♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ ̊ LOVE HATE WITH KWON SOONYOUNG

“ you really don't want me to leave ? ”

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You first noticed him by the pool. Not because he wanted to be noticed—but because Soonyoung had that kind of presence that demanded it anyway. His laughter was loud with his friends, a little too charming, a little too natural, like the island heat curved to his mood. His shirt was always too loose, half-drenched from a spontaneous swim, cigarette dangling from his lips like it had every right to be there. He wasn’t loud, exactly—but there was a kind of smooth confidence in him that made you clench your jaw the moment he looked your way.

You were there with your family. Proper smiles. Vacation sandals. Suppressed eye-rolls. A version of yourself that behaved, always. And he noticed. Of course he did.

It started with an attitude. Maybe you thought he was too smug, too touchy, too comfortable laughing at things that weren’t funny. He thought you were too stiff, too careful, too afraid to get your shirt wet or your hair messed up.

Then came the night of the storm.

Lights out. Doors stuck from the wind. Somehow, the two of you ended up under the same roof—caught between flickering candlelight and the sound of your own breathing.

An argument sparked like flint. Maybe it was about the generator. Or the food. Or nothing at all.

One look, too long. One pause, too heavy.

Then it happened.

A kiss that tasted like a dare. Hands that didn’t stop. A touch that felt more like revenge than affection. His mouth moved like he hated you for being right there. You moved like you hated yourself for letting it happen.

They said storms passed quickly in the Maldives.

But this one didn’t.

It happened again. And again. Always behind closed doors. Always when it wasn’t supposed to. When your siblings were asleep, when his friends were distracted, when your name barely left his mouth in a whisper—but his grip said something else entirely.

Soonyoung acts like it means nothing. Like he’s unaffected. Smirks when he sees you. Winks like a bastard. Goes back to his beer and his friends like his hands haven’t been between your legs three nights in a row.

But he’s never had like this before—where it shakes, where it burns, where it leaves his chest echoing for hours afterward.

You pretend it’s disgusting. Pretend you hate him. But every time your shoulder brushes his under the Maldivian sun, something inside you stutters.

No one knows.
No one can know.
But your bodies do.

And Soonyoung?
He keeps showing up at your door anyway—just in case you don’t lock it.

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made by @memyselfandmirr ✰