your head and he stares at you all the way back to his room, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force to make you jump again.

“We should probably start the movie,” you say, turning to face forward, anywhere but Soonyoung. “I’ll get my laptop.” He doesn’t say anything but you can feel Soonyoung’s eyes on you as you jump up. Ignoring the spinning in your head, you walk to your room. You lean against the door as soon as it shuts behind you, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath.

You wish you could blame the idiocy on the alcohol, but you aren’t drunk enough for that. Besides, regardless of the reason, it was a mistake, it would be a mistake, to kiss Soonyoung. No matter how badly you want to do it.

Your computer sits on your desk. The longer it takes for you to get back, the stranger it will be, so you grab it and return to the couch. Dizziness gives you an excuse to peer at the floor, perfectly valid reason to avoid Soonyoung’s eyes.

“Are you ready to have your mind blown?” He asks when you insert the DVD into your laptop.

You raise your eyebrows but still don’t have the courage to face him. “It’s that good?”

Soonyoung laughs easily, as if nothing happened. “You have no idea what you’re in for.”

You peek at him from the corner of your eye. He faces the computer, sitting back against the couch. Other than his red tinted cheeks, you can’t tell he’s drunk at all. You have no idea what you’re in for, he said. He has no idea how right he is.

You hold Soonyoung by the shoulders, staring him down. Your eyes begin to water but you hold them open, determined not to lose. Soonyoung squints, tears forming in the corner of his eyes. You just have to hold out a little longer, but your eyes begin to ache and the air pierces into them.

“Damn!” Soonyoung cries, throwing himself back onto the couch and squeezing his eyes shut. You let go of his shoulders and resist the urge to rub your eyes, settling for blinking as fast as humanly possible. Your eyes burn but you smile anyways, wiping tears away with the back of your hand.

“How are you so good at that?” Soonyoung asks. He gives into the impulse, hands pressed against his eyes.

“I’m really not, I think you’re just bad at staring contests,” you say. “Now hurry up, you lost so you have to answer.”

He sighs as if he didn’t beg you to help him study. With only a day before his test, you’re not sure how much this is really helping, but at least he isn’t partying with the rest of his frat (who do a pre-finals bar crawl, apparently). Instead, Soonyoung is on your couch, again. You try not to think about the last time he was here. Not productive thoughts, especially not when Soonyoung is one day away from taking the most important test of his life.

“Is it B?”

“Are you asking or telling?”

“I hate when you say that.” He peers at the paper, eyes moving slowly as he rereads the line. “No, it’s C! Wait, no, B. No, A!”

“Pick an answer.”

He chews on his lip. You have to force yourself to keep your focus on his eyes. “B,” he finally says.

You’re tempted to drag it out and make him wait but he puts on the Soonyoung Sparkle so you go ahead and nod.

“I knew it! Trust your gut!”

“You’re quoting me now.” You pretend to wipe tears from the corner of your eyes. “You’ve grown up so quickly.”

If it were Jihoon, he’d roll his eyes but Soonyoung perks up, as if you’ve given him a real compliment. He pauses before asking his next question, eyes flickering to the papers separating you from him.

“You really think I’ll do well?” He asks softly.

You study him, the way his unnaturally blonde hair has been strategically gelled to stick up in all the right places, the way his plain white t-shirt hangs loose on his shoulders. You wonder what he sees when he looks in the mirror because the way he sits now, waiting for an answer as if you’d actually say no, breaks your heart a little. He really has no idea how brilliant he is, in every sense of the word. You don’t know how to make him see it so you just take his hand and wait for him to look you in the eyes.

The second the glittering dark irises meet yours, you see the desperation. He tries to smile, to hide the fear but Soonyoung has always been easy to read. You fight the urge to brush your fingers against his cheek.

“Soonyoung.” You squeeze his hand. What you feel isn’t a passing crush, you’ve known that for a while now. Admitting it doesn’t give you the bravery to do anything except pull the shield of cowardice around your heart a little tighter. “I’d be an idiot if I said I didn’t.”

He holds your gaze a little longer, until it almost looks like he believes you. Then his eyes light up. “I have a surprise for you!”

He digs into his backpack, pulling out a blanket (not the one he used when it was still warm enough to sit outside in the grass), a plastic water bottle half-full of bright green liquid, three crumpled flyers for events on campus, and finally, a small rectangular item, carefully wrapped in paper towels.

“I was a little worried it would get damaged in my backpack,” he says. “I really, really tried to walk gently and didn’t bring it near any coffee.”

You choose not to point out the unnatural liquid in the plastic water bottle, instead appreciating his efforts to protect whatever your surprise is. Besides, it’s not like he didn’t try. He carefully pulls the paper towels off, revealing a navy blue leather bound book with gilded lettering. Not just any book.

“You got it back?” You cry. Soonyoung pulls the rest of the paper towels off to reveal the intricate design on the cover, the golden pages, with Pride and Prejudice inscribed on the spine. “My baby!”

You hover over the book, not wanting to ruin it with the dirt and oils from your hands but so desperately wanting to caress the beautiful book. It’s just as you remember it, down to the tiny dent on the front cover where you accidentally knocked it against a railing. You can’t wait to put it back on your bookshelf where there has been an empty space ever since Jun managed to snag it. You remember Soonyoung is there when you hear his laughter.

“You like it that much?”

“Of course,” you say. “It’s my baby.”

“It’s a book.” But he smiles and you know he’s just teasing. So you figure, why not?

You throw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. His frat-bro instincts must take charge because he doesn’t hesitate to hug you back, pulling you against his chest and squeezing you like he’s the one getting a gift.

“Thank you,” you say. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“This is my thank you,” he says. You can feel his voice rumbling in his chest, a strange sensation that sends butterflies tumbling around between your stomach and your heart. “It’s the least I could do for you.

The awkward position isn’t exactly comfortable, twisting your body to face him with your shoulder overtop of his forcing your face into his neck but you don’t want to let go. You give yourself five more thundering heartbeats before you let go, turning to study your book again so you have an excuse to avoid his eyes.

“How did you get it back?”

“Same way you lost it,” Soonyoung says. “I made a bet.”

“On what?”

Soonyoung shrugs, turning to look at the book that still sits in his lip. He gently places it into yours, using the paper towels to prevent smudging with his fingers.

You frown. “How? Jun is in another hemisphere.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of video calls and express shipping,” Soonyoung says. “By the way, I’m wearing your friends down. Pretty soon they’ll like me more than they like you.

“Oh really?” You raise your eyebrow. You ignore the vole gnawing at your gut whispering that he might just be right.

“I got Jihoon to go to the gym with me and I got him to admit I was friends with you before he was,” he says, holding a finger out. “Jun says that he wants to meet me the second he returns to the country.” A second finger goes up. “Who else can I add to the list?”

He’s only joking. He doesn’t mean it the way it sounds, but your skin wants to crawl inside out. The truth is, they are pretty much your only friends. Jihoon, Jun, and Soonyoung, the latter two having wormed their way into your life. My only friends.

“You’ve got to start going on the offensive,” Soonyoung says. He avoids your eyes and you know he didn’t miss your discomfort. Great, now he pities you. “I’m serious, Seokmin and Joshua have been asking about you, and Seungcheol keeps complaining that he hasn’t met you yet.”

You snort. “They’re frat bros, they just want more people to party with.”

“I’m a frat bro,” he says.

“Yeah, but…” But what? He’s Soonyoung? Once again, you wonder why he is so different to you–why the epitome of frat boy chaos doesn’t repulse you like he should. But he isn’t some one-dimensional steroid-infused party boy, not the type to bully the freshman trying to join just because he can. He gets drunk after two shots and makes his pledges follow him for 24 hours a day as “hazing,” only to take them for a dinner he can’t afford and skips his own classes so they don’t miss theirs.

He’s not a typical frat boy. But Soonyoung loves his frat, and you can’t find a way to tell him this without making it sound like you are looking down on the rest of the members.

So you just say, “Isn’t this supposed to be a study session?”

Soonyoung sighs, pulling the book in front of him and staring at the words. Even though you can see that he isn’t reading, he doesn’t say anything else.

“Your test is tomorrow,” you say.

“Yeah, I know.” He doesn’t pick up the pencil.

You’ve never struggled to read Soonyoung. He can’t hide when he’s upset, shoulders slumping, a little pout forming over his lips. He doesn’t fully frown but his eyebrows comes together, just a bit. And it’s usually easy to figure out what’s wrong–he’s tired, or wants to be at a party instead of studying. But now? He was fine just a moment ago, even while he was cramming earlier.

“Is something wrong?” You don’t know why you’re so scared of the answer.

“I just thought that… nNever mind.” He sighs again. “You’re right, this is a study session. I should be studying.” He doesn’t look at you and you can’t help but feel like you messed up. But Soonyoung eventually picks up his pencil and asks you to check his answers and the feeling slowly fades.

Will the rest of your feelings fade when you aren’t with him like this anymore? When he takes his test and has no reason to see you every day? Will your heart still beat at the mention of his name? Will you spend the rest of your life thinking about all the almosts with him? Or will it fade until Soonyoung is just a boy that you helped because of a silly bet?

Even as you consider it, you know the answer. He isn’t just a boy, and he never will be. Maybe that’s what really scares you.

You glare at Soonyoung. “Do you know what time it is?”

Jihoon glances at his watch. “7:43.”

Soonyoung grins beside him, arm over his shoulder. Both boys stand in your bedroom doorway looking far too composed for this ungodly hour.

“It’s a Saturday.” Just two minutes ago you were in blissful sleep. Okay, maybe not blissful, since you stayed up until three in the morning because you couldn’t fall asleep, and you were having a weird dream where you were looking for something and ended up by the stadium staring at a giant duck statue instead of the raven. But the point is you were asleep until two fists banged on your door so loud you thought it was going to fall apart.

You can’t even be that mad at Soonyoung, not when he smiles like that. So you glare at Jihoon.

“Honestly, I figured you would be up,” he says. “You were the one that said you didn’t think you were going to get any sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” Soonyoung says. “I really just wanted to help distract you for the last hour.” Right. The last hour until your entire future would be determined by a triple digit number. No biggie.

“Let me get dressed,” you say. They step back before you have the chance to slam the door in their face. You’d like to be able to dress up nicely, but you’re already shivering, so you grab your comfiest sweatpants and the sweatshirt Soonyoung lent you (that still smells like his cologne). You dart into the bathroom and meet the two boys in the doorway of the apartment, pulling on your sneakers.

You pull the hood over your messy hair and tighten the strings. Soonyoung grins at you and taps your nose.

“Ready to go?”

“How did you get out of bed this early?”

“Oh, I never got in,” he says. “Long story, but we gotta go, they won’t wait much longer.”

“They?” You ask but Soonyoung doesn’t hear you. He turns to Jihoon, waving.

“See you tomorrow!” He says, throwing an arm over your shoulders to pull you out the door. “I’ll let you know how it goes!”

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” But he looks at you and smiles. “It’ll be fine.” Before you can thank him, he shuts the door.

Soonyoung doesn’t let go of your side, pulling you to the elevators and squeezing you against him. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I should be asleep.”

Soonyoung smiles, as if your grumpiness is funny. You decide it’s moot since there’s no way you could fall asleep now that you are an hour and seven minutes away from finding out the results of your future.

“I figured I’d save you from wallowing in worry,” Soonyoung says. “We can do fun things while we wait. I planned out the whole morning, we have options! There’s going to the gym, or for a job around campus, breaking into the science lab and petting the rabbits, going to Barb’s for breakfast–”

“Breakfast,” you say. You aren’t a huge fan of getting in trouble with the college when you have just over a semester before graduation and though you aren’t sure if your stomach will accept food, working out is a guarantee for throwing up. Besides, a hot cup of coffee could clear a little of the fog in your brain.

“Barb’s it is,” Soonyoung says, practically bouncing on his toes. He really seems to only have two settings, and today he’s at 120%.

He lets go of your side when the elevator opens and you step to the ground floor of your apartment. You rub your arms and pretend like the chill is from the weather even though the lobby is still warm. He holds the door for you pretending to be a doorman, bowing and gesturing with his arm for you to pass. You turn so that he doesn’t see that the silly gesture made you smile.

Parked outside is a white jeep that looks larger than normal, and is apparently the asshole that’s been blasting their music for the past ten minutes. You aren’t surprised in the slightest when Soonyoung strides up to the car.

“I don’t have a car,” he says, belatedly apologetic. The two men in the front seat don’t seem to mind, though you suspect they have been up all night along with Soonyoung as soon as the door opens and you hear their voices singing off-tune over the blasting music.

“Boy, you got my heartbeat runnin' away,” The driver cries, using a water bottle as a mic. You recognize Seungcheol from Soonyoung’s descriptions, half from his voice and half from the back of his head. The person riding shotgun is also familiar, a mess of dark hair that must be Joshua. He doesn’t look much different in daylight, sunglasses resting on his forehead. Thankfully they turn the music down a little and stop singing when you get it.

Seungcheol grins at you through the mirror. “So I finally get to meet the infamous YN. You know, you still haven’t shown up to any parties.”

“I’ve been busy,” you say, glancing at Soonyoung who focuses a little too much on his seatbelt.

“Hi, YN,” the passenger up front says, waving at you through the rearview mirror.

“Joshua,” you say. “Get into life and death scenarios with Soonyoung recently?”

“Well, Soonyoung jumped out of a car window.” He pauses. “It wasn’t moving,” he adds when Seungcheol jerks his head towards him. “Though I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“I have done it before,” Soonyoung says solemnly. It takes him a moment to realize everyone is staring at him. “It was a dare.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Seungcheol grumbles, turning back around and putting the car into drive. Though you were thinking something along the same lines, the way Soonyoung deflates a little makes you wish Seungcheol hadn’t said anything.

The rest of the drive is quiet–at least in terms of conversation. Seungcheol cranks his stereo up to the loudest setting and blasts the Spice Girls until Joshua starts singing along. Apparently car karaoke for “Wannabe” is sacrilegious to the frat leader.

You can hear yourself think again when the car pulls into the parking lot and he finally cuts the engine. A few cars line the parking lot of the 24 hour diner that sits on the outskirts of campus. The giant neon red Barb’s that hangs over the entrance flickers in the cloudy morning light teeters the line between quaint and electrical fire waiting to happen.

The workers, a host and three waitresses, wave at the boys, and do a double take at you. You swear you hear the host whisper “Is that really them?” to Joshua as he leads the group to a table in the corner but Soonyoung distracts you with the menu.

“I had this thing memorized since freshman year, I can’t believe you’ve never been here. The pancakes are my favorite for hangover cures, not that I’m hungover by the way, I’m actually running on my third energy drink.” He taps the picture, a golden stack of perfectly fluffy pancakes that can only be photoshop.

“Aren’t energy drinks bad for your heart?”

Soonyoung shrugs. “Joshua invented this to get through finals, you mix Red Bull, Bang, and Coke and it keeps you up for three days straight. Great for when you’re nervous because you physically have to do something about it.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” you say. “Wait, why are you nervous?”

“Your test results come out today,” he says too quickly.

You consider debating with him but a waitress approaches, wearing a fifties frock and a high ponytail with a ribbon that probably looked like a bow at the start of her shift but has drooped down and now just looks sad. Her face is a mask of emotions, not a smile, not a frown, just emptiness, a contrast to the button clipped to her collar making her “Happy.”

“The usual?” She asks, pausing at you. She tilts her head and you can see the mask twisting at the edges, a frown almost forming on her brow. She glances at Soonyoung. “Is this who I think it is?”

“Who do you think it is?” Soonyoung asks at the same time that Joshua and Seungcheol say, “Yes.”

The corner of Happy’s lips turn into a tiny smile that seems to be her equivalent of a grin. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Okay, haha, very funny,” Soonyoung says. “Stop harassing my friend. We’ll order when we have a chance to look at the menu.”

Happy raises her eyebrow just slightly at the word “friend,” but closes her notepad. She returns to a pastel pink bar where you can clearly see her whispering and gesturing to you.

“Why do so many people know me?” You mutter, shrinking into the corner of the booth.

“The thing about Drunk Soonyoung is that he doesn’t really shut up,” Seungcheol says.

“That’s being gentle,” Joshua says. “One time he spent four hours describing Finding Nemo. That’s longer than the actual movie.”

“It’s a good movie,” Soonyoung says.

“The point is,” Seungcheol says, glaring at Joshua, “he tends to talk when he’s drunk. Usually about good things, things that he… Well, things that he likes.”

You turn your head to look at Soonyoung, who is once again pretending to study the menu. “You like studying for the LSAT that much?”

Joshua unsuccessfully tries to hide his laugh with a snort while Seungcheol gains slightly more success with a fake cough. Soonyoung doesn’t react at all, staring at the painted flowers on the menu. Eventually, he shrugs. “I’m dedicated to the bet.” He points at a stack of pancakes covered in bananas and chocolate. “That’s what I usually get.”

“Isn’t against all rules of gym core and muscle building to eat decadent things?”

“Did you just call working out ‘gym core?’” Seungcheol asks.

“Am I wrong?”

“Nope!” Soonyoung says brightly. “And cheat days are a thing, so do you want to split it or not?”

“You know I can’t say no to bananas and chocolate.”

“And pancakes!” He waves down the waitress and points to the stack.

“Ah, the new Soonyoung,” she says. “You guys getting your actual usual?”

Joshua and Seungcheol nod and she doesn’t bother to write any of it down. Then again she already knows their orders. Except she called Soonyoung’s “new.” Before you can ask what she meant, a shout makes you jump. You turn around to see a stream of boys entering, enough of whom you recognize that you realize at least half the frat has rolled into the diner. The waitresses roll their eyes and groan but somehow they don’t look all that upset.

“Mr. President!” The tallest boy, Johnny according to Soonyoung’s Instagram tags, holds a fist over his heart and pounds it a couple times. Seungcheol nods and greets each of the boys, most of whom seem to still be in various stages of inebriation. Almost all of them glance at you and whisper to each other, and you get the feeling they know exactly who you are.

Just what has Soonyoung said about you?

“How are we doing on time?” One of them calls out.

“46 minutes,” Joshua says. You frown. 46 minutes… until 9? Do they all know about today?

You tap Soonyoung on the arm. “What’s going on?”

“You see, the thing is,” he says, “apparently I was nervous?” He tries to fake a laugh but it sounds strained. “I don’t really know but the guys made me tell them about today and then I didn’t really know what was happening but I guess they followed us here? Thought you might like moral support, or something.”

You peek out at the booths crowded with frat bros and cringe back into your seat when they grin at you. “They’re all looking at me.”

“Well, I guess I do talk about you a lot,” he says, only loud enough for you to hear. He won’t meet your eyes.

Ask him why. You want to be brave. You want to be right about the answer you think he’ll give you. You chew the inside of your cheek.

“Because of the bet?”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer for a moment. “I guess.”

Coward.

“Why are we whispering?” Joshua asks, leaning across Soonyoung towards you. “Are we gossiping?”

Soonyoung pushes him off. “Butt out.”

“Just telling Soonyoung that I’ve never had an army of drunk guys rooting for me before,” you say.

“Could have had it sooner if you came to a party,” Seungcheol says.

“You really want me at a party that bad? We just met.”

Seungcheol glances at Soonyoung, who shakes his head. He sighs. “If only I could tell you why you need to come.”

You frown between the three men. “I don’t like when people talk in circles over me.”

“Just promise you’ll come to the Christmas party. It’ll all make sense then,” Seungcheol says. You’ve heard a lot about Seungcheol from Soonyoung, and the more you listen to him, the more you believe it. He’s a strange man.

“I’ll think about making an appearance.”

“Really?” Soonyoung whips around to face you and you know that you have to come now. You haven’t seen him this excited since you let him skip studying to party. No, he’s even more excited now. “You’ll come?”

You can’t stand his gaze so you study the placemats. “Maybe.”

He grabs your hand until you meet his eyes. “Please?”

The Soonyoung Sparkle. You never win against it. “Fine.”

“Get a room,” Joshua says behind a very fake cough. You pull your hand back into your lap and pretend like you aren’t embarrassed.

“How long now?” You shout out.

“40 minutes,” someone answers. You groan and lean back into the sofa. Studying was hard enough but waiting makes you want to pull out each individual hair on your head. You stare at the ceiling, trying to decide if the stain looks more like a horse or a flower.

“Look at this.” Soonyoung passes his phone in front of you, forcing you to look down. His Instagram is open to a picture of a kitten looking drunk, face covered in milk. Such and obvious attempt to distract you but you smile anyway.

“Sweet,” you say and even you aren’t sure if you mean the cat or Soonyoung. He shows you cat pictures until the food finally arrives (33 minutes to go). You have to wait another five minutes because Soonyoung insists on having a photoshoot, despite your protests that you look like you just woke up (he raises his eyebrows at that). You stop fighting when Joshua makes him cut a piece of the pancake and feed it to you. Chocolate nearly drops in your lap but Soonyoung shoots his hand out at the last second and catches it.

“Okay, can we please just eat,” you say. Joshua and Seungcheol shrug and pretend like they weren’t instigating the pictures and telling you and Soonyoung how to pose.

Soonyoung was right about the bananas and chocolate. Rich and decadent, they’re delicious. When he cuts you a slice and pushes it toward you, you can even forget the countdown to the end of the world. Or, more accurately, the end of the world doesn’t mean anything to you when Soonyoung smiles at you like that.

You eat slowly enough to bring you to the ten minute mark. Fear mixes with the dessert for breakfast in your stomach, twisting it until it threatens to jump out of your throat. Soonyoung takes your hand under the table and holds it. You don’t run away this time.

He holds you to the planet again, keeps you from floating away and disappearing before you can reach the stars. It’s Soonyoung that keeps your heart beating. Always Soonyoung.

Seungcheol and Joshua chat, Soonyoung piping in a few times, but their words don’t reach you. Stuck somewhere between crushed beneath the weight of the world and floating away, you focus on the clock, watching the seconds tick closer and closer.

“Last minute!” Someone behind you finally shouts. Soonyoung squeezes your hand. You pull up the website on your phone and put in your login information and hover over the SUBMIT. At thirty seconds, they start shouting it out.

“Ten!”

“Nine!”

“Eight!”

“Seven!”

“Six!”

“Five!”

“Four!”

“Three!”

“Two!”

“One!”

Half the guys start cheering already, probably forgetting the count down doesn’t mean as much as the results themselves. You hit SUBMIT and watch the little wheel spin around and around and around until it finally refreshes. The number stares back at you, impossible to read right in front of you.

169.

“Congratulations!” Soonyoung shouts, throwing his arms around you and squeezing while you try to comprehend what that means. 169. The number should be all you can think about but Soonyoung holds you, shouting how proud he is, how he always believed in you.

“169!” Seungcheol shouts, miles away from your bubble. You can hear the guys break out into cheers, hear them chanting the number (which turns into 69) but it’s just you and Soonyoung. The world didn’t end and Soonyoung is still by your side.

The rest of the morning is a blur. Every member of the frat insists on congratulating you, which mostly means a lot of hugs, though one of the more drunk guys tried to spin you around on his shoulder. You laugh when you’d usually frown and find your way back to Soonyoung’s side like a magnet.

Maybe it’s the euphoria that gives you courage.

“Hey Soonyoung?”

“Hm?”

You say it before you can think too much. “Maybe just the two of us next time?”

He grins before you can finish speaking. “I’d love that.”

You have the courtesy to let Soonyoung sleep in as much as he wants. You wait for him at Barb’s, trying to figure out how to call this a date.

You’ve seen him a couple times since you got your score back, but you needed to study for finals and he had to make up for missing a lot of frat activities. You’ve only seen him in passing, nothing to fill the Soonyoung shaped hole in your heart. But today that will change. You will celebrate together and you will tell him how you feel. And then… you have no idea.

It’s just Soonyoung there’s nothing to be nervous about. Too bad your body doesn’t agree with you. Every nerve stands at attention, jumping at the bell that rings when the door opens. You don’t worry when Soonyoung doesn’t get to Barb’s by 8:30 like he said he would. Even at 8:45, you aren’t worried.

It’s only at 8:55 that you really start to wonder where he is. Maybe you should have picked him up. Knowing him, there’s a 50% chance he’s lying in a ditch after a failed attempt to recreate an impossible stunt from Fast and Furious. At 9, you call him. Between each silence in the ring, you wait for his voice but it never comes. He uses the automated voicemail, so you don’t even get his voice telling you to leave a message.

The anxiety turns to fear while you wait. The door rings and you see a fluff of bleach blonde hair and jump up. But though you recognize the face, it isn’t Soonyoung.

Chan, one of the younger members of the frat, with Mingyu and a guy whose name you forgot. They all have the same look in their eyes when they see you, far too much like pity.

“You’re YN, right?” Mingyu asks. “You’re supposed to meet Soonyoung?” The two guys with him, easily identifiable as frat members between their unkempt hair and sweatshirts plastered with Greek letters, stop mid conversation and glance at each other.

“Is he okay?” You ask, still standing in the awkward position in the booth.

“He’s got his score back,” Mingyu says.

“We were supposed to–”

“Yeah, I know,” Mingyu says. “It was a 167. You should really talk to him yourself.” He pauses, glancing at his frat brothers but they shrug. “He’s at the house. See if you can talk some sense into him.”

You’re too afraid to ask any other questions so you just watch Mingyu and the other two walk past, and pretend that they aren’t whispering and stealing glances at you.

Going to a frat house was never on your bucket list but your feet travel without guidance. You find yourself in front of a rather nondescript house. No bodies hang out from windows, no one is passed out in the yard. Then again it’s a weekday.

You pause at the door, wondering if you should knock. You tap your hand on the door and it slides open, the latch bolt pushed completely in. You step inside tentatively, peeking around but it’s quiet. You turn the corner to find an open room and Soonyoung sitting on a couch, glass with a bright liquid in his hand. He doesn’t even look at you.

“Are you seriously drunk right now?”

Soonyoung just shrugs, taking another sip from the glass. Even from here you can smell that it’s more tequila than fruit punch.

You shake your head, crossing the room sitting beside him even though he didn’t invite you to sit down. He was considerably cuter the last time you saw him drunk. You’ve gotten used to the power of Soonyoung’s facial expressions, his smiles, his frowns, the way his eyes glaze over when he’s bored, the way they gleam when he daydreams; they’re as precious to you as Soonyoung himself. But his face is a clean slate now, not a smile, not a frown, just a blank stare.

“You know a 167 is still insanely good, right?”

He shakes his head.

“Soonyoung.” He doesn’t look at you, so you grab his drink. Any other day and you would have failed miserably but his alcohol-impaired senses make him slow enough for you to get a hand on the half-empty glass. He glares at you but you don’t yield, tightening your grip and pulling the bottle even harder.

“Let go,” you growl. “Talk to me like a normal human.”

He shakes his head, pulling on the glass so you yank back, except you overestimate how weak he is like this, and the glass flies out of his hand, the contents spilling all over you. The red liquid sinks into your blue sweater, soaking you through all three layers.

“What the hell?” Soonyoung says.

“That gets your fucking attention? Spilling your drink?” You say. “You know, I really thought you were different.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re acting like a child. So you didn’t win the bet. Who fucking cares? Do you know how hard it is to get higher than a 160? Soonyoung, you are smart, and you worked so hard for this. You could go to law school with that score. You could graduate above a 2.3 if you stopped acting like a stereotypical fuck bro and actually studied.

“You know, you could actually be something if you wanted. You don’t have to get a degree and work at a corporate job that sucks your soul away until the Soonyoung that actually matters is gone. I know it’s easier this way, but if you actually tried to dream, you could do something. I don’t get it, honestly. Because everyone thinks you’re an idiot you act like one? Is that what it is?”

“You don’t have to pretend like you don’t think the same thing.”

You snort. “I don’t, but clearly you won’t believe me. You think that if you have to work for something then it’s not worth it when you could be so much more.”

“Why do you even care?” Soonyoung asks, looking you in the eyes for the first time. For a moment, you think you might actually be wrong, because all you see in his eyes is pain. A physical force that constricts your heart and makes you weak in the knees, Soonyoung looks at you like he’s been fighting a war you never knew about, like he’s been suffering in silence for a lifetime. He looks at you like you’ve broken his heart.

Why do I care? You could scoff. Because I’ve been in love with you ever since you fell asleep on my shoulder. I’ve been fighting this stupid crush for so long that I don’t know who I am without it. I don’t know who I am without you. I care because every day the world proves that we aren’t worthy of this planet, that love can’t solve all problems yet you make me question it all. You don’t just bring light into my life, you make it glitter. And I can’t tell you any of this.

“I don’t know.” The lie tastes bitter but it’s still sweeter than rejection.

“Then why are you here?” Soonyoung looks away. Without his eyes pinning you down, you can breathe again, but every inhale still drags against your heart. You stand up. Afterall, you don’t have an answer for him.

“I take it back. You are an idiot,” you mutter over his head as you walk past him. You make it to the corner of the street before the tears finally spill over your cheeks, and all the way back to your room before you can’t breathe.

Without the distraction of finals, you are left with your own thoughts, your words and Soonyoung’s floating around your head. You have always been something of a hermit but you’ve become J.D. Salinger himself, only leaving your room to sneak into the kitchen and scrounge for scraps of junk food that Jihoon hasn’t thrown away yet. You watch so much reality TV that you start to dream about it.

Every episode the people, a family living on a homestead that just happens to dress in brand name clothes and drive a Benz, fight and cry and make up. You yell at the mother when she forces her daughter to change because she didn’t think polka dots are appropriate and cry along with the daughter when she starts to sniffle in her confessional, wondering if her mother would ever approve of her choices, whether it was clothes or the people she wants to date.

You bet your confessional would be a hit if it was ever filmed. Tears run down your cheeks as you practice it in the mirror, choking out an apology for calling him an idiot and telling the whole world what you aren’t brave enough to tell him.

Jun calls but you can’t answer. He leaves three voicemails: an apology, a goofy one telling you he’ll be back soon, and a final one, yelling at you to pick up or at least let him know you’re alive. You text him an apology you don’t know if you mean. He says thank you anyway and doesn’t call again.

You have no plans to change your schedule (wake up, steal food, cry, sleep) but on the third day you run out of goldfish and can’t find anything in the kitchen that doesn’t make you nauseous. To make matters worse, despite the fact that it’s seven in the morning (the earliest you’ve woken up since the Fight), Jihoon catches you.

You’ve successfully avoided him and his inevitable lecture, slamming your door shut and ignoring his knocks but he catches you off guard today. He sneaks in from his morning workout wearing a black t-shirt and slides that he somehow manages to walk stealthily in, scaring you when you close the fridge and find him standing where the door was.

“Are you done hiding?”

“I’m not hiding,” you mutter.

He folds his arms.

“Fine,” you say. “I’m not done hiding.”

“Well too fucking bad,” Jihoon says. You try to step past him but he holds his arm out. You’ll never beat him in a physical fight so you step back, shaking your head.

“Have it your way. Go ahead.” You wave your hand. “Get it all out. Yell at me or lecture me or whatever, I don’t care. You’re going to tell me that I’m an idiot? That I shouldn’t be so afraid of rejection, that I’m blind to how he feels?

“Or are you going to tell me that I shouldn’t trust someone like him? That I shouldn’t be crying over a goddamn frat boy, I’m better than this, I’m better than him.” You choke back a sob, not sure what words are coming out anymore. You wipe at the tears in your eyes and are so focused on trying not to cry that you don’t notice Jihoon walking away. You do see him come back, blurry shape coming into focus as you blink away the tears. He holds something in his hand, a navy blue square. A throw pillow from the couch?

He shifts it in his hand until he holds the corner with the zipper, swinging it a couple times back and forth. Then he yanks his arm back and arcs the pillow in a wide loop, landing directly on your head.

“Ow!” You cry but Jihoon just swings again, hitting your arm this time. He hits you so hard it knocks you off balance, sending you to the floor. Jihoon doesn’t hesitate, swinging the pillow into you again and again, every inch of you.

“You. Are. An. Idiot.” He grunts out each word with a blow. “You really think you’re better than him?”

He finally pauses, not even breathing heavily. You shake your head to answer him. “Of course not.”

“Good,” he says. Then he hits you again and again and again.

“Ow, Jihoon, what the hell?” You bury your head in your knees and hold your arms over you, trying in vain to protect yourself.

“I’m not your babysitter,” he says. “I’m not your father, or your brother, or any of that shit. I’m your best friend and you’re being an idiot and I’m not going to stop hitting you until you get some sense knocked into you.” He freezes, as if realizing exactly what he said. “Wait, no–that’s not what I mean, shit, sorry, but–”

You peek out from your arms and find Jihoon opening and closing his mouth, trying to figure out what to say. He looks like a fish out of water, and it occurs to you he is a fish out of water. He’s never had to comfort you before, probably never had to comfort anyone. No wonder he’s so bad at it.

You wouldn’t laugh at him and borderline abuse, but your emotions are beyond fried, and he just looks so funny standing over you with a pillow raised, still sputtering half apologies. You try to stop the laugh before it comes out but it turns into a snort and then you can’t stop laughing, tears that you tried to push back falling freely. You lay back on the floor and laugh until your sides hurt, only vaguely aware of Jihoon laughing above you. Eventually he joins you on the floor.

“You know what I meant,” he says. The pillow rests on the floor between his legs, all the fluff on the far end from the one-sided pillow fight.

“I knew what you meant without the pillow.”

“Too bad,” Jihoon says. “I’m tired of listening to the theme song of that god awful show. You could at least watch something like–”

“I swear if you bring up an anime, you’ll feel exactly how hard that pillow can hit.”

Jihoon laughs, patting it a couple times. “I saw him the other day. He looked tired.” He pauses but you don’t dare speak. “We didn’t speak. I don’t even think he saw me. But it doesn’t matter because I’m not the one he needs to talk to.”

“I know,” you say.

“Then why are you still on the floor?”

Because you’re scared. Because it would be easier to just give up now, for once to ignore putting in the hard work and just let it pass. But just because it’s the easy option doesn’t mean it’s the right option. At the very least you need to apologize to him.

“What if he hates me?”

Jihoon snorts. “Then he’ll get some pillow violence too.” He pauses. “He doesn’t, though.”

“It doesn’t mean that it will turn out okay.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Jihoon says. “But no matter what happens, you’ll deal with it. And even if it absolutely sucks in the moment, eventually it will be over, and it sure as hell will be better than that stupid fucking show.”

You nod, setting your chin on your knees. Your stomach turns in anticipation for what you will have to do, but he’s right. It’s time to stop running. Tonight is the Christmas party, and you were never formally uninvited. Somehow you doubt Seungcheol will throw you out. It’s time to get off the floor and get ready.

“Have you ever thought of being a life coach?”

“Hell no.”

What am I doing here? You fake a smile at Seungcheol and swallow the shot as fast as you can, grimacing as the vodka burns everything from the inside of your mouth to the depths of your stomach. You should have just stuck to your mixed drink only policy but Soonyoung always has you breaking your rules. Even when he isn’t with you.

Seungcheol disappears as soon as you take the drink, and you don't see anyone else you are comfortable enough to chat with, though that list is quite short. You do a turn of the house, which looks marginally better than the last time you saw it ,the benefit of bad lighting. It’s already crowded with more people than you’ve ever seen on campus. You make your way through each room on the lower floor, finding more than a couple bleach blondes. None are who you’re looking for. You stop in the living room, where you saw him last.

“He isn’t here.” You turn at the voice. An unfamiliar boy stands next to you, holding a half-empty Smirnoff Ice. “He went to visit family or something.” He pauses, looking you up and down. “At least that’s what he said.”

You nod. You find it doesn’t surprise you that he seems to know who you are. You suppose you’ve grown used to it, just one of the side-effects of being close with Soonyoung. Though it’s still strange, it doesn’t make you uncomfortable anymore. Or it wouldn’t, if you didn’t think this stranger is implying that it’s your fault Soonyoung isn’t at the ‘Party of the Year.’

You can’t stand his gaze so you make your way back towards the drinks, grabbing the first bottle you could find and chugging half of the lukewarm drink. It tastes like a fruit you can’t recognize and carbonation and the more you drink the harder it is to swallow but you force it down.

You came to apologize. He isn’t here, so why do you stay? Because you promised him? Do you really miss him that much? That you would come here and suffer through all this chaos, just for the memory of him? It doesn’t make any sense but you think that might be a side effect of the alcohol. You get another drink just in case you’re still sober.

Your head pounds, the aching feeling of the stage between drunk and sober. Normally you’d like to be sound asleep by now, or at least in the comfort of your home, but you can’t bring yourself to leave. It’s hot and sweaty, the music is way too loud, and you can’t find water anywhere, but you stay anyway, because you’re an idiot that fell in love.

You curl up on the couch, opposite of a couple making out as if the room isn’t full of people, waiting for just a glimpse of him that will never appear. Even drunk, you think it’s pitiful, but you can’t stop.

You didn’t think you could fall asleep in all the noise but you open your eyes when you feel the world tilt sideways. You’re vaguely aware of the arms underneath your legs and back, cradling you against someone’s chest. No, not just someone.

Because you aren’t enough of an idiot, you can tell it’s him, his sweet scent, maybe even just his arms. Soonyoung carries you out of the living room and up the stairs, the blaring music fading only slightly.

“I thought you weren’t here,” you mumble.

Soonyoung frowns down at you. “You okay?”

You shake your head, suddenly realizing there are tears in your eyes. No, I’m not okay, I love you, you want to say. He squeezes you a little tighter, trying to hug you while still carrying you.

With your head resting against his chest, you can fully appreciate his beauty. His hair is black, which suits him even though he looks nothing like your Soonyoung anymore. You reach up and trace the lines of his face that are unchanging, the sharp straight line of his jaw, the gentle curve of his nose, his soft eyebrows. You drop your hand when you realize he’s staring at you, belatedly realizing you never got to his lips. You can only imagine how soft they’d be, soft like Soonyoung himself.

“You’re crying,” Soonyoung says softly. You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or not. He pauses in front of a door, struggling to open it without dropping you. Finally the door swings open and he sets you down on a bed, taking a deep breath and sitting beside you.

He brushes the tears from your eyes, as Soonyoung as ever. Sweet as ever. Sweet and Soonyoung. They should be the same word. You make a mental note to email Merriam-Webster’s dictionary and make the suggestion.

Soonyoung doesn’t say anything, just watching you with those perfect eyes. His hand rests on your face even though the tears are long gone, thumb tracing shapes on your cheek.

“You swore you’d do anything for me,” you say.

“Anything,” Soonyoung repeats.

You turn to the walls, knocking his hand off your cheek, not daring to look him in the eyes. Even drunk, you are a coward. He’s put up pictures on his wall, a couple Polaroids but mostly printed pictures, with the frat, some childhood pictures, and one that you recognize. The picture of the two of you at the beach that you thought you didn’t send, where you are looking at him with all the love in your heart. You trace his smile, blinding even in paper form.

“Could you maybe try loving me back then?” You mumble. Your eyes feel heavy between the alcohol and the tears and you’ve said what you needed to say, so you let them take over, closing your eyes and letting the blasting music from downstairs drown out any thoughts. And because it’s so loud and you’ve already drifted off to sleep, there’s no way you could hear his answer.

“I already do.”

The first thing you do when you wake up is throw up. You make it out of the bed but not to the bathroom, mostly because you don’t actually know where it is. You grab the nearest bucket-shaped item, which happens to be a mostly empty trash can. You lean away as soon as you’re done, breathing through your mouth and looking away from the mess. Belatedly, you realize someone is patting your back, brushing hair out of your face.

“Better?” Soonyoung asks. His knees rests against your lower back, one hand resting on your back, the other caressing your face. Thank god you already threw up because looking at him makes your stomach twist again and if there was anything in you, it would come up again. If you could throw up your heart, you would. As it is, the organ is trying to climb its way up your throat, whether it’s guilt or heartbreak you don’t know.

You nod in answer to his question, letting him help you up. Your head pounds and though you know you won’t throw up again, your stomach flips. Right, your policy of mixed drinks is definitely reinstated after this.

“Sorry I threw up in your trash can,” you say.

“Believe me, that is not the worst that trash can has seen,” Soonyoung says. “Wait, that sounds bad, I didn’t mean it in a weird way, I just mean–” He stops himself, shaking his head. “It’s a frat house.”

“It’s your room,” you say softly. With sober (albeit heavily hungover) eyes, you take in the room again. It’s tiny, one bed pushed against a wall with a desk set right next to it. Unsurprisingly, it’s stacked with protein powder and a pile of frat flyers, laptop balancing off the edge, not a paper in sight. Except for the one next to his bed, the walls are bare, an ugly shade of beige except for a circle filled with white plaster that looks suspiciously like the reformed crime scene of a fist going through drywall. It must be from whoever owned the room before Soonyoung.

The wall next to his bed is covered in pictures. You remember being amazed by them last night. Your eyes zero in on the picture of the two of you, right next to the pillow that’s still dented from your head.

“Did I steal your bed?” You frown except the movement hurts your head.

“I slept in Johnny’s room since he’s decided to disappear off the face of the planet instead of accepting the fact that he graduates next semester,” Soonyoung says. “I actually just came in here for some clothes, which reminds me.” He rummages through a drawer, pulling out a wrinkled t-shirt and handing it to you. “If you want a change.”

You glance down and feel like throwing up all over again. Your favorite shirt is covered in stains, alcohol, vomit, and something you definitely don’t want to name. If you weren’t feeling so terrible already, you’d cry that Soonyoung is seeing you like this.

“I’ll get you a toothbrush, too,” he mutters, disappearing and leaving you to scramble to switch shirts. The white dri-fit is meant to be a workout shirt, though it’s clear that it would be oversize on Soonyoung. Either way, the soft fabric is gentle on your skin, much better than the jeans you slept in. Too bad you’re stuck in them until you get back to your apartment.

You could run away right now. Soonyoung probably wouldn’t be surprised. But he’s being nice to you, so much nicer than you deserve. Sweet and Soonyoung. But you came here to apologize, and though last night got derailed, you can’t keep running from it. Besides, it’s not like the morning can get much worse.

So when Soonyoung comes back proudly brandishing an unopened toothbrush that he may or may not have stolen from Seungcheol’s bathroom, you accept it gratefully. You stare yourself down in the bathroom, fighting nausea and an impending migraine because you have a mission to achieve, a real mission unlike last night. It’s still a haze, but you don’t think you’ll ever forget how gently Soonyoung cradled you against his chest, the brush of his fingers on your cheek. If he didn’t show up this morning, you’d think it was a dream.

Soonyoung’s door is open when you finish but he isn’t in his room. You grab your bag from the floor and venture down the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing. There’s a couple people passed out in the living room, and one person snoring softly in the kitchen, head folded in his arms in a position that must be incredibly painful for his neck. But it’s where you find Soonyoung, digging through the fridge and finally pulling out a water bottle. He hands it to you, along with a bottle of pills.

“Thank you,” you sigh, not even bothering to check the label for the brand. You take a couple and chug half the bottle, gaslighting yourself into believing that it will instantly revive you (it doesn’t work and your head still pounds).

“Are you hungry?” Soonyoung asks. He opens the fridge again, this time wide enough to show the shelves that are filled with beer, vodka, and White Claws. There’s a pizza box and some eggs, but not much else.

“How are any of you alive?” You ask softly, glancing at the snoring person on the counter.

“Yuta can sleep through an apocalypse, don’t worry about him,” Soonyoung says, waving his hand. He closes the fridge, leaning against it. “And most of us keep our actual food in mini-fridges. I just cleared mine out for break, so I don’t have anything in it.” He doesn’t say anything else about vanishing.

“I’m pretty sure that pizza has been in there since the start of the semester and I’ve never seen eggs in here before though, so I don’t think you should risk any of this,” Soonyoung says. “McDonald’s fries are a far superior hangover cure, they’ve never failed me.”

“There’s a McDonald’s nearby?”

Soonyoung grins, pulling keys out of his pocket and spinning them around his fingers a couple times, except they fly off and clatter on the floor. The man asleep on the counter, Yuta apparently, stirs but doesn’t move. You can’t help but smile as Soonyoung scrambles to retrieve them from the floor. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was flustered.

“There isn’t one,” Soonyoung explains, leading the way to the door. “But I have the keys to Seungcheol’s car.”

“I’m not really comfortable with grand theft auto,” you say, though you don’t stop following him to Seungcheol’s giant white Jeep.

“He gave me the keys last night when I walked in,” Soonyoung says. “Something about owing me. He was pretty drunk.” He darts around to the passenger side before you can, opening the door for you. He waves his hand when you frown at him, as if you’re the one acting strange. Thinking with this headache is too hard so you just get into the car and strap the seatbelt on.

“I can’t believe you thought I’d steal a car,” Soonyoung says. He turns the engine on and scans the front of the car before finally settling his right hand on the gear shift.

“You have driven this car before, right?”

“Of course,” Soonyoung says a little too fast. You grab onto the door handle and hope that your stomach really is empty.

Soonyoung’s driving isn’t the worst you’ve ever experienced; that title goes to Jihoon, who was banned from touching car keys after his Mario Kart driving. That said, you think he’s a good second place. He slams on the gas and the brakes too hard and drives altogether too fast. He blasts the radio and sings along purposefully off key. You should be terrified but it’s the most fun you’ve ever had riding in the passenger seat.

“I’m never riding with you again,” you say, breathless from laughing. He pulls to a stop at the red light, the Golden arches of your destination still one light away. “You know yellow lights mean slow down right?”

“I stopped at this one!” Soonyoung says. “I’ll have you know I haven’t been in an accident.” He pauses. “Since I was nineteen.”

You nod, pursing your lips to stop yourself from smiling fully. “That’s what I figured.” You peek at Soonyoung and he’s smiling too.

So different from the last time you saw him. You don’t deserve this. You shouldn’t be able to laugh and joke around with him so easily, not when you still haven’t apologized. And Soonyoung shouldn’t be looking at you like that, genuine fondness in his eyes.

“The light’s green,” you say. His smile fades a little when he turns his head and drives ahead, stepping lightly for once. You’re so close now, but a car going straight in the right lane prevents him from turning.

The pain medicine must have kicked in because your headache is slowly fading, replaced by heartache that no medication can cure.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” You blurt out.

The blinker beeps a steady rhythm in the empty silence. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Nothing’s ever obvious with you, Soonyoung,” you say softly.

“Oh.” The light turns green and he guides the car slowly into the parking lot, stopping in a spot instead of pulling up to the drive through. As soon as the car is in park, he turns to face you. There’s a crease in his forehead that you recognize from the rare occasions that he would actually talk to you seriously. “YN, I genuinely thought I was being clear about this from the beginning, but if you still really don’t get it, then I’ll say it straight up: I like you. I’ve liked you since the day we met and then I fell in love with you.

“Did you know you’re the first person that’s ever genuinely believed in me? I mean, I know I have friends, and my family means well, but they always get this look in their eye whenever I talk about trying for things, like it was cute that I was trying, but they never actually believed in me. And I started to believe them too. I started to believe that I couldn’t believe in myself.” He frowns. “That makes no sense. The point is, you are the reason I started to believe in myself again.

“No one’s ever looked at me like you do. No one’s ever told me to get my shit together–well, they have, but you’re the only one that told me it was because I could be better.

“You say it wasn’t obvious, but I’ve tried to tell you a thousand times. I flirted, I tried to ask you on a date so many times, and I finally accepted that you’d never see me like that, so I was a dick. I told you off, even though you were right. I’m so sorry for that, and I’m sorry I ran away, and I’m sorry it took me so long to apologize.”

“Stop,” you say. Soonyoung’s eyes widen, tears welling up, and you realize he thinks you’re rejecting him. “Stop apologizing!” His brow creases in confusion, an adorable frown. Summoning all your courage, you reach out, resting your hand on his. “I’m the one that’s sorry. I didn’t have any right to judge you and the choices you were making, and I shouldn’t have yelled at you when I knew how much the bet meant to you.”

You squeeze his hand, closing your eyes. “And I think I was a little oblivious on purpose. I’m not the kind of person that has crushes, let alone crushes that like me back, so I freaked a little and missed all the signs.” You open your eyes and grin at him. It’s easy to feel brave when he smiles back at you. “But I like you, Soonyoung. I like you so much, I don’t have enough words to express it. My whole life has been about my future, my career, and it’s exhausting, but being with you makes it all exciting again. Like, no matter what happens, if you’re with me, it won’t just be okay, it’ll be fun.”

Soonyoung beams. “Really?”

You squeeze his hand. “I like you.” Like the first time you took the LSAT, you can’t think of a single word, except instead of damning your future this feels like the start of it. Soonyoung sits across from you and you don’t need words.

You don’t know how long you sit there, but reality sets in when your stomach growls. You glance outside the window and remember where you are. “Did you just confess to me in a McDonald’s parking lot?”

“Better than drunk in my own bed.”

“I didn’t!” You let go of his hand to hide your face.

Soonyoung grins. “You were cute!”

“I don’t remember it, it doesn't count!”

“Whatever you say,” Soonyoung says, leaning over the center console. He gently pulls your hands away from your face, hand circling your wrist gently. You instinctively hold your breath, though you don’t lean away. Soonyoung leans a little closer, forehead resting against yours.

“This okay?” He whispers, breath kissing your lips, and you remember that less than an hour ago, you were throwing up. Your head still aches and your stomach is still queasy and your whole body feels disgusting.

“We are not having our first kiss in a McDonald’s parking lot,” you say, leaning back. Soonyoung sighs, but he sits back in his chair, settling for grabbing your hand and interlacing his fingers with yours.

“Fine,” Soonyoung says. He rubs his thumb back and forth, and when you meet his eyes, you see a familiar glint of trouble. “You know I’m still sworn to you. Whatever you want.”

The words go straight to your heart. You could live a thousand lives and never meet someone as genuine as Soonyoung. You know that he means it, heart and soul, that he’d do anything for you. And it should be terrifying that he’s willing to bear his heart for you, that you are willing to do the same. But it’s Soonyoung. It’s easy to trust him with it, because even though he breaks half the computers he touches and can’t hold onto a pencil for his life, he won’t ever drop your heart.

I love you. One day you’ll be able to say it, one day you’ll scream it like you so desperately want to. But until then, you settle for his certified brilliant smile and the gentle brush of his lips on the back of your hand, only letting go to turn the engine back on.

“Let’s get you some fries,” he says. “Then kisses?”

You shake your head and laugh, slipping your hand back into his.

Before he can put the car into gear, his phone rings. He stares at the screen for a moment, frowning like he can’t decide whether he should answer it or not. Finally he slides the green across, turning on speaker.

“Hey Seungcheol, I’m with—”

“Where the hell are you? And where is my car?” Seungcheol’s voice is somewhere between angry and concerned. “You think it’s okay to vanish and then show up only to steal my car?”

“First of all, you gave me the keys,” Soonyoung says. He glances at you. “And I’m at McDonald’s because YN desperately needed a hangover cure.”

“Hey,” you say so Seungcheol knows you’re there.

The line is quiet for so long you think Soonyoung’s phone has finally given up on him but eventually he says, “You’re with YN?”

“We talked,” he says. “And we’re good.”

You snort. “That’s how you’re going to describe it?”

“Are we not good?”

You glance at your hand still intertwined with his, the Soonyoung Sparkle glittering back at you when you look him in the eyes. Good? There’s not a word to describe how you feel right now.

“We are beyond good.”

“Are you crying?” You whisper. Soonyoung shakes his head, chin brushing against your head but when he inhales again, he sniffles. You reach up to pat his cheek and are entirely unsurprised when it’s wet. On screen Elle Woods continues her speech, for once not wearing pink.

“She’s just so cool,” Soonyoung says. You lift your head off his chest so you can look him in the eyes. The temptation to tease him is hard to resist but he pouts his lips and you see another tear slip out. You kiss his cheek, out of habit more than anything. Strange how much can change in two weeks, how something you’ve never imagined doing has become natural. But being with Soonyoung is just like that. New and old at the same time, the kind of comfort that has you planning how to make this last a lifetime.

Soonyoung wraps his arms around you tighter, so you nestle back into his chest, turning away from the end of the movie to close your eyes and breathe in his cologne.

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen this,” you whisper, lips brushing against his neck. “The whole bet was based on a movie you haven’t seen.”

“You’re missing the end,” he says. His voice rumbles in your ear, drowning out his heartbeat.

“I’ve seen it before.” Your bed really isn’t built for two people to lay down together. You are laying more on Soonyoung than the mattress but it’s not the first time. From the way he holds you, you doubt it’ll be the last.

The credits roll too quickly, but Soonyoung still doesn’t let go. He pulls you up so that your head is next to his, nose centimeters away from yours.

“So am I officially qualified to go to law school?” He asks.

“You are Elle Woods certified,” you say. “But you’re sure that’s what you want?”

“I mean I have to get in. But I figure if I’m going to waste away at a desk, I might as well do it for something I believe in.” He pauses. “With someone that believes in me.” He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, breath tickling the sensitive skin. You can’t help but sigh.

“That doesn’t mean it’s what you want,” you say, after several heartbeats of struggling to think.

“I want…” His words “To be with you. However you’ll have me.” His arms loosen, hands sliding down to your waist.

“Still not answering the question,” you breathe out but you can’t even remember what the question is, not when he’s shifting to lay on top of you, lips inching their way up your neck. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your lips, then stops, pulling away and meeting your eyes again.

The Soonyoung Sparkle. The grinch has nothing on you–your heart swells so large it feels like it’s going to explode out of your chest–Alien style. Does he know what he does to you? How he’s made everything in your life shine? How happy you are when he’s with you?

“I love you,” you whisper.

Soonyoung blinks at you. “You…”

“I love you,” you say again, this time with more confidence. “I really, really love you.”

Soonyoung grins, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours, moving like the world outside has stopped. He makes a bubble around you again, or maybe it’s your own heart; either way the only thing that exists is the way his hands inch up your shirt, the way his lips begin to press harder against yours. You give up on coherent thoughts, settling for wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer.

“I love you, too,” Soonyoung whispers between kisses. “If that wasn’t obvious.”

Soonyoung who always treated you like you were enough already. Soonyoung who does everything with 100% of his heart. Soonyoung who has always been sincere with you, from the first day you met him. Soonyoung, who you are so lucky to be loved by.

You don’t know how to say any of this in a way that makes sense so you let his fire melt you until you are putty in his arms. He pulls away, and the Soonyoung Sparkle burns, your personal stars flickering back at you.

“You want to–” Soonyoung starts to say, but the door slams open. Then Soonyoung falls on you, pillow rolling off his head.

“I’m taking this back!” Someone shouts while you hear Jihoon cursing.

“Read the room, idiot!” Soonyoung pushes off of you, sitting up and pulling your shirt down as smoothly as he can. You sit up, trying to decide if you should be embarrassed or angry. Facing Jun, frozen midstep with his jaw hanging open a little and Jihoon in the doorway with his arms folded, shaking his head slightly, you opt for the latter.

“Does no one knock in Colombia?” You frown at him. “And when did you get back? Why didn’t you call?”

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” he mumbles, staring at his feet. “And you were supposed to be alone, according to my sources.” He glares at Jihoon.

“YN didn’t say he was coming over,” he says with a shrug.

You turn your frown to him. “You walked in halfway through the movie, I literally shouted ‘Soonyoung’s over.’”

“I had my headphones on,” he says, though he’s avoiding your eyes too. Typical of your friends, never claiming responsibility for their actions.

“So this is Soonyoung,” Jun says, turning to face him. Soonyoung moved to the edge of the bed, too far away for your taste but probably an appropriate distance for your friends, especially compared to what they walked in on. Jun tilts his head. “You dyed your hair.”

“Yeah,” Soonyoung scratches the back of his head. “Spur of the moment thing.” You miss the blonde, surprisingly fitting considering it isn’t his natural color. But the black suits him too, and probably will help him with law school interviews. Then again, knowing Soonyoung, this color won’t last long either. Good thing there isn’t a color you don’t think suits him.

“We should do this properly,” Soonyoung says. “Go out for dinner or something.”

“Hey, I didn’t get dinner,” Jihoon says.

“You want to get dinner with me?” Soonyoung perks up.

“No, I’m protesting unfair treatment.”

“It’s not unfair, I’m just clearly his favorite,” Jun says.

“Can you guys stop fighting over my boyfriend?” You say.

Jihoon and Jun stare at you. When Soonyoung turns to face you, he grins, eyes sparkling.

“What?”

“You just called him your boyfriend,” Jun says.

“Well… he is.” You feel your cheeks flush. “Why are you guys making it weird?”

“It’s not weird,” Soonyoung says. He scoots closer to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “It’s cute,” he whispers in your ear. “Adorable.” This only makes you flush even more.

“Well, I don’t want to interrupt, so I’ll just grab this and you two can get back to… whatever.” Jun takes a step towards your bookcase. You grab the pillow that he threw at Soonyoung and nail him in the chest, earning a laugh from Jihoon.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“The book is mine, Soonyoung never fulfilled the bet!” Jun says. You stand up, blocking him from your Pride and Prejudice.

“Hey, I followed through!” Soonyoung says. “We’re dating!”

“I remember the bet stating that you had to ask YN out after you took the LSAT.” Jun turns to him.

“And I did,” Soonyoung says. “You never said it had to be right after.”

Jun eyes him. “That’s cheating.”

“That’s being a lawyer,” you say. “And I think he’s going to be really good at it.”

Jun glances between you and Soonyoung and shakes his head. “Whatever, I’ll get my book back another day.”

You step closer to Soonyoung and he links his pinky with yours. You glance at your friends. “Are you going to stand there forever or are we getting dinner?”

“You two don’t want to get back to what you were doing?” Jihoon asks.

You slip your hand into Soonyoung’s. He meets your eyes and he’s only been your boyfriend for two weeks but looking at him is like looking home. There’s no need to rush.

“Sounds like someone doesn’t want to pick where we go.”

“We should make them pay, too,” Soonyoung says.

You grin at him. “You are the smartest person I know.”

#🌟 stars galaxy #seventeen #seventeen x reader #svt #svt reader #seventeen fanfic #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen fluff #kwon soonyoung #hoshi #svt hoshi #soonyoung x reader #hoshi x reader #hoshi fluff #soonyoung fluff #hoshi angst #soonyoung angst #soonyoung #svt x reader

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taegularities · 1 year

Text

candles & flames: steam | jjk (m)

chapter III: steam

Summary: As you travel to unveil secrets, you slowly, surely, find your way back to Jungkook. The final act starts now.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: enemies to lovers, royal!au; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: talks about hook-ups, arguing and fighting, tears, a very bad uncle, (mention of past) minor character death, jk is hurting, tension, misunderstandings, anger, a slap..., revelations; explicit sexual content: kissing/making out, grinding, brief cockwarming, oral (f. & m. receiving), fingering, teasing, dirty talk, tiddie sucking, he just loves her tatas, slow and rough sex, bits of sub!jk :D and then dom!jk, big dick jk, he comes on her tummyyy, some giggly sex, feelings !!, jk is very vocal, begging, praises, super brief pain kink (?), multiple orgasms. lmk if i forgot something :’) ➳ wc: 34.3k what the actual fck ➳ a/n: here goes the last one. thank you so much for all the love and support, guys. i adore you so much 👑🤍 ➳ a/n2: this is part 3 to my mini-series candles & flames !! find the mpost below<3

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

How long have you been sitting on the cushioned seat and forcing your drooping eyelids to remain open now?

Hours must have passed, because the sun you squinted into only a while ago has set now. The red, orange and yellow hues of dusk are giving way to nearly pitch darkness; it’s time to find an inn for the night soon.

Perhaps you should forward the suggestion to the rider.

Preferably before you fall asleep on your rather uncomfortable spot; or at least before the unease deriving from the hours you’ve travelled drives you insane. Either way, you need to lay down — catching yourself from falling sideways has become exhausting.

In hindsight, it’s surreal that you’re here at all, watching the moon ascend so far from home.

If your parents knew about your true whereabouts, they’d probably lock you in your room. Guard you from yourself, unlike you, who dove head-first into… whatever this is.

But you were lucky; only half-expected their calm response. Of course you didn’t think they’d buy your lie when you crafted it so carefully. Or perhaps, they were focused enough on your joy with the former beloved Duke’s son to not mingle.

Either way… You’re certainly not visiting the countryside with Jungkook, and he’s surely not showing you the fields and sunsets at a stranger place. A mansion you’d move into if you ever got married.

It’s usually not quite appropriate for a lady to travel alone with a man she’s not even engaged to; in your time, pretty much unheard of. But somehow, they trust you to not ruin your own future. They trust in true love, in your relationship.

Funny, because they have a lot more faith in you than you do yourself.

Which is why you feel worse about lying. Your words are what your parents know to be true. And what you know to be fabricated.

Especially because you’ve been dodging thoughts about your blurry future; Jeon Jungkook is an uncertainty like nothing else.

But considering what occurred at the cemetery, and how intense your desire to seek the truth is, you truly did not have any other choice.

Fear had shook his body, and the tremble had yet to subside.

Your nerve-wracking request was still sinking in when his already big eyes spread a little more. He looked younger like this — confused, scared, inhabiting a million thoughts he couldn’t articulate.

As you saw his armour cracking, you wanted to drop yours, too. His spiralling mind demanded arms around his body; some solace to alleviate the pain he’d been carrying with him for so long now.

On the cold bench you sat, you scooted closer. You hoped that the warmth you emanated reached him, in case the heat of the summer didn’t. Something in the vast black of his eyes changed, though it wasn’t enough.

So you tried again, as carefully and kindly as you could, “Can you tell me about her? His daughter?”

He started mumbling something then, and silenced soon again. You think you remember his focus fizzling; his eyes unfocused. The panic the situation triggered calmed down a fraction; and when his tired eyelids seemed to droop again, you thought you were losing his attention.

But then, he licked his lip. Let his shoulders fall and said, “Her name is Suhana. And she’s an illegitimate child.”

Your heart dropped the moment that very first fact did.

For some unfathomable reason, something deep in your soul had already figured as much — if she wasn’t a reminder of something that society deems a sin, she’d be here, right?

Of course she was his illegitimate child. Somewhere far away, a decade-old secret, treasured carefully.

You nodded, a hand on his, pressing down a little to reassure him.

Observing him closely, he looked like he didn’t quite understand how to confide in people. He was struggling for words. Searching for trust. Hesitating to spill his knowledge, thinking about each word he said.

You whispered, “I’m listening, Kook. Only I am listening.”

As if on cue, his gaze wandered through the room. As if to check whether you were telling the truth.

And when he’d made sure of it, some of the child-like fear diminished.

He blinked rapidly, full lower lip jutting out, before his gentle voice stuttered, “She— no one knows about this but my mother, brother and me. Not even his sons…”

You weren’t certain how smart it was to voice what you knew, but you figured that you needed to destroy all the walls you’d built against him, if you wanted him to do the same.

“And my father, it seems,” is what you answered then.

Which, as much expected, surprised him.

“What?”

“Your uncle is his client,” you explained. “My father and a handful of people at the bank know about this, because he needs them to know. Because of all the money he sends forth.”

Jungkook’s wonder fell; it made sense to him now.

He agreed before he continued, “Right. He sends that money. We have warned him before that the amount is too large. That the town and our family needs it, too. But he’s bull-headed.”

You kept nodding slowly. Understandingly. It kept him going.

“Her mere existence is a sin, in theory. But he’s always loved her. Not enough to travel and see her, but enough to send that very love from afar.”

It’s cruel how people are able to twist the definition like this.

In the matter of weeks, you had learned that affection isn’t a straight road, and that not every relationship leads to the same goal. Sometimes, paths diverge: some end in what you’ve always imagined about love; others are far darker.

Jungkook had turned love into something hopeful for you before he’d painted it black; and now that you were here, feeling the same sparks of hope again, its colour was slowly returning again.

But his uncle? He wouldn’t be able to conceptualise that emotion. Not when those gestures of his were what he imagined to be valid in love.

You asked, “Where does she live?”

A curious mind is hard to tame.

Since the desire to solve this riddle had unleashed in you, your brain kept forming ideas. And right now, you could see one materialising so clearly.

He, however, couldn’t just yet.

Because obliviously, still sporting sweet eyes and a defeated expression, he answered, “Somewhere a little bit far from here. It takes a while. I think to remember she lives with her mother Jiyoo… However, I have never seen her before.”

You nodded. “Seemingly, she does not receive the money at times.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “my uncle assumes it gets lost on the way. But how would that be possible?” He clicked his tongue in mock; a hint of a lopsided smirk floated over his lips. “Or that Jiyoo never sends a letter back, so he may send more. He’s not very fond of her, but Suhana is close to his heart.”

You formulated a possibly stupid question; you could already foresee what he might answer, but you guessed it couldn’t hurt to make sure. You needed to collect as much information as you could.

“You’ve never written to her, either?” you asked.

He clicked his tongue. “No.”

“Did she? Write to you?”

“Never,” he said. Another dead end. So that was all he knew about her; she was a true stranger to him. Which he confirmed, “I doubt she knows of my existence at all.”

She probably didn’t. After all, the Duke didn’t have a logical reason to introduce someone who wasn’t supposed to exist to a nephew he couldn’t stand.

A pity. Who knows where Jungkook could’ve been today if he’d had proper company to grow up with?

But the mystery that she is, the money she receives, and the fact that she never got curious enough to reach out… to travel out. Perhaps it was just you — but the situation felt odd to you.

You pulled your hand back, lifting all ten fingers to your face. If your mother had seen you rubbing your flawless face like that, she would’ve scolded the soul out of you. But the stress and the lack of knowledge were frustrating.

Fear was creeping into the crevices of your nervous heart.

Standing from your spot, you wrapped your arms around your torso. The sleeves of your dress were too thin; you were shivering, either from the chilly room or the tension.

Your eyes scanned the Latin letters and the tomb again, and when you turned back to Jungkook, dark, round eyes were staring up at you in question.

“I don’t know, Jungkook,” you murmured. “This entire letter exchange, the— the entire relationship are strange to me.” You squinted your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief. “I mean. He never travels to see her? But accuses Jiyoo of such a thing?”

Jungkook already knew of the cruelty one man could trigger, and the realisation pricked your heart.

Because as you spoke, narrating a father’s tainted love, Jungkook didn’t even flinch.

Not a muscle of his face contorted, and you immediately knew that he’d gotten used to the pain.

Perhaps his uncle’s existence in his young life still gutted him, but he just couldn’t physically react to it anymore. You didn’t know… You wanted to know. But you also didn’t want to.

It hurt when he shrugged, pressing his lips together. The mole underneath gave him a pure, sweet look, and it made your shoulders drop when he, overthrown and sad, asked, “But what could we possibly do, right?”

Maybe you’d continue feeling as dejected as him if you hadn’t come with a plan, no matter how possibly stupid. You hadn’t known what you’d learn about her, but you’d already formed a suggestion in your head, and now was as good of a time to drop it as ever.

You started carefully.

“You said… you’ve never seen her.”

But Jungkook didn’t need care. He didn’t need caution; no need to wrap your words in riddles for him to understand. The talk about his uncle didn’t elicit a reaction, but your statement did.

He shook his head immediately, still staring up at you. His cheeks looked puffy all of a sudden; his entire being radiated innocence when he pouted and said, “…I wouldn’t—”

But you interrupted, “We could find out so much.”

“We can’t just go on a journey to find her. It’s too much of a risk.”

He kept shaking his head, and you kept sighing. You were on two different pages, but you both had in common that you were worried about the other.

You argued, “Not doing anything is a risk, too.”

Jungkook’s demeanour changed immediately. He leaned forwards just a little, ogling at you in utter worry. You thought he was getting frustrated with your stubborn urge to solve this mystery, but he didn’t show any of it.

He was still gentle when his tender, mild voice, dipped in sugar, begged, “Sweetheart…”

You ignored the drop of your heart; planted a hand to your tummy, right where you felt the rapid beat of it, instead of in your chest. An endearment comes straight from the soul when one’s in despair.

But it wasn’t allowed to distract you right now.

So you immediately argued, “Jungkook… You have drowned in pain for more than a decade because of him. Why do you not wish to be free?”

“Because,” he started. Gulped. Looked away from you and to his hands. “I’ve never known another way.”

Falling for him felt painful then.

In a way, you were overwhelmed — what if you couldn’t help him in the end? What if he refused to heal? Human beings are creatures of habit, after all. Maybe, you thought, he didn’t want to break out of his chains at all.

But he’d changed the way his mind was wired once. There was surely a flicker of hope in him that could grow into something bigger; you wanted him to find it. Wanted to see it in his eyes, too.

So you thought back to the moments he showcased change, and said, “When you despised me so much… Did you know any other way to feel towards me?”

His desperation grew. “I—”

“And it might turn out well,” you said, blinking quickly, “everything. For you, me… us. I don’t want to lose you, no matter in whichever way.”

He silenced. Started pondering.

His gaze flitted back up to you, and he looked at you in thought, internalising your words. You knew something was changing in him, but it wasn’t certain enough to voice agreement.

All he did was dive deeper into his emotions, proving why your suggestion wasn’t as idiotic as you priorly deemed it to be.

Confessed to you, “...Growing up, I always desired a relationship I could trust.”

Perhaps you were getting there. You knew what he needed to say; so you kept listening, nodded, kept your mouth shut even when he paused.

And then, “Taehyung and Seokjin were both my family and my friends. But they are his sons after all. What could I have told them?”

“She’s his daughter, too.”

It made a difference, though. Of course you knew. So did he.

“No,” is what accompanied another sure shake of his head. “I cannot imagine any bond between two people like them. They are so far away. So vastly different. If I was her, I would not consider myself someone with a father at all.”

The harsh truth of it made you flinch.

On one hand, because you had never thought of such a reality before. You, who’d grown up with a loving family all your life, basking in the trust and affection you shared with each other.

But on the other hand, as he froze and fixated his eyes somewhere away from you, you realised at the same time that he was just such a someone, too.

With unmoving pupils, he still whispered, “I assume we would understand each other then, wouldn’t we? Maybe I need someone like her in my life.”

You waited for a conclusion. Watched him grit his teeth, his jaw hard and firm. When nothing came, you tried, “So?”

And he didn’t answer — only let his gaze drift into the distance.

Further time must have passed.

Because when you open your eyes, owls and other nightlife sing outside. The darkness has fully fallen, and silver-white dots glimmer in the sky above.

If your neck didn’t hurt so much, you’d be able to appreciate the view more from where you sit. You don’t move your head just yet; only crack your eyes open. For now, you try to fathom the position you’ve somehow gotten yourself in.

Your stance could’ve been worse, if not for the comfort of a warm chest.

You slip out of your peaceful sleep when gentle fingers brush along your cheek. They feel like they’re trying to stir you awake; combing back thin strands of your hair when your body moves against his.

A quiet whisper fills the suffocating inside of the carriage, and you register only one of the sentences, “Are you alright?”

You press your cheek against his chest before you lift your head a little. You don’t move away; still nestled in his embrace. Feeling the arm he slung around you, a large hand on your arm. Rubbing it, soothing you.

“I am… fine, yes,” you answer, still groggy. Your eyelids are half-closed.

He doesn’t let you go yet. Maybe he’s craving your touch as much as you crave his pure affection.

You sigh, but it goes under when Jungkook says, “Good. We’re arriving shortly. You can properly rest soon.”

Glancing up carefully, your gaze meets his, hiding in the shadows. You can’t see much of him, but you feel his breath and his proximity so clearly.

You might be sleep-drunken, but none of your slumbers will ever be deep enough to keep him from lighting up your veins. Not with his body wrapped around yours. Holding you like a guardian, keeping you close to his heart as you wish him to.

Your voice is faint and feeble when you ask, “Arriving where?”

“Lodging,” he answers. His voice is so soft. “One of the locals here told us there is an accommodation nearby. We’ll stay there for the night, yes?”

“Yes…”

Brief silence descends between you, and you attempt to ignore how close his lips are to yours. If you leaned in just a little, an inch might remain between them.

Jungkook doesn’t let the quietude stretch as he looks straight ahead again, but his hold around you relaxes a bit. Some of his warmth falls, but in this chill summer night, your skin demands more of it.

“Were you dreaming?” he wants to know.

You scour your mind for a moment and come up blank. Dreams never linger for too long anyway; but you can’t conjure any pictures you might have seen. So you say, “I don’t remember a dream.”

“You seemed uneasy.”

Did you? Is that why he’s holding you?

You glance at him, but then look away immediately. You can’t muster the courage to stare at the fatigued sadness in his expressions just yet. It’s been here for a while now.

Do you look the same?

“I do not recall a dream,” you repeat, “but I dozed off thinking of a memory.”

“Yes? Which one?”

You think of the hot cheek you grazed. Of the dark glassy eyes, hopeless in the middle of the mausoleum. It happened merely two days ago; yet, it feels far away already.

If you could erase all the pain you saw and replace it with lifelong joy, you would.

In fact, that’s what this journey is for, right?

As the carriage rides over a bumpy road, you put a hand on his knee, though it does nothing to stabilise your balance. Close to him, your eyelashes lift, and tenderly, you tell him, “You…”

Jungkook tenses. Breathes out. You don’t know what you evoked in him, but his words are sober, although a little regretful, when he says, “I shall hope it wasn’t anything hurtful.”

His statement renders you speechless. He waits for your response; you feel his eyes fixated on you.

That is, until he realises you’re reluctant to answer and darts his head to the other side.

In the light of the street lamps outside, you see him blinking. He’s biting his lower lip; despite the pain he’s caused you, you don’t think he’s faring any better without your fondness.

As a hint of guilt pricks your heart, you lean slightly forwards, seeking his gaze as you ask, “Were you hurting, too?”

“Hm?”

He looks back at you; he’s heard the question, you know. Maybe he’s searching for an answer.

You explain, “When I rejected you. When you walked away, and realised what I knew. Were you hurting?”

You’re sure you know what he’ll say, but you want to hear it from him. Want to analyse his tone, pick out the sincerity in it.

Whether it’s still an act or not, though, when he speaks, he sounds as genuine as you want him to. His words feel heavy, tinged with ache when he admits, “I was.”

“Why?”

Perhaps another stupid question. Yet, another attempt to find out his true feelings, too.

“Because,” Jungkook begins. His voice is cautious, and his body unmoving. A familiar yearning fills the air when he sighs; dragging your heart to your stomach as he continues, “Something about you is hard to let go.”

Your heartbeat keeps you wide awake.

When did you start affecting him like this? Was it at the same time as when he infiltrated your mind?

You can’t remember the first time he looked at you as though he orbited you. Like you shone a light into the darkness his heart inhabits. At least that spark of affection must’ve been real.

Or so you hope.

“How did you cope with it then?” you ask.

Oddly, he doesn’t answer. His eyes fall to his lap, his feet suddenly shuffling. Restless. You don’t understand the motions, but they feel like a bad omen.

You continue, “I uhm— I read. Any book, really.”

The silence doesn’t go away, and you grow antsier by the second. Is it another one of his secrets? Why won’t he spill it? Is he ashamed of it?

A dozen questions accumulate. Your hand quavers, tempting you to reach out.

But.

When the volume of his voice drops to an eerily rueful whisper, you think you know what he’s suggesting.

“I am sorry,” he only says. “You deserve none of what I do to you.”

It must be what you’re thinking.

You ask, “Why?” Your thumbs circle around each other; your chest feels tight. “Was it…”

Was it a relapse? Him going back to whatever he used to know? Does he always cope like that?

“I—”

“Who was it?” you question.

You shouldn’t feel the way you do — you pushed him away. When he stood at your doorstep, begging for your attention, you sent him away.

But you were right. And your feelings were valid. If you could go back with the same knowledge you possessed back then, you’d make the exact same decision again.

Yet, it doesn’t hurt any less.

Perhaps he can assure you that you’re wrong. Widen his already big eyes and say that this isn’t what happened and that you misinterpreted his apology…

But of course, life isn’t a wish-granting genie.

You think you hear your heart crumble when he tells you, “Just… someone. She was a stranger.”

Does this make matters better or worse? He didn’t know her to remember her well after all. But he still found distraction in someone else — did you start out the same way to him?

The thought of intimacy; of two naked bodies colliding. Of the physical connection he shared with her, even though the night didn’t last forever… It hurts how breathless it leaves you.

“How did it feel?” you want to know. You cannot say why.

The question is risky. What could you possibly gain from it? More pain?

You regret it in the very next moment, ready to take it back and wave it off; but his mouth opens before yours does. And what comes out of it surprises you.

“It hurt.” There’s remorse in his voice. He looks like he wants to reach out; and he sounds sincere. “I was talking about you.”

The honesty baffles you. Maybe it shouldn’t; how else would he gain back your trust?

“Oh,” you voice.

“I apologise.”

You gulp. “Why would you apologise?”

“Because… it feels like I betrayed you.”

Did he? Logically, he didn’t.

Societal factors demand otherwise; people like him are frowned upon. You cannot court someone and simultaneously stain someone else; not if you want to keep a decent reputation.

But thinking about it from a rational side, one that doesn’t agree with society and its odd rules, he didn’t do anything wrong. It was you who rejected further advances.

So you promise, “You did not. We were apart… Never together, in fact. You were free to do such a thing when hope seemed pointless.”

Yes…

He could’ve even partook in orgies at brothels… Your pain aside, he could’ve.

And anyway.

You have bigger hurdles to fight right now. What Jungkook may truly want or not, aside from searching for answers, is irrelevant now.

You need to push your negative feelings back. Your thoughts and your doubts. You don’t want to dwell on mistakes but find a way to heal him, and the two of you. Don’t want to think of other women, or the scheme that hurt you.

He had reasons you want to forgive.

Reasons you keep repeating to yourself: Jungkook knows too much. The Duke fears that side of him; wants him gone, wants the threat out of his sight, and Jungkook wishes to leave the misery, too.

But his uncle — he is too scared an irresponsible man like Jungkook might not be able to live alone.

Seeking a wife to keep him grounded — breaks your heart in the process.

It’s not Jungkook’s fault, if you think about it like this.

Because if you were him, you’d fear a terrible uncle enough to hurt someone else, too. Maybe.

So you need to forgive; the past needs to fade.

Jungkook is dwelling in other parts of your conversation. Timid and dejected when he asks, “Is there hope now?”

Not a bad inquiry. You can't say.

“I am not quite sure. But we will see.”

You only notice his hand still loosely on your arm when he squeezes a little. His fingers drop to your wrist in your lap, a thumb brushing along the fabric of your coat. You feel closer to his scent when he mumbles, “What do you want?”

“I…” you start, letting him fog your brain once more, “I want there to be hope.”

“But?”

“But I don’t know how this journey will end.”

The issue with forgiving, however, isn’t Jungkook himself.

Yes, the betrayal and the hidden plan he agreed to will always be a truth; all of it really happened. And while trust is sparse these days, you don’t think he’s lying when he says he never intended to hurt anyone.

But… What if the secrets his family hides are too big for you to endure? What if the intrigues are too ominous, too dark for your colourful life? Could you fight through them for him?

Are you in love enough?

You don’t know. But you shall find out.

Jungkook stirs next to you. You think you feel his heartbeat straight through his chest, right against your shoulder. It hurts you when he says, “I want you to know that… I am still hoping.”

He looks at you with endless longing. With so much sorrow.

“That shall benefit us, then,” you say, “first as we look for your cousin. Then, perhaps for our sake.”

He nods slowly.

“I am somewhat excited to meet her. My cousin.”

Your lips move to a smile, encouraging words laying on your tongue when the coachman interrupts, “We have arrived.”

A glance out of the window shows a humble abode. One light is still burning; the area is pretty but desolate. Scary, but it has to do.

“Good,” you say, stretching your limbs a little, “sitting here started hurting.”

Jungkook’s grip finally falls around you, and he straightens his back, ready to step out before he tells you, “Then let’s alleviate the pain.”

You know he’s talking about proper rest.

But you can’t help but wonder whether he really will.

The trip from the carriage to your room remains uneventful. Your feelings, however, do not.

Somehow, you managed to be the one to speak to the receptionist the most. Jungkook, while popular in town, a rumour on any woman’s lips, is strangely shy in front of strangers.

He didn’t talk to him much, only barging in when he, to your surprise, rejected your idea to get separate rooms. It’d be cheaper to share one, he said.

You would’ve contradicted his idea, if you’d truly wanted to. But the prospect of whatever might happen if you stayed between four walls with him… intrigued you.

Now that you’ve stepped over the threshold of the room, however, you’re nervy. There is only one bed.

Of course there is.

You knew — why does it only seep in once you’ve memorised the interior of the room?

Suddenly, your thoughts spin around their own axis. How are you going to split the room? Will you at all? If you changed into different clothes now, would he have to go out?

And most importantly. Will you be able to catch a minute of sleep tonight?

Jungkook must notice your restlessness, the way you nibble your lips. Because when he walks deeper into the room, brushing his hair back, he asks, “Should I get another room after all? Or maybe…” He glances around, then points to a corner. “I could take that chair.”

“No,” you refuse, “I can take the chair.”

“Out of the question. You are not.”

“But we—”

“I do not want to trouble you. I can leave… I regard this room yours for the night. I could—”

He makes advances to leave, walking back to the door, but you rush towards him, grabbing his hand instinctively. Your eyes rip apart the moment his do; neither of you expected the touch.

Carefully and quietly, you hesitate, stuttering, “We… I think. I reckon we could just. Both stay here. It is cheaper, you were right, and…”

This is embarrassing.

But he understands. Merely nods, staring at your feet for a second. His round eyes are huge. Innocent, unsure.

And then, he licks his dry lips, pointing to another, smaller room. You didn’t see it before — guess you can use it to change, because you’re sure you won’t find another bed in there.

When he walks away, you use the emptiness of the room to change, too. The white nightdress is far more comfortable than the one you sweated into in the carriage.

The day feels endless; your eyes beg for sleep.

But when you lay down, hands under your head, turned to your side, sleep won’t overcome you anymore. Even less when you feel him drop onto the mattress behind you. There must be a safe distance between you, because you can’t feel his warmth.

And he is quiet.

Not a word is uttered for a couple of minutes. You think that’s how the night will proceed, and that’s how you will fall asleep.

You assume he’s the first one to drift away; at least that’s what you interpret when his throat-clearing and turning and tossing stop. When his breathing calms, you think him fast asleep.

It’s incredibly quiet; almost uncomfortable. But his inhales and exhales soothe your heart.

You turn around, fully expecting an angel-like form slumbering next to you. Drowning in dreams. But when you catch open eyes immediately, a head moving to meet your gaze, you flinch.

He looks distraught when you gasp. Worry spreads across his features, a hand moving to reach out as he asks, “What what? What happened?”

You put a hand on your heart, shutting your eyes before opening them again. Falling on your back, you say, “I thought you were asleep.”

“I thought you were, too,” he says. His eyebrows are furrowed when you look at him. “You were so worn out during the ride.”

“It’s just…”

You don’t finish your sentence. Only back away an inch, putting both your hands on your stomach to busy them.

He waits for your explanation, but when none arrives, he says, “I know. I meant it, I can go away.”

“No,” you tell him immediately, “you don’t need to. It is just… new.”

Jungkook doesn’t respond. What is he thinking? Perhaps that it isn’t new to him? That he’s woken up in different bedrooms often enough to know this feeling?

No.

Something entirely different.

Because a tiny moment later, he asks, “What can I do to help you fall asleep?” He moves again, and now he’s on his side, looking at you. “We have an early morning and a long day ahead.”

What… he could do?

Oh God, how would you know…

Uhm.

“I don’t know,” you eventually say. Scouring your brain did nothing.

“I could sing something to you.”

What?

Really?

“No, I…” You’re clueless. You didn’t think he’d worry so much; you fully expected him to knock himself out the moment he touched the mattress. “You don’t need to. But thank you.”

You see his silhouette nod; you register the outlines of his face, but can’t see his eyes’ sparkle that you love so much. Then again, maybe you’d spiral harder if his pupils dug into your soul directly. Maybe his voice is enough.

Especially when he says things like—

“Then. Can I hold you?”

Jeon Jungkook.

What the hell are you saying?

Is he intending something? Is there a deeper meaning in his suggestions? A way to reconcile, to gain back all of your trust and your touch?

Your heart will break your ribs if it beats any faster.

Letting out an embarrassingly shaky breath, you tell him, “Don’t feel obligated to—”

“I do not,” he cuts you off, “I… I am a little selfish.” You almost hear it when he swallows. Maybe he’s feeling as fragile as you do. “…I want to hold you.”

Why?

Why, why, why?

No… you’re not asking yourself why he wishes for such a thing.

But why you’re holding back so incessantly.

Sure, there’s the fear of falling deeper into this mess; to lock him deeper in your heart and forbid an escape. Although it might be too late anyway.

But if he’s truly fallen for you, too, maybe you should let those emotions flow for just a few nights. Just for now; you don’t know how things will play out.

Right?

So you draw a deep breath. Lose your inhibitions, lured in through pleading words only. He wants you close; you’re too brittle to decline.

Back on your side, you inch closer to him. Fingers reach out and grip his linen shirt before they turn into loose fists. Your forehead remains a few inches from his chest; you’re still too reticent to snuggle into him.

But he’s not.

An arm snakes around you; his palm settles on your back and pulls you nearly flush against him. His scent… the touch. You missed all of it.

None of it will help you fall asleep tonight, though.

A slight whimper escapes you when he pushes against your body. Your fists clench, and when he notices, he’s quick to inquire, “Too much?”

You shake your head fast. “No.”

“More?”

He’s daring. The purity in his eyes from before must still be there; but his words are bolder now. Maybe your willingness to… all of this boosted his courage.

“I…” you say.

You don’t know the answer, because you can’t decode what more is.

Impatient touches? Bare bodies…?

His hand rubs your back before it moves to the nape of your neck. He raises your head gently, spotting your eyes in the dark. A breath fans your face.

Against your better judgement, you let him do; even lift your head further until your mouths are aligned. As though enchanted, the power he emanates pulls you closer.

You barely notice when his lips graze yours, but the faint touch causes a million explosions, scattered across your torso.

You can barely breathe.

His hand tugs you in a little more before it floats down to the small of your back, and his breathing is as irregular as yours now.

Your legs urge you to wrap around his body; you want your bodies to become one. You want his kiss to burn you. All you’ve held back so far, all the desire and yearning pools in your stomach and heart — you want to free them.

But your journey isn’t over yet.

And the thought of him touching someone else just like this only recently messes with your head. Tears suddenly prick your eyes, but you blink them away.

Aside from any coping methods he chose, you don’t think that, considering his cousin and all the secrets revolving around her, this is an appropriate thing to do right now.

So you move from the kiss; leave him puzzled and taken aback. A questioning hum falls through his lips, but you don’t know how to escape. Instead, you let his shirt go, quickly turning to your original position.

Your back turned to him. Eyes squinted shut. Trying to calm the adrenaline, coming back to reality.

For a couple seconds, he doesn’t fight your reluctance. He lets you dodge his body and his existence. You wonder what’s going on in his head; he doesn’t speak his thoughts.

And maybe he doesn’t need to.

Maybe it says enough when he closes in to you, delicately slinging an arm around your body again. He’s careful, as though he’s asking for permission, before he actually voices, “May I?”

You don’t answer. He draws you in until your back touches his chest. Asks, “Do you want me to move away?”

You can’t quite look at him; but you don’t want to miss his touch. You shake your head.

His lips fall to your shoulder. He’s not kissing you, but the gesture feels intimate; intense. More so when his mouth travels up to your neck. Elicits goosebumps when he breathes against you, “Am I still hurting you?”

No, you’re just… bewildered.

“You’re not…” you answer.

“What are you thinking of, then?”

“Nothing.”

You tilt your head back, shivering when he presses his lips to the skin right under your ear, ever-so-slightly. His hands don’t move; they remain on your stomach. Never exploring anything above or underneath that spot.

The embrace is harmless; innocent. But it feels like smothering flames.

You thought you were water, cool as ice; and that he was fire, hot-headed and irresistible. You wanted to evaporate with him, but right now, you’re both burning.

Right now, you’re not steam but a wildfire.

He’ll leave you in ashes, and you’ll let him.

You keep proving it to yourself — with how you let him hold you. With how you let his kiss barely ghost over your skin. With how you allow his words to affect you.

And how could you not? How do you ignore it when he confesses—

“I want you.”

You grimace. The agony is unbearable — love hurts worse when both hearts are involved but reality keeps pulling them apart.

He robs you of breath when he whispers, “Just you.” As he nuzzles your neck, you lose half your mind; devoid of thoughts when he adds, “And I won’t stop trying.”

That’s it.

The final words of tonight before the two of you silence once and for all. You linger in his embrace. Not brave enough to pull yourself out of it.

And like this, you count the seconds until you finally fall asleep in his arms.

The remainder of your journey passes with stolen glances and a silent tension between you.

The carriage transports you to your desired goal within a few hours. But time stretches in a way that it feels like an illusion.

Both of you want to talk about the implicit confessions last night; but neither of you has the courage to speak up first. Or perhaps, this just isn’t the time to lay it all out.

And when you finally arrive at the cottage, stepping out into the evening sun, the opportunity passes quickly and silently. As you stare at the scenery stretching in front of you, your minds blank anyway.

It’s green. Incredibly green.

The fields are wide, ending in wide forests. Drunk by the blue sky, containing a pleasantly low number of clouds. And the cottage reminds you of the tomb at the cemetery, though reeking less of death and wet soil.

Flowers surround it; it’s made of wood.

If you have ever seen a place that resembles a separate world, a fairytale standing on its own, it must be this. Idyllic. Surreal.

Maybe you can understand after all why neither mother nor daughter would seek the company of a terrible man.

This place’s scent is far lovelier than the rotten heartbreak your town has become. It brings back some of the tenderness you were made of; some of the love you housed for the world.

Whenever it dawns on you how realities have broken you within weeks, your cheerful little self, hidden in the depths of your brain, recoils.

But today, you muster a hopeful smile. Something optimistic sparks in you as you near the cottage; like you’re entering the beginning of an end.

It increases when you step onto the narrow porch and lift a fist to knock. But the door is already ajar — like a sign of a welcome.

You look at Jungkook and expand the smile that he must interpret as reassurance; because he smiles back, takes your hand in response.

But you’re laughing at yourself — it’s refreshing, feeling dreamy again. Hope feels good.

You knock nevertheless and step back. Your blinking accelerates, lips pressed together. Wandering eyes peek through the tiny gap as you wait; you can’t see much anyway.

Jungkook inches closer to you until his cheek almost touches yours and imitates your curiosity; he does it with his whole body. With an open mouth and a craning neck; his tongue dampens his lips before he hums and starts, “Might need to knock aga—”

And right when you prepare for an answer, already nodding with raising knuckles, a loud, friendly voice chimes, “Just another moment!”

Jungkook and you flinch at the same time. Your fist floating near his torso twitches and hits his stomach lightly, and you immediately gasp, uncurling it to a protective hand. A grunting man might not be the best sight to the woman inside, but you on the other hand?

You can’t help but giggle at the crunched button nose, joining the distorted chuckle that hides his miniscule pain.

He catches himself before the door finally opens; you’re glad you didn’t keep your fist any lower.

His voice is back to normal and his stance as elegant and charming as ever when a middle-aged woman’s tender eyes greet the strangers at her doorstep. Her dark pupils are large. The warm kind; the one that inhabit endless kindness.

You don’t know if it’s just another hopeful spark that lights your chest, but despite how little you know about her, you feel comforted instantly.

She looks at you for a moment; she doesn’t seem like she expected anyone. Especially not full strangers.

Suddenly nervous, you feel yourself unable to answer. You squeeze the hand still holding yours, and it presses back in reassurance before his timid voice greets, “Good day.”

She — Jiyoo? –– responds with a tiny nod and an unsure smile. Lets her gaze flit down to your entwined hands and then back to you.

“Good day,” she says. You notice she’s holding a cloth when she grips it with both hands; the door moves when she steps forwards and her shoulder brushes the wood. “How may I be of help?”

You’re so incredibly tense. What if she pushes you away, no matter how kind she seems? She doesn’t know a thing about you after all — and she might not want to relive a past that might or might not have ended terribly.

Briefly, you look past her. Not a sound escapes the house, not a single voice asking what’s going on. The place seems empty, but homely. The table behind her is tiny.

You try, “Are you Jiyoo?”

What else is there left to do? You need to take the plunge.

“Yes,” she answers, still sporting a smile despite the slightly ominous encounter. “Who are you if I may ask?”

Of course she can ask.

You’re intruding. You’re travellers. It’s her home.

Sympathy floods through you. You wonder if Jungkook feels the same.

You want to answer, but her expression shuts you up. She looks content; you can’t bear to see that smile drop. What’s the right thing to say?

You’re waiting too long.

All of you knows that you’re waiting too long, so Jungkook takes over.

“We…” He looks to the side, right at you, sighing. “We came from not too far. Travelled for nearly two days. We were…” He’s on the edge, too. You squeeze his hand again; he clears his throat. “We were told you reside here with your daughter and are incredibly welcoming.”

The last part is a cheat. A way to arrive at the goal faster. Not too stupid of him.

Her expressions change; the smile drops, replaced by genuine surprise. “Oh. You know my daughter?”

Jungkook shifts his balance to one leg when he says, “Suhana… we… yes.”

“How?”

“She—”

He will reveal it all. You aren’t even inside and he’ll put every little detail into your introduction. Not that you’d planned anything else — but now that you’re here, looking at a woman clutching a cloth like a child does with a toy, you just…

You can’t. Not yet.

God, you’re an idiot. You’ll regret it.

But—

“Did you meet on her travels?”

Not you. That was not you talking, although you had another dumb excuse ready; one that would’ve undoubtedly ruined your plans.

That will do, too.

“Yes,” you spit.

You’re daring a risk — you might say something wrong. She might be testing you. This could go so, so wrong. And Jungkook, aware of this, wants to correct you. His hand slips out of yours, and he hesitates, but you’re quick to speak first.

Goodness, her eyes look genuine.

“Yes, we generally travel quite often as well, so we met her a while ago. Is she…” Your pupils dart past her again, and you dip your voice in a bit more honey. “Is she here?”

Maybe it’s wrong to lie to a gentle soul. You know your protection techniques will backfire; especially since you’ll need to reveal the truth at some point. You just…

You want to ease her into this.

“Not yet,” Jiyoo says. “She is gone again. But she uhm— have you two eaten?”

The sudden change in topics catches you off guard. You stutter for a second, and then realise how empty your stomach is indeed.

“We are actually starving,” you admit.

“Do you have a place to stay?”

“No… not yet.”

You should feel pathetic.

You came here without a plan — perhaps she feels disturbed. Maybe she thinks she’s facing clueless wastrels. People who freed their spirits too much and are now roaming the country.

But that’s not what her intentions are.

Instead she lifts her eyebrows; her smile returns and she claps once before she says, “Oh, then just ask! I will not find it rude.” You want to ask what she means, but then she gestures towards the back of the house. “I have a spare room with a spacious bed, if you’d like to stay the night.”

You’re dumbfounded.

What?

“Suhana should be back by tomorrow afternoon.” She says it casually, but… what is that? Something in her words. In her tone. There’s melancholy, something entirely new; peculiar. You ignore it for now. “You shall say hello then. As old friends.”

When you gauge Jungkook’s reaction, his jaw is clenched again. His expression is neutral; you can’t decode it. But it’s different from the nervousness before. Different from the friendliness; a lot colder now.

Yet, he manages a kind tone, and asks, “You would allow that? We do not mean to be a nuisan—”

“Oh, no!” Jiyoo argues. “She likes to make new acquaintances. Some travel, like you, and they stop here to stay and keep us company for a night or two.”

So… this is not the first time?

Has she already treated strangers as friends? Offered them shelter, welcomed them into her home?

It’s surreal. It’s strange. She emanates warmth and a pure heart, but suddenly you’re…

Wondering. You just don’t know what about.

You’ll have a night to figure out, you guess.

“That would be incredibly kind,” you then say. “We would love to wait.”

And that’s it.

She invites you in like friends she has known all her life. She makes the table, talks about how her bed has always been way too spacious for her alone, too.

Speaks about her fields and vegetables and other random things; asks you about your meal preferences, keeps repeating how different fresh, self-harvested food tastes.

Jungkook and you cooperate. You listen without feigning interest, and tell her half-truths, never diving into your actual personas. You let your names drift into the conversation; your heart stops when Jungkook tells her his, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

Maybe you are far enough from the Dukedom. Maybe people have built a life in small villages such as this one, separated from royalty and towns.

You’re relieved. Jungkook not so.

Something is bothering him, and you hate that you cannot ask him yet.

Instead you indulge in the little talks with Jiyoo. Endeared when she asks, “Would you like some tea to warm up? It is getting a little late, so it must be colder outside.”

Was it late before, too? Or has time just passed since you arrived?

“Of course,” you say. “Thank you.”

Smalltalk continues. The words you exchange mean nothing, but they make her open up. You sit still as a mouse, barely lifting your hand from your lap until dinner is served. You offer your help which she immediately denies, and do all the right things to gain her trust.

Not that you deserved it… not yet, at least.

You want to do the right thing, but you feel awful.

“She does travel a lot, yes?” you ask as you swallow the last bite of your meal.

Jiyoo nods, covering her mouth with her hand, chewing until nothing’s left before she finally answers, “She does. She was never one to stay at one place. It’s frowned upon in towns when women do it,” she gestures towards the door, as if a town stretches right in front of it, “but in the countryside, they do whatever they want to.”

You nod understandingly. It sounds nice. No judgemental stares, no expensive balls. No whispers that have never been subtle.

Suhana must be living the life that Jungkook craves.

You look at him again. He’s focused on his plate. Barely talking. You wish you could reach out, decipher his thoughts.

Jiyoo leans forward just a little, squinting her eyes in question, “You met her when?”

Good question…

“A year or two ago,” you improvise. “She was very kind to us, so it was easy to remember her.”

Jiyoo’s smile stays plastered on her face, but some of the cheerfulness in her eyes dies. You don’t know what it is — did you say something wrong? Has Suhana ever done something to Jiyoo for her mother to think otherwise?

For Jungkook’s sake, you don’t want Suhana to mirror her father’s cruelty.

“Yes, I can imagine that,” Jiyoo murmurs. Shit, you cannot fathom her tone; nor her eyes, because she looks away, around the room. “I apologise that you couldn’t find her here today. I get lonely, too.”

You don’t answer. All you can offer her is a gentle smile, a tilted head. Empathy.

“But,” she then adds, “it is lovely that you came. I have company as I wait for her.”

Almost reaching out to her hand, you hold yourself back, only shaking your head as you assure, “Don’t apologise. You’re not at fault at all.”

She looks between Jungkook and you; nibbles her lips, nods. The man is still quiet — if you weren’t aware of his presence at all times, you could almost assume that he left.

And you still don’t get the opportunity to talk it out until Jiyoo suggests, “You must be exhausted from travelling. If you need to, you can take a rest. I shall clean up before resting, too.”

You offer your help once more; and when she declines, you find yourself in the spare room, dressed in the nightgown she lent you. Jungkook improvised his nightwear, using the same as last night, and takes a seat at the edge of the bed.

Standing in front of a painting, you let him ponder. Maybe he’ll voice his thoughts in a minute or two.

But his behaviour remains; entirely different from the moments he held you last night.

Reserved, seemingly… angry?

Once enough time has passed, you lift the fingertips that brushed the painting, and turn towards him to ask, “Are you mad?”

He lifts his head, shifting his attention from the wooden ground to your face with a deep inhale. There’s uncertainty in his eyes, but on top of that thin layer, you see disappointment.

Yet, he lies, “No.” Strengthens the false truth with a click of his tongue; looks at you with half-lidded eyes. And then he shakes his head, rubs his thighs and adds, “Or, I do not want to be. I’m just confused.”

Confusion isn’t what you interpret from his expressions, but you choose to believe. Your thumb points to the closed door and you ask, “Are you talking about her? There is something odd about her, though she has been incredibly kin—”

“No.”

You shut up immediately. When you meet his eyes again, another emotion has snuck its way to his gaze. You wonder how he can be so expressive; how a single glance conveys so many unspoken words.

You instantly know his anger targets you.

“Why did you not tell her the truth?” he asks.

Somewhere in the depths of your idiotic head, you knew. Of course that’s where the distance started. And frankly, convincing him to come, travelling so far, just to back away from the original plan — if you were him, you’d be upset, too.

You don’t know what to say just yet; all you know is that the walls here look thin. So you only say, “Please lower your voice.”

He doesn’t comment on your plea, but he obliges. Yet, none of the dejection leaves his face — it hurts you. Considering how flush your body rested against his last night, you hate that you’ve disappointed him.

Shrugging a shoulder, he repeats, “Why? I do not understand.”

“Because,” you look between random furniture in the room, catching your thoughts. You feel bad; suddenly, your reasoning sounds stupid. “What good would it have done? She is a lone parent, taking care of an adult daughter, and is all alone.”

Jungkook doesn’t buy it. An evil smirk creeps upon his face, and he keeps shaking his head, murmuring something; so you’re fast to add, “No matter how much money your family provides… What if she despises everything about royals?”

“And if she doesn’t?” he immediately defends. “You played along with her, but what if she was deceiving you, too?”

“I know. I had to risk it.”

“You had to why?”

You think for a moment. Your face falls, lower lip jutting out in a pout. Swallowing, you shuffle your foot, incredibly embarrassed. It wasn’t your right to lie.

But he wants an honest answer. So you say, “I don’t know. Instincts…”

He snorts.

“Your instin—”

“I just do not think that telling her too much could do us any good yet!”

”But,” he emphasises, “you said you met Suhana when she was travelling. That we did. That she was kind. What if she wasn’t? Jiyoo will know we’re lyi––”

He gazes up to the ceiling; a light grunt is muffled when he covers his face with his hands. When he emerges again, he points at you.

“God, you were pushing it so much!”

Alright. Fine, yes.

You made a mistake.

But his tone is condescending, and your ego won’t let him talk to you like that.

Licking your lips, you step forwards, glaring at him darkly before you attack, “What is it? Why are you so absurdly upset? Everything is working out so far!”

Jungkook grimaces; his face grows redder by the second. “Why am I upset? I— we came a long way. And you did not do a thing we agreed upon! You never do!”

Silence.

The knife straight to your chest feels so palpable that you think he must be seeing it, too.

He flinches back, like he’s realised how horrible his words were. And you keep looking down at where he still sits, frustrated when he averts your gaze. You hear your heartbeat in your ears when the vexation grows.

And then, quieter than before, you question, “What else did we agree upon? Except this.”

Because you cannot remember a thing he ever asked of you. Just one. And when it came to that, he’s always been alone, never seeking your consent.

And even now, he does not say a word.

You try again, “No, tell me…” You move closer. Your knees almost touch his. “What did we agree upon? We came here because of me in the first place. We’re still here because of me.”

You don’t like to take credit for anything; not one to do anyone a favour to receive one back. You help because you want to; because it’s a good thing to do.

But maybe he needs to hear this.

“I—” he starts, but you interrupt.

“No,” you ball your hands to fists, inhaling deeply, “fucking explain.” As you curse, he stares up at you. Big, dark eyes won’t soothe the ache anymore. “When did I not comply? When I didn’t play your sick, twisted game, right?”

“I did not mean that,” he momentarily argues, “and I explained to you that—”

You don’t care. “Or did I not comply when I fell for you but still pushed you away?”

"Stop. I never did this, because I wanted to, but because I needed to," he attempts to argue, but you're sick of all those lazy excuses.

"Right. You were going to take me to a faraway kingdom, as charming as you are—"

“Stop. It.”

“And would’ve kept up your lies.”

Despite your anger, you shrink when he takes a stand. He pushes himself off the bed with a mocking laugh, hands on his hips, and turns away from you. The cocky side-view of his face angers you — he won’t even look at you.

Just keeps that dumb grin on his face.

“Right,” he says.

“Until I asked you, you probably did not even feel bad about it,” you keep going.

He sighs. Your accusations trigger fury in him; you see it in his demeanour. Another glance towards you, eyes piqued; another warning, “Please shut up.”

But. You’re too heated now — hitherto hidden words come out like a waterfall.

“Why? You cannot live with the guilt, can you?” you challenge. “With the fact that I would have lived my entire life deceived by you. Thinking you were,” you gulp, and then stretch the words, “in love with me, t—”

“Fuck it.”

And suddenly, the next thirty seconds pass in blurry slow-motion.

The curse that interrupted your rage is a whisper, almost as breathless as your gasp when he bolts towards you. You stumble, stretching a hand behind you, careful to not slam against furniture.

But when he sandwiches you between him and the cold wall instead, firm hands on your shoulders pinning your body back, you shiver. Whatever mock you were still intending to throw at him disperses immediately; he sews your mouth shut.

“I was.” It takes you a moment to decipher what he’s talking about; when you remember, your thoughts tangle up. “I am.” Another pause. His hands leave your shoulders, palms instead pressing flat next to your head. “You think so twisted of me. And I don’t blame you.”

You want to escape the menacing gaze; want to slip under his arms and run away. But he traps you, way too close, and repeats, “I don’t. But I mean it.”

He means it. How often has he said that already — and you, carrying a fractured heart, how many times have you doubted him already?

“Jungkook…”

A hand moves to your clavicles; its fingers press into your neck just a little. He’s unleashing something dangerous, and you don’t know how to stop it. Or worse, you don’t think you want to, either.

“I mean it. I was,” he says. “And I am.”

Speechlessly, you stare at him for a moment. He’s awaiting a response, gulping, staring holes into your pupils. Like he’s searching for something in your eyes.

His shoulders drop in an unknown kind of relief when your fear subsides and gentle, melting warmth replaces it. You’re not scared of him — you’re in love with him. So this expression he wears, the situation he’s in, the pain he’s experienced; they don’t elicit fright.

Your eyebrows draw together in worry; and he mirrors your expression.

You think he’s imagining something — seeing pictures he needs gone. It’s easy for you to assume such a thing, because you think you look the same when you paint a future without him.

The more you look at him, the more you fear loneliness; and you know it’d drown you if you ended up losing him.

So you understand his sentiments; know what his swearing means when he takes a deep breath and whispers again, ”Fuck it.”

And then, he’s kissing you.

His lips are hot and intense. A hand spreads over the back of your head, protecting you from hitting the wall as he pushes into you harder.

Both your faces tilt at the same time; your lips lock in place just right. You taste your shared affection, hear the gasps and breathlessness, right here, pressed against the damn wall.

When your fingers tightly wrap around the fabric of his shirt, he moves away from your mouth and to your cheek for just a second. You use the moment that his pillowy lips wander along your cheekbone to whisper his name.

And the single word makes the grip around your hair tighter; he whispers a little, “How much longer were we supposed to wait?” before the silken softness of his mouth falls back on yours.

You don’t have an answer to his question.

But you know that if the world had worked as it was supposed to, throwing back the good karma you know you deserve, you wouldn’t have needed to wait at all.

Because despite the game he played, his passion was real. You feel it; you know it.

Heat blossoms in your chest; fire burns through your veins. His scent robs your breath equally as much as the fervent kiss does; and when he slips his tongue through and unleashes all he kept veiled, you can barely stand.

You moan against the wet muscle when it dances with yours — and the sound reaches deep within him, because in the matter of seconds, he’s pulled you away from the wall. Tumbles the few steps back, and plops onto the bed.

The eyes that usually spread so wide are hazy now; half-lidded, looking at you in silent longing.

You don’t know when his fingers entangled with yours, but he’s luring you in now, closer to his body; and you oblige until your knees hit the mattress. Lifting your nightgown, lips parted, straddling him eagerly.

In the shadow of the candlelight, his face shimmers golden. He’s close to you, closer than he’s ever been; and you look at him, freeing his forehead of his hair. Keep staring until you realise his taste on your tongue again, craving more.

So you give in — not holding back your desires anymore. Whatever has accumulated since that night in the dark room must escape now, or the two of you might implode at once.

You don’t know what you expected two minutes ago; but you don’t have it in you to care anyway. Not when you cup his face, leaning down wordlessly, and delight yourself with more of him.

God.

He feels like a cure.

And perhaps you are ready to fight and endure for him. No matter what the truth may be; what the future might entail.

He, against you, with you, next to you — a cure.

Those swollen lips of his. The hands on your back, moving up and down, finding a spot he can settle on. Pushing you into him, spreading your legs around his torso.

When you focus enough, you feel the effect your hot tongue practices on him. Beneath you, a bulge grows against you, hips rising. You grind into him; his fingers flash down immediately, gripping your teasing ass.

He digs into the flesh almost painfully, but it doesn’t stop you from rolling your hips. A patch of his hair in your fist, your mouths separate with a string of spit connecting you.

And he uses the moment to wander to your dress, pushing it off your shoulders to plant kisses on your skin.

As your head falls back, fingers clutching his shirt, and eyes clenching shut, you murmur, “Do not go too far just yet.”

He lifts his lips off your shoulder just an inch; his breath still tickles you when he speaks, “Mh, why not?”

“We’re not alone. What will she think?”

“That,” he pecks your neck, “she gave us the guest room.” Teeth graze your jaw; fingers pull down your face again. “That we are a married couple.” Another kiss under your ear. “That we do such… things.”

“But… decency and— Jungkook—”

You almost whine out loud when he leaves a wet patch on your neck. You shiver, your nerves alight.

“I don’t have it in me to be patient any longer,” he admits. When you grind into him again, he holds you in place firmer; looks up at you. “I can’t not go too far.” Soft fingertips seek the hem of your gown, and then push it up to your waist. “Unless you want me to slow down.”

Between the insanity of ball night, the fever during brunch and the tension in the last days and hours, you’d be stupid to tell him to back off. The lust pooling in your stomach is about to overflow — and he knows. He must be testing you.

Yet, you deliver an answer when you shake your head, gulping when he only says, “Good.”

He shifts back, pulling you with him, and you reckon he’s only making himself comfortable with you on top of him. But when he plants a palm against the small of your back and tosses you onto your back, you shriek.

His body hovers over yours with his signature smirk — it’s a crucial part of him. You used to detest it; grit your teeth at its sight. But today, it relieves you, because you must admit that you missed it.

Your arms fall to the side of your head, fingers digging into your palm. Anticipation gathers in your gaze as he draws closer. Eyelids flutter shut when his hair, brushing your face like a waterfall, tickles your cheeks.

“Why do you look so surprised?” he asks.

Do you? Surprise isn’t the first emotion you’d name right now, though.

“I am not surprised.”

“Frightened, then?” He leans down, pressing the gentlest kiss to the apple of your cheek. “Do I back away? Just say the word.”

He means it. In those caring eyes of his, you know he does.

And it means something to you. In this messed up world, it must.

“I’m not frightened, I promise,” you assure immediately, lifting a hand to his face. His skin is soft and hot under your touch, lips swollen as you brush a thumb over them. “Just. Digesting the reality of the moment.”

He looks like he’s… melting. Liquifying right over you.

His eyebrows relax, a smile gracing his features so fondly; something about your adoration, how you deem him unreal must be gratifying to him.

Or maybe, he isn’t used to feeling special. Because somehow, it seems that most of your words catch him off guard, no matter how devotedly you kiss him.

“Is it a reality you wished for?” he asks, stupidly so. He must already know the answer; if you asked him to, he’d probably be able to mouth it with you.

But with the overthinking that crushed your skull in the past few days, you understand the need for double confirmation. Especially for someone like him.

So you nod eagerly, speaking over your wild, treacherous heartbeat, “Of course… Is there any other reality to wish for, Jungkook?”

“Yes,” he immediately answers. “Yes, I think there is.” A peck lands on the corner of your lips. “One where,” another under your mouth, “we can do all of this without hiding. As an official unit. And…”

His breath falls, mingles with yours. He whispers, “Once this is over…”

”Please.”

The rest of the sentence remains unspoken when he kisses you again. You drink up all of the syllables, replace them with soft sounds.

Wide awake, you writhe beneath him. Your restless fingers crumple up his clothes when you tug him in, unaware of your own strength — because his balance vanishes and he nearly falls onto you with his entire weight.

A smile spreads on your lips, and he laughs when you do. Your apology is muffled, and his mouth moves with yours when you mumble, “My bad.”

When he lifts himself from the awkward position, he shifts into a far more dangerous one. Priorly kneeling next to you, his knees now hit the gap between your legs, pushing them apart until your dress shifts to your thighs again.

Playfully scolding, he shakes his head, eyes too fixated on yours to notice what’s going on between your thighs.

Attempting to swerve his attention just a little, you lift your legs, wrapping them around his tiny waist; and he reacts, just not in the way you want him to. Not that you’ll decline the fingertips that brush along your calf, hooking under your knee to pull you closer.

“Be careful,” he delivers delayed, caressing the skin of your limbs; starting at the legs, past your sides, delicately along your arm. “I am finding it hard to do so. So you need to be careful for me.”

Your heart flutters.

You know what he means.

If it was up to you, you’d let him devour you already; perhaps he’s just as impatient, ready to break you into pieces. But then again, he’s savouring the moment just as much as you, too — none of you will hurry tonight.

When you wriggle a little more, trying to arch your back, he warns, “Stay still.”

“Come closer, please.”

“Only if you don’t hurt yourself.”

You roll your eyes, digging your nails in the white material of his shirt harder. He looks amused, but finally gives in as his body, carefully, drops a few inches.

He positions his crotch against your leaking bits the moment he dives in for another frenzied kiss, emptying your lungs when he grinds into you once.

The bulge is thicker and firmer now, hard when he slides it over your clothed folds — and it makes you whine so damn pathetically. You might embarrass yourself soon enough.

Languidly, he repeats the movement, giving you a first taste of what’s yet to come. You grab a patch of his hair with a sensual moan; and when you chase more of him, lifting your head and chest towards his, he chuckles.

“What are you doing, hm?” he wants to know. He kisses the spot next to your eye, and it reflexively shuts; so adorable that he combusts. “Princess cannot get enough, yes?”

If he’d said that weeks ago, you’d been absolutely furious. But now that the world has given way to a new reality, you don’t mind it as much anymore.

But you still furrow your eyebrows when he grins cockily; an old habit. Irritated when he refuses more of his taste and wanders to your neck instead. His snicker remains as he opts for his favourite spot, but his hot breath distracts you too much to join in.

Right above your clavicles, he toys with the hem of your gown. His fingernails graze the mound of your breasts; not quite accidentally, you assume. And when he looks at you cautiously, reading your gaze, you already know what he’s going to say.

“I want to see them.” Unbelievable that he still feels the need to state that with those red lips of his. As if the permission isn’t written in your eyes. “May I?”

“You may see them,” you allow with an eager nod. “Touch them. Kiss them. You can—” You keen when he pushes down your dress, delighted at the absence of the stupid corset. “Yes, yes, you m—”

Whatever you’ll say from now on will be nonsense. You know. That’s alright.

Who cares when he swirls his tongue around your perked nipple? When he licks it wet and then breathes against it, continuing the tease with his eyes glued on your face.

He cups the other side with a large palm, pushing it up before it bounces back in its place. His thumb rolls over your other nipple; he’s so out of it that he doesn’t notice the teeth around your sensitive bud until you yelp.

“How long will you keep doing this?” you ask.

Confusion crawls over his fucked out gaze, and his pupils flicker when he looks at you and asks, “Doing what?”

“Stalling what we both want. Taking me the way you truly want to.”

Your whispered truths echo in his mind — combined with this gorgeous expression you’re sporting, your tender voice affects his entire body. The urge to ruin you grows tenfold; that purity you portray, he wants it to fall just once, under his ministrations.

Because the thought of affecting you so deeply; of wanting you and making you want him so ardently…

Jungkook might not survive tonight.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he suddenly says.

Pressed between him and the mattress, you can barely breathe anyway, but when his eyes turn so endlessly starry and fond, you crumble. Not under his weight, but his words’.

He’s still scared.

And frankly, thinking about it, so are you.

Your legs shift down to his thighs, and you place a hand on his cheek as you assure, “You won’t.”

“Not now, and… not like this,” he says, hinting to the intimacy, “but I do not want to make another mistake and for you to regre—”

“Then don’t,” you hastily interrupt, so ridiculously thirsty, blindly in love. “Don’t make me regret it.”

You don’t know what the future will bring; pain and misery come suddenly. So this is all you can offer; a soft order, a plea to him to keep you sane.

And Jungkook, obeying with a careful expression, merely nods.

He licks his lips. His face is red from the heat and from staying afloat above you; his torso is shaking a little when he inquires, “Have you done this before?”

You still remember your conversation back at the orphanage. Implicitly, you’d given him the answer already, but it must have slipped his mind. You don’t blame him, because you can’t properly think either.

You say, “Yes, but… It’s been long.”

For a tiny moment, an unspoken emotion flashes across his face. As if he expected a different answer; as if he’d already mapped out several ways to bruise and twist your body tonight.

But when he realises that he still can, the thought doesn’t deter him anymore. You see it in his eyes; the silent worry vanishes again. Maybe he’s content that he’s the one you chose eventually.

Just like the thought that he’s chosen you keeps your mind away from his… recent escapades.

Jungkook drops to his side when you answer, giving his body a break, but never letting you go. A hand still fiddles with your dress, brushing up and down in comfort as he asks, “What do you like? Do you still remember?”

This is unusual.

All those questions. It’s not what you still remember from your prior partners.

They were tender; they were fond of you. Their affection was genuine, but so was their pride. Perhaps they thought that asking for preferences was more awkward than having their way and finishing quickly.

But Jungkook isn’t only taking his time with you, but observing your reactions, too.

It’s killing you.

“I…” you whisper, slightly distracted by the fingers roaming your body. “Finger. Down there.”

He pecks your cheek, humming in satisfaction. He must be liking your answer — because he’s keen when his touch descends, lifting your dress one last time as he orders, “Take this off, please. It’s been vexing me for so long now.”

You glance at him. He hasn’t lost a piece of clothing, while your legs are half bare and your tits exposed. You touch his trousers and ask, “And you?”

“Me too. I will, right away.”

“You first.”

For a moment, he stares at you dumbfounded, and then laughs. “You are negotiating, aren’t you?”

“You will play with me until I beg. I know.”

“And you would be against it?”

You take a deep breath, holding back a gasp when he pushes his nails into your now naked waist.

Airily, you repeat, ”You first.”

“Good,” he says, lifting his torso. “Sly.”

He crosses his arms over it, and when he pulls the shirt over his head, your breath hitches.

His waist truly is tiny. It leads to curvy hips and a curvier bottom; Jungkook is built like an hourglass.

The toned, golden chest is defined. Dark brown nipples are as perked as yours, ready to be touched; almost as inviting as the chiselled abdominal muscles. He’s brawny, but not too much — and you can’t wait to have him flush against you.

“Sweetheart,” you hear his voice. When he falls back next to you, his fingers settle under your chin, and he says, “Close your mouth.”

You do, immediately embarrassed. “Oh. I was—”

You don’t say what you were. But he understands, asking for what you owe him, “I want to feel that way as well.” He draws impossibly close to your ear, kissing the shell of it; his hand sneaks beneath the dress and to your underboob when he whispers, “Take it off?”

And this time, while still somewhat in trance, you do. Not just the dress, but those damn drawers, too.

Part of you is shy when you throw the gown to the side, fully vulnerable, lacking even a single piece of clothing. You fix your hair and lie back down; and when you look at him and notice his frozen state, you gulp.

He’s studying you.

His eyes scan your body, halting at your chest, and then fall further before they pause again at the pelvis. Your inner thighs are glossy and damp; he sees it the moment you do, and it makes his pretty chest rise.

“Incredible,” he says.

“Jungkook…”

“I need to…” He exhales when you press yourself into the mattress, closer to his body. A warm palm comes back to your sides, soothing your worries. “I need to draw you one day.”

What?

Unexpected.

“I… Draw me?” you ask. “You draw?”

He nods, fingers squeezing and caressing your ass.

“I draw. I paint… I need you on a canvas.”

He pushes his body back and looks at you, lifting your head by the chin before he obliges to your wishes.

Finger. Down there.

Gently, he brushes along your pelvis before he finally, so, so delicately, ghosts over your clit and then down between your folds. Your response is immediate; your legs shut and trap his hand, and he hisses before you open them again.

He tuts, and you think he’ll throw another warning at you — instead, he says as tenderly as he can, “Keep them open, yes? It will feel better that way.”

You nod, but you don’t know how much of your control you’ll maintain. You have a very menacing feeling that he’ll shatter your world.

But he’s satisfied with your weak answer. Brings two fingers to your mouth, taps at your lower lip, pushes in when you understand.

As you drench his digits in your saliva, flicking your tongue over it, his body tenses, and he curses, “Fuck… Good enough.”

Jeon Jungkook is weak, too — you’re eagerly awaiting his reaction to when you’ll replace those fingers with something else.

Wet fingertips dampen your clit, drawing slow circles on it. But he doesn’t linger there for long, instead parting your nether lips until he’s prodding your entrance.

Of course, he doesn’t dig in just yet. You wouldn’t recognise him anyway if he didn’t take his sweet time with you. Instead, he rubs the fingers up and down, back to your clit, repeating his movements.

Goosebumps arise, and you focus harder on keeping your legs spread when he murmurs, “My God… I still remember how you taste.”

Thinking is difficult, and speaking even more so. But you still breathe a little, “How do I taste?”

“Addictive.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Then…

“Taste me again,” you beg in your fog; truly, your head is spinning around its own axis.

Thankfully, he doesn’t listen to you just yet, or you might have lost your mind entirely. No, he thumbs at the engorged bundle of nerves, and says, “Wait…”

For now, you understand that he wants to keep testing the waters. And God, they’re overflowing.

You’re soaked, and you can hear it.

Jungkook seems distracted, focusing on something specific, and you finally decipher what it is when he asks, “How did this happen so quickly?”

The fact that he’s known for jumping into different women’s beds should have numbed him to such an experience. The surprise in his tone makes you self-conscious — do the other girls have so much more self-control than you?

Sheepishly, you tell him, “I really cannot say.”

“Maybe… maybe I should kiss you again if that’s what—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but draws close instead. Tilting his head, lips over yours, and you tighten the grip around his bicep. From the side, he humps your hip, and you’re surprised when you realise that he keeps growing.

His length seems bigger through his trousers now. Harder.

You won’t refuse a kiss — fuck, if it makes him release his shaft from its confines faster that way, you will never retract your tongue.

But when he’s close enough, the jerk smiles — leans back all of a sudden, lets his hand roam over your stomach again.

What?

Where has his touch gone? Why—

Your mind races with curses.

Part of you wants to pout at him, wave the white flag and shake him. Let out an embarrassing plea to finally do more. Those fleeting touches along your pussy, retreating whenever your body reacts, are brutal.

But your second half orders you to let him do — to wait for a moment and let him try his own medicine.

Constructing ideas, you wait. Distracted only by the goosebumps that his teasing teeth around your earlobes call forth.

His breath tickles your neck when he says, “My God, I— I have wanted to touch you again since the last time. The moment in the forest was not enough…”

It’s a strange memory to choose; not quite delightful, but at least sincere. In that very moment, he meant everything he said and everything he did.

Thinking back, hadn’t it been for the pain, you’d wanted more, too.

So you agree, “I know. I know, but…” Your body tingles when he kisses your shoulder; a hand grips your naked tit. “But we’re here now.”

“And I want every inch of you.”

“Then take it.”

“...I will.”

Only that he won’t. At least not yet.

His skilled fingers are devilish; they mix your thoughts and increase your thirst.

But this time, you won’t let yourself stay passive; want him to beg, too.

So when he leans back fully, ready to focus on your body again, you grab the chance immediately. The sudden confusion he voices when you raise your body is no surprise; but he doesn’t fight you when you push his shoulders down, swiftly sitting up to straddle him again.

When you stare down at him, his eyes are bigger than ever.

His hands fall next to his head, his mouth slightly open; he doesn’t need to speak for you to hear his questions. And you deliver an answer, “Let me first.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“Because you did not have any of this last time.” Because you didn’t get the opportunity to. You were pressed against a tree, battling your own mind. “Want to give you something. Properly.”

“As you did in the tiny, dark room, huh?”

God.

“No,” you say, “better.”

He’s breathless already. Maybe because you’re dripping not far from his own ache; still towering against his stomach.

God, he looks glorious like that.

The snatched waist. The picture-perfect torso. Lean but not too muscular; a warm skin colour amplified by the candlelight. His hair is falling to the side and freeing his forehead, allowing an unhindered view to his entire, gorgeous face.

And… he looks like he’s liking this.

Half-lidded eyes; light red lips; Adam’s apple bobbing when he takes in every bare patch of you.

You know he wants to touch you, wants to bruise you. His eyes cannot decide whether to look at your perked nipples, or your wanting eyes, or the hair he could pull at.

From what you gathered the first time, back in that room before agony striked, he will do it all — you know he will. He is the type to. And his fingers are twitching.

But. Not yet.

“You are…” you start, palms brushing along the muscles of his abdomen. “You are so beautiful.”

He smiles with his teeth worrying his lower lip; releases it with sheer lust in his pupils, and then counters, “And you are breathtaking.”

You believe him. He does look as though he can barely breathe.

It fuels your ego and your motivation.

So you shift back on his legs, lean down until your nipples are nearly touching his. You grant him one brief kiss, too ephemeral to get lost into.

And then, you move down his body, targeting his chest. His skin looks pretty whenever you lick along it — like liquid gold.

Your ministrations elicit a deep groan out of his throat, and his fingers move to your sides, somewhere below your armpits. As though he’s about to pull you up to his lips again.

But he doesn’t. You guess he’s enjoying this too much.

The way you bite his small, brown nipples, grazing his torso with exploring hands. The way you look up at him. The self-assured smirk he has never seen on you before.

Holy fuck.

His cock jumps against your tummy, and when you bite back a laugh, his hoarse voice asks, “What is so funny?”

“Oh, I just…” you look at the length trapped between your bodies. “I am liking this.”

He tuts, lets his head fall on the pillow and pulls his lips to another Jungkookesque smirk. The palm moving along your side is soothing. You must not let it catch your focus.

“I am as well,” he assures. “Did not know you would be smitten with my body like this.”

He must be joking.

“Well,” you touch his pecs, moving farther down. “I might have an obsession with them, too.”

“Another thing we have in… common then, I— whatareyoudoi—”

His words spill out quickly and hastily when you kiss along his skin, blowing against his pelvis and the veiny dick. Tall against his belly button, you watch a drop of precum connect the tip and his stomach.

You toy with the bright head, and lick the salty droplet away.

It’s enough for him to let out a guttural sound; the hand previously on your waist now settles at the back of your head. Impatient.

“Memorise those sounds, because you might not hear them again,” Jungkook says, and you look at him with raised eyebrows; his eyes are still closed. “This might kill me.”

You giggle at the sudden humour; you wish you had the ability to utter such coherent nonsense when he does his thing with you.

With a roll of your eyes, your mouth falls back onto the leaking shaft. Just the tip of your tongue licks along his underside first; you ignore the angry red head, but his cock still jerks under your touch.

You almost regret it as soon as you say it, but in the heat of the moment, it falls without a thought, “For someone so active, I did not think you would be so sensitive.”

The statement makes you sick. He might say something you might not like — for a moment, the realisation of his past makes your heart fall again.

But either he notices, or he means it, because he doesn’t let you dwell in ugly feelings too long when he says, “It’s because of you. I cannot remember ever… wanting anyone so much.”

And considering the amount of times he has sought temporary intimacy, you cannot take his words lightly.

“Good,” you say, biting your lip as you bring a hand to the thick member. Brushing down to his firm balls. His legs open a little, allowing you some more space; thighs harden next to your head. “That is good to hear.”

And with that, you start properly.

Your tongue slides from bottom to top again, finally teasing the head in slow swirls. The vibrations of your moans make him react immediately; you guess that gentleness is key sometimes.

You keep the pace when you wrap your hand around him, pumping, leading him away from his stomach and into your mouth. The moment you stretch out your tongue wide, Jungkook allows himself a gaze down to you.

And when you tap the cock against the wet muscle thrice, you watch his teeth grit. The quiet growl wants to evolve into something more animalistic; you know.

But the fact that he’s holding back all of his impatience evokes something unknown in you.

You are fucking loving it; enough to finally swallow him as much as you can.

“Oh my God, you are killing me,” he makes sure to let you know again; deep in your mouth, laying on your tongue, he twitches again. He wipes the hair out of your face, looks at you, and adds, “Holy fuck. Your lips look… so pretty around my cock.”

He enjoys the word pretty; for a full minute, he whisper-repeats it like a maniac. Swears and sighs; his exclaims stop making sense.

And when your eyes dart up again, coming up his curvy cock to catch a breath, you see the angry furrow of his eyebrows. Smileless dimples dig into his cheeks, and he looks like he’s focusing too hard.

So you press a palm against his stomach, still moving your hand up and down the shaft as you order, “Lean back. Calm down.”

He shakes his head, but not to disobey. Fucked out.

“You are just… incredible at this.”

“Then lean back… and trust me.”

This time he does, but the hand remains on your head. Fights the urge to pull.

And you resume your actions. Take him in deep, suppressing your reflexes when his tip reaches the back. You taste more precum on your tongue, swallow around him eagerly with hollow cheeks.

And just when he is fully hard, solid and almost ready to burst, you back off.

Much to his chagrin.

Because his voice turns… whiny.

Amazing.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Simple answer. “I like how desperate you look.”

“Why the hell…”

“Just,” you interrupt. “Imagine it with me. Do you not want me desperate?”

He tongues the inside of his cheek, puffing out a breath. His laugh sounds as if it’s ridiculing you, but his warning is the opposite. Dangerous; affects your lower tummy and heart.

“You will be,” he says. “You will be once it’s my turn.”

Shit.

But. But—

Whatever he says… for now, his true thoughts are revealed through his actions and reactions.

Like, when you decide to continue your slow edging for just a second. Sucking at medium speed, bopping your head up and down and then backing away with a plop. Spitting, all wet and slobbery, attentive to the balls until he’s whispering your name.

You feel his nails against your scalp now.

“When did you learn such a thing?” he asks. It’s hilarious how exhausted he sounds; so surprised you’re almost offended. “I thought you’d…”

“What?” you defend. “That I would lay back, have no idea what to do? Let you do all the work?”

“I just…”

You shrug your shoulders with a confident yet honey-sweet smile. “Do you like it?”

He’s astonished. Doesn’t need to answer; but still does, “It’s amazing.”

“Good.” You stroke his dick a little. “Here… what about this?”

“Go slow.” You oblige, adjusting your pace. “This…”

“What do you want?”

“This… all night long. I want you gagging and breathless.” Fuck. You need to burn the image or you might faint. “But…”

You gulp. “Yes?”

“I don’t want to end tonight like this.”

Oh? Oh.

In truth, you don’t want anything different, either — you just didn’t expect for him to hold back this well. Chasing his high isn’t a priority; he wants you closer.

You understand.

And you cooperate — come up, lean down, breasts in his face. You’re surprised but also not when he latches onto them in an instant; grabbing them, squeezing them, lifting his head to give one of your tits a singular wet kiss.

You shift on his lap, spreading your folds against the base of his cock. The soaked member slaps back against his stomach, aggressively veiny. You grind against it once, spreading your juices along its thickness.

The gesture forces his mouth open and you use the moment to connect his tongue with yours.

God.

This position alone, with him not even inside, could make you come, you think. Because whenever you move backwards, his length throbs against your clit, hot and ready to split you in half soon.

You place a hand under his jaw, looking at him attentively as he stutters, “I di–didn’t know you had it in you… To do such… a thing.”

When you attempt to speak, you can’t get a word out; so you fill your lungs with air, and try, “You weren’t the only one fantasising… you know?”

“Yes?” His forehead is covered in a thin sweat. Talking requires all his strength, with your pussy gliding over his dick and whatnot. “I want to know all about it.”

“No… you’ll feel it all, too.”

“God, are you still the same perso—”

His speech breaks when he sees you spitting into your hand. You lift your body from his, his hands chasing your touch; his grip on your hip is brutal when you bring down your soiled fingers and circle your clit.

Cover his cock with it. Delighted when he begs, “Stop it.”

“What?”

You slow down, but don’t come to a full stop. His chest rises and falls heavily; he’s tired and desperate when he says, “Please put it in.”

Oh. That’s what it is.

The traces of the controlling beast are gone; he’s a mess beneath you.

A corner of your mouth tugs upward, and you challenge, “Why don’t you do it?”

“Because you’re a vixen.”

You laugh. “Do it.”

He waits. Hesitates. He doesn’t trust you, and the suspicious look lights up your chest. You have never had this much fun in bed before.

You lift yourself off him when his trembling hand moves to his cock. He breathes through the mouth only, guiding his cock to your cunt, and when the tip touches your clit, you dodge.

Just a little. Enough to make him exclaim, “I fucking knew it, you vix—”

“I am joking,” you giggle, basking in his faux-annoyance.

When he tries again this time, you let him.

And…

Something in you bursts into flames.

This. This is the first time you are truly feeling him.

The thick, big length penetrates your walls so easily, leaving no gap. You sink onto him, but it doesn’t seem to end — the more inches you take in, the more you spiral.

Shit, that damn curve; it hits you right where it should, digging and digging in until you think he must be in your stomach. Your pussy clenches hard, and he hisses when you do.

“I— are you alright?” he asks; a drop of sweat trails down his temple.

“You’re big,” you whisper.

He smiles; nods. When he shifts on the bed, he slips deeper into you, and you gasp. Balls hit your ass when he says, “Be gentle. Don’t hurt yourself. Is that good?”

“It’s more than good. ‘M fine, I… I needed this.”

His fingernails rake along your arms; you shiver, angling your head with parted lips.

You’re almost scared of moving. He will break you.

But isn’t that what you dreamed of all those weeks? What you yearned for?

Carefully, with a deep breath in, you move up; your thighs are shaking, legs weak from how far his cock reaches. You make it halfway, and then drop onto him again.

And the sensation is…

Insane.

“Oh God, Jungko—”

“You aren’t already tired, yes?” he teases. You would remark something just as cocky, but you can’t form a word. He’s far better at this thinking thing than you are. “Go on. You can do it.”

You repeat the action, go further this time. Try to establish a rhythm with each lift and dip. He is so fucking huge, he stuffs you to the brim. With how long it’s been, you wonder how it’s so easy for you to take him like that.

“Good… good, yes, take it all,” Jungkook encourages.

You don’t know when your eyes squinted shut so tightly, but when you leave out an idiotic whine, looking at him, he’s staring at you with utter, dirty pleasure.

“You do look like you needed it,” he breathes. “Me. My cock.”

“Nnngh, I— yours.”

“Just my cock, is that right?”

He’s milking it. Absolutely getting off on your repetition, your sexual frustration, the way your body craves his. Back arched, sensual movements above him that scramble his thoughts.

And your tits. They’re jiggling, restless, sweat beads between them and hair strands stuck to them.

He clenches his jaw; his biceps bulge when he grabs you harder, makes you yelp.

“You’re so… beautiful,” he says, and your movements slow down just a little.

Your throat hurts from the heavy breaths, from the whisper of his name. You bounce on him for another few seconds, hands on his tummy, arms pushing your tits together.

And then, you near his lips. Seek his kiss, say against his mouth, “I don’t compare to you.”

“Do you… compare to anyone, though?”

“Jungkook…”

Another damn, tender-sweet call of his name. It drives him crazy.

His hands sneak to your ass, lifting it far, and slam it back down. Your lips spread wide, above and below, and your eyes roll back in your head.

“Come here,” he says before your tongues meet again.

Only the tongues. No true kiss.

He wraps your hair in his hand, rolls it behind your head and holds it there in a makeshift bun. When he snaps his hips against yours, you feel the tug at your scalp, but it elicits an odd… ecstatic pain.

Your entire body shivers.

In the heat of the moment, as he kisses you until breathless, his cock slips out once. Immediately, he guides it back to your cunt, and when he drives it back in again, he seems to lose his mind.

Because suddenly, he’s jackhammering into you. Swiftly, controlled and calculated, but hard.

You fall against him with all your weight, immediately sorry.

“O–oh, Ju—”

His name transforms into a lengthy moan, and within a moment, you bury your mouth into the crook of his neck. Muffling the sound, still loud against his skin when he holds your ass in place, balls slapping against it, pounding into you.

But the moment is short lived.

Because merely a minute later, just when your pussy starts clenching around his veins, he lifts you off of him once and for all. He pushes you onto your back, leaving you clueless and wincing.

And before you can blink again, he’s pulling you down the bed by your legs, angling one of it against your stomach before he licks his thumb.

“It is finally my turn, isn’t it?”

Oh, goodness.

Oh, shit.

Fuck, is he…?

Yes… yes, he’s crawling down, still sporting a standing, glistening, crazy wet dick, ready to eat you alive.

“Is this revenge… for me almost killing you?” you ask.

He clicks his tongue, but — when he looks at you, his breath hitches. The rise of your chest is mesmerising; the clenched fists adorable.

And your lecherous gaze mixes with amusement. He can’t help but laugh, but simultaneously feel a stinging ache in his chest.

Worse than ever before.

If everything he has felt for you until now was yearning, then this must be something… something far beyond his understanding.

“No,” he murmurs, shaking his head just a little. “This is me pouring all my desire into you.” He raises the leg he priorly angled, and kisses above your ankle. “All of what I feel for you.”

The muscles of your face relax. You can’t even smile — you’re frozen in place. Falling into his dark eyes.

“Yes?” he asks.

And you nod. Whisper, “Yes.”

Which is all Jungkook needs.

His face drops between your legs like yours did before. Licking his lips, he parts your thighs again, caressing your flesh. And then, his soft, nimble digits move up to your clit, raising it with a finger and a thumb on either side.

For a second, he reciprocates your weak smile, holds your stare. But then, his eyes close softly. Eyelashes brush his cheeks. And the tip of his tongue…

Darts out and flicks over your tiny bud.

And the touch’s effect is immediate.

Your nerves burn up when he licks around your clit, and then comes back straight to it again. Never harshly, but so, so tenderly, only allowing you a tiny touch. Not pressing against it, not pushing it too far.

It affects you the most; so soft and fond and careful.

He knows… he knows what he’s doing.

When your body responses edge him on, he increases the pace, flattening his tongue a little more before he finally moves down from your clit and between your pussy.

One hand holds a leg apart, pushes it back against your stomach again, and then runs down to your ass. His fingers and his mouth, the breath that falls against your wet cunt; all of it combined makes you dizzy.

The same palm reaches for your breasts, squeezes and massages one of it, and then, sneaks down to your entrance where he doesn’t push inside. Only teases you.

And amidst all the inner chaos, you choke his name, repeatedly, “Jungkook… Kook—”

“Hmm…”

“I think I will…”

He hums again, this time in agreement. His nose buries into your bundle of nerves, tickling and stimulating it as he, eventually, shoves two fingers in cautiously.

“Jungkook, I will come, I—”

He doesn’t answer. Now that you have said it, you know he won’t.

Instead, he keeps going. Keeps the speed, curls his fingers, presses against the rough spot inside you. His flat tongue drinks you up, steady and rhythmic between your swollen lips; flicking and circling motions make you keen.

And then, finally…

Your orgasm shatters you inside out. The coil snaps and affects your entire lower stomach.

The world tilts off its axis, suddenly spinning too fast. You see the ceiling twice before you shut your eyes close, winding on the bed.

Jungkook fingers you through your high, and you think you feel a wet sensation along your legs and on the bed beneath you.

What is it?

You’ve never…

But…

It feels so good.

Stars float in your vision. God, if you sat up now, you’d fall back again. You’re so dizzy; your legs are shaking.

It takes a moment to realise he’s calling your name. You’re near frantic, still catching your breath.

When you hum in question, looking down at him, he’s still forcing your legs apart, fingers gone from your pussy, but his lips still pecking your sensitive clit.

“What—” you begin, reaching for his hand. “What was that?”

“You… you liked this one.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “I know. I loved it, I just…” You puff out an exhale. “It’s wet. What did you…”

Jungkook looks surprised. And then, he smiles a little, enraptured by your cluelessness. He pushes his cheek against your thigh; gazes at you like you’re a star in the sky.

You remember what he knows. Remember that he’s probably done this to so many women before — that you aren’t the first. But he doesn’t show off with those skills.

You know he understands the craft, but instead of laughing about your inexperience, he keeps smiling. Quietly and in love… and then explains, “Sweetheart, you… you finished… hard. Have you ever felt this way before?”

Unafraid to admit, you shake your head. “No. Never.”

“It was gorgeous,” he says, moving back up to you. “You were beautiful.” He settles between your legs; lets his cock prod against your hole. “You are beautiful.”

And then, he’s pushing in again.

Reflexively, you hold onto his shoulders. You gasp and moan when he shoves himself all the way in, oh-so-slowly. He pins your knee against his waist; wraps his fingers around one of your wrists to raise it above your head.

His eyes are fluttering close, and he’s trying his hardest to keep them open.

So are you.

Until you can’t anymore; until both pairs of eyes finally shut, and he hugs you close, melting both your skins as his mouth attaches to your neck.

Your pussy is aching; it feels like you’re still riding the waves of the prior orgasm, and he’s already pulling another out of you.

“Jungkook, it feels…”

So good. But so new, too. No partner has ever cared for you like that.

“Hm?” he speaks against your neck, kissing you softly. “Am I hurting you?”

“No… no, I just. I cannot say if I can… again—”

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“No,” you repeat.

“Does it feel good?”

“...Yes.”

Jungkook shifts on the bed, deeper and harder inside you now, lets your wrist go; his ass must be moving so swiftly, like he’s dancing against you. You wish you could see it from above.

He asks, “Do you want me to stop? If it is too much, then…”

He hasn’t come yet. And you don’t want him gone yet. Not now, not ever.

So you whisper truthfully, “No… Please don’t stop.”

“Then,” he says, suddenly delivering a ball-deep stroke, remaining there for a moment. You’re so breathless that you can’t even moan. “You can take it. Once more, my angel.”

And that’s it.

What follows is a series of almost relentless snaps. He’s vocal, and the arms around you still suggest complete devotion; but the way he fucks into you dampens your waterline.

You hold onto him, moving your hands up and down the expanse of his back, down to his ass. Following his movements, fearing for the creaking bed.

No matter what you do, you won’t be able to hide this from Jiyoo anymore.

It’s awkward; but right now, you don’t have it in you to care.

It takes one more minute; his pelvis keeps grinding against your clit. And then, you’re clenching again. The waves aren’t as high this time as they were with his mouth on you, but they’re overwhelming nevertheless.

They’re making you tired.

And as if on cue, as you’re still mewling, he pulls out and follows — and fuck, Jungkook’s orgasms are one to remember.

No wonder he has always been popular with the ladies. Even if they weren’t in love with him as you are, the sensation of him coming undone is worth everything.

The broken groans, the taut jaw. The hisses and the alternating tone. High and whiny first, deep and enticing later.

The beautiful arch-form of his upper lip, and the plumpness of the lower lip; both parted.

Shit.

When he’s pumped himself empty, covered your stomach with his seed, you’re spent; all he whispers is another, “…Incredible.” He wipes the hair out of your face, and adds, “I promise you I have never felt this way before.”

“Me neither,” you answer. Your voice is weak.

Both of you feel like you have run all the distance from your home; your heads are spinning, and you’re soaked in sweat.

He falls next to you, calms his heart.

The next minutes pass in a blur, quietly, sweetly, patiently.

Jungkook, once he’s recovered, stands. Scours the room for a handkerchief, and finds one in his sky blue coat. You grimace when he chooses it to wipe away his climax, saying, “I am sorry for ruining your cloth.”

“This one?” he asks, shaking his head. “I could use your gown, then.”

You laugh, slapping his arm, “Do not.”

He flicks his hair off his forehead, and stands once he’s done. Slips into his clothes and then says, “Wait here. I will get a wet cloth and some water.”

You nod. “It’s not like I can walk, honestly.”

And that’s how another hour plays out. It might be late and you feel incredibly tired, but wasting your moments with Jungkook feels inefficient.

It’s only when your eyes start drooping once and for all that your jokes die; and Jungkook says,

“I am falling for you. So hard.”

Against his chest, your eyes blow wide. Your lips tug upward.

No matter how many confessions he utters… you cannot get used to them.

“But my uncle’s eyes are set on us all the time.” Your smile drops immediately. “He does not want to risk any scandal between us. Says we can wait with… this shenanigan until after the marriage. Just wants me to formally court you.”

“He cannot,” you argue, cuddling into him, “stop you from falling for me. You can have me either way. No matter what he says.”

“It just hurts to be observed when I just want to be here. With you. The nights we spent away from balls were the only ones he didn’t see, and I felt… free.”

Your guts twist. You hate that you’re the first to provide such a humane feeling; hate that he feels like a caged bird.

You listen, “He did not mind my affairs so much, because according to him, that’s what men do. That’s why he doesn’t suspect anything now, either. It’s why I am here.”

He laughs in mock; the words sting in your chest.

“But he would mind with you. Because you are my wife-to-be and part of the peerage. Other women are too common to him; but you are too important to have your reputation tarnished.”

“But I choose to do all of this with you. To be with you.”

“Yes, I just… I wish I could fall for you without his watchful eye on us,” he repeats.

You pause, tapping against his chest.

Grinding your teeth, you think back to other balls. You don’t think you saw the Duke much, but… back in that dark room. When you and Jungkook…

He was quick to find you there.

“He never lets us out of his sight,” you say, more a statement than a question.

“Unfortunately.”

“Scary.”

Jungkook moves under you. “But. Let us talk about something else now.”

“Yes,” you immediately agree. Your heart feels too heavy. “Like what?”

He hums, thinking, and then says, “You once asked me what my goals were. What makes me happy.”

You remember. “I did.”

“Well, I…” He keeps staring at the ceiling. Blinks and gulps. Admits, “I do like to draw and paint. I wish to finish a big portrait one day.”

“Why did you not before?”

“Not much time to think about dreams.”

You silence. Then, you nod, and say, “Then I wish for you to reach that goal.”

“Mhm,” he makes, rubbing your arm. “And you?”

Not a difficult question. You read too much; novels stay glued to your hands. You must have thought about this a million times before, so your answer is immediate.

“I wish I was better at writing,” you tell him.

“Who says you are bad?”

“I do.”

“I do not believe this.”

You chuckle. He’s so warm against you; you should hate it in this summer heat. But he feels comforting. His touch and his encouragement are lovely.

“Perhaps I can show you one day,” you say.

A peck lands on your head; you feel the nod, cherishing the quietude until he questions, “Can you tell me something else about you?”

Hmm…

A harder question.

There are a thousand things about you; naturally, you cannot think of one now.

But when you look up to the same ceiling as him, thinking, you notice the flickering candlelight again. It’s dimmer now; maybe you should blow out the flame.

It reminds you of something, too, though.

So you answer, “When I get scared, I look for something that calms me down. Like a big tree to hide under. The starry sky.” Like his eyes. “Or a lake. I— oh, I once found comfort in fireflies.”

Back when you were younger, you’d sometimes sneak out of those fancy balls and walk along a garden until someone caught you. Jungkook, fooling around with his friends on his trail, saw you under those trees sometimes.

Weird that he remembers.

He doesn’t mention it, though; instead, he asks, “Fireflies?”

“They glow!” you say; your pure, enthusiastic voice makes him laugh. “No, but they do. Why do they? If not for us to admire them. Some find them strange, but I find them wonderful… shows that everyone and everything is worth admiring.”

That poetic gene again. You will never stop dreaming; and he will never stop adoring this quality of yours.

“Me too?” he asks.

“You are…” You wait. Think. Then add, “Extraordinary, Jungkook.”

He snickers for a moment, presumably because your hesitation suggested otherwise. But the proximity and your touch on him, still cuddling closer and closer, must prove that you mean it.

Squeezing your body, he mumbles some praises you barely understand; all you do is enjoy the foolery for a moment.

Until his joy falls once more, and the room becomes quiet again, and his smile drops, and you ask, “What’s wrong?”

Slowly and hushed, incredibly unsure, he asks, “What about my uncle? Is he… worth admiring, too?”

His uncle…

He feels less humane at least. Not even you can deny it.

But in your old, gentle manner, always believing in the good nature of people, you say, “I think there is often a reason why people turn bad. Not always. But his type of anger seems to have a trigger. I… I want to know about it.”

Another beat of pause.

Arms that tug you close, as if to protect you from an immediate demon in the room.

He breathes hope into his lungs, quieter than before. You don’t discuss the argument you had before all the intimacy; questioning your intentions won’t change reality now, and he knows.

He chooses to trust you; even if your actions entail dangerous lies.

You mean it well.

So all he whispers is, “You shall… I hope you are right with all this.”

Bliss isn’t the first phenomenon you expect upon waking. Considering the situation and the purpose of your journey, you should be on edge, dreading each revelation another morning brings.

But despite whatever truth you’re searching, the one you found in the candlelit night won’t leave your mind.

And it consists of.

One, the fact that the act has fallen; whatever touch Jungkook planted on you last night was real.

And two, the realisation that all the emotions you deemed feigned, all the starry affection his eyes carried… all of it was real, too.

Has been real.

His uncle built the cage that trapped Jungkook with unbreakable steel, and each moment you look into your lover’s eyes, you see the urge to break free.

None of it is an act anymore.

But with your distrust falling, perhaps you can indulge in whatever Jeon Jungkook as a person is. To unveil more of his true self and break the cage for him. You’d introduce another play, but skip to the very last act right away.

You wish you could tell him if the other side of the bed wasn’t empty. His warmth lingers, but he’s missing.

So you flutter your eyes open and lift your body with a long yawn. The long-case clock shifts into focus once you’ve blinked away your sleepy blur, and you realise that you’re not quite having an early morning after all.

It’s close to eleven. You don’t think you’ve slept in so late in a long time; not since you were genuinely ill the last time. But then again, you were occupied most of last night, too.

Draping the dress over you that Jiyoo provided yesterday, you come to a stand. You feel the ache between your legs immediately; your limbs’ muscles are still recovering.

If the man who caused it was here, he’d probably smile. Perhaps he’d make it worse. You don’t know, but you keep fantasising.

The door opens with a creak; the moment you step out into the main room, you recognise within a second that the house is empty. You don’t hear any shuffling, no voices, no conversation.

A chirping bird sits on the windowsill; along with the wooden furniture and the bright sunlight seeping into the room, the little mockingbird drowns the cottage in a fairy-tale glow.

And the next existence you register is him.

Standing near the entrance door, lost in whatever thoughts. Your steps are light, but he notices your presence when you dig further into the room. His head snaps towards you, arms folded.

His voice is as gentle as yesterday, though a little more fatigued when he says, “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

Presumably half expecting that you might join him in the nearly noon sun, he draws a deep sigh and turns back. And you’re fully intending to.

If the old cupboard next to you didn’t catch your attention.

Through its glass door, you see a variation of decoration. Little ceramic figures. Copper cutlery and cups that look untouched and dusty. And amidst all the possessions, you notice little drawings, framed.

There are a handful of them.

Merely pieces that showcase a girl and a woman, the mother as you assume. And that very mother looks like Jiyoo, so you can only guess that the girl’s the daughter you’re looking for.

They’re smiling on all of them; it’s like the drawings narrate a story from early childhood to late teenagehood.

The reality that strokes of pencils paint is fascinating to you. Pictures taken from the mind and eternalised on paper; for someone who has never attempted proper art, creativity of such calibre is mind-blowing to you.

You could keep staring at the old pieces.

But then a thought distracts you, though if you think about it, it isn’t very surprising.

There’s not a trace of a man…

It must have been hard for them to live without a husband, or a father figure. But such a life strengthens a mother-daughter-bond, too, does it not?

Judging from the emotions you perceive from their expressions, they’re a happy duo — you wonder how Jiyoo copes with the solitude around here. Her only daughter and solace is travelling; it must affect a single mother somehow.

If you had the power to take everyone’s pain…

You flinch when Jungkook calls your name again. Realising your absence next to him, his voice carries a fragment of confusion; so you turn to him and away from the dusty cupboard.

His back is plastered to the doorframe, and his face is a silhouette against the sun. He’s standing more to the outside than inside of the house, so you don’t see the raised eyebrows turn into a fond expression until you’ve stepped closer.

You press your back against the other side of the doorframe, facing him with a distance of mere two feet between you. The warm countryside breeze blows some of the untamed hair into your face, and he reaches out, pushes it back. Your skin tingles again.

Soft fingers barely grazing your cheek, he asks, “Are you feeling well?”

His expression is worried; his tone is careful.

Do you look unwell?

In spite of the circumstances, you can’t help but feel radiant.

“Hm?” you hum, frozen in place. “Yes. Why?”

Red-pink lips press together and then release. Jungkook has a dozen habits, but this is one you find oddly endearing; a smack of his lips, like he’s tasting heaven. The way he looked last night, too.

It might evoke irritation in a hundred people, but you, perceiving the world through rose-tinted lenses and utterly biased, crave this very mouth.

You’d cherish it a little longer if he didn’t look so worried. Bobbing his Adam’s apple when he swallows and murmurs, “Just… after last night.”

“I do,” you’re quick to bolster. “Of course I do.”

Jungkook hesitates; his eyes hide behind his bangs when the gust scatters them across his forehead. But when he clears his sight, you see relief in his shiny orbits.

“Good,” he says, “I was uneasy because you…”

The dangling, unfinished sentence is clear enough. His dropping head speaks for his silence, and he shuffles his feet, unconsciously bringing them closer to yours and sliding a few inches down the frame.

He is uneasy, because he worries you might regret it. Your willingness beneath him, the permission for him to leave no spot untouched. He’s scared he might have sullied you, but the colours your soul lit up in begged to differ.

You understand his point of view — after all that has happened to the both of you, the thought isn’t too far-fetched, right?

But you still say, “You don’t need to be worried.”

It’s all he needs. When his shoulders drop, you know that his fears have, too, before he verbalises it, “I’m relieved then.”

You flash one last smile for good measure, accompanied by a gentle nod. He’s close enough for you to touch; his movements pass in slow motions when a voice whispers to you to reach out.

Perhaps you could sidle back into the room; writhe under the sheets. Taste the future your heart urges you to approach. You hunger for more confessions. More breathless moments.

But the recurring fantasy of a utopian future reminds you—

The miniscule moment of oblivion crumbles when nature’s scent wafts towards you again. It smells different from the city. The house you were invited into, and the fields outside.

They look different from what you know.

So you ground yourself, snap out of it.

And ask, “Why’s the house empty?”

“She’s picking fruit.” Jungkook squints at the bright horizon, nodding towards a figure in the distance. “She was already gone when I stepped out.”

“Oh. When was that?”

“Just a couple minutes before you did.”

His dangling arms lift and he pushes his hands behind his back, supporting it. Now that he has confirmed the absence of your regrets, he isn't looking at you anymore. You wonder if there’s more that’s bothering him.

Maybe the fever of last night didn’t leave him as inebriated and lovesick as you.

Your romanticising self who’s hoping that you woke up, because you noticed his absence.

You who’s wondering what his first thought was as he saw you sleeping there. Curious whether he thought the same things that you did when you met his dozing form in the mausoleum. Or if he was rather lost in the creeping worries he spoke of.

Either way, he looks calmer now.

For a minute or two, you close your eyes and soak in the sun’s warmth in silence. Your mind blanks, but as time keeps stretching on, a question about the further plan forms in the back of your mind.

Reluctantly, you pull your eyelids apart, ready to discuss today and tomorrow and forever with him before a pleasant voice sing-songs, “Good morning!”

You didn’t hear her approaching, so you recoil immediately, dropping an eye shut again. It takes a moment to realise that they’re both laughing at your antics, and all you manage to react with is a flat hand over your dress. Eliminating wrinkles that aren’t there.

She doesn’t lose a word about last night. She must have heard — but she understands the concept that privacy is.

You’re grateful.

Timidly, you walk back into the house, watching her place two baskets on the table. She takes out a handful of the fruit, washes it quickly before she places it in a bowl and offers, “Fresh strawberries. Would you like some?”

Jungkook and you share a look; he shrugs his shoulders, pointing to the table with a friendly smirk, as if to encourage you to respond. And when you stall your answer some more, she looks up at you, eyebrows adorably raised.

“Um,” you laugh, nearing the table with a straight back, “of course. I’ve never had fresh strawberries.”

Jungkook takes a stand next to you, uttering a mannerful, Thank you, before he grabs a juicy strawberry for himself. Its intense taste could be enough for you to forget about the issue on hand.

His mind must have surely eliminated the thought, because he starts nodding with pleased hums, repeating over and over again, “They’re so sweet. They’re incredible.”

For a minute, both you and her admire his appetite and manners. The constant praises as though she just invented strawberries herself. She glances at you; her eyes reveal that she deems you lucky, and you throw a proud smile back.

You giggle when Jungkook throws his head back; when he looks back at you, his eyes are glowing, slowly blinking as if he’s seen the doors to Heaven. But the next bite changes his expressions, eyebrows kissing like the food has offended him.

He must be exaggerating, but you find it ridiculously endearing.

Yet, no matter how lighthearted your journey becomes, something lingers in your mind that no fruit can eliminate. You can’t fall into distractions again, and you think that’s what he is doing right now. Probably just waiting for this afternoon, though.

“They are very sweet indeed,” Jiyoo says. “I like to think that mine are the best around here.”

This will never end. Next topic.

“Thank you for them!” you hasten, wiping the corner of your lips. “Do you need any help with anything?”

Maybe a moment alone could help you out. Just a few minutes to find out more.

You must not forget that you need Suhana’s presence here. If you could just take her with you to town for a while… to have her talk to the Duke, speak some sense into him. Tell him to stop sending the money and tormenting his family…

But to your chagrin, she shakes her head immediately and assures, “Not at all. Cannot let my guests work.”

“Oh, I just thought,” you gulp, “you might need help to prepare for this afternoon.”

“Hm?”

She looks confused. Strange.

“Your daughter,” you explain; not quite sure why you need to, “since she is returning, I reckoned you might have your hands full. I could provide one.”

The brief silence that follows is awkward; soon broken when she promises, “Oh, no. She won’t be back in a couple of hours, so I will rest just a little for now.”

Strange, strange, strange.

Unable to prod, you nod, whispering a fading, Alright, before your gaze shifts outside the window. You can’t figure out the atmosphere here. The woman seems genuine, but her mind keeps wandering off.

Why is everyone hiding something? Why is no one straightforward?

You could just lean back, like Jungkook, and wait. But there’s this nagging feeling inside you…

“If you’d like,” she begins. Pauses until the two of you look at her. She uses the fact that your eyes keep fixating on the outside; you know that she does when she says, “You could take a walk in the meantime. I could prepare lunch. It’s a beautiful day.”

Yes. Maybe that’s what you truly need.

Jungkook begins to form a rejection, but you interrupt, overshadowing his soft voice, “We shall! We haven't had an opportunity to do so yet.”

You never thought Jungkook could ever showcase such a shy side of him. Because when you look at him, he looks baffled for a moment, his usually confident self cluelessly stuttering.

That is, until he registers the silent plea in your eyes, and echoes, “We shall.”

You spend the minutes fixing your hair and your clothes, jumping into the ones you wore yesterday, with half your attention to the sounds in the kitchen.

Your pupils fog when your ears get used to the resonant clinking of steel tableware; and then, your sight clears each time you think you notice another voice.

But there’s never anything or anyone other than her and her engrossed hums.

Jungkook changes in another room, and doesn’t disturb your thoughts either when you tackle the path up the hill. You haven’t properly heard his voice since last night, and somewhere in the back of your mind, the fact renders you uncomfortable.

But the forefront of your head is filled with the riddles that plague the cottage down there. You can’t wrap a finger around it; or perhaps you can, but you don’t want to accept it as the truth. Because despite her kindness, the iffiness is almost palpable.

It wasn’t yesterday; not when she stepped into the house earlier. But her confusion. The insecurity in her eyes.

You need to know.

However…

You stop in your tracks, watching a ladybug cross the path. You don’t look at his face, deep in your thoughts, but tell him, “I cannot stay much longer. My parents will grow suspicious.”

A short silence, only broken by the birds’ songs.

You glance up at him, awaiting a solution, disappointed when all he comes up with is, “You can leave if you need to. I won’t hold you ba—”

“I know,” you interrupt softly, daring one step closer. “I know. But nothing in me wants to leave you alone.” You tilt your head, look down to the house. “You’d need a carriage, if I left.”

You gesture to said vehicle, hands nervously flailing around when you add, “And… besides, I crave the truth as much as y—”

Fingers around your wrist stop your frantic movements, pulling your chest close to his. If you leaned in, your nose might brush his; his dizzying breath mingles with the scent of the trees.

Intense eyes dig into yours; his pupils are shaking, looking for an answer in yours without uttering the question. And it seems he doesn’t find one when his eyebrows relax again.

Deep breath drawn, you shake your head slightly, adding an inquiry to your puzzlement, “What’s wrong?”

“Why,” he begins, a firm hold around your wrist, “are you doing this for me?”

You hold his stare. Realise his quietude all morning bit by bit. The worries, the way he dodged your eyes, the uncertain stance.

You thought he knew why. That he understood that you feel the same for him as vice versa.

What is it?

Is he scared you might leave, that your infatuation with him will end once this is over? Does he think last night will become a fleeting memory? Does the thought of letting you go hurt him, too; has he really fallen hard, too?

What if you told him now…

Fuck it.

No what ifs. No uncertainty.

You need to try.

“Because,” you say, carefully diving into the truth, “I am ready to do anything for you. I want to find my way back to you once and for all, and I want you to heal. And I need to separate him from you. For you to find a family member you can trust.”

His lips part. The expression is so painfully pure that your heart parts, too.

You say, “It’s what you deserve, and what we deserve.”

“We do.”

The answer comes quickly. Reassuringly. The grip around your arm grows softer, and he lets his hand, along with yours, fall to the side.

You use the opportunity to wriggle out of his digits, and instead, graze your fingertips along his palm until you’re holding his hand just barely.

“The way we were last night.” Your voice is a whisper now. If the wind blew any harder, he wouldn’t be able to take in a single word. “I want it every night. Not just our bare bodies, but… your touch on me. No matter how.”

Your fingers entangle, but you’re still not holding each other firmly. It reminds you of the night it rained; after you snuck into the theatre. Insane how much has changed; insane how much hasn’t.

Jungkook is still listening, but the sparkle in his eyes is changing. He’s still… pining for you.

The bittersweet ache in his gaze is apparent; the one that longing evokes. The ache that urges one to reach out and trap the other in a ceaseless embrace.

“It felt right,” you continue. “So I don’t want this to go wrong.”

His breathing alters; the apples of his cheeks blush. You nod, as if to say—

I know. I want you closer, too.

He swallows his insecurities, shuffling nearer to your body as if on cue; you feel breathless despite the fresh air. You need to skip this part. You need your glorious, blooming ending now.

His other hand lifts to your arm slowly. Settles there, and then moves to the crook between your neck and shoulder in tiny motions.

His skin burns against yours; much as last night. But when the shiver he elicits comes in touch with him, the heat evaporates.

You feel at ease.

Though your face still warms when he asks, “Is that what you wish for, sweetheart? To be with me?”

To be with him.

How exemplary it sounds.

“If I spoke about an ideal ending,” you say, “then I think that would be it.”

“Good,” he murmurs; his whisper nearly matches yours now. “Good. I want it, as well.”

You put a gentle hand on his. Wrap it around his fingers, let them drift to your jaw and cheek. When you smile, he responds in kind, and when all words have been spoken, you say, “Come.”

Still hand in hand, you tug him forwards — only to realise that Jungkook might not have said all he needed to after all.

Because he pulls you back immediately, risking a clash; he seems to like doing this. You want to laugh and tease him, lean into the kiss you expect.

But his tone is still serious. Agonisingly mild when he admits, “I meant it. I… I told you I fell for you, and I meant it.”

He’s said this so many times, and yet—

Your stomach turns. Butterflies escape their cocoons, raging as you take him in carefully. His pupils are still now, different from before. He looks sure. No trace of doubt.

You realise it, too. Echo in your mind that yes, yes, he means it.

And tell him, “I know.”

But he clarifies further, “I do not merely want this to end, because I need the truth about my cousin. Or because I need her help to end his tyranny. And also not only, because I need someone else to confide in. But, because I need you back, too.”

Growing up, you learned to never be dependent on anyone. You consider the women in your house strong; because they taught you that—

“You don’t need anybody in life, Jungkook.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But I do need you, so I can understand what this life thing is. You lead a path to understanding. I’m not as strong as you, you see?” He angles his head. Beautiful even in his grief. “I wouldn’t have found it myself.”

And suddenly, you do realise… It isn’t wrong to need anyone.

There is no defeat in admitting it. No weakness. That Jungkook wants you by his side, to flourish, to heal, to love — is a strength, if anything, isn’t it?

You blink slowly, tenderly; the fondness in your eyes is real and unfiltered, soft when you touch his jaw and say, “We will be alright.”

A belief that crumbles just a bit later on. Suddenly and harshly.

As you walk back to the cottage, something finally happens.

The fog of fragility clears; it helped to know where he stands with you. And it lets you see the world without those blurry glasses you wore before that very walk; lets you concentrate on this journey and its purpose better.

But then again…

It means that you’re more impatient, too — forgetting Jiyoo’s kindness and overthinking the insecurity from this morning. Your mind works at double speed.

Just — nothing is happening, and you feel like you betrayed Jungkook with the promise that everything would turn out okay. And it drives you crazy.

You linger for another few hours, waiting for someone to arrive who doesn’t. You grow more suspicious by the minute; and when early evening finally breaks in, and the house still only carries three people, you take a stand.

Perhaps you are just suddenly nervous; but being trapped in a stranger’s house, waiting for a glorious revelation tires you out. And Jiyoo… she barely talks to you anymore, busy with her duties.

No. This isn’t right.

“Where are you going?” Jungkook asks, flinching out of his thoughts from the other corner of the bed.

You wonder how he got any thinking done at all, with you pacing the room in idle steps. Waiting for something.

“I don’t know,” you snap. “Out. To find something. Or her. I don’t know.”

You must admit that part of your impatience goes hand in hand with the fact that time is running out. You can’t remain here for the rest of your days, so you need to find out why she’s keeping you at this place and not revealing the truth.

So you shake your head with a smack of your lips, rushing to the main room slash kitchen. Jungkook’s steps follow closely; he’s saying something. Coming up with theories. Which you understand — it’s natural that he’s still hoping.

But you can’t ignore the empty house anymore. Or the time of day. Or Jiyoo’s silence.

You scan the room for clues; anything you might notice. A false fever burns up your forehead; half of you is anxious for Jiyoo’s return, and the other half wants to confront her right here, right now.

Jungkook’s voice shifts into the background. You’re doing this for him — but it’s fascinating how your mind shuts him out, muffling his words, slowly spiralling into insanity. You don’t know yourself like this. Funny what love and care can do to you.

“Listen—”

It’s him again.

A heavy hand falls on your shoulder, attempting to turn you around, but you’re too busy cramming through the content of some cupboard drawer. It’s the same one with the glass doors; the one inhabiting the drawings.

Your eyes shift up to them, but your sight is blurry. You breathe in, shaking your head as you inhale the drawing’s dark hair. The eyes. A child’s eyes.

If the room wasn’t quaking like this, you’d admire the talent more. Maybe ask her for a lesson.

Instead, all you manage is a broken answer to Jungkook, eyelids suddenly heavy, “This is all ridiculous. It’s evening. What is happening? Is she just late?”

Because maybe you are exaggerating. Travels can be hindered; arrival can be postponed.

But the nagging feeling…

“Listen to me,” he repeats, stepping next to you. Out of habit, he brushes back the strands that escaped as you searched; but your eyes stay fixated on the drawings. “You need to go home. I will unveil the secrets, and I will ensure that we remain together.”

Yes, you know that’s what he intends to do. But seeing the truth will take him far too long. It won’t come easy to him if he doesn’t put all the puzzle pieces together — his way of solving this problem relies too much on Suhana’s actual presence.

But you see something else.

Those drawings, their eyes, the age, all of it tells you something else.

Maybe you’re waiting for nothing. And maybe it’s time to demand an explanation.

As something clicks in your mind, you form one yourself — an idea you desperately need to be wrong. But you guess there’s only one person to confirm it.

So you blend out the little pleas Jungkook voices. You don’t know whether it’s the situation or your sudden outburst that worries him more.

But he’s still confused when you step away, arguing about something that you might come back to later.

For now, you walk to the back of the house, to the stall with the cows, interrupting Jiyoo’s milking session. Jungkook follows and shuts his mouth once you find yourself face-to-face with her.

She looks up from the animals with a deep sigh. Upon detecting you slowly walking closer, she smiles; you assume that another hospitable suggestion lies on her tongue.

Maybe she’ll ask whether you’re hungry. Or if you’d like to converse with her, keep her company.

Anything but the truth; some twisted method to keep you here, for whatever reason.

But here’s what you know.

Suhana seemingly still sends letters to the Duke.

But Jiyoo let slip on the very first night that her bed has always been too large for her alone, as though she always sleeps in it alone — and that the only other room remains for guests solely. Her dining table is tiny, barely enough for one person. And her daughter’s name alone saddens her.

It’s as though she invented a daughter, or as though the girl left, and the mother continued to receive money.

Too odd.

And you’re done beating around the bush.

So you state more than you ask, “She’s not coming.”

The corners of her lips drop immediately. Her hands leave the poor cow’s udder, wiping at the apron to avoid your gaze. But you can still see how her eyes fill with sorrow.

Like she’s sorry. Whether about being caught or about something else, you don’t know.

And she refuses to answer.

Silent, lost in her head. You look at Jungkook, and he looks terrified — like you, he expected a solution to your problems. The accusation you just uttered must overwhelm him.

And he wants to ask — you know. But he wants to hear Jiyoo’s response, too.

So he remains silent, as does she. Jiyoo only flinches, looking up at you when you call her name, blinking the misery away as you ask again,

“Where is she?” Pause. And then, “Who is she?”

You prefer the solace of your leisure room to the commotion at balls.

Maybe because you’ve, while socially competent, always chosen silence over hour-long socialising. And you’ve always guessed that you got it from your father.

The ball gown dances around your legs when you advance towards him. Your fingers half-nervously fold over your tummy, teeth nibbling at your lips. You’ll need to check your reflection before you leave — maybe relax the crinkles on your forehead.

Your father notices you mid-yawn, raising both his eyebrows as a greeting that you counter with a smile. The collars of his button-up stand tall, glasses sliding down his nose. He must’ve ran his fingers through his hair, because he looks worn out.

“Are you certain you’re not attending the ball?” you ask.

You place a hand on the arms of his chair. Your question doesn’t sound too worried — more like you’re making sure that he stays right here. It won’t be much of a dangerous affair for your mother or your sister — you doubt they know details of whatever your father involved himself in.

Or at least you hope so. Because they will be accompanying you tonight.

“Very likely not,” he answers. A book lies on his lap; probably a well-deserved break between the work that’s spread on the table in front of him. He points to it. “And I do not think I need to attend every party anyway.”

You don’t, either. In fact, you somewhat envy him, because he gets to stay at home, blissfully unaware of what might happen in someone else’s mansion.

Maybe it’s easiest for him to remain here and drown in work.

A short glance at the papers reveals that this time, he’s not handling business circling around the Duke or his daughter. These are common names and common numbers. Just paperwork like on any other day.

You’re relieved.

Yet, you fear the worst — what if the stack of doom is hiding somewhere underneath the harmless pile?

“Good,” you say. You wait; then ask, “Is it still the same case as last time?”

And to your comfort, he immediately shakes his head, thick eyebrows shooting to the sky, “Oh no. Boring paperwork tonight.”

“Good,” you repeat.

You turn half your body away from him, still fumbling with your fingers. You hear him clear his throat, drum against the back of his book. His eyes flit back and forth between the novel and his work; he must be back in his thoughts, debating what to do next.

For a moment, you let him. Think of leaving him alone, putting your trust in him.

But the itch on your tongue won’t still; so you inhale through your nose, tremendously nervous, and blurt, “Do not get involved in royal business anymore.” He looks up at you, shock written in your eyes. You shrink where you stand, and quietly add a shy, “Please.”

“What?”

“The thing with the Duke and his daughter. I know you had no other choice and he is influential, but do not accept illegal requests anymore.”

“Darling,” he begins, shifting in his seat, “if I am ever made to do it, I must follow orders.”

Lost in the adrenaline, you spit, “You won’t have to, I am sure.”

And that’s what shuts him up once and for all. He leans back again, knuckles pushing back his glasses as he likes to do. His eyes are indecipherable behind the reflection of the lusters, but you hear the confusion in his voice.

“How are you so sure, though?” he wants to know. Perhaps he thinks you’re worried for him — when the bewilderment dies, he flashes an endeared smile. “Do you possess any knowledge I do not?”

If you could, you’d give into your nervous ticks again. But if you bit your lip again now, he’d know that he hit a mark.

You choose to stay neutral, neither forming a lie nor giving him the truth. Instead, you vaguely inform, “Well. I am trying to confirm a theory. But you don’t need to play the messenger anymore.”

“And you do?” he asks, suddenly worried. “Not quite sure whether I am liking the mission you assigned to yourself.”

“Oh, it is not a mission,” you say. Somehow, it is. But then again, it isn’t. You guess that your first priority is truly just to confirm something. Everything else shall be dealt with later. “I am being careful.”

“You better be. Do not get involved either.”

“Father, believe me, I—”

“They’re not a joke, those royals. If I am staying out of it, you are even more so.”

You want to stomp your feet like a child. Want to roll your eyes, tongue your cheek. But what good would it do? You’d just reveal your plans — would make clear that this isn’t just a harmless night to seek information.

So you remain quiet.

You nod. You think he wants to say more, warn you further. But you use his words to play the docile, little daughter, bow just slightly and rush out of the room before he can utter another word.

Each of your movements as you enter another luxurious house and are welcomed by the hosts comes from muscle memory.

Your head slowly scans the ball room; you digest the sceptical looks; smile towards those who greet you with warmth.

And each of your steps happens automatically. The way you halt for just a moment when the crowd comes into view, admiring the glass decoration while simultaneously wondering if the money could’ve been spent on something more efficient.

How your hand lays on Jungkook’s arm has turned into a habit, too. Probably not just for you — because the part of the guests who doesn’t look at you like it’s brewing another rumour, looks at you like you’re already married.

They don’t stare at you like anything strange ever happened between the two of you; it’s like the brunch never occurred. No one talks about it. Of course they don’t. How would they know about your rage; his mistakes?

You wish you could bask in that peace and his touch. If there was a possibility to dance the night away without those intrusive thoughts and the lingering anxiety, you’d take it without hesitation.

But tonight serves a bigger purpose. And all the habits you think you knew might come crumbling down; something might change this time.

You think it will… soon. But for now you gaze back at those who have their eyes fixated on you.

Do they ever blink?

Honestly, they’re only this obsessed with you, because you’re still the girl courted by the Duke’s bachelor nephew. By the Lord Jeon Jungkook — a pairing still unusual; not least because of your polar reputations.

Men must care less; they don’t focus on you too much. Though they do look surprised. And a dozen women — they are jealous of you.

And then there’s you, worried how long this bond might last. Scared of how this night might end, because you don’t know its results yet.

You walk through the hall, mustering utmost elegance, looking around. Smiling under the Duke’s careful stare. He might not realise it — but you’re aware of the eyes that glance at you from the other side of the room, sipping whatever he chose to down.

So you behave as you’re supposed to, without ever bothering to talk to him. In all honesty, you’re terrified of him; he’s like an ominous being from nightmares.

The one who welcomes you with open arms and a pleasant smile, despite not being the host of this expensive gathering, is a mother.

Not any mother.

The Duchess herself, in all her glory.

Diamonds adorn her dress; her gloves are snow white, a contrast to her black hair. She looks like the sweetest, little woman. Can’t do anyone wrong. Big eyes, a small nose. Shorter and softer than Jungkook, but her smile is the same.

You bow deeply and immediately, angling your knees as much as you can. Hoping to gain some plus points from her and his son, but she reaches for you instantly and says, “Oh goodness, no need to!”

Which is ridiculous; of course you need to.

She gestures around, “I shall be a mere guest tonight. You can greet me as one, too.”

How do you usually greet other guests? A nod, is it? A slight bow?

But.

“You aren’t a mere guest tonight, though, Ma’am,” you say.

Jungkook stares from the side; you’re too nervous to notice his fond gaze. You’re always soft-spoken, but the tone you gave your answer in is a melody to his ears.

“Still!” she says, cheerful and sweet. “Treat me as one. I cannot take any attention from our lovely host and countess. It is her night, after all.”

It is her night indeed. What exactly she is celebrating, you cannot quite say. At this point in the summer, you usually trudge along with your mother and sister. Every event is an opportunity for you to enjoy the summer season — nothing more.

“I shall, Duchess,” you promise, and gesture gently towards her dress. “Perhaps I was too blinded by the diamonds anyway.”

She laughs wholeheartedly, nodding as if to agree, and then responds, “Your gown is gorgeous as well, though. You will need to reveal your seamstress’ name to me.”

You puff out a breath playfully, feigning an apologetic expression and joke, “A woman cannot possibly do that.”

And she tilts her head, joining in the casual fun. “That is right, I must agree.”

“But I am jesting,” you say with a shake of your head, a soft blink. “Of course I shall. Maybe we can even visit her together.”

You must delight her — her smile seems genuine at least. You know it from Jungkook; by now, you think you can differentiate a weak, forced smile from a meaningful one.

Her eyes dart over to him; he’s standing still, listening in, not uttering a word. Only lowers his head shyly when his mother focuses on him.

You wish he could break the ice a little more; apart from the greetings and introductions, he hasn’t said much. And she might be thinking the same, because she asks him, “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Oh,” he voices, “this is your conversation.”

His mother smirks; God, their features are strikingly similar. Sure, blood binds them together, and their appearance and habits are bound to align. But he’s like a male mini version of her.

You see the same tenderness in her starry eyes.

You know immediately that she’s mocking him when she questions, “That’s the reason, is it?”

But you don’t fully understand her hint until you look at him. He’s beet-red, embarrassed; or possibly just liking your interaction. He looks at you like he’s dizzy.

So, so fond.

The lost expression and the gentle smile catch you off guard. You might faint like other women often feign.

You wonder if he’d catch you.

You hold his stare until his mother clears her throat; even then, you know that he’s frozen in place, eyes stuck on your profile. Barely blinks when she says, “I shall let you two be then.”

His head only darts to her amused expression when you start assuring she can interrupt anytime she’d like; but she gives a tiny wave, and sing-songs, “Enjoy the music.”

Does she mean…

Oh.

It might be your cue to join the other pairs on the dancefloor.

Not a bad tactic to implicitly push you towards the man you adore; perhaps she knows that swaying in his arms could be a prettier dream to you than just looking at him.

Maybe you’re on the same wavelength as him — or maybe he’s understood the assignment, too.

Because a second later, he lifts a finger to his ear, urging you to listen to the fading music. And then, he says, “Another round seems to be starting.”

You nod. “Seems to be.”

To which he finally stretches his hand towards you; the one you’ve held so tightly already. Fingers you tangled yours with numerous times.

A touch in the pouring rain. Finding his warmth in a cold room at the cemetery. Letting him raise your arms up the mattress, cementing your wants for each other.

But tonight, for now, it’s just the hand of a courting man. Innocent and sweet.

Not because so many people are watching, but because this purity is a side of him that you’ve grown to cherish. The softness is reserved for you; the doting eyes blend out every light and shadow around you.

And as the same sparks flicker in your chest, you accept his hand with the slightest of bows. Your annoyingly dreamy mind imagines he’s not just leading you to the dance floor but into a future, too.

At least for the moment, everything around you feels like a dream.

All the candlelight, the golden room, dozens of flower arrangements. The lusters hanging above you, reminiscent of magical castles.

And in front of you, bowing before he pulls you in, the prince who’ll escort you away from all evil.

As the music starts and you step towards him, he nearly immediately says, “Thank you.”

You tilt your head, blinking as you ask, “What for?”

“For… being you. She likes you,” he nods in a general direction; you assume his mother is standing somewhere there. “And I do, too.”

You cannot help but laugh about the sudden admission. It’s sweet; you aren’t used to much sappy talk from him. So you just tease, “I like you as well, Lord.”

“A true angel,” he nods. “You like everyone.”

“Do not call me that.”

“I think you are, though. Fell from the Heavens, but cannot remember.”

You roll your eyes, rocking with him; your feet move automatically, and your answer is just as much of a reflex, “Shut up.”

He, of course, doesn’t stop. Turns you in a circle, and then places his hand at the small of your back. Presses in as he says, “You shall get used to the name as you try remembering your celestial life.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Sorry. Perhaps you will like it one day.”

“Mh-mh,” you press your lips together, clicking your tongue. This is somewhat… fun — you almost forget the purpose of tonight. “Not even if I am reborn a dozen times.”

He chuckles; his laughter is always so lovely. Addictive. Quieter when he asks, “Do you think you’d get the chance to hear it if you were reborn, though?”

The switch to another partner is close.

Hastily, you ask, “What?”

And just as quickly, he questions, “Do you reckon we’d meet again?”

The answer stuck in your throat remains there. Because a moment later, you’re in someone else’s arms, moving tenderly, but not looking away from him.

As a silent response, you shrug your shoulders. Nod towards your dance partner when he looks into the crowd. As if to say, “Maybe it’ll be him I shall meet in my next life.”

It’s meant as a tease — and you think Jungkook understands.

From afar, he rolls his eyes; and then, for a second, he’s out of view.

It’s the only time you can ease the tension and the stress; if you can annoy him for just another moment before the tears stream, you shall.

So you indulge in the joy when you see him again. Your dance partner is quiet, doesn’t bother conversation; or maybe, he knows where your attention actually lies.

You are aware that you are being rude, but you can’t help — the way Jungkook’s gaze changes and his jaw clenches is hilarious. He isn’t truly jealous; you know. But it’s funny — letting the other man smile at you. Smiling back at him.

Jungkook isn’t hardening his jaw because of envy. But because he needed to be romantic for once, and you are being a brat.

The usual sweetness you’ve learned to love in the last days is soon replaced when he cocks an eyebrow as though to scold you from afar. A response already lies in your movements; you know what provoking him does, and you want to keep doing it.

But then, something catches your attention.

From the side of your eye, you see a family gathered near a small fountain. They’re not talking to each other, but they’re keeping the picture of being a unit intact.

Jungkook’s mother distracts herself from him as she converses with another lady next to her, and Junghyun, his brother, is busy staring into the crowd, grimacing about something. And then, close to him, stands the villain of the night.

His eyes are scanning the room, but when he notices yours on him, he holds your gaze for a second.

Lifeless.

It’s how you’ve always remembered him.

Your dance partner spins you in a circle once more, and when you seek Jungkook’s attention again, he’s already looking at you. Some of the tension evaporates for just the moment, and instead, you initiate tonight’s big moment with a nod.

The music continues for another minute, and you remain in strangers’ arms, following automatic dance moves until it’s finally quieter. You bow when the man does, and then excuse yourself with a tenderly kind voice.

It takes Jungkook a mere second to follow suit.

And when you lift your dress, hastily climbing up the stairs, you notice how wild your heartbeat is. The lack of music, or at least the fading of it, reveals the loud chaos in your head.

Your guts are twisting.

A few people still loiter around in the lit hallway that you step into. You stroll through it casually, nodding towards those who know you. Usually nosy people are seemingly too busy with something else — to your pleasure, no one asks you a lot of questions.

Or maybe, that’s because your admirer isn’t far away. When you halt and look over your shoulder, he’s still following with a distance of a few feet. Jungkook looks as nervous as you feel.

And then, when you finally reach a poorly lit place, escaping from the hungry eyes of the guests, he speeds up. The hallway is empty, and his steps echo through it.

You turn around the moment he reaches you; arms wrap around your waist immediately and gently push you against the wall, right next to a door.

Gasping, you swallow your words when his chest nears yours. You can’t see him much — you can make out his silhouette, the movements in his face, his touch.

But you hear the desperation in his voice when he whispers your name; feel the adoration in his touch when he leans forwards and, suddenly, presses his lips on yours.

It’s a quick and brief kiss, yet filled with unfaltering passion. His tongue doesn’t peek through; he only kisses you once, robbing your breath, placing a hand under your ear.

And once he draws back ever-so-slowly, putting all his longing into the thumb that’s grazing your cheek, you say, “That was not planned…”

“I just… I needed it.”

Your hands swiftly brush along his broad shoulders. “Why?”

“Because,” he sighs. Some of the yearning in his voice shifts to something amusing, and quietly, he jests, “I need my hands on you. I… need to wipe away the remnants of his.”

The man downstairs? The one you danced with?

God.

You laugh tenderly. He’s grown used to that sound — repeats it like a lullaby before he falls asleep.

“Do not be so envious all the time,” you tell him.

“I will be. I need to be until this is over, because it reminds me that I belong to you. Me,” he emphasises, connecting your foreheads. “Of all the hearts that exist, I want you to hold mine.”

You pause.

Your own heart pulverises.

He overthinks like you do.

All those nights lying awake, thinking about the future. Repeating moments that are proof of your togetherness. The only bits that remind you that you didn’t dream those words and touches.

“Do you…” you start, palms travelling to his chest and down to his waistcoat-clad stomach. “Do you think we will be alright?”

His answer is immediate, “I think we already are.”

“But—”

“I will not believe otherwise. I’ve given up my heart already, and I will not accept any other reality anymore.”

“...Jungkook—”

He pulls you closer by your waist; closer to the sky in his eyes. “I will find a way. Should tonight end in a disaster, I still will not give up on you. Hear me?”

You hear him. Loud and clear.

His voice echoes through your mind as much as your heartbeat. The quietude of the night and the emptiness of the hallway amplify the sound of your breaths; you inhale him when his lips inch to yours like a magnet.

For a tiny moment, his closeness allows you to forget the moment you’re in. The caressing fingers on your cheeks, the approaching kiss that society might deem sinful if people saw you — the intensifying passion is tangible.

In those short minutes, you have gotten used to the silence so much that you don’t notice when it falls. The change only occurs to you when steps grow louder on the marble floor, hurried and accompanied by heavy breaths.

”What is going on?”

You part from Jungkook in time.

Fists retreat to your stomach; your chest hurts. Despite how much you anticipated this very moment, you are horrified.

The Duke rushes into the darkness to you, glancing over his shoulder once before he lets out a whisper too loud, “It is thorough luck that you were not found by one of the gossipers downstairs!”

You don’t feel bad. Your fears aside, this is exactly what you needed to happen.

My uncle’s eyes are set on us all the time. He does not want to risk any scandal between us.

You guess Jungkook was right.

His scolding continues when he halts mere feet from you. Where he stands, right under a large window, the moonlight shines onto him enough to make out the flaring nostrils, the anger in his eyes.

Instinctively, Jungkook slowly shoves you behind his body. You attempt to fight against the gesture; you need to be as present as him. But he wraps a hand around your wrist firmly, and you suppress a hiss.

“Well, this might just be the definition of luck,” Jungkook argues, “you are right.”

The Duke doesn’t like the answer, it seems. Because he draws an annoyed breath; you hear him smack his lips before he says, “The two of you are not children anymore, so do not play Hide and Seek with me.”

Ironic that he might say that.

He’s the worst game maker of them all.

“We were no—” Jungkook begins, but his words overlap with his uncle’s.

“I wish I could count on only one hand, the amount of people who jested about your disappearance just now.”

His voice grows nearly maniac. There’s insanity in it; an unhealthy obsession you didn’t understand weeks ago.

But now that you do, you almost feel sorry for him.

You put a palm against Jungkook’s back, and upon noticing the soft touch, his fingers unwrap just a little. Instead, his thumb brushes along your arm, a quiet gesture to signal comfort.

You have so much to say. His grip keeps you grounded; keeps your thoughts from combusting.

Looking at the man from here, you don’t understand how he’s, after figuring out the truths and sorrows of his world, still living the way he is. At least you assume he knows what you know.

You’re getting impatient.

And as if he’s heard your thoughts, Jungkook finally spits the suggestion you’ve been aching to spill; a simple one, yet hopefully leading to an ending.

“If you need to yell and talk, then we should do it somewhere no one may catch us, yes?”

Pause.

If the following moments happen in a different sequence than you expect, you might need to oblige and walk downstairs again.

He could be done with reprimanding the two of you — and the night would be over.

A few days ago, you wondered why that’d be so bad. Even if he forced you into that marriage, attempting to rid this town of his younger nephew that he’s named a threat to him, you could do just that, couldn’t you?

Yearning and in love, you could step to the altar. Accept his vows; move somewhere far away; live the life with the honesty he’s finally ready to provide.

But life isn’t as simple as that.

His mother still lives under the same roof as her forced husband. His brother, actually worthy of the title, would remain a shadow. And the town would still suffer under the hands of a liar.

If so much more wasn’t on the line here, you’d run away before the next full moon.

So you hope.

You keep hoping; not for a better future, but for now, only for a yes.

And it takes him only another moment to oblige.

While grumpy and irritated, he grumbles something in agreement, and Jungkook, eager and satisfied, pushes down the handle of the door next to you.

And different from the shadows outside, the room isn’t dark. Your eyes squint when they gaze into the light.

The Duke walks in first; you follow carefully, trying to keep him in place, hastily shutting the door behind you when he—

Dreadful silence fills the room. The high windows are locked well enough to not let a chirp from outside into the small office; the shutting of the door is the only sound that echoes off the walls.

The dramatic showdown feels petrifying now, and you remain close to the door. Scared, holding onto Jungkook, witnessing whatever might go down now.

You don’t know what you expected when you formed that plan, but the stare-off, wordlessly occurring in the middle of the room was certainly one of the things you did.

There is a desk at the very end, and a chair that a form rises from. She waited here — smuggling her in was easy in a crowd; but she’s been here so long that you cannot imagine how tense she must feel.

Between all the wooden luxury, she looks incredibly out of place.

You are used to seeing here surrounded by smaller furniture, living a humble life. A soothing home, green fields.

She doesn’t belong in this cruel, modern world, in the centre of chaos and so far from the idyllic life she’s built.

You feel sorry that you dragged her here.

But.

This needs to end.

Jiyoo stands up from her seat slowly, as carefully as her knees allow. She has her hands folded, not trying to hide her fear and agony.

She, of course, isn’t as surprised as the Duke; she must have written out her speech and arguments days ago. Her mouth is already parted, and her breathing deep — she’s ready to talk, but the Duke, apparently, is not.

Because when he shuts whatever words she would’ve spoken with a lifted palm, you flinch back just a little.

Jungkook must be on the same boat, because his hand twitches in yours when his uncle turns to you. Surprise mixes with anger, and you stare back in pain.

“You did this?” he asks.

You keep your voice calm when you argue, “We had to.”

Every time you talk, Jungkook steps in front of you. It’s an instinct found five minutes ago; you can’t help but wonder if he’s always been like that. Like, when his mother or his brother were around, conversing with the head of the family.

“Why did you?” the Duke snarls. “What do you have to do with this?”

Maybe not much. Maybe it wasn’t your right to intrude.

Staying away from the pains of the world might have been smart after all; but then again, distancing yourself from what Jungkook has become to you might have inflicted worse wounds to your heart.

So maybe you do not have anything to do with this — but striving towards the truth and what you want is not a bad thing to do.

How would you explain this to him? He wouldn’t accept it.

So Jungkook answers in your stead, far harsher than your own thoughts, “You need to reveal your secrets to us, and if you can’t, we will do it for you.”

There’s finality in his voice. Courage. Not an attempt to win this fight, but the knowledge that he will.

Despite the insecurity Jungkook might be feeling inside, he’s putting on a brave act — and you admire it for it.

“What?” the older man inquires.

“Uncle,” Jungkook begins, as though teaching a child not to curse, “you cannot waste money irresponsibly anymore. You have used too much of what the town needed and what our family required.”

The information isn’t new to the man; it’s just a recap. But he doesn’t want to hear it, because he laughs, and the urge to push at his chest grows.

“You have thrown it out to someone who doesn't need your help anymore,” Jungkook argues, louder now, overshadowing the stupid laughter. “Come on.”

“What do you kn—”

“Enough. I know enough.” He inhales, lets go of your hand cautiously. “I was aware of her existence since the day Father died. I have known about how you strayed from my aunt, seeking someone else’s company and giving life to someone you would later abandon.”

Yes…

It’s why the Duke wants him gone at all. As long as Jungkook knows of an illegitimate child, he is a threat.

And Jiyoo at the back of the room looks ashamed. Her gaze lowers to the ground, fingers fiddling, and you feel painfully sorry for her.

Past mistakes hurt. But it’s worse when you realise you could’ve avoided them.

She was a victim at a horrible time; judging her morals, you don’t think she would’ve dove headfirst into such a dangerous affair if she’d been any wiser.

No one speaks. Jungkook waits.

And then, he adds, “I reckon the sin of breaking your wife’s soul wasn’t enough. You continued your acts and your lies. In fact,” Jungkook takes just one step forward; your hands lift in protection, wanting to hold him back, but they soon curl in again. “I bet you were happy when Aunt died and took your secrets to the grave.”

Oh God.

Fuck.

Why are you so scared? You planned this all out. You knew you had to provoke him to get anything out of him.

But fuck.

You close your eyes, conjure courage, inhaling through the nose, exhaling through the mouth. Then, you wait and listen with a sliver of patience.

“Shut up,” the Duke says; oddly calm.

It doesn’t deter Jungkook.

“But my father knew, too. That is why you are here at all. Guarding documents, using the fortune to nurture someone who’s never seen you before…”

“Leave it be. That is the easiest way, nephew.”

Jungkook’s presence somehow triggered a peculiar relaxation in him; as if he’s used to talking down to his family. But now that Jungkook is so blatantly spitting all those facts, the man’s fury is returning.

And it doesn’t seem that Jungkook is done yet. Pausing, though.

From where you stand, you see that he’s trembling; much like you did a moment ago. Witnessing the effect his uncle has on him alters something in your brain within a moment — you don’t like the heavy breathing you hear.

Don’t like all those pictures your imagination painted in the past few days.

Of a child frightened by a man who was supposed to replace a father. Of a teenager worrying about his mother, his brother. Of a young adult fleeing his home every day to seek comfort in strangers.

He wasn’t supposed to grow up that way.

And when he thought he found someone he could confide in, who could help him talk sense into that monster who loved her — he didn’t deserve to hear the truth for what it is.

You’re aching for him.

With a gulp, you step forward. Your movement extracts an instant reaction from Jungkook, and he shakes his head at you, stretching an arm in front of you.

But you push the limb down, big, sweet eyes staring into his; you portray candour, and you almost see it physically melt his body.

“Trust me,” you whisper.

Hesitation apparent, he keeps looking at you. And then, slowly, nearly reluctantly, he finally obeys.

You deliver a thankful nod, and then walk the short distance to his uncle.

You don’t think you’ve ever heard the man’s voice so long in succession. You don’t think you’ve ever been so close. And in hindsight, you don’t even think you’ve ever actively thought of his name.

Because if you do, he’ll become more humane in your mind.

So all he is for you is the Duke. Jungkook’s uncle.

He has lost most of his humanity. You don’t see a proper person in him, because you don’t deem proper people this horrible.

Though, in some sense, you understand him now.

Because…

“Suhana does not require the money anymore,” you echo Jungkook’s words.

And he reacts the same, “What would you know?”

“I think,” you breathe, closing your hands to loose fists. Courage, courage, courage. “I think I know as much as you. But I am ready to admit it.”

He is irritated now. Pinches the bridge of his nose, a hand on his hip, turns away a little and then towards you again.

“What?” he inquires, confused and angry. “You are a mere Lady. You act far too royal for a Viscount’s son! And you have no right to snoop—”

“Yes, you are right. I do not,” you agree, leaning forwards. “And you do not have the right to betray this town, or yourself. Or. The family that’s still here,” you swallow the painful lump. Your chin quivers. “Breathing and alive.”

…It breaks him.

You see that it breaks him.

Maybe he knew that you know — but hearing it spelled out, so shamelessly by a stranger, crumbles pieces of him.

The trip you made with Jungkook came from your heart; your intentions were pure. You thought you were walking towards a better ending, a conclusion, something you could work with.

And you did.

Here and now, you have arrived at the same level of knowledge as the Duke, the same level Jungkook’s late father was at. But the bitter facts you sought turned out far worse than you priorly imagined.

You hear Jungkook mutter your name from behind you, growing increasingly anxious. But his uncle’s voice overshadows his quiet one, “...What?”

“You know,” you say, hints of desperation in your tone. “God, you must know.”

You wish it wasn’t true, though. That pain was what you travelled for for days.

“Stop,” he warns again, much as he did Jungkook. But he’s faltering. You need to keep talking.

“Why do you keep sending those letters?” you want to know. “The money? What are you trying to achieve? Keeping a ghost alive? A memory, is it?”

“Listen—”

You are done beating around the bush. You need him to say it — need him to confess it to all of you before he does the same with the police. Because even if they interrogated you later, at least you’d narrate the confession in the same way.

You hope he doesn’t bribe them, too — that’s why you need to keep talking; to break him more.

You interrupt, “She has been dead for so many years.”

A beat of silence. You watch his hands ball to fists.

And then, “You missed your chance with her when she was born. And you felt bad, didn’t you?”

Like a waterfall. Previous fear gone, the words fall out of you like a waterfall.

Maybe because a stranger’s absence hurts you more than a monster’s presence does.

“You thought you could set things right when your sons were born,” you tell him. Jiyoo is still behind him, but inches closer; you don’t know what the Duke looks like from the back, but she seems worried. “But this is a burden not so easily forgotten.”

Yes…

Yes, he is shattering.

His mind, his heart, his entire soul — you don’t wish such pain on your worst enemy, but it makes him falter bit by bit.

Pique is still apparent in his eyes, but it mingles with despair. He looks like he’ll buckle, fall forwards to his knees. Whispers, “Why are you doing…”

“Because she is dead.” You aren’t responding to his half-question. You’re merely continuing your own speech. Because it’s all that’s cutting him open. “You have made your extended family’s life hell, not only to guard your secret, but because you are mourning someone who’s goddamn dea—.”

A sharp blow blinds you for a second.

The rise of his heavy hand is sudden, and the gasps that sound through the room synchronised.

Your head falls, and your hand snaps to your cheek; the slap toys with your balance, but careful arms catch you immediately.

“You dare open this filthy mouth of yours when you have no right to.”

His voice sounds in the back of your mind; your ears are ringing.

You wish you could explain to him that repeating your faults won’t bury his.

When you look up, Jungkook’s face is blurry. It takes a moment to see the rage in his dark pupils. You’re pressed against his torso, one hand holding onto his coat, the other clutching his wrist. And his chest is rising heavily…

“This is absolute nonsense.”

You don’t see what his uncle is doing; you just hear his weak voice.

But judging from how Jungkook steps back immediately with you in tow, you assume the Duke is targeting the door. You feel Jungkook’s headshake more than you see it.

“Go the hell away from the—”

“I do not think you should leave just yet.”

It’s Jiyoo’s voice.

And among their arguments, you hear Jungkook quietly say through gritted teeth, “He fucking shouldn’t have.”

So much is happening.

Your sight clears. Tears of anger burn in your eyes.

You tighten your grip around Jungkook’s wrist when he inhales a furious breath; one palm brushes your cheek. The fingers of the other hand curl to a fist, ready to bash.

But the moment you realise his intention, you press him further against the door. You must look insane with those hair strands dangling; tears streaming down your cheeks. But your gaze is genuine, and it breaks his heart.

Eradicates the hardness in his eyes.

“No…” you whisper. “Don’t.”

“He—”

“Yes,” you nod slowly, swallowing the knot, “let’s use it, yes? When someone asks, we can use it as a defence.” You lean into him, talking quieter. “Do not make the same mistake. They will believe him over you.”

Jungkook’s body is feeble against yours. Every shaky syllable you utter delivers a punch to his guts; if he could, he’d rip his own uncle apart.

But your eyes beg otherwise.

And he gives into them.

Hands under your ears pull your head closer, a thumb brushing over the aching spot. He asks, “Are you alright?”

You nod; your eyes shut when he wraps his arms around you, staring ahead. You wish you could see. What you know is that the Duke’s and Jiyoo’s voices are faint now; you’re almost blending them out.

His attention isn’t on you, and you use the moment to remain against Jungkook’s heartbeat for just a few seconds longer. You let him guard you from all evil for just a bit.

And then, you ask, “What’s happening?”

“They are… talking.” He soothes your mind with a rub along your back, speaks quietly, as long as peace lasts. “But he will want to leave in a moment.”

“Please let me see.”

He stalls again; thinks about your suggestion. And then, he lets you out of his embrace, still holding you but allowing you more space. Lets you turn a little, until you can hear the heated hisses the man delivers.

Jiyoo looks more patient than him — you guess that’s a mother’s instinct.

“I am sorry,” Jungkook says. “I should have handled this alone.”

“Don’t—”

“You knew she was dead.”

Jiyoo’s voice catches both of your attention. She’s louder now, crying. An accusing finger points at him, and you listen in.

No matter who initiated this project, it was always supposed to end like this, right?

This is why you brought Jiyoo to this place.

Because no matter what Jungkook says or how many violence-inducing speeches you deliver, none of you have ever been directly involved in this.

Jiyoo is the other side of the Duke. The white, bright side of the monochrome picture; far more hopeful than his dark soul. Despite the pain she’s endured, she came out of it kindhearted and empathic.

Yet, no matter how different, she’s the other parent, too.

Forever connected to him by the existence they created.

If someone can end it once and for all, it’s her.

So you stand back. Eyes dart back and forth. Your heart aches again when you remember the lost life; your eyes water with Jiyoo’s when her shaky, mature voice asks, “What were you trying to do?”

He looks dizzy. Like he wants out of here; to forward time and escape distress.

But he catches himself to answer, “She was my eldest child. I wanted the memory. I could pretend.”

The decreasing volume of his voice is… strange.

Has she truly broken his shield and gotten through to him? Because he—

“What did you gain from it, though? Did it bring her back?” Jiyoo prods; the man shrinks into himself.

He is incredibly out of it.

Timid almost when he tries, “Are you in a position to deny… that you would have died had I not aided you?”

Jiyoo’s demeanour softens. A steady hand — how does she do it? — lifts to his arm. Settles over the coat; she looks him in the eyes she probably used to adore. Back before they betrayed her.

You wonder what he used to be like.

She admits, “You know. Perhaps you are right. And I was thankful for that.” Her eyes are misty. You cannot imagine what her mind must be circling around. Memories of the past. Long forgotten youth. Pain. “But she… Suhana and I made a living.”

Jungkook’s arms unwrap around you. One still lies around your shoulders, a hand pressing into your arm to keep you close. Right now, the scene that plays out in front of you makes you require emotional assistance more than anything.

Slaps and punches be damned.

This hurts.

“We know how to survive,” Jiyoo adds, quietly, slowly. She’s looking at the collar of his coat, keeping her sobs in now. “We aren’t worth less, just because we aren’t Duchesses and Ladies.”

Pause.

Then, “We weren’t. Ever.”

Something in you splinters at the choice of words. The crack widens when you see the Duke’s fallen face; a father’s who never learned how to love, but hurt anyway. Who still lost a damn daughter.

And all of you breaks into two pieces when you glance at Jungkook and see it.

The fist against his chest. Locating the heartbreak, alleviating the pain.

An open mouth, furrowed eyebrows, the hope to find another part of the family to love dwindling.

Maybe he’s realising what’s lost the same moment the Duke is. You can’t fathom how much it must hurt him to understand the reality after days of learning it.

And you cannot fathom how soul-breaking it must be to understand the reality after years of denying it.

“Why did you—” the Duke stutters. “Why did you never bring her to me?”

“How could I? You had a wife. A life. Why…” she counters. “Why did you not tell me that you did?”

“Because I loved you, too.”

In a moment of unexpected confessions, your eyes widen.

Behind the cruelty and tyranny, you finally see something like… a heart. Warmth. A human being.

And in the same moment as his monstrous persona turns into something colourful for you, something palpable, not animalistic, Jiyoo says, “I do not know if I can believe that, Minjoon.” She lowers her head. “I just know that. If I’d known what was to occur, I never would have let you touch me.”

The man… the person. The human cracking. Minjoon.

His face collapses. You can tell he means what he’s saying. Behind his chest, there’s a bloody, beating heart; yearning too late, but still yearning nevertheless.

You feel sorry for him.

“I never regretted my little girl’s existence,” Jiyoo says. The sobs aren’t as controlled anymore. “But I would not have let you close. Because then I’d known what I’d have to live without.”

“I…”

“No parent should ever lose a child. No one.”

“I did, too.”

“And you didn’t deserve it, either,” she says.

You are mesmerised. Not by any kind of beauty — more by the tragedy that unfolds.

You didn’t think such a thing existed outside your novels. Looking at it, you wish it didn’t.

But the words exchanged are real. The situation is real. Minjoon faltering, finally giving up, saying what he says next is real.

“What would you like me to do?”

He is crying now. An elderly man in genuine tears; always breaking, but never fully broken. Until now.

Jungkook holds you tight as you cry, too.

Jiyoo’s voice is softer now. She brings her hand down to his elbow when he sways, finding support in the table next to him to not fall.

She nearly begs, “Please stop sending money. Get away from,” she looks at Jungkook, and then back at Minjoon, “that family. Give them what they deserve and own up to your mistakes.”

She sniffles, catching herself to utter somewhat rational words, “You bribed people as well. You need to tell the policemen that the bankiers weren’t at fault. Do what you were supposed to do so long ago.”

He doesn’t speak. He is only half there. Paralysed.

“She deserves it, too,” Jiyoo finishes, delivering the last blow.

Minjoon leans against the table, and this time, his knees do give in. His eyes are fixated on some spot; his world breaks apart, all purpose gone when the past eventually catches up to him.

”She’s gone. She has been gone,” he just whispers. Repeats it.

After so many years of neglecting the truth, the dam must have broken. And you imagine that the built-up water is hitting him in violent waves.

His lips pale a little, and he remains like that — you keep observing him, until a couple minutes later, he does nothing but gulp and give you one last nod.

Minjoon does not see the inside of a prison.

Not because he is a royal.

In fact, the policemen aren’t as corrupt as you feared — they believe you. See the proof, because Minjoon delivers it voluntarily.

More because it is soon declared that he needs doctors rather than a life-long punishment. Perhaps, you think, they are right.

Despite his misdeeds and the lack of children you have, you think to understand what loss feels like. Fortunately not because you experienced it, but because you want to understand.

Maybe he will come out on a brighter side. Maybe he will learn what it means to be human and alive.

Maybe he will regret his life just a little less once he makes peace with his very own, tragic reality.

You don’t know.

But at least for Jungkook, his family and you—

It’s over.

Cemeteries in the countryside deliver an entirely different atmosphere.

The tombstones are still the same desolate grey. The grass is just as green, and you stand above ashes, as you did days ago at the cemetery you know.

But the scent is different. The names are strangers to you. The people that lived and died here are their own community; it’s like you’re disrupting their peace.

And no matter how beloved the former Duke of your home was, the mausoleum built for him lifted some of your sadness. He is buried in his little, fancy house. Still admired from afar; people probably still put flowers at the doorstep.

He won’t be forgotten; won’t be one more lost existence in a sea of sorrow.

But this grave…

The one you’re looking at — a small tombstone.

Engravings are sparse, because the more you write, the more expensive things get. Jiyoo told you that.

She was supposed to accompany you, but sat the pain out for today. Said she needs a while to recover from recent events. During this time, you have grown close to her.

When you confronted her that day, she broke down — narrated Suhana’s story. Told you how she feared you were one of his people, ready to hurt her.

Which is why she lied. Played your game, saving herself in a stupid way; out of fright.

You understand.

Maybe it was better to come here alone anyway. It lets you think.

Lets you realise how insignificant Suhana’s name looks among so many. It makes your chest heavy.

As you see her birth and death year, your head reflexively calculates; a reminder of how young she was.

Is Jungkook thinking the same? When you look at him, he’s unmoving, rigid. Staring ahead, barely blinking.

Sparks of life only return in his foggy gaze when you press into the arm you are holding. You suck in a breath, and he graces you with a brief stare so lost. He mirrors your smile when he falls back into the real world, but his lips drop soon again.

His fingers are clutching a bouquet of peonies. You’d suggested white roses before, a sign of purity, but he insisted otherwise.

Peonies, he said, signify healing, and to him, that’s worth far more than innocence. Perhaps, beyond that grave of hers, resting peacefully after a strugglesome life, she could heal alongside him.

The ache of this interpretation sits deep; you wish you knew how to change the past. Even if for that young life she lived; if she could’ve shared her joys and pains with someone who understands, both of them might have perceived the world differently.

Albeit hurt, you wouldn’t be clutching a man’s arm who forgot how to love as he grew up. You hope you can lead him back onto that path. Back to the sunny side of the world, where you like to reside.

His fingers wrap around the bouquet tighter before he finally loosens the grip. One more inhale of fresh air, and then, he’s leaning down. Crouching in front of the grave as you fold your fingers, observing the scene you’ve dreaded for days now.

But whatever you expected — tears, deep-sitting words, confessions he buried deep — the moment passes entirely differently.

He remains quiet. Keeps looking at her name. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this still — if his hair didn’t move in the breeze, you might confuse him with one of the angelic statues here.

But he keeps looking at her; at whatever remains of her. You reckon his words are silent, never exiting his mind. When you tilt your head, peeking at his face, his eyes are closed.

He might be praying. Maybe you should, too.

A minute or two passes in the silence. The day is quieter than any other you’ve experienced with him.

But when he stands, wrapping his hand around yours so tenderly, your soul awakens again.

You glance at him — he’s not looking at you, but the touch of his palm against yours speaks volumes. Like a plea to stay. A sign of comfort.

“Is it stupid to mourn someone you never knew?” he asks.

Is it? Of course not. While not at the same extent, you do mourn her lost life, too.

“No. It isn’t,” you promise. You squeeze his hand back as a silent response to his quiet begging; you think he breathes a sigh of relief. “I assume that if the roles were reversed, she would have dwelled in the same sentiments.”

“It’s… such a shame that we cannot say with certainty,” Jungkook murmurs. Regret swims in his words, but not because he has committed a mistake — regret for her. Regret in the world’s stead. “She didn’t deserve any of this.”

Someone like her truly didn’t. Not that any kind-hearted creature that floats through this universe deserves such an early demise. But you wish she could’ve met like-minded people just once.

You remember the drawings in Jiyoo’s cottage. You wonder how many people she surrounded herself with, apart from her mother; whether she grew up well in the village. Larked about with peers of the same age.

Whatever she did, you somehow believe the smile Jiyoo drew. And with that, you also believe that—

“I think she was happy, though,” you say. “As long as she remained.”

“I hope so.”

“And…” You press your lips together before wetting them lightly; you taste the red colour on them. “You should be as well. For as long as you might remain, you should find joy again.”

Easier said than done. You know.

You don’t need to experience excruciating pain and an unforgiving childhood to know that wounds don’t heal so fast. Jungkook’s starry eyes carry his past pain, and you understand that it’ll fade just bit by bit.

But he isn’t the same as before anymore, and it feels like a fresh change in his life. You have seen how the days progressed; realised that he’s attempting his best.

He affirms your thoughts when he nods slowly, finally granting you his full attention as he turns towards you.

A light smile tugs at his lips, and he says, “I have been trying. I finally gave up everything I needed to, so I could chase what I need to — rather than what I thought I might need.”

What he thought he needed were distractions. The constant roaming around, throwing his youth away. He’s not doing it anymore — and you like to imagine that he’ll keep wandering that mature path.

He leans down slowly, crouching to touch the flowers again before he grazes the grave. He mouths something to her, sighs deeply, and when he’s standing again, he says, “Come.”

Further silent prayers sent beneath the ground with closed eyes, you bid her farewell. If you could choose, you’d come again, honour the brief life she was allowed to enjoy.

And then, you’re hooking your arm with his, taking the same deep breath as him. And eventually, you start trudging towards the carriage that brought you here.

The walk takes a couple of minutes, and Jungkook uses the silence and the solitude with you to continue, “My brother is older than me, but he still asked whether I wished to alter my life to something better.”

You know the story. So you add, “By taking the Duke’s title.”

“Yes… I don’t think I have ever said no to anything before this quickly.”

You think you have infiltrated Jungkook’s mind enough to understand why. The boy who dodged responsibilities, seeking freedom and happiness — it’s not necessarily hard to guess why he declined.

But you still ask, “Why did you?”

Jungkook squints into the sun. For some reason, the summer is making the melancholy more intense; harder than the winter’s cold or rain could. The sun is supposed to be a comforting source — so the fact that this moment is so blue feels strange.

“Because,” he starts, “I want to start living for myself. I cannot be responsible for so many lives. I just.” He halts in his steps, looks at you so softly. “I need to be at peace with myself. And I think Junghyun has the… meaning of everything already figured out.”

You could tell. Despite the past, he’s always seemed cheerful to you. Perhaps it was easier to get over the miseries as the older brother. Children are vulnerable after all.

You ask, “But are you still staying?”

Your heart jumps to your throat and then back into its cage. It’s a question you’ve stalled for too long.

For several nights now, you reached to the other side of your bed, looking for the touch he granted you two nights in a row as you travelled.

The warmth he exuded, adding to the summer’s heat; the lips that brushed along your shoulders. All those whispers and confessions; the tangled up limbs; the featherlight kisses he so carefully planted along your jaw.

The past sleepless nights were spent thinking of his ghost next to you; wondering for hours if he’d still be there next week. Whether, once you left the cemetery you promised to visit with him, he’d voice his goodbyes.

You dreaded that moment, stewed over the answer — and when his doe eyes look at you so fondly, processing your question, you think he’ll break your heart in the gentlest manner he knows.

“Are you?” you ask again.

He doesn’t have to. With Minjoon out of his life, he doesn’t have to leave you.

Your lower lip trembles; your heart panics when he opens his mouth.

And a thick knot forms in your throat when he tilts his head and says, “I have always wanted to leave.”

You shouldn’t feel this weak in the presence of a mere man. But Jeon Jungkook proved to be more than that — he’s long turned your body into liquid.

Without gulping down the knot in your throat, you pull your eyebrows together. The long awaited dampness in your eyes feels like overkill, but you can’t hold back the longing when you whisper, “You will leave, then?”

He will. Of course he will.

No matter what his uncle wanted, it’s what Jungkook has waited for all his life, too.

You’re a fool to expect otherwise.

You lower your gaze, refusing to blink to dry out your eyes. A bite hurts the inside of your cheek, before you stutter, “Well, I—”

“When…” he interjects. You let him speak, nibbling at your lip. “When we stood there… in that room.” Jungkook’s forefinger settles under your chin and lifts your face to align your pure, gentle gaze with his. “Even when I held you, you felt too far away.”

You remember.

How he pulled you into his chest, inspecting any potential wounds. Looking at you with utter fear in his stare; endlessly caring and angry.

You knew right then that he was ready to wade through oceans for you.

Despite the inhumanity of the moment, you still dream of the affection in those eyes.

Hopefully, you look at him, eyelids wide open. And he, torturously slowly, concludes, “If I went away, I would look into the distance and into crowds of faces every day, and you’d be nowhere. And I don’t know how to live like that anymore.”

It’s funny.

How you sought someone and something you never found –– but instead, the journey helped you find your way to each other instead. Suhana did a lot for the two of you after all.

You say, “So…”

“So, however stupid it may sound, I want to be wherever you are.”

It might sound stupid to him — to you, who dreams and levitates above clouds, it sounds like a song; a poem.

“Would you stay in this godforsaken town if I did?” you ask weakly, fighting tears. “Where all your pain started?”

“But that’s not all there is, is it? My pain.”

“What then?”

He waits; looks at you. Then—

“...You.”

You…

Are you enough to combat all he’s endured? Do you have that kind of power over him? It’s surreal; why does it make you fall so much harder?

Your recently overthinking mind throws another question at you, and you forward it to him, “So if I did stay—”

“Are you staying?”

“Should I not?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Everything is over, and you haven’t said anything about us yet.”

He’s always been oblivious. Even now, in the shadow of the oak tree, years and years later, he’s still the same zany you used to know.

You chuckle a little, shaking your head, and ask him matter-of-factly, “Why do you think am I here, Jungkook?”

“I…”

“You’ve always been stupid.”

“Maybe it’s not stupidity now,” he defends. He tugs you closer by your arm, tucking back your stray locks. “But. Hope was sparse.”

Filled with fondness and yearning, he presses his lips together when you inch closer. You put a hand over his heart, breathing against him as you wonder, “And now?”

From his chest, you move your palm to his cheek. He looks as sweet and meek as he always does when his eyes grow this wide. He stands in front of you with his signature pout; smirk long forgotten.

Hesitates with his answer, chooses his words carefully, and then says, “If I told you I want to see more stages with you… inhale poetry. Hear you talking in the rain. About clouds and a sky we cannot touch,” you laugh, and he pauses to join, “would you let me?”

You were fearful of his decisions; you didn’t think he’d be the one begging for your presence in his life.

“Let you?” you ask, cocking an eyebrow. “What do you think, Lord Jeon?”

“That I still need to plead for permission.”

“You do?”

Your body sways in his grip — you might faint at this stranger place.

At least, you get dangerously close to it soon, barely keeping your heartbeat at bay when he speaks, “I do not want to love alone.” You might throw up. Did he say what you think he said? “So I need to, yes.”

You deemed him fire; yourself water.

But compared to this moment, you realise that up until now, he’s always been a mere harmless flame of a candle. No matter how irritating or pain-inducing, it was easier for you to fight his heat.

But right now, you’re defeated.

He was never the fire you thought he was before; now, he is. And thinking about it, with him, you grew so much wilder, too — a tsunami, two polar elements clashing.

Now, you don’t fight him anymore.

You laugh nervously, drawing into him, and mumble, “Good. Ask then.”

He snickers; it’s the first genuine chuckle you’ve heard from him today. Some of the prior bicker returns, eyes rolling when he jokes, “May I court you then, m’Lady?”

Both of you physically cringe at the formality — but you know that somewhere deep inside, the question was overdue. As was your answer.

“I shall let you allow it, Lord Jeon Jungkook. Just this once,” you say back just as cheesily.

He bites his lower lip, furrowed eyebrows recovering from the awkward dialogue. Blinded by the light you emanate, he tilts his head. This… he wants to keep this emotion.

You should walk back to the carriage. The coachman probably doesn’t appreciate being grilled under the afternoon sun. But just a moment longer.

Just a bit.

He shall forgive you for a second as you near Jungkook’s rosy, promising lips. Right there, you see joy written.

There is a fine line between love and hate; you bet the story of the two of you is the ultimate proof for that. Whatever despise you felt has turned into thirst.

He quenches it when he puts a burning hand to your cheek, right when his mouth touches yours.

As you collide, you eventually meet in the middle — and evaporate to steam.

AH happy ending. see y’all when the epilogue drops !!

but alright, was that... okay? :’) vv nervous about your guys’ reaction lol please let me know what you think !! i’ll be a bit busier with school from now on, but i really worked hard to have this out today, so... yeah :D if it’s not good, i’ll try and make things good with the epilogue/the next fic LOL 🤞

also y’all... thank you so much for supporting this series the way you did. i absolutely didn’t think you’d like it so much, so i’m endlessly grateful for the love it received. it means so much to me :((

if you enjoyed this part, too !! don’t forget to like, comment, reblog (do it on desktop, since mobile doesn’t let you rb big posts!!( and reach out to me. i love you all <333

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