"Off Limits"
choi san. just your brother’s best friend. off-limits. untouchable. but the tension between you two just doesn’t just disappear—it builds, until one late night... he snaps.. and it gets messy. and your brother seonghwa?? he’s not putting up with it.
wc : 4.9k
tags : explicit content, edging, teasing, overstimulation, softdom!san, cursing possessive behavior, messy creampie, san is thirsty & down bad, brothers bestfriend, protective!seonghwa, possessive!san, aftercare,secret hookup,so much cum, nighttime tension.
genre : smut
a/n : i wanted someone’s best friend fucking oc quiet on the couch while their brother sleeps upstairs. so i wrote it.
It’s past 1AM. The house is dead quiet. You pad down the stairs barefoot, oversized shirt brushing your thighs, craving nothing more than cold water and maybe some silence to soothe your restless mind.
But then—you freeze.
He’s still here.
Crashing on the couch like he always does when he drinks too much with your brother.
Except this time, he’s not bundled under a hoodie or buried under a blanket.
He’s shirtless. One arm slung across his eyes. The other resting on his chest, the veins in his forearm catching the dim moonlight.
Sweats hanging low on his hips.
Your throat goes dry.
And then… a shift.
His hips twitch. A groan escapes him.
You freeze.
Is he…?
No. No way.
You take one step closer. Then another.
And then—your name.
Low. Guttural. Slurred like a dream.
“Y/N…”
You press your lips together, shocked… and a little smug.
So that’s what’s going on.
You tiptoe closer, now definitely playing with fire, and whisper:
“San?”
He stirs, blinks—his eyes open, unfocused. And then they land on you.
“What are you doing?” “Getting water.” You hold up the glass. “What are you doing?”
A beat.
“Trying not to get in trouble.”
You glance down.
Then you see it.
A bulge.
Barely noticeable—but growing.
And then… a twitch.
He’s trying so hard to cover it with the blanket, but you see the way his hand twitches like he doesn’t know what to do with it.
“You always walk around dressed like that at 1am?”
“You’re one to talk,” you smirk. “Didn’t know you slept with your dick out.”
He sighs. Covers his entire body with the blanket. Face turning red.
“It’s not what it looks like,” he mumbles.
“Oh?” You tilt your head. “So you’re not hard right now?”
“Y/N…” he warns, voice hoarse.
“Did I do that to you? Just me standing here got you hard?”
“Go to bed, Y/N.”
“Is that how you talk to all your best friend’s sisters when they catch you with a boner?”
“You’re not funny.”
“Oh, but I am,” you giggle. “I’ve never seen you so uncomfortable.”
He shifts again, jaw tight. “Y/N, stop.”
“Why? Because I’m your best friend’s little sister?”
He doesn’t answer.
You lean in just a little more.
“Poor thing,” you whisper against his ear. “Bet you’ve been jerking off thinking about me for years.”
Silence. Thick. Tense.
Then his voice—low, gravelly:
“Come here.”
You blink. Step back, teasing.
“Why?”
“Just—” he exhales— “I won’t touch you. Just… sit… uh .. Talk to me. I can’t sleep.”
You hesitate. Teasing is one thing, but this? Dangerous. But you sit anyway—not on his lap, not quite. Perched on the edge of the coffee table, facing him.
Your knees brush.
He’s still flushed, trying so hard not to look at your thighs.
“I don’t get it,” you say after a minute.
“Hmm?”
“You. You’ve wanted me for how long now? Months? Years? And you’ve never tried anything.”
He stares at you like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.
“Because I can’t try anything,” he says finally. “You know that.”
“But you want to.”
His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to your legs again—bare, close, right there.
“It doesn’t matter.”
You lean forward, drop your voice.
“So.. if I sat on your lap right now, and kissed you, would you stop me?”
No answer.
“San,” you press, “would you?”
And then?
He laughs once—quiet and dark—and you don’t even have time to react before his hand grabs the back of your neck and pulls you in.
Not for a kiss.
He doesn’t kiss you yet.
He just brings you so close you can feel his breath. Foreheads almost touching. His other hand wraps around your bare thigh, tight.
“You don’t get it,” he murmurs.
“Do you know how many nights I’ve had to sit across from you and pretend I wasn’t so fucking hard under the table?”
“I’m just–…”
“No,” he cuts in. “You want to play games? Fine. But if you’re gonna sit on me—if you’re gonna whisper shit like that in the dark—you better mean it.”
You go still. The air is so hot you’re dizzy.
“And if I do?” you whisper.
His grip tightens.
“Then don’t ever laugh at me again.”
His mouth is on yours before you can breathe.
It’s not soft. Not gentle. Not even romantic.
But you pull back, and stand up.
His eyes are locked on you, not looking away.
“You’re never gonna stop looking at me like that, are you?” you say, voice low, nearly a whisper.
He tilts his head. Smiles faintly.
“Nope.”
You cross your arms over your chest, trying to stay composed even though your heart is about to punch through your ribs.
“You said you wouldn’t touch me.”
“Sorry.”
A pause. Then:
“You’re dangerous.”
“You’re the one still standing there,” he murmurs. “Not me.”
The silence stretches.
“I shouldn’t–,” you murmur.
“Then don’t,” he replies, jaw tight. “I won’t ask again.”
But he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t flinch.
And that’s what breaks you.
Slowly—carefully—you step toward him. Your thighs brush his knees. His breath catches, just barely.
You climb onto his lap with agonizing slowness, straddling him, your knees sinking into the couch on either side of his hips.
He still doesn’t move.
But you feel it. Every muscle in his body is locked and ready, barely held in check.
“Okay..,” you whisper, leaning in just enough that your nose brushes his. “Happy now?”
He swallows hard. His voice is rough when he speaks again:
“If I touch you again, I’m not stopping.”
You pause. Let the weight of that sink in. Your eyes flick to his lips, then back to his eyes.
And then?
One of his hands grips your waist—tight.
The other slides up your back, dragging you flush against him until your lips almost meet, until his forehead presses to yours, and the only sound left is the ragged rhythm of both your breaths.
You can feel him underneath you—hard, hot, straining against the thin fabric of his sweats.
His mouth is on yours before you can breathe.
It’s not soft. Not gentle. Not even romantic.
It’s heat. Years of tension, swallowed feelings, frustrated restraint, finally breaking loose in one chaotic, punishing kiss. Teeth. Tongue.
Hands gripping your thighs like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold tight enough.
You gasp into him, your hands curling in his hair. You’re dizzy.
You feel like you’ve been yanked out of your body and shoved into someone else’s life.
You pull back just enough to whisper—lips brushing his—
“You’ve wanted this that bad, huh?”
His palms are pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you close.
“Don’t start.”
“You’ve thought about this, like, every night?”
“Y/N…”
“Mmm?”
“You really want me to answer that while you’re sitting on me like this?”
“Thought so.”
That’s when he groans—really groans, low and wrecked—and leans back on the couch, dragging you with him.
Now you’re straddling him completely, your thighs bracketing his, your top pulled tight against his chest.
“Still not gonna touch me?” you whisper, teasing.
“Say it again,” he breathes.
“Say what?”
“Say I can’t touch you.”
You blink—heart stuttering.
“I… didn’t say—”
“No,” he cuts you off, voice low, dangerous.
“You didn’t. But you teased me like I couldn’t. Like I wouldn’t. Like I didn’t have the balls.”
You swallow hard.
“You think it was easy? Watching you flirt with every guy who wasn’t me?”
“I wasn’t—”
“Walking into a room knowing you knew what you were doing to me?”
His hands slide up under your shirt, slow, maddening, his rough palms grazing bare skin. You hiss in a breath as they find your waist.
You don’t say anything.
You don’t need to.
Because your hips rock forward—just slightly. Just enough for both of you to feel it.
And that’s when he snaps.
His hands grip your hips hard, and he drags you down against him in one sharp pull. Your breath catches—your head tips back.
He’s grinding up against you now, shameless, rough. His mouth finds your neck—kisses, bites, breathless murmurs against your skin
“You wanted this?”
“For a long time, Y/N.”
“You think I haven’t had to jerk off thinking about you in this exact outfit?”
You whimper before you can stop it—and he smirks against your collarbone.
“Thought so.”
He flips you—sudden, fast, hot.
Now you’re on your back. Couch cushions under you. His body over yours.
“I’m done pretending,” he growls.
His mouth finds your throat. Your collarbone. Your chest.
Your shirt and underwear are gone in seconds. His sweats follow.
He drags his hips down and pushes into you with a deep, shuddering groan.
You gasp—back arching, nails digging into his arms.
“Not so cocky now, huh?”
He thrusts again. Deep.
You cry out.
“Still think this is a joke?”
You’re panting. Legs trembling. Your hands scrabble for something to hold.
“I think you’re a fucking brat,” he growls. “And I’m done letting you tease me.”
He doesn’t give you time.
He sets a slow, brutal rhythm.
Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.
Dragging moans out of you with every inch. He holds your jaw, keeps your eyes on him, makes you feel every second.
And when you try to speak—he slaps a hand over your mouth.
“Shh. If your brother hears, I’m fucked.”
You whimper against his palm.
“And you,” he growls, “aren’t even trying to be quiet.”
His pace picks up. You’re dripping.
Shaking.
Crying into his shoulder.
He whispers in your ear:
“Say it. Say my name. Say it’s mine.”
You barely manage it between gasps. “Yours. Yours. Yours—”
“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans. “You’re squeezing me like you need me.”
You try to answer, but it comes out a breathy, broken sound.
“What was that?” he smirks, leaning down. “No more smart remarks?”
You glare through the haze. “You’re cocky for someone who’s about to fall apart.”
He growls—and speeds up.
Now every thrust is heavier. Deeper. The couch creaks beneath you. His hand slips between you, fingers circling your clit, rough and unrelenting.
“Tell me this is what you wanted,” he pants.
“Yes—fuck, yes—”
“Tell me you thought about this,” he rasps against your ear, “when you touched yourself at night.”
“Every time,” you moan. “Always you.”
That breaks him.
He fucks into you harder now—hips snapping, fingers working faster.
You’re right there—right on the edge—but trying so hard to hold out, to tease him one more time.
“Y—you gonna cum first?” you whisper, breath stuttering.
He grits his teeth.
“Fuck no.” he growls, hand clamping over your mouth as you let out a cry. “You are. And you’re gonna make a fucking mess doing it.”
He keeps going—grinding into you now, every inch hitting deep, precise. His lips brush yours, voice ragged:
“Cum for me. Cum on me. I wanna feel it.”
You’re right there—legs trembling, spine arching, thighs clenched tight around his waist.
He’s deep and relentless, and his fingers haven’t stopped circling your clit in slick, perfect pressure.
It’s building fast—too fast.
“Fuck—wait—”
You gasp, hand flying to his wrist. “I—I’m gonna—just wait—don’t—”
He freezes.
Almost.
Because he doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t stop touching.
He just slows everything down.
“What’s wrong?” he murmurs, lips dragging over your neck. “Too much?”
You nod, whimpering. “I—I can’t—”
“You can.”
He kisses you softly, lips barely brushing.
“But you’re not allowed to cum yet.”
Then he pulls out halfway, slow and torturous, dragging the head of his cock over your sensitive walls—then pushes back in so deep you gasp and shudder under him.
“You feel that?” he whispers. “How close you are? How your body’s begging me to let go?”
You whimper. Try to rock your hips, chase it.
He pins you down.
“No, baby,” he breathes, grinding into you just enough to make your breath stutter.
“Not yet.”
You’re sweating. Shaking. Your legs twitch uncontrollably, heart pounding out of your chest.
“Please—please,” you choke. “I was right there, I was so close—”
“I know,” he says, voice all low heat and devilish control. “You’re cute when you beg.”
His fingers return to your clit—but not the way you need. Just feather-light touches. Barely there. Just enough to keep your skin buzzing.
“Tell me what it feels like,” he whispers, watching you unravel. “Tell me how close you are.”
“I—I feel.. It f–feels like like I’m gonna explode,” you breathe. “It hurts. Please, I need to—”
“You’ll take it,” he growls. “Don’t forget how much you've teased me, sweetheart. Made me bite my fucking tongue every time you bent over in front of me.”
He pushes in deeper. Slow. Grinding.
“Now you’re mine, and I’m gonna make you suffer for it.”
Your whole body jerks—your stomach twisting up like a coil pulled too tight.
“You wanna cum?” he murmurs at your throat. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you moan. “I swear—please, let me—please—”
“Nah,” he smirks. “You don’t mean it yet.”
Then—he pulls out completely.
You cry out—frustrated, aching, dripping down your thighs.
“Look at this mess,” he mutters, watching your slick glisten in the low light. “All this for me?”
You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “I can’t—I can’t take it, please—”
He smirks.
“You will.”
He leans in, strokes himself once, twice, right against your entrance. Just pressing. Not pushing in.
Your hips try to move, chase it. He holds you down by the throat—just enough pressure to make you still.
“You don’t come until I say. You hear me?”
“Y-Yes—yes, please—”
And then he slams back in.
Deep. Full. But still slow.
He fucks you like he wants to destroy you inch by inch. Every time you get close, he eases off.
Every time you try to beg, he cuts you off with a kiss, or a palm over your mouth, or a whisper that makes your spine arch:
“Not yet.”
“Almost.”
“Hold it.”
“Be good.”
Your body is on fire. Every nerve lit up, throbbing with denied pleasure. You feel like you're going to break.
And all he does is keep you there. Teetering. Shaking. Ruined.
Your body’s gone numb with need—so close for so long that you’re past the point of control, past the edge of thought.
He’s still grinding into you slow, deep, relentless—your legs spread wide around his waist, held there by the iron grip of his hands on your thighs.
“You gonna cum again?” he pants, sweat dripping from his temple. “You gonna fall apart on my cock like the filthy little tease you are?”
You shake your head, but your hips betray you—grinding up to meet him.
“N-No—can’t—can’t take it—”
“Yes you can,” he growls, pressing harder. “You’re gonna cum, and you’re gonna fucking thank me for it.”
He’s right there at your throat, teeth scraping your skin, breath hot.
His fingers slide down again—cruel and practiced—and you lose it.
“F-Fuck—fuck, I’m—”
Your whole body snaps tight, legs seizing, back arched, mouth open in a silent scream—and you cum.
Hard. Violent. Wracking sobs shaking your chest.
“Please,” you whimper, barely conscious, voice trembling.
“Please, I can’t—stop—please—too much—”
You’re broken. Twisted inside out. Twitching, begging, done.
But he doesn’t stop.
He shifts your legs higher, deeper angle, and it punches a new moan from your lungs.
You sob—gasping, writhing beneath him, so overstimulated it feels like lightning under your skin.
“I’m not done,” he groans. “Not till I fill you. Not till I cum inside this perfect pussy—so you never fucking forget who owns it.”
You’re crying now—quiet, broken little sounds—and still, he keeps going.
You feel that?” he pants. “How your body’s still taking me? Still sucking me in like you need it?”
“I—I c-can’t—”
Your voice cracks. Eyes squeezed shut.
He leans in, presses his forehead to yours.
“You can. One more. Be good. Cum with me.”
His thrusts grow frantic now—deeper, sharper, completely lost to the feeling. His breath stutters.
You’re still shaking—raw, ruined, stretched too far—
Then he growls, hips jerking as he buries himself to the edge.
“Fuck—I’m cumming..—fucking mine—”
He spills inside you with a shudder so intense he collapses onto your chest, panting into your neck.
And still—he gives one last slow roll of his hips.
You twitch. Gasp.
“S-still… going?” you whisper, weak.
“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I know. I know, baby. Just… needed to make sure it stuck.”
He kisses your temple, breath still shaking.
And finally—finally—he stops.
–
You’re both drenched in sweat. Your thighs are trembling. Your voice is wrecked. He’s still inside you, softening slowly, holding you tight.
You’re not sure how long you lie there.
Sweaty. Twitching. Barely breathing.
His weight still half on you, cock softening slowly inside you, both of you wrapped in the kind of silence that feels sacred.
You’re shaking. Barely able to keep your eyes open. His chest rises and falls against yours—hot and heavy.
Then, gently, he shifts.
“I’m gonna pull out,” he murmurs near your ear, voice hoarse. “You okay?”
You nod—barely.
But when he finally does, you both hiss—a sharp inhale at the feeling of it. The stretch, even now. The slick sound. The mess.
You gasp.
“Oh my gosh—fuck—”
It’s everywhere.
His cum spills out of you in thick, warm drips, sliding between your thighs, down your ass, soaking the already-damp cushions beneath you.
You blink, dazed. “That’s so much…”
“Yeah,” he mutters, voice full of smug disbelief. “Fuck.”
He sits up slowly, looking down at you—completely wrecked, legs spread, skin flushed, his cum leaking out of you like you were meant for this.
“Stay there,” he says softly, brushing damp hair from your face. “Don’t move.”
You nod. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to.
He disappears for a second—footsteps padding into the kitchen—and returns with a warm, damp towel. He kneels between your thighs, careful, reverent. His brows are furrowed, jaw tight.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs.
You shiver when he touches you—wiping between your legs, cleaning you up as gently as he can.
But it’s still sensitive. Every pass of the towel makes you twitch and whimper.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “I know, baby. I know. I got you.”
He kisses your thigh. Then your hip. Then your stomach. The towel’s warm, but his hands are warmer—soft, slow, soothing.
“You’re okay,” he whispers. “You did so good for me.”
You don’t say anything—you just watch him.
This man, your brother’s best friend .. who just fucked you like an animal, is now kneeling, caring for your body like he’s scared he broke it.
Maybe he did.
When he’s finished, he tosses the towel to the floor and leans over you again.
“Need help getting up?” he asks gently.
You nod, throat too dry to answer.
He lifts you like it’s nothing—arms under your back and thighs, carrying you bridal-style toward the stairs.
“Thought I was walking,” you murmur, head on his shoulder.
“You can barely breathe,” he chuckles softly. “You think I’m letting you crawl back to your room leaking my cum down your legs?”
You groan. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Yeah,” he smirks. “But you’re still dripping for me.”
He walks you down the hall and into your room—dark, quiet, still. Gently lays you on your bed, pulling the blanket back like it’s ritual.
He hesitates before pulling away.
“You want me to stay?” he asks, voice softer now. “I can. I’ll sleep on the floor if you want space.”
You look at him for a long second—shirtless, sweat-damp, hair a mess, looking somehow more beautiful when he’s being gentle.
“No,” you whisper. “Go before I ask you to do.. that again.”
He grins—low and wolfish.
“You say that like I wouldn’t.”
Then he kisses you. Just once. Soft, lazy, familiar.
“Go to sleep, Y/N,” he murmurs. “I’ll be on the couch if you need me.”
He leaves you there—sore, wrecked, satisfied—slipping out of your room with one last look.
You pull the blanket up.
Bite your lip. And feel every inch of him still inside you, even when he’s gone.
—————
The next morning,
You wake up sore in places that shouldn’t be sore.
Throat raw. Thighs aching. Knees? You don’t even want to talk about your knees.
You sit up, wincing.
“Fuck me…” you whisper. “I can’t even walk straight…”
Every shift of your legs reminds you exactly how deep he was.
How long he went. How many times you begged—half-lucid—for him to stop, and he just kept ruining you like it was personal.
You shower fast. No time to process anything. Throw on a hoodie, some shorts you barely manage to walk in, and limp your way out of your room.
The smell of breakfast hits first. Bacon. Coffee. Something sizzling. Then—
Voices.
You freeze in the hallway, then peek around the corner.
There he is.
Choi San.
Sitting at the kitchen island, looking dangerously normal.
Shirtless, again. Muscles out. Hair still damp from a shower. Same grey sweatpants he absolutely came in last night.
He doesn’t look tired. You, on the other hand, look like you got thrown off a cliff and crawled back.
Seonghwa’s at the stove. Cooking. Humming. Oblivious.
You walk in like it’s nothing.
“Morning,” you mutter, heading straight for the fridge.
Seonghwa turns, glances at you, and immediately frowns. “Jesus. You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” you mutter, pulling out the orange juice.
“Didn’t sleep?”
“Eventually.”
“Mmhmm.” He flips a pancake and turns to look at you. “Y/N.”
“What?”
“Are you.. limping?”
You freeze mid-pour.
“No.”
“Pretty sure you’re limping.”
From behind you, a voice:
“She’s definitely limping.”
You whirl around to glare at San.
He’s sipping coffee like he didn’t have you sobbing into a couch cushion six hours ago.
Seonghwa turns back to the stove. “You hurt something?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“You’re walking like someone beat your ass.”
“Well maybe someone should beat yours,” you snap.
Seonghwa raises a brow. “Damn, chill. Just asking.”
From across the island, San’s silently laughing into his mug. You shoot him a glare. He just winks.
You sit down—too fast. A flash of soreness shoots up your spine and you hiss.
“Okay. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Seonghwa asks, genuinely confused now. “Did you get hit by a bike or something?”
“I stretched wrong.”
“Doing what?”
“Yoga.”
Seonghwa squints. “You don’t do yoga.”
“Well maybe I fuckin’ started, Seonghwa.”
“Damn, okay. Shit.”
You shoot a desperate look across the table—and San’s biting his lip, clearly loving this. Eyes flicking down to your bare legs, then back up to your flushed face.
Your thighs are glued shut under the table.
You’re not even wearing underwear. You were too sore to even try.
Seonghwa slaps a plate of pancakes down in front of you and leans on the counter.
“Eat up. Maybe it’ll help you walk straight again.”
You choke on your coffee. San’s laughing as if nothing happened.
“You good?” he asks sweetly, reaching over to rub your thigh under the table—hidden from Seonghwa’s view.
You jump.
Seonghwa frowns. “What?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly. “Just a leg cramp.”
San’s hand slides higher.
You slap it away under the table.
“What the hell was that?” Seonghwa’s looking between you now, suspicious. “You two are being so weird..”
“We’re always weird,” you say quickly. “You just now noticing?”
“No. This is, like, extra weird. Eye contact. Inside jokes. You’re jumpy. He’s smiling.”
He turns to look directly at his best friend.
“What the fuck are you grinning at?”
“Nothing, man.” His voice is calm. Too calm. “She’s just fun to mess with.”
“Right.. you better not be sneaking out again, Y/N. I swear, if I catch you with some random dude—”
“I wasn’t.”
“I’ll fuckin’ kill him if I do.”
“And you,” he snaps, pointing his spatula at his best friend, “if you’re smoking in the house again I swear to God—”
“Mmm.. no,” he says smoothly, sipping his coffee. “But sure. Blame the guy who slept on the couch.”
You feel heat crawl up your neck. The couch.
“Seonghwa’s spatula points mid-air. “Yeah, well—don’t think I didn’t see you smoking it last week. You think I’m fuckin’ blind?”
“Clearly not,” he murmurs under his breath.
“Whatever,” Seonghwa huffs. “Just keep your shit outside. My place isn’t a fuckin’ frat house.”
He turns his back again—finally.
You exhale. Barely.
And that’s when he leans in, eyes lazy, voice low so only you can hear.
“Didn’t think you’d still be walking today.”
You blink. Whip your head up. He’s not even looking at you. Just sipping. Like that filthy line didn’t leave his mouth.
Your lips part. “Shut the fuck up.”
His eyes flick toward you—just a glance—and then right back to his mug. Smirking.
“You didn’t say that last night.”
You kick him under the table. Hard.
He grunts. Then chuckles.
Seonghwa turns around with a plate in hand. “What now?”
“Nothing,” you say too fast.
“Y/N’s mad ‘cause she didn’t get her eggs yet,” he offers helpfully.
“I swear to God—” you mutter.
“You swear a lot for someone who couldn’t even form words last night.”
You drop your fork.
Seonghwa freezes. “What?”
“What?” San echoes, totally deadpan. “She was sleep talking.”
You slam your hands on the table. “I hate both of you.”
Seonghwa narrows his eyes. “Okay, what the fuck is going on?”
“Nothing, Seonghwa.”
“You two are acting weird as hell.”
Your brother looks between the two of you—your flushed face, his smug smirk, the way your knees are clearly pressed together under the table like you’re holding in a crime scene.
Seonghwa squints.
“You sure you didn’t sneak out?”
You glare. “Positive.”
He looks at San.
“You sure you didn’t do anything?”
He shrugs, slow and easy. “Define ‘anything.’”
Seonghwa stares. “I will beat your ass.”
“Okay.”
Seonghwa finally turns around to get the toast.
You exhale through your teeth.
Under the table—again—a hand finds your thigh. Squeezes. Not playful. Possessive. Deliberate.
You don’t even look at him.
“You’re gonna get us killed.”
“Didn’t seem to bother you last night.”
You turn your head slightly, lips barely moving.
“You left a fucking mess.”
He hums. “You loved it.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You came, like, four times.”
Seonghwa clears his throat, too loud.
You both freeze. He turns, looking at you.
“Y/N. Eat. Before you pass out or stab someone.”
“Okay.. I am...”
Seonghwa eyes you again. “You sure you’re good?”
“Totally fine,” you lie. “Just… sore.”
He nods. “Uh-huh. Well, hydrate. You look like you’re about to faint.”
Across the table, San’s lip twitches.
“She’ll be fine, Seonghwa. Just needs… some rest… she's just grumpy”
Seonghwa squints. “Why?”
“No idea.”
He shoots him a look. “Did you piss her off?”
“Not recently.”
“Right. Because you never piss people off.”
“Not unless they’re asking for it.”
Seonghwa frowns. “..You better not be fucking messing with her, man.”
“I’m not.”
“You sure?”
“Dead serious.”
“Because I swear, if you touched her—”
“Seonghwa,” he cuts in smoothly. “I didn’t touch your sister.”
“Then you better not be sneaking girls in. I’ve let you crash here for how long now?”
“I was on the couch all night!”
Seonghwa scoffs. “Right. Couch. Thats where you were all night?”
“Relax. I wasn’t sneaking around.”
“Right. Then why was my sister coming downstairs at 1am?”
Your fork hits the plate.
Seonghwa looks straight at you. “Yeah. Thought I didn’t notice, huh?”
“I was just getting water,” you mutter.
He tilts his head. “Took you a long-ass time for one glass.”
San jumps in.
“Maybe she couldn’t sleep.”
“And what, you could help her with that?” Seonghwa snaps.
“Not my place.”
“Alright,” he mutters. “You know what? What the fuck happened last night?”
“Okay. After Y/N came downstairs to get some water, she told me she couldn't sleep. So we watched a movie.
“And?”
“And… after the movie.. I went to sleep. On the couch. She went back to her room”
He’s smug. Too smug.
Seonghwa doesn’t blink.
“So why was she walking funny this morning?”
“Maybe she slept weird.”
“Or maybe she got railed. By my best friend. Behind my back,” Seonghwa spits.
You cough — loud — and practically choke on your eggs.
Seonghwa turns to you. “You good?”
“Yeah. Yup. Swallowed wrong.”
He frowns.
“I said I’m fine.”
Across the table, San bites his lip to keep from laughing.
Seonghwa’s eyes flick to him. “You think this is funny?”
“A little.”
“You’re seriously testing me right now.”
“Look, man,” he says, putting his hands up. “I really didn’t touch your sister.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
“Because I’ve got a sixth sense for this shit, alright? She’s acting off. You’re acting cocky. I know you.”
San just smirks.
“Seonghwa—” you start, trying to soothe.
“Nah,” he cuts you off. “This is some bullshit.”
“You’re paranoid,” San says. Calm. Controlled.
Seonghwa takes a step forward. “Say that again.”
“I said you’re paranoid.”
“You think I won’t fucking hit you?”
“Seonghwa!” you shout, flushing hard.
Seonghwa’s eyes snap to you. “What?! I’m not dumb, Y/N. I see the way he looks at you. You think I don’t notice shit?”
Silence.
You stare at your plate. He stares at your face. San sips his coffee like he’s watching a movie.
“Seonghwa. There's nothing going on. We didn’t do anything.”
“You’re lying to me.”
“I’m not—” you try.
“Swear to God, Y/N. If this whole limping thing is about him—”
“It’s not.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.”
Seonghwa exhales, nostrils flaring.
“Fine. But if I find out either of you are lying to me—”
You push your chair back.
“Okay,” you say. “I’m done.”
Seonghwa watches you limp away from the table and narrows his eyes further. “Yeah, that’s real normal, huh?”
Your back is to them.
And that’s when you hear it.
“You’re playing a dangerous fucking game, man,” Seonghwa mutters under his breath.
“It’s already been played,” San murmurs back
