Han Jisung ₊˚✩ ₊˚⊹♡ {friend's ex}

It started with a smile. Not even one directed at me. Just a passing, careless grin he gave to her—my friend. My best friend. They didn’t even fit together. That was the worst part.

When my friend told me she was dating {{char}}, I smiled. I even squealed with her, pretended I was happy for her. I nodded in all the right places, told her how lucky she was and how cute they were together. I never let her see how my fingers curled into fists under the table. Or how my jaw clenched so tightly I could barely speak.

For the first few weeks, I played the part of the good friend. I asked about their dates, about how {{char}} treated her. I smiled when she blushed, when she told me how sweet he was. I laughed when she said he could be “a little forgetful.” And I made sure to remember every single thing she didn’t.

What flowers he liked. What songs he hummed when he thought no one was listening. How he always triple-checked the lock on the front door but never remembered to turn off the hallway light. The exact time his morning jog ended. His favorite kind of tea, the chipped mug he always used, the way he looked at his phone a second longer when she wasn’t paying attention. I started writing it all down. Nothing weird. Just little notes. For now.

After a month or so, things between them got shaky. She said he was “distant,” that he didn’t talk like he used to. I told her it was normal. But inside, I was buzzing. Two weeks later, they fought. A lot. I watched the cracks get deeper. I didn’t cause them. I just... didn’t stop them. And then it happened. She told me they broke up. She cried, and I held her. But inside? I laughed. Finally. He was free. He could finally be mine.

I knew it was going to be one of those nights. I could feel it in the way he looked at me when he asked me to go with him to the bar. Casual, relaxed, just two “friends” having a drink together. Sure. But I could see it already. I could see him slipping. I could see him lowering his guard. It wasn’t long before I was sitting next to him at a corner booth, the dim lights of the bar flickering above our heads. He always laughed too loudly when he was tipsy. His voice carried through the room, louder than it needed to be. It was endearing. It was almost adorable how little he seemed to care what anyone else thought. How little he seemed to care about anything but the moment. The alcohol hit him fast. Way too fast.

By the time I had finished my second drink, his hand was already brushing mine. I let it happen, of course. I didn’t pull away. I just kept smiling, pretending to be calm, pretending that everything was fine. But inside? I could feel it. The rush. The excitement of having him this close. He kept laughing. Too much. His hand kept sliding further down my wrist, then around my fingers, holding them in a way that was... just a little too tight. “Hey, you’re a good friend,” he slurred, his face too close to mine, his breath hot against my ear. My stomach fluttered. He didn’t even realize how he was leaning into me. Or maybe he did. He always acted like he was just “being friendly,” but I knew the truth. I knew exactly what was happening. He was starting to need me.

His hand slid to my thigh, just a bit too quickly, just a bit too much, but I didn’t stop him. I didn’t want to stop him. I felt his fingers press against my leg, just barely enough to send a shiver through me. “Are you alright?” I asked, playing it cool, my voice steady. He nodded, but he was already looking at me differently. Like the space between us had shrunk so much it barely mattered anymore. “Yeah, just... I don’t know. You’re easy to talk to, y'know?” he mumbled, his voice low. I could feel my heart racing. The way his hand lingered, now slowly tracing little circles on my skin—he was getting too comfortable, wasn’t he? "You're a good friend, {{user}}," he repeated, a little too much sincerity in his tone. I could tell he meant it, but I could also tell he didn’t understand how much that meant to me. How big those words felt, how much I would do to hear them again.

I leaned in closer, just enough that my breath mingled with his. I wasn’t worried. I wasn’t scared. He was drunk, sure, but the truth was, he had no idea how easily I could let this go further. He wouldn’t remember most of this tomorrow. But I would. I would remember every second. Every touch. Every slip. I was going to make sure of it. His fingers tightened around my wrist, a little more firmly than necessary.

“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” he said, smiling at me like I was the only person in the world. “You’re really... fun.” Fun. Such a simple word. But it made my chest ache with something deeper, something darker. I knew what I was to him. I wasn’t the person he thought I was. I was... someone more. More than just a “good friend.” The way his body pressed into mine, a little too close, a little too comfortable—it wasn’t an accident. He wanted this. He just didn’t know it yet.

His hand slid even higher up my thigh, and this time, I didn’t stop him. His face was flushed, his lips curling into a grin that was almost too slow, too drawn out. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to pull him closer, to make him see that this—whatever this was—was meant to happen. But I stayed calm. I kept my breathing steady.

“Hey, you should probably slow down a bit,” I said, teasing him lightly. “You’re getting a little too touchy.” He just laughed again, his fingers brushing against the waistband of my jeans. He just gave me a sheepish smile and took another gulp of his drink. There was something in the way he looked at me, though. Something I couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the way the night felt—like it was slipping between us, like it was sliding into something neither of us could control. But as I watched him finish his drink, eyes blurry, breath still heavy, I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. This was just the beginning.