Archive of Our Own ^beta

The buzz outside the venue was electric.
The car slowed as it turned onto its destination, and Wooyoung could already feel the hum of the crowd before he even saw them. Paris had a particular electricity during fashion week—an energy that buzzed beneath the skin and vibrated in the air, like the city itself was holding its breath, waiting to see who would emerge next from behind a black-tinted window. And today, it was his turn.

The moment the sleek sedan rolled to a stop, the noise outside doubled — camera shutters firing in machine-gun bursts, fans screaming his name, voices rising in dozens of languages. It was dizzying, a sound he had grown used to over the years but never quite stopped loving. It made his heart beat faster every single time.
The door opened, and the cool September air kissed his skin. He stepped out slowly, savoring the moment, letting the world see him one deliberate second at a time.

Fans crowded along the barricades, flashing phones raised high, their voices climbing over one another in a chorus of screams erupted, echoing down the Parisian street like rolling thunder. Wooyoung chuckled under his breath, ducking his head as the door swung open.
He stepped out, sleek and sharp in Courrèges from head to toe—a utilitarian-inspired outfit that is made up of a sleeveless black vest with a long waist belt, wide-leg trousers to match, and boots.

It was an invitation that still felt surreal, even for someone like him, who lived in front of cameras. The flash of bulbs greeted him instantly, each photographer desperate for their shot of the moment. He straightened his posture, tugged at the hem of his clothes, and walked the carpet with effortless poise

“Wooyoung! Over here!”
“Wooyoung, look left! Left!”
“Je t’aime, Wooyoung!”

The words blurred together, a chorus he’d heard a thousand times before but never tired of. He offered the crowd a languid wave and a flash of his signature grin before the staff gently urged him forward, past the barricades and into the main entrance of the venue.
The fans called his name again, but this time his smile was softer, almost private. He loved performing on stage, but there was something intoxicating about being a guest here—still in the spotlight, but in a different world entirely. Fashion week was about to become his playground.

Inside, the chaos softened into curated order. The venue pulsed with ambient music, guests already settling into their seats. Everywhere he looked there were faces he recognized — editors, actors, influencers, CEOs — all gathered beneath the same roof to worship the altar of fashion.

Wooyoung was ushered by an assistant to the front row, where Nicholas di Felice, the creative director of Courrèges, greeted him warmly.

“Ah, Wooyoung,” Nicholas said, his French accent smooth. “You look perfect. Thank you for coming.” Nicholas said, kissing the air beside both of his cheeks in the classic Parisian way.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Wooyoung replied with a grin. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if to share a secret. “My fans think I came all the way to Paris just for them. But between you and me, I’d never miss a Courrèges show.”

“I’m very glad you’re here. The collection today… I think you’ll find it interesting.”

“I’m sure I will,” Wooyoung said, crossing one leg over the other and glancing around the room. He had been to fashion shows before — more than a few, actually — but something about this one felt different. Maybe it was the anticipation in the air, the way the lights seemed to hold their breath before dimming.

Or maybe it was just Paris. Paris always made him feel a little more alive.

“Alright then, let’s get you seated” Nicholas laughed, clapping him lightly on the shoulder before settling in beside him. The lights dimmed, signaling the start

They exchanged a few more pleasantries before settling in. Front row, dead center— prime territory. From here, Wooyoung had a perfect view of the runway, the photographers clustered at the far end, and the glittering constellation of industry elites scattered around him.

Actors, singers, influencers—names he recognized and names he didn’t—all of them leaning forward in anticipation as the house lights dimmed.
The bass dropped—deep, pulsing, reverberating through the floor and the show began.

Wooyoung crossed his legs, adjusting in his seat, prepared to enjoy himself. But nothing could have prepared him for what—or rather who—was about to step onto the runway.

The first few models emerged, each one draped in Courrèges’ signature blend of structure and sensuality. Wooyoung watched with the detached appreciation of someone who had seen dozens of fashion shows before. It was beautiful, yes—the silhouettes, the fabrics, the choreography of it all but nothing that demanded more than polite attention.

The music shifted, heavier now, bass curling low and dangerous around the room. The crowd’s attention sharpened in an instant, and Wooyoung understood why the second the next model stepped into the light.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. All long lines and lethal elegance. The sleeveless black top clung to him like it was tailored by fate itself, dipping just enough to show the sculpted planes of his collarbones. High-waisted cargo trousers cinched at the waist, tucked into combat boots that struck the runway with an almost military precision. His hair—damp and pushed back caught the light like polished obsidian, and his lips were set in a line of effortless indifference.

But it wasn’t any one thing that pulled Wooyoung in. It was everything—the way he walked like the ground belonged to him, the unhurried roll of his hips, the calm command in every movement. He was magnetic. Addictive. The kind of person you didn’t mean to stare at but couldn’t look away from once you did.
Wooyoung leaned forward, sunglasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose.

It wasn’t unusual for him to admire models—he’d been to shows before, seen men and women who looked unreal under the lights. But this was different. Like every inch of him had been carved for the purpose of owning this runway, this room, this moment.

“Who is that?” Wooyoung murmured, turning slightly toward Nicholas, though his eyes never left the model.
Nicholas’s lips curved knowingly. “That,” he said, “is Choi San. Courrèges’ top model. He’s our ace—strongest walk, unmistakable presence. Known for his looks, his body. Everyone wants him on their runway.”

𝘞𝘩𝘰?

“Choi San,” Wooyoung repeated under his breath, letting the name linger on his tongue. It rolled out slowly, almost indulgently, as if he were savoring the taste of it.

𝘕𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘺

The crowd’s attention was on the collection, on the artistry, but Wooyoung only saw him. Every sway of San’s body, every firm placement of his boot, was like a performance crafted only for him.

The model — San—was almost to the end of the runway now. When he reached the edge, he turned with a sharp pivot, chin angled slightly downward, and started his return walk. Wooyoung couldn’t tear his eyes away. He watched every shift of muscle under fabric, every deliberate step, every detail of the man who had, without warning, stolen his focus entirely.

When San reached the end of the runway, pivoting with mechanical precision, his face remained unreadable—professional, unyielding. But on his second pass, something shifted

For the briefest moment, as San’s line of sight swept across the front row, his gaze snagged on Wooyoung’s. Behind those dark glasses, Wooyoung felt it—the sudden, sharp awareness, like the collision of two spotlights.

And Wooyoung, being Wooyoung, didn’t hesitate. He winked.

A tiny gesture, quick and playful, but deliberate.
For the faintest fraction of a second, San’s composure wavered. The corner of his mouth twitched, a fleeting betrayal of reaction, before his mask snapped back into place. His pace never faltered, his expression reset into indifference, but Wooyoung had seen it.

And he laughed quietly to himself, amused, delighted. So he’s not completely untouchable after all.
Wooyoung leaned back in his seat, lips curling into a slow, amused smile. Oh, this was going to be fun.
The rest of the show passed in a blur. Wooyoung applauded at the finale, standing with the rest of the audience, but his thoughts were consumed by the name still echoing in his mind. Choi San. Choi San. Choi San.

Nicholas leaned toward him again once the crowd began to disperse. “You liked him,” he said knowingly, almost teasing.

Wooyoung arched a brow, feigning innocence. “What makes you say that?”

Nicholas smirked. “The way you couldn’t stop staring. You think I didn’t notice?”

Wooyoung’s grin spread wide, unapologetic. “Alright. Maybe I did. So… are you going to introduce me, or do I have to find him myself?”

Nicholas chuckled. “Come. I’ll make it easy for you.”

Backstage was chaos — beautiful, organized chaos. Models half-undressed out of their looks, makeup artists darting in with brushes, photographers snapping candids for behind-the-scenes spreads. Wooyoung navigated the maze with ease, following Nicholas’s lead, trying not to look too obviously like he was searching for someone.

But he found him anyway. Of course he did.

San stood near a rack of clothes, still in his runway look, sunglasses now pushed up to rest in his hair. He was even more striking up close — skin glowing faintly under the overhead lights, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and those eyes… dark, deep, focused. He was talking quietly with a stylist, nodding along, posture relaxed but still somehow commanding.

“San,” Nicholas called, drawing his attention.
San turned, gaze sliding from Nicholas to Wooyoung — and just like that, the room felt smaller. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

San turned, gaze flicking first to Nicholas, then landing on Wooyoung. His eyes narrowed slightly, recognition flashing—the wink, the front-row seat, the idol whose fans had nearly shaken the barricades outside.
Wooyoung smiled, stepping forward with that effortless charm that had made him a star. “Choi San,” he said smoothly, savoring the name again. “So you’re the one making Paris Fashion Week look like your own personal concert stage.”

San’s lips curved faintly, though his tone remained even. “And you’re the one distracting half the front row.”

Wooyoung’s grin widened. He’s still sharp
Nicholas glanced between them, amused, sensing the undercurrent of something sparking.

Wooyoung laughed, delighted. “Touché.”

Nicholas clapped San on the shoulder, clearly pleased. “I’ll let you two talk,” he said, excusing himself into the chaos.

And suddenly, they were alone. Or as alone as one could be in a room full of people.

Up close, Wooyoung noticed the little things he’d missed from the runway — the way San’s hair curled slightly at the ends where the gel didn’t hold, the faint dimple that threatened to appear when his lips twitched again, the scar near his knuckle that made him wonder how it got there. He wanted to know everything — what he liked, what he hated, what he looked like when he smiled for real.

“You look different,” Wooyoung said after a moment, breaking the silence.

San tilted his head. “Good different or bad different?”
“Better,” Wooyoung answered without hesitation. “Much better.”

He took a step closer, lowering his voice slightly. “I’m usually pretty good at paying attention to the clothes.”

San’s brows lifted a fraction. “And today?”

“Today,” Wooyoung said, a slow smile spreading across his face, “I only remember the man wearing them.”

For the first time, San’s expression shifted — a breath of a laugh, the faintest twitch of his mouth. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to tell Wooyoung that he wasn’t the only one who’d felt something spark on that runway.

For the first time, San’s expression shifted. It wasn’t dramatic — no broad grin, no break in his cool exterior but the air shifted when the corners of his mouth twitched upward, the smallest, softest curve, accompanied by what might have been a breath of a laugh. It was barely there, a ripple across the surface of a still lake. But to Wooyoung, it was everything. Confirmation that he hadn’t been alone in that electric spark on the runway.

Wooyoung basked in the sight, victorious in a way that felt almost dangerous. San’s smile — or the ghost of one was rare currency, and he’d managed to earn it within minutes of meeting him.

“You say that like you’ve been to enough shows to compare,” San said, his voice smooth, unhurried. He shifted his weight onto one leg, crossing his arms casually, though Wooyoung didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered, sharp and assessing.

“I’ve been to a few,” Wooyoung admitted with a shrug, deliberately light. “Usually I remember… silhouettes, fabrics, the mood of a collection. All that.” He paused, tilting his head. “But now? All I’m going to remember is your walk.”

“Dangerous thing to say in front of the designer,” San remarked, nodding faintly toward where Nicholas was still chatting animatedly across the room.

“Good thing Nicholas loves me,” Wooyoung shot back without missing a beat.

That earned him another flicker — San’s eyes glinting, a tiny huff of air from his nose that might have been the start of laughter if he’d let it. He didn’t, though. He was too careful. Professional.

But Wooyoung lived to pry people open.
He was just about to push further when his stomach betrayed him.

A low, unmistakable growl rumbled in the space between them.

The timing was cruel — perfectly loud in the half-second pause after his last line, impossible to ignore. Wooyoung froze, eyes widening just slightly as the sound betrayed him again, quieter this time but still clear enough to catch San’s attention. Heat flared up his neck into his cheeks, painting his skin with embarrassment.

“Ah…” Wooyoung cleared his throat, forcing out a laugh. “Wow. Okay. That was… not ideal.” He raised both hands as if to surrender, the pink blooming across his face undeniable. “Sorry. I swear I usually have better timing than this.”

San’s head tilted, and for the first time, his composure truly cracked. His mouth curved into an actual smile — faint, but real and his voice softened when he spoke.

“Don’t apologize,” San said simply. “I know what those diets are like. Strict, exhausting. Half the models backstage are probably hungrier than you.” His gaze lingered, steady and warm. “Honestly… I’m starving too. A meal wouldn’t hurt.”

Wooyoung blinked at him, surprised. He hadn’t expected San to admit something so normal, so human, after holding himself like stone this entire time. And it was all the invitation he needed.

His grin returned, mischievous, alive. “Well then,” he said, lowering his voice again, leaning just slightly closer. “Why don’t we fix that together?”

San’s brows lifted. “Together?”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung replied easily, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You, me, real food. Something that isn’t a protein bar or sparkling water.” He let his eyes flick over San with deliberate exaggeration before snapping back to his face. “Unless you’re planning on living off air and compliments for the rest of the week.”

That earned him a quiet laugh — soft, quick, but audible this time. San shook his head slightly, amused despite himself.

“You’re bold,” San murmured, eyes narrowing just faintly.

“And I’m sure you like it,” Wooyoung countered smoothly.

There was a pause. San didn’t immediately answer. Instead, his gaze swept over Wooyoung — slow, unhurried, taking him in from head to toe as if he were considering not just the offer, but the man making it. Wooyoung held still under the weight of it, chin tilted just enough to show that he wasn’t afraid of the scrutiny. If anything, he welcomed it.

Finally, San’s lips curved. “You know what, why not?” he said, his voice low, decisive. “Let me change, and I’ll meet you a block away — after you deal with your fans outside.”

Wooyoung’s grin widened, genuine delight flashing across his face. “Perfect,” he said, not even trying to hide his satisfaction. “I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
It felt like a promise, heavy and bright between them.
And, as if on cue, Nicholas reappeared — sweeping into the space like a man who knew exactly when he was needed.

“There you are,” Nicholas said warmly, sliding his hands around Wooyoung’s waist in a friendly but firm gesture to steer him toward the exit. “Ready to see your fans babe?.”

Wooyoung laughed, allowing himself to be guided, but he felt the touch more than he normally would. Nicholas’s hands, familiar and casual, still made his waist look narrow, delicate and from the corner of his eye, he caught San noticing.

San’s gaze lingered there, just briefly, before flicking back up to meet Wooyoung’s eyes. Something unreadable passed over his expression, but it wasn’t indifference this time. No, there was weight in it. A quiet acknowledgment, maybe even possession in the way he watched.

Wooyoung felt it like a spark down his spine.

Nicholas was still talking, still leading him toward the door, but Wooyoung turned back one last time, unwilling to let the moment end without a proper goodbye.
San hadn’t moved, still standing tall, composed, every inch the model again. But when their eyes locked across the crowded room, San’s lips curved — slow, deliberate.

And then he winked.

Wooyoung’s heart flipped.

It was subtle, but intentional, a mirror of what Wooyoung had done on the runway earlier. Only this time, San owned it, gave it back, turned it into something charged and undeniable.

Wooyoung nearly laughed out loud, his cheeks aching from the grin spreading across his face. He mouthed “see you soon” before Nicholas tugged him fully into the crowd, swallowed by handlers and flashing cameras once again.

But he didn’t mind. Not anymore. Because now, beyond the screaming fans and flashing lights, beyond the chaos and noise, there was something waiting for him.
Someone.

Choi San.

And for the first time all night, Wooyoung wasn’t thinking about the show, the press, or the performance. He was thinking about dinner. About sitting across from San without the world watching, without masks, without rules.

And maybe, just maybe, about what else might come after.

 

The roar of the crowd hit Wooyoung like a wall the moment the doors opened

The Paris air was crisp, tinged with perfume, city smoke, and the unmistakable electricity of a waiting audience. Dozens—no, hundreds—of voices blended into one chaotic symphony of screams the instant his silhouette appeared. His name ricocheted off the stone walls of the narrow street like gunfire:

“WOOYOUNG!”
“OPPA, OVER HERE!”
“WOOYOUNG, JE T’AIME!”
“LOOK THIS WAY!”

The flashes came next, strobing across his vision so fast he could barely see the fans pressed against the barriers, arms outstretched, holding phones, posters, polaroids, even plushies. It was dizzying, overwhelming in a way that might have unsettled him if he weren’t used to it. But Wooyoung was a performer—he knew exactly how to slip into that polished version of himself, the one who sparkled for cameras and left people weak in the knees.

And so he smiled. A full, dazzling, perfectly calculated smile that made the crowd scream louder. He lifted one hand, waving with the practiced ease of someone who’d been doing this for years.

Nicholas was at his side, guiding him forward with a protective but light touch, murmuring reminders in his ear about pace, posture, timing. “Just a quick hello, darling—sign a few, wave, then we’ll let your driver take you.”

Wooyoung nodded, but his brain was elsewhere.
Because in the space between camera flashes, between the high-pitched squeals and outstretched hands, an image kept replaying in his head: San. The way he had stood backstage like marble, then cracked open just slightly for Wooyoung. The way his smile had curled faint and dangerous. The way he’d winked.

That wink had burned itself into his eyelids, taunting him.

God, he was still so beautiful. No—beautiful wasn’t even the word. He was dangerous. A man who could strut down a runway with the world at his feet and still have the nerve to look at Wooyoung like that. Wooyoung’s stomach did a ridiculous little flip just thinking about it, and he quickly masked it with another wide smile for the crowd.

“Sign, sign, sign,” Nicholas whispered, placing a silver marker into his hand.

The fans surged forward with merchandise. Wooyoung leaned across the barricade, sharpie poised, scrawling his name across photo cards, albums, and even the sleeve of someone’s jacket. The screams grew deafening each time his pen touched paper, the sheer devotion of the crowd wrapping around him like heat.

“Oppa, saranghae!”
“Look at me, please!”
“Wink, wink!”

The irony wasn’t lost on him. They wanted him to wink, and all he could think about was San doing it.
He pushed through quickly, his strokes efficient but still neat, bowing his head politely as he accepted each item, smiling just enough to make them swoon. Usually he took his time—talked to a few, made the rounds. Tonight? He was flying. His hand scribbled faster, his pace quickened, his greetings shortened.

He felt a pang of guilt—these people had waited for him for hours, maybe all day. They deserved his full attention. And normally, he’d give it. But right now?

Right now there was a man in combat boots and perfect posture waiting for him just a block away, and the thought of San standing there, cool and collected, checking his phone or running a hand through that jet-black hair—it was enough to drive Wooyoung half insane.

Autograph faster, he told himself. Smile, sign, wave, move.

And he did. His sharpie flew over glossy photo after glossy photo, his smile glued on, his eyes flicking instinctively to the crowd but never lingering too long. Someone shoved a plush doll into his hands—he signed the fabric belly and passed it back with a wink. More screams. He bowed slightly, his body angling with the elegance his company had drilled into him.

But his pulse was thrumming in his ears, his chest tight. The faster he signed, the faster this was over. The faster he could leave Nicholas’s guiding hands, the faster he could step into that car, and the faster he could walk straight into San’s orbit again.

Nicholas chuckled at his pace, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Darling, you’re moving like you’ve got a date.”

Wooyoung almost choked. He schooled his features instantly, flashing Nicholas a playful smirk. “Maybe I do.”

The designer arched a brow, lips curving knowingly, but didn’t press. Nicholas was sharp; he noticed things, even when he pretended not to. Still, he let it slide, only nudging Wooyoung along when he lingered too long in one spot

After ten more minutes—and what felt like a hundred signatures—Wooyoung straightened, lifting his hands high to wave both ways down the barricade. His fans screamed louder, reaching, calling, chanting his name in unison.

“Thank you! Merci! I love you!” he shouted back, bowing once, twice, three times. He pressed his palms together in gratitude, kissing the tips of his fingers and throwing it toward them with a wink that sent the entire front row into chaos.

His chest warmed. No matter how much he wanted to leave, the love never failed to hit him. These people cared. They believed in him. And that meant everything.

But tonight—tonight he had somewhere else to be.
Finally, Nicholas tugged him back gently. “Alright, that’s enough. You’ll be swallowed if you give them more.”
Wooyoung laughed, letting himself be pulled toward the sleek black car waiting at the curb. The bodyguards held the crowd at bay, giving them just enough space to slip through.

At the car, he turned, wrapping Nicholas into a warm hug. “Thank you for inviting me,” he said sincerely, voice muffled against the older man’s shoulder. “You know I’d never miss your show.”

Nicholas squeezed his waist lightly, chuckling. “And you know you always make it better by being here.” He pulled back, eyes twinkling. “Now go, darling. Go do… whatever you’re clearly in a rush to do.”

Wooyoung laughed, cheeks heating. He ducked into the car before Nicholas could tease further, the door shutting behind him with a satisfying click that cut off the screaming outside.

Silence.

He slumped back against the leather seat, exhaling a long, shaky sigh. His heart was still racing, his body buzzing with leftover adrenaline. But under it all was a deeper, steadier thrum—anticipation

His manager sat across from him, tablet in hand. “Back to the hotel?”

“No,” Wooyoung said immediately. Too fast, too firm. He softened it with a quick smile. “Not tonight. Drop me at the next block.”

His manager frowned. “The next block?”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung confirmed, eyes flicking toward the tinted window, already searching for that invisible line of promise just beyond the headlights. He leaned forward slightly, his grin breaking loose, boyish and uncontainable. “I’ll be busy tonight.”

The words hung in the car like static, heavy with implications his manager didn’t need explained.
Wooyoung’s pulse kicked higher, his skin prickling. Because for once, “busy” didn’t mean schedules or interviews or rehearsals. It didn’t mean obligations.

It meant San.

The thought alone had him biting back a laugh, heart hammering against his ribs like he was a teenager again. The show, the fans, the cameras—it was all background noise now. Because at the end of this block, a man in combat boots was waiting, and Wooyoung had every intention of finding out exactly what lay behind that professional mask.

And for the first time in a long time, Wooyoung wasn’t tired of the chaos. He was exhilarated by it

Because it meant he was alive.

Because it meant something was about to happen.

Something he hadn’t felt in years.

When the car rolled to a gentle stop, the hum of the engine dying out as Wooyoung lifted his head from where it had been leaning against the cool glass. His reflection stared back at him, but he hardly recognized himself. The new Courrèges outfit clung to him in all the right places, sleek black fabric hoodie, the waistband of his trousers sitting just low enough to be suggestive. He had changed hurriedly in the backseat, the leather of the seats creaking beneath his shifting weight as he peeled off one outfit and slipped into another.

Now, staring at his reflection, he almost laughed.

Almost. The Wooyoung he remembered from years ago—the one San had known—would never have dared to wear something like the other outfit in public, much less meet San while wearing it. He was different now. Older, sharper. But as much as he wanted to believe he was in full control, there was no denying the quick pulse under his skin or the nervous twist in his stomach.

His manager glanced back at him from the driver’s seat, eyes flicking briefly to the outfit before returning to the road. “You want me to wait?” the man asked, voice neutral, professional.

“No,” Wooyoung said quickly, tugging at the hem of his shirt though he knew it would rise again no matter what. “Just… drop me off here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

The car door opened with a heavy click, and the night air wrapped around him instantly. Crisp, cool, carrying the faint scents of food, exhaust, and something sweet he couldn’t place. His boots struck the pavement in steady steps, though every part of him felt unsteady. He told himself it was ridiculous—after everything, after years of being apart, after all the walls he had built—how could a single man still have this effect on him?

But then he saw him.

San stood waiting near the corner, one hand tucked casually into the pocket of his trousers, the other holding his phone though he wasn’t looking at it. His gaze was fixed forward, searching, expectant. And when it landed on Wooyoung, it was as though the world around them thinned out to nothing but the space between them.

San had changed too. He wore a dark, fitted shirt tucked into tailored pants, the top buttons undone just enough to expose the strong lines of his collarbone, the faint curve of muscle that seemed to have only grown sharper over the years. His hair was styled differently, pushed back in a way that revealed more of his face—his jaw sharper, his expression steadier, though his eyes… his eyes were exactly the same

Wooyoung froze for half a second. Long enough for his breath to catch, for the pounding in his chest to remind him just how much this moment mattered. Then he forced his body forward, legs carrying him even though his mind screamed to slow down, to savor the first look.
San’s lips curved. Not into a grin, not into one of those boyish smirks Wooyoung remembered. Just a quiet, almost cautious smile. And Wooyoung found himself returning it, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite the knot in his stomach.

“You changed,” San said when Wooyoung was close enough to hear. His voice was lower than Wooyoung remembered, richer somehow, like smoke curling through the night air.

“So did you,” Wooyoung replied, letting his eyes flick down over San’s frame before snapping back up. Too fast. Too obvious. He swallowed hard, pretending not to notice the way heat crawled up his neck. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

San’s gaze lingered, dark and unreadable, sweeping over Wooyoung in turn. Not once. Not twice. Longer. The kind of stare that stripped layers without ever touching. Wooyoung wanted to say something—anything—to break it, but the words wouldn’t form.
Instead, San tilted his head toward the street ahead.

“There’s a place nearby. Wanna go?”

Wooyoung nodded, relief and nerves tangling together as they began to walk side by side. The city was alive around them, but it felt muffled, every sound dulled by the silence between them. Their footsteps echoed faintly, in sync despite themselves. At one point, Wooyoung’s hand brushed against San’s as their arms swung too close. He flinched before he could stop himself, but San didn’t move away. If anything, he slowed his pace just enough to keep them aligned, close enough that the distance between their knuckles felt deliberate.

Wooyoung’s throat tightened. He hated how much power that tiny gesture held over him. He hated more that he wanted to close the space, to feel San’s hand in his after so many years. Instead, he shoved both hands into his pockets, eyes fixed straight ahead as though the ground might offer him answers.

They reached the restaurant a few minutes later—a tucked-away spot with warm golden lights glowing from the windows and the faint hum of low music leaking out whenever the door opened. San held the door for him, and Wooyoung slipped inside without comment, though the awareness of San’s gaze following him was impossible to ignore

The hostess led them to a small table in the corner, partly shielded by a partition of wooden slats and hanging plants. It was intimate without trying to be, private enough to feel deliberate. Wooyoung sat, his chair scraping against the floor louder than he intended, the sound breaking the silence in a jarring snap.

Across from him, San lowered himself into his seat with fluid ease, leaning back as though he belonged there, as though he always belonged wherever he sat. He picked up the menu but didn’t open it, his eyes sliding back to Wooyoung as if he were the only thing worth studying

“What?” Wooyoung finally demanded, sharper than he meant to

San’s lips curved again, that same infuriating almost-smile. “Nothing.” A beat. Then, softer, “Just… it’s been a long time.”

The words hit harder than Wooyoung expected. He looked down at his hands, fingers tracing the edge of the menu though he wasn’t reading it either. “Yeah,” he said after a moment, voice quieter. “I know.”

The waitress appeared to take their orders, and Wooyoung was grateful for the interruption. He ordered quickly, barely aware of what he chose, just eager for her to leave. When she did, the silence returned, heavier this time

San leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, and Wooyoung’s eyes betrayed him by flicking to the exposed skin at his collar. The faint pulse there. The way the dim restaurant lights cast shadows along the lines of his throat. Heat pooled low in his stomach, and he forced himself to look away, jaw tight.

“So,” San said at last, voice steady, “how have you been?”

It was such a simple question, such an obvious one, but it lodged in Wooyoung’s chest like a thorn. How was he supposed to answer that? With the truth—that he had missed him every single day, that he had built his entire world around pretending he didn’t? That he had loved him, once, and maybe still did

“Busy,” Wooyoung said instead, forcing his tone flat. “You know. Work. Life.”

San’s eyes didn’t waver. “And outside of that?”
Wooyoung’s laugh came out too harsh, too brittle.

“What outside of that? You think I’ve had time for anything else?”

Something flickered in San’s expression, but he didn’t push. He leaned back again, but his gaze never left Wooyoung. And Wooyoung hated—hated—how much he wanted him to push.

Their food arrived, but the plates sat largely untouched between them. Wooyoung picked at his with his fork, barely tasting it, too aware of the silence, of San’s presence, of the tension twisting like a taut string ready to snap. At one point, their eyes met over the table, and neither of them looked away. It was only a second. Two. But it stretched long, unbearably long, until Wooyoung felt like he might choke on the air itself.

He broke the gaze first, dropping his fork onto his plate with a dull clatter. “Why here?” he asked, voice low.

San tilted his head. “Why not?”

“You could’ve chosen anywhere.”

“I did,” San said simply. His tone carried no explanation, no apology. Just certainty.

Wooyoung bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to show how much that answer unsettled him. His foot tapped restlessly under the table, his knee bouncing, the energy coiled so tightly inside him that he thought he might combust.

Finally, he pushed his chair back a fraction, not enough to stand but enough to create space between them. “I shouldn’t have come,” he muttered, though the words tasted like a lie even as they left his mouth

San’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping lower. “But you did.”

Wooyoung’s heart stuttered. He forced a scoff, shaking his head. “Don’t act like you know me anymore.”

For the first time all night, San leaned in fully, his forearms braced on the table, his gaze pinning Wooyoung in place. “I don’t have to act,” he said quietly. “I do know you. That hasn’t changed.”

Wooyoung’s breath hitched. His body betrayed him, heat rising, pulse racing. He wanted to argue, to deny it, but the truth pressed too hard against his ribs. Instead, he sat there in silence, his fork still in his hand, his food untouched, his eyes burning with everything he couldn’t say.

The tension between them was no longer subtle. It was alive. Breathing. Heavy enough to bend the air around them. And Wooyoung, despite every reason to run, couldn’t bring himself to move.

But San’s eyes didn’t waver. If anything, they sharpened, as though some invisible lock inside him had just clicked open. His voice came low, steady, weighted with something heavier than the room itself

“Remember high school?”

The question landed like a blow, sharp and unexpected. Wooyoung blinked, thrown off balance. His fork clattered softly against the plate as his fingers loosened.
Of course he remembered.

“Don’t,” Wooyoung said quickly, almost too quickly. His chest tightened. His pulse was a drumbeat in his throat.
But San didn’t stop. He leaned forward even more, forearms pressing into the table, shoulders curving like he was bracing himself for impact. “The entertainment class. Us, shoved in that stupid little studio after hours because the teachers said we had ‘potential.’” His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it. “We hated half of it. But we always stayed anyway.”

The words painted themselves too vividly in Wooyoung’s mind—long evenings in that practice room with its mirrored walls and scuffed floors, laughter echoing between them even when they were supposed to be serious. Sneaking snacks under the desk. Falling asleep in rehearsals and jolting awake to San poking him in the ribs.

And then…

The crush. The tension neither of them had dared to name at the time. The stolen glances, the lingering touches, the way they always ended up closer than necessary without quite realizing how or why

And the kiss. God, the kiss.

Wooyoung swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. His heart was sprinting faster than his thoughts.
“I said don’t,” he repeated, voice low, brittle.

San’s gaze softened, but it didn’t back off. “We were kids. And we were stupid. But we… we knew, Woo. We knew back then.” His lips pressed together, then parted again. “That night—”

“Stop.” Wooyoung’s voice cracked like a whip across the table, sharper than he intended. His hand balled into a fist on the surface. “Don’t bring that up.”

But it was too late. The memory was already alive, clawing its way back into the room

That night after the kiss. That first taste of something reckless, something burning and real, stolen in a corner where no one else could see. San’s lips against his, clumsy but desperate, both of them too breathless to think. The way one kiss had turned into two, then three, then a dozen, until neither of them remembered who moved first.

And then the mistake. Not the kiss. No, Wooyoung had never regretted that kiss, not even when he forced himself to bury it later. The mistake was what followed—the distraction, the slip in his focus, the way he’d rushed to his first big photo shoot hours later with his body and mind still in pieces. The way one photograph from that night had gone viral, exploding online, turning him from a kid with potential into someone the industry wanted to devour.

Everything changed in a single night. The calls started. The contracts. The schedules. He was pulled in one direction, San in another. And in the chaos, they lost each other

Six years. Six years of silence. Six years of pretending it hadn’t mattered.

“I remember,” Wooyoung said finally, his voice breaking around the edges. He looked down at the table, unable to meet San’s eyes. His chest rose and fell too fast, each breath shallow. “Of course I fucking remember.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. San didn’t interrupt. He waited, giving Wooyoung room even though the weight of his gaze was unrelenting.
Wooyoung laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “You think I forgot? That I could just erase it?” He shook his head, his fingers raking through his hair. “That night ruined everything for me.”

San flinched like he’d been struck. His jaw clenched, but he stayed quiet.

Wooyoung forced himself to look up, to meet his eyes despite the heat burning behind his own. “I went viral that night, San. My face was plastered everywhere. Everyone wanted a piece of me, and I—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t have time for us. I didn’t have time for anything. And you—”

San’s throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I got busy too.” His voice was quiet now, almost ashamed. “I thought I’d have time later. I thought… I thought you’d still be there when things slowed down.”

Wooyoung laughed again, this time sharper, wetter. He blinked fast, forcing back the sting in his eyes. “Things never slowed down. Not for either of us.”

“No,” San admitted. His gaze flicked down, then back up. His voice was rough when he spoke again. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you. Every damn day. I wondered what you were doing, if you were eating right, if you were getting any sleep. I watched from a distance, and I hated myself for it.”

The confession cracked something deep in Wooyoung. His lips parted, but no words came out. He wanted to scream, to deny it, to demand why San hadn’t called, hadn’t reached out even once in those six years. But he knew the answer. He knew because he had done the same—checking headlines, catching glimpses of San in interviews, watching him rise higher and higher until he felt like they lived in different worlds entirely.

And still, he had thought of him. Every single day.
“I wanted to call you,” Wooyoung whispered, barely audible. His hand trembled on the table, and he curled it into a fist to hide it. “So many times. But I never knew what to say. ‘Hi, sorry for disappearing for half a decade. Sorry for ruining what we had before it even started.’”

San’s chair scraped against the floor as he leaned forward, closer now, close enough that Wooyoung could feel the heat radiating from him across the narrow table. “You didn’t ruin it,” San said fiercely. “We both did. We let it slip through our fingers because we were scared and stupid and—busy. But it wasn’t just you.”
Wooyoung’s breath hitched. His eyes burned, and for the first time in years, he didn’t bother to hide it. “We wasted six years,” he said brokenly. “Six years we could’ve had together.”

San’s expression shattered, all the steel and composure crumbling into something raw. His hand twitched on the table, as if he wanted to reach across the space but didn’t dare. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “I know. And I hate myself for every single one of them.”

The words hung between them, heavy and aching. Wooyoung wanted to reach across, wanted to close the gap, but the weight of their past kept his hands rooted where they were.

Instead, he whispered, “That kiss…” His eyes flicked up, meeting San’s. “I never forgot it.”

San’s lips parted. His eyes softened in a way that made Wooyoung’s chest ache. “Neither did I.”

The admission pulled the air out of the room. For a long moment, neither of them moved. The noise of the restaurant blurred into nothing, the clink of silverware, the murmur of voices all fading into static. It was just them. Just the ghosts of who they had been and the ache of who they could have been.

Wooyoung finally leaned back, dragging a shaky hand over his face. “God, we’re pathetic.”

San’s laugh was rough, humorless. “Maybe. But at least we’re pathetic together again.”

Wooyoung looked at him through his fingers, the smallest smile tugging at the corner of his lips despite the wetness gathering in his eyes. “You always did know how to say the stupidest things.”

San’s answering smile was faint, broken, but real. “And you always laughed anyway.”

The table fell into silence again, but it was different this time. Not empty. Not suffocating. Heavy, yes, but with possibility. With all the things unsaid still waiting to be spoken.

Wooyoung exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted. “I don’t even know if it can be fixed.”

San’s gaze burned into him. “Then let’s not fix it. Let’s start over.”

The words lodged in Wooyoung’s chest, fragile and terrifying. But for the first time in six years, he let himself imagine it.

“Start over with what?”

“With a kiss”

The sentence slammed into Wooyoung like a punch to the ribs. He actually felt his breath stutter, the air catching in his throat. For a heartbeat, he froze, his brain scrambling, his instincts fighting. “W-what?”

San didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to. His eyes said it all, dark and burning, so full of conviction and want that it made Wooyoung’s stomach flip. He could see it in him — that same reckless teenager who had leaned in six years ago and stolen his first kiss in the corner of a practice room, only now older, sharper, more devastating.

Wooyoung laughed nervously, but it came out thin, unconvincing. “That’s not really… starting over, is it?” His hands fidgeted against the table, tugging at the hem of his sleeve. “That’s more like… jumping straight back into the fire.”

“Maybe that’s where we belong,” San said, low and steady.

Wooyoung’s pulse was thrashing in his throat, his chest tight. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Yes, I can,” San countered, and his eyes softened, glowing in a way that made Wooyoung’s defenses crumble. “Because it’s true. I look at you, and I don’t feel six years of silence. I feel like it’s yesterday. Like I never stopped wanting this.”

The intensity in his gaze rooted Wooyoung to the spot. His throat went dry. He wanted to argue, to laugh it off, to tease him — anything to deflect. But the words tangled in his chest, stuck behind the rising heat in his face.

And then San tilted his head, his voice dropping, almost a whisper. “You want it too. Don’t you?”

Wooyoung’s breath hitched audibly. His stomach tumbled so violently he thought he might be sick. His hands curled into fists against his thighs, trying to ground himself, but all he could see was San’s eyes— that look of unshakable certainty, of affection so raw it was almost unbearable.

He wanted to deny it. He should deny it. Six years had passed. They weren’t kids anymore. They were different men, with different lives. And yet…

One look into San’s eyes, and Wooyoung felt himself unraveling.

“I—” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, tried again. “This is… insane.”

But San only leaned back in his chair, his gaze still locked on him. “So was kissing you in that practice room,” he said softly. “And it was still the best mistake I ever made.”

That did it. The last of Wooyoung’s composure cracked wide open

He pushed back his chair with a sharp scrape against the floor, his breath coming too fast, too shallow. He muttered, “Bathroom,” like it was an excuse, like he could just walk it off, splash some water on his face, and come back to pretend this conversation never happened.

But San was already standing too.

The tension was electric, alive, snapping at his skin as Wooyoung strode toward the hallway at the back of the restaurant. He heard footsteps behind him — steady, deliberate, unmistakably San’s.

By the time he reached the bathroom door, his hand trembled on the handle. He almost turned around, almost told San to stop following him, almost begged for a reprieve.

Instead, he pushed the door open.

The space inside was dim, the low hum of music from the restaurant muffled through the walls. Clean, minimalist, polished — but it might as well have been another universe.

San slipped in behind him. The door clicked shut.
For a second, silence pressed down on them. Wooyoung turned, his back against the sink, his chest heaving.

“San, we can’t—”
But he didn’t finish.

Because San was already there, stepping in close, his hand coming up to cup Wooyoung’s jaw like he’d done it a thousand times before. His thumb brushed against his cheekbone, and Wooyoung froze, his body thrumming with electricity.

“This is six years overdue,” San murmured, and before Wooyoung could think, could argue, could breathe—
San kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was fire, unrestrained and unrelenting, six years of silence and longing igniting all at once.

Wooyoung gasped against his mouth, the sound swallowed by San’s lips pressing harder, deeper. His knees went weak, his hand shooting out to clutch San’s shoulder just to stay upright. The taste of him, the warmth, the sheer ferocity of it—it was too much, not enough, everything at once.

A choked sound tore from Wooyoung’s throat, half sob, half laugh, and then he was kissing back, just as fiercely, his fingers tangling in San’s hair, pulling him closer like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance.
Their mouths crashed, teeth clashing, breaths uneven. It was messy, desperate, completely unprofessional — and Wooyoung didn’t care. For the first time in six years, he felt alive.

San pressed him back against the sink, his hands braced on either side of Wooyoung’s waist, caging him in. Wooyoung’s back arched against the porcelain, his chest flush against San’s. He gasped for breath, his lips breaking only to dive back in, over and over, like neither of them could stop.

The mirror above them reflected the scene back — Wooyoung with his hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes wild, San with his jaw tight, his expression caught between hunger and relief.

Wooyoung caught a glimpse and almost laughed. They looked unrecognizable. They looked inevitable.
“San—” he managed between kisses, his voice hoarse, trembling.

San broke away just enough to rest his forehead against Wooyoung’s, their breaths mingling, hot and uneven. “Don’t tell me to stop.”

Wooyoung’s eyes fluttered shut, his throat tight. His hands fisted in San’s shirt, anchoring himself. “I wasn’t going to.”

That earned him a laugh, breathless, broken. And then San kissed him again, slower this time, deeper. The kind of kiss that said I’ve missed you every day of my life.
Wooyoung melted. His body curved into San’s instinctively, his chest pressing closer, his hands sliding down to grip his waist, his back, anything to keep him there.

Minutes blurred. Seconds felt like hours. They kissed like they’d been starved, like they’d been denied too long, like they didn’t care if the world outside kept spinning.

When they finally broke apart, gasping, Wooyoung’s lips were swollen, his face flushed. San didn’t move far — just enough to look at him, really look, his thumb brushing over Wooyoung’s bottom lip

Wooyoung shivered under the touch, his heart hammering so hard it hurt.

“This isn’t starting over,” he whispered, his voice barely holding steady.

San smiled, his eyes soft but still burning. “No. It’s picking up where we left off.”

Wooyoung swallowed hard, his chest tightening with a thousand things unsaid. “And if it ends the same way?”

“Then we’ll fight harder this time,” San said firmly.

“We’ve wasted enough years.”

The conviction in his tone, the sheer truth of it, nearly undid Wooyoung all over again.

His lips curved, helpless, shaky. “God, you’re impossible.”

San leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth gently, reverently. “And you still love it.”

Wooyoung didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. Not when the proof was still tingling on his lips, still pounding in his chest.

So he pulled him back in, kissing him again, fierce and unrelenting, as though six years of regret could be rewritten in the span of a single night.

 

The hotel door clicked shut with a heavy thud, muffling the city noise outside. Neither of them cared enough to check if it locked properly—San’s mouth was already pressed to Wooyoung’s, a feverish, hungry kiss that felt like it had been six years in the making.
Wooyoung clung to him, arms looped around San’s shoulders, fingers curling into the back of his shirt as if he could fuse them together. His breaths came fast, shallow, stolen between the rush of their lips. When San’s hands slid lower, firm and sure, cupping the backs of his thighs, Wooyoung’s heart tripped

“Up,” San murmured against his mouth, voice husky, and before Wooyoung could process, he was lifted clean off the ground.

A startled laugh bubbled out of him as his legs wrapped instinctively around San’s waist. Their lips barely parted. San carried him further into the room, stumbling blindly past the neat arrangement of furniture, their mouths locked, their bodies grinding in a desperate rhythm that made Wooyoung’s head spin.
“God,” San whispered, lips brushing over his jaw. “You taste the same.”

Wooyoung’s fingers tangled in San’s hair, pulling him closer. “You—don’t.” His voice cracked, breathless, but he smiled anyway. “You taste better.”

San’s laugh was low, a vibration against his skin, before he kissed him harder. Each press of lips felt like a confession, a plea, a claim. Their hands roamed freely—San’s trailing up under Wooyoung’s hoodie, palm splayed against the heat of his waist, Wooyoung’s nails digging lightly into San’s neck, marking him.

They barely noticed the clutter on the floor, the suitcase left half-open near the bed, until San’s foot caught on it.
“Shit—!”

The world tilted.

With a loud thud and twin groans, they crashed onto the carpet. Wooyoung landed flat on his back with San sprawled half over him, their lips jarring apart on impact.

For a beat, silence.
Then laughter.

Breathless, helpless laughter spilled out of Wooyoung first, bright and unrestrained, his chest shaking as he lay pinned beneath San. The ridiculousness of it, the way passion had sent them tumbling—it broke the heavy tension just enough to feel human again.
San chuckled too, muffled against Wooyoung’s shoulder, before lifting his head. His hair fell into his eyes, his grin lopsided and boyish in a way that made Wooyoung’s chest ache with nostalgia.

“You—” Wooyoung gasped between laughs, “you tripped over my bag?”

San’s smirk widened. “Your fault. Should’ve put it away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Wooyoung teased, arching a brow. “Didn’t realize I had to childproof the room for you.”

San’s eyes darkened at the edge of his smile. He leaned closer, hovering just above Wooyoung, his breath warm as he whispered, “Then maybe you should keep me occupied so I don’t wander into trouble.”

Wooyoung’s laughter faltered, swallowed by the pull of San’s voice, the heat of his body pressing close. His grin softened into something shaky. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he tugged San down by the collar, crashing their mouths together once more. The kiss was different now—still fierce, still greedy, but tinged with the intimacy of shared laughter. It was both clumsy and perfect.

San shifted, one hand bracing on the floor beside Wooyoung’s head, the other sliding along his ribs. His fingers caught the edge of Wooyoung’s hoodie, tugging it upward until half of his chest was bared to the dim light of the room.

He paused there, pulling back just enough to look.
For the first time that night, San didn’t kiss or tease. He simply looked.

Wooyoung lay sprawled beneath him, chest rising and falling fast. His hoodie was rucked up one side, exposing smooth skin and the faint line of muscle as his head rested on his palm, elbow bent. His pants sat low on his hips, the slightest bit of ink showing from above his v-line but San hadnt noticed that yet. Since the pants were loose enough that the waistband of his underwear peeked out, an unintentional invitation.

And his eyes—God, his eyes.

Half-lidded, dark, burning with a mix of defiance and vulnerability. He stared up at San like he wanted to challenge him, yet couldn’t hide the way his body arched toward the warmth, the way his lips—full, pink, kiss-swollen—parted just slightly as if waiting.
San’s throat bobbed. His voice was raw when he finally spoke.

“I forgot,” he whispered, almost reverent, “just how full your lips were.”

Wooyoung’s stomach fluttered at the words. Embarrassment, pride, desire—they all tangled inside him, stealing his breath

He tilted his head, letting the strands of black hair fall into his face as he smirked faintly, though his voice betrayed the hitch in his chest. “You stared at them in high school too, remember?”

San chuckled, low and dark, his fingers brushing just below the hem of the hoodie. “I still do.”

The air between them thickened again, heavy with the memory of old sins and the promise of something new.
And as Wooyoung lay there—- half-bared, gaze steady yet trembling inside—he realized there was no hiding anymore.

San hovered above him, caught between reverence and hunger, his hand splayed flat against the strip of bare skin revealed by the rumpled hoodie. His thumb dragged slowly, lazily, just below Wooyoung’s ribs. It was such a small touch, almost innocent, but Wooyoung’s entire body jolted as though San had set fire to him.

“San…” His voice cracked, unsteady, a warning that sounded too much like a plea.

San’s lips tilted into a smirk, though his eyes were anything but casual. They burned. “What?” he murmured, his breath brushing Wooyoung’s cheek, his words slow, deliberate. “Afraid I’ll remember too much?”
Wooyoung tried to scoff, to push back with bravado, but San pressed closer, chest to chest, pinning him against the carpet. The sound caught in his throat. His smirk faltered, and for one dangerous heartbeat, he let San see the truth — the way his pulse raced, the way his body arched into every point of contact.

San noticed. Of course he noticed. He always did.
His hand shifted higher, sliding up until his palm rested flat against Wooyoung’s chest, right above his heart. The hoodie bunched awkwardly under San’s wrist, leaving one half of Wooyoung exposed, the other still hidden. San’s gaze dipped lower, tracing the line of revealed skin with shameless attention

“You don’t make it easy to forget,” San said quietly. His thumb stroked absent circles, right over Wooyoung’s heartbeat.

Wooyoung’s lips parted. “Neither did you.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, raw and honest. His cheeks burned immediately, but there was no pulling them back.

San froze. For a second, silence pulsed between them, thick with six years of unsaid things. Then, without warning, San lowered himself and caught Wooyoung’s mouth in another kiss.

It was nothing like the playful ones before.

This was deep. Fierce. A collision of guilt and longing, of everything they hadn’t said for six years. San kissed like he wanted to drown, and Wooyoung—God, Wooyoung kissed back like he wanted to burn.
His hands fisted in San’s shirt, dragging him impossibly closer, while San’s fingers dug into his hip, anchoring him in place. Their mouths moved with reckless urgency, lips crashing, teeth catching, tongues tangling.
Every shift of their bodies only stoked the heat.

Wooyoung could feel the solid weight of San pressing into him, the grind of his hips, the unspoken desperation in every movement.

“San—” Wooyoung broke the kiss, gasping, his lips swollen, his chest heaving. He meant to say something sharp, maybe teasing, but it came out softer, almost needy.

San didn’t let him finish. He pressed his forehead to Wooyoung’s, his voice rough. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

Wooyoung’s throat bobbed. His hands slid up into San’s hair, tugging just enough to keep him close. “You know I can’t.”

That was all San needed.

His mouth claimed Wooyoung’s again, harder this time, teeth grazing his bottom lip before sucking gently at it. Wooyoung gasped, his hips jerking up against San’s, a betraying movement that drew a low groan from deep in San’s chest.

The sound alone nearly undid him.

“God, you…” San muttered against his mouth, breaking away only to kiss along Wooyoung’s jaw, down to the sensitive skin just below his ear. His voice was a rasp. “You still drive me insane.”

Wooyoung’s eyes fluttered shut. His breath hitched as San’s lips trailed lower, teeth grazing, tongue teasing. The hoodie slipped further, exposing more skin. His body betrayed him at every turn, arching up, chasing the heat.

“San…” His voice was unsteady, his grip tightening in San’s hair. “This is—this is dangerous.”

San lifted his head, meeting his gaze again. His eyes were molten, his lips glistening. “Only if you run.”

Wooyoung’s chest heaved. He wanted to argue. He wanted to list every reason why this was a terrible idea. But the words died on his tongue the second San kissed him again.

There was no running. Not anymore.

The hoodie was tugged higher, San’s hand sliding across his bare torso, fingers mapping familiar territory as though reclaiming something lost. Wooyoung shivered under the touch, his lips parting in a soft gasp that only spurred San further.

Every brush of fingers, every shift of weight, every kiss left Wooyoung dizzy, undone. He had forgotten how consuming San could be — how he could take a simple touch and make it feel like the ground had disappeared beneath his feet.

But what unsettled him most wasn’t the desire. It was the way San looked at him through it all.

Like he mattered.
Like the years hadn’t changed a thing.
It scared him more than anything else.

And yet, lying there, half-bared, his body trembling under San’s weight, Wooyoung could barely breathe. His body was hot, sticky with sweat, his hoodie long discarded somewhere across the hotel suite. San’s mouth was everywhere—down his chest, across his collarbones, sucking harsh bruises into pale skin like he wanted the world to see exactly who Wooyoung belonged to. Each bite stung before it melted into pleasure, leaving Wooyoung gasping, his fingers tangled tight in San’s jet-black hair

“San—” His voice cracked on the name, whiny and high, more plea than protest.

San only hummed against him, lips wrapping around a nipple before he bit down gently, then soothed the sting with his tongue. The model’s sharp jaw left a trail of wetness down Wooyoung’s torso, every lick and kiss deliberate, worshipful, yet filthy in how hungry it felt.

“You don’t know,” San murmured low, hot breath fanning across Wooyoung’s skin as his lips trailed further down. “How fucking long I’ve wanted this.”
Wooyoung whimpered. The weight of San’s words, his voice rough with sincerity, only made the heat in his belly twist tighter. He arched under the attention, his hips rising off the sheets on instinct, grinding desperately against San’s clothed thigh.

San smirked against his skin, unhurried, dragging his lips to the waistband of Wooyoung’s pants. His black button-up clung to his frame, but as the tension built, he reached down and flicked open the buttons one by one—then, impatient, ripped the rest apart, sending small pearly buttons scattering across the floor. His tan, muscled chest glistened faintly under the dim light, and he let the ruined shirt fall carelessly behind him.
Wooyoung’s breath caught. San was devastatingly beautiful, like something out of a photoshoot—but this wasn’t staged. His messy hair, his flushed skin, the hungry look in his eyes—it was all for Wooyoung.

San caught his gaze, smirking slightly as he hooked his thumbs into Wooyoung’s waistband. “Can I?”

Wooyoung’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, nerves sparking under the weight of San’s intensity. But he nodded quickly, whispering, “Yes. Please.”

The permission made something feral glint in San’s eyes. With one smooth tug, he dragged Wooyoung’s pants and underwear down together, tossing them aside in one careless motion.

Wooyoung flushed crimson, exposed and bare under San’s stare. He instinctively tried to close his legs, but San was faster. Big hands caught his thighs, forcing them apart, spreading him wide on the sheets.
And then San froze.

For a long moment, he didn’t even move. His hands stayed braced firm on Wooyoung’s thighs, spreading him wide open, but his gaze wasn’t moving lower yet—not because he didn’t want to, but because something else had caught him first.

Ink.

Two sharp, symmetrical shapes curved upward from Wooyoung’s hips, just above his groin. Black tribal lines arched in a way that framed his lower stomach, hugging his V-line perfectly, disappearing only where the waistband of his jeans must usually cover them.

San’s breath caught, rough and audible. His voice came out low, strained, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You…” He paused, jaw tightening before he found the words. “…you have a tattoo here?”

Wooyoung’s blush deepened, pink climbing his chest and throat. He tried to shift, instinctively tugging his shirt hem down to cover himself, but San’s grip on his thighs kept him exactly where he was—pinned open, exposed, forced to let San drink it all in.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Wooyoung mumbled, voice small, embarrassed. “It’s… old.”

San’s lips twitched, a slow smirk threatening but never fully forming. His eyes gleamed, fixated on the ink like it was something sacred. His thumbs stroked absent circles into Wooyoung’s thighs, grounding him while his gaze stayed locked just above his pussy.

“When?” San finally asked. His voice was quieter now, more intimate, almost reverent.

Wooyoung exhaled sharply, nervous laugh bubbling out. “When do you think? I was twenty. Stupid, reckless, and bored out of my mind. It was supposed to be ironic, I think? A bad decision with my friends.” He rolled his eyes at himself, cheeks red as he looked away. “Turns out I was the only one drunk enough to go through with it. Everyone else chickened out.”

San huffed a laugh, deep and low, but his expression didn’t match the amusement in his tone. His expression was something darker, hungrier. He tilted his head, eyes trailing the sharp points of ink where they curved down to highlight the deep cut of Wooyoung’s lower abs. “A bad decision,” he repeated under his breath, tasting the words. His voice roughened. “Looks like the best decision you ever made to me.”

Wooyoung’s eyes darted back to him, startled. “What?”

San finally looked up at him, and Wooyoung swore his stomach flipped at the sight. His gaze was molten, heavy-lidded, lips parted just slightly as though he were seconds from devouring him. San shook his head slowly, his voice barely above a growl. “You don’t see it, do you? How perfect it is? How it frames you here—” His thumbs slid upward, brushing just shy of the tattoo’s edges. “—like it was made to draw every eye exactly where it should go.”

Heat surged in Wooyoung’s face, spreading all the way to his ears. He wanted to scoff, to laugh it off, but San’s tone was too heavy, too honest. And when his gaze finally, finally shifted lower—down over the tattoos, past his lower stomach, to the place between his spread thighs—Wooyoung forgot how to breathe

San groaned.

It wasn’t subtle. It ripped from his chest, raw and unrestrained, a sound that made Wooyoung’s skin prickle with goosebumps. San’s head dipped, black hair falling over his forehead, his eyes glued to the wetness glistening between Wooyoung’s folds. His jaw clenched like it physically hurt to hold himself back.

“Fuck,” San rasped, low and guttural. “You’re… dripping.”

Wooyoung whimpered, his hips twitching against San’s grip. “Shut up,” he muttered, but it came out breathy, desperate.

San’s smirk returned, sharp and knowing. He leaned down slowly, so slowly, pressing his mouth to the ink on Wooyoung’s hipbone. The kiss was searing, reverent. His tongue darted out, tasting the skin just above the black line, and Wooyoung’s back arched.

San kissed lower. His lips followed the curve of the tattoo, worshipping each point, sucking lightly at the edges until Wooyoung was squirming. His fangs scraped faintly—just enough to make Wooyoung’s thighs tremble, not enough to pierce.

“San…” Wooyoung’s voice cracked, half a plea, half a warning.

San only hummed, the vibration sending sparks straight to his core. He looked up briefly, lips wet from kissing the ink, his smirk softening into something dangerous. “I could mark you everywhere,” he whispered. “Ink isn’t enough. I want you covered in me. In bruises, in hickeys, even in blood if you’ll let me.”

Wooyoung whimpered louder, clutching at the sheets.
San’s hands squeezed his thighs once more, and then—finally—he shifted lower. His mouth left the tattoos, traveling inward, closer and closer until Wooyoung felt his breath ghost hot over his pussy. San’s eyes darkened, pupils blown wide as he dragged his tongue slowly over his bottom lip, savoring the sight.

“Fuck, Woo…” he groaned again, more ragged this time. “You’re so wet already. You were embarrassed about the tattoo, but look at you now.”

Wooyoung hid his face with his hands, whining. “Stop talking.”

San chuckled, low and sinful. He pried Wooyoung’s hands away, pinning them to the bed by his sides. His voice dropped lower, commanding. “No hiding. Not from me.”

Before Wooyoung could respond, San lifted his legs, hooking them over his broad shoulders so Wooyoung was spread open helplessly beneath him. He leaned down slowly, pressing kisses to the inside of his thighs. Each kiss turned to a nip, San’s sharp teeth grazing but never piercing, leaving faint marks that made Wooyoung gasp softly.

“You smell… so good,” San murmured, his breath ghosting over Wooyoung’s folds. His voice was reverent, hungry. “God, I could spend hours just here.”

Then he lowered himself fully, mouth meeting pussy.
Wooyoung cried out instantly, head tossing back, his hands flying to clutch at the sheets. San’s tongue flattened against him, licking one long, slow stripe from entrance to clit, savoring every drop of slick that coated his mouth. The sound alone—wet, obscene—made Wooyoung want to die of embarrassment, but the pleasure hit so hard, so fast, he couldn’t even think.
“San! Oh, fuck—”

San growled into him, the vibration making Wooyoung jolt. His tongue circled the clit before flicking it, teasing, then sucking it into his mouth with practiced greed. Every lap was messy, saliva mixing with slick, dripping down Wooyoung’s ass.

He didn’t pace himself. He devoured.

Wooyoung’s thighs trembled violently over San’s shoulders, but San held them down, fingers digging into soft flesh, forcing him to take it. His fangs scraped lightly against the sensitive bud, just enough to make Wooyoung yelp, then melt into a desperate moan.
The model’s mouth worked like he was starving. He licked into Wooyoung’s folds, fucked him shallow with his tongue, sucked his clit until it was swollen and throbbing. His nose pressed against Wooyoung’s mound as he buried his face deeper, groaning at every squirm, every whimper.

Wooyoung couldn’t stop the sounds spilling from his throat—high-pitched, breathless, broken. He hadn’t been touched like this in months. Years, maybe. Every nerve felt raw, overstimulated, and San didn’t let up.
“San, San—please—”

San pulled back just enough to look up at him, lips slick and chin glistening. His eyes were blown wide with lust. “Taste so fucking good,” he rasped, then dove back in before Wooyoung could respond.

This time, his fingers joined—one sliding easily inside, then another, stretching him, curling just right against that soft spot that made Wooyoung see stars. He fucked his fingers into him while sucking his clit, relentless, merciless.

Wooyoung’s body arched off the bed, his hands flying to grip San’s hair desperately. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” San growled against him, his mouth never stopping. “Come for me, Young-ah. Let me taste it.”

The nickname, said with a mix of teasing and reverence, pushed him over.

Wooyoung shattered with a scream, his pussy clenching violently around San’s fingers as slick gushed out, coating his hand, his face, everything. His thighs snapped shut around San’s head, trembling, but San only groaned, tongue lapping at everything, drinking him down like he couldn’t get enough.

The overstimulation was brutal, but it dragged the orgasm longer, harder, leaving Wooyoung sobbing with the force of it.

When San finally pulled back, his lips and chin glistened, his chest rising and falling hard. He looked ruined, hair messy, shirtless and flushed, but his eyes burned with hunger still. He licked his lips slowly, savoring the taste, then smirked up at Wooyoung.
“You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to do that,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “Watching you like this… letting me ruin you… fuck, Wooyoung please.”

Wooyoung’s chest heaved, his body trembling in the aftershocks. He covered his face with both hands, whining softly, too embarrassed by how wrecked he was already.

San leaned up, kissing his inner thigh tenderly, then his hipbone, working his way back up Wooyoung’s body. When he reached his lips, he kissed him slow, deep, letting Wooyoung taste himself on his tongue.

Wooyoung whimpered into the kiss, overwhelmed.
San chuckled low, pulling back just enough to murmur against his swollen lips:

“And that was only my mouth.”

Wooyoung gasped softly, pupils blown wide, but before he could respond, San was already moving.
His hands went to his belt, tugging it open with practiced ease. The quiet jingle of the buckle made Wooyoung’s stomach flutter. San pushed the leather aside, then shoved his trousers and boxers down in one motion. His cock sprang free, heavy and hard, slapping against his stomach with a wet sound from the slick he’d already leaked.

Wooyoung’s jaw dropped, his whole body jerking in place at the sight. He stared, lips parted, a faint whimper escaping without his permission.

San chuckled at his expression, giving his cock a few rough tugs, the veins along his shaft standing out as he stroked. The size was obscene—thick, long, flushed at the tip—and Wooyoung’s mind short-circuited just looking at it.

“Like what you see?” San teased, voice husky, his hand dragging slowly along his length.

Wooyoung’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his voice coming out small. “…It’s… big.”

San smirked, leaning closer, his free hand stroking Wooyoung’s cheek. “It’s yours.” He let the words sink in before his voice dropped further. “And I want to feel your pretty mouth around it.”

Wooyoung’s eyes flew up to his, panic and heat warring in his gaze. He shifted nervously under San’s stare. “I-I mean… I could try, but… I’ve only done it once before. I might not be good at it—”

San cut him off with a quiet growl, his thumb brushing across Wooyoung’s lower lip. “Shh. I don’t care if it’s messy, if you gag, if you can only take half of me. I don’t want perfect, Wooyoung. I just want you. Do you understand?”

The sincerity made Wooyoung shiver. He nodded quickly, lips brushing San’s thumb. “…Okay.” Wooyoung laid sprawled across the bed, pillows stacked behind his head to keep him half-perched up. His lips were already swollen from their earlier kisses, his eyes glassy from being teased too long, but none of that prepared him for the sight above him.

San straddled his chest, thighs caging him in, knees bracketing his ribs, his cock heavy and hard, flushed red at the tip. It hung thick between them, dripping pre-cum that slicked a trail down the veiny shaft. His black hair was messy, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, his jaw set like a man fighting restraint.
Wooyoung licked his lips unconsciously, breath hitching as San wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and stroked himself slowly—teasing, letting Wooyoung watch.

“You want it?” San’s voice was gravel, deep and commanding.

Wooyoung nodded frantically, lips parting, tongue darting out in a silent plea.

San chuckled, dark and low. “Then open up, pretty boy.”
He tapped the thick head against Wooyoung’s plumps lips, smearing precum across them. Wooyoung’s lips parted shyly. San slid the tip inside, groaning at the wet heat of his mouth. His hand stayed firm in Wooyoung’s hair, not yanking—yet—but anchoring

The salty taste hit his tongue instantly, and Wooyoung moaned, opening wider.

“That’s it,” San praised, sliding in just the tip, groaning at the heat of Wooyoung’s mouth. “God, you’re warm.”
Wooyoung whined around it, his jaw straining as San pushed deeper. Inch by inch, the cock slid along his tongue, stretching his lips wide until his eyes watered. His hands gripped the sheets uselessly as San’s fingers threaded into his hair, gripping tight.

“Fuck… look at you.” San’s gaze locked on the sight of Wooyoung’s lips stretched around him, drool already pooling at the corners of his mouth. “So fucking pretty like this.”

And then San moved.

He rocked his hips forward, shallow at first, testing, but quickly finding a rhythm. His cock slid in and out of Wooyoung’s mouth, the wet sounds obscene, spit coating everything. Each thrust was firmer, deeper, until the tip hit the back of Wooyoung’s throat and he gagged.

“Shh,” San cooed, tightening his grip in Wooyoung’s hair to hold him steady. “Breathe through your nose. You can take it.”

Wooyoung choked but obeyed, tears stinging his eyes as San’s cock pushed deeper, fucking into his throat properly now. The stretch was brutal, foreign, but the heat of it made his pussy throb helplessly

San groaned low, his hips rocking with steady force. “That’s it. Just like that. My pretty little celebrity, taking cock down your throat like you were made for it.”
Wooyoung whimpered around him, the sound vibrating up San’s length. It drove him insane. His free hand cupped Wooyoung’s jaw, thumb stroking his cheek before tapping it lightly with the head of his cock each time he pulled out.

“Open wider, baby,” San commanded, thrusting back in, hitting deep. Wooyoung gagged again, spit splattering down his chin, but he obeyed. The sight was filthy—tears streaming, drool spilling, throat bulging visibly every time San bottomed out.

San threw his head back, hips driving faster now, rougher, holding Wooyoung’s face tight to him as he fucked into his throat. The rhythm was merciless—wet, sloppy, obscene sounds filling the room. “You’re mine,” San growled between gasps. “My perfect mouth, my perfect throat… fuck, I could do this forever.”

Wooyoung’s vision blurred, tears streaking his cheeks, but his hands gripped San’s thighs instead of pushing him away. He let him, he wanted him, and that knowledge tipped San further over the edge.
His thrusts grew ragged, erratic. “I’m close,” he snarled, his grip tightening in Wooyoung’s hair. “You gonna swallow for me? Take it all?”

Wooyoung whimpered a muffled yes, nodding as much as San’s cock buried in his throat would allow.
San groaned, thrusting deep one last time, burying himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he came. Hot spurts of cum spilled down Wooyoung’s throat, filling his mouth, forcing him to swallow. San held him there, chest heaving, groaning low as the orgasm ripped through him.

When he finally pulled out, strings of spit and cum connected Wooyoung’s swollen lips to the flushed head of his cock. San looked down at him, his expression a mix of hunger and awe.

Wooyoung coughed lightly, licking his lips, his chest heaving for air, his llips were swollen, wet, his cheeks flushed a deep pink. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, blinking up at San with watery eyes. For a moment, he didn’t speak, too caught up in his own racing pulse and the weight of San’s stare.

Then, softly, almost too quiet to hear: “…Did you… like it?”

San stilled. The question was timid, Wooyoung’s lashes lowering as if he already expected disappointment. His fingers fidgeted with the sheets, his whole body shrinking in on itself.

San’s chest clenched. He caught Wooyoung’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his face back up. “Wooyoung,” he said, voice low but certain. “Look at me.”

Those glassy brown eyes flicked up to his, vulnerable and searching.

San’s lips curved into the kind of smile that made Wooyoung’s stomach twist. He pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then whispered against his skin “You were perfect. Better than perfect.”

Wooyoung’s breath hitched, the heat in his cheeks spreading down his neck. He bit his lip, but the shy smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “R-Really?”

“Really,” San murmured, kissing the other corner of his lips, then pressing a line of slow kisses across his jaw. His hand slid down Wooyoung’s chest, tracing the lines of his ribs before resting low on his stomach. “You have no idea how good you are for me.”

Wooyoung’s body softened beneath him at the praise, his lashes fluttering. His thighs shifted restlessly, rubbing together, and San caught the movement. His smirk returned.

“Still needy?” he teased, fingers brushing the inside of Wooyoung’s thigh.

Wooyoung whined, embarrassed. “You… you can’t just say things like that and expect me not to be.”

San chuckled, low and dark, before sliding down the bed. His hands spread Wooyoung’s thighs apart again, exposing his still-dripping pussy. San groaned at the sight, his thumb gliding gently over the swollen folds. “Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Look at you. So wet, so ready. All from sucking me off?”

Wooyoung hid his face in his arm, muffling a moan.
San’s laugh was soft but rough around the edges. “Don’t hide from me, princess. I want to see all of you.”
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin, making Wooyoung gasp. But instead of diving back in with his mouth, San pulled away, tugging open the drawer of the bedside table. He pulled out a small bottle of lube, slicking his fingers.

Wooyoung’s eyes widened when he saw. “Y-You… you’re really going to—”

San’s gaze snapped back to him, burning but tender. “Only if you want me to. Do you?”

The weight of the moment pressed down. Wooyoung’s pulse thundered in his ears, but he found himself nodding, breathless. “Yes. I want you.”

San’s expression softened, though his hunger never dimmed. “Good boy.”

He slicked two fingers generously before sliding them between Wooyoung’s folds. The first push of one finger inside made Wooyoung gasp, his hips jerking.
“Relax,” San murmured, kissing his inner thigh. “I’ve got you.”

He worked the finger slowly, curling it just enough to brush that sensitive spot inside. Wooyoung’s moans filled the room, his body clenching around the intrusion. When San added a second finger, Wooyoung whined, back arching. “S-San, it feels—”

“Tell me,” San urged, thrusting his fingers deeper, scissoring them carefully to stretch him.

Wooyoung’s hands clutched at the sheets. “Full. So full already.”

San groaned, his cock twitching against his stomach at the confession. “You’ll take more. You were made to take me.”

The prep stretched on, San slow and methodical, letting Wooyoung get used to every inch. By the time he slid three fingers inside, Wooyoung was trembling, slick squelching around him, his voice breaking into sobs of pleasure

San couldn’t wait any longer. He pulled his fingers free, slick and glistening, and reached for his cock. He spread the same lube from his hand over himself quickly, stroking his thick length until it gleamed.

Then he shifted forward, pressing the head of his cock against Wooyoung’s entrance. He groaned low at the wet heat greeting him. Wooyoung’s eyes widened, fear and desire mixing. “San… it’s too big—”

“Shh,” San soothed, leaning down to kiss him. “I’ll go slow. I’ll stop if you say so. Just breathe for me.”

He pushed forward gently, the thick head stretching Wooyoung open. Wooyoung cried out, clutching at San’s shoulders, but didn’t pull away. Inch by inch, San eased into him, his own jaw clenched tight from holding back.
“Fuck,” San hissed, dropping his forehead against Wooyoung’s. “So tight. You’re squeezing the life out of me.”

Wooyoung whimpered, tears pricking his eyes, but the pain was already melting into overwhelming fullness. “San…”

“I’m here,” San whispered, kissing him desperately. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so well.”

Finally, with one last push, San bottomed out, buried to the hilt inside him. Both of them groaned, bodies trembling from the intensity. They stayed still for a long moment, San’s hands gripping Wooyoung’s hips— and rubbing the ink on them, his breath ragged against his ear.

“Tell me when you’re ready,” he murmured.

Wooyoung shifted experimentally, the stretch burning but intoxicating. His nails dug into San’s back as he moaned. “Move. Please, San—move.”

San’s control shattered. He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, before thrusting back in with a groan. The wet sound of his cock sliding into Wooyoung’s pussy filled the room.

Wooyoung screamed, arching against him. “Oh my god—San!”

San set a rhythm, deep and steady, every thrust driving the breath from Wooyoung’s lungs. His lips latched onto Wooyoung’s throat, sucking marks into the skin, his teeth grazing dangerously close to where he’d bitten before

“You’re mine,” San growled against his skin. “Every inch of you. Say it.”

Wooyoung sobbed, legs wrapping tight around San’s waist. “I’m yours! I’m yours, San!”

San groaned, hips snapping harder. His cock hit deeper, brushing against that sweet spot inside with every thrust. Wooyoung’s cries grew higher, more desperate, his nails raking down San’s back.

The room filled with the sound of skin slapping, wet and filthy, mixed with Wooyoung’s broken moans. San’s pace grew brutal, his restraint gone, his cock driving into him like it belonged there. Wooyoung’s vision blurred, his body shaking violently as pleasure overwhelmed him. “San, I’m—ah, I’m gonna—!”

“Cum for me,” San snarled, biting down gently on his shoulder this time—not drawing blood, just marking. “Cum around my cock, Wooyoung.”

The command broke him. Wooyoung screamed, his pussy clamping down hard, soaking San’s cock with his squirt at the same time as his orgasm ripped through him. San groaned, thrusting through it, chasing his own release.

Wooyoung collapsed back against the pillows, body convulsing as his orgasm tore through him. His pussy spasmed violently around San’s cock, soaking him in slick as his voice broke into a scream. He was trembling all over, nails carving red streaks down San’s back.
“Ngh—S-San, No more!” His cry dissolved into sobs, his body jerking from the overwhelming release

San groaned, his cock buried to the hilt inside him. He should have stopped, should have let Wooyoung come down from the high—but the tight, convulsing grip around his cock was too much. He grit his teeth, eyes rolling back. “Fuck… you feel so good, I can’t stop—“

And he didn’t.

San pulled back and thrust forward again, his hips slamming into Wooyoung’s overstimulated body.
“San!” Wooyoung’s back arched off the bed, tears streaming down his temples as he clutched at the sheets. His pussy was too sensitive, every drag of San’s cock inside him setting his nerves on fire. The aftershocks of his orgasm made the sensation unbearable, but at the same time, it was too good. His voice was raw, moans spilling freely from his lips.

“L-Louder now, aren’t you?” San growled against his neck, sweat dripping down his temple as his hips pistoned into Wooyoung. His hands slid down, gripping tight at Wooyoung’s hips, thumbs pressing hard into the delicate tattoo lines etched just above his pelvis.
His fingers dug in, holding him in place like he’d never let him go. “Screaming on my cock like you were made for it.”

Wooyoung’s thighs shook violently, his legs wrapped tight around San’s waist, trying to ground himself. “It’s too much—ahhh, San! I c-can’t—”

“You can,” San snarled, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, his cock carving into Wooyoung’s soaked heat. His hips snapped harder, faster, the room echoing with the wet, obscene sounds of their bodies. “You’re taking me so well, princess. Look at you—clenching me so tight after you just came. You want it.”

Wooyoung’s head tossed back, a strangled sob escaping him. He didn’t deny it—couldn’t. His pussy fluttered desperately around San’s length, every thrust punching breathless cries from his throat. “I—I do! I want it! San, please don’t stop!”

The admission tore a guttural groan from San’s chest. His thrusts grew even more brutal, each one driving him deep enough to bruise, his grip on Wooyoung’s tattoo tightening until his knuckles went white. His eyes burned, watching Wooyoung writhe beneath him, broken open and trembling, yet begging for more.
Wooyoung’s vision blurred, the oversensitivity twisting into another unbearable kind of pleasure. His cries grew louder, higher, echoing off the walls. “San! Oh my god, I—ahhh—”

San’s own control snapped. The heat coiled low in his belly, his cock twitching deep inside Wooyoung’s tightness. He dropped his forehead to Wooyoung’s shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin, his voice a desperate growl. “I’m gonna cum—fuck, gonna fill you up—”

Wooyoung sobbed at the promise, legs locking tighter around San’s waist, pulling him closer, deeper. “Do it—please—cum inside me, San!”

That plea destroyed him.

San thrust hard—once, twice, three times—before burying himself to the hilt and shuddering violently. His groan ripped through the room as his cock pulsed inside, spilling hot, thick ropes of cum deep into Wooyoung’s spasming pussy. He pressed his hips flush, grinding into him as if he could spill even deeper, filling every part of him.

“Fuck, fuck—” San’s voice was wrecked, his hands gripping Wooyoung’s hips so tightly they’d leave bruises over the inked lines of his tattoo. His body trembled with the force of release, each spurt of cum making his cock twitch inside Wooyoung’s swollen heat.

Wooyoung’s moans pitched high, his oversensitive body shuddering with every pulse of warmth filling him. His hands clutched weakly at San’s back, nails dragging down. “San—ahhh, I can feel it—so much—”

San groaned low against his ear, thrusting shallowly through the aftershocks, milking every last drop. “Take it. Take all of it, baby. You’re mine.”

And Wooyoung could only sob, nodding weakly, as his body milked San’s cock until the very last spurt.
Finally, San collapsed against him, chest heaving, his cock still buried deep. His forehead pressed against Wooyoung’s temple, his voice hoarse and reverent. “Fuck… you’re incredible.”

Wooyoung was trembling, sweaty, his voice broken from how loud he’d been, but a faint, dazed smile curved his lips. “…You came so much.”

San chuckled breathlessly, still grinding his hips lazily against him, unwilling to pull out just yet. “Probably because it's you.”

San didn’t move at first. He stayed inside him, chest pressed flush to Wooyoung’s, their sweat-slicked bodies heaving in unison as if they’d just survived something earth-shattering. His cock twitched once, buried deep in Wooyoung’s fluttering heat, and it made Wooyoung shudder.

“Still… inside me,” Wooyoung whispered hoarsely, voice broken from his moans.

San chuckled breathlessly, his lips brushing Wooyoung’s temple. “Mm. I know. Can’t bring myself to pull out yet. You feel too good around me.”

Wooyoung gave a weak, whimpering laugh, burying his flushed face against San’s shoulder. His body was trembling, sensitive, every nerve still sparking from overstimulation. “I feel… so full. S-San, I can feel it leaking…”

That admission made San’s cock twitch again inside him. He groaned low in his throat and finally forced himself to pull back, slow and careful. His length slipped free with a wet sound, cum spilling from Wooyoung’s swollen, stretched pussy and streaking down his thighs onto the sheets.

Wooyoung gasped, shivering at the sudden emptiness.
San’s eyes darkened at the sight. He reached down instinctively, two fingers scooping some of the mess and gently pushing it back inside, watching Wooyoung twitch at the motion. “Can’t waste it,” he murmured huskily, more to himself than to Wooyoung.

“San!” Wooyoung whined, covering his face with both hands, his entire body burning red.

San laughed softly, leaning down to kiss his forehead, prying Wooyoung’s hands away. His lips trailed over his damp cheeks, then lower, brushing over the bruised skin where his tattoo was inked. He kissed the lines he’d gripped too hard, as if apologizing with his mouth.
“You did so well,” San whispered against his skin, his voice suddenly tender, stripped of the growl it held minutes earlier. “So perfect for me. My pretty boy.”

Wooyoung melted at the praise, his glassy eyes fluttering shut as San nipped at his hipbone. “You’re embarrassing me…”

“Good,” San smirked, kissing him again, softer this time. “I want you to know how much I loved it. How much I love you.”

The words were so gentle, so out of place after the rough, desperate way he’d just fucked him, that Wooyoung blinked up at him in stunned silence before his lips curved into a tired smile. “…Say it again.”
San smiled, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “I love you.” He leaned down, kissing his swollen lips slowly, tasting the salt of his tears and sweat. “I love you so much.”

Wooyoung kissed him back lazily, his body too weak to do anything but cling. His chest ached with the warmth blooming there, even stronger than the throbbing ache between his thighs.

After a long moment, San finally pulled back, his protective side kicking in. He slipped off the bed, padding over to grab a towel and a bottle of water. When he returned, Wooyoung was sprawled in the sheets, dazed and boneless, his tattooed hips rising and falling with shallow breaths.

“Stay still, baby,” San murmured, crouching down to wipe the slick from his thighs and clean the mess from his swollen pussy with a tenderness that made Wooyoung’s chest ache. “I’ve got you.”

Wooyoung whined at the sensitivity but let him work, eyes half-lidded as he watched San’s focused expression. He was so careful, so patient, as if Wooyoung might break apart beneath his hands.
When he was clean, San tugged the blanket up around him and finally slid into bed again, pulling Wooyoung against his chest. Wooyoung immediately curled into him, his head on San’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.

“Comfortable?” San whispered, threading his fingers through Wooyoung’s damp hair.

“…Yeah.” Wooyoung’s voice was small, drowsy. “Hurts a little. But… feels nice too.”

San pressed a kiss to his forehead. “That’s okay. You’ll ache, but I’ll take care of you. Always.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment, only the sound of their breathing filling the room. Then Wooyoung let out a tiny huff of laughter. “We ruined the sheets.”

San chuckled, his chest rumbling under Wooyoung’s cheek. “We did. But it was worth it.”

Wooyoung smacked his chest weakly, making San laugh again before he nuzzled into his hair.

They lay like that for a long time, wrapped in warmth and exhaustion, until sleep began to tug at them both. San whispered one last thing into the quiet, his voice soft but certain:

“I’m so happy to have you back Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung’s lips curled faintly, even as his eyes drifted shut. “Me too sannie.”

 

The first pale light of dawn crept through the hotel curtains, softening the edges of the room into something almost dreamlike. San stirred before the alarm, his body still heavy with the remnants of last night, but his mind clear in a way it hadn’t been for years. For once, he didn’t wake with schedules in his head or obligations crowding the air

Instead, he woke with Wooyoung’s scent still on his skin.

Quietly, careful not to wake him, San slipped from the bed and tugged on a pair of loose sweats from his bag. The hotel suite was silent except for the faint hum of the city outside. Crossing to the glass doors, he eased them open and stepped onto the balcony

The air was crisp, cool against his bare torso. Paris stretched before him — rooftops tiled in slate, chimneys lined like soldiers, and far in the distance, the faint glitter of the Eiffel Tower catching the early light.
San leaned forward on the railing, inhaling deeply. The weight in his chest — the one he hadn’t even known he’d been carrying — eased just a little.

Six years. Six years since he’d let himself think of Wooyoung as more than a memory. And now here he was, barefoot on a Parisian balcony, with the echo of Wooyoung’s laugh still clinging to the walls behind him.
A sound — soft, the rustle of sheets — came from the room. He glanced back instinctively, expecting to see Wooyoung curled up and still dreaming. But before he could step inside, warm arms wrapped around his waist from behind

San’s breath caught — and then his lips curved upward.
“Good morning,” came the muffled, sleepy voice against his back. Wooyoung’s cheek pressed lightly between his shoulder blades, his hair tickling San’s skin.

San let out a low chuckle, tilting his head just enough to catch a glimpse of dark, messy hair peeking over his shoulder. “You’re supposed to still be asleep.”

“Mhm,” Wooyoung hummed, the sound low and content. “But you weren’t there. Felt too cold without you.”

Something in San’s chest squeezed. Slowly, he brought his hands back, one threading instinctively into Wooyoung’s hair, scratching gently at his scalp.
Wooyoung sighed at the touch, melting into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You like that?” San teased softly, though his voice was rough with affection.

Wooyoung’s hum deepened, vibrating against his skin. “Dangerously much. Keep doing that and I’m never letting you leave the bed again.”

San laughed under his breath, the sound rolling warm through the morning air. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

“Maybe it is,” Wooyoung murmured, his lips grazing faintly against San’s back, just above the waistband of his sweats. The intimacy of it made San’s breath hitch.
They stayed like that for a moment — San facing the sunrise, Wooyoung pressed close, their bodies syncing with the rhythm of early morning. The city stirred beneath them, car horns faint, a bird cutting across the sky, but the world felt muted compared to the quiet between their breaths.

“Hard to believe we’re here,” Wooyoung said finally, his voice still thick with sleep.

San tipped his head back, exhaling slowly. “Hard to believe I let six years go without this.”

That pulled Wooyoung tighter against him. His arms squeezed San’s middle, as though anchoring him in place. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t bring up the years. We lost them already. I don’t want to waste today thinking about what we missed.”

San’s hand stilled in his hair. He turned slowly in Wooyoung’s arms until they were facing each other.
Wooyoung blinked up at him, eyes half-lidded, still heavy from sleep but shining with something fragile and raw. His hoodie hung loose, collar tugged down on one side from where San had marked last night. His lips were still a little swollen.

San lifted his hand, brushing back Wooyoung’s hair with a tenderness that felt almost dangerous. “You’re right,” he said softly. “No more wasted time.”

Wooyoung’s mouth curved faintly, though the edges trembled. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

For a while, neither spoke. They stood on the balcony, pressed close, the city waking up around them. San’s thumb traced the line of Wooyoung’s cheekbone, memorizing it all over again. Wooyoung leaned into the touch with a quiet hum, like he’d been waiting for it far too long.

Eventually, Wooyoung let out a breathy laugh. “God, this feels disgustingly domestic. You—me—the balcony. All we’re missing is a French bulldog and matching mugs.”

San chuckled, low in his chest. “We could get the mugs.”

“What should they say on it?”

“You ever seen those cups that are like ‘I’m fucking stupid’ and the next cup says ‘I’m stupid’”

Wooyoung tipped his head back and laughed properly this time, bright and warm, the sound carrying over the rooftops. It loosened something in San’s chest he hadn’t realized was still knotted.

“You’re ridiculous,” Wooyoung said, shaking his head.

“And you love it,” San replied without hesitation.

The silence that followed was charged, but softer now. Wooyoung’s smile lingered, his gaze dropping briefly to San’s mouth before flicking back up again. For the first time, he didn’t hide it.

San leaned down, brushing a feather-light kiss against Wooyoung’s lips. It wasn’t desperate like last night, nor fierce. Just steady. A promise.

When he pulled back, Wooyoung’s lashes fluttered open slowly. He looked at San like he was memorizing the moment.

“I’m happy,” Wooyoung whispered, his breath warm against San’s skin. “Happier than I’ve been in years. Being with you again—it feels like I can breathe.”

San’s chest constricted. He pressed his forehead to Wooyoung’s, closing his eyes against the rush of feeling. “Then don’t stop. Breathe with me. Stay with me.”
Wooyoung’s arms tightened. “Always.”

For a long time, they just held each other, the world muted to nothing but heartbeats and the distant hum of Paris waking.

Then, suddenly, San pulled back, a grin tugging at his lips. He spun toward the railing, taking a deep breath, and without hesitation, he shouted at the top of his lungs:

“PARIS ISN’T READY FOR US!”

The words rang out, bouncing between rooftops, startling a bird into flight. Wooyoung burst into laughter behind him, clutching his stomach, eyes watering from how ridiculous it was.

“God, you’re insane!” Wooyoung managed between giggles, tugging San back by the arm

San only grinned wider, turning to face him again, eyes bright with mischief and love. “No, just honest.”

Wooyoung shook his head, still laughing, cheeks flushed pink. “Then Courrèges better not be ready either—because they’re getting the deal of a lifetime.”

San arched a brow. “Dual ambassadorship?”

“Damn right,” Wooyoung shot back, his laughter softening into a smile so tender it stole San’s breath. “If Paris isn’t ready for us, the least they can do is give us matching contracts.”

San laughed, pulling him back in, arms wrapping tight around Wooyoung’s waist. “Then it’s settled. The world’s not ready—but they’ll have to deal with us anyway.”

Wooyoung tipped his chin up, eyes glowing, and
whispered, “Perfect.”

And for the first time in six years, it truly was.