When a friendship comes with too much history, rules become necessary. It’s easier to stay safe when you can name the lines you refuse to cross. That’s why Jaeyun has always been so strict about his secret little guide, or at least, he was, until the moment you asked him to sleep with you, and everything started to shatter in his hands like it was never real at all.
a friends to lovers oneshot｜27.7K
PAIRING: Jaeyun x fem!reader
WARNINGS: university au, Jaeyun is an electronic engineer student, kinda nerdy, and too down bad for the reader even though she is a bit of a brat, i am not sure if there’s a major plot, smut, nipple play, fingering and oral (f. receiving), handjob, virginity loss, protected and unprotected sex, there’s a fwb situation within, one fight between Jaeyun and reader’s ex, and jaykehoon being the most chaotic roommates ever
PINTEREST MOODBOARD
RULE ZERO: DO NOT RUIN THE FRIENDSHIP
When you were twelve, Jaeyun got you both grounded.
He had the brilliant idea of bringing a bottle of whiskey home — something one of his soccer teammates had stolen from his father’s cabinet and hadn’t known how to get away with now that it had been opened and already had a swig taken from it.
Jaeyun didn’t know why he decided to take charge of it, much less bring it home — he could have just let his teammate deal with it alone, for God’s sake. But perhaps because he liked the thrill of secretly carrying it and the astonishment in your eyes when he took it out of his backpack, he did bring it home.
But the fact was — neither of you drank any of it, yet his brother — the Mr. Perfect, as you used to whisper in each other’s ears — had caught you with your hands on it, and in the end it didn’t matter.
You were grounded for four weeks. No phones, video games, or allowances. You were only allowed to go to school and straight back to your homes — Jaeyun having only the small detour of dropping you off before going to his.
It made you miss the Seoul Annual International Book Fair. A major literary gathering with author events, book markets, and cultural programs that you had been looking forward to.
Nerdy, he had told you, which only made your tears flow even harder, and he felt so bad about it that he gave you a voucher the next morning, a handmade thing that got you laughing when he handed it to you.
Jaeyun had never been much of an artsy type. The voucher was irregular, and his handwriting was so bad you could barely decipher the words free wish — but it was his way of trying, and so, you took it, promising you would use it well.
That was probably when it started: the first page of a guide he would never mean to write, on how not to ruin a friendship that felt bigger than him because as he watched you folding the paper and tucking it into the front pocket of your sweater like a keepsake, he had a sudden clarity that he would do anything not to lose you.
You never really used the voucher.
Eleven years into your friendship, you never once brought it up.
Perhaps because Jaeyun always did everything for you, the voucher seemed useless.
When you got asked for a date for the first time in your life, Jaeyun agreed to go shopping with you without much fanfare, although he despised every second of it. And when you called him afterwards, telling him to come over so you could rant about it, he once again was there without the voucher having even passed through your minds. He simply came and stayed there, listening to you, your backs side to side on the hardwood floor of your bedroom until the walls had turned orange and pink with the sunrise.
When you crashed your father’s car and called him crying, he asked where it had happened with his jacket already on and searching for his keys.
And when you moved out of the university dorms somewhere around your second semester, Jaeyun was carrying your boxes and luggage without you even glancing at his side.
So it felt a bit weird now, seeing you pushing the little thing through the counter — its edges turned so yellow with the advance of the years that he could see it even in the bar’s reddish light — and especially with the words that followed:
“Sleep with me,” you said.
RULE #1: DO NOT ACCEPT RECKLESS REQUESTS
Don’t answer requests she makes when she’s drunk, mad, or sad — that’s when she turns reckless. I’m supposed to get her home, get her water, and let time take the sharp edges off whatever she thought she wanted. If I do my job right, she’ll wake up with a headache — maybe puffy eyes — but no regrets. At least not the kind that have my name on them.
Arcano wasn’t as fierce as the name made it seem.
If Jaeyun were being honest, it was, in fact, a terrible bar. Awful, actually.
The seats were constantly sticky, and the tables were permanently stained with something spilled too long ago. The restrooms always smelled like weed and sex, and there was writing on the walls telling you who to call for a good time — but, awful as it was, it was the only bar on the outskirts of the university, and the drinks were cheap, which made it a reasonable choice for anyone who wanted to get drunk in the middle of a weekday.
Which, apparently, was what you were doing.
You had called him, your voice softened and a little slurred at the edges, even as you tried to keep it brief — trusting him to hear the truth between your words, as he always did — and his body went tight, that low instinct already moving beneath his skin with the need to make it better.
Jaeyun came in without question, his eyes scanning through the dim room. Tables first, booths next, then the bar counter, because putting things in order always helped him keep control — but then he saw you, and his heart hitched hard enough to make his hands unreliable.
Arcano was nearly dark, red bulbs offering more irritation than light, and yet whatever sheen clung to its corners now seemed to gather around you; the glint of bottles, the thin neon humming above the bar. Even the noise shifted, bending your way subtly, as if the room itself couldn’t help but want to be near you.
Or perhaps it was only him — caught on you like gravity, a quiet flaw built into his body that only ever showed itself in your presence.
Across the bar, the music shifted, and someone laughed too loudly as a glass hit the counter with a wet little sound, but none of it reached him the right way, not while you were there, bent toward the counter with your hair falling forward and your shoulders loose with drink and something sharper underneath it.
Jaeyun swallowed and pushed his hair back off his forehead — the gesture automatic in the way habits were — as he closed the last steps in.
You shifted on your stool as he stopped behind you, small and unthinking, leaning back into him as if it was the most natural thing in the world to put your weight onto his chest merely because you trusted him to catch it without ever asking. And he did, his body reacting before his mind did, his arms raising and settling just enough to keep you upright.
He didn’t understand how you did it — how you could recognize him without looking. If your bones had memorized the shape of him and refused to forget even here, in a terrible bar, with alcohol in the air and the whole world pretending not to watch, or if you merely felt the same gravity as him, because you, too, had been built with some quiet flaw that only ever showed itself in his presence.
“Hello,” you said, tipping your head back to look at him.
“Hello, Princess,” he said, leaning in just to drop a kiss on your forehead. But you smelled like vanilla and white flowers — the kind of soft sweetness you always insisted on having threaded through every perfume you owned — and he allowed himself to breathe you for a second more before he let go, sliding onto the stool beside you.
His jeans brushed your bare thigh, and when you turned toward him, he had no other option than to spread his legs further apart, opening space so your knees fit between his; and for a second, Jaeyun’s brain focused on the image, slowly and cruelly, taking the stark line of your skin against denim, the heat of you seeping through a fabric barrier that suddenly felt too thin to be decent. Your knees fit perfectly between his, and the placement was so intimate it might’ve been accidental if he hadn’t felt how quickly his body registered it as right.
He went still.
Not because he didn’t want more contact, but because he did. Because he wanted it in a way that made him feel juvenile, and his restraint could turn into nothing but a costume you’d just tugged at the seam.
So he forced himself to look up, his gaze finding your face like it was the only safe thing left, but it only turned to be worse.
You were flushed from the alcohol, color blooming across your cheeks and the bridge of your nose as if you’d been kissed too many times already. And your eyes were bright in that unfocused way that made his whole body ache with protectiveness and something he refused to name.
Jaeyun swallowed, dropping his gaze before he could stop it — but that was when he saw the dress.
Low-cut, and reckless in the quietest way, exposing your skin in a soft curve that made his throat tighten, not because it wasn’t vulgar or blaring, but merely because it was you — warm, real, and too close.
And resting there, right in the center of it all, was the necklace he’d given you on your fifteenth birthday, the thin chain catching what little light Arcano offered and holding it like a secret. Jaeyun felt something in his chest twist — sharp and familiar. A gift, a promise, a piece of him you’d kept on your skin for years without making a thing of it.
He blinked, dragging his eyes back up, back to your face, as though that could undo what he’d seen. As though looking anywhere else could turn his thoughts into something normal again, but it didn’t.
“You called me,” he said in the end, voice light on purpose, aiming his gaze at the safe edge of your hairline instead of your eyes.
“Is there a question in this statement?” you asked, your head tipping to the side the way it always did when you were teasing him, letting a strand of hair slip loose and rest against your cheek.
Jaeyun huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something that almost counted as a laugh if anyone else had been listening. The bar noise swelled and dipped around you — ice clinking in glasses, a burst of laughter from a booth, the bass thudding like a distant heartbeat — and for a second it made the moment feel ordinary. Like this was just the two of you, playing the same game you’d played a hundred times.
“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re the linguistics genius among us.”
His hand lifted without thinking and brushed the strand away — quick, familiar, and thoughtless — the kind of gesture that belonged to years of friendship, not whatever else was crouched under tonight. He didn’t linger. He didn’t let it become a thing. He just tucked it back like he’d done it before and would do it again. Still, you felt the contact anyway, blinking at him, and it took you a moment to speak again.
“I think there was,” you said, your voice more serious than he expected. “I need to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
You turned halfway on your stool to reach into your purse, and Jaeyun took the moment to breathe — really breathe, looking across the room as his hands found and pushed at his hair, steadying himself.
Overhead, a red bulb faltered, and the neon hissed in — thin, stubborn light clinging on.
“Yun,” you called.
He turned to you again, catching as you slipped the voucher toward him, the piece yellowed into something that didn’t belong to the present. His own handwriting stared up at him, crooked and absurd in the way only a teenage promise could be.
Jaeyun’s lips parted around a question, but the words slipped before they could reach his mouth.
“I’m using it,” you announced, slurring just enough for the words to snag on each other — but not enough to take the weight of the words that followed:
“Sleep with me.”
Jaeyun inhaled too fast and choked on the air, like the sentence had gone straight for his throat and his body refused to swallow it. He coughed once, twice, eyes watering, and hated himself for how obvious it was.
“Drink,” you said, lifting your glass toward him — offering it with the careless kindness of someone who had no understanding of the damage they were capable of causing.
Jaeyun pictured you rummaging through your drawers for the voucher, trying to guess when the decision had formed. Whether it had been planned. Whether it had been impulsive. Whether the dress had been chosen with him in mind—
He didn’t get to finish the thought.
He took the glass too fast, his thumb grazed your knuckle — more an echo of a touch than a touch itself — but his whole body registered it like a confession. And he forced himself to bring it to his mouth and swallow it. The liquor burned his throat, cheap and harsh and useless, and then — for one horrifying second — he tasted you there, sweet and faint beneath the sting.
He set it down.
“What—” he tried, and his voice came out wrong. He cleared his throat. “Where’s Baekhyeon?”
Because it felt reasonable to ask where your boyfriend was when you were asking him to sleep with you.
Your eyes gleamed at the name and then cleared just as quickly. Whatever that feeling was, it was banished with a blink before you reached for your glass again, considering the few drops he’d left.
“We broke up,” you said.
“When?”
“Today — or yesterday.” Your brow creased. “I’m not sure. What time is it?”
“But why?”
You shuddered, already turning toward the bartender for another drink, but Jaeyun reached for your wrist and drew you back in. His hands were cold against your warm skin, and a shiver danced across you, strong enough to make your shoulders tremble.
He let go.
“Princess, talk to me,” he said. “What happened?”
And so you told him, your words coming rushed and messed up, one long stream being pulled out of you because now that you’d started, you couldn’t afford to stop. You told him how Baekhyeon had gotten quieter ever since he started his internship. How he’d been thinking, whatever that meant. How he wasn’t so sure anymore, like your relationship was a class he could drop mid-semester. And when you’d asked where it put you, all you got were half-answers and that look people had when they were already gone but didn’t want to be the villain.
“And it is so humiliating, Yun,” you said, your hands dragging down your face, hiding it as you folded forward and rested on him again — forehead against his shoulder, your whole body fitting into the space between his thighs like it had always known where to go.
Jaeyun reached out without thinking, one hand settling at the small of your back as the other slid into your hair, fingers tangling gently there — holding you together in the only way he knew how.
“It’s not like I thought he was going to be my forever one,” you said. “But I thought that — God, I’m — I’m a virgin in university, Jaeyun. Do you know how insane that sounds? Especially after having a boyfriend? It’s like I’m — defective.”
The whole sentence hit and sank in with a dull ache, shifting a fault line in him so sharply his whole body twitched. His fingers flexed against you, tightening at your back before he could stop himself, because this was simply his first instinct: pull you in, hold you tighter, so perhaps he could keep you from breaking by sheer force of his will.
But then he hated himself for it — for the greedy relief that came with the feeling of you against him, for the way wanting and protecting acquired the same face in his body — and he loosened his grip immediately, forcing his touch back into something safer, something that could still pass as friendship.
“Hey,” he said. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”
“I’m feeling terrible,” you muttered. “Like I might have done something wrong in my life.”
“Princess,” he said again, the nickname rolling softly through the air, and for a moment, it didn’t feel like a joke at all. “Look at me.”
You shook your head, stubborn even like this, forehead still pressed where you’d chosen to hide. And Jaeyun exhaled through his nose, trying to sand the edge off himself before it could cut you.
“You’re drunk,” he told you. “And you’re not thinking straight.”
You didn’t react this time — which somehow made it worse.
“Come on,” he said, his hands slipping away only so they could find you again, but this time, somewhere safer. His palms spread on the bare skin of your arms to guide you up. “I’m taking you home.”
“But—” you began, your gaze sliding to the voucher.
Jaeyun reached for it and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans, taking it out of your sight like he could make the exchange never happen — like merely hiding it could erase the fact that something had moved inside his chest with your ask, and now refused to calm down.
“I’ll keep it safe,” he said, and the promise tasted older than tonight.
He helped you off the stool with one hand at your waist as the other caught your purse, looping it around his wrist before he returned it to your elbow — steadying and guiding, making sure your feet landed where they were supposed to.
You swayed into him, coming so close that when you spoke, he not only heard you, but felt it through his skin.
“You always do.”
Jaeyun’s fingers flexed once again at your side.
“Yeah,” he said, looking ahead as he led you through the mess of bodies and sticky tables. “I know.”
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
Outside, it was already spring in theory, but in practice, Arcano’s door swung shut behind you, and the night folded over — winter still pressing into April nights, and making it chilly.
The sidewalk out in front was uneven in that neglected-university-outskirts way, broken slabs and hairline cracks waiting for someone careless, and tonight, that someone was you.
Jaeyun watched as you made it three steps before you stumbled. It had been nothing significant, just your ankle rolling in a way that could have passed unnoticed — but he was watching, and before you could pretend that it hadn’t happened, his hand had already closed around your forearm, firm and quickly, holding you.
He brought you closer to him on instinct, the lines of your bodies collapsing and melting under the same yellow wash of streetlight, and when you looked up at him, it gathered in your eyes in tiny gold flashes, softening you at the edges, and making you look heartbreakingly close; the tiny gasp you released warming his mouth.
“Easy,” he muttered.
“I am being easy,” you argued, but you made no effort to disengage yourself from him, and so, neither did he — letting you both stay in the dim hush of the night for a moment more before he finally eased back, shrugging out of his jacket and easing you into it, one sleeve first and then the other.
Jaeyun gave your purse back, and only when your fingers closed around it did he turn and drop into a crouch in front of you — shoulders broad and steady on purpose.
“What are you doing?” you asked.
“Taking you home,” he replied. “Get on.”
“I can walk.”
“You can barely negotiate a curb,” he argued. “Get on.”
Jaeyun waited then, bracing himself for another surge of protest, but instead, you leaned forward, your arms sliding around his shoulders, automatic, and with the kind of trust that never failed to set a quiet ache behind his ribs.
But if anything, he hooked his hands under your thighs and stood, letting your weight settle against him and your cheek to press into the side of his neck, warm and familiar.
“This is a bit embarrassing.”
“This is practical,” Jaeyun said. “Better than having to take you to the hospital over an ankle you refuse to admit you could break.”
You hummed, and he huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, tightening his hold as if you could slip out of his hands.
As if he would let you.
“Princess,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, “you’re going to be the death of me someday.”
You didn’t react this time — either because you didn’t hear it, or because your hazy mind had already filed it somewhere dangerous for tomorrow — but in any case, Jaeyun kept walking.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
Jaeyun’s apartment building greeted you in the same failing way it always did. The hallway light flickered with stubborn inconsistency, always seeming one second away from burning out, and the front door still refused to open unless someone met it with a shoulder and a certain amount of conviction.
He did it one-handed, you still on his back and refusing to let go even when he had to fumble for the key, his free hand going to his pockets once, twice, while the other kept you anchored against him, steadying you with the same absent care, as though you were simply part of the equation.
Inside, the living room looked exactly the way it always did — dim, cramped, familiar in the ugly way cheap rent always was. Sneakers lay abandoned near the entrance like they’d given up halfway through the day. A laundry basket sat in the corner with the quiet menace of something that had been ignored too long.
And a few steps in, Sunghoon was there — barefoot, hair damp, skin still carrying that clean, just-showered warmth, as if he’d stepped out of steam and decided the world could handle itself for a while.
His gaze flicked to you, draped over Jaeyun, then back to him, and his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.
“She really can do whatever she wants to you,” he said, flat as anything.
At the sound of his roommate’s voice, Jaeyun felt you shift against him, lifting your head just enough for the night’s air to slip into the space you’d made.
“Hello, Hoon,” you said.
“Hello, Princess.”
The hallway light blinked out, wiping your shadows clean for a quiet beat before Sunghoon shifted, and the sensor caught it, coaxing the bulb back to life. Jaeyun adjusted his grip like it meant nothing, like you weren’t warm against him in all the places he worked hardest not to think about. You shifted at his back once more, settling and slipping, and his shoulders tightened on reflex — prepared to steady you, prepared for anything — except your next words.
“If Yun doesn’t, would you do it with me, Hoon?”
“Do wh—”
“Nothing,” Jaeyun snapped. “She’s drunk, and I’m taking her to my room.”
Sunghoon’s brows rose at his roommate’s urgency, his mouth twitching deeper, but he didn’t push. If anything, he stepped back, clearing the way like Jaeyun needed permission at all.
“Tell me tomorrow, Princess,” Sunghoon called after you, loud enough to be heard down the hall. “Though I’m pretty sure Jaeyun will do it for you.”
Jaeyun didn’t give you the chance to answer.
He was already moving, turning down the hall. And when he reached his room, he shifted your weight higher with a small, efficient jerk of his arms, then shoved the door open with his shoulder.
The motion-sensor light in the hallway faltered again behind you, a brief blink of dark, and then the room swallowed you whole — quieter, warmer, smelling faintly of detergent, old cologne and whatever Jaeyun used to pretend he didn’t care about.
He stepped into his room and kicked the door shut with his heel, shutting the rest of the apartment out — Sunghoon’s smugness, the hallway’s flicker, all of it cut off as if it had never happened.
Yet still, he didn’t set you down. Jaeyun carried you the last few steps to his bed, and when he finally tried to set you down, you clung tighter — arms locking around his shoulders as your thighs pressed against his sides.
“No,” you said, and there was no explanation required. It didn’t matter that it had been six months since you last shared a bed. He knew your rules just as much as he knew his: you didn’t do beds before a shower — much less in outside clothes. You didn’t even sit on them in anything that had been out in public.
“Princess,” he sighed. “It’s my bed. I don’t have that rule.”
“Your bed is contaminated,” you decided.
Jaeyun went still for a second, like sheer willpower might make you reasonable. But it didn’t. You stayed latched onto him, stubborn as a vow, and he realized — again — how useless he’d always been at saying no to you.
He sighed again.
“Fine,” he said. “Fine — let’s take a shower first.”
He tried to lower you, shifting his hands to set you down properly, but the moment your heels brushed the floor, you stiffened in protest, clinging harder.
“No shoes inside,” you reminded him, as if he were the one being difficult.
Jaeyun’s eyes shut for a brief beat — his surrender arriving the way it always did with you, tender and doomed.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”
He crouched carefully, still keeping one arm hooked around your legs so you wouldn’t tip, and reached for the thin strap of your heel. His fingers worked quickly and practiced, undoing what he could without looking like he was paying attention.
Only when both heels had slipped free did he straighten again — and only then did you finally loosen, sliding down from his back. Jaeyun kept his hands on you the whole time, steadying you through the transfer, guiding you down until your bare feet found the floor without a stumble.
“There,” he said. “Now cooperate.”
Jaeyun went to his drawer and pulled out a t-shirt so old it had softened past saving, turned into the kind of thing that should’ve been discarded a long time ago. But it was the one you always chose when you slept over, and so it stayed — stupidly and hopefully, waiting for you.
He pushed his hair back off his forehead, his hand lingering there for a beat before he reached for a towel and stood up.
“Come,” he said then, placing his hand behind his back to encourage you to catch up and grab it.
You held hands across the apartment and into the bathroom, letting go only when Jaeyun reached for the switch and snapped the light on — white and harsh in a way that suddenly made the night tangible.
“The lock is broken,” Jaeyun said.
“Wasn’t Jongseong going to fix it months ago?” you asked.
Jongseong had, but it broke again and again, and by the fourth time, the three of them had decided it was what it was and left it to its habits.
“I’ll wait outside,” he said. “Can you handle yourself?”
You leaned against the sink, head tipping to the side. Your necklace sparkled with the movement, catching the bathroom light in thin, bright flickers, and all at once, he regretted asking.
It all felt too real, too reckless. What if you asked him to stay and help you, as it had happened a dozen times before Baekhyeon?
He couldn’t trust himself to make good decisions — couldn’t trust himself to help you out of your dress without looking. Not with the voucher still in the pocket of his jeans and your words coiling through his mind, slowly displacing all his other thoughts.
He was suddenly wild under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom.
“I’ll be right outside,” he said, reaching past you to set the towel on the counter, then the shirt beside it — lining them up like order could keep the night under control. “Take your time.”
“Okay.”
Jaeyun didn’t say anything as he stepped out. He merely pulled the door shut and folded himself down in front of it — knees up, forearms crossed above them, and his fingers tightening against the sides of his jeans for a quiet moment before he let go.
From inside the bathroom came the soft shift of fabric. Then the small, telltale clink of something against porcelain — your necklace, surely your necklace — before the water finally started to run. And Jaeyun let out a slow breath he couldn’t quite believe in.
It wasn’t the first time he’d guarded a door for you, and he should’ve known how to breathe through it by now.
But tonight had reached in and rearranged all the defenses he’d built, and now he was back at the beginning with nothing solid to brace against. His fingers flexed once again, anchoring himself to the pressure and the bone, and making him almost miss the complaint of a floorboard down the hall.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jongseong’s voice carried from the hallway. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”
“The lock doesn’t work,” Jaeyun said.
“It never worked.”
“She’s inside.”
“Who?” Jongseong asked — more reflex than curiosity — because the moment his gaze landed on Jaeyun, the question dissolved on its own, understanding settling without needing a name.
“Oh, it’s been a while,” he said, and Jaeyun’s mouth tightened, the words pressing an old bruise.
It had been six months since you last slept there, to be exact — the same amount of time you’d been with Baekhyeon, and the same amount of time Jaeyun had been pretending the distance was natural. Reasonable. Maybe even healthy.
It wasn’t as if Baekhyeon had forbidden your friendship with him, or your sleepovers at this apartment. Baekhyeon was—
Jaeyun’s mind halted.
For a second, he tried to call him nice, the word rising up like it wanted to be fair, but then he recoiled from the generosity of it.
Nice didn’t matter. Nice didn’t change what it meant to watch you choose someone else. Nice didn’t stop the humiliating clarity of memory: the shape of you curled into his bed like you belonged there, the way you’d mutter his name half-asleep when you couldn’t find the edge of the blanket — then the way he’d learned, almost overnight, how to live without it. And so, he said nothing, merely breathing out, real slow, between barely parted lips, which ended up being louder than anything he could have said.
Jongseong leaned back against the opposite wall and crossed his arms, staking out the space without saying a word because that was how he always did. He didn’t press — never that. Jongseong just stayed, letting the world breathe between them until it started to feel like an invitation people never knew how to refuse.
Jaeyun looked away.
“She called,” he said. “She was at Arcano. Drunk — not falling-over drunk — but enough.”
“Baekhyeon?” Jongseong asked, not because he was looking for gossip, but because it was logistics. It was the obvious missing piece.
“They broke up — he broke up with her,” he said. “Something about not being sure anymore now that he met someone else.”
“Damn.”
Jaeyun hummed in agreement, and because he didn’t know how to bring up the topic, he merely said: “She asked me to sleep with her.”
Jongseong blinked — actually blinked, like his brain had dropped a piece on the floor.
“She asked you,” he repeated.
Jaeyun’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”
“To sleep with her.”
The words hung there between them, obscene in how plainly they fit the shape of the night. Jaeyun breathed out slowly through his nose, like the air itself didn’t want to make room for them.
“And you said?” Jongseong asked, though his tone already suggested he knew the answer. Everyone knew Jaeyun’s reputation. Everyone knew he didn’t say no to much — especially not to you.
“I said no,” Jaeyun replied.
Jongseong stared at him, then let out a low whistle like he couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or concerned.
“Don’t make it weird,” Jaeyun muttered.
“I’m not making it weird,” Jongseong said. “I’m just—” He paused, pondering what his next words should be. “You’re kind of famous for not being the guy who says no. Not to her.”
Jaeyun’s lips parted, his tongue already rolling in to say something, but the words stuttered and stammered, refusing to leave immediately, and Jongseong shifted his weight, glancing down the hallway once as if checking whether Sunghoon would appear and make this worse. But when he didn’t, he looked back at Jaeyun and waited again.
Of course he did.
Behind the door, the shower shifted pitch — water on tile instead of skin, the soft scrape of movement as you’d turned under the stream — and Jaeyun’s shoulders tightened at the sound, reflexive and stupid, like his body wanted to go in there and steady you with his hands.
He forced himself to stay where he was.
“You know what the problem is?” Jaeyun asked.
“Tell me.”
“I know her,” he said, and he hated himself for how quickly it came out, like a confession that had been waiting all night. “I know she meant it.”
Jongseong’s expression softened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“But what if it changes something?” he asked. “I could say yes, and for one night I’d get—”
He cut himself off, shoving his hair back as if he could physically push the thought out of his head.
“Fuck — I’d get something I’ve wanted for a long time.”
“And then?”
“And then she’d wake up, and something could flick.” Jaeyun said. “Like she’d look at me and realize she made a mistake. Like she’d hate me for letting her.” His grip tightened once, then loosened. “Like I’d lose the only part of her I’m allowed to have.”
The hallway seemed to draw in around him, the air thickening as if it could listen. And Jaeyun lowered his voice in response.
“I’d rather have just a part of her forever than have her entirely for a night and lose her in the morning.”
“That’s — that’s more honest than I expected.”
Jaeyun let out a humorless breath. “Thank you.”
“I’m not done,” Jongseong said, because of course he wasn’t. “You’re treating having her like it’s one thing.”
Jaeyun frowned, irritation returning on instinct because it was safer than admitting Jongseong was right.
“It’s either you stay in the safe version of your friendship forever — half-measures, unsaid things — or you sleep with her and blow it up.”
“But it could happen.”
“But it also couldn’t — not if you do it in the right way.”
“In the right way,” Jaeyun scoffed. “That clears everything up.”
“When she’s sober,” Jongseong continued, ignoring the sarcasm like it was a symptom. “You tell her the truth she can use.”
“Like what?”
“You tell her you said no because she was drunk.”
“Obviously.”
“And you tell her you care about her too much to risk the friendship over a night.”
Jaeyun’s stomach tightened. The sentence was too clean — neat edges, no mess, nothing anyone could accuse him of — and it sounded like something he was allowed to say. But it wasn’t the real reason, though. The real reason lived lower in him, hot and humiliating because of the selfishness of it.
Jaeyun cared too much to let you choose him with alcohol blurring the corners, too much to wake up and find your eyes clear and horrified — he cared too much to have his name become the sharpest part of your regret.
He didn’t want a night he’d have to defend. He wanted a tomorrow that didn’t require forgiveness.
He couldn’t lose you.
“And if she guarantees nothing will change?” he asked, and his voice sounded small there, drowned out by the fantasy of it.
“You decide,” Jongseong said. “You do it, or you don’t. But don’t lie to yourself that you can keep something by freezing it.”
“I can keep it by not touching it.”
“And you can lose it that way too,” Jongseong said, immediately and all at once making Jaeyun halt. “You’re already changing. She’s already changing. Baekhyeon happened. Tonight happened.”
“So what?” Jaeyun asked. “You think I should accept?”
“I think you should accept the conversation,” Jongseong corrected. “Not the drunk proposal. Not the chaos. Not the one-night disaster you’re picturing.”
He paused, just long enough for Jaeyun to swallow.
“It’s the best way,” Jongseong added. “Because it’s the only way she gets to choose you with a clear head — and you get to be chosen without feeling like you stole it.”
“Fine,” he said. “I will talk to her tomorrow — when she’s sober.”
“Good.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke, but then Jongseong nodded toward the bathroom door with a faint grimace that tried to pass for humor. “Rap on my door when she’s done, yeah? I need to use the bathroom, and I don’t feel like getting murdered for walking in on — whatever this is.”
Jaeyun shot him a look, he wasn’t going to, but if anything, Jongseong’s mouth quirked, teasing and mean, as he turned and started back toward his room, leaving Jaeyun alone with the thin shaft of light coming from under the door, the broken lock, and the sound of you moving on the other side — alive, breathing, and close enough to ruin him if he let himself reach.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
The bathroom door opened with a tiny complaint from its hinges. Your figure momentarily silhouetted against the spill of light before he blinked and put you into focus, barefoot, hair slicked back and tucked behind your ears, cheeks still flushed from the shower, alcohol, and something that didn’t belong to soap or steam. His old shirt hung off you all wrong and yet perfectly: too big in the shoulders, too long in the hem, but familiar in a way that made Jaeyun’s chest tighten.
Perhaps he was dreaming this night.
“I thought I heard someone,” you whispered.
“It was Jongseong,” he replied, smoothing his tone into something casual, in the hope that you wouldn’t notice the way Jongseong’s appearance now sat warm and heavy beneath his ribs, pulsing each time he breathed, threatening to spill.
“Did we wake him up?”
Jaeyun shook his head and pushed himself up, his joints protesting with stiffness from the position and from the sheer act of not moving every time his instincts had told him to go in and make sure you were okay. “No. He just needed the bathroom.”
You nodded at him, and Jaeyun reached his hand to you, the gesture so unconscious, he didn’t notice he had done it until you reached back to him, fingers finding the slots between his, and intertwining your hands.
“Let’s go,” he murmured, already turning and guiding you down the short stretch of hall.
He wasn’t sure what time it was, but when he opened the door to his room, the world outside seemed vivid in comparison, a mist of light blue and purple coming through his open window, and spilling across the rumpled sheets and the scatter of things that made the space undeniably his: a jacket draped over the chair like it had been forgotten mid-thought, a half-open book, and a glass of water caught a thin slice of shine. The air was warmer in here, carrying the faint, familiar mix of laundry soap and skin and something clean underneath everything that had happened.
“Lie down,” Jaeyun said, swinging your interlaced hands toward the bed even though he expected you to refuse, saying something about contamination or demanding clean sheets, and forcing him into the familiar rhythm of your rules because that was how it always went — he was already halfway bracing for it, already planning how to humor you through it without letting his hands linger where they shouldn’t — but you moved then, slipping from his touch and laying on the mattress without protest. And it was somehow worse than anything.
“Princess,” he called, not really sure what the rest of the phrase was supposed to be, and the nickname hung in the air longer than it was necessary.
“Aren’t you coming?” you asked, and he was caught by the simplicity of it.
“Close your eyes,” Jaeyun said. “I’m going to get changed first.”
You made a small sound that almost counted as a snort, like the idea of him needing you not to look was ridiculous. But you did it anyway — eyes shut, face turned into his pillow, going still with the kind of obedience you only ever gave him when you didn’t want to argue.
Jaeyun changed quickly, like speed could make him safer. Jeans off. Sweatpants on. Shirt pulled over his head and tossed it somewhere he refused to look at. He kept his movements efficient, controlled — all about angles and purpose — because he couldn’t afford softness. Couldn’t afford the way tenderness turned reckless when it had nowhere to go.
By the time he finished, you hadn’t moved, and for a moment, he thought you’d fallen asleep, your body finally ceasing. But when he stepped closer, you opened your eyes, the dim light catching in them like a held secret, glazing along your lashes, turning your gaze into something soft and deep, as if whatever remained of the light had found a way to live inside you.
And Jaeyun hovered at the edge, forgetting for a beat how to be anything but pulled in.
He sat on the bed, and you shifted closer, cheek pressing deeper into his pillow like it belonged there — like you belonged there.
And the fact that you were smelling like him didn’t help. His shampoo was tangled in your damp hair. His soap clinging to your skin. The boring smell of him with something sweet underneath — vanilla and white flowers — threaded through it all. Like the night had taken the parts of him that were supposed to be private and braided them through you.
He wouldn’t sleep tonight.
“Yun,” you called. “About what I said—”
“Just sleep,” he cut in. “We can talk tomorrow.”
Your mouth parted as if you wanted to argue on principle. But your body betrayed you in the softest way: your breathing deepened, your fingers loosened on the sheet, your forehead sank into his pillow as if it was the only safe thing left in the world.
Jaeyun lay down beside you before he could think too hard about it, keeping the space between your bodies like a rule — a boundary he could hold — but you drifted closer inch by inch, pulled by some instinct that had never learned to be afraid of him. Your knee brushed his leg. Your hand settled near his, warm and lax, fingers curved like they might reach if you dreamed the right dream.
Jaeyun didn’t move. He only stared at the ceiling and listened to you breathe — slow and even — trying not to count it.
Tomorrow, he told himself.
Tomorrow, he would be brave. Tomorrow he would say the right things — the usable truth, as Jongseong had called — the truth you could hold without cutting yourself on it.
Tomorrow, he would not ruin you, or the fragile shape of a friendship he’d carried for years like a glass of water.
But tonight—
He turned his head just enough to look at you, and stayed awake anyway — guarding the morning like it was the most dangerous thing he’d ever faced.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
Jaeyun woke up to the morning sunlight filtering through the still-open window of his bedroom, and you curled into him, cheek on his shoulder, as your hand rested on his chest.
He didn’t move — he couldn’t bring himself to move — he didn’t even let his breath deepen because his first thought was the same one it had always been, old as instinct and just as merciless: don’t wake you. Don’t jolt you out of whatever gentle, thoughtless trust had guided you here in the dark and kept you here in the light. He merely stared at your hand on his chest.
Your fingers were loose, resting over his heartbeat like they’d found it by memory. Like your body had reached for the most familiar thing in the room and settled before your mind could intervene.
He swallowed.
The sunlight was falling in slow stripes across the sheets and across the line of your shoulder beneath his shirt, turning the old cotton into something almost translucent, and catching on your necklace. Dust drifted through the brightness like the morning was innocent — like the world hadn’t heard what you’d asked for last night, hadn’t seen the way his restraint had shaken under the skin.
He’d stayed the whole night trying to remain as far as he could tell. And still, here you were — curled into him like this was allowed. Like this was fine. Like you belonged in the hollow of his shoulder with your palm over his heart, claiming the one part of him he’d never learned how to hide.
You made a small sound in your throat, barely more than a breath, and nudged closer, your knee tucking nearer, your fingers flexing once against his shirt, and the heat of you spread through him like something inevitable.
His gaze drifted to your face.
Sleep had unmade you cruel in its sweetness; your lashes cast a faint shadow under your eyes; your mouth was parted just slightly, softened by the quiet. There was no teasing there, no armor, no bright deflection — only you, unguarded, and breathing against his shoulder like you trusted him to hold.
Because he would — he always would.
Jaeyun swallowed and very carefully — so carefully it bordered on absurd — slid his arm out from beneath your head, immediately receiving a small sound of protest from you, brows drawing together, and for one panicked second, he thought you’d wake.
But if anything, you only turned your face further into his pillow, drifting your hand from his chest to the sheet between you.
Jaeyun sat up slowly, pushing his hair back off his forehead as if he could physically push the feeling out, and looked at you once more.
Then he reached for the blanket and pulled it higher, covering you with a tenderness that felt dangerously close to a confession — tucking the edge beneath your arm, smoothing it down over your ribs, restoring order because order was the only thing that kept him from doing something reckless — before he stood up, crossing the room barefoot.
Jaeyun left the room, pulling the door nearly shut behind him, careful not to let the latch click.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
The kitchen met him as it always did on weekdays.
The sink was crowded with his roommate’s morning small evasions — a cup abandoned to the drying rack, a plate left half-rinsed as if someone had set it down and decided they couldn’t be bothered to finish. Old coffee grounds sat in the filter, gone cold and sour, and the air held that faint, stubborn bitterness like it had seeped into the walls.
Jaeyun stood in the middle of it all for a moment, then two — trying to make his brain behave.
Tomorrow, he had said, and it was tomorrow.
He exhaled through his nose and opened the fridge, scanning the shelves as if the answer to what to do with his hands might be hiding behind the milk, but not even this they had. There were eggs, half a loaf of bread, butter, something green that had once been vegetables in a kinder timeline, and the strawberries he bought weekly and kept in the back, pretending it wasn’t for you.
He closed the door on impulse, pushing his hair back off his forehead before he reopened it and grabbed the eggs.
Jaeyun had never been a breakfast person, but he needed something to do with his hands that morning, and so, he warmed the pan, melting the butter as he had seen you do a dozen times.
He cracked the first egg too hard, and a piece of shell fell in, forcing him to fish it out with the edge of a fork with a curse under his breath. The second one cracked clean. And he caught himself staring at it for a second, mildly offended by success.
He scrambled the eggs like he was negotiating with them — low heat, constant movement, refusing to let them burn. The toast popped up too dark on one side, and he had scraped it with a knife.
He got strawberries in the back of the fridge, rinsed them, and set them on a plate.
And by the time it started to look like something someone might eat, he heard you, softly coming down the hall and making the air shift, the apartment itself holding its breath.
Jaeyun turned, and there you were in the doorway — his shirt hanging off you, hair a mess, eyes brighter than they had any right to be.
Your gaze landed on the plates — on the counter, catching the eggshells still on it, the crumbs of his burned toast, and the strawberry tops before it moved to him.
“You made breakfast,” you said, the corner of your lips shifting into a smile.
“I’m aware.”
You padded toward him, bare feet on the kitchen tile, and suddenly you were so close, he could smell you, his soap still clinging to your skin. Your eyes were puffy, your cheeks still a little flushed, but the embarrassment had already arrived; Jaeyun could see it in the way you held your shoulders, in the way your gaze didn’t stay on his for too long.
“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly.
Jaeyun leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossing because if he didn’t put his body in order, his face might betray him. “You were drunk. You called me. I picked you up. That’s not like it never happened.”
“I remember what I said.”
Jaeyun went still.
“I’m not going to pretend I don’t,” you said. “Or that I said it only because I was drunk — I mean, I was drunk.”
You paused, heat creeping up to your cheeks and making it a tone warmer.
“Jaeyun, I’m—” You pressed your palm to your forehead briefly, as if you could push the shame back inside. “I’m in university. I’m still a virgin. And it’s not even because I’m some — saint. It’s because I kept waiting for the right moment.”
Your voice dropped. “But now it just feels like I’ve been standing still while everyone else moved.”
Something moved in Jaeyun’s chest then — sharp, protective, and making him push himself off the counter before he meant to, closing the space between you in a step he didn’t ask permission for.
“Princess,” he called, his voice as soft as the way his arms eased apart, but he didn’t touch you. Didn’t put his hands on your shoulders or tuck your hair back or do any of the things his body begged him to do on autopilot — because this was morning, and you were sober, and this mattered.
“You don’t owe anyone a timeline,” he said. “And you don’t have to make it some performance to prove something.”
“I know, Yun, it’s just that—” Your mouth tightened, lips pressing as you searched for the shape of the truth. “When I think about it, I keep coming to the conclusion that it would be safe if it were with you.”
“Do you remember that party at Seoyeon’s where they did that stupid bottle game, and we both had our first kisses in her parents’ closet?” you asked. Jaeyun blinked at the sudden turn of topic, but nodded anyway. “It was awful and so awkward. The guy made it so awkward. And the whole time I remember — the whole time I remember wishing it had been you on the other side of the bottle, because it would’ve been easier if it were you.” You swallowed. “If it were you, I’d be safe — and it’s still true, I know it would be okay with you,”
“You’re the person I trust the most in this world.”
The whole sentence went straight through his ribs and sank there, spreading through the parts of Jaeyun that had learned to stay careful until his restraint loosened another notch, and his chest went tender with it, so sudden it almost hurt.
In his mind, he was back at Seoyeon’s party, you laughing and brushing the situation off in front of him, cheeks flushed even in the low light with what he thought was shyness. And perhaps it had been. Perhaps he hadn’t been completely wrong: you’d been shy there, but not because you’d just had your first kiss, but because you’d wished he was the one there. He, your best friend — and the thought came so suddenly he couldn’t prevent it — he wanted it to be him, too. He wanted to be your first in every way that counted.
And that was exactly what you were offering to him.
Jaeyun swallowed, his fingers flexing on the counter.
“Do you truly want it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“But nothing can change between us,” Jaeyun said. “We start as best friends. And even if this — if this thing doesn’t work and we turn out to be awkward, we end as that. Best friends. No matter what.”
You stared at him for a second.
“Are you afraid of losing me?” you asked, teasing like you could make this lighter if you tried hard enough.
Jaeyun could hear the invitation in it. The offer to laugh. To dissolve the moment back into something safe. But when he looked at you, his eyes were solemn. So solemn that whatever retort you’d been about to throw at him got stuck somewhere between your lips and your courage.
“Yes,” Jaeyun said, and the teasing fell away.
Your breath caught for a moment before you exhaled, your face softening into something older than jokes.
“Okay,” you whispered.
“Okay,” he echoed.
Your gaze flicked to the counter again, to the two plates resting there, and he felt like it was some type of evidence. Proof this wasn’t only shame and late-night chaos, but morning too. Domestic, ordinary, real.
“So,” you said, voice a little too bright, “we’re doing this?”
Jaeyun’s mouth twitched. “Eat.”
“That was not an answer.”
He reached past you, grabbing a fork, and placing it in your hand with exaggerated seriousness.
“Eat,” he repeated. “Then we talk.”
“Jaeyun.”
He held your gaze, and the air between you tightened with something that had nothing to do with breakfast.
“Yes,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he wanted it to. “We’re doing it.”
“Good,” you said, and then, because you were you, because you couldn’t help yourself: “When are we doing it?”
Jaeyun stared at you.
“Are you—” he began. “Are you trying to schedule sex?”
“Seems reasonable.” You shuddered. “Or do you want us to do it now—”
“No,” he cut in, eyes narrowing, but the fondness in it betrayed him. “Tonight.”
“Don’t you have classes?”
“Are you having second thoughts?” he countered.
“Tonight,” you agreed. “My place?”
“That makes more sense,” he said, not only because he didn’t want his roommates hovering around, but because if he kept you here, if he kept you in his bed again, he didn’t trust the part of him that wanted to pretend you didn’t already belong.
“Okay,” you said.
“Okay,” he echoed.
Jaeyun straightened, grabbed his own plate, and turned away from the counter as if he hadn’t just scheduled the end of the life he’d been carefully maintaining like a lie. As if he’d invited you to the movies instead of into the most dangerous part of him.
“Eat,” he said again, voice rough. “Before I change my mind.”
You took a bite of eggs, crunching your nose. “These are terrible.”
“They’re edible,” he argued.
You smiled around your bite, and in the brilliance of it, Jaeyun noticed with sudden clarity that you might not be drunk, you might not be mad, but it had been a reckless request.
And he had just said yes.
He should’ve panicked.
He should’ve backed out and clung to his rules until they cut him open.
But he only watched you — standing in his kitchen with his shirt draped around you, alive and real and trusting him with clear eyes, and he couldn’t make himself care about the danger.
RULE #2: DO NOT TOUCH HER IMPROPERLY
Some touches are allowed because they keep her safe — elbow, shoulder, wrist, maybe her waist; small steadying things I can explain without it sounding like a lie. Improper is anything I do for myself. Improper is touching her like I’m owed something just because I’ve been here a long time.
Jaeyun liked electrical engineering — he really liked it — perhaps more than he’d ever admitted out loud.
There was something about how he could take a mess of a problem — wires crossing like arguments, values that looked meaningless until he stopped panicking and actually looked — and reduce it to rules that held. KCL. KVL. The calm mathematics of not lying to himself. Find the reference. Label the nodes. Define the direction. Solve.
If he couldn’t control other things — timing, people’s feelings, the way you could laugh like nothing was wrong while something in him quietly broke — then at least he could control this.
At least here, the world had edges. Here, the answer existed, and he found some calmness in it.
But not tonight.
Jaeyun sat in the last row with his book open and his pen in hand, trying to make his body obey.
But the professor’s voice moved through the room, muffled by the low hum of the projector and the whisper of AC that never quite cooled the lecture hall. Something about the transient response. Something about step inputs and settling time. Jaeyun stared at the diagram on the slide until it started to blur, because all he could see was you in his kitchen, barefoot on his tile. His shirt on your body. Your mouth around the word tonight like it was a dare and a promise and a joke all at once.
He wrote a line of notes, realizing a moment too late that it didn’t make sense; it was just a string of symbols that meant nothing. His jaw tightened. He scratched it out so hard the paper tore, then froze, breathing through his nose like he could sand himself back into something normal.
He tried to listen again, forcing his gaze to the board, and his brain into the shape of equations.
But the truth was: he wasn’t there anymore.
He was already walking to your studio apartment. He was already at your door, pressing the code of your keypad as he had done a thousand times.
He was already hearing your voice say his name the way you always did when you wanted something — and he hated that the wanting in him answered like a trained dog.
His leg bounced under the desk as his eyes moved to the clock.
The second hand dragged itself forward like it was doing it on purpose, like time had decided to become cruel just to prove it could. Jaeyun forced himself to look back down at the board. Forced his jaw to unclench. Forced his foot to stop bouncing.
It didn’t work.
He dragged a hand through his hair, knuckles scraping his scalp, and stared at the open page like he could threaten it into giving him peace.
Step response.
Damping ratio.
Overshoot — his chest felt like overshoot.
Jaeyun exhaled slowly, then made a decision, closing his book with a sound sharper than it should’ve been in the lecture hall, a final clap that made the person in front of him glance back, but Jaeyun didn’t care. If anything, he slid the book into his bag, capped his pen, and stood.
Outside, the late afternoon air hit him with a faint bite — winter pretending it hadn’t left yet. And the campus was loud in the way it always got near the end of the day: students spilling out of buildings, scooters whining by, laughter too bright, life too easy.
Jaeyun walked straight through it, taking the quickest route off campus, cutting between two buildings, and down the narrow street that always smelled like fried food and stale cigarette smoke.
He didn’t stop to think — didn’t even breathe; he only followed the line to your apartment complex, pushing the door open and taking the stairs, two at a time.
At your door, the keypad was there, small and impersonal, a little square of plastic and numbers that shouldn’t mean anything. But Jaeyun had always been stupidly good at remembering what mattered, and your passcode was one of those things he picked up without asking, without naming it as intimacy — the way he learned strawberry was your favorite fruit when you were both twelve, the way he memorized the sound of your laugh before he realized he was paying attention. Four digits. He knew it — he had used it a dozen times, but as his finger found the first digit, he froze because him knowing it all too well, suddenly felt like trespassing.
Jaeyun stared at the numbers. His hand still in the air, suspended, and ridiculously caught between two versions of himself. The one that had always been allowed inside your life, the one that had walked into your space carrying groceries and textbooks and your bad moods like they were part of his schedule, and the one standing here now, with the taste of tonight still sharp in his mouth, and the knowledge that tonight is not errands or emergencies.
He exhaled, slowly, trying to make his body act normal — trying to make his hand stop trembling with the sheer idiocy of wanting.
But couldn’t, and when he raised his hand again, he only knocked at the door and waited, hearing his own pulse in his ears, a stupid, loyal metronome that refused to slow down.
And then — movement.
The smallest sound from inside. Footsteps. A shift of air through the crack of the frame, like your apartment exhaled before the door even opened.
Jaeyun straightened without meaning to, shoulders going back like he’s bracing for impact. His hand dropped to his sides, finding his pockets because he refused to be caught halfway through panic.
Warm light spilled through the gap, and the scent of your place followed it — something clean and faintly floral, the trace of whatever you always used that made you smell like comfort when you hugged him goodbye. And there you were, framed in the doorway as if you’d been waiting in the exact spot where he would have to see you all at once.
For half a second, Jaeyun couldn’t breathe, his lungs catching, devastated by you.
“Hi,” you said. It was the same word you’d always used, yet it didn’t sound the same. “Did you forget the code?”
Jaeyun swallowed, forcing his face into something neutral.
“No,” he managed, his voice coming out rougher than he wanted it to. But if anything, you hummed at him, requiring no further explanation, as you opened the door a little wider so he could come in.
Jaeyun had molded the moment when he would step into your place in his mind enough times to believe he would be prepared when it finally came into reality.
Yet it didn’t.
He tried to don a neutral aspect, tried to speak — make some joke — but the words stayed in, hooked into years, and yanked, allowing nothing but air to pass through his lips.
Your apartment was small in the way studios always were — everything close enough to touch from the same spot, everything bearing the faint imprint of your routines. A blanket was folded too neatly on the end of the bed. A mug sat on the counter that looked like it had been rinsed and set down without being fully put away. A stack of books with their spines cracked in the middle like they’d been loved, not displayed.
And there was you — too close, too real.
You’d changed since he’d last been here, but at the same time, you were the same girl he had known his whole life, and the combination of both made something in him tighten until it felt sharp.
Jaeyun shut the door behind him with his foot, careful not to let it slam, yet the click of the latch sounded louder than it should’ve, and he stood there for a beat too long, backpack strap still across his shoulder, hands in his pockets.
“Shoes,” you remembered, because you couldn’t help yourself, and a laugh escaped through him, familiar enough to settle him.
Jaeyun bent, unlaced his sneakers, slipped them off with quick, efficient motions before he lined them near the door and dropped his backpack.
When he straightened, you were still watching him, draped in a dress that didn’t try to be subtle.
It hugged you way too prettily, clinging to your waist and hips like it had been made with the sole purpose of making him forget he’d ever learned how to breathe. The neckline dipped just enough to show skin, and right there — resting against it like a quiet, years-old claim — was the necklace he’d given you.
“Jaeyun,” you called. And he knew this tone — he knew it so damn well. It was your do something.
And so he did, striding in your direction, his hands already reaching for your face, cradling it on his palms before he looked down at you with a small question that he couldn’t come to pronounce because you were already replying by closing your eyes, tipping your head up so he didn’t need to do much to catch your top lip within his.
It was your first kiss. Jaeyun had known you for his whole life, but it was the first time he had come to know your mouth, and it felt almost like a travesty of the universe.
You tasted like strawberries, sugar, and something so familiar that his chest ached, threatening to break open and groan escaped him when you parted your lips, allowing him to dip his tongue inside, pressing against yours until he couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t you.
You and the way your hands found the front of his t-shirt and curled on it.
You and the way you pulled him along with you as you stepped back — and back, until the back of your knees had hit the mattress, and you had no other option but to fall on it, his hands bracing around your face, one knee bent and pressed where the skirts of your dress had pooled in too high.
You didn’t say anything as you reached for him, rushing your hands beneath the blue shirt and pushing it over his shoulders.
“Wait, Princess, wait,” he asked. “Slow down.”
“Is this how you always do it?”
And he could have lied, could have merely said yes, that was how he took all the other girls, but he didn’t.
“No,” he said. “It’s because it’s you and me.”
You stared at him, and suddenly the room felt too small for your heartbeats, too quiet for how loud everything inside of him turned.
But then, you leaned in and kissed him again — slower this time — giving him space to meet you properly.
His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck, his thumb pressing and feeling your pulse through the tip of it as his other hand followed the line of your shoulders, moving further and further until his palm had found your waist, his fingers spreading on you the way he always did to anchor you — except that now it was less anchoring than keeping you.
You shifted beneath him, your leg sliding close enough to brush the inside of his thigh, and Jaeyun felt it like a jolt — small, accidental, and devastating — traveling straight through his length, and making his breath catch.
He forced himself to hinder — force himself to keep his head clear. But his body was already answering you, heat gathering with every centimeter of contact, the novelty of it turning molten and bright in his blood — wanting to move, to press in, to take what you were offering without thinking.
“Tell me if—” he started, then stopped, trying to rearrange his thoughts.
“If what?”
“If you want me to stop,” he managed. “Say it if you—”
“I won’t,” you said, and the certainty in it hit him like a punch.
Jaeyun exhaled, pressing his forehead to yours — not kissing, not moving — just breathing the sweet scent of you, vanilla and white flowers, the same he always had as he counted the seconds like he could make them behave through the sheer force of his want.
“You’re sure?” he asked — because he had to — because he knew that this was the line where everything became real, and everything before this was going to feel small in comparison.
“Yes, Sim Jaeyun,” you whispered. “I’m sure.”
“Okay,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Okay.”
Jaeyun’s fingers found the strap of your dress, sliding it with a gentleness that didn’t match the way his pulse was climbing, easing it down through your shoulder slow enough that it felt like a question you could stop without words — yet you didn’t — and the dress shifted with a soft whisper through your body.
He leaned in and pressed his mouth to the skin he’s uncovered — one brief kiss, then another — until the dress loosened and pooled lower, until he could guide it away and reveal your lingerie set, pinkish in a way that only made your skin warmer under the lights of your apartment.
His breath hitched.
You were beautiful in a way he’d always known, but also in a way he’d never allowed himself to study — never this close, never with permission. Never with the soft spill of your skin under his hands, much less with the heat of you turning every familiar detail into something obscene and new.
His hand splayed over your belly, the tips of his fingers skimming the lower edge of your bra before he slid down, finding the band of your panties and hooking it lightly.
“You’re—” he began.
“Don’t get too full of yourself, Jaeyun,” you murmured. “I dress like this because I just happen to have no bad sets.”
The laugh that left him was helpless, more air than sound, relief threading through it because you were still you, even here, even now, just in your lingerie set and with skin turning reddish because of his kisses, and it truly didn’t matter that you interpreted him wrongly this time.
“Right,” he managed. He couldn’t argue with anything you said — not right now — not never. “Of course.”
Your fingers curled in his shirt, pulling him closer — not frantic, not desperate — just needy, and Jaeyun went still for one beat to let himself feel it: the pull, the permission, the way your hands on him turned his years of restraint into something soft and breakable.
“Of course,” he whispered again, bending down and kissing you, your temples first, and then your cheeks — his lips pestering over your face with soft pecks before he moved lower, discovering that one sensitive spot underneath your jaw, and when you gasped, he took it as an incentive to move to the column of your neck, his mouth parting as his tongue slipped out in a tiny tease that got you gasping softly — almost silently, hands closing at the shoulders of his shirt as if you couldn’t help yourself.
“You’re sensitive,” he murmured, tucking his discovery carefully alongside all the other details he’d collected about you over the years.
You called for him, but if it had been a warning or a submission, you lost interest in the rest of your thought as he kissed you again, open mouth and tongue rolling against your skin, surely leaving a mark, and making a moan to rumble through your lips instead.
Jaeyun’s eyes flicked up to your face, and he didn’t let go — not even when his hands slipped to your back, the tips of his fingers finding and curling on the clasps of your bra. Not even as he opened it and slid further into you, kissing the tip of your breast and sending goosebumps through your skin.
He never let go.
And when his lips parted, tipping his tongue out, and making your hands move to the back of his head, fisting at his hair almost bitterly, he only smiled against you, the movement adding another coating to the sensation and making your arch against him.
He licked you softly, licked you hard, covered the areola with his lips and pulled the tip into his mouth, pulled more and harder, until your back arched even more and created a gap between the mattress that his hands took no time to fill, his fingers spraying through your skin and holding you still as his mouth moved, leaving your nipple just to create a path through your body, trailing down to your sternum, your stomach — taking in every piece of your skin in between his lips.
Jaeyun lifted his head then, just enough to look at your face properly, catching the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips had parted because your breath had turned pant, your chest moving too fast and allowing your necklace to sparkle.
The room was suddenly too small for how loud his blood had gotten.
For a moment, he didn’t kiss, didn’t lick, didn’t give either of you the mercy of motion; he only held still and watched, like he needed to see what he was doing to you before he let himself do more.
“Princess,” he breathed, the word slipping out before he could decide on anything else.
You looked at him, and your gazes locked as they had done a dozen times across the existence of you, yet the moment acquired that dream quality because you were here, bare in a way he’d only imagined in the abstract — late at night, in the quietness of his room, in the version of his imagination he kept locked away like contraband — and the distance between wanting and having had narrowed to a single breath.
Jaeyun swallowed, trying to steady himself, before let the moment break by degrees — his palm slid down the slope of your stomach, slow enough to feel like asking, fingertips grazing your skin as if he were relearning it; as if touching you like this rewired something in him that had always been too careful until his fingers finally found the band and paused there, hooked lightly under the elastic.
He looked back up at you then, thumb stroking once along your hip as his other hand held you steady at the small of your back, refusing to let you drift away from him — from this.
“You okay?” he murmured, and it sounded like he meant all of it.
You nodded at him, and he moved — quietly relentless — his knuckles brushed your thighs on the way, accidental touches that weren’t accidental at all, and the sound you made hit him physically.
He had never been so hard in his whole life.
He guided the panties lower, and lower, until they slipped free; and for a beat, he just held them, as though the simplest thing in his hand had become proof that the night had finally crossed into real.
Then he set them aside without looking, his attention snapping back to you immediately — hand returning to your inner thigh with a firmer hold than before.
“If I do anything you don’t like — you tell me, okay? We have to communicate.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoed.
His thumb drew one more slow line along your inner thigh, watching the way you answered it before he allowed himself to lower his head again, kissing the inside of your knee this time — soft — almost innocent, if the moment hadn’t been burning at the edges. Then another kiss, slower, lingering, his mouth warming you as his hands guided you open with a care that felt reverent.
“You are just — beautiful,” he heard himself say.
You let out a small sound that wasn’t quite a breath and wasn’t quite a laugh, startled by how earnest he was being. Your cheeks warmed, and you turned your face just slightly, like you could hide behind the angle.
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, aiming for teasing, but it came out too soft for anything but shyness.
And Jaeyun’s mouth twitched, a helpless curve that didn’t reach humor so much as relief. And his hand tightened once at your thigh, then gentled, thumb stroking a quiet line as if to soothe the flush he’d put in you.
“Yeah?” he said. “But is it okay?”
“Yeah,” you said, the word threaded through the quiet laugh that escaped you. You didn’t dress it up, didn’t offer an explanation, didn’t hand him the because — you just let the answer be simple. But it wasn’t simple at all, not to him because he heard the rest in the way your gaze found his and held: yeah, you said, because it’s you.
The first touch of his mouth against your folds was light enough that he didn’t even taste you, but your body still reacted: a sharp inhale, a pull through your spine, the instinctive arch that made his own breath break low in his throat.
And when you tipped your hips to him, he mouthed you again, his hands sliding further into you, thumbs finding the tender flesh of your hood and lifting it — leaving your clit in full exposure for him to lean in, the tip of his tongue kneading the sensitive flesh around, slightly rubbing before he pressed it, unable to prevent the sound that escaped his throat then — something between reverence and desperation.
It took your smile away — your lips parting in a gasp as your fingers met and wove through his hair, pulling him in a demand that he had no second thoughts before obeying, giving you another lick — a harder one.
His tongue twirled all around the edge, then he pressed a kiss over it — a long, tender wet kiss before he lowered his head and licked at the entrance of your body because you were clenching around nothing, and it suddenly felt too evil, and Jaeyun would never be evil to you.
He pushed his tongue against your hole, and then, he pushed again until his tip went inside it, and he had to control his will to roll his eyes back.
Even his boldest fantasy hadn’t come close to how sweet you actually were. And the thought landed too tender to survive, cracking him open into something darker because being careful had started to feel like another kind of denial, and he couldn’t come to continue to restrain himself when you had given him all the permission. Jaeyun lifted his head just long enough to look at you, eyes blown wide and honest, as if he was giving you one last chance to pull him back. To tell him to stop. To make him good again.
Yet you didn’t. And something within him shifted. His hands held you firmer, spreading you open as he went back to you no longer soft-edged, and decided to stop hovering at the threshold, giving you what you were asking for.
Jaeyun’s grip tightened as he worked on you, alternating between broad strokes and precise licks on that one spot that never failed to make you cry out his name.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”
Your response came almost immediately — a broken moan that seemed to come from somewhere so deeply inside of you, Jaeyun felt your own desperation reverberating through his entire body.
You were getting closer, he could tell by the way your thighs kept quivering under his hands, your breathing becoming more and more ragged with each pass of his tongue, but it wasn’t enough — he needed to see it: the moment pleasure turned undeniable, the moment he could stop wondering if he was reading you wrong.
Jaeyun retreated with a torturous care, pressing a final kiss to your folds as he pushed himself back onto his knees and earned a protest from you.
“Jaeyun—”
“Not yet,” he said. “For now, I need you to hold yourself open for me. Can you do that, Princess?”
You nodded despite yourself, spreading your legs further apart — pushing the soles of your feet against your sheets for some leverage and fuck.
The sight of you like this — glistening with your fluids and remnants of his saliva — the sight of you so ready for him.
He could hardly breathe.
He brought one hand down through your thigh, his thumb resuming the circular motions on your clit while his other hand moved to your seam, teasingly brushing the tips of his fingers through before he slid a single one inside.
You were so wet already, he slipped with no resistance, and it was so dizzying — everything about it was so dizzying — he hardly heard you panting as he began to move his finger in and out, your stomach tightening and giving a small convulsion, but you kept your legs apart as he had asked you to.
It was a false deed, honestly — as if Jaeyun could command anything when both of you knew — he was the one to always follow.
But he really didn’t care.
When Jaeyun felt you opening up to him, he added a second finger in, curling them slightly to discover that one spot that soon enough got you into a mess — squeezing him with your release as your hands grabbed at your sheets. Your lips parted around his name, and your hair turned wilder as your head pushed against your pillows, arching your back in that one beautiful bow before you melted again.
“Princess,” he called, and you clenched at the endearing name, a velvet heat that he felt in his very soul.
You hadn’t done anything to him, but Jaeyun felt utterly undone by you. His breath was coming in short, ragged gasps just by watching you.
God — he could come just by watching you.
You were so wet. His hand was coated with you, white slick dribble coming out of your cunt, making each of his moves obscenely loud in the quiet night, yet — all he could think was how stunning you were like this, so lovely and so his.
He wanted to keep looking — to hold the moment still, to learn it by heart, and make it something real enough to survive the morning. But he wanted to look away, too, all at once — startled by the sheer size of his wanting.
You had so much power over him, it was terrifying even to examine the way you owned his soul. When your gazes caught, his heart seemed to burst in his chest.
Was he doing it for you, or doing it for him? He couldn’t tell anymore.
He curled his fingers deeper inside of you, making you mumble something unintelligible, a sob ripping through your chest and already threatening to turn into a release. Jaeyun couldn’t help but grin at the sound, reveling in the way your body trembled and arched underneath his touch.
You thrashed and thrashed as he still tended you the way you needed, stroking the spots inside that made you shudder and rubbing at your clit until he heard you panting, his own name falling from your lips in a breathless moan before it turned into whimpers, and when you came around him, he leaned in to kiss you.
Jaeyun stayed close through the last shiver, like he didn’t trust the world not to startle you out of it. He kissed you again — slower now, softer — catching your mouth as your breathing stuttered, and pretending that he could take the edge off the intensity just by holding you there. His hand eased from its grip into a gentler touch, smoothing along your thigh.
“Hey,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
His forehead brushed against yours as his hands smoothed over your body, taking you through until he could cup your face, and his thumb could reach for the corner of your mouth, wiping away the evidence of his kiss with a tenderness that didn’t match how wrecked he looked. He swallowed, chest rising and falling too fast, and forced himself to slow his breathing until yours started to follow.
“Still okay?” he asked again, softer, as if the question mattered more now than it had before.
You nodded at him, managing a flimsy sound that might’ve been yes, and Jaeyun pressed another kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried, almost devotional, as if he needed to apologize for his own intensity.
“You did so well,” he whispered. “Tell me what you need. Water? A minute? Do you want me to hold you, or-?”
“Jaeyun,” you cut.
“Yes, Princess?”
Your hands slid to the back of his neck, fingers curling and weaving through his hair, holding him still.
“I need you.”
It might have been the words, the small plea that took Jaeyun anew because he would never refuse anything you asked him, or perhaps it was the way you said them, a bit flimsy because you couldn’t control it still, but either way, he gave in, slipping from your hold only so he could take his t-shirt off.
He almost choked when you stood with him, your hands reaching for his lower abdomen, nails scraping his skin slightly before you took his belt and unbuckled it.
“Princess,” he called, the questions already on his tongue, shaped by habit, and the need to do this right.
But you didn’t give him time.
Your hands moved for his jeans, unzipping them as if you’d decided you were done waiting, easing them down in one smooth, impatient motion. The room seemed to go hushed around the sound of it — denim shifting, breath catching — until the only thing left was the sudden, helpless awareness of his length slapping against his abdomen.
Your hand found him, fingers curling around him almost beautifully, closing and molding with a care that didn’t match, and making his whole body go taut, breath pulling tight in his chest like it had nowhere to go. Not because he didn’t want it — God, he wanted it — but because he did, too much, too fast, the kind of wanting that threatened to ruin the rest of the night by sheer impatience.
He caught your wrist gently, holding you as his forehead dipped toward yours again, his eyes shutting.
“If you do that,” he began. “I’m not going to last.”
The honesty of it landed between you, sharp with embarrassment. And when he opened his eyes again, there was something almost pleading in the way he looked at you — like he was asking you not to laugh, not to make him feel small for how quickly you could undo him.
“Another time,” he promised, realizing the implications of his words a fraction too late. Not just later tonight. Not just when you feel like it. But again. As if he’d already decided that there was going to be a future where he got to learn you — and be learned — without rushing.
But you didn’t tease him. When you looked at him, your gaze holding his until the heat in his face had nowhere to hide, you merely nodded.
“Okay,” you said.
You were no warmer than Jaeyun was, but when he touched your waist, your skin shivered, a fine tremor running under his fingertips.
“Okay,” he echoed.
You let him ease you down onto the sheets, smoothing you into place as he followed you down, bracing himself over you without crushing you, and kissed you — slow, mouth soft, reverent in a way that made the moment feel almost holy.
“Tell me if anything hurts,” he whispered. “Tell me if—”
“I know,” you breathed, and the words sounded so much like trust — Jaeyun’s throat worked, and he kissed you again and again and again, only letting go to reach down beside the bed for his jeans, fingers finding the pocket by feel — clumsy in a way he never remembered being. His breath caught when you made the smallest sound behind him, and he hurried to get his wallet free, forcing it out with a practical shuffle before the faint and quick tear of foil came in the hush.
He slid it on with shaky hands that he hoped you wouldn’t notice.
But you did — of course you did.
When he climbed back over you, you reached for his arms, your fingers brushing down until you found his hands.
“You’re shaking,” you whispered, your brows knitted, and searching his face like you were afraid you’d pushed him somewhere he didn’t want to go.
Jaeyun went still.
“Because it’s you,” he replied, not giving himself time to consider how much he had exposed with this mere phrase.
Of course he was shaking. He’d wanted you for so long it had grown into something foundational, something he’d learned to live around and never touch. And now you were here beneath him, looking at him like he was allowed — like he was chosen — and his wanting hadn’t been foolish after all.
His throat worked. He tightened his fingers around yours, trying to make the shaking stop by force.
“If I mess this up, you won’t ever let me hear the end of this,” he smoothed.
You laughed at him — familiar in a way that loosened something in his chest, easing everything inside him as if the sound of you had always known where to press to make him breathe again.
“Don’t worry,” you said. “I’ll keep it all as another of our secrets.”
“What other secrets do we have?”
“What you had under your bed when we were teenagers,” you began. “That you couldn’t sleep without a lampshade until you were twelve. Where we were on your eighteenth birthday. That you cried watching The Notebook—”
“Everyone cried watching The Notebook at least once.”
“Baekhyeon didn’t—”
“Did you watch it with him?”
“It’s my favorite movie, of course I did,” you said. “But don’t worry, it was just once — it’s funnier with you anyway.”
“Obviously,” he said. “Everything is funnier with me — and we are about to have a lot of fun.”
You laughed again, softer and only because he was allowed to — he kissed you again, his hands smoothing your thighs, your calves, his fingers moving and curling around your ankles and pulling you to him, lifting your legs to his hips.
You stiffened as his tip made contact, your body going taut beneath him and he stopped like he’d been trained for it, like every instinct he had rewired itself around not hurting you. His grip shifted back from your ankles to your thighs — his thumbs stroking small, steady circles as if he could coax your muscles out of panic.
“Princess, look at me,” he murmured. “Do you want me to stop?”
You shook your head, a little bit too frantically as if you were afraid he would really stop it, and Jaeyun exhaled through his nose, a sound that stood somewhere between a laugh and a prayer. He kissed you once, slow and grounding, then another at the corner of your mouth.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we go slow. I’m right here.”
He shifted — barely enough to change the angle, but you seemed to feel it and his thumb reached for you seam, wetting the tip of it with your fluids, and finding your clitoris, rubbing it in slow and deliberate circles that got you closing your eyes, moving your hips, and welcoming whatever he was giving.
Jaeyun made himself still enough to read you, his eyes tracking your face with the kind of focus that might’ve felt clinical, if it hadn’t been so tender. He watched your breathing first, then your mouth, then the tiny shifts in your shoulders before he slowed and it eased again.
He moved in careful increments, pausing whenever your breath changed. Waiting whenever your brows pinched. His hands steadied you — firm at your thighs, gentle at your waist, and holding you through the newness of it.
“Tell me,” he whispered. “Is it okay?”
You nodded and he lowered his forehead toward yours.
It was slow at first, all about him discovering the new shape of you, but soon enough, it was confident and knowing. When he drew back, he knew exactly how to move back in, how to make you tighten around him, and his name to escape from your lips a little bit more frantically as his rhythm increased.
Your fingers spread through the back of his neck, fingers twisting at the hair at his nape and bringing him closer and closer, as if you couldn’t help it. And when your breath turned ragged and your fingers tightened, Jaeyun pressed his mouth to your temple, whispering your name like a promise he could finally keep.
Even if only temporarily.
“Yun, I’m going—”
“It’s okay, Princess,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
And this time he meant it in every way.
“Come for me, babe.”
You twisted under his body, even as he kept you pinned in place with his hands on your hips, squirming and whimpering your way through it, finishing with an almighty shudder as you came a second time, and it was so beautiful, and overwhelming — he tried to stay careful. He tried to keep his breathing even. But you said his name like you needed him, and something in him cracked clean through.
He buried his face against your neck, a shaky sound trapped in his throat. “Princess—”
He didn’t have room for anything except you.
No thought. No control. Just the force of feeling, cresting too high and too fast, until it dragged a groan from him with your name inside it — like that was the only thing he could say when he finally lost himself — and with a final, deep thrust, his body tensed and spilled inside of you — groaning your name. The echo of it carved into your skin as he buried himself, his fingers molding into your skin with an intensity that left behind indentations as the waves of his pleasure washed over.
Jaeyun hadn’t realized how noisy you both had been, but the room felt suddenly too quiet after.
And for a beat, he only stayed still — his forehead tucked against the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of the air between you, the feeling of your pulse under his mouth, your fingers still lost in his hair, and your bodies so tangled, he couldn’t quite tell where he ended and you began — his whole soul afraid that the moment would slip away the second he admitted it had happened.
But then, you made a small sound, and it made him force his head up — just enough to look at you.
He brushed his knuckles along your cheek, then paused, thumb hovering at your lips because he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you like this now that the moment was gone.
“You okay?” he asked, the question already worn thin by the number of times he had used it through the night, but it felt heavier somehow, meaning more than any of the earlier ones ever had.
But if anything, you only nodded — leaning into his touch as your lashes fluttered shut.
“Just stay,” you whispered.
And so, he stayed — rolling you both through your bed, his back sinking into the mattress as he drew you to his chest, giving you a place to rest as if it was any other night and you were merely best friends falling asleep together. He stayed until your heartbeat evened out against him and the room turned orange and pink with sunrise, dust motes catching in the full light like glittering hush, and the night had inevitably bent itself into morning.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
Jaeyun lay on your bed, holding a breath in his chest as if it could keep the morning from happening. The sun slipped through your parted curtains and spilled across the room — patient and indisputable — turning everything into proof.
Your dress was still pooled on the hardwood, your panties right above it, and his jeans were so close it could’ve been one thing. Your bra was still at the edge of the bed, pink, half-tucked into the sheets he couldn’t remember tangling.
He let the breath go, and the mattress answered, making you stir — just a little — your head rolling off his chest until your chin found him again.
When your eyes opened, the light caught and held — as if it had nowhere else to be.
Jaeyun felt the instinct to speak. Something practical. Something safe. Something that could be filed under morning conversation and good friend behavior.
Are you okay? he thought. Do you need water?
Do you want me to make breakfast again and pretend I don’t care when you mock me for it?
But you didn’t give him time.
You lifted your head — sleepy as it was certain — brushing your nose against his before you caught his lower lip between yours and kissed him in a way that made teasing feel like a promise.
Jaeyun went utterly still, his hands hovering, useless with hesitation. He had spent years learning which parts of you he was allowed to hold — elbow, shoulder, wrist; the small, steadying touches that could be explained without telling on himself.
But this was your room.
Your bed.
Your morning.
And you were kissing him like you’d never once needed an explanation, catching his lower lip — so gentle it hardly counted as a bite — holding it for one heartbeat longer before you let him go and eased back.
Jaeyun blinked, and the muted morning light dazed him — your room pressing in with a kind of hush that made it feel like a dream: sun-warm sheets, the sound of breath, the closeness of you like something he hadn’t earned but had been given anyway. He let it hold him for a suspended moment before he leaned in and kissed you again, this time with more feeling than thought — one hand found your waist, as the other slid behind your neck, tilting you up to him.
Your breath caught at that, and for a moment, Jaeyun feared he had gone too far — too fast. He’d finally slipped enough to not be able to lie and pretend he hadn’t broken his second rule, but then you shifted, sliding a leg over his hips, straddling him like it was the most natural place in the world to be, and something in him went quiet with the rightness of it.
He didn’t move first. He didn’t take. He only held where you’d placed him.
And when you parted — pulling back just enough for you to breathe — it carried the kind of practicality that had always been your shared language.
“I need a shower,” you said.
For a beat, Jaeyun blinked at you, incapable of understanding the words. But then, his brain latched onto it, and he felt thankful. A shower meant tiles. Water. Soap. Clean lines. A task that could be completed. A thing he could do without interpreting your mouth, your eyes, the way your kiss had said stay.
“Okay,” he heard himself say. “Okay, yeah.”
Jaeyun shifted carefully, guiding you off him with hands that tried to remember what permitted felt like — waist, ribs, shoulder — anywhere that could still pass as gentle logistics instead of want. His gaze skated away from your face on instinct, as if looking at it too directly might pull him back under, and slipped out of the bed.
You followed, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, slightly swaying — more due to sleepiness than weakness, but Jaeyun’s body reacted anyway. He reached for you, his hands steady on your arms.
He helped you up. Guided you through your studio: past the small table with the stack of books, past the mug you never fully put away, and into the narrow bathroom where the tiles were warm and the mirror caught the gold of morning and gave it back to him as evidence.
Your skin carried so many marks from the night before that his breath caught.
He looked away so fast it felt like a flinch.
Jaeyun moved like he was trying to fix the world.
He turned on the light first. Then the fan. Then the tap — hot first, then cold, adjusting in small increments until the water felt right because putting things in order always helped him keep control.
He watched the water steam faintly as it ran, watched it like it was a system he could calibrate.
He set a towel within your reach. Folded it once, then unfolded it because the fold looked too neat and he didn’t want you to notice how nervous he was. Then he reached for your shampoo and put it back where it already was, because he suddenly ran out of things to do, but his hands still sought for something.
You leaned your hip against the sink and watched him with that quiet softness that made his chest feel too full. The bathroom was suddenly too bright for how careful he was trying to be.
“Yun,” you called, and he turned to you like a man answering a question in class — focused, braced, trying to keep his face neutral.
“Yeah?”
You tilted your head, gaze flicking once before you merely stepped past him, your hands brushing and taking his, pulling him to the shower with you.
The steam gathered immediately, beading on his skin, blurring the sharp edges of the morning until the world became smaller and quieter.
“Sometimes, I can hear you thinking,” you said. “Did you know that?”
“I’m sorry,” he replied.
You laughed at that, but didn’t say anything. You merely turned around, reaching for the shampoo bottle he had previously rummaged and gave it to him.
“Wash my hair,” you said.
And so, he did.
Jaeyun took the bottle, pouring shampoo into his palm — more than he needed, because his hands were unsteady — and rubbed it between them until it warmed and foamed. Then his fingers slid into your hair, working the suds in small circles at the crown of your head, careful and thorough, moving outward as the steam gathered and the water ran down your spine. His knuckles grazed your ear once. An accident, maybe. But you let out a sound — more a sigh than anything, and something in Jaeyun tightened anyway, a flare that made his chest feel too warm. His jaw flexed at it, and he forced his hands to stay where they belonged — his attention to stay on the sequence, because sequence meant control: lather, rinse, repeat.
He rinsed you with his palm shielding your forehead, water sluicing through your hair in clear sheets. The gesture was intimate in the most domestic way — protective, practiced — as if he’d been doing it for years.
And maybe that was why it did him in.
You must have felt the pause in him, the way his body went too still behind you, because when he finally finished, you turned to him, reaching for the bottle, and pouring shampoo into your own palm as you stepped closer — the warm line of you almost meeting the warm line of him, and slid your fingers into his hair.
Jaeyun didn’t know what to do with himself.
He merely bent a little so you could reach, letting your hands take over with a quiet competence that made his throat work. Water ran down his temples, traced the line of his jaw, caught at his lashes. He kept his eyes on the tile like a prayer — like if he looked at you, he’d lose the last clean edge of himself.
You rinsed him, and only when you tapped his hands — did he straighten again.
Then you smoothed soap over his bare skin, starting at his shoulders, your palms unhurried and warm. Down his collarbones. Over his chest.
Jaeyun’s breath broke when you reached his lower abdomen, your fingertips hovering dangerously close to the ache he’d been holding back, and making a sound slip from him — low, involuntary — rushing before he could trap it.
“Princess,” he said, but the word carried no warning at all, and you merely allowed your fingers to rest there, steady as the way your gaze met his.
“You said another time,” you remembered.
Jaeyun froze.
Not because he didn’t understand. Because he did. Because the memory arrived with humiliating clarity: your hand curled on him in a way that made his honesty slip out raw and breathless last night.
He dragged in a slow breath through his nose. Steam beaded along his lashes; water traced the line of his jaw. He still didn’t look at you — not fully — like eye contact might knock the last brace out from under him while he was still negotiating with himself. Like he was trying to find the border between permitted and improper and realizing you’d moved it with one sentence.
“Are you asking me?” he began. “Or—”
“I’m asking,” you said.
His gaze found yours.
“Okay,” he said, and this time the word didn’t sound like procedure, but like agreement. Like trust.
He took your wrist and guided your hand, not down, not yet, but to his jaw, to his throat, to a place he could handle without losing himself.
“Slow,” he said, and you nodded at him, letting your fingers linger.
Your thumb brushed the hinge of his jaw first — testing, almost absent — before your hand slid lower and lower, following the line of his throat, his collar bones. Water ran between your knuckles and his skin, warm and constant, making every touch feel softened at the edges, as if the steam had filed down the danger until it could pass for tenderness, but Jaeyun’s pulse changed immediately, his heart racing as though it too wanted to reach for you through his skin, meeting where your fingers brushed against his chest.
Jaeyun’s lips parted in a soft gasp as you reached for him, tentatively brushing through his extension. Starting from the already flushed tip and moving to the prominent veins all over him and then, all the way back, receiving an almost imperceptible buck of his hips in response.
“Okay?” you asked, and he nodded, but it wasn’t an answer so much as a reflex — his body trying to behave when his mind had gone helpless and searched for something to say — something small enough to fit inside a bathroom, inside steam, inside the ordinary noise of water hitting tile.
But there was no small word that fit because how could he say that anything you did with him would be okay?
How could he say that if you asked for his heart, he would open his ribs for you? If you reached in and took it, he would hold still and even tender you if you faltered.
Jaeyun swallowed, throat tight, breath catching on the way out as he reached for you, his fingers splaying over your cheek as his thumb reached for where a drop had taken place on your skin.
“I’m okay,” he said then, the closest answer he could give for what he meant. If you could feel the shape of the unspoken right alongside the spoken, you didn’t show it.
Your hand merely closed around his length, fingertips tracing the same places his mind had traced a thousand times in private, and every pass of your hand felt like it rewrote him — like your touch didn’t just touch, but claimed a truth he’d been denying for years.
Jaeyun’s breath hitched as you guided him closer, his eyes shutting as his forehead tipped to the curve of your neck.
“Princess,” he whispered, not really sure if he intended to say something, but the sudden call made you pause, your hand motionless enough to make his breath hitch again, his hips bucking and chasing for the friction still.
“Don’t stop,” he said, and perhaps it had been the words, perhaps it had been the way he said it, more like a plea than a request. But you didn’t — even when his grip tightened on you, his finger shaping bruises on your hips, and his lips parted, leaving a matching one at your neck.
You didn’t stop, even when he came into your hand. You merely gentled him, moving to his stomach, his chest, smoothing him down until his breath wasn’t so ragged and his heart had come into peace beneath your touch.
“Yun,” you called, and he hummed at you, still pressed close, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted like he’d forgotten what to do with the air. Water clung to his lashes. Steam softened the hard lines of him into something boyish, something undone. For once, he wasn’t braced for impact — he was simply there, breathing, and letting you see him, and it was strange how it made your kiss just even better.
How he could simply melt into you.
You smiled at that — small, warm — kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then a place beneath his jaw that made Jaeyun’s eyes flutter shut, his head tipping just slightly to give you access, like his body wanted to cooperate even when his mind still tried to keep score.
“Princess,” he breathed again, and this time it sounded less like a plea and more like disbelief.
Your hands found him at your hips, guiding it down through your body, the swell of your ass, giving him enough time to grow on it, and take the lead, brushing over warm skin, following curves with a care that made it feel devotional rather than desperate.
“Okay?” he murmured, because he couldn’t help — he couldn’t ease — not until you had nodded, brushing your noses and making something within settle with the gentleness of it.
Jaeyun exhaled and stepped closer. One hand halted at your waist while the other slid down and around, his fingers tightening briefly against your skin before he shifted, and lifted one of your legs — guiding it up to rest against his hip.
His tip brushed against your seam with the new position, barely anything, but you drew in a breath that didn’t quite make it back out to you, and a faint, trembling noise escaped through your lips instead, and he couldn’t help the soft, almost-gentle smugness that warmed his smile.
He rolled his hips against yours, and your head tipped back, eyes closing and lips still parted on that same faltered breath, allowing sunlight to catch on your skin in the shift, warm and liquid-gold along the lines of you.
“Bed,” you whined, and you didn’t need to tell him twice.
Jaeyun turned the taps off, not really checking if he had done it properly, before he took you in his arms again, folding your legs around his waist as he walked you back down the short stretch of your place. Water tumbled from you both — tiny drops trembling loose with each step, catching the light before they fell in a thin, gleaming trail on your floorboards.
But you didn’t complain, you didn’t even say anything. When he placed you on the mattress; you merely spread your legs further — wordlessly making room for him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Condom,” you reminded him. “Do you have more?”
For a moment, the question didn’t make sense, but then, he nodded at you, slipping from your touch — just enough to reach for the wallet still tossed on your floor.
“How many did you bring?” you asked, and although Jaeyun had listened to it and understood, he didn’t reply, he allowed the question to hang in the air, a flush of warmth spreading up to his cheeks because the memory of him piling it at the chaser before he went to his classes last evening was too fresh still.
Just enough, he had thought like he wasn’t, in fact, hoping.
Hoping that it wouldn’t be a one-time thing.
Jaeyun’s fingers fumbled once at the wallet before he forced them steady. He didn’t let himself look at you while he did it; if he looked, he’d lose the last clean thread of control he had left, and so, he merely tore the foil, the sound too loud in the quiet room, and the practical motions that followed felt like an anchor — something procedural to keep him from drowning in the fact that you were watching.
He climbed back onto the mattress, moving slowly, knees sinking into the sheets between your thighs. The bed dipped under his weight, and you shifted automatically to make space for him, your body already well known in the shape of him.
Jaeyun paused above you.
Water still clung to your hair, darkening the strands where they stuck to your neck. Your skin gleamed in the soft light — warm, flushed, kissed by steam and morning and the evidence of him. You looked up at him with your mouth slightly parted, breath uneven, eyes steady and it hit him so hard it almost made him gentle to the point of breaking.
“Princess,” he said, but if anything, you reached up, fingers catching at the back of his neck — not pulling him down, only holding him there — close enough to feel your breath on his mouth. Close enough that he couldn’t lie to himself about how much he wanted it.
Jaeyun lowered his forehead to yours and breathed once, then twice, as if he was counting himself into calm.
“Tell me if—”
“I know,” you cut, and he snorted at that, his hands finding your thighs, and spreading there with care — measuring you, reading you, bracing you the way he always did when something mattered and he couldn’t afford to do it wrong.
He pulled in slowly, pausing each time your breath changed. Waiting when your fingers tightened in his hair. Listening like your body was the only language he trusted.
“Okay?” he murmured against your mouth.
“Okay.”
Jaeyun exhaled, giving himself a moment before he shifted his weight and settled in deeper.
You made a small sound at that, and Jaeyun halted — caught mid-motion as his eyes stayed on your face, searching for the smallest crack of discomfort, for anything he might have missed and could never forgive himself for.
“Talk to me, Princess,” he said. “Is it too much?”
“No,” you whispered. “It’s — good.”
That answer landed somewhere under his ribs and stayed.
Jaeyun’s eyes shut for a beat. And when he opened them again, he looked wrecked in the quietest way.
He kissed you once more, slower, lingering at the corner of your mouth, your cheek, beneath your jaw — mapping comfort into you the way he mapped calm into circuits, the way he tried to fix the world when it was too big.
And then he moved again, careful and deliberate, letting the moment become real one breath at a time.
The sheets gathered under your fingers. The room narrowed to heat and the sound of his name caught in your throat. Jaeyun held you like he could keep you safe simply by refusing to rush, like tenderness was the only rule he needed now.
“Look at me,” he whispered, and you did, blinking under the morning light and making him swallow, his chest swelling then, big enough to break open with love for you. And perhaps, you had felt it too — heard it in his voice, this sickening desperation, because your hands found his face, cupping it with a tenderness that didn’t match the way he was burying deep inside of you, his tip forming an eminence on the lower part of your belly as he worked on you with slow, long thrusts, and making you come in the morning haze.
Jaeyun collapsed beside you, his back sinking into the mattress as you followed rolling so you rested over his chest.
“Always,” you whispered, the word coming so suddenly, Jaeyun blinked down at you, his head rolling so he could search your face, confused if he had asked you something in his own haze. But sunlight picked strands of your hair, reflected through your damp skin. And he couldn’t make sense of anything.
“What?”
“I’m always okay when I’m with you,” you said.
He knew that he shouldn’t — but Jaeyun felt so right about it.
He felt so right when you called him Sunday afternoon, a tiny can you help me with something? rolling from your tongue and making him sprint to your place, being greeted with you already in your lingerie and you didn’t lie — you had no bad pairs.
When he brought you down onto the bed, he didn’t even care about taking it out of you; his fingers merely reached in between your thighs, holding the piece as he slid inside of you.
He didn’t know then, if his hands were still doing their job or if they’d defected. If he was still keeping you safe — or if he’d finally started touching you like he’d wanted to for years, and breaking one more rule.
But as he held you, listening to you breathe quickening and setting against the curve of his neck, he couldn’t make himself care.
Again.
RULE #3: DO NOT BE POSSESSIVE
I’m her best friend. I always have been. That doesn’t give me the right to be possessive. If I can’t be calm about her, I at least have to be kind. If I touch her, it has to feel like a question she can stop — not a claim. And if someday she chooses someone else, I have to accept it. I have to accept it like it won’t split me in half.
Jaeyun woke to movement.
Not the slow, sleep-warm kind he’d grown used to in the past weeks, but something quicker — restless. Drawers scraped open and knocked shut again in the same nervous motion; fabric whispered against fabric, and hangers clacked as they were shoved aside.
He didn’t open his eyes — not yet. He listened to you instead: your bare feet skimming the floor, the breath you kept trying to hush, the tiny hitch of frustration when something wasn’t unfolding the way you needed it to.
And that — that was what pulled his eyes open at last. You sounded wound tight with it, and Jaeyun couldn’t stand the idea of you being anything but fine.
You were half-dressed — shorts on, bra, hair still messy in the way only the mornings after managed, the frizz denoting the number of times he had made you come the night before, arching and pushing your head against the sheets — one of his t-shirts clutched in your hands like it belonged to you more than it belonged to him.
“What—”
You looked over your shoulder at him, guilty only for the fraction of a second it took before your face rearranged into something else.
“Sorry,” you whispered. “I’m late.”
Jaeyun pushed himself up on his elbows, the sheets slipping down his waist. He blinked slowly, trying to coax his mind into one piece through the morning haze.
“Late for what?” he asked — voice rough with sleep and something worse.
“My exam,” you said, already turning and moving another hanger. This time you pulled a blue plaid shirt free — the kind you’d been loving to borrow and make him come to collect it himself, your scent worked into the fabric like a quiet claim disguised as comfort.
“You’re stealing that,” he said.
You didn’t even bother to look guilty. “Borrowing.”
“My wardrobe is becoming empty.”
“And yet,” you said, turning to him with that familiar tilt of your mouth, “you really don’t hate it.”
Jaeyun didn’t answer. He merely watched as you stepped in close again, stealing the air from between you, as you pressed a kiss to his mouth — soft, swift, like a blessing you left behind on purpose.
And the second you pulled away, he moved. Jeans in his fists, he dragged them on as he went, stumbling through the doorway — desperate to be the first thing at your heels.
He caught you at the exact moment his roommates did — both of them lingering in the living room, their backpacks slung over one shoulder, caught in their coffee-stained routines — until the second they saw you and stopped like they’d walked into an invisible wall.
Sunghoon’s gaze went straight to the shirt.
Then to Jaeyun.
Then back to you, his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile.
Jongseong’s eyebrows lifted, slow and serene — the kind of calm that only existed because he liked chaos best when it belonged to someone else.
“Morning,” Jongseong said.
“Morning,” you replied — too bright. “I’m late.”
“Exam?” Jongseong offered, easing into conversation the way he always did: polite, steady, giving everyone an out.
Jaeyun cleared his throat. “She’s late.”
“I am late,” you echoed, pointing at him like it was somehow his fault you’d woken up tangled in his sheets instead of your own — in a room with no alarm clock at all, because Jaeyun despised morning obligations. “But yes.”
You crouched by the door, fingers quick on your laces, and slipping your shoes on.
Sunghoon’s eyes tracked you the whole time, amusement sharpening at the edges of his expression as Jongseong, bless him, kept the conversation where it belonged — safe, ordinary.
“Good luck,” he said.
“Thank you,” you chirped, already halfway upright again. “Do you have exams too?”
“We’re finishing our exams too,” Sunghoon said. “We should go out after. Celebrate.”
Jaeyun’s jaw worked, like he was chewing down whatever sound wanted to come out of him.
“Arcano?” you asked, and Jongseong’s expression tightened into immediate refusal. He despised the bar, convinced it was what got him hospitalized during his first semester. “I know it’s terrible, but Yun has classes until late tonight — it’s the most reasonable for him.”
For a moment, the room went strangely quiet.
Jaeyun’s gaze found yours and held, warmth rising in him — quiet, disarming — and he went still with it, not knowing where to put the feeling. His mouth parted on a reflex, then he swallowed it back.
Jongseong’s eyes flicked to Jaeyun, then back to you.
“Fine,” he said at last. “But if anyone ends up in the ER again, I’m haunting all of you.”
“That’s fair,” Sunghoon said.
“You don’t have to—” Jaeyun began.
“I — we want to,” you cut in, the words coming as gentle as it was final before you stood and took the knob. “Text me the time!”
You slipped out with a bright, hurried smile, the borrowed shirt hanging off you like a secret, and making Jaeyun step forward, holding the door open so he could stand in the doorway, lingering in the shape of you leaving, and the way you’d arranged the world so he could follow.
When Jaeyun finally clicked the door shut, silence filled the hallway for exactly two seconds before Sunghoon whistled.
“So,” he began, but Jaeyun didn’t look at him; his gaze stayed on the closed door. “Friends-with-benefits?”
Jaeyun’s jaw flexed. “Don’t.”
“Oh, it is that.”
“It’s not—” Jaeyun started, pushing his hair back off his forehead before he turned to his roommates. “I mean, I don’t know! We haven’t talked about it.”
“But you should,” Jongseong said, his voice neutral enough for Jaeyun not to hear the warning it carried until the air in the room shifted.
“Baekhyeon talked to me yesterday,” Sunghoon said.
“What?” Jaeyun asked, more as a reflex than in fact, understanding what it meant. “Why?”
Sunghoon’s gaze flicked to the door before it moved to Jongseong. And Jaeyun didn’t need anyone to spell it out — his roommates had already talked about this when he wasn’t there.
“He wanted to ask about her,” Sunghoon said. “He didn’t come in aggressive — just pathetic.”
Jongseong’s mouth flattened. “Careful.”
“I’m not being cruel,” Sunghoon replied. “I’m telling the vibe. He was clearly bothered, like he knew what he’s doing was humiliating.”
“What did he say?” Jaeyun asked, his voice warped to his own ears. “Exactly.”
“That was it,” Sunghoon said. “He just asked if I’d been seeing her around.”
He paused.
“And if she was with someone else.”
Jongseong’s eyes cut to Jaeyun, concern flashing there before he forced his expression back into stillness.
“And?” Jaeyun asked.
Sunghoon’s mouth twitched. “I am not stupid, I didn’t say you both have been acting like bunnies over the past few weeks.”
“Do you think she told him something?”
“No,” Sunghoon cut. “That’s the thing — I think he has been trying to contact her, but she has been ignoring him.”
And suddenly, it made sense — all those times he’d watched you skim your phone, thumb hovering over the screen, before you set it aside and you looked back at him, a smile forced into place.
God — he’d been so silly for overlooking it.
“He broke up with her,” Jaeyun said.
“We are not telling you this to make you stressed,” Jongseong cut in. “We are just telling you so you can decide — this thing of yours is working for now, and I am glad for you — she apparently doesn’t want Baekhyeon back, which is great, but it might be someone else someday, and you will have to decide if you are okay with having only a part of her again.”
The apartment fell silent at this, and only then did Jaeyun notice how fast his heart was beating. It hummed against his ears, so loud he couldn’t even think.
When you were both younger — ten, maybe eleven — you had camped in your parents’ garden, your backs side by side on a too-thin blanket and a tent that never stopped letting the wind in. The world had been so silent, you’d whispered that it felt like there were only the two of you in the world, wouldn’t it be nice? You had asked. Back then, he’d rolled his eyes and said something dumb to make you grin, too young to consider anything.
Now, in his hallway with your perfume still on his skin and your borrowed shirt still bright in his mind, he understood what you’d meant. It would be so nice — so nice — if the world really could narrow down to just the two of you, and choosing you didn’t mean risking everything else. And he didn’t know whether that thought made him in love or made him dangerous.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
By the time Jaeyun arrived at Arcano, you were already on the dance floor with Jongseong and Sunghoon.
And it was stupid, honestly, how whenever he thought he was getting used to your existence, you managed to surprise him — newly lit, newly impossible — you stood between his roommates, eyes sparkling, arms half around Sunghoon’s shoulders as you both shouted the lyrics of a song that was too loud and too familiar, and Sunghoon was singing like he meant it, even if he was off-key on purpose. Jongseong yelled the chorus at your back, his face turned upwards as if the ceiling had personally offended him.
Arcano was the same as it had always been — red bulbs that made everyone look like a rumor, sticky floors that clung to the soles of your shoes like the place didn’t want anyone leaving sober, and bass so loud it turned thought into vibration. The air smelled like cheap liquor and perfume and sweat and the faint bite of citrus from a just-spilled drink.
And it’s too much — everything was too much.
But the moment he stepped further, you turned to him — not searching, but sure — as though you knew he was going to be standing there.
Gravity, he thought.
He moved through the bodies like he’d done it a hundred times — shoulders angled, hands careful, a quiet apology here and there, never shoving, never rushing. The bass beat against his ribs and still he stayed steady, eyes on you the whole time as if the rest of the room was just static.
You didn’t meet him halfway — you never did — you stayed where you were, your body turned subtly toward him, and only when he got close enough, your hand lifted, fingers finding his. And the moment you held him, the noise of Arcano seemed to dull around the edges, like the room had agreed to give you a fraction of quiet.
His hand was cold while yours was warm, and a shiver danced across you, strong enough to make your shoulders tremble.
And God — he wanted to kiss it.
You had changed since the morning, trading the shorts and t-shirt for a white dress, but his shirt remained, draped around your shoulders, and making his breath catch — he tightened his grip only enough to be sure you felt him back.
“Hi,” you said, loud enough to be heard over the music, but soft in the way you always became with him.
“Hi,” he replied.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Sunghoon shouted. “We were about to file a missing person report.”
Jaeyun huffed a breath that almost counted as a laugh. He had gone to the apartment after his classes to drop off his backpack, but he didn’t feel like explaining, not when you were squeezing his hand — small, and private.
“Did you eat?” you asked, and Jaeyun felt the absurd tenderness of it. The fact that you could be in a bar, sweating and laughing and alive, and still your first instinct with him was care.
“Yes,” he lied automatically.
Your eyes narrowed. “Yun.”
“I ate.”
“You ate what?” you asked, and Jaeyun opened his mouth, but his words stalled, and so he closed it again.
“He didn’t eat,” Jongseong said.
“He did that thing where he decides worrying is a food group,” Sunghoon agreed.
Jaeyun’s jaw flexed, but his hand stayed linked with yours like the connection mattered more than winning. “I’m fine.”
You didn’t argue, or at least, not right away. You just watched him for a second, your expression shifting into something softer and knowing, like you could see through him even in red light and bass.
“I am getting you something,” you said. “Stay here — don’t wander.”
Sunghoon leaned in. “He literally can’t. He’s on a leash.”
Jongseong barked a laugh. “Be nice.”
Jaeyun opened his mouth to protest, but you were already gone — your smile tossed back at him before you turned toward the bar and leaving him to stand there, eyes following, and tracking the small obstacles: the drunk guy who swayed too wide, the table edge that could catch your hip, the slick patch of floor near the booths. All the little risks the world liked to place in your path, as if daring him not to rush up and fix it before it could hurt you.
You barely had reached the counter when he approached you.
For a moment, Jaeyun thought it was a guy merely trying his luck with you, but then he shifted, red light catching on his features and Jaeyun recognized him immediately.
Baekhyeon.
Your body stiffened as he leaned in, his mouth close to your ear for a moment before you shifted sideways, trying to create space. Jaeyun couldn’t hear the words leaving your mouth, but your body was speaking loudly enough: no.
Yet Baekhyeon didn’t step back; when you seemed to be about to leave, he reached out, his hand closing around your wrist, and forcing you to stay.
Jaeyun didn’t even think, Sunghoon shouted something behind him, but he was already moving, shoving through people, and cutting a direct line toward you.
“Just listen.” Jaeyun heard Baekhyeon say, his grip still on you. “Just for a second.”
“I said no,” you said. “Let go—”
“Let her go.”
Baekhyeon turned at the sound of his voice, eyes unfocused and caught in that ugly space between sober and drunk. For a second he only stared, his brain having to wade through the noise to understand what he was seeing. But then, something in his face tightened, reading the truth between the lines and understanding, all at once, that you weren’t alone here. That you weren’t waiting to be won back. That whatever space he thought he still had in your life had been filled.
Or worse — that it never existed at all.
Jaeyun inhaled, his chest filling with a silly compassion toward Baekhyeon because he, too, wouldn’t know what to do if he ever found himself being dismissed from your life like this, but then Baekhyeon’s hand tightened on your wrist, making your fingers contract in pain, and Jaeyun exhaled, letting it all go.
He would crawl through hell, cut himself open until his body had become numb to pain, but Jaeyun surely would never hurt you — never.
“Let her go,” Jaeyun repeated.
Baekhyeon’s laugh echoed oddly loud in Arcano’s air.
“Here he is,” he said. “Always showing up like a good little — what is it? Lap dog?”
Jaeyun’s jaw flexed once. He’d been called worse — he could take worse — but then Baekhyeon’s gaze slid over you again, slow and mean, taking in your dress, your flushed cheeks, the smile you’d been wearing five minutes ago like it was a crime, and Jaeyun couldn’t stand it.
He stepped forward.
“Baekhyeon,” Jaeyun warned, and the other released your wrist, flicking his hand in a dismissive gesture as he looked around the bar.
For a moment, Jaeyun believed Baekhyeon had given up, putting an end to it, but then he turned back at you again, eyes brighter than ever.
“Tell me,” he said, loud enough that people nearby started to glance. “Did you ever actually care about me? Or was I just—”
He looked at Jaeyun.
“—filling time until your lap dog finally got his reward?”
Jaeyun didn’t decide to shove him — he didn’t plan it — his body merely moved like it had been waiting for permission from something older than thought.
His hands drove into Baekhyeon’s chest, making him stumble back, hard, and knocking into someone behind him.
Drink spilled onto the floor, and the scent of it rose almost immediately — sharp citrus and cheap sugar, muddled by the stale sweetness already living in the boards. It cut through the sweat and perfume for half a second, bright as a peel torn open, before the warmth of the room swallowed it again and left only the sour bite of liquor drying in the air.
“What the fuck—?” Baekhyeon barked.
“Yun,” you called, but it was already too late.
Baekhyeon launched himself at Jaeyun, his knuckles across Jaeyun’s cheekbone with a hot, skidding sting.
For a beat, the impact didn’t hurt the way it should’ve — it was just information — pressure, heat, the metallic taste of adrenaline flooding his mouth.
But then, something in him snapped.
The image of Baekhyeon’s hand around your wrist flashed behind his eyes like a match struck in dry tinder, and Jaeyun moved before his mind could catch up.
His fist drove forward on instinct, a short, brutal arc — no finesse, no warning — just the need to hit back, to end it, to make Baekhyeon understand with his body what his brain refused to learn.
The punch connected.
Jaeyun felt it in his knuckles, in the jolt up his arm, in the startled give of flesh beneath bone — and the sound that left Baekhyeon was small, shocked, as if he hadn’t expected consequences to be real. Jaeyun didn’t wait to see what it did to his face. He only stepped in closer and did it again.
Baekhyeon fell on the dirty floor, Jaeyun above him, fist in the middle of another throw, when someone hooked an arm around Jaeyun’s chest from behind and hauled him up.
“Stop it,” Jongseong snapped. “You’re going to ruin your damn face.”
But Jaeyun barely heard him. He was still leaning forward, still straining toward the floor like if he just landed one more hit, the feeling in his chest would finally loosen, and make sense.
Jongseong tightened his hold, bracing his weight behind Jaeyun’s back like an anchor.
“Yun,” you called.
Your voice wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
Jaeyun froze like you’d put a hand straight on his spine. His fist hovered, trembling with leftover momentum, and then your hands were on his face — warm palms cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing his cheekbones as if you could physically pull him back into himself.
“Yun,” you said again, closer now, eyes searching his like you were trying to find the part of him that still knew you.
And just like that, the fight drained out of him in a shuddering rush. His shoulders sagged. His breath broke. He let Jongseong hold him up for a second longer than he should’ve needed before he leaned on your touch.
“Princess, I—”
“Come with me,” you said. “Can you?”
For a second, Jaeyun couldn’t find the shape of an answer. Not because he didn’t have one — but because he had too many, a lifetime of yeses he’d never said out loud. His body was still buzzing with violence, his knuckles still singing, but your hands on his face made the world narrow into something he could survive. You were asking like it was a choice, like he was a person with options, when the truth was simpler than that: he had been following you since he was old enough to recognize your voice in a crowd. Since gardens and tents and school hallways. Since the first time you turned and expected him to be there — and he was.
“Yes,” he breathed, and the word came out rough, almost broken with how easy it was. Because you could’ve asked him to walk through fire and he would’ve stepped forward without thinking, just because you were the place his instinct went when the world got sharp. His hand rose, uncertain at first, then settled at your wrist like a question he’d spend his whole life answering the same way.
Always.
You looked past him to Jongseong and nodded, a quiet reassurance, and Jongseong finally released Jaeyun.
“Come,” you said, your fingers slipping into his.
˖ ⟡ ݁˖
Arcano’s neon shrank behind you with every step, its red glow thinning into something distant and irrelevant, but Jaeyun’s body hadn’t gotten the memo yet. The adrenaline still sat high in his chest, making his breath feel too big for his lungs, his heart beating like it was trying to outrun what had happened. He kept swallowing like he could force it down.
You didn’t talk much at first. You didn’t need to. You just walked — your fingers laced through his.
And every time his grip tightened without meaning to, you squeezed back once, small and reassuring. It’s okay. I’m here.
The street was cooler than it had any right to be, so closer to the summer, late-night air cutting cleanly through the smell of booze still clinging to him. The city sounded normal — cars passing, a laugh from someone’s balcony, a distant siren that didn’t belong to you. It was strange, how quickly the world returned to ordinary after a fight. As if nothing could be important for more than a few minutes.
Jaeyun glanced at you once, then again.
You looked furious in a contained way, like your anger had somewhere to go now that you’d gotten him out. Your mouth was set, your brow faintly pinched. Your thumb brushed the side of his hand, absent and grounding, like you couldn’t help checking he was still there.
Jaeyun’s chest tightened.
He wanted to say something useful. He wanted to apologize in a way that would actually fix it. But every sentence he tried to build collapsed into the same thing: I saw him touch you and I lost my mind.
Instead, he stayed quiet and let you lead.
You pushed the code into the keypad of your door with muscle memory, the little beep sounding too loud in the stairwell before it buzzed open and revealed your apartment.
Quiet in the specific way your place always was — soft, contained, familiar, smelling like clean laundry, faint florals, the lived-in warmth of your routines. The small lamp near your bed cast a gentle yellow glow that made everything look calmer than it felt. Books stacked neatly where they always were. A mug by the sink. A blanket folded too precisely at the end of the bed like you’d been trying to keep your life in order by force.
“Shoes,” you remembered. “Then sit by the counter.”
Jaeyun did as you said, slipping out of his shoes before he went to your counter and sat down on a chair, his hands on his thighs, and palms down, like he was trying to behave as you rummaged around — drawers, cabinet, a small basket you moved too roughly — the soft clack of objects knocking together filling the silence between you.
“First aid,” you muttered. “I know I have it.”
“Princess,” he said quietly.
“Don’t move.”
“I wasn’t going—” he began, but stopped, suddenly understanding. You weren’t being dramatic, but practical, anchoring the night into tasks: disinfectant, gauze, bandage. The same way he always did when his emotions got too big to hold comfortably.
You found the kit with a little gasp before you crossed back to him and set it on the table with a soft thud, kneeling slightly so you could see him properly.
“Give me your hand,” you said.
Jaeyun hesitated for a fraction of a second — then extended it.
Your hand closed around his, gently turning it over in the light, and beneath this sudden clarity, you frowned, eyebrows knitted, lips pressing into a thin line. The wounds were worse than it seemed. There was a cut over his fingers, bleeding as a darker bruise spread over. You reached for them, the tips of your fingers wandering through his skin as if you could erase them with your bare touch.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Jaeyun went still, your words reaching past the cuts and hitting something deeper.
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t say you’re sorry for that.”
“It’s my fault—” you started.
“No,” Jaeyun cut in. “No. He did that. Not you.”
You turned to the aid kit on the kitchen counter, dropping your gaze like you could hide behind the small, practical motions of it — like if you focused hard enough on gauze and antiseptic, he wouldn’t see the way your eyes had gone wet. But Jaeyun did. He always did, in the quiet, unfair way he noticed everything about you.
“I hate that you got hurt because of me,” you said.
Something in Jaeyun’s chest tightened — sharp and aching.
He leaned forward in the chair before he fully knew he was doing it, his uninjured hand sliding to your wrist, fingers curling gently around your skin as he pulled you onto his lap.
The motion was clumsy with the chair and the counter and the first aid kit half-open, but the moment you settled, your thighs bracketing his hips, the world narrowed into something that made painful sense.
His hands came up to your face, palms cupping your cheeks as his thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, cleaning your tears like he had done when he got you both grounded at twelve, and like he’d done again years later, on the night you crashed your father’s car — your hands shaking on his wrists, as he told you to breathe.
He made you look at him.
Your eyes were wet and bright, with tears, the shine gathering at the lower lid until it spilled and traced down your cheek, and his chest ached at that low instinct already moving with the need to make it better.
“Don’t take the blame,” he said. “I can’t stand it when you do that.”
Your breath hitched.
“It wasn’t your fault — he grabbed you and said those things. He—” Jaeyun’s throat worked, and for a second his voice broke. “I heard the way he talked to you, and I didn’t know how to be calm about it. If there’s someone to blame here, it isn’t you. It’s me.”
You stared at him for a second before your hands lifted, your fingers finding and resting at his wrists as they always had.
“Yun,” you whispered.
Jaeyun’s breath shuddered out, and he leaned forward without thinking.
You met him halfway.
Your kiss was soft at first — careful, like checking whether he was still Jaeyun, whether you were still you. Like asking permission in the only language that didn’t require words.
But Jaeyun answered too eagerly.
His grip tightened at your cheeks, desperately — like he needed the proof of you. His mouth moved against yours with a yearning that felt out of proportion to the moment, and he hated himself for it even as he did it.
He kissed you like he was still at Arcano.
Like he was still shaking.
Like the only way to stop the night from replaying was to overwrite it with you.
This wasn’t protection anymore. It was possession.
He wanted proof that you were still here.
Your hands slid into his t-shirt, fingers curling at the thin material the way they always did when you wanted him close, and it was enough to steal a sound from him — quiet, and yet completely wrecked — his arms slipped, and tightened around your waist, pulling you nearer until there was no space left to misunderstand.
“I’ve been trying to be good. I keep failing when it’s you,” he heard himself say. “I don’t know how to be only your friend anymore.”
There was a lost moment — a second where none of you moved, and Jaeyun thought that he finally did it — he had finally ruined the friendship, but then, you leaned in again, lips on his as your knees tightening around his hips, your weight settling into him like you’d chosen the place on purpose.
And it made him exhale like relief.
His uninjured hand slid along your side, finding you. The curve of your waist. The line of your ribs. The warmth of you under your dress like a living proof he couldn’t talk himself out of. He paused every time your breath changed, as if he was listening for the smallest no, for any flicker of doubt.
But you didn’t give him one. Instead, you tipped your forehead to his, noses brushing, and whispered his name in that soft, wrecked way that always pulled something honest out of him.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, the words rough around the edges. “Tell me and I—”
You kissed him before he could finish, fingers threading into his hair, holding him so close, he not only heard the next word, but felt them. “You.”
Jaeyun’s throat worked.
He lifted you — not smoothly, not perfectly, because the chair was in the way and the table was too close and the first aid kit lay open like a dirty evidence — but he did it anyway, with a gentleness that didn’t match the violence still humming under his skin. He carried you those few steps like it mattered, like the distance between your kitchen and your bed was a threshold he needed to cross carefully.
When he set you down, you caught the back of his t-shirt and pulled him after you. His restraint cracked in the smallest way — enough to let a kiss turn deeper, enough to let want show itself without becoming rough.
He braced his weight so he wouldn’t crush you, forearms on either side of your shoulders, head dipping until his mouth you again, again and again, pressing kisses along your cheek, your throat, the place beneath your ear that always made your breath hitch and he made a question of always finding it. His hand slid down your arm to your fingers, lacing them together above your head for a moment like a question, like an offering, and when you squeezed back, he let himself believe you.
His shirt went first, easing off your shoulders like a last, familiar layer — then your dress, and then your bra, quietly as the breath you released when he leaned in again and kissed the tip of your breasts, one at a time before he moved to your sternum, your stomach — taking in every piece of your skin in between his lips.
When he reached your panties, he didn’t care about taking them off; he merely kissed you over them, the thin lace not doing much to dull the feel of his mouth over your cunt and making you shiver, hands coming to his hair and threading almost bitterly, but if anything, he hummed, giving you another kiss and then, another. Open mouthed and tongue sneaking out every now and then to bump against your covered clit, and making you squirm in his hands, head thrown back, and sliding away a bit.
He pulled you into him, hands grabbing at your thighs so he could push his face back between them, licking a flat, slow stripe over your cunt. The lace did nothing to hold your fluid this time, and he tasted you through, his eyes closing almost instinctively to savor it better.
“You taste so good,” he couldn’t help but say. “So fucking good.”
A grin broke across your face — bright, and disarming — and Jaeyun forced his arms to push him up, kissing it like he could keep it there, among your already flushed cheeks, and your hair messy against the sheets because God — he was so in love with you.
“Princess,” he called, not really sure if he had something to say. But you hummed at him anyway, hands reaching for the hem of his t-shirt, and slipping your fingers underneath it.
His abdomen tensed and contracted as you wandered through, your trembling fingertips grazing through the lines long memorized, and pushing the piece up and up, until he had no other option but to lift his arms and help you take it off.
Jaeyun groaned as you moved to his belt, unbuckling it with the same ease you unzipped his jeans.
“Shit,” he murmured.
“What?”
“Condoms,” he whispered. “I — we used the last one yesterday. I was going to buy after Arcano.”
“That’s okay.”
It was his turn to halt, your words catching somewhere between sound and meaning. “What?”
“That’s okay,” you repeated, and when he didn’t move, you arched up beneath him, lips finding his ear. “I am saying that you can hit it raw, Yun.”
He made a sound — small and involuntary — the kind of honest noise his body made when his mind was still trying to pretend it had control.
You blinked up at him for half a second — then a laugh slipped out of you, warm and bright, the exact laugh you’d always used to turn moments into something survivable. Not mocking. Just delighted, but Jaeyun’s face heated immediately, color climbing up his neck.
“Don’t,” he managed, as if the word could stop you from seeing him like this — undone by you, made soft by a sentence and the brush of your mouth near his ear.
But you only smiled wider, eyes shining with the kind of fondness that hurt.
And Jaeyun — God, Jaeyun — looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with how much he felt. Like love had taken up residence in him years ago and never once paid rent, and now it was everywhere: in his breath, in the way his hand hovered and then settled, careful, as if touching you was a question he wanted to keep asking for the rest of his life.
He exhaled, a little shaky. Then, because he couldn’t help it — because you were laughing and alive beneath him, and he was hopeless — his mouth twitched.
“You’re going to be the death of me, Princess,” he whispered, the words rough with tenderness.
You shook your head, not quite dismissively, but more like you couldn’t believe how silly he was — how silly he was for you.
Yet he couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Hips up, babe,” he instructed, and you met him there, your body moving on a quiet arch, as you pushed at your feet, and allowed him to curl his fingers at the band of your panties, sliding them away.
His attention snapped back to you immediately — hands returning to your inner thigh, your calves, taking over your ankles, and pulling you toward him.
You shivered as he pushed himself inside of you, your fingers digging into his back as your lips parted on a quiet moan that he made up for you — Jaeyun simply not being able to be quiet at the feeling of you around him with no limitation and groaning loudly.
Jaeyun never thought he would be the type of guy to be emotional over taking a girl without a condom, but it was you with him, and when he started moving again, it was slow and deep, each thrust deliberate as if he wanted to memorize every sound you made, every way your body responded to his. The friction was different, he could feel every ridge, every pulse of you around. And it was almost too much, the intimacy of it making his chest tight with emotion he couldn’t name.
Jaeyun hissed, looking down between your bodies, eyes all warm and glazed as he watched how you fit together for a quiet moment before his forehead dipped and rested against your shoulder, his breathing uneven, as if he was trying to keep the night from turning reckless again.
He was so careful with you it felt like devotion.
But then, you drew him closer — insistent — and he finally let his body answer with the same honesty his voice had tried to avoid. Jaeyun kissed you until you tasted like him. Until your hands clung. Until the space between your bodies stopped feeling like a rule and started feeling like a lie. Each thrust of his hips pronounced with a wet clash, and the sound of your headboard hitting the wall.
And it was too much, honestly — you were too much.
When you came, he followed — quietly, inevitably, his breath breaking as if your body had taken his and led it somewhere he’d never learned to survive. Yet still, he didn’t punish you; he stayed close, slowly towing your climaxes for as long as he could. And when he finally stilled, he pulled back with a tenderness that looked almost like it broke him to let you go.
Jaeyun eased down and let his head rest against your lower stomach, breathing there for a second — then another — almost as if his lungs needed to relearn how to work. Your hand found him, threading into his hair, fingers combing gently until his face softened and his eyes fell shut. And, for the first time all night, his body stopped bracing.
RULE #4: DO NOT LET HER KNOW YOUR TRUE FEELINGS
If I say it out loud, I make it her problem. I put something heavy in her hands when she never asked to carry me. And I’m afraid — plain and simple — that if she knows, everything changes. And if everything changes, she might step back. She might leave. I can survive wanting her. I can survive swallowing it. I can’t survive losing her. So I’ll keep it useful: jokes, rides home, answers at 2 a.m., the kind of loyalty that looks harmless from the outside. I won’t say I love her. I won’t say I’ve always loved her. I won’t turn our friendship into a question she has to solve.
Jaeyun stayed where he was a little longer than he ought to have, his palms splayed at your sides, lips parted against the skin of your stomach as he pressed a kiss there, and then, at your hips, your thighs, covering all the way to your knees and back up again.
You shivered as he nipped at the tender skin just inside your hip, your fingers tightening in his hair for a moment before you eased again — slow, and unconsciously, keeping time with your breath.
“Jaeyun,” you whispered, and perhaps it had been the way your breath changed then, caught on something that he couldn’t quite hear, but his heart wavered in his chest.
He knew you enough to know it was the beginning of a confession. He just didn’t know what kind. And that was what scared him: not the truth itself, but the possibility of it. That you might be about to ask for distance. That you might be about to reach for a word that would make him either the safest thing in your life — or the mistake.
“Could you turn the lights off?” you asked.
It could have sounded silly then. But it was something old between you — something you’d done as kids when you needed to confess something embarrassing, something heavy. As if darkness could make secrets smaller. As if not seeing each other’s faces could make bravery easier.
Jaeyun propped himself up, knees pressed against your mattress as he reached for your lampshade and turned it off.
The room darkened instantly, but not completely — not with your curtains still open and the city’s light streaming in, painting the walls in soft silver and distant neon, scattering stripes on your sheets.
Jaeyun hadn’t noticed how still you both had become until a car passed outside, its tires whispering over the asphalt before it was gone, and the room held onto the quiet that followed, too complete, too attentive.
The sheets rustled softly as Jaeyun lay back down beside you, not touching you — not yet. He just stayed close enough that when you turned to him, he could feel you through the dark, but then you reached for his hand, interlacing your fingers as you had done when you were nine and whispering that you’d heard your parents arguing and didn’t know where to put the feeling, you were thirteen and admitting you were terrified that one day you’d grow up and he wouldn’t be yours to keep.
“Talk to me, Princess,” he whispered.
“Baekhyeon wasn’t wrong,” you said, the words scattering through the space of your bodies so quickly, Jaeyun took a moment to catch it all, and when he did, he went very still, eyes sharpening on your face.
“Not about you,” you added. “But about me — he wasn’t wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you remember my first date?” you asked.
Jaeyun let out a breath that was almost a laugh, except it didn’t contain humor. Of course he remembered. He remembered the outfit. He remembered your perfume. He remembered how a strand of hair didn’t quite stay on your pins and he kept fixing it while you paced through your room. He remembered how his fingers lingered there for one last time before you slipped through the door.
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I remember.”
You stared at your hands for a beat, thumb brushing against his knuckles.
“I thought you would tell me not to go,” you admitted. “But you didn’t, and so I went, and through the whole day I kept thinking oh, it would have been so much better if Yun was here,”
“The same thing happened with Baekhyeon — I kept wishing you were there with me instead, and I thought it was just because you’re my best friend and everything is funnier when it’s just us. I thought it was just because I feel safer when I’m with you, but—” you paused. “But through these last weeks, I just realized that I truly wished you had asked me to stay.”
Nothing in the room moved, but something in him did, his internal footing slipping, the world turning unstable while his body stayed perfectly still beside you.
You weren’t saying I wanted you to forbid me. But I wanted you to want me enough to risk it.
Jaeyun’s mouth parted, but his body acted like it was still losing its footing. His breath snagging, throat tightening, the words jamming as if speech required solid ground he no longer had. And in the middle of his silence, you created your own answer.
“Never mind, I just—” you began, slipping from his touch and slipping away, but he caught you then, fingers closing around yours again and keeping you there.
“I’ve wanted to tell you to stay a thousand times.”
Your breath caught at his words, your gaze lifting to his and holding, steady and unblinking, the kind of eye contact that made everything feel suddenly too honest to survive. His grip tightened on your fingers, then gentled again, careful not to turn it into a claim — only a question he was asking with his whole body.
“I wanted to,” he said. “When you had that first date. When you called me after and tried to laugh about it, like it didn’t get under your skin. When you—” His breath caught. “When you started seeing Baekhyeon, when he called when we were together. Every time — every time damn time — I wanted to ask you to stay.”
Jaeyun lifted your joined hands to his face, turning them slightly so the backs of your fingers brushed his cheek.
“But I didn’t,” he whispered. “Because I thought if I told you to stay, that was when I was going to lose you entirely — and you know, Princess, I can handle being your best friend forever. I can handle being the one you call when you’re sad or drunk or mad — even if it’s just for you to leave once the moment passes. I can handle having only parts of you.”
His voice lowered. “But I can’t handle losing you.”
You turned toward him properly then, shifting until your faces were close enough that when you spoke, he didn’t just hear the words that followed, but he felt them.
“I would have stayed,” you said. “Every damn time — I would have stayed.”
Jaeyun made a sound that didn’t belong to him — small and raw — the sentence going straight through his ribs and lodging there.
His grip on your hand tightened — and his forehead dipped toward yours, hovering there as if he didn’t trust the space between you not to change its mind.
“Stay, Princess,” he asked.
“I’m going nowhere.”
FINAL RULE: NO MORE RULES
I wrote rules that were supposed to keep me from ruining us. I thought that if I could define every boundary, I could pretend I could control the outcome. Don’t accept reckless requests. Don’t touch her like I’m owed. Don’t be possessive. Don’t say the words that might make her leave.
A small guide for surviving her without losing her.
But I’m not losing her.
She’s here. She’s not a maybe, not a mistake, not something I have to handle with gloves on. She’s with me — clear-eyed, chosen, real. And for the first time, the future doesn’t feel like a threat I need to solve. It feels like something we’re walking into together.
So this is the last rule: no more rules.
Not because I’ve stopped being careful with her — fuck, I’ll always be careful with her. But because I don’t need rules to keep her close when she’s already choosing to stay. Because I don’t have to hide love inside procedure anymore. Because I can finally stop bracing, and start living in the simplest truth I’ve ever had:
Genre: city boy!soobin, small town romance, book rental shop, slow burn
Word Count: 34.4k
When Choi Soobin is dragged to his grandparents' small hometown for the summer before his final year of university, he's prepared for two months of boredom. Instead, a trip to return his grandmother's books leads him to Y/N and her family's book rental shop, where one summer slowly becomes something neither of them expected.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ choi soobin x fem! reader
a/n thank you for waiting patiently (this story lowk became my punching bag from exam stress), also there's a bit of an age gap 3 years. I hope you guys enjoy soobin's story.
Part of the Our Beloved Summer AU !
🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐
The descent into Jeju International Airport always began with the same sudden drop in pressure, a momentary weightlessness that made Soobin’s stomach press against his ribs. He looked out the scratched double pane of the window, his forehead resting against the cool plastic molding. Below, the deep, bruised blue of the ocean gave way to the jagged, volcanic coastline of the island.
It was June of 2001. A year and a half after the world was supposed to end.
Back in late 1999, everyone in Seoul had been terrified of the Y2K bug, fearing planes falling from the sky, power grids collapsing, and digital history erasing itself at the stroke of midnight. People had hoarded canned goods and bottled water. But midnight had come and gone, the digital clocks had rolled over smoothly into the new millennium, and life had simply moved on.
To anyone else, Jeju was a paradise of recovery. To Choi Soobin, it was just a beautiful, inescapable cage.
He had been making this exact trip every single summer for as long as he could remember. When he was five, it meant scraping his knees on rocks and catching tiny crabs in tidal pools. When he was fourteen, it meant suffering through long, damp afternoons with zero reception on his digital pager, reading old comic books until his eyes blurred. Now, at twenty-two, it felt like an annual exile.
"Make sure you grab the heavy suitcase from the carousel, Soobin-ah," his mother’s voice broke through his thoughts as the plane taxied down the runway. She was already unbuckling her seatbelt the second the chime sounded, fixing her hair in a small compact mirror. "Your father packed those heavy ginseng sets for your grandparents. Don't let them drag on the floor."
"I know, Mom," Soobin muttered, stretching his legs as much as the cramped economy seating allowed.
He pulled his embroidered baseball cap lower over his eyes, following his parents through the bustling terminal. The airport was suffocatingly alive, packed with domestic tourists in bright linen shirts, families holding hands, and couples carrying matching straw hats. Everyone was vibrating with the frantic energy of a vacation, celebrating a new century that felt safe after all.
But Soobin wasn't on vacation. He was just relocating his stress.
As they walked through the automatic sliding doors of the arrivals terminal, the Jeju summer hit him like a physical wall. It wasn't the dry, baking heat of Seoul's asphalt jungles; it was a heavy, suffocating moisture that instantly glued his oversized grey t-shirt to his back. The air smelled thick—thick with salt, rotting seaweed, and the sweet, heavy scent of overripe tangerines from the gift shops lining the exit.
His father flagged down a white Hyundai Sonata taxi, speaking to the driver in a familiar, comfortable cadence. Soobin slid into the back seat, pressing his shoulder against the door as his parents filled the rest of the space. The air conditioning in the older car hummed loudly, blowing a weak, lukewarm breeze that smelled faintly of cheap hazelnut air freshener and old cigarette smoke.
As the taxi rattled away from the neon signs of Jeju City, heading toward the quiet eastern side of the island, the landscape began to shift dramatically. The small island was a place untouched by the heavy commercial tourism that would define its future. It felt raw, ancient, and deeply quiet—an island shaped entirely by wind, water, and volcanic rock.
Soobin rested his chin in his hand, staring out the window as the modern buildings faded into the background. In their place rose the island’s signature feature: the stone. Low, meandering walls called batdam—made from porous, pitch-black basalt rocks piled loosely on top of one another without a shred of mortar—weaved through the landscape like dark ribbons. They separated the narrow dirt paths from small patches of vibrant green garlic and sweet potato fields, a striking contrast of midnight-black stone against the emerald earth.
The taxi sped past rolling, undulating slopes that bled toward the sea. The iconic oreums—the small, extinct volcanic cones that dotted the countryside—rose like soft, grassy shoulders against a sky so blue it looked painted.
Because it was June, the fierce, biting winter winds had softened into a thick, salt-heavy breeze that slammed into the side of the car. Everywhere Soobin looked, the island was blooming. Patches of wild, bright yellow canola flowers still lingered in the ditches, and the deep green leaves of the tangerine orchards hung heavy over the stone walls, the tiny, unripe green fruits hiding like marbles among the foliage.
For his parents, this road was a return to roots, a nostalgic escape from their busy lives in the capital. For Soobin's older siblings, it was an obligation they had successfully dodged this year, both of them flying off to Europe and Japan with their respective partners. Soobin, being the youngest and still stuck under the thumb of a brutal engineering curriculum at Korea University and his parents, hadn't been given a choice.
“You look like a ghost, Soobin,” his mother had told him over fried chicken in their Seoul apartment just two days ago, her voice echoing in his memory as she chatted amiably with the taxi driver. “You’ve done nothing but stare at those thick problem sets and computer text for six months.”
As the car rounded a long bend, the coastline suddenly came into view. The black volcanic cliffs met the sea with a restless, rhythmic violence. The water wasn't the murky grey of the capital’s Han River; it was a brilliant, translucent turquoise near the shore that deepened into a moody, bottomless indigo further out. There were no massive luxury resorts or crowded high-rises here yet. Instead, the coastline was dotted only with the small, brightly colored buoys of the haenyeo and the occasional weathered wooden fishing boat tied to a concrete pier.
Soobin pulled his bulky, silver Samsung folder phone from his pocket. He flipped it open with a satisfying clack, checking the tiny screen.
No signal.
He couldn't even send a text message to his classmates back at Korea University, who were likely drinking beer in Anam-dong or listening to the latest g.o.d or Yoon Mi-rae tracks on their MP3 players. He held the phone up toward the window, twisting his wrist to the left, hoping to catch a single bar of reception from a distant tower. Nothing.
He let out a soft, defeated sigh, letting his head drop back against the vinyl headrest. The sun was high, baking the road until the heat shimmered over the asphalt. The island seemed to vibrate with a quiet, overwhelming presence that reminded him, with absolute certainty, that he was trapped. Two months of this. Two months of sun, silence, and absolutely nothing to do.
When the taxi finally pulled up to his grandparents’ home, the silence of the village was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic, distant roar of the ocean and the shrill, metallic buzz of cicadas hidden in the hackberry trees.
"Our student has arrived!"
His grandfather stood by the wooden gate, his face weathered and dark from a lifetime under the island sun, but his smile was wide and genuine. Before Soobin could even set the luggage down, his grandmother emerged from the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour. She immediately reached up, her small, wrinkled hands patting Soobin’s cheeks with enough force to make his teeth click.
"Look at you," she lamented, shaking her head. "So tall, but so thin. Do they not feed you at that fancy university? You look like a beanpole."
"I eat well, Halmeoni," Soobin smiled faintly, dimples showing as he leaned down so she didn't have to strain her arms.
"He does nothing but study," his mother chimed in, dragging her own bags into the courtyard. "He needs to clear his head. He's going to turn into a calculator if he stays in Seoul any longer."
Within an hour, his parents and grandparents were settled into the main room, the sliding doors thrown open to catch the faint sea breeze. A large watermelon had been cracked open, its red flesh sweating on a glass platter. The conversation flowed easily between the adults—gossip about distant relatives, the price of garlic, the upcoming typhoon season.
Soobin sat on the edge of the wooden veranda, his long legs dangling off the side. He held a slice of watermelon, staring blankly out at the courtyard.
"Don't waste your youth staring at nothing," his grandfather called out from inside, raising his glass of barley tea. "Go wash your face. If you're bored, take a walk down to the main road. The village hasn't moved an inch since last year."
Soobin closed his eyes, the heavy scent of his grandmother’s drying radishes filling his nose, wondering how on earth he was going to survive until August.
The heavy scent of scorched rice and boiling fish stew began to drift from the kitchen, mingling with the salt-sticky air of the courtyard.
"Come inside and eat before the food gets cold," his grandmother called out, slide-shuffling across the polished wooden floor of the main room.
Soobin pulled his long legs up onto the veranda, carefully ducking beneath the low wooden doorframe to slip inside. The center of the room was dominated by a heavy, low-lying wooden table that was practically groaning under the weight of the spread. There was a steaming pot of braised hairtail fish bubbling away, surrounded by an army of small side dishes: kimchi, japchae, salted squid, and a massive bowl of cold cucumber soup with ice cubes bobbing on top.
"Sit, sit," his grandfather instructed, gesturing to a floor cushion.
Soobin managed to fold his 185-centimeter frame into a cross-legged position, his knees awkwardly high. No sooner had his butt hit the cushion than the questioning began.
"Your mother says you’re studying how to build bridges and dams," his grandfather started, scooping a generous portion of the fiery red fish onto Soobin’s stainless-steel rice bowl. "Is that true? At that big school in Seoul?"
"Civil engineering, Hal-abeoji," Soobin corrected gently, lifting his chopsticks. "We're mostly focusing on fluid mechanics and material sciences right now."
"A calculator," his grandmother summarized with a firm nod, pouring him a glass of icy barley tea. "That's what I said. But tell me, Soobin-ah, do they even let you sleep up there? Last summer you had cheeks. Look at you now, your jaw is sharp enough to slice a radish. Are you skipping meals to buy those fancy computer books?"
"No, Halmeoni, I eat three times a day, I promise," Soobin said, his dimples peeking out as he took a big bite of the savory fish. The taste was instantly nostalgic—rich, spicy, and distinctly of the sea. "The coursework is just a bit heavy this semester. I had to stay up late for the design finals."
"And what about a girl?"
Soobin nearly choked on his radish. He coughed into his fist, his face instantly flushing a light pink that matched the watermelon rind.
His mother let out a loud laugh from across the table. "Oh, Mother, don't even ask. He spends all his weekends in the library or at the internet cafe looking at blueprints. I don't think he even knows what a girl looks like anymore."
"A young man at Korea University with no girlfriend? Absurd," his grandmother clucked her tongue, leaning forward and squinting at his face as if inspecting a piece of produce. "He has a good face. Clear skin. Tall like his uncle. You should be holding hands and walking under the cherry blossoms, not staring at computer screens. What about that girl from next door? The one who used to live next door with you?"
"Halmeoni, she’s married and has a kid," Soobin said, desperately trying to steer the conversation away from his nonexistent love life.
"See? Everyone is moving fast in the new century," his grandfather chuckled, pouring a small shot of local green-bottle soju for Soobin's father. "You city boys think too much. You analyze the wind instead of just feeling it. That’s your problem. You come down here, you need to empty your head. Stop calculating."
"He can't help it, Father," his mother sighed, though her eyes were warm. "He got his stubbornness from you."
For the next hour, the small room was a cacophony of clinking metal chopsticks, loud laughter, and the relentless barrage of grandparent trivia. They wanted to know if he was able to finish his internship, if he still listened to that "noisy music," and what his plan was after graduation.
Soobin mostly kept his head down, smiling and nodding, stuffing his mouth with food whenever a particularly difficult question about his future career path arose. It was overwhelming, suffocating in that uniquely loving way that only family could manage.
By the time the table was cleared, the afternoon heat had reached its peak. The adults, heavy with food and the humid air, began to doze off. His father was already snoring softly against a wooden armrest, and his mother was flipping through a local supermarket flyer.
Soobin slid back out onto the veranda, his stomach completely full but his mind feeling more restless than ever. He pulled out his silver folder phone again. He flipped it open. Still no service. Just the digital clock staring back at him: 02:14 PM.
The whole summer stretched out before him, vast, empty, and entirely unscripted.
The mid-day heat of early June didn't just rise; it stagnated, pooling into the low valleys and stone-walled courtyards of the eastern village until breathing felt like inhaling hot steam.
Inside the house, the atmosphere wasn't much better. Five days of rural confinement had officially broken Soobin's spirit. The initial novelty of his grandmother’s cooking had long since worn off into a numbing, humid routine, and the summer heat had only intensified, settling over the coastal town like a damp, heavy wool blanket. The menu today was cold kongguksu—a thick, creamy soy milk broth that tasted heavily of toasted sesame seeds, with ice cubes loudly clinking against the stainless-steel bowls, topped with a sparse, colorful heap of thin julienned cucumbers.
Soobin sat in his usual spot near the open sliding doors, slumped over so low his chest nearly touched his knees. He dragged his chopsticks through the thick, pale white broth, swirling a single ice cube around and around with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner marking days on a dark cell wall.
"Look at him," his grandmother said, pausing with her spoon halfway to her mouth. She didn't look at Soobin; she looked directly at his mother, pointing a sharp, silver-ringed finger at his miserably slumped shoulders. "Five days he’s been here, Seon-young. Five days of moping around the courtyard like a wet dog. His father asked him to go up the oreum to check the garlic patches—no. His grandfather asked him to go out on the boat to catch some mackerel—no. He just sits on the veranda, flipping that silver plastic toy open and closed. Clack, clack, clack. It’s driving me crazy. I'm going to throw that folder phone into the water if he doesn't stop."
"I have a remote design project due right when the autumn semester starts, Halmeoni," Soobin pleaded softly, his deep voice sounding muffled in the small room. He didn't lift his eyes from the soy milk. "I'm trying to mentally draft the stress analysis for a reinforced concrete retaining wall. If my calculations are off by even a millimeter—"
"Stress? You're twenty-two, what stress do you have?" his grandfather barked from the head of the table, though his heavily wrinkled eyes were twinkling with old-man amusement as he chewed a piece of salted squid. "In my day, stress was when the summer typhoon took the thatch roof right off the kitchen and we had to sleep under a fishing tarp. You sit in an air-conditioned room in Seoul and look at numbers on a glowing screen, and you call it stress?"
They clearly don't understand the engineering jargon, Soobin thought.
"Exactly," his grandmother clucked her tongue, lifting a massive heap of fiery, red radish kimchi from a stoneware dish and dropping it straight into Soobin’s bowl, splashing a tiny drop of white broth onto his grey shirt. "You need to be out doing things. Sweat it out! Look at the Choi family’s boy down the road—Yeonjun! He’s in his second year at Seoul National University now. His mother won't stop bragging about him at the morning fish market. Says he’s studying finance up there. And the Jeon's daughter? She’s up in Seoul too, top of her class. Everyone is doing something out in the world except our KU engineer, who looks like he’s practicing to become a stone statue."
Soobin closed his eyes, taking a long, slow sip of the cold broth to keep from groaning aloud. Yeonjun. He remembered Choi Yeonjun from the summers he has spent in Jeju. Hearing that he was at SNU now just felt like a personal, calculated attack from the universe.
"He's just tired, Mother," his mother defended him weakly, though she kept her focus entirely on her own bowl, picking out a stray sesame seed. "The Seoul air is full of yellow dust this year. He's just detoxing from the city."
"Well, he can detox while being useful to his elders," his grandmother said. She set her stainless-steel spoon down against the table with a definitive, heavy clack that signaled the absolute end of lunch.
She stood up, her small knees popping slightly in the quiet room, and shuffled over to the varnished chest of drawers sitting in the corner of the main room, right beneath a framed calligraphy scroll. When she turned back around, she was cradling a heavy, highly precarious stack of thick paperbacks against her apron. The spines were deeply creased, the edges yellowed from years of salt air and thumbing, and they gave off a strong, unmistakable scent of old ink, cheap glue, and basement dust.
"Since you're determined to do absolutely nothing but catch flies with your mouth open, walk these down to the main road," she instructed, dropping the heavy stack right next to his empty bowl. The wooden table shook, making his spoon rattle. "They’re historical epics about the Joseon dynasty. Five volumes in total. And they are nearly two weeks overdue."
Soobin blinked up at the mountain of paper, his engineering brain momentarily failing to process the sight of physical card-catalog sleeves sticking out of the tops. "A book rental shop? Halmeoni, it's 2001. Who still rents books?"
"The Liu’s rental shop has been sitting on that corner since before your father courted your mother, Choi Soobin," she cut him off cleanly, giving his broad, city-softened shoulder a firm, maternal slap that echoed through the room. "And he will give me a vicious earful at the town meeting this Friday if I keep them any longer. It's just past the intersection on the main street. Dongbaek Book Rental. Go on, get some sun on those pale shoulders before you blend into the wallpaper. And don't you dare lose the index cards inside them!"
Realizing there was absolutely no escape from the matriarch of the Choi family, Soobin let out a long, defeated sigh that puffed his cheeks out.
The heavy wooden frame of the screen door slid shut behind Soobin with a hollow clack, cutting off the immediate drone of his mother and grandmother arguing over who would handle the leftover soy milk.
He stood alone in the narrow gravel courtyard, and the blinding June sun hit him like a physical blow to the chest. The light was flat and white, bleaching the color out of the old tiled roofs. The concrete under his shoes was baking, radiating waves of dry, shimmering heat that made the horizon look wavy. He shifted the heavy weight of the five volumes, the sharp cardboard corner of Volume Three digging right through his thin grey t-shirt into his ribs. They smelled heavily of his grandparents' house.
"Dongbaek Book Rental," Soobin muttered under his breath, his thumbs catching the bottom edge of the books to keep them from sliding onto the gravel.
He nudged the rusty iron gate open with his hip and stepped out onto the narrow village path. The silence of the early afternoon was absolute, heavy, and dead. In the peak heat of the day, even the village stray dogs had crawled deep beneath the shadows of the low basalt stone walls to sleep. The only movement was the occasional shimmer of a black dragonfly, and the only sound was the crunch of his own sandals on the dirt road, drowned out by the metallic, rhythmic scream of the cicadas hidden high in the hackberry trees overhead.
He walked down the sloping path, his tall frame casting a short, blocky shadow on the dry earth. To his left, past the low-slung batdam stone walls, the vibrant green sweet potato fields rolled out in waves toward the jagged shoreline, where the turquoise edge of the sea met the dark volcanic rocks. On any other day, a tourist might have stopped to take a photo with a disposable camera, but right now, a thick bead of sweat was trickling down the back of Soobin's neck, tracing the line of his spine before soaking into his waistband.
He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against his silver Samsung folder phone. He flipped it open out of pure habit.
No Service.
The digital clock on the small outer screen read 01:42 PM. He let out a soft, defeated sigh, letting his head drop forward as he turned the corner onto the village's single, two-lane asphalt strip.
The main street was entirely empty, saving for a rusted blue farm truck parked outside the hardware store. He passed the tiny local pharmacy with its faded green cross sticker peeling off the glass, then the small agricultural market where a few crates of bruised, early-season tangerines sat melting in the sun. Finally, tucked tightly between a silent barber shop and a shuttered rice mill, he found it.
Above the low doorway, a hand-painted wooden sign hung crookedly from two rusted metal chains: Dongbaek Book Rental. The red camellia logo was heavily weathered, the paint flaking away in small spirals from years of salt-heavy winter storms. A small wooden chalkboard stood by the entrance, though the previous week's rain had smeared the old chalk text into ghostly, illegible white streaks across the slate.
Soobin took a deep breath of the hot air, shifted the heavy mountain of novels to his left arm, and pushed the heavy glass door open.
A small brass bell chimes overhead—a crisp, clear ring that seemed to instantly cut through the heavy, vibrating noise of the cicadas outside.
The air inside the shop was a shock to his system. It was instantly cooler, trapped behind thick, vintage concrete walls and shaded by heavy, dark green velvet curtains that blocked out the midday glare. It didn't smell like the sea or the dirt outside; it smelled intensely of ink, cheap binding glue, aged wood pulp, and a faint, lingering hint of dried lavender sachets. Shelves made of dark, mismatched timber lined the narrow walls from the floor all the way to the water-stained ceiling, packed tightly with comic books, old martial arts serials, classic literature, and endless rows of thick, bound Korean manhwa. It was small, chaotic, and completely analog.
Soobin walked carefully down the narrow aisle, his shoulder accidentally brushing against a tall stack of Slam Dunk comic books piled precariously on a plastic stool.
"Hello?" he called out, his deep voice sounding strangely loud in the small, paper-packed room.
He approached the high wooden counter at the very back of the shop. The desk was a graveyard of old-world habits: a vintage blue stamping pad, small wooden boxes filled with alphabetized index cards, a half-empty glass of iced barley tea sweating profusely onto a newspaper crossword puzzle, and a mountain of returns waiting to be sorted.
Behind the counter, half-hidden by an open copy of a thick thriller novel, sat a girl.
When the bell chimed, she didn't rush, but she didn't ignore him either. She cleanly finished the sentence she was reading, slid a pressed green bookmark between the pages to hold her place, and set the novel down with a soft, careful touch.
When she lifted her head, Soobin’s breath caught slightly in his throat.
She was beautiful, but it wasn't the sharp, artificial, heavily styled beauty of the girls he usually saw crowded around the cafes in Sinchon or the Korea University campus. Her beauty was soft, radiant, and entirely unbothered by the heavy summer heat. She had warm, clear skin that held a very faint, healthy glow from the coastal sun, and her dark hair was pushed back in a headband, a few stray, wavy tendrils framing her face and the nape of her neck. Her eyes were large and clear, crinkling at the corners into a small, welcoming expression as she took him in.
She noted his height first, her eyebrows lifting slightly in mild surprise, before her gaze drifted to his clean Seoul clothes and the massive, clumsy stack of historical fiction novels cradled precariously in his arms.
"Hi there," she said, her voice surprisingly bright, carrying the gentle, melodic lilt of a partial Jeju dialect that sounded soft rather than harsh. "Can I help you return those?"
Soobin cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very large and very awkward in his oversized clothes. "Uh. Hello. Yeah. I'm here to return these for my grandmother. Choi Sun-ja?"
"Oh, Halmeoni Choi!" Y/N smiled, and the change in her face was striking. Her whole expression softened, a small, genuine smile showing near the corner of her mouth. She pulled one of the wooden index boxes toward her, her slender fingers flipping through the alphabetized cards with practiced ease. "I was wondering when we'd get these back. She’s the only one around here who can clear through a five-volume royal court epic before the month even ends."
She reached out across the counter. Soobin quickly dropped the heavy stack down, the wood groaning slightly. As she steadied the top book to keep it from tumbling, her fingers lightly brushed against his thumb. Her skin was cool despite the heat, smelling faintly of the lavender sachets tucked into the bookshelves.
She opened the back cover of the top volume, checking the paper sleeve where the little white stamped card lived. Her long eyelashes fluttered as she did the quick math in her head, her lips parting slightly.
"Ah," she said softly, looking up at him with a look of genuine, apologetic sympathy. "They’re about fourteen days overdue. The system automatically fixes it at... seven thousand won in late fees. I'm sorry, our system is kind of strict about the old classics."
"Seven thousand?" Soobin blinked, rubbing the back of his neck, though he couldn't even find it in himself to complain because she looked so genuinely apologetic about it. "Wow. Okay. For books that look like they survived the war."
Y/N let out a small, melodic laugh that sounded like a wind chime, her eyes curving into sweet crescents. "Hey, don't insult our treasures and the late fees are basically what keeps our single lightbulb from flickering out." She gestured up to the humming fluorescent tube overhead, giving him a playful, good-natured look.
Soobin smiled faintly, his own dimples finally making an appearance as he dug into his back pocket. He pulled out his leather wallet and flipped it open, only to feel a sudden jolt of dry panic. He had spent his last ten-thousand-won bill on a pack of gum and a drink at the airport kiosk. His wallet held nothing but his university debit card and a couple of Seoul subway tokens.
"Do you... take card?" he asked, holding the piece of plastic up sheepishly.
Y/N winced slightly, her expression incredibly sweet as she pointed to a little cracked plastic basket on the desk. "Ah, I'm so sorry. We really want to get a card terminal, but my dad says the line rental costs too much. We're cash-only for payments. There's a little dog sign right there."
Soobin looked down at the hand-drawn sign, which was mostly covered by a fading cartoon sticker. He felt a sudden wave of heat rush up his throat. "I don't have a single bill on me. Is there an ATM nearby?"
"The closest one is at the agricultural coop down by the main bus terminal," Y/N said, looking out the window at the blinding, white-hot street before looking back at him with an expression of pure pity. "But it's a twenty-minute walk in this sun. You'll completely melt before you make it halfway there."
Soobin looked down at his useless folder phone, then back at her warm, expectant face. "Can I... bring it by tomorrow? I promise I'm not running away. My grandparents live right up the lane."
Y/N paused, looking at his big, anxious eyes, and then she let out a soft, comforting hum. She reached under the counter and pulled out a large ledger bound in black electrical tape, flipping to a page marked with a neat, handwritten C.
"Tell you what," she said, picking up a blue ballpoint pen. "I’ll just write down that Halmeoni Choi’s very tall grandson promised to pay it tomorrow. That way, my dad won't see a missing balance on the daily sheet, and you don't have to get heatstroke walking to the coop." She looked up, flashing him a reassuring, warm smile. "Sounds fair?"
Soobin felt his heart give a strange, unfamiliar little thud against his ribs. "Yeah. Yes. Thank you. That's... really nice of you."
"Don't worry about it," she said smoothly, writing the note in neat, elegant cursive. As she finished, she leaned her elbows on the counter, resting her chin in her hands as she looked up at him with curious, friendly eyes. "So, you're visiting from Seoul? You definitely look like a city boy."
"Is it that obvious?" Soobin muttered, suddenly self-conscious about his grey shirt and pristine cap.
"In a village where everyone wears orange sun hats and rubber boots? Yes," she teased gently, her eyes sparkling. "Very obvious."
Soobin shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his long arms suddenly feeling empty without the heavy stack of books. Through the glass door behind him, the external world looked completely bleached out by the midday sun, the air visibly shimmering over the asphalt. The mere thought of stepping back out into that stifling, salt-heavy heat made a fresh wave of sweat break out along his collarbone.
He looked back at Y/N, then glanced down at the cool, shaded concrete floor of the shop.
"Um," Soobin began, his voice dropping an octave into that soft, hesitant register he used whenever he was stepping outside his comfort zone. "Would it be okay if I... just looked around for a little bit? Your AC is really nice, and honestly, if I go back out there right now, I think I actually might melt."
Y/N’s eyes crinkled into a warm, amused line, her dimple reappearing instantly. She straightened up from her elbows, gesturing generously toward the rows of dark wooden shelves that filled the narrow space.
"Of course," she said, her voice carrying that gentle, rhythmic Jeju lilt. "Stay as long as you need to cool down. My dad spent half of last year's earnings fixing that wall unit up there, so we might as well get our money's worth out of it. Just ignore the rattling noise it makes."
"Thank you," Soobin said, letting out a genuine sigh of relief that made his shoulders drop.
He took off his baseball cap, running a long hand through his dark hair to loosen the flattened strands, and stepped into the first aisle.
The transition from the blinding exterior to the dim, paper-scented labyrinth of the shop felt like diving underwater. The air here was perfectly still, cooled by the ancient, humming machine tucked high in the corner. As he walked deeper into the narrow rows, the walls of text seemed to swallow him up, muffling the distant, metallic scream of the cicadas outside until they were nothing but a faint, rhythmic pulse.
He wandered slowly, his large frame making the tight spaces feel even tighter. He had to tuck his elbows close to his sides to keep from knocking over loose stacks of old literary magazines.
To his left were rows upon rows of serialized martial arts novels, their covers boasting dramatic, ink-brushed illustrations of swordsmen. To his right were the comic books. He ran his index finger lightly along the spines of a complete set of Full House, the glossy covers slightly tacky from years of humid summer air and the fingers of countless local kids. Further down, he found the classic literature section—thick, heavy volumes with faded gold lettering on the spines, sitting quietly in the deepest shadows of the shop.
It was entirely different from the sterile, fluorescent-lit engineering library at Korea University, where every book was bound in uniform plastic and smelled of industrial adhesive. This place felt alive, every single cover bearing the invisible history of the people who had held it before him.
As he reached the end of the third aisle, he paused, looking through a gap between two loosely packed shelves.
From this angle, he could see back to the counter. Y/N had already reopened her thick thriller novel. The soft, golden light from a small desk lamp caught the side of her face, highlighting the delicate slope of her nose and the soft. She looked completely at peace, entirely unbound by the frantic, time-crushing anxiety that seemed to dictate every single life back in Seoul.
She turned a page, the crisp slip of the paper echoing softly in the quiet room.
Soobin pulled his eyes away, a strange, quiet warmth settling into his chest.
The heavy, suffocating humidity of the afternoon finally cracked as the sun began its slow descent behind the jagged purple silhouette of Hallasan Mountain. In its wake, the sky transformed into a breathtaking canvas of deep tangerine, violet, and dusty rose, casting a warm, copper glow across the volcanic stone walls of the courtyard. A cool, salt-laden evening breeze swept in from the coast, rustling the thick leaves of the hackberry trees and bringing the first real relief of the day.
With his father and grandfather still out at the village community center dinner was a much quieter affair.
Soobin’s grandmother had set up a small, portable butane stove on the wooden veranda patio. A thick, seasoned iron grill plate sat over the blue flame, sizzling loudly as strips of thick-cut, local black pork belly rendered down, sending a mouth-watering, smoky aroma into the twilight air.
Soobin sat cross-legged on a woven mat, his long legs tucked out of the way of the hot grease. He picked up a crisp piece of lettuce, spreading a dollop of savory ssamjang onto it before adding a perfectly grilled, sizzling piece of pork and a sliver of roasted garlic. He popped the whole thing into his mouth, his eyes closing in brief bliss.
"See? I told you the island air would bring his appetite back," his mother said, turning over another strip of pork with a pair of metal tongs. Her face looked soft and relaxed in the warm glow of the sunset. "He never eats like this in Seoul. Up there, it's just instant ramyun and cold coffee over his plates."
"It's because he actually did some work today," his grandmother clucked, sitting comfortably with her legs stretched out to the side as she fanned herself with a traditional paper fan. She peered at Soobin over the rim of her reading glasses. "Well? Did you make it down to the main road without fainting, my big-city scholar?"
Soobin swallowed, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Yeah. I returned them, Halmeoni. All five volumes."
"And? Did you see the owner's daughter behind the counter?" his grandmother asked, her sharp eyes twinkling with a sudden, mischievous curiosity that made Soobin pause mid-reach for his honey iced tea. "Did you talk to Y/N?"
Soobin’s hand hovered over his glass. Y/N.
The name sounded soft, rolling out in his grandmother's thick Jeju cadence, but it instantly brought back the vivid image of the girl from the afternoon—the way the dim golden light of the desk lamp had caught the soft curve of her nose, the scent of dried lavender clinging to the dark wooden shelves, and the bright, melodic sound of her laugh when he had stood there holding his useless debit card.
"I... I don't know," Soobin muttered, his cheeks warming slightly. He quickly took a sip of tea, hoping his mother would just mistake his red face for the heat radiating from the grill. "She didn't tell me her name. She was... really nice, though. She let me stay inside to cool down because of the AC."
His mother and grandmother exchanged a swift, knowing look across the sizzling grill. A collective, identical smirk bloomed on both of their faces.
"Oh, look at him," his mother teased, leaning forward and nudging Soobin’s arm with her elbow. "A girl lets him sit in the air conditioning for ten minutes, and our boy is already blushing."
"She really is a lovely girl," his grandmother chimed in, thoroughly enjoying the way Soobin was desperately trying to avoid their eyes by hyper-focusing on a piece of kimchi. "Her family has had a hard time keeping that shop open since the turn of the century, but Y/N works so hard to help her father. She’s smart, too. She’s starting her first year of university this August."
Soobin blinked, finally looking up from his bowl. "University? Where?"
His grandmother’s grin widened, delighted that she had successfully re-engaged him. "Right up in Seoul! She got into a good school up there… though i forgot which one was it. Her father was bragging about it at the market last week. She’s spending her very last summer here running the shop before she leaves the island."
"See? She'll be a freshman just as you're starting your final year," his mother added, nudging him again, her eyes dancing with amusement. "You two will be in the same city. Maybe you should offer to show her around Seoul. You know, since she was so nice to let you use her AC."
"Mom, please," Soobin mumbled, his dimples peeking out despite his best efforts to maintain a straight face. He felt a strange, fluttering sensation in his chest. The thought of the quiet, pretty girl from the bookshop navigating the crowded, chaotic subways of Seoul felt completely surreal.
"She told me I could pay the overdue fee tomorrow," Soobin said softly, trying to steer the conversation back to logistics, his deep voice almost lost beneath the steady, rhythmic chirping of the evening cicadas. "Since I didn't have any cash on me."
"Well, then you'd better not be late tomorrow, Choi Soobin," his grandmother warned, though her voice was entirely fond as she reached over to pat his knee. "And wear a nicer shirt this time. Don't go down there looking like a wet noodle. You have a reputation to uphold!"
Soobin let out a soft, embarrassed laugh, letting his head drop as the two women laughed at his expense. He looked out past the courtyard wall, where the very last string of golden sunlight was dipping below the ocean horizon, leaving behind a deep, star-speckled indigo. For the first time since he had arrived on the island, the thought of tomorrow didn't feel like a chore.
The morning heat arrived early and heavy, baking the volcanic earth until the air smelled faintly of hot pine and dried sea salt. Soobin stood in front of the small vanity mirror in his room, pulling a crisp, short-sleeved cotton button-down over his shoulders. He hesitated for a second before smoothing down the collar, his grandmother’s playful scolding from the night before echoing in his ears.
With crisps, seven 1,000-won bills tucked securely into his front pocket alongside his grandmother’s neat library card, he stepped out onto the sun-bleached main road.
The walk down to the book rental shop felt different today. Yesterday, he had been dragging his feet under the oppressive weight of the sun, desperate to just finish an errand. Today, despite the sweat already beginning to bead at his temples, his pace was light. The rhythmic, buzzing drone of the cicadas didn’t sound quite as grating.
When he reached the weathered wooden storefront, the heavy glass door was propped open a few inches with a smooth black basalt rock to catch whatever stray breeze rolled off the ocean. The old, boxy air conditioning unit was already chugging away, its steady, rhythmic rattle acting as a low bassline to the quiet morning.
Soobin pushed the door open, the small brass bell above him chiming softly.
The transition into the dim, paper-scented sanctuary immediately washed over him. Standing behind the dark wooden counter was Y/N. She was in the middle of stacking a fresh delivery of comic books, her hair pinned up today with a tortoiseshell claw clip that let a few soft, dark strands fall around her jawline. She wore a simple, light linen blouse that made her look perfectly suited for the coastal summer.
As the bell rang, she blinked up from the stack, her eyes landing on him. A slow, genuine smile broke across her face, her signature dimple making an immediate appearance.
"Oh," she said, her voice carrying that light, melodic Jeju lilt. "You actually came back. And you’re early."
"I promised I would," Soobin said. He stepped closer to the counter, suddenly hyper-aware of how tall he was in the low-ceilinged room. He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out the folded bills and the card, sliding them carefully across the polished wood toward her. "The 7,000 won for the late fee. And my grandmother’s card."
Y/N looked down at the crisp cash, then up at him, her eyes dancing with amusement. "You even flattened the bills. How diligent." She picked them up, her fingertips brushing lightly against his palm for a fraction of a second. The contact was brief, but it sent a quiet, electric warmth straight up his arm.
She opened the heavy, black-taped ledger, neatly scratching out the red ink beside his grandmother’s name with a fluid stroke of her pen.
"My grandmother told me last night that your name is Y/N," Soobin said softly, his deep voice sounding incredibly resonant in the quiet, empty shop. He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint pink hue touching the tips of his ears. "She... she speaks very highly of you."
Y/N’s pen paused for a second before she closed the ledger with a soft thud. She leaned her elbows on the counter, resting her chin in her hands as she looked up at him, her smile turning a bit mischievous. "Your Halmeoni is my favorite customer."
"Oh by the way, my dad told me this morning that your grandfather was bragging at the community center about his 'genius Seoul grandson' who goes to Korea University." she laughed, the sound bright and clear.
She straightened up, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "August is coming up fast. I'm actually moving up to Seoul myself for university. It’s... a bit intimidating, honestly. It looks so massive on maps."
Soobin looked at her, seeing a flicker of genuine, quiet vulnerability behind her bright eyes. The confident, grounded girl who commanded this ancient bookshop suddenly looked a little small at the prospect of leaving her island behind.
"It is big," Soobin said gently, his tone shifting into something steady and reassuring. He leaned against the edge of the counter, dropping his shoulder to meet her eye level. "And it’s really loud. But... it’s not so bad once you find your own corner. If you ever get lost, or if you just need someone to show you where the good, quiet places are."
Y/N tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks flushing a soft, delicate pink that rivaled the Jeju sunset from the night before. She looked down at the counter, a small, private smile playing on her lips.
"I might just take you up on that," she murmured, looking back up to meet his gaze.
The quiet, paper-scented sanctuary of the book rental shop was entirely replaced by the chaotic, sun-drenched noise of the local morning market.
The village square was a maze of brightly colored plastic tarps, wooden crates, and umbrellas flapping in the salt-heavy sea breeze. The air was a thick, sensory assault—the sharp tang of fresh-cut hairtail fish, the earthy scent of wet garlic bulbs, and the sweet, heavy perfume of summer fruits ripening under the July sun.
Y/N sat on a low plastic stool next to her mother behind a mountain of wooden crates filled with summer Hallabong oranges, her hair pulled back into a quick, practical braid to keep it off her neck in the thirty-four-degree heat.
"Smile a bit more, Y/N-ah," her mother scolded gently, sorting the fruits into neat, small pyramids. "People won't buy oranges from a girl who looks like she’s auditing a tax ledger."
"Mom, it's scorching, and we've been here since five in the morning," Y/N murmured, though a soft, dutiful smile tugged at her lips anyway. She picked up a small mesh bag, ready to pack the next order.
"Aigoo, look who it is! Seon-young’s boy!"
The loud, unmistakable voice of Halmeoni Choi pierced through the market chatter from just a few yards away.
Y/N’s shoulders stiffened slightly. She tilted her head up, her eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on a familiar, towering figure.
Soobin was navigating the narrow aisle between a vegetable stall and a dried-squid vendor, looking spectacularly out of place. He was practically a lighthouse in the middle of the crowded square, his tall height forcing him to duck under the low-hanging canvas tarps of the stalls. Today, he wore a simple, clean white t-shirt and loose navy shorts, carrying a woven grocery basket on his forearm like a clumsy armor shield. His grandmother was marching ahead of him, gripping his elbow tightly as if she were parading him through the village.
"Halmeoni, please, everyone is looking," Soobin muttered, his deep voice carrying over the noise, his cheeks already flushed a deep pink as he tried to pull his baseball cap lower.
"Let them look! A handsome boy helping his old grandmother carry radishes—there's no better advertisement for a good upbringing," His Halmeoni declared proudly, stopping right in front of the fruit stall.
Soobin officially looked up from his sneakers, his eyes instantly locking onto Y/N sitting behind the mountain of oranges. He froze, his hand tightening on the handle of the woven basket.
Y/N looked up at him from her low stool, her eyes widening slightly in surprise before a soft, amused expression washed over her face. Seeing the cool, logical engineering student from Seoul looking entirely helpless at the mercy of his grandmother was a view she hadn't expected.
"Oh, Sun-ja-ya!" Y/N’s mother greeted warmly, standing up from her crate. "Is this the famous grandson from the city? My goodness, he’s grown so tall! He looks like a movie star."
"Doesn't he?" Halmeoni Kim beamed, giving Soobin’s broad back a firm, proprietary swat that made him wince. "Soobin-ah, say hello. This is Y/N's mother, and this is Y/N. You returned my books to her the other day, didn't you?"
Soobin cleared his throat, his dimples flashing briefly out of sheer, panicked politeness as he bowed low, nearly knocking his cap against a stack of oranges. "Hello. I’m Choi Soobin."
"Hello, Soobin-ah," Y/N’s mother smiled warmly, then nudged her daughter's shoulder. "Y/N, give them the best oranges we have. Don't weigh them on the scale, just fill the bag."
Y/N stood up from her stool, her eyes meeting Soobin's as she reached for a yellow plastic bag. Up close, without the dark wooden counter of the rental shop separating them, he felt entirely too tall, his shadow completely blocking out the harsh morning sun above her.
"Hi," she said softly, her melodic Jeju lilt slipping out naturally. Her dark eyes sparkled with a quiet, shared amusement as she looked at his crimson ears. "I didn't expect to see you out here. I thought you'd be hiding from the heat today."
Soobin’s eyes shifted frantically to his grandmother, who was already deep in a passionate conversation with Y/N’s mother about the quality of the summer radish crop, then back to Y/N. He let out a quiet, flustered breath, adjusting the strap of the heavy grocery basket on his arm.
"My grandmother dragged me out at six in the morning," he whispered back, leaning down slightly so his deep voice wouldn't carry over the market roar. "She said if I stayed in bed any longer, my brain would turn into mush from my lifestyle."
Y/N let out a small, breathless laugh, a sound he had been thinking about for the past forty-eight hours. She began picking the largest, brightest oranges from the crate, her slender, fruit-stained fingers moving deliberately as she dropped them into the plastic.
"Well, you don't look completely melted yet," she murmured, leaning slightly over the crate, her eyes slanting into a teasing line. "Though I have to admit, seeing the city boy carrying a basket of radishes is a pretty good view."
Soobin rubbed the back of his neck, his dimples flashing briefly as his blush deepened. "Don't look too closely. I already dropped a bunch of green onions two stalls back."
Y/N smiled, folding the top of the heavy paper bag neatly before handing it across the crate to him. "Here. Tell your Halmeoni these are on us. And... since you're already out, are you coming by the shop later? A new batch of comic books actually came in this morning."
Before Soobin could answer her question about the comic books, Y/N’s mother cleanly cut back into the conversation. She patted his grandmother’s arm, but her keen, bright eyes were locked straight onto Soobin.
"Don't let him spend all his time locked up in that stuffy house, Sun-ja-ya," Y/N’s mother said, her voice easily carrying over the rumbling engine of a nearby delivery truck. She looked back at Soobin, her smile warm and completely open. "You know, our Y/N is moving up to Seoul this August for her first year of university. She doesn't know a single soul up there, and she’s already a bit nervous about navigating those massive subway lines."
"Mom," Y/N mumbled under her breath, her face instantly heating up to match the bright orange color of the Hallabongs in front of her. She gave her mother's apron a sharp, desperate tug. "He doesn't need to hear about that."
"What? It's true! It's a huge city," her mother declared playfully, waving a hand dismissively. She looked back at Soobin, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Since you're already up there and you know the layout, you two should exchange numbers before the summer ends. Look after her a bit when she gets to Seoul, okay? Show her where the safe streets are."
Soobin’s entire face flushed a brilliant, undeniable crimson that traveled straight down to the collar of his white t-shirt. He rubbed the back of his neck, his dimples flashing out of sheer, suffocating embarrassment as his grandmother proudly nodded along in total agreement next to him.
"I... I can definitely do that," Soobin mumbled, his deep voice dropping an octave as his eyes flicked shyly toward Y/N. "I'm usually on campus anyway."
Y/N quickly pushed the heavy plastic bag of oranges directly into his large hands to stop her mother from saying anything else, though she couldn't hide the soft, helpless smile pulling at her lips.
The afternoon heat had been thick enough to breathe, a heavy, static weight that hung over the coastal road as Soobin took his stroll. He had ventured further than usual, his hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts, his eyes tracked on the horizon where the open sea met a line of dark, bruised clouds.
He didn't notice the sudden shift until the wind changed. A sharp, cool gust swept in from the water, smelling heavily of ozone and salt. Before he could even look for a sky to read, the heavens simply cracked open.
It wasn't a gentle drizzle; it was a violent Jeju summer downpour.
Soobin ducked his head, his long legs eating up the asphalt as he bolted toward the only structure on this stretch of the road—a small, weathered concrete bus stop jutting out against the rocky edge of the coast. He burst under the rusted tin roof, panting, his white t-shirt already dotted with heavy, dark circles of rainwater.
He wiped the spray from his eyes, shaking his head like a dog, only to freeze when a soft, clearing throat echoed from the corner of the small shelter.
"You're going to catch a cold if you stand right in the splash zone like that."
Soobin blinked, pushing a wet strand of hair from his forehead.
Y/N was sitting on the narrow, faded wooden bench built into the concrete wall. She sat up straight, her feet planted firmly on the ground and her hands resting neatly in her lap. She was wrapped in an oversized, lightweight cardigan, while her small canvas tote bag sat securely beside her.
"Y/N," Soobin said, his deep voice caught in his throat as he stepped further under the awning. "You're here too."
"I was on my way back from delivering a box of historical novels to Mrs. Jeon up the hill," she explained, shifting her legs to the side to make room on the bench. She patted the worn wood. "Sit. The wind is kicking the rain sideways. If you stand there, you'll be soaked in five minutes."
Soobin hesitated, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the bus stop was. When he sat down, the wooden bench creaked under his weight, his tall frame naturally forcing him to slouch so his head wouldn't hit the low tin roof. Their shoulders didn't touch, but the space between them was close enough that he could feel the faint, radiating warmth of her skin against the damp chill of the storm.
In front of them, the view was entirely open to the sea. The horizon had completely vanished, swallowed by a massive, gray wall of falling water that violently churned the dark blue waves below. The rhythmic, deafening roar of the rain hitting the tin roof above them created a strange, isolated pocket of absolute privacy. It felt like the rest of the island had been completely erased.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. They just watched the storm.
"Do you get rains like this in Seoul?" Y/N asked softly, her voice low but clear over the steady drumbeat of the roof. She didn't look at him, her eyes fixed on the white foam crashing against the black basalt rocks below.
Soobin turned his head slightly, watching the side of her face. The gray, muted light of the storm caught the delicate slope of her jaw and the dark, wet lashes of her eyes.
"Sometimes," Soobin replied, his voice dropping into that steady, grounding register. "But it feels different up there. In the city, when it rains like this, everyone runs into subways or department stores. You just see a sea of umbrellas and people looking irritated because their shoes are ruined. It feels... claustrophobic."
He looked back out at the vast, roaring ocean. "Here, it just feels like the island is taking a breath."
Y/N turned her head, a soft, thoughtful expression in her eyes as she looked at him. "You say very beautiful and poetic things, Choi Soobin."
Soobin’s dimples flashed briefly, a faint, flustered pink touching his ears despite the cool breeze. He idly rubbed his palms against his knees. "It's just logic. Everything has a rhythm. You just notice it more when there aren't any buildings blocking the view."
Y/N let out a small, breathless laugh, her shoulders relaxing as she swayed her legs. "I used to hate the rain here when I was little. It meant the bookshop smelled like damp paper, and nobody would come down the road for hours. It felt so lonely."
She paused, her fingers idly tracing a knot in the wooden bench between them. "But sitting here now... with you... it doesn't feel quite as empty."
The admission was quiet, slipping out so naturally into the roar of the storm that it took Soobin a beat to process it. He looked down at her hand on the bench, just inches from his own. His heart gave a distinct, heavy thud against his ribs, a sudden spike of warmth rushing through him that had nothing to do with the summer heat.
"I'm glad I took a stroll today then," Soobin murmured, his voice incredibly gentle, his dark eyes locking onto hers as she looked up.
Y/N’s cheeks flushed a soft, delicate pink, her gaze holding his for a long, breathless moment while the rain continued to wall them in from the rest of the world. A small, private smile played on her lips, and for the first time, the upcoming month of August didn't feel like a hard boundary—it felt like a continuation.
The sheet of rain grew even denser, transforming the sea into a blurred slate of charcoal and frothing white. The heavy droplets didn’t just fall; they slapped against the asphalt road, creating a low, dancing mist that hovered a few inches above the ground. The sharp, metallic scent of the rusted tin roof mixed with the deep, earthy perfume of the wet soil from the sweet potato patches behind them. Every few seconds, a particularly fierce gust of wind would drive a spray of fine, icy mist under the awning, speckling Soobin’s bare shins and the hem of Y/N’s oversized cardigan with cold beads of water.
Y/N shivered slightly, pulling the sleeves of the cardigan down completely until only her fingertips peeked out.
"Are you cold?" Soobin asked immediately, his eyes shifting down to her tucked-in frame. He instinctively shifted closer to the edge of the bench, using his broad shoulders to block the open side of the shelter where the mist was blowing in.
"Just a little," she said, looking up at him through her lashes. The sudden shift in his position brought him so close that she could smell the clean, laundry-detergent scent of his t-shirt beneath the heavy smell of the rain. "But it's a good kind of cold. It makes you feel awake."
Soobin rested his elbows on his knees, his large hands loosely clasped together as he stared at the puddles forming at their feet. Y/N watched the way his long frame seemed to take up almost the entire shelter, his presence grounding the small space against the roaring storm outside.
"How long have you actually been coming down to Jeju?" she asked suddenly, her voice cutting through the steady thrum-thrum of the rain above their heads. "I mean, I know your grandparents live here, but did you use to visit a lot when you were younger?"
Soobin turned his head slightly, a small, nostalgic smile lifting the corner of his lips. "Since I was a kid. My parents used to drop me off here every single summer vacation. I’d spend two whole months running around the docks, getting sunburned, and helping my grandfather sort his fishing nets."
Y/N tilted her head, a thoughtful expression in her eyes as she did the mental math. With him being twenty-two and a senior in university, and her turning nineteen and preparing for her freshman year, their paths felt like they should have crossed at some point on this tiny island.
"That's funny," she murmured, her dark eyes reflecting the cool, gray light of the afternoon. "If you've been coming here that long, we must have been running around the same square. But I don't remember seeing you at all until this week."
"Well, think about it," Soobin said, his deep voice carrying a soft, amused rumble. "When I was fourteen and trying to look cool riding my grandfather's rusty bicycle down by the pier, you were probably an eleven-year-old running around the elementary school playground with ice cream all over your face."
Y/N let out a bright, indignant laugh—that clear, wind-chime sound that temporarily erased the damp chill of the storm. She reached out from her long sleeve and lightly nudged his arm with her elbow. "Hey! I was a very dignified eleven-year-old, thank you very much. I was already helping my dad alphabetize the fiction section by then."
"See? We were in completely different worlds," Soobin smiled, his dimples cutting deep into his cheeks as he accepted the playful nudge. "By the time you were old enough to actually hang out at the pier, I was already in high school up in Seoul, preparing for university exams and spending my summers trapped in academy classrooms."
Y/N’s smile softened a bit, her chin drifting back down to rest on her knees as she looked back out at the churning gray waves. "I guess three years feels like a big gap when you're younger. You probably would have thought I was just an annoying kid back then."
"Probably," Soobin teased gently, though his eyes were warm as he looked at her. He shifted slightly on the bench, his shoulder brushing against hers for a fleeting second. "But we're both heading to Seoul in August now. The gap doesn't really matter anymore, does it?"
Y/N turned her head back to meet his gaze, her cheeks warming with a soft, delicate pink that had nothing to do with the cool mist of the rain. A small, private smile played on her lips, the steady rhythm of the storm creating a quiet world where it was just the two of them, finally catching up on the time they'd missed.
"Though," Y/N murmured, her voice dropping into a softer, more reflective tone as she watched a heavy droplet trace a jagged path down the concrete wall, "it's weird to think that while you were up there getting used to the massive crowds and the tall buildings, I was still right here. Watching the same tide come in and out."
Soobin followed her gaze out to the water. "Do you think you'll miss it too much?"
"I think I'll miss the quiet," she admitted honestly. She uncurled her legs slightly, letting her sneakers tap against the damp floor. "Here, if I want to think, I just walk until I hit the sand. In Seoul, where do you go when your head gets too loud?"
Soobin leaned back against the concrete wall, his head tilting up toward the dark tin roof. "You find small pockets. A quiet corner in the university library after 9 PM. A bench by the Han River when it's freezing cold and no one else wants to sit outside. Or..." He paused, turning his head to look at her profile. "You find a person who feels like home."
The words hung in the space between them, weighted and clear against the roaring backdrop of the heavy rain shower.
Y/N’s fingers stilled against the rough wood of the bench. She turned her head slowly, her dark eyes locking onto his. The playful banter from a few moments ago had entirely evaporated, replaced by a thick, magnetic stillness.
"And did you?" she asked softly, her breath catching slightly. "Did you find a person like that up there?"
Soobin looked at her—at the damp tendrils of hair framing her face, the oversized cardigan that swallowed her frame, and the steady, unblinking gravity of her gaze. His heart gave a sharp, heavy thud against his ribs.
"No," he said, his voice dropping into a low, completely honest register. "Not yet."
A sudden, fierce gust of wind rattled the tin roof violently, throwing a heavy spray of cold ocean mist right across the open front of the shelter. Y/N blinked, instinctively shrinking back from the wet chill.
Instead of reaching out to touch her, Soobin simply shifted his weight. He planted his sneakers firmly on the concrete floor and leaned forward, his broad back and shoulders acting as a physical wall against the open side of the bus stop. He caught the brunt of the cold mist across his own arm and t-shirt, completely blocking it from hitting her side of the bench.
Y/N looked up, realizing what he was doing. She looked at his damp shoulder, just inches away from her face, and then up at his jawline, which was tight with a sudden, nervous tension.
"You're going to get soaked if you keep doing that," she murmured, though her voice carried a soft, undeniable warmth.
"I'm bigger," Soobin muttered, his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead as his ears turned a bright, furious pink. "I can take the hit."
Y/N looked down at her lap, a small, genuine smile pulling at her lips. She didn't say anything else, but she didn't shift away from his shadow, either.
Outside, the heavy bounces of the droplets were finally beginning to thin out, the violent drumming on the tin roof slowing down into a quiet, rhythmic patter. A faint, pale streak of silver light broke through the edge of the charcoal clouds, casting a glassy reflection across the wet asphalt.
"The rain is stopping," Y/N whispered, breaking the quiet space between them.
Soobin looked out at the breaking sky, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction as the wind died down. For the first time all week, he found himself genuinely wishing a Jeju storm would last just a little bit longer.
"Yeah," Soobin murmured, his deep voice carrying a quiet note of regret as he looked back down at her. "It is."
The next afternoon, the book rental shop was quiet, trapped in the lazy, thick lull of a mid-July heatwave. The heavy glass door was propped open with a brick to let in the faint, salt-tinged breeze, but the air inside still smelled deeply of aged paper, old glue, and the faint, sweet scent of the barley tea Y/N’s father had brewed that morning.
Y/N sat behind the high wooden counter, the slow whir-clunk of an old green electric fan oscillating back and forth across her face. She was idly running a stamp over a fresh stack of library cards, the rhythmic thud-thud of the rubber against ink the only sound in the room. Her hair was pulled back into a loose bun today, a few stray hairs curling at the nape of her neck from the humidity.
The shadow that suddenly blocked out the bright afternoon sun in the doorway was too tall to belong to any of the neighborhood kids.
The small brass bell above the door gave a light, familiar chime.
Y/N looked up, her hand pausing mid-stamp.
Soobin stepped into the shop, letting out a long breath as the cold air hit him. Today, he looked thoroughly dressed for the coastal heat—wearing a baggy, short-sleeved linen button-up shirt in a soft cream color, left open over a plain white tank top, paired with loose khaki shorts that hit just below his knees.
When his gaze landed on Y/N behind the counter, a small, involuntary smile pulled at his lips, his dimples flashing briefly in the dim light of the shop.
"Hi," he said, his deep voice sounding incredibly soft in the quiet sanctuary of the room. He let the door close gently behind him, stepping onto the worn wooden floor.
"Look who it is," Y/N murmured, setting the rubber stamp down on the desk. A slow, teasing smile crept onto her face as her dark eyes locked onto his. "Hey city boy, I see your shoes aren’t muddy anymore."
Soobin rubbed the back of his neck, his ears instantly warming with a faint pink tint as he walked closer to the counter. "I scrubbed the clay off my sneakers last night. My grandmother threatened to make me sleep on the porch if I brought the hill mud into her living room."
Y/N let out a small, breathless laugh as she leaned her elbows on the dark wood of the counter, propping her chin in her hands as she looked up at him.
"Well, thank Halmeoni for saving your shoes," she said, her voice dropping into a softer, playful register. "So, did you actually come to browse, or are you just hiding from the sun again?"
"I came for the new comic books," he said softly, his dark eyes holding hers, a quiet, steady confidence behind them.
Y/N’s lips parted slightly, her heart giving a small, unexpected skip before she quickly recovered her usual playful demeanor. She slid her chin out of her hands and stood up straight, turning toward the small rolling metal cart parked right behind the counter.
"Well, you're in luck," she said, her voice carrying a light, proud note as she lifted a thick, glossy graphic novel from the very top of the stack. "They arrived in the morning crate. I haven't even had the chance to put the plastic protective sleeves on them yet, but I figured I'd save the first read for our VIP customer."
She turned back around and set the book down on the counter between them. The cover was bright and colorful, a stark contrast to the old, sun-faded romance novels lining the walls of the shop.
"Volume four," Y/N murmured, tapping the glossy cover with her index finger, her eyes slanting into a teasing line as she looked up at him.
Soobin looked down at the book, but his eyes quickly drifted back up to her face, a warm, helpless smile breaking across his features. His deep dimples cut into his cheeks as he leaned his forearms against the cool wood of the counter, bringing himself a little closer to her eye level.
"Don't just stand there blocking the aisle," Y/N murmured, a playful glint in her eyes as she patted the empty space on the counter right next to her ink pad. "Pull up that stool from the corner. You can read right here while I go over the overdue member cards. I need someone to keep me awake anyway."
Soobin’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but he didn't hesitate. He grabbed the high plastic stool and settled in right beside her, his long legs tucked under the ledge.
For the next hour, the shop fell into a comfortable, easy silence, completely sealed away from the humid June heat outside. Under the steady, cool flow of the air conditioner, the only sounds were the crisp slip of Soobin turning the pages of volume four and the soft rustle of Y/N sorting through the thick yellow index cards.
Slowly, the rhythmic sorting of the cards began to drag. The cool air hitting Y/N's face felt a little too comfortable, and her eyelids grew heavier with every passing minute. Eventually, her head began to droop. Giving in to the afternoon slump, she crossed her arms over the cool wooden counter and let her head rest sideways on them, drifting into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Soobin reached the end of a chapter and went to turn the page, but the sudden, total absence of any shuffling cards beside him made him pause.
He glanced over.
Y/N was fast asleep, her face nestled into the crook of her elbow. The gentle breeze from the AC vent above was catching a few loose strands of hair that had escaped her bun, blowing them softly across her cheek.
Soobin froze, his hand hovering over the edge of the comic book page. He stared at her for a long moment, his chest tightening with a sudden, hyper-aware nervousness. The shop felt entirely too quiet now. A slow, helpless smile tugged at his lips, his deep dimples appearing as he looked at how soft and relaxed she looked.
Careful not to make a sound, he gently reached out and picked up the heavy ink pad she’d left open, snapping the lid shut so it wouldn't dry out. He then slid the stack of overdue cards a few inches away from her arm so she wouldn't accidentally wrinkle them in her sleep. He didn't want to wake her, but he also didn't want to stop looking at her.
Yielding to the heavy, lazy atmosphere of the room, Soobin carefully folded his own arms on the counter, mirroring her position. He lowered his head onto his sleeves, turning his face toward her so he could quietly watch her sleep while the afternoon hours drifted away.
But the rhythmic, quiet sound of her breathing and the cool air of the shop were too comforting. Within twenty minutes, Soobin’s own eyelids grew heavy, and he drifted off right beside her.
Another hour slipped away in the quiet sanctuary of the shop.
When Y/N’s eyelids finally fluttered, she let out a long, groggy breath. Her mind was still trapped in a thick fog, her cheek pressed warm against the soft knit of her cardigan sleeve. She slowly blinked her eyes open, her vision blurry as she adjusted to the soft, shadowed light of the room.
As the blurry shapes sharpened, her breath caught entirely in her throat.
She was looking directly into Soobin’s face.
Because they were both laying flat on the wood, they were completely face-to-face, barely a few inches of space separating them.
Soobin was still fast asleep. His eyelashes were completely still against his cheeks, and a few loose, dark strands of hair had fallen over his forehead, shifting gently with the steady rhythm of his breathing. Without the nervous, shy tension he usually carried around his broad shoulders, his face looked incredibly soft and boyish.
Y/N didn't move an inch. She stayed completely frozen, her heart suddenly executing a loud, erratic thud against her ribs that felt loud enough to wake him. She just stared at him in the quiet, air-conditioned bubble, taking in the sharp line of his nose and the faint, relaxed curve of his lips.
The sharp shriek of the stool never happened. Instead, the quiet of the shop remained entirely unbroken.
When Soobin’s eyes slowly blinked open, he didn't instantly scramble back. He couldn't. His brain was still heavy with sleep, and the view directly in front of him—Y/N looking right back at him with her soft eyes—felt less like reality and more like the tail end of a very good dream.
Neither of them moved.
The space between them was so small that Y/N could feel the soft, cool puff of his breath against her cheek every time he exhaled. She stayed perfectly still, her hands tucked securely under her arms on the wooden counter, her heart hammering a fierce, loud rhythm against her ribs. She braced herself for him to jump up, to turn bright red, to apologize—but he just stayed there.
Soobin’s gaze drifted lazily from her eyes down to the small, to the tip of her nose, then down to her lips, before rising back up to hold her gaze. The shy, nervous wall he usually kept up during the day was completely gone, melted away by the deep afternoon slumber. There was only a heavy, magnetic stillness left in its place.
Slowly, the sleep began to clear from the edges of his eyes, but he still didn't pull away. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his plush lips, his left dimple making a faint, shallow appearance against the dark wood of the counter.
"Hi," he whispered, his deep voice carrying a thick, incredibly low rasp that vibrated right through the wood between them.
Y/N’s fingers curled slightly into the fabric of her sleeves. A delicate, warm flush crept up her neck, but she didn't look away either.
"Hi," she whispered back, her voice barely louder than the hum of the air conditioner above them.
They stayed like that for a long, suspended moment—just two people level with each other on a worn wooden counter, quietly sharing the cool, shadowed air while the rest of the island baked in the June sun outside.
The heavy ticking of the wall clock seemed to slow down, marking the seconds in the quiet room.
Soobin didn't break eye contact. Slowly, carefully, as if testing whether he was allowed to, he shifted his arm forward just a fraction of an inch on the smooth counter. His large knuckles grazed the edge of her father's oversized cardigan sleeve. It was a tiny, tentative point of contact, but it sent a sharp, electric jolt straight through the sleepy haze between them.
Y/N’s breath hitched, her eyes widening slightly as she looked down at where his hand met her sleeve, then back up to his face.
The silence stretched, shifting from comfortable to a sudden, thick tension that made the cool air in the shop feel entirely too warm. Soobin’s ears began to catch up to his quiet confidence, a slow, deep pink spreading across the edges of them, but his gaze remained steady, anchored completely to hers.
Finally, the brass bell above the front door let out a loud, sudden chime as the glass door swung open.
"Y/N-ah! Are the morning newspapers still—"
The booming voice of Mr. Lee from the hardware store next door cut through the sanctuary like a thunderclap.
Soobin sat up so fast his head nearly clipped the low-hanging menu board above the register. His chair scraped back with a loud, awkward thud, his large hands immediately flying to his face to rub at his eyes, trying desperately to look like he hadn't just spent the last two hours napping.
Y/N scrambled to her feet, her face burning a brilliant, undeniable crimson as she smoothed down her skirt with trembling hands. "M-Mr. Lee! Yes! They're right here!" she called out, her voice a full octave higher than usual as she reached blindly for the stack of papers on the side desk.
Mr. Lee walked into the air-conditioned room, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, completely oblivious to the thick, breathless atmosphere he had just walked into. He looked between Y/N’s bright red face and Soobin, who was currently staring intensely at the cover of the comic book as if it held the secrets to the universe, his entire neck flushed dark red.
"Whew, it's freezing in here," Mr. Lee muttered, tossing a few coins onto the counter. "You kids look like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong, is the AC too strong?"
"No!" Y/N and Soobin blurted out at the exact same time.
Y/N quickly handed over the paper, her eyes darting sideways to Soobin, who finally chanced a look back up at her through his dark fringe. As Mr. Lee took his papers and walked back out into the July heat, the bell chiming behind him, a small, helpless laugh bubbled up in Y/N’s throat.
She looked at Soobin, whose shoulders had finally slumped in total, flustered defeat.
"Well," Y/N murmured, her dimple peeking out through the blush still lingering on her cheeks. "Did you... actually finish the book? Or did you just use volume four as a pillow?"
Soobin let out a low, embarrassed groan, burying his face in his large hands for a brief second before looking up at her through his fingers. The tips of his ears were still entirely crimson, but a shy, helpless smile broke through his flustered expression.
"I finished it," he promised, his deep voice still holding a bit of that thick, raspy edge from sleep. He cleared his throat and carefully pushed the graphic novel a few inches closer to her, his long fingers tapping the glossy cover. "Every single page. Right up until the main character got to the city."
Y/N leaned her hip against the counter, crossing her arms to try and steady the lingering flutter in her chest. "And? What did you think?"
Soobin looked up at her, his dark eyes softening as the initial panic of being caught by Mr. Lee finally began to fade. He rested his chin in his hand, looking up at her from his stool with a quiet, steady warmth that made the cool air of the shop feel incredibly still again.
"It was good," he murmured softly. "But I still think the author made a mistake."
Y/N tilted her head, her eyes slanting into a curious, playful line. "A mistake? Why?"
"Because," Soobin said, his deep voice dropping into that quiet, grounding register that always made her heart skip a beat. "He spent three whole chapters showing how terrifying and lonely the city is. But he forgot to mention that if you have the right person going up there with you... it doesn't really matter how big or loud the place is."
Y/N’s chest tightened, a familiar, bright warmth blooming all the way to her cheeks. She bit her lower lip to suppress a smile, leaning back slightly against the counter and tilting her head to look down at him.
"Is that so?" she teased softly, her voice carrying a playful, skeptical lilt despite the erratic fluttering of her heart. She tapped her lip thoughtfully with an index finger. "I didn't realize you could be such a romantic, Choi Soobin. Are you sure you weren't reading from the romance section while I was asleep?"
Soobin’s eyes widened slightly, and he instantly looked down at the counter, a helpless, bashful chuckle vibrating in his chest. His deep dimples cut hard into his cheeks as he rubbed the back of his neck, his ears flaring that beautiful, telltale pink again.
"I'm just stating a logical fact," he mumbled into his shoulder, though the soft, affectionate look he shot at her through his dark fringe entirely gave him away. "It's simple logic—"
Ring-ring!
The sharp, loud jangle of the old plastic landline telephone on the wall behind the counter cut him off completely.
Both of them jumped slightly, the sudden noise breaking the quiet, heavy tension that had settled between them once more. Y/N blinked, shaking off the spell of his gaze, and quickly turned around to grab the heavy green receiver off the hook.
"Hello? Dongbaek Book Rental," she said into the mouthpiece, smoothing down her skirt with her free hand as she tried to make her voice sound completely professional.
Soobin stayed on his stool, his shoulders relaxing as he quietly watched her back. He traced a slow, idle circle on the glossy cover of the comic book, his mind still entirely replaying the way she had looked at him just seconds before, a soft, permanent smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
A little while later, after the shop duties were wrapped up, Soobin was finally about to leave.
Y/N stepped out onto the narrow wooden porch with him, instantly greeted by the thick, heavy blanket of the evening July humidity. The village was quiet, bathed in a deep, bleeding orange sunset that cast a warm glow over the coastal road. The breeze blowing off the nearby coast carried the faint, salty tang of the sea, rustling the low leaves of the trees bordering the gravel path.
They stood near the steps, giggling and smiling softly at each other over a silly inside joke about his long afternoon nap, completely lost in their own little bubble.
"Oh, Soobin-ah! You're still here?"
The warm, familiar voice broke their bubble. Y/N’s mother was walking up the narrow path, holding a heavy plastic grocery bag in each hand. Having already met him at the bustling market yesterday, she offered him a bright, instant smile.
"Hello, Mrs. Liu," Soobin blurted out, his laughter cutting off as he quickly dropped into a rigid, perfectly respectful ninety-degree bow that nearly sent his graphic novel flying from under his arm.
Mrs. Liu set the heavy plastic grocery bags down on the bottom step with a soft, tired exhale, the crinkling sound loud in the quiet evening air. She looked between the two kids, her sharp eyes instantly catching the soft, lingering curve of Y/N’s smile and the sheer, deer-in-headlights panic that had taken over Soobin’s towering frame. A deeply pleased, knowing smile crinkled the corners of her eyes.
"I just came back from the market with three massive crates of summer radish and napa cabbage," Mrs. Liu continued, lifting a hand to wipe the sheen of sweat from her brow. "Halmeoni and I are planning to spend the entire morning putting together a big batch of summer kimchi. My back is already aching just thinking about wrestling those heavy earthenware jars around the yard."
She turned her gaze fully onto Soobin, her eyes twinkling with a thoroughly transparent, matchmaking energy.
"You have such good strength, Soobin-ah," Mrs. Liu said smoothly, her tone a perfect blend of maternal warmth and subtle calculation. "Why don't you come over around one tomorrow afternoon? Help us move the heavy jars, and you can stay for dinner. I'll make sure you get a massive plate of fresh, bossam and warm kimchi. What do you say?"
Soobin blinked, his brain momentarily short-circuiting under the sudden invitation. His heart gave a nervous, erratic flutter against his ribs—not just from the pressure of wanting to be helpful to Y/N’s mother, but at the thrilling, terrifying prospect of spending an entire day at her house. His dark eyes darted frantically past Mrs. Liu’s shoulder, silently begging Y/N for a lifeline.
Y/N stood a step behind her mother, her face burning a brilliant, undeniable crimson that rivaled the sunset. Her heart was hammering a furious rhythm against her chest as she frantically shook her head, her hands making small, desperate chopping motions in the air. You don't have to say yes! she mouthed silently, terrified her mother was going to tease them to death.
But Soobin, ever the polite, eager-to-please boy from the city, couldn't possibly bring himself to refuse. Looking down at Mrs. Liu, a helpless, incredibly endearing smile broke across his handsome features, his deep dimples cutting sharp lines into his cheeks. The tips of his ears flared a bright, telltale pink against his dark fringe.
"I would love to help, Mrs. Liu," Soobin said softly, his deep voice dropping into a respectful, gentle register. He bowed his head low, the glossy comic book still securely clamped under his arm. "Thank you for inviting me. I'll be here at one sharp."
Y/n’s mother beamed, highly satisfied with her recruitment, while Y/N let out a quiet, defeated groan, covering her burning face with both hands as the warm June evening swallowed up the last traces of the sun.
Mrs. Liu’s smile widened, her eyes crinkling into small, triumphant crescents as she picked up the crinkling grocery bags from the step.
"Wonderful," she declared, her tone thoroughly satisfied. "Make sure you come with an empty stomach, Soobin-ah. I don't tolerate light eaters in my house, especially not boys who are working hard."
"I have a great appetite, Mrs. Liu, I won't disappoint you," Soobin promised quickly. He gave another small, polite nod, his posture still impossibly straight, though a soft, boyish chuckle escaped him.
Mrs. Liu shifted the bags to one hand and gave his broad shoulder an affectionate, firm pat as she stepped past him onto the porch. "I’m holding you to that. Now, go home before it gets entirely dark. Y/N, come inside and help me unload these before the ice cream melts."
"Coming, Eomma," Y/N murmured.
As her mother disappeared inside the shop, the screen door bouncing shut with a soft clack, the heavy twilight silence settled over the porch once more.
Y/N lowered her hands from her face, her cheeks still radiating a deep, stubborn heat. She looked up at Soobin, who was standing at the bottom of the steps now, looking up at her through his messy dark bangs. The deep orange of the sunset had completely bled into a soft, dusky purple, making the shadows around his sharp jawline look incredibly soft.
"You really didn't have to say yes," Y/N said, a helpless, quiet laugh bubbling up in her throat. "My mom is going to put you to work like a rented mule, and Halmeoni will probably make you chop garlic until your fingers turn numb."
Soobin let out a low, grounding chuckle, his shoulders relaxing completely now that Mrs. Liu was out of sight. He took a half-step backward down the gravel path, but his dark eyes remained fixed on hers, holding that same warm, magnetic stillness from the counter earlier.
"I wanted to say yes," he confessed softly. His deep voice carried a gentle, honest weight that made Y/N’s heart skip a beat all over again. He lifted the graphic novel slightly, a shy, dimpled smile playing on his lips.
Y/N bit her inner cheek to hide how fiercely her heart was reacting to his words. She leaned against the wooden railing, looking down at him. "Alright. Just don't say I didn't warn you when you're carrying fifty-pound stoneware jars across the yard tomorrow."
"I think I can handle it," he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He gave her one last, lingering look, his thumb tracing the edge of the book cover. "Goodnight, Y/N."
"Goodnight, Soobin. See you tomorrow."
She watched him turn and walk down the quiet coastal road, his tall, broad-shouldered silhouette slowly blending into the summer shadows. Only when he disappeared around the bend did Y/N finally turn around to head inside, a permanent, breathless smile tugging at her lips.
The sticky heat of mid-June didn't ease up even after the sun dipped below the horizon. Outside the Liu household, the cicadas kept up their relentless, buzzing chorus, while inside, the old electric fan in the corner of the dining room turned its head from side to side with a rhythmic, familiar rattle.
It was later that same evening, just an hour or so after Mrs. Liu had extended her vibrant invitation to Soobin on the porch. Now, the house was quiet again, the front door locked for the night. The family had gathered around the heavy oak table for dinner—just Y/N, her mother Meiling, her father Min-jun, and her grandmother Halmeoni.
The table was filled with a comforting, familiar spread. At the center sat a steaming platter of boiled pork belly alongside a bowl of well-fermented kimchi from their previous batch, its spicy, garlic-heavy aroma filling the warm room.
"Eat more, Y/N-ah," Her halmeoni commanded, plopping a succulent piece of pork directly onto Y/N’s rice bowl. Her sharp eyes blinked behind her reading glasses. "You’ve been looking so thin lately and you were sweating all afternoon in that shop."
"I'm eating, Halmeoni," Y/N murmured, lifting her chopsticks. Her mind was still completely preoccupied, her cheeks still holding a faint, residual warmth from the way Soobin had looked at her on the porch just an hour ago.
Meiling beamed from her seat, pouring a glass of cold barley tea for her mother. "That city boy, Soobin, really has wonderful manners, doesn't he? He didn't hesitate for a second when I asked him to help with the earthenware jars tomorrow. He's got a good heart."
Y/N kept her eyes glued to her rice bowl, biting her inner cheek to hide a rising smile. "He was just being polite, Eomma."
Meiling smiled gently, leaning forward a bit as she watched her daughter's flustered reaction. "When I saw the two of you out there on the steps... you were smiling a way I haven't seen you smile since your graduation. And that boy... heavens, I thought he was going to trip over his own feet because he couldn't take his eyes off you."
"Eomma, please," Y/N whispered, her cheeks flaring with a sudden, betraying heat as she tried to keep her voice down in front of her father and grandmother. "He’s just being nice."
"A city boy who didn't hesitate for a single second to spend his precious summer vacation moving heavy jars for an old woman, just because your mother asked him to," Meiling countered, her voice dropping into a tender, teasing register. "He has a good, pure heart, Y/N-ah. Anyone can see it. And he looks at you like you're the only quiet spot on this entire noisy island."
While the women talked, Y/N’s father, Min-jun, sat quietly at the end of the table. He smiled faintly at his wife's enthusiasm, but his eyes carried a heavy, lingering exhaustion that felt starkly out of place amid the cheerful clinking of dishes. He had been quiet all evening, merely picking at his rice, his mind clearly miles away.
Min-jun set his chopsticks down against the porcelain rest with a soft, deliberate click. The sudden, clean noise from his end of the table made the rest of the family gradually taper off their conversation.
He looked across the table at his wife, then turned his gaze gently toward Y/N.
"Meiling, Mother, Y/N-ah," Min-jun began, his voice low and raspy, carrying the gentle weight of a man who had spent his entire life surrounded by old books. He took a slow breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. "I think... after this summer, we’re going to be closing the book rental shop for good."
The room went completely still. Even the heavy clinking of Halmeoni’s side-dish bowls stopped mid-air.
Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat, a sudden, cold weight dropping straight into her stomach. She stared at her father, her fingers gripping her own chopsticks so hard her knuckles turned white. "Appa... what do you mean? Closing it? After summer?"
"We’ll stay open through June and July, Y/N-ah," Min-jun explained softly, his eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and profound exhaustion. "I want to honor the current lease until the end of the season, and it gives us time to catalog the inventory. But once the autumn hits... we won't be reopening the doors."
Meiling lowered her glass of tea, the cheerful energy completely draining from her face, replaced by a sudden, tense worry. "Min-jun, is it really that bad?"
Min-jun sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. "The rent is going up again in July, Meiling. And with the new digital reading apps everyone uses in the city now, the younger kids on the island just don't come in to rent paper copies anymore. We’ve been operating at a loss since the spring. It doesn't make sense to keep fighting it. It’s time to let it go."
Y/N felt a thick lump form in her throat, the cozy warmth of the dinner completely evaporating. Her mind instantly flashed back to the afternoon—to the quiet sanctuary of the shop, the comic book on the counter, and the deep, raspy sound of Soobin's voice telling her that the city wouldn't feel lonely if they went together.
But as the reality settled in, the ache in her chest grew even heavier. The rental shop wasn't just a place where she shared quiet, stolen moments with Soobin. It was the very backdrop of her entire life. She had literally grown up between those towering wooden shelves. She remembered hiding under the front counter as a toddler, listening to the chime above the door sound whenever a customer walked in. She remembered the specific smell of the aged paper that had comforted her through childhood fevers, and the pencil marks on the back room doorframe tracing her height over the years.
Losing the shop didn't just mean losing a summer job or a place to see Soobin; it felt like her entire childhood was being packed up into cardboard boxes. Just as she was finding her rhythm in that quiet little space, a final countdown clock had been initiated, ticking away the final days of the only world she had ever truly known.
"Are you okay, sweetie?" Meiling’s voice broke through the suffocating fog in Y/N’s mind. Her mother’s hand reached across the table, warm and laced with a deep, maternal worry that only made the stinging behind Y/N’s eyes worse.
Y/N swallowed hard, trying to force down the hot, thick lump in her throat. She looked at her father, whose shoulders seemed smaller than they ever had before, weighed down by the silent defeat of a man losing his life's work.
"I'm fine," Y/N lied softly, her voice trembling just enough to give her away. She forced a faint, watery smile, trying to comfort him instead. "August is... we still have the whole summer. We can make the most of it."
Min-jun’s eyes softened with a mixture of profound gratitude and guilt. He reached over, briefly squeezing her hand. "Thank you, Y/N-ah. I know how hard this is for you."
Halmeoni let out a quiet, rare sigh, setting her bowl down with a muted thud. For once, the sharp-tongued matriarch had no corrections, no stubborn retorts about how things used to be. She merely picked up her glass of barley tea, her gaze fixed out the window, staring into the dark June night as if mourning the loss of the neighborhood's anchor right alongside them.
Dinner wrapped up in a subdued, mechanical quiet. The clinking of porcelain felt heavy, almost sacrilegious in the silent house. Min-jun quietly retreated to the small living room, pulling out the worn leather-bound ledgers to begin the grim task of cataloging, while Halmeoni slowly headed to her bedroom, leaving Y/N and her mother alone in the kitchen to handle the dishes.
The heavy, rhythmic splash of cool water and the scrape of the sponge filled the space. Y/N stood by the old stainless-steel sink, mechanically scrubbing a ceramic side dish, her eyes staring blankly at the swirling white suds. Her mind was a chaotic storm. She kept seeing the shop—not as it was today, but in fragments of a decade ago. She saw herself skinning her knee on the corner of the fiction aisle at age seven; she saw her father dusting the top shelves while humming an old folk song. It felt like a physical ache in her chest, a slow tearing away of her identity.
"You're going to scrub the glaze right off that plate if you keep going," Meiling said softly, breaking the silence.
Y/N blinked, realizing she had been rinsing the exact same small bowl for nearly five minutes. She quietly set it on the wire drying rack and wiped her damp hands on her apron, her shoulders slumping as a long, shaky exhale finally escaped her. "I just... I can't imagine the corner without the sign, Eomma. I can't imagine what the street will look like when it's dark."
Meiling stopped wiping down the heavy oak table. She walked over to the sink, leaning her hip against the counter and looking at her daughter with a gaze full of deep, intuitive tenderness. The kitchen light cast a soft, amber glow over her face, highlighting the worry lines that had etched themselves there during dinner.
"Your father has held onto that shop for as long as he could, mostly because he knew it was your sanctuary," Meiling murmured, reaching out to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind Y/N’s ear. "But things change, Y/N-ah. The world outside this island gets bigger, louder, and faster. It’s hard for an old book rental to keep up with the digital age."
Y/N bit her lower lip, looking out the kitchen window into the pitch-black night. "I know. It just feels like everything is disappearing at once. I'm supposed to go to the city in autumn, and now... the shop won't even be here to come back to."
Meiling smiled gently, her expression shifting slightly as she remembered the flush on her daughter's cheeks from earlier that evening on the porch. "Not everything is disappearing, Y/N. Some things are just finding their footing."
Y/N looked up, her brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Soobin," Meiling said smoothly, a tiny, knowing glint returning to her eyes despite the somber mood of the house. "When I saw the two of you out there... you had a look on your face I haven't seen in a very long time. And him... heavens, he looked entirely captivated. He was practically vibrating with nerves trying to be polite."
Y/N’s cheeks instantly flared with a sudden, betraying heat, the heavy sadness in her chest momentarily eclipsed by a sharp, fluttering panic. "Eomma, please. We're just friends."
"A friend who didn't hesitate for a single second to spend his precious vacation making kimchi for an old woman, just because he wants to," Meiling countered, her voice dropping into a tender, teasing register. She leaned in a fraction closer, her hand resting over Y/N’s. "He has a good, pure heart, Y/N-ah. Anyone can see it. And he looks at you like you're the only quiet spot on this entire noisy island."
Y/N looked away, her heart hammering a fierce, chaotic rhythm against her ribs. She thought of Soobin’s deep, grounding voice from the afternoon—how he had said the city wouldn't feel terrifying or lonely if you had the right person going up there with you.
"The shop closing is going to be hard," Meiling whispered, her expression turning incredibly soft as she squeezed Y/N's hand. "But don't let the sadness of losing one room make you close your eyes to the person who is trying to stand right next to you in the next one. Make sure not to stay up late, I need your help early tomorrow morning to get the basins from the storage."
By one o'clock in the afternoon, the backyard had been transformed into a full-scale battleground of spice and salt. The thick, oppressive heat was at its absolute peak, baking the gravel yard, but nobody was paying attention to the thermometer anymore.
Soobin was currently sitting on a ridiculously small, blue plastic stool that Y/N had found for him in the shed. Because of his towering height, his knees were practically pushed up to his chest, making him look like a giant bunny. He had his oversized white sleeves rolled up past his elbows, revealing the tense muscles of his forearms, which were now completely stained bright red with chili paste.
"No, Soobin-ah! Not like that!" Halmeoni barked, leaning over from her own stool and swatting his forearm with a salted cabbage leaf. "You're just slapping the paste on the outside like you're painting a fence! You have to lift every single leaf and rub the spice mix deep into the core. Gently, but firmly!"
"Ah, I'm sorry, Halmeoni," Soobin blurted out, his eyes widening in pure panic. He quickly dropped into a flustered bow, nearly losing his balance on the tiny stool. A streak of red pepper paste immediately transferred from his gloved hand straight onto his cheek, right near his dimple.
Y/N, who was sitting across from him working on her own batch of cabbage, let out a loud, breathless laugh at the sight. "Hold still," she giggled, leaning across the giant stainless-steel basin separating them. She used the clean edge of her apron to gently wipe the spicy smudge off his face. "If you leave that there, your skin is going to burn all day."
Soobin froze completely under her touch, his breath catching in his throat. Up close, the tips of his ears were burning a vibrant, unmistakable crimson that had absolutely nothing to do with the red pepper flakes. He offered her a helpless, bashful smile, his deep dimples cutting sharp lines into his cheeks. "Thanks," he mumbled softly, his deep voice dropping into that quiet register that always made Y/N's chest flutter.
"Don't distract my worker, Y/N-ah!" Meiling teased from the outdoor sink, where she was rinsing the last batch of radishes. She shot her daughter with a highly amused, knowing look. "Soobin-ah, don't mind my mother. You're doing a wonderful job. Look at how well he moved those heavy jars earlier, Mother! Min-jun’s back would have broken in half."
From the shade of the porch, Min-jun chuckled, lifting a cold glass of cola in Soobin's direction. "She's right, son. You saved my life today."
"It was really no trouble at all, Mr. Liu," Soobin said quickly, sitting up as straight as his tiny stool would allow. He turned back to the massive basin of cabbage, his expression turning intensely focused. Determined to get it right this time, he carefully lifted a crisp leaf of napa cabbage, minding Halmeoni's instructions as he meticulously massaged the bright red, garlic-heavy paste into the very core.
Y/N watched him work, the heavy ache in her heart from last night's announcement about the shop closing at the end of August momentarily lifting. The scent of fresh ginger, fish sauce, and toasted sesame filled the heavy summer air. Looking at him right now, the future didn't feel quite as lonely.
By the time the final head of cabbage was packed tightly into the last massive earthenware jar and stored away, the fierce afternoon sun had finally dipped below the horizon. The sticky heat softened into a warm, heavy twilight, and the rhythmic, familiar rattle of the old electric fan in the corner of the dining room hummed to life.
Inside, the rich, savory aroma of boiled pork belly had been drifting from the stove for the last two hours, completely taking over the house.
"Everyone wash up! The bossam is ready!" Meiling announced from the kitchen.
Soobin tried to stand up from the porch steps where he had been resting, but his long legs had been worked so hard that his knees gave a loud, agonizing crack. He stumbled slightly, a low, embarrassed groan escaping his lips as he fought to find his balance on his numb feet.
Y/N quickly caught him by the elbow, stabilizing his towering frame. "I told you Halmeoni’s boot camp was no joke."
Soobin looked down at her, a helpless, dimpled smile broke through his exhaustion. "My legs feel like jelly," he whispered, his deep voice carrying a tired, raspy edge that vibrated right through Y/N’s hand. "But I think I passed the test. Halmeoni didn't hit me with a cabbage leaf for the last hour."
"That’s practically a gold medal in this house," Y/N teased, her heart doing a familiar, erratic little skip at how close he was standing before she reluctantly let go of his arm.
The indoor dining room felt like heaven. The heavy oak table was practically groaning under the weight of the night's feast. At the center sat a towering platter of the bossam—succulent, thick slices of pork belly boiled to a perfect tenderness with ginger and soybean paste. Next to it was a large earthen bowl filled with a sampling of the fresh summer kimchi they had just spent all afternoon making.
As they all sat down, Halmeoni immediately took the chopsticks and piled a mountain of the bright red kimchi right on top of Soobin's steaming bowl of rice.
"Eat," Halmeoni commanded, though her sharp eyes were noticeably softer than they had been that afternoon. "A boy who works like a horse needs to eat like one."
"Thank you, Halmeoni," Soobin said, bowing his head respectfully before taking a massive, perfectly constructed wrap of tender pork belly, fresh kimchi, and rice. He stuffed the entire thing into his mouth, his cheeks puffing out completely as he chewed, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss spreading across his handsome face.
Min-jun laughed warmly from the head of the table, pouring Soobin a tall glass of ice-cold cola. "Slow down, son, there’s plenty more in the kitchen."
Y/N watched the scene unfold, her chest tightening with a bittersweet ache. She looked at her father, whose face looked brighter and less burdened than it had last night, momentarily distracted from the impending closure of the shop by the joy of a full house. Then she looked across the table at Soobin, who was currently receiving an earful from Meiling about how he needed to take a massive container of kimchi home to his own family.
The shop that had anchored her childhood was still going to close at the end of the summer. That reality hadn't changed. But looking at the way Soobin seamlessly fit into the loud, chaotic, garlic-scented rhythm of her family, Y/N felt the heavy, suffocating fear of the future begin to ease. The sanctuary she grew up in was slipping away, but a new one was quietly being built right in front of her.
The initial clattering of chopsticks gradually slowed down to a comfortable, relaxed rhythm as the mountain of pork belly finally dwindled. Soobin was on his second bowl of rice, looking thoroughly content despite his aching muscles.
Min-jun leaned back in his chair, swirling the amber liquid of his barley tea. He looked over at Soobin, his eyes carrying a gentle, curious warmth. "Soobin-ah, your grandmother mentioned to me at the market last week that you’re studying at Korea University. Engineering, wasn't it?"
Soobin carefully swallowed his bite, setting his chopsticks down with his usual textbook politeness. "Civil engineering, yes, Mr. Liu. I’m actually about to start my fourth year this coming autumn."
"A senior already. That’s a heavy year," Min-jun nodded with deep, genuine respect. "The campus in Seoul must be beautiful, but I imagine the coursework keeps you incredibly busy. It’s an elite school afterall."
"It can be a bit overwhelming," Soobin admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, his ears tipping into a faint pink at the praise. "The pressure is quite high, and the city moves so fast. That's why my grandmother insisted I come down to the island for the summer before my final year starts. She said my brain was going to short-circuit."
Meiling smiled warmly, placing another piece of pork on his plate. "Your grandmother is a very wise woman. Seoul is no place to be trapped in during the heavy summer days anyway." She paused, a thoughtful look crossing her face as she looked at him. "You know, Soobin-ah... did you come down to visit Jeju at all last year? Because I swear, I haven't actually seen your face around the village since the summer festival back in 1999."
Soobin let out a soft laugh, his dimples catching the light. "No, Mrs. Liu, I couldn't make it down last year because of an internship. But you're right, 1999 was probably the last time I stayed for the whole summer."
"Ah, I remember," Meiling chuckled, shaking her head fondly. "You were always attached at the hip to that little pack of boys. What happened to them? Yeonjun was one of them, right? Heavens, he was one of the smartest students Jeju had ever seen. Everyone knew he'd go far."
Soobin offered a slightly wistful, candid smile. "To be honest, we haven't really kept in touch. I know Yeonjun went up to Seoul for college, and I think Taehyun did too, but we haven't actually spoken in years."
"And what about that other one?" Halmeoni chimed in, setting her teacup down with a sharp click. "The loud one. The one who nearly knocked over my radish bins on his bicycle."
"Beomgyu?" Soobin fielded the question with a soft chuckle. "I only know through my grandmother he’s staying in Daegu right now. But again, it’s been a long time since we ran in the same circles."
Meiling tapped her chin thoughtfully, looking over at him. "And what about the youngest one of your old group? Kai, right? He was always such a shy, sweet boy. Heavens, he’s grown up so handsome now, but he's still so quiet. I barely see him around the village anymore. Ever since his close friend... the Jiang's daughter... moved away, it feels like he hasn't gone out much at all."
Soobin paused, his chopsticks hovering just inches from his bowl. He looked up at Meiling, his eyes widening in genuine surprise. "Wait... really?" He blinked, a wave of sudden concern overtaking his face. "I had no idea. I knew his friend moved, but I didn't think... I just assumed he was busy with his own life. We haven't spoken since we were kids, so I'm completely out of the loop."
"Oh, it's quite sad, really," Meiling sighed softly, shaking her head. "He completely keeps to himself now."
"They all went up to the big city, or stayed locked away," Min-jun murmured softly, his eyes drifting toward the dark window for a brief moment. The quiet melancholy from earlier touched his features. "Everyone goes up to Seoul eventually, or things change. It's where the world moves now."
Y/N watched her father, her heart giving a quiet, painful throb. She knew exactly where his mind was wandering back to the reality that their quiet little paper-book rental couldn't compete with the fast-moving, digital world anymore. She bit her lower lip, keeping her eyes fixed on her plate, terrified that her face would give away the secret she was keeping locked tight in her chest. Soobin didn't know yet that the shop was closing in August.
And ironically, August was the exact same month Y/N was supposed to pack her bags and leave for the city herself, finally starting her first year as a fine arts major.
Soobin, still looking slightly troubled by the news about Kai, seemed to sense the sudden, heavy shift in the room's atmosphere. He looked from Min-jun’s distant expression to the way Y/N was suddenly staring intensely at her rice bowl. Though he was curious, he politely tucked his questions away, knowing it wasn't his place to pry into a family's private matters.
Instead, he turned back to Min-jun with an earnest smile, trying to lift the mood. "The island has been a wonderful break, Mr. Liu. Honestly, your book rental shop has been my favorite place since I got here. It’s so quiet, and it has a warmth that you just can't find in any library in Seoul."
Min-jun blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the sincerity in the young man's voice. A genuine, touched smile finally broke through his tired expression. "Is that so? Well... I'm glad our little shop could offer you some peace."
"It really does," Soobin murmured softly, risking a quick glance across the table at Y/N.
As the tension melted away into the fan-cooled air of the dining room, Y/N let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She looked at Soobin, grateful for his quiet intuition, knowing that the heavy countdown to August was still ticking—but for tonight, the room was full of warmth.
After the final dishes were dried and tucked away into the cupboards, the heavy, garlic-scented warmth of the kitchen was replaced by the cool, salty breeze of the coastal night.
Y/N and Soobin slipped out the back door quietly, careful not to disturb her parents, who were already huddled in the living room over the store's massive ledgers, or Halmeoni, who had retired to her bedroom with a radio humming low.
They walked side by side down the narrow gravel path leading away from the house. The village was completely dark now, illuminated only by the occasional amber glow of a streetlamp and the brilliant, scattered stars overhead. The intense, oppressive heat of the afternoon had finally broken, leaving behind a soft, balmy air that smelled heavily of sea salt and wild grass.
For the first few minutes, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the synchronized crunching of their sneakers against the loose stones and the distant, rhythmic crash of the tide hitting the shoreline a few hundred meters away. Soobin walked with his hands jammed deep into his shorts pockets, his tall shoulders slightly hunched as he looked down at his feet.
"Are your legs holding up?" Y/N broke the silence, glancing up at him with a small, teasing smile.
Soobin let out a soft, raspy laugh, his deep voice cutting cleanly through the quiet night air. He shook his head, the dark bangs that had been damp with sweat earlier now lifting slightly in the ocean breeze. "They’re still a little numb, honestly. Your grandmother really doesn't hold back. I think I used muscles today that I didn't even know existed."
He paused, looking out toward the dark horizon where the black sea met the star-lit sky.
"But it was nice. It’s been a really long time since I felt that kind of tired. In Seoul, you're just... tired from sitting at a desk or staring at school work."
Y/N nodded slowly, her fingers lightly tugged at the edge of her oversized cardigan. "My family can be a lot. Thanks for being so patient with them and for helping my dad with the jars. He really needed it."
"I liked it," Soobin said sincerely, stopping near an old wooden guardrail that overlooked the rocky shore. He leaned his forearms against the weathered wood, looking down at the white sea foam swirling below. "Your family is really warm, Y/N. At dinner, when your mother was talking about the old days... it made me realize how much I've missed since I left."
Y/N leaned against the rail next to him, keeping a comfortable, friendly distance between them, though her eyes remained fixed on the dark water. "You seemed really surprised about Kai."
Soobin sighed, a faint, troubled line forming between his brows. "I was. We really were just kids who played arcade games and threw rocks into the ocean back then. We didn't talk about our feelings or anything. When I went back to Seoul, we just... stopped calling. To hear that he's so isolated now... it feels weird. Like the village I remembered is changing, and I didn't even notice."
He turned his head to look down at her, his dark eyes searching her face in the dim light of a distant streetlamp. "Everything feels like it’s shifting. Your father looked so tired at dinner when we started talking about Seoul like the city was some kind of shadow."
Y/N felt a familiar, sharp pang in her chest. She looked away from his gaze, staring down at her own hands gripping the guardrail. The secret of the shop's closure in August felt heavier than ever, burning a hole right through her silence.
"The city is a shadow for him," Y/N whispered softly, her voice barely carrying over the sound of the waves. She took a slow, steadying breath, deciding maybe he would understand. "He's closing the rental shop, Soobin. At the end of August."
Soobin froze. He didn't say anything for a long moment, the news hanging in the dark space between them. "Closing it?" he asked quietly, his voice dropping into a lower, gentler register. "For good?"
"The rent is going up, and nobody buys paper books or rents comics anymore because of the digital apps in the city," Y/N explained, her throat tightening as she forced the words out. "We’ve been operating at a loss since spring. August is our last month."
She swallowed hard, looking up at the sky to keep the tears from spilling over. "I've lived in that shop my entire life and now... it's just going to be gone."
Soobin didn't offer any empty platitudes. He didn't tell her it would be fine, or that change was good. Instead, he slowly shifted his position, turning fully toward her. He kept his hands in his pockets, but his gaze was full of a deep, intuitive empathy.
"I'm sorry, Y/N," he said softly, his voice steady and grounding. "I know I've only been going there for a little while, but I can tell that place isn't just a store. It's... it's you. It has your peace in it."
Y/N let out a shaky, breathless laugh, looking down at her sneakers. "And the irony is, August is when I'm supposed to leave for Seoul too. For my first year of art school. It feels like everything I know is disappearing all at once, and I'm being pushed into this giant, loud city that I'm terrified of."
Soobin watched her, his expression softening until his deep dimples faintly showed in the shadows. He gave her a small, reassuring nudge with his shoulder—a familiar, comfortable gesture between friends.
"You don't have to be terrified," Soobin murmured, his raspy voice steady against the ocean breeze. "Seoul is loud, and it moves way too fast, yeah. But it's not a shadow if you have a place to anchor yourself."
He offered her a warm, genuine smile. "I'll be up there. I'm entering my final year, so I know the city pretty well by now. When August comes, and everything here closes down... you won't be entering that next chapter alone. I've got your back. I'll be right there."
Y/N looked up, meeting his eyes. The suffocating weight that had been pressing down on her chest since last night didn't completely vanish, but as she looked at Soobin the terrifying expanse of the future suddenly felt a little smaller and a little safer.
The walk back to his grandmother’s house felt longer than usual, his numb legs working on pure autopilot while his mind replayed the quiet conversation by the guardrail. The night air was peaceful, but his chest felt heavy with the realization of how fast the world was changing for everyone on the island.
As Soobin approached the front gate of the traditional courtyard house, the warm, amber light from the living room windows spilled onto the gravel. Even before he unlocked the heavy front door, the muffled sound of familiar voices and bright, collective laughter drifted outside. His parents, who had come down from Seoul to join his grandparents for a brief family visit, were clearly right in the middle of a lively late-night conversation.
He stepped inside the entryway, the cool linoleum floor a welcome relief.
He leaned against the wooden wall, sliding his feet out of his dusty sneakers. He carefully placed them on the bottom shelf of the shoe rack by the door, making sure they were aligned perfectly out of habit.
As he stood up, he fished his bulky folder phone out of his pocket. In the year 2001, getting a decent signal anywhere near the coastal cliffs of Jeju was a daily miracle. He flicked the phone open, the tiny green-lit screen casting a dim glow over his face. He held it up slightly, watching the signal indicator dance before it finally settled on a single, fragile bar.
A rapid succession of high-pitched electronic beeps suddenly pierced the quiet entryway.
Because he had been off the grid all afternoon doing manual labor, the backlog of SMS messages from his engineering friends up at Korea University had finally pushed through. His screen was flooded with a dozen unread texts—mostly his classmates panicking about upcoming registration dates for their fourth-year, or complaining about the stifling Seoul humidity while asking when he was coming back up to the city.
"Soobin-ah?" his mother called out, her voice cutting through the laughter as she poked her head into the hallway.
Seeing him standing there with his blinking phone, she smiled and waved him into the living room. "Come inside, why are you hovering out there in the dark? How was it?"
Soobin snapped his phone shut, the sharp clack echoing in the small space, and slipped it back into his pocket. He stepped fully into the warm light of the living room, offering his family a tired but genuine smile.
"It was good, Mom," his deep voice carried a soft, slightly raspy edge from the long day. "I helped move all the heavy onggi jars, and then we spent the whole afternoon making the kimchi. Y/n’s Halmeoni only swatted my arm a couple of times at the beginning, so I think I did okay."
"A couple of times?" his father teased, looking up from his newspaper with a grin. "That's a passing grade from Halmeoni Sun-hee, son. You survived."
"They even fed me a huge bossam feast for dinner," Soobin added, rubbing the back of his neck as his ears tipped into a faint pink. "They really took care of me."
His mother looked at him closely, her maternal instinct picking up on the quiet, lingering look in his eyes and the subtle exhaustion in his posture. "Well, that was very kind of them. You must be completely exhausted after all that lifting. Go wash up and get some rest, okay? Your shoulders look incredibly tight."
"I will," Soobin nodded respectfully.
He excused himself and headed down the quiet hallway toward his small room. After closing the door behind him, the distant sound of his family’s chatter faded into a soft hum, leaving him in the peaceful, cool stillness of the space.
Soobin didn't turn on the main light. Instead, he walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, staring out the window. The dark, rolling waves of the Jeju sea were visible under the starlight, and the rhythmic sound of the tide washed over the room, carrying the faint, clean scent of salt and wild grass.
He pulled his folder phone out once more, the green screen blinking with those urgent, demanding texts from Seoul about graduation, senior seminars, and the fast-approaching autumn. Up until yesterday, that had been his only trajectory—the expected, predictable path of a fourth-year engineering student.
But tonight, as he looked at those messages, a sudden, fierce ache tightened in his chest.
For the first time in his life, he found himself wishing he could grab the hands of the clock and hold them perfectly still. He didn't want the calendar to flip to August. He didn't want to pack his bags, leave his grandmother's quiet garden, or watch the paper-book rental shop close its doors for the last time. He just wanted to freeze time right here, where he was finally learning what it felt like to be a person again.
Soobin slowly closed the phone, letting the green light die out completely, and set it face-down on the desk. He leaned his elbows on the windowsill and rested his chin in his hands, watching the distant sea and silently wishing, with everything he had, that this summer would never have to end.
The heavy afternoon heat was at its peak when the little bell above the rental shop door let out a sharp, metallic jingle.
Y/N looked up from the wooden counter, where she had been using a damp cloth to wipe down a stack of old, sun-bleached romance novels. Soobin was standing in the doorway, the bright glare of the Jeju sun framing his towering figure. He looked distinctly out of place compared to his usual neat appearance.
In his right hand, he was clutching a round, translucent plastic container with a bright red lid. In his left arm, he tucked a stack of three thick comic books he’d pulled from his own bedroom shelves.
"Soobin-ah?" Y/N asked, setting the rag down. "Is everything okay? You look like you're on a mission."
Soobin closed the door behind him, the sudden silence of the fan-cooled room swallowing the distant cicadas outside. He walked over to the counter, his sneakers squeaking slightly on the wooden floor. He set the container down carefully, though his fingers lingered on the plastic lid.
"I... I wanted to ask you a favor," he said, his deep voice dropping into a hesitant, quiet register. He rubbed the back of his neck, his ears already tipping into a faint pink. "I’m going to check on Kai. My grandmother gave me his address this morning, and she practically ordered me to take this japchae over to his house."
Y/N nodded slowly, recalling the heavy, quiet look that had crossed Soobin’s face during dinner the night before when her mother mentioned the boy's isolation. "That’s really nice of you, Soobin. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it."
"The thing is..." Soobin paused, looking down at the stack of comics in his hand, his thumb tracing the worn edge of the spine. "I’m terrified of going alone. We haven't spoken in so long. If I just show up on his doorstep out of nowhere." He said letting out a helpless, self-deprecating chuckle. "I'm worried I'll scare him off. He was always so shy."
He looked back up at her, his dark eyes carrying a vulnerable, earnest appeal. "I know he doesn't know you, and it's a lot to ask... but I was wondering if you could come with me? Having someone else there might make it feel less like an interrogation and more like... a normal visit. You have this way of making spaces feel safe, Y/N. I could really use that right now."
Y/N stared at him, a warm, quiet flutter stirring in her chest at his words. It was the first time he had explicitly acknowledged the comfort she tried to provide, and seeing this tall guy look so genuinely nervous about facing a childhood friend made him feel incredibly real.
"Let me just tell my dad," Y/N said softly, a small smile breaking across her face. She stepped into the back room.
"Let's go. Lead the way!"
The walk to the northern edge of the village was entirely different from their moonlit stroll the night before. The sun was blazing, turning the dirt paths into dusty, shimmering trails. Soobin kept a steady, protective pace beside her, holding the container flat against his chest to keep anything from spilling.
"I don't even know what I'm going to say," Soobin admitted as they turned down a particularly quiet, overgrown lane where the houses were spaced further apart. "What if he doesn't even want to see me? A sudden visit might just feel like an intrusion."
"It won't," Y/N reassured him, her voice a steady anchor against his anxiety. "Even if he's shocked at first, knowing that someone remembered him means something. Just breathe, Soobin."
He took a slow breath, nodding as they finally stopped in front of a rusted iron gate. Despite the weathered metal of the entrance, the yard inside was beautifully well-kept, overflowing with vibrant summer flowers. Neatly trimmed bushes framed rows of blooming hydrangeas and colorful wild lilies, their sweet fragrance cutting through the thick, salty afternoon air. The stone walkway was swept completely clean of dirt, creating a sharp contrast against the traditional house itself, which looked completely asleep—its heavy wooden doors and paper-screen windows firmly shut against the outside world.
Soobin swallowed hard, stepped through the creaking gate, and walked up to the low wooden porch. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before knocking firmly three times on the thick wood.
Y/N stood a few paces back near the edge of the porch, keeping her hands tucked into her cardigan pockets, intentionally giving Soobin the space to be the primary focus.
For a long, agonizing minute, there was nothing but the sound of the wind rustling the grass. Soobin looked back at Y/N, an anxious line forming between his brows, his shoulders tensing as if he was ready to turn around and apologize for wasting her time. But just as he shifted his feet, a soft click echoed from inside, and the heavy door creaked open a few inches.
Kai stood in the dim light of the entryway. Y/N’s mother hadn't been exaggerating—the boy had grown up incredibly handsome, with sharp, delicate, foreign-tinged features and large, expressive eyes. But he looked entirely fragile, his shoulders hunched inside an oversized, faded gray sweatshirt despite the summer heat. He blinked rapidly against the sudden, harsh glare of the afternoon sun, his gaze shifting from the wooden floor up to the towering frame in front of him.
Kai's eyes widened, a thick note of disbelief washing over his face. "Soobin-hyung?"
"Hey, Kai-ah," Soobin said. His voice instantly dropped into that warm, incredibly gentle register Y/N had heard him use with her grandmother—completely devoid of pressure. He offered a small, hesitant smile, his deep dimples popping out. "It's... it's been a really long time. My grandmother told me you were still here, and she made way too much japchae yesterday. I also remembered you used to read these specific comics when we were kids, so... I thought I’d bring them by."
Kai stared at the plastic container, then down at the books. His fingers gripped the edge of the wooden door so tightly his knuckles turned white. He looked completely overwhelmed, his eyes darting briefly over Soobin's shoulder to where Y/N was standing. He didn't know her, and the sight of a stranger made him instinctively shrink back into the shadows of the hallway.
Sensing his hesitation, Y/N gave Kai a small, incredibly polite nod from her spot on the gravel, keeping her expression entirely neutral and unthreatening, letting him know she was just there as a quiet observer.
Soobin noticed the shift and immediately stepped slightly into Kai’s line of sight, drawing the younger boy's attention back to him. "She’s a friend from the book rental shop down the road," Soobin explained softly, keeping his tone light. "You don't have to worry about us, Kai-ah. I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay."
The sincerity in Soobin's voice seemed to cut through the heavy, protective walls Kai had built around himself. Kai looked at the fresh kimchi, then back up at Soobin’s face—noticing the sweat on his forehead and the dirt on his shirt. Soobin had actually worked for this, just to see him.
Slowly, hesitatingly, Kai pushed the door open a few inches wider, the old hinges letting out a faint groan.
"Do you... do you want to come in?" Kai whispered, his voice small and raspy from disuse. "My mom is out, but... I can make some cold iced tea."
Soobin let out a quiet, invisible breath of relief, the tension melting from his broad shoulders. He risked a quick, grateful glance back at Y/N, a silent thank you shining in his eyes, before turning back to the younger boy. "We’d love to, Kai-ah. Lead the way."
Kai gave a small, hesitant nod and turned into the dim, cool hallway of the house. The interior smelled faintly of dried herbs and floor wax, a quiet, preserved space that felt entirely removed from the blistering mid-afternoon heat outside.
Soobin stepped over the threshold first, carefully sliding out of his sneakers at the entryway. He glanced back at Y/N, waiting an extra half-second to ensure she was following close behind, before leading the way into a modest, sunlit sitting room. The screen doors were slid back just enough to let in the scent of the hydrangeas, though the room itself remained entirely still.
"Please, sit," Kai whispered, gesturing vaguely toward a low wooden table surrounded by neatly placed floor cushions. He didn't wait for them to answer before disappearing into the adjacent kitchen, his oversized sweatshirt swallowing his frame as he moved.
Soobin took a seat on one of the cushions, his long legs folding awkwardly as he tried to find a comfortable position. He set the plastic container down neatly on the polished wood of the table. Y/N sat down a comfortable distance beside him, smoothing her cardigan over her knees.
"You did great out there," she murmured softly, leaning in just enough so her voice wouldn't carry into the kitchen.
Soobin let out a breathy, quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears were still a faint shade of pink. "My heart was beating so fast I thought he’d hear it. But... seeing him now, he really hasn't changed that much. He's just so quiet." He looked toward the kitchen doorway, a look of soft, brotherly concern returning to his eyes. "I’m glad I came. I’m glad you made me come."
Before Y/N could reply, the soft pad of footsteps announced Kai's return. He carried a small wooden tray holding three glasses filled with amber iced tea, condensation already pooling at the bases. He placed the tray down with meticulous care before sliding onto a cushion across from them.
For a moment, a heavy silence settled over the table. Kai kept his gaze fixed firmly on the condensation rolling down his glass, his fingers nervously picking at a loose thread on his sleeve.
Soobin, sensing the younger boy's stifling awkwardness, decided to handle the silence gently. He slid the plastic container forward a few inches.
"My grandmother wanted to make sure you got this while it was fresh," Soobin began, his deep voice incredibly soft and grounding in the quiet room. "And honestly... I wanted to come see how you were doing. I know it’s been years, Kai-ah. But when my mom told me you were still around the village, I kept thinking about how we all used to spend our summers down by the arcade."
Kai’s eyes shifted from his glass to the container, and then up to Soobin. A tiny, fragile look of recognition passed over his face. "The arcade," he murmured, his voice slightly stronger now. "The one with the broken joystick on the fighting game."
"Exactly," Soobin said, his dimples finally showing fully as he relaxed into a warm smile. " Yeonjun-hyung used to lose his mind when we ran out of coins, and Beomgyu would always try to shake the machine to get a free game until the owner chased us out. Taehyun was the only one smart enough to just sit back and watch us get in trouble."
A faint, incredibly brief smile tugged at the corner of Kai's lips. It was small, but it was there—a tiny fracture in the heavy walls he had spent the last few years building. He looked up from the table, his large eyes shifting from Soobin over to Y/N, no longer shrinking away quite as much.
"I remember," Kai whispered softly, looking back at Soobin with a quiet, lingering vulnerability. "Yeonjun-hyung always bought the melon popsicles afterward."
"Only because Beomgyu begged him until he gave in," Soobin replied gently, his broad shoulders relaxing as the ancient familiarity of their friendship began to spark back to life. He risked a quick, deeply grateful glance back at Y/N, a silent thank you shining in his eyes, before turning all his attention back to the younger boy.
The amber afternoon sun eventually dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of purple and burnt orange as twilight settled over the quiet courtyard. The sliding doors remained open, letting in a cool evening breeze and the rhythmic, distant sound of the tide.
Over the course of the afternoon, the thick, suffocating awkwardness that had filled the room completely dissolved. As the hours slipped by, Y/N and Kai became well acquainted, the initial tension giving way to an incredibly easy, comfortable dynamic. Y/N was completely shocked to learn that Kai was actually studying marketing at a university in Busan, a choice that felt entirely unbelievable for someone so naturally shy. Kai explained that while the fast-paced energy of Busan forced him out of his shell during the semester, he usually flew straight back to Jeju during holidays, needing the absolute quiet of the island to recharge.
Listening to them talk, Soobin relaxed completely against the chair, a proud, brotherly warmth settling into his features as he watched his friend open up.
By the time the room grew dark, shadowed by the fading twilight, it was clear they had stayed far longer than intended. Realizing how late it had gotten, Soobin and Y/N reluctantly stood up to gather their things and say their goodbyes, promising not to let another long stretch of silence grow between them.
As they stepped back out through the rusted iron gate and onto the dark dirt path, a deep, peaceful contentment hung in the air. Soobin looked down at Y/N, the heavy anxiety that had locked his shoulders together that afternoon completely gone. He didn't say a word, but the soft, lingering curve of his dimples in the starlight told her everything.
They walked down the narrow, sloping path toward the shore, the sound of the ocean growing louder and heavier with every step. The sand was cool beneath their feet, slipping over the edges of their shoes as they navigated the dark beach until they found a flat, dry spot far away from the reach of the tide.
Soobin pulled his lightweight jacket off, laying it out over the sand for Y/N to sit on. Once she was settled, he sank down directly onto the sand beside her, pulling his long legs up and looping his arms loosely around his knees to mirror her posture.
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The sheer scale of the Jeju night sky was breathtaking; without the blinding neon of the city, the Milky Way was a faint, glowing ribbon of violet and silver cut right across the ink-black dome. Millions of stars flickered with a quiet, ancient intensity, casting a soft, pale light over the dark surface of the rolling sea.
"I forgot how many there were," Soobin whispered, his deep voice barely carrying over the steady roar of the waves. He looked completely mesmerized, his head tilted back as the starlight reflected beautifully in his wide, dark eyes. "In Seoul, if you look up at night, you're lucky if you see three. You forget that the rest of the universe is even up there."
Y/N rested her chin on her knees, watching him side-by-side. Sitting right next to him like this, she could feel the faint warmth radiating from his shoulder, his towering frame looking relaxed and small against the vast backdrop of the dark ocean. His expression was entirely soft, stripped of the heavy academic pressure and expectation that usually followed him.
"My dad says the stars here don't change," Y/N said quietly, turning her gaze back to the sky. "No matter how many shops close or how many people leave for the city, they stay exactly like this. I think that's why I like coming down here when I'm overwhelmed. It feels like a promise."
Soobin turned his head to look at her, his dark eyes dropping to the way the starlight caught the edges of her hair and the soft cotton of her cardigan.
"A promise of what?" he asked softly.
"That some things will always be waiting for you," she replied, turning her head to meet his eyes. "No matter how far away you go."
The space between them felt entirely charged with a quiet, heavy sincerity. Soobin didn't break eye contact. The distant, urgent texts waiting on his folder phone in his pocket felt a million miles away, completely powerless against the slow, steady rhythm of the Jeju tide and the girl sitting right beside him.
Slowly, almost unconsciously, Soobin shifted his hand on his knee, his fingers dropping onto the sand, just inches away from where her hand rested on the edge of his jacket.
"I don't think I'm going to look at the sky in Seoul the same way after this," he murmured, his voice dropping into a rare, vulnerable whisper that made her heart skip a beat. "I'll just be looking for this view. Every single night."
The silence that followed his words wasn't heavy; it was thick with a sudden, breathless weight that seemed to push the sound of the crashing waves into the far background.
Y/N didn't pull away. Instead, she kept her eyes locked on his, her breath catching in her throat as she felt the absolute sincerity radiating from him. The space between them suddenly felt entirely too small, yet agonizingly wide. Every small detail seemed magnified in the dark—the faint, steady rise and fall of his broad chest, the way his dark bangs brushed just above his eyes, and the quiet warmth radiating from his shoulder where it nearly touched hers.
Soobin’s gaze flicked down to her lips. It was a brief, fleeting look, but it stayed there a beat too long before rising back to her eyes, carrying a silent, hesitant question. He was an overthinker by nature, always analyzing, always keeping his composure, but right now, his throat visibly swallowed. The steady, predictable rhythm he usually relied on was completely gone, replaced by a restless, heavy gravity pulling him closer.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the distance began to shrink.
Soobin unlooped his arms from his knees, his movements deliberately slow, as if he was afraid a sudden breath might shatter the fragile glass of the moment. He shifted his weight, his large frame angling toward her on the sand, effectively blocking out the cool ocean breeze and trapping her in the sudden, concentrated warmth of his shadow.
He didn't rush. He leaned in an inch, then paused, his dark eyes searching hers in the starlight, giving her every opportunity to blink, to laugh it off, or to turn away. The scent of the salty tide mixed with his familiar, clean scent, filling the tiny space left between them.
Y/N’s fingers twitched against the sand, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She didn't move back. If anything, she tilted her face up just a fraction, a silent invitation that broke through the last of his carefully held restraint.
A soft, shaky exhale escaped Soobin's lips, his gaze locking completely onto hers as his head tilted slightly, his shadow finally falling over her face entirely.
He closed the final remaining inch, his lips brushing against hers with a gentle, agonizingly slow hesitation.
The kiss was entirely low-key and quiet, yet it carried the immense weight of every unspoken thought he’d held back since arriving on the island. It was a soft, tentative pressure that gradually deepened as the initial nervousness melted away, filling the space between them with a profound, consuming warmth.
Slowly, lifting his hand from his knee, Soobin reached up. His long, slightly trembling fingers brushed carefully against her jawline before his palm came to rest against her cheek. His skin was warm, a stark and comforting contrast to the cool night breeze. His thumb swept across her cheekbone in a feather-light, reverent caress, a gesture so tender it made the rest of the world completely fade away. It was their very first kiss, and the gentle touch of his hand seemed to anchor her to him, letting her feel just how much he was treasuring the moment.
The world around them completely dissolved—there were no distant city pressures, no looming expectations, just the steady rhythm of the Jeju tide, the soft stroke of his thumb, and the solid, reassuring reality of his presence.
When Soobin finally pulled back, he didn't move far. He stayed close, his forehead resting gently against hers for a fleeting second, his breath hitching as he tried to catch it.
As he slowly sat up and the starlight hit his face, Y/N could see the sudden, frantic rush of crimson flooding his cheeks and tipping the tops of his ears. The composed, towering boy who had calmly navigated the afternoon was completely gone, replaced by someone entirely flustered. He let out a breathless, incredibly shy chuckle, his hand dropping from her cheek to rub the back of his neck as a deep, helpless dimple carved into his cheek.
"I... I've been wanting to do that day we got stuck at the bus stop because of the rain," he whispered, his deep voice carrying a sweet, sheepish note. He looked down at his lap, his fingers nervously tracing a pattern on his knee, before looking back up through his dark bangs with a quiet, happy vulnerability. "I hope that was okay."
Y/N let out a breath she didn't realize she’d been holding, a soft smile breaking across her face. "It was more than okay, Soobin-ah."
In her words, the tension completely melted from his broad shoulders. He let out a quiet, relieved laugh, his hand finally dropping from the back of his neck. Still a bit flustered, he reached down and carefully slid his hand over the sand until his fingers found hers, tentatively weaving them together. His grip was warm and firm, his thumb immediately starting a slow, rhythmic sweep across the back of her hand.
He shifted his posture, pulling his knees back up toward his chest but staying close enough that his shoulder remained firmly pressed against hers. He looked back out at the vast, ink-black ocean, the steady roar of the crashing waves filling the silence between them.
"I was really anxious about coming back here," Soobin admitted softly, his deep voice dropping into that quiet, grounding register. "I thought everything would feel too different, or that I’d just feel like a ghost walking around my old life. But today... with Kai, and now out here..."
He paused, turning his head to look down at her. In the pale starlight, his dark eyes were incredibly soft, stripped entirely of the exhaustion and academic pressure he usually carried around.
"It’s the first time in a really long time that I’ve felt like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be."
Y/N leaned her head lightly against his shoulder, feeling the solid, comforting weight of him bracing against her. "Jeju has a way of doing that," she murmured, watching the stars flicker above the horizon. "It waits for you to realize what actually matters."
Soobin let out a soft chuckle, the low vibration rattling pleasantly against her head. "Then I guess I should thank my grandmother for making too much japchae. And for making me walk down to that book rental shop."
They sat together on the cool sand for a long time after that, their intertwined hands resting between them. The cool night air swirled around the empty beach, but wrapped in the quiet warmth of his presence, Y/N had never felt more grounded.
The night deepened around them, the temperature dropping just enough to make the warmth of Soobin's shoulder against hers feel like a shield against the chill. Neither of them seemed to notice the time passing, completely content to let the steady, rhythmic crash of the tide dictate the pace of the evening.
Slowly, Soobin lifted their joined hands, his eyes tracing the contrast between their fingers before he gently brought the back of her hand up to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles. The gesture was so quiet and natural that it sent a fresh wave of warmth straight to Y/N's chest.
"We should probably start heading back before my grandmother sends out a search party," he murmured, though his voice held a distinct reluctance. He didn't make a move to get up, his thumb still tracing slow circles against her skin.
Y/N let out a soft laugh, shifting her head from his shoulder to look up at him. "Is the formidable village elder really going to come looking for you?"
"Oh, absolutely," Soobin said, his dimples peeking out in the starlight as he smiled sheepishly. "She still treats me like I’m ten years old. If I’m out past nine, she starts pacing the porch. And if she finds out I stayed out late because of you, she’ll never let me hear the end of it."
"In a bad way?"
"No," Soobin chuckled, his eyes softening completely as he looked down at her. "In a 'when are you bringing her over for dinner' kind of way. She already likes you more than me, I think."
With a soft, collective sigh, they finally moved. Soobin stood up first, his towering frame stretching out before he reached back down to offer Y/N his hand, effortlessly pulling her to her feet. He picked up his lightweight jacket from the sand, giving it a quick shake to clear the loose grains before draping it over one arm.
As they turned back toward the sloping path that led away from the shore, Soobin didn't let go of her hand. He kept his fingers securely locked with hers, guiding her through the dark, uneven terrain with a quiet, protective focus.
Leaving the beach behind, the vast canopy of stars seemed to follow them, casting a pale glow over the quiet village streets. The heavy, lingering doubts Soobin had carried with him from Seoul seemed to have been washed away by the tide, replaced by a simple, grounding certainty. As they walked side-by-side into the quiet night, the future felt less like an impending weight and more like an open horizon.
Four days slipped by like a quiet, sun-drenched dream, the fast-paced rush of the outside world completely fading into the background of the island.
It was a brilliant, warm afternoon. High up on a grassy hilltop overlooking the sparkling expanse of the Jeju sea, a massive, ancient tree spread its thick canopy wide, casting a perfect, dappled shadow over the ground. The gentle afternoon breeze swept up the hillside, rustling the leaves overhead and carrying the crisp, salty scent of the ocean below.
Spread out over the grass beneath the shade was a soft, oversized blanket. Underneath the canopy, Soobin was completely relaxed. He was laying down with his long frame stretched out across the fabric, his head resting comfortably right in Y/N’s lap. In his hands, he held an old comic book he’d borrowed from the rental shop, his eyes scanning the pages with an easy, unbothered focus. Every now and then, his lips would twitch into a faint smile, completely at peace.
Y/N sat propped against the sturdy trunk of the tree at the edge of the blanket, a sketchbook resting against her knees. She was wearing a light, flowing sundress that bunched up softly beneath him, the fabric cool and soft under his head. With a charcoal pencil held lightly between her fingers, she was intently focused on the boy in her lap, trying her best to sketch his profile.
She leaned forward slightly, her eyes darting from the sharp line of his jaw to the page, carefully trying to capture the soft, relaxed way his dark bangs fell across his forehead.
"Stop moving your face," Y/N murmured softly, tapping the top of her pencil against the edge of the sketchbook. "Every time you turn the page, your facial expression shifts."
Soobin didn't look up from his comic, but a deep, helpless dimple immediately carved into his cheek. "I'm barely moving. You’re just taking too long because you’re distracted by how handsome your model is."
"Keep talking and I'll draw you with giant cartoon ears," she teased, though a small smile broke across her own face as she leaned back, squinting at the paper to smooth out the shading around his eyes.
Soobin let out a soft, low chuckle that vibrated right against her legs. He finally lowered the comic book slightly, tilting his head back just enough to look up at her upside down. The pale afternoon light filtered through the leaves, catching the warm, affectionate glint in his dark eyes.
Slowly, he reached up, his long fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face before his hand dropped back down to rest against his stomach.
"Fine, I'll be perfectly still," he whispered, his voice warm and incredibly sweet as he held her gaze. "Capture my best side."
Y/N couldn't help but laugh, the sound bright and light in the quiet afternoon air. "I'm trying, but my model keeps making faces at me."
She went back to her sketch, the soft scratch of the charcoal pencil filling the space between them. For a few minutes, Soobin actually kept his promise, remaining perfectly still as he stared back up at the comic book. The gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the ancient tree above them, sending a dance of light and shadow across the soft fabric of her dress and his stripes shirt .
But Soobin’s attention span for the comic was clearly waning. His gaze kept drifting upwards, tracking the subtle movements of her wrist, the focused knit of her brows, and the way her lips slightly parted whenever she was working on a difficult detail.
Without warning, he closed the comic book with a soft thud and set it face down on the blanket beside him.
"Okay, I'm done reading," he announced, shifting his head slightly on her lap to get more comfortable. He reached up, his large hand gently wrapping around her left wrist—the one not holding the pencil—and tugging it down until her hand rested against his chest. He loosely interlaced his fingers with hers, his thumb tracing the back of her knuckles. "Show me."
Y/N defensively tilted the sketchbook toward her chest, a playful, protective look in her eyes. "No way. It’s not finished yet."
"Come on," Soobin pleaded, his voice dropping into that soft, whiny tone he only used when they were completely alone. He looked up at her through his dark bangs, his big, puppy-like eyes practically begging. "Just a sneak peek. Let me see how the ears look."
"They're absolutely huge," she teased, but she slowly relented, angling the sketchbook down so he could look at it upside down from her lap.
Soobin quieted, his eyes scanning the rough charcoal lines. Y/N had captured him perfectly—the soft curve of his nose, the relaxed set of his mouth, and the exact way he looked when he was completely at ease, far away from the rigid structure of his life in Seoul. A genuine, incredibly tender smile spread across his face, his dimples cutting deep into his cheeks.
"Wow," he whispered, his tone shifting from playful to entirely sincere. He looked up from the paper to meet her eyes, his gaze heavy with an affection that made her heart do a sudden flip. "You're really good at this. It actually looks like me."
"Of course it does," Y/N said softly, setting the sketchbook down on the blanket next to them. She reached down with her free hand, her fingers gently combing through his soft, dark hair, brushing it away from his forehead. "I had a pretty good view."
Soobin's smile softened, his eyes locking onto hers as he enjoyed the quiet sensation of her fingers in his hair. The glittering Jeju sea stretched out endlessly beneath their hilltop, but right here under the shade of the tree, neither of them was looking at the horizon.
He leaned into the touch of her hand, closing his eyes for a brief, content moment as her fingers moved through his hair. The warmth of the sun and the steady, rhythmic rustle of the leaves overhead made the entire world feel incredibly slow.
"I don't want to go back to Seoul," Soobin murmured softly, his eyes opening just a fraction to look up at her. The playful teasing from earlier had completely melted away, replaced by that raw, quiet vulnerability he only showed her. "A few days ago, I was counting down the hours until I could leave this island. Now, I feel like I'm going to leave a piece of myself behind if I go."
Y/N paused her hand in his hair, her thumb resting gently against his temple. "You aren't leaving it behind, Soobin. You're just taking a different piece of it back with you."
Soobin let out a breathy, quiet chuckle, shifting on her lap so he could look at her fully. He reached up, his large, warm hand coming to cup the side of her neck, his thumb resting right along her jawline. The contrast of his cool fingers against her sun-warmed skin made her breath hitch slightly.
"I think the piece I'm taking back is you," he whispered, his voice dropping into a deeper, lower register that felt entirely intimate.
He didn't wait for her to answer. Sliding his hand up slightly to anchor his fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck, Soobin pulled himself up just enough to close the distance.
The kiss was slow, tasting faintly of the sweet mandarin juice they’d shared earlier and completely filled with the lazy, golden warmth of the afternoon. It wasn't the hesitant, trembling first kiss they had shared on the dark beach four days ago. This one felt certain, grounded, and deeply affectionate—a quiet promise spoken in the shade of the ancient tree. His other hand found her waist, his palm pressing against the soft, flowing fabric of her dress, pulling her just a fraction closer.
When he finally pulled back, he didn't move his hand from her neck. He just rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling as a soft, helpless smile broke across his lips.
He let his head sink back down into her lap with a soft, contented sigh, his long frame stretching out completely across the blanket. His fingers lazily intertwined with hers, his thumb tracing the back of her hand in a slow, comforting rhythm.
"Since we're both going to be in the city soon..." Soobin began, his voice dropping into a warm, curious murmur as he looked up at her through his bangs. "I realized we've been so wrapped up in the island that I still don't know the exact specifics. Which university are you attending?"
Y/N smiled down at him, her free hand coming up to gently comb through his soft, dark hair, brushing it away from his eyes. "Seoul National University," she said softly.
Soobin’s eyes widened, his thumb freezing against her knuckles. A sudden, brilliant look of genuine surprise and pride broke across his face, his deep dimples instantly popping into his cheeks.
"SNU?" he echoed, his voice lifting with an incredibly proud, impressed tone. He shifted his weight, turning fully onto his side in her lap so he could look at her face properly. "Wow, Y/N-ah. That's incredible. Do you know how hard it is to get into the transfer program there? You're a genius."
Y/N felt a sudden flush of warmth hit her cheeks at his unreserved praise. "It took a lot of sleepless nights and way too many iced Americanos," she admitted, laughing softly as she nudged his shoulder. "But the paperwork finally cleared last week."
"This is amazing," Soobin murmured, his eyes shining as he stared up at her. The daunting weight of returning to his own chaotic university schedule suddenly felt entirely manageable. "My campus is at Konkuk, so we’re not even that far apart. On weekends, or even after classes, I can just hop on the subway and meet you. We can study together. Or, well..." He smiled sheepishly, his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink. "I can just distract you while you try to study."
"I think you're already doing a pretty good job of that," Y/N teased, gesturing down at the sketchbook lying abandoned on the blanket beside them.
Soobin chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated pleasantly against her legs. He reached up, his large palm resting gently over her knee, the soft fabric of her dress moving slightly under his touch. "I'm serious, though. Seoul can feel really big and overwhelming, especially when you first move there. It gets so loud, and everyone is always rushing. I was genuinely dreading going back to that rhythm."
He paused, his gaze softening completely as he held her eyes, his thumb gently smoothing over the fabric of her dress.
"But knowing you're going to be there... knowing I can just call you up when the city gets too loud... it changes everything."
It was the last week of June, and the heat of the Jeju summer had settled in completely—thick, hazy, and smelling of salt and sun-warmed grass. Over the past few days, Y/N and Soobin had become completely inseparable. Every morning started with a text, every afternoon was spent exploring hidden corners of the island, and every night ended with lazy walks under the stars. It felt as if they were trying to stretch every single second of June, knowing that the real world was waiting for them once summer ended.
Today, they had claimed a completely secluded, rocky cove that Soobin knew about.
They spread their oversized blanket across a patch of smooth, dry sand nestled between the tall coastal rocks, just out of reach of the rising tide. The summer sun was blazing, making the crystal-clear, turquoise water look irresistible.
Soobin stood at the edge of the blanket, pulling his oversized cotton t-shirt over his head and tossing it onto the sand, leaving him in just his dark swim trunks. His pale skin caught the bright sunlight, and he looked out at the rolling waves with a bright, boyish grin that Y/N had come to love more than anything else over the past week.
"The last one has to buy the spicy rice cakes tonight!" Soobin shouted, turning back to flash her a mischievous look. Without giving her a chance to protest, his long legs carried him in a dead sprint across the sand, splashing fearlessly straight into the surf.
"Soobin! You always start running before you even finish talking!" Y/N laughed, quickly unbuttoning the light sundress she wore over her swimsuit. She kicked off her sandals and chased after him, the cool, shocking shock of the Jeju sea hitting her skin and instantly erasing the thick summer heat.
By the time she waded out, the water was up to her waist. Soobin was already completely drenched, his dark bangs slicked back from his forehead as he shook water from his eyes like a giant puppy. The moment Y/N got close enough, she lunged forward, using both hands to send a massive wave of water straight at him.
Soobin gasped, laughing loudly as the water hit his face. "Oh, so it's a war now?"
He didn't hold back, using his massive hands to scoop up walls of water, sending them splashing right back at her. The cove echoed with their breathless laughter and the crashing of the waves. They swam until their limbs felt heavy, floating on their backs side-by-side, watching the occasional white cloud drift across the vast blue June sky.
At one point, a sudden, larger swell caught Y/N off guard, making her lose her footing on the sandy floor. Before she could go under, Soobin’s long arms securely wrapped around her waist. With an easy, effortless tilt of his strength, he lifted her up over the crest of the wave.
He kept his hands locked on her waist even after the wave passed, holding her steady against him. The water swirled around their waist. Y/N rested her hands flat against his damped, warm shoulders, catching her breath. Soobin looked down at her, his eyelashes sparkling with sea droplets, a soft, incredibly tender smile resting on his lips. In the bright afternoon light, with the ocean breeze blowing her damp hair across her face, he looked at her like she was the only thing on the entire island.
Eventually, shivering slightly as the late afternoon breeze began to pick up, they waded back to the shore.
They collapsed onto the blanket, wrapping themselves in big, fluffy towels. Soobin dragged the picnic basket closer, his damp skin glowing in the light. He popped open a chilled container of sweet, freshly cut watermelon that they'd brought along.
Picking up a dripping piece, he held it right to her lips, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Here. Fuel for the person who lost the race and the water war."
Y/N leaned in and took a bite, the sweet, icy juice a perfect contrast to the salty air. "I only lost because you have an unfair height advantage in the water," she mumbled around the fruit, making him let out a deep, rumbling chuckle.
Soobin ate the rest of the piece, leaning back on his hands as he looked out at the glittering sea, his shoulder pressed warmly against hers. "Maybe," he murmured, turning his head to look at her, his dimple cutting deep into his cheek. "But I think this whole week has been a win."
When Soobin slipped off his shoes at the entryway of his grandmother’s traditional house, the rich, savory scent of a freshly finished dinner—garlic, soy sauce, and sesame oil—still lingered heavily in the air.
He stepped inside, the dark wooden floorboards cool under his bare feet. Walking into the living room, he found his grandmother and his mother sitting together on the floor around the low wooden table, chatting comfortably. The dinner dishes had already been cleared away, replaced by a simple pitcher of ice cold water and a small plate of peeled fruit.
His mother, who had arrived from Seoul earlier that evening to help with his grandmother’s summer arrangements, paused mid-sentence. Both women turned their heads simultaneously to look at him.
"Look who finally decided to come home," his mother said, her tone a mix of mild exasperation and fondness. She scanned him from head to toe—his messy, damp hair, the slight sunburn dusting the bridge of his nose, and his oversized cotton t-shirt that smelled faintly of the sea. "We waited to eat, but your grandmother said you'd probably be out until the sun went down completely. Where have you been all day, Soobin?"
Before he could offer a carefully rehearsed, casual answer, his grandmother let out a soft, knowing chuckle. Her wrinkled eyes crinkled into wise little crescents as she poured herself a cup of tea.
"Oh, let the boy breathe," his grandmother murmured, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "He was out making the most of his summer. Though, looking at how pink his ears are, I don't think it was just the sun that kept him out so late."
Soobin’s ears instantly turned an even brighter, betraying shade of crimson. He rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight as he tried to look completely unbothered, though a helpless, faint dimple threatened to poke through his cheek.
"I was just... down at the cove with Y/N," he mumbled, his voice dropping an octave into that deep, shy register he used whenever he was flustered.
"We know, honey. We know," his grandmother teased, leaning forward on her elbows with a giant, satisfied smile. "You two have been practically attached at the hip all week. Since she's moving to Seoul soon too, you really should bring Y/N over for dinner. Let me cook something proper for her."
Soobin’s mother raised an eyebrow, a small, knowing smile breaking across her face as she looked at her son's utterly flustered expression. "I'd love to finally meet her, too. Your grandmother hasn't stopped talking about how sweet she is."
"She is sweet," Soobin muttered softly, looking down at his toes to hide the massive, proud smile that was currently taking over his entire face. He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "I'll... I'll ask her tomorrow if she wants to come over."
Two days later—the very first day of July—the heavy summer heat had mellowed into a breezy, golden evening. Y/N stood in front of the familiar wooden gate of Soobin’s grandparents' house, her heart doing a nervous little flutter against her ribs. In her hands, she carefully held a heavy, neatly wrapped basket of fresh, plump Jeju melons and sweet mandarins—a strict mandate from her own grandmother, who insisted she couldn't dare show up for dinner empty-handed.
Taking a small breath to steady her nerves, Y/N knocked on the gate.
Almost instantly, she heard the frantic, heavy thud of familiar, long footsteps rushing across the courtyard. The wooden gate swung open, and there stood Soobin. He was wearing a soft, oversized cream cardigan over a plain tee, looking incredibly handsome, though his dark hair was slightly tousled. The moment his eyes landed on her, a massive, instantly relieved smile broke across his face, his deep dimples cutting into his cheeks.
"You're here," he breathed, his deep voice carrying a wave of nervous excitement. Before he could even step aside to let her in, his eyes dropped to the heavy basket in her arms. "Oh, what is all this? You didn't have to bring anything, Y/N-ah. I told you my grandma was cooking everything."
"My grandma would have skinned me alive if I walked in empty-handed," Y/N laughed softly, the tension instantly melting from her shoulders at the familiar sight of him. "They're fresh melons and mandarins."
"Here, let me take it," Soobin said quickly, his large hands carefully wrapping around the handle of the basket, his fingers brushing against hers with a reassuring warmth. He leaned in just a fraction closer, his eyes soft. "Don't be nervous, okay? They're already obsessed with you."
He guided her through the quiet, traditional courtyard and out into the spacious backyard.
The scene that greeted them was the absolute definition of a cozy mid-summer night. A low, long wooden table had been set up on the grass, surrounded by soft cushions. In the center, a portable gas grill was already sizzling loudly, thick, marbled slabs of samgyeopsal (pork belly) rendering beautifully and filling the air with an incredibly savory, mouth-watering aroma.
Around the table sat Soobin's entire family. His grandfather was expertly flipping the meat with a pair of long tongs, while his grandmother and mother were busy arranging an endless sea of side dishes—crisp lettuce, seasoned green onion salad, pickled radishes, and homemade ssamjang. His dad was sitting back, happily pouring cold barley tea into cups.
"Look who's here!" Soobin’s grandmother called out the moment she spotted them, her wrinkled face lighting up with a radiant smile. She immediately stood up, dusting off her linen apron. "Oh, our Y/N-ah! Come in, come sit down!"
Y/N bowed politely, a warm smile on her face. "Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for inviting me. My grandmother sent these fruits for the family."
"Oh, look at that! Your grandmother is always so thoughtful," Soobin's mother said, stepping forward with a kind, elegant smile. She took the basket from Soobin, giving Y/N a warm, approving look that instantly made Y/N feel welcome. "It's so wonderful to finally meet you, Y/N. Soobin has told us so much about you."
"Mom," Soobin groaned softly, his ears instantly turning a bright shade of pink as he guided Y/N toward the empty cushions at the table.
"What? It's true," his dad chimed in with a booming, good-natured laugh, looking up from the grill. "The boy has been spacing out and smiling at his shoes for a week. Welcome to the family dinner, Y/N. Sit, eat before the meat gets too charred."
Soobin quickly pulled a cushion closer for Y/N, sitting down right beside her. His long frame practically shielded her from any overwhelming attention, but he couldn't hide the shy, incredibly proud smile on his face as he looked between her and his family.
"Here," Soobin whispered, immediately picking up his chopsticks the second his grandfather deposited a perfectly grilled, crispy piece of pork belly onto Y/N's plate. He expertly wrapped it in a fresh lettuce leaf with a bit of rice and ssamjang, holding the perfectly constructed ssam out to her with a proud, dimpled grin.
Y/N felt her cheeks heat up under the gaze of his entire family, but she accepted the bite, the savory, smoky flavor absolutely perfect after a long day in the salt air.
"See how well he takes care of her?" his grandmother remarked to his mother, completely delighted. "At home, he just waits for the food to fall into his mouth, but look at him now."
"Hey, I help," Soobin protested, though his ears were burning a bright, betraying red. He quickly stuffed a piece of meat into his own mouth to hide his embarrassment, his shoulder pressing warmly against Y/N's as he sat protectively close to her.
His dad laughed, pouring a fresh glass of cold barley tea for Y/N. "Don't mind them, Y/N. They're just happy Soobin finally brought a guest over who doesn't just eat all our meat and run away like his school friends do."
"So, Y/N," his mother spoke up, her voice warm and genuinely curious as she leaned forward on her cushion. "Your grandmother mentioned you’re preparing for a big move up to Seoul later this month. How are you feeling about it? It’s quite a change from the island, but at least you still have the whole month of July to enjoy the peace here."
Y/N swallowed her food, smiling politely. "I'm a little nervous because it's so big, but I'm really looking forward to it. I'm glad I still have this month to mentally prepare, though."
"Well, you don't have to worry about a thing," his grandfather chimed in, pointing a pair of long metal tongs at Soobin. "This giant boy over here knows the city like the back of his hand. If he doesn't show you around and carry your bags when the time comes, you just call us and your grandma. We'll set him straight."
Soobin swallowed his food quickly, looking at his grandfather with wide, earnest eyes. "Grandpa, of course I'm going to take care of her. I already told her I'd meet her at her campus."
His mother chuckled softly at how defensive and serious he instantly got. She looked at Y/N, her expression incredibly gentle. "It really is a relief to know you two will have each other up there when summer ends. Seoul can feel lonely, but it’s much better when you have a piece of home with you."
Under the low wooden table, out of sight of his teasing parents and grandparents, Soobin’s large hand found Y/N's. He gently slid his fingers between hers, squeezing her hand with a steady, reassuring warmth that sent a thrill straight to her chest.
He didn't say anything out loud, but as he turned to look at her, the soft glow of the patio lights catching the deep indentation of his dimple, his eyes held a quiet, happy promise for the long July weeks ahead—and everything that would follow.
"He really means it, too," Soobin’s mother added, her eyes crinkling with a soft, deeply amused smile as she watched her son's face burn a fresh, dramatic shade of crimson. She set her chopsticks down and leaned forward slightly, resting her chin in her hand as she looked across the sizzling grill at Y/N.
"You know, Y/N, it is incredibly fascinating for us to see him like this," his mother continued, her tone dropping into a warm, conspiratorial murmur. "Before you came along, this boy practically treated women like they were a different species. He would barely look a girl in the eye, let alone talk to one. If a female classmate so much as asked him for a pencil at school, he’d turn into a statue, give a tiny nod, and look like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole."
"Mom! Please," Soobin choked out, his voice cracking slightly in sheer desperation. He nearly dropped his tongs back into the cabbage dish, his entire face, ears, and neck now a uniform, vibrant shade of pink. He looked at his mother with wide, pleading eyes, silently begging her to stop exposing his absolute lack of game.
His dad let out another booming laugh, clapping a hand on Soobin's rigid shoulder. "She's not lying, son! Remember your middle school graduation? That poor girl tried to give you a bouquet of flowers and you bowed so fast and so low you nearly cracked your forehead against hers, then ran away to the car."
"I was just... polite!" Soobin mumbled defensively, hiding his face behind his large palm as he looked down at his rice bowl, his shoulders slumping. A tiny, helpless dimple poked through his flushed cheek anyway, showing he was more flustered than actually upset.
Y/N couldn't help but laugh softly, looking over at Soobin shrinking into his seat
"It's true, Y/N-ah," his grandmother chimed in, placing a beautifully grilled, juicy piece of pork belly directly onto Y/N's plate with a fond nod. "Our Soobin has always been a quiet, gentle soul. He keeps his heart tucked away safely. So we knew you must be someone incredibly special."
The brilliant July stars were completely out by the time they finally left the warmth of the backyard. The air had cooled down significantly, carrying a crisp, refreshing breeze that rustled through the dark leaves of the village trees.
Soobin walked a little slower than usual, matching his long strides to Y/N’s smaller ones. He had his hands buried deep in the pockets of his soft jacket, his shoulder brushing gently against hers with every few steps. For the first few minutes, they just walked in a comfortable, quiet rhythm, listening to the steady chorus of the summer cicadas.
But as they turned onto the narrow, stone-walled lane that led toward her house, Soobin noticed how quiet she had become. She was looking down at her sandals, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her dress.
He stopped walking, turning his body toward her. "Y/N-ah?"
Y/N paused, looking up at him. In the dim, warm glow of the yellow streetlights, Soobin’s dark eyes were full of a quiet, intense focus. He stepped a little closer, taking one hand out of his pocket to reach for hers. His fingers wrapped around her small hand, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle over her knuckles.
"You've been really quiet since we left the house," he murmured gently. "Are you okay? Did my family overwhelm you?"
Y/N let out a small, heavy breath, the cool night air suddenly making her feel incredibly small. She looked away from him, staring at the shadows on the stone wall, before finally pulling her hand away from his grip completely.
"Soobin... hearing your mom talk about Seoul, and your grandpa... it just made it all feel so real," she said, her voice tight with a sudden surge of anxiety. "The first day of July is already here. After this month, the summer is over."
Soobin blinked, caught off guard by her pulling away. "Yeah, but we'll be heading up there together. I'll be right there to help you settle into the campus—"
"What if I don't go?" Y/N interrupted, the words tumbling out of her before she could stop them.
The silence that followed was absolute. Soobin froze, his hand remaining suspended in the air for a second before dropping slowly to his side. His brow furrowed, his entire demeanor shifting from tender comfort to complete, stunned confusion. "What do you mean, what if you don't go? Your application to SNU is already approved."
"I know, but I’m just... I’m really not so sure about Seoul anymore, Soobin," she argued, crossing her arms tightly as she looked up at him, her defenses flaring because of how scared she actually was. "I've lived on this island my whole life. Everything here makes sense to me. Seoul is massive, crowded, and terrifying. W-What if I just stay in Jeju? I could just find a university here, stay close to my family, and..." She swallowed hard, her voice cracking. "And just stay where I know I fit in."
Soobin stared at her, a rare flash of hurt and sharp defensiveness coloring his features. He stepped toward her, his tall frame cutting off the light from the streetlamp, his jaw tight.
"You're talking about completely throwing away your dream because you're scared?" he asked, his deep voice dropping into a sharper, more intense register than she had ever heard from him before. "You've been working toward this for a year. We've been talking all week about what we're going to do when we get to the city."
"It's easy for you to say it's just 'being scared'!" Y/N shot back, her frustration boiling over. "You grew up there, Soobin! You have your family, your friends, your entire life waiting for you. For me, it's starting completely over from scratch. What happens when you're busy with your own life and your own classes? Am I just supposed to sit in a tiny dorm room wishing I never left home?"
"That’s completely unfair!" Soobin said, looking genuinely wounded. He ran a frustrated hand through his dark hair, pulling at the roots as he looked away from her for a brief second to catch his breath before looking right back into her eyes. "You think I’m just going to leave you to fend for yourself? You think I view you as some fling for the summer? I was finally excited to go back to Seoul because you were going to be there. But now it feels like you're using Jeju as an excuse to pull away from me before we even get there."
The accusation hung heavily in the cool night air, the steady, rhythmic chirping of the July cicadas suddenly sounding entirely too loud in the space between them.
Y/N stared up at him, her breath catching in her throat. Seeing Soobin—who was always so compliant, so careful with his words, and so endlessly patient—looking at her with such raw, flashing hurt in his eyes made her anger instantly evaporate, leaving behind nothing but a cold, hollow ache.
"I'm not trying to pull away from you," she whispered, her voice trembling as the defensive walls she’d built up over the last ten minutes completely crumbled. "Soobin, how can you think that? You’re the best part of being here."
Soobin didn't answer right away. He kept his jaw clenched so tight the sharp line of it caught the edge of the yellow streetlamp. He took a long, heavy breath through his nose, his broad shoulders rising and falling under his cream cardigan as he tried to swallow down the sudden spike of emotion. He looked down at his shoes, then out at the dark lane, refusing to meet her eyes for a long, agonizing moment.
When he finally looked back at her, the sharp defensiveness was entirely gone, replaced by a quiet, vulnerable exhaustion.
"Because that’s what it feels like," he said softly, his voice dropping back into that deep, gravelly register. He closed the small distance she had put between them, though he didn't reach out to touch her just yet. "It feels like you’re ready to completely rewrite your entire future—throw away a dream you worked so hard for—just to stay in your comfort zone. And it makes me feel like I’m not enough of a reason for you to want to take that leap."
"It's not that you're not enough," Y/N murmured, looking down at the gravel, her chest aching. "It's just... Jeju is safe. Out here, I know who I am. Up there, I'm just nobody."
"You're not a nobody to me," Soobin insisted, stepping even closer until the warm, familiar scent of his laundry detergent and the sea completely enveloped her.
He reached out, his large, slightly trembling hand gently catching her wrist before sliding down to lock his fingers securely with hers.
"You think I’m not terrified of going back?" he admitted, a bittersweet, self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Y/N, I hate crowds. I hate how fast Seoul moves. Half the time I'm up there, I just want to lock myself in my room and hide. I was dreading the end of summer because it meant going back to all of that."
He squeezed her hand tightly, his dark eyes entirely bare and full of an intense, quiet sincerity.
"But then I met you. And for the last week, every time I thought about Seoul, I wasn't dreading it anymore. I was actually excited. Because I kept imagining showing you my favorite quiet spots, walking across the campus to meet you after your classes, and having a piece of home—a piece of this—with me. If you stay here, yeah, you’ll be safe. But you’ll always wonder 'what if.' Don't let fear make your choices for you, Y/N-ah. Especially not when I'm right here ready to catch you."
The honesty in his voice cut right through the remainder of her anxiety. Y/N looked up at him, realizing that in her fear of the unknown, she had completely overlooked how much strength he was drawing from her, too.
Slowly, she let out the breath she’d been holding, her shoulders relaxing. "I'm sorry," she whispered, leaning her forehead lightly against his chest. "I'm just so scared."
Soobin let out a soft, defeated sigh, the tension finally bleeding out of his tall frame. He let go of her hand only to wrap both of his long arms completely around her, pulling her tightly against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, rocking her slightly from side to side under the warm glow of the streetlamp.
"I know," he rumbled gently against her skin, his grip tightening as if he could physically shield her from her doubts. "I am too. But we still have all of July left. Let's just focus on being right here, together, and we'll figure out the rest when the time comes. Deal?"
Y/N nodded silently against his chest, her hands gripping the fabric of his jacket. The steady, comforting beat of his heart under her cheek did more to quiet her racing thoughts than any logic could.
"Deal," she murmured, her voice muffled by his shoulder.
Soobin held her like that for a few more long moments, his fingers gently tangling in the hair at the back of her neck, just holding her steady against the weight of the future. When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. He kept his hands resting lightly on her waist, looking down at her with a soft, slightly tired but deeply affectionate smile.
"Good," he whispered, his deep voice carrying a trace of relief. He reached up, using the pad of his thumb to gently wipe away a stray tear she hadn't realized had slipped down her cheek. "Because I can't let my mom and grandma think I made you cry on our very first official family dinner. I'll never hear the end of it."
Y/N let out a breathless laugh, swatting playfully at his chest. "You did make me cry. You were using your scary voice."
"My scary voice?" Soobin’s eyes widened in genuine shock, his head tilting back as a breathless laugh escaped him. His deep dimples popped back into his cheeks, completely erasing any lingering tension from their argument. "I don't have a scary voice! I was just... passionately communicating!"
"You sounded like a strict teacher," she teased, finally smiling fully as she looked up at him.
"I was defending my honor," he protested softly, his expression turning incredibly tender again as his gaze dropped to her lips for a brief second before locking back onto her eyes. He stepped in closer, his chest pressing against hers as he slid his hands down to find hers again, weaving their fingers together. "Seriously, though. Don't hide it from me when you feel like that, okay? Even if we argue. I'd rather know."
"I won't," Y/N promised, squeezing his large hands. "I'm sorry I took it out on you."
"Forget about it," Soobin murmured, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss right to the top of her head. He smelled like the smoky sweet scent of the backyard grill and the cool night air. "Come on, let’s get you home before your dad comes out here with a broom to see what's taking so long."
They walked the final few meters to her front gate in a much lighter, sweeter silence, their joined hands swinging gently between them. The anxiety about Seoul hadn't completely vanished—the city was still massive, and August was still coming and nothing was going to make time freeze—but as Y/N looked at Soobin waving energetically from the bottom of the lane, his giant, dimpled smile lighting up the dark July night, she realized the unknown didn't feel quite as lonely anymore.
The rest of July dissolved into a sun-drenched, blurry haze of the best days Y/N had ever known. True to his word, Soobin didn't let a single afternoon go to waste.
Once the anxiety of the future was tucked away, they lived entirely in the present. They spent hours down at the hidden cove, Soobin’s long legs dangling off the rocks as he watched Y/N swim, always ready with a dry towel and a warm embrace the second she shivered. They rode his scooter through the winding, emerald-green roads of the island, the salt wind whipping through their hair while Y/N held tightly to his waist. There were quiet afternoons spent on the floor of his grandmother’s porch, splitting frozen water ice bars in half, and late-night walks under the vast July stars where they talked about absolutely everything and nothing at all.
But summer, no matter how deeply you try to hold onto it, always has an expiration date.
Suddenly, it was the final week of July. The lazy, endless days caught up to them, and the reality they had successfully avoided for a month settled back into the air. Tomorrow morning, Soobin was leaving for Seoul with his parents.
That final evening, the sky over the island turned a bruised, dramatic shade of violet and gold. They didn't go to the cove or the bustling town; instead, they walked up to the ancient, sprawling tree on the hillside that overlooked the ocean—the place where so many of their quietest promises had been made.
The July breeze was warmer now, heavy with the scent of upcoming late-summer rains. Soobin sat with his back against the thick trunk of the tree, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Y/N sat between them, leaning her back securely against his chest. His large arms were wrapped loosely but completely around her waist, his chin resting gently on the crown of her head.
Neither of them spoke for a long time. They just watched the distant, tiny lights of the fishing boats out on the dark water begin to twinkle one by one.
"My bags are packed," Soobin’s deep voice finally broke the silence, vibrating softly against Y/N’s back. It sounded heavier tonight, grounded in a quiet, reluctant sadness. "My dad wants to leave for the airport at five tomorrow afternoon."
Y/N reached down, placing her hands over his arms, her fingers tracing the soft cotton of his sleeve. "It feels weird. The whole month felt like it lasted a year, but today went by in a second."
Soobin tightened his grip around her waist, pulling her just a fraction closer, as if trying to memorize the exact way she fit against him. He let out a long, slow breath that brushed through her hair.
"I don't want to go," he whispered, a rare admission of vulnerability. "I hate thinking that tomorrow night, I'll be in my room in Seoul, and I won't be able to just walk down the lane to see you. I won't be able to hear the cicadas like this."
Y/N turned her head slightly, looking up at him through the twilight. The sharp, handsome profile of his face looked solemn, his dark eyes fixed on the horizon. The fear she had felt at the beginning of the month didn't flare up this time; instead, seeing him look so reluctant to leave gave her a strange, quiet wave of strength.
"It's only for a few weeks, Soobin-ah," she said softly, reaching up to gently touch the edge of his jaw. "Two weeks will pass. And then I'll be right behind you."
Soobin turned his head, his gaze dropping to meet hers. In the dimming light, the intense, unwavering devotion in his eyes made her breath catch. He caught her hand from his jaw, bringing her palms to his lips and pressing a soft, lingering kiss against her knuckles.
And then, his gaze dropped to her lips.
The space between them seemed to shrink to nothing as he leaned down, his large hand shifting from her knuckles to gently cup the side of her face. His thumb brushed softly over her cheekbone, tilting her chin up just a fraction. When his lips finally met hers, the kiss was soft and slow, tasting faintly of the sweet summer air and carrying all the heavy, unsaid weight of tomorrow’s departure.
It wasn't a rushed goodbye, but a deep, lingering promise. Soobin sighed into the kiss, his other arm tightening around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest as if he could physically print the memory of her into his skin to carry back to Seoul.
When he finally pulled back, just an inch or two, his forehead rested against hers. Both of them were breathing a little shallower now. In the quiet dark of the hillside, with his eyes closed and his hands holding her so securely, the massive, terrifying city of Seoul didn't feel like an ending anymore—it felt like a beginning.
"Two weeks," he murmured again, his voice lower, rougher, and completely certain against her lips. "I'll see you in Seoul."
Two weeks later, the intense, sticky heat of a Seoul mid-August hummed through the glass panes of Incheon International Airport—the bustling hub for domestic flights coming in from the island.
Inside the terminal, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the quiet, slow-paced lanes of Jeju. The late afternoon air was thick, filled with the loud hum of old-school floor fans, the clatter of analog arrival boards flipping their plastic letters, and the chatter of travelers carrying heavy vinyl duffel bags and strapped luggage.
Standing right at the edge of the metal barrier, completely oblivious to the chaotic rush around him, was Soobin.
He was hard to miss—his tall frame easily towered over most of the crowd. He was dressed casually in an oversized, faded blue short-sleeve button-up shirt and dark trousers, looking every bit like a boy straight out of a classic retro film. For the past forty-five minutes, he had been shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his large hands nervously gripping his foldable phone. Every time the heavy doors of the domestic arrivals gate swung open, his shoulders would tense, his dark eyes instantly scanning the emerging faces with intense focus.
To say he had been restless for the last fourteen days was an understatement. He had practically scratched the days off his wall calendar at home, and his room in Seoul had felt entirely too quiet without the sound of the ocean—and without her.
Then, the doors swung open yet again.
Through the crowd of arriving passengers, a familiar figure pushed through, rolling a heavy, boxy suitcase out into the terminal.
Soobin’s entire posture locked up. The moment his eyes landed on Y/N, the anxious, tense expression he had been wearing for an hour completely vanished. A massive, radiant smile broke across his face, his deep dimples carving instantly into his cheeks.
Forgetting all about his usual shy, reserved nature in public, he lifted a long arm and waved frantically over the heads of the crowd.
"Y/N-ah!" he called out, his deep voice easily cutting through the airport noise.
He didn't even wait for her to navigate past the waiting crowd. Soobin eagerly stepped over the divider line, his long strides eating up the distance between them in seconds. Before Y/N could even properly lift her hand to wave back, he was already right in front of her.
He lifted her seamlessly, his large hands anchoring firmly at her waist as he spun her in a slow, sweeping princess twirl right there in the middle of the crowded terminal. Y/N let out a breathless, surprised gasp, her hands instantly flying up to clasp tightly around his neck as the busy airport blurred around them, the retro signs and humming fans fading into a background hum.
When he finally set her back down on her feet, he didn't let go. His arms looped loosely around her waist, keeping her anchored flush against his chest. He leaned down, burying his face into the crook of her neck for a long, quiet second, just breathing her in. He smelled like his familiar laundry detergent, but underneath it was the distinct, crisp scent of the city—he really was a Seoul boy.
"You're actually here," Soobin mumbled against her skin, his deep voice vibrating straight through her.
He pulled back just enough to look down at her face, his eyes shining with an almost overwhelming amount of happiness. His dimples were cut so deep into his cheeks they looked permanent. He reached up, his large, warm hand instantly cupping her cheek, his thumb sweeping over her skin exactly the way he used to under the streetlamps in Jeju.
"I missed you so much," he whispered, completely ignoring the busy travelers navigating around her boxy suitcase. "Two weeks felt like two years. I kept staring at the clock all morning."
Y/N leaned into his palm, the last lingering trace of her anxiety about the massive city completely evaporating the moment his arms had wrapped around her. "I missed you too. Did you really wait here all morning?"
"Of course I did," Soobin said softly, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second before he leaned down and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss right to lips. "Come on. I have my dad’s car parked in the parking lot, and I promised my mom I’d bring you straight to the apartment for dinner. But first..."
He stepped back, effortlessly grabbing the handle of her heavy suitcase with one hand while using his other to firmly lock his fingers with hers, squeezing tight.
"Let's get out of this crowd. Welcome to Seoul, Y/N-ah."
The mid-August dusk settled over Seoul not with the quiet, fading gold of the Jeju coastline, but in a sudden, electric blaze of neon and concrete. Stepping out into the city streets, the sheer, crushing scale of the capital was nothing like the island. Where Jeju was defined by the endless blue horizon and the rhythmic, grounding sigh of the ocean, Seoul was a towering maze of grey stone, steel, and a dizzying web of overlapping telephone wires cutting the sky into jagged pieces.
The air here carried no trace of salt or wind. It was thick and heavy, radiating the metallic warmth of roaring city buses, the rich, spicy steam of tteokbokki from roadside stalls, and the humid exhaust of a metropolis that never slowed down. Everywhere, a relentless sea of strangers moved with hurried, serious strides across the asphalt, their voices swallowed by the overlapping din of car horns and analog billboard lights humming to life in vibrant shades of green and red. It was loud, chaotic, and entirely overwhelming—a sprawling jungle that made the quiet, stone-walled lanes of her village feel like a distant dream.
Yet, as the rushing crowd blurred past on the wide sidewalk, the vastness of the city shrank to the space of a single heartbeat.
His large, warm hand remained firmly locked with hers, a solid and unyielding anchor against the frantic pulse of the city. Towering over the rush of commuters, his familiar presence completely blocked out the intimidating skyline, his dark eyes reflecting the glow of the first evening lights with the exact same quiet devotion from the hillside tree. With a slow, breathtakingly tender smile that brought back the soft warmth of summer, he squeezed her fingers tight, pulling her just a fraction closer to his side.
The city was massive, terrifying, and completely foreign. But as they turned together into the vibrant, crowded streets of Seoul, the unknown no longer felt like a place to get lost—it simply felt like the next place they would walk through, hand in hand.
Jeju was far behind her, and the massive, unfamiliar capital stretched out as far as the eye could see. Yet, looking up at him as the neon signs began to blur together, the lingering fear finally dissolved into the humid evening air. Jeju hadn't been her home because of the sea, the tide, or the quiet, stone-walled lanes.
She realized then that home was no longer a fixed place on a map or a quiet village frozen in time. It wasn't defined by geography at all. Home was the sound of his laugh, the safety of his arms, and the unwavering devotion in his eyes. Wherever he was, that was where she belonged.
In the middle of this massive, chaotic city, Soobin had become her home.
happy pride everybody !🌈 im 10 days late but here are some ppulbatu pride icons i made. no need to credit. only if you want too. just like or reblog if you want to use them
it includes over 35 icons such as bi, lesbian, ace, nonbinary, gay & transgender. google drive link
let me know of you want me to make a part 2 to include ones i may have forgotten
⤷ ˚‧ You got a fast car, I want a ticket to anywhere ˊ˗
PAIRINGS. 박성훈 x f !reader
TROPES. Tutor/student, forbidden romance, class difference, small town/big dreams, learning disability representation, opposites attract, second chance love
SUMMARY. Millbrook, Indiana. 1989. Your life is perfectly planned—until you’re assigned to tutor Park Sunghoon, the school’s most infamous senior. He’s failing English (again), lives for street racing, and couldn’t care less about rules. But he’s not stupid—just misunderstood. As you help him learn, he shows you a different way to live. Somewhere between late nights and quiet moments, your carefully mapped future starts to shift… and so do your feelings.
WORD COUNT. 20.4k
WARNINGS. Explicit sexual content (18+), kissing, penetrative sex, grinding, fingering, safe sex, depictions of undiagnosed learning disability, academic struggle, parental pressure, familial conflict, class differences, street racing, alcohol consumption, period-typical attitudes, strong language.
LACEYS NOTE. this was asked for a few times and I finally decided to post it so pls enjoy😽😽 this anon asked for it so ty for asking xx I hope you love Sunghoon and this story as much as I loved writing him. Thank you for reading— reblogs, likes and comments always keep me writing! Please enjoy
Principal Morrison's office smells like coffee and disappointment. You've been here before—student council meetings, scholarship recommendations, the kind of visits that end with praise and college brochures. Today feels different. Today, Mrs. Morrison's smile has an edge to it.
"I have a special assignment for you," she says, settling behind her desk. Outside, the hallway bustles with the chaos of first period passing. It's only the second week of senior year and you already have three AP classes, student council, yearbook committee, and exactly zero free periods.
"Of course," you say automatically, because that's what you do. Say yes. Exceed expectations. Maintain the 4.0 that's going to get you into Stanford. "What do you need?"
"I need you to tutor someone." She pauses, and something in that pause makes your stomach drop. "Park Sunghoon. Senior English. He's taking it for the fourth time."
Oh. Everyone knows Park Sunghoon. Hard not to when he rolls into the parking lot every morning in a black Mustang that's louder than the first bell, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, looking like he walked out of a movie about teenagers your parents wouldn't let you watch. He's in your English class this year—always in the back row, usually late, definitely not paying attention. "I don't know if I'm the right person—"
"You're exactly the right person. Top of the class, excellent communication skills, patient." Mrs. Morrison leans forward, her expression softening into something that looks almost like desperation. "He needs to pass this class to graduate. And between you and me, I think he needs someone who won't give up on him."
The weight of expectation settles on your shoulders—familiar, heavy, accepted. This is what you do. You help. You achieve. You make your parents proud and your teachers grateful and everyone believes you can fix anything if you just try hard enough. "When would I—"
"Tuesdays and Thursdays after school. Library, four to five. I've already cleared it with him." She smiles like this is settled. "Thank you. I knew I could count on you." You leave her office with a sinking feeling and the distinct impression that you've just been assigned the impossible.
—
Thursday afternoon, 4:02 PM. You're in the library with your AP Lit textbook, notes on The Great Gatsby, and growing certainty that Sunghoon Park isn't going to show up.
At 4:15, you're proven wrong. He walks in like he's doing you a favor—leather jacket, ripped jeans, boots that definitely violate dress code. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and when he spots you at the corner table, something crosses his face. Resignation, maybe. Or irritation. "You're my tutor?" he says by way of greeting, dropping his backpack on the table with a thud that makes the librarian shoot him a warning look.
"Looks like it." You gesture to the empty chair. "Have a seat." He sits, sprawling in the chair like he owns it, and pulls out an absolutely destroyed copy of Of Mice and Men. The cover's hanging by threads, pages dog-eared and crumpled. "So," you start, trying to figure out where to begin. "Mrs. Morrison said you're taking senior English again?"
"Fourth time." He says it flat, like it doesn't bother him, but you see the tension in his jaw.
"Okay. What's giving you the most trouble?"
He laughs—short and bitter. "All of it. The reading. The writing. The whole goddamn thing."
"Have you read the book?" You nod at Of Mice and Men.
"I tried." He flips it open randomly, stares at the page like it personally offended him. "The words just—they don't make sense. I read the same line five times and still don't know what it says."
Something clicks in your brain. The way he's holding the book. The frustration that seems deeper than just dislike. The fact that he's clearly not stupid—he wouldn't have made it to senior year four times if he was—but something's not connecting. "Can you read this page out loud for me?" you ask gently.
His expression shuts down immediately. "No."
"Sunghoon—"
"I said no." He's already standing, grabbing his bag. "This is pointless. I'm not some charity case for you to fix so you can put it on your college applications."
"That's not—" You're standing too now, and the librarian is definitely watching. "I'm trying to help."
"I don't need help. I need people to stop pretending I'm going to magically get this shit." His voice is low, controlled, which somehow makes it worse. "I'm stupid. Everyone knows it. Let's not waste each other's time."
"You're not stupid."
He looks at you then—really looks—and for a second you see past the armor. There's hurt there. Years of it. "Yeah?" he challenges. "Then why can't I read a fucking book that every other senior finished in a week?"
"Because I think you might be dyslexic." The word hangs between you. He goes very still.
"What?"
"Dyslexia. It's a learning disability that affects reading. The way you described it—reading the same line multiple times, words not making sense—those are classic signs." You're speaking carefully now, aware that this could go very wrong. "My cousin has it. He's brilliant. Mechanical engineer at Purdue. But reading was hell for him until he got diagnosed and learned strategies."
Sunghoon is staring at you like you're speaking another language. "That's not—I'm just—" He stops. Tries again. "Nobody ever said—"
"Have you ever been tested?"
"No. Teachers just kept saying I wasn't trying hard enough." The bitterness is back, but underneath it there's something else. Hope, maybe. Fragile and dangerous.
"Sit down," you say quietly. "Please. Let me show you something." He hesitates, then slowly sinks back into the chair. You pull out a blank piece of paper and write a sentence in clear print: THE CAT SAT ON THE MAT. "Read this."
He stares at it for a long moment. "The... cat... sat..." He stops, frustrated. "Some of the letters keep moving."
"Exactly." You pull out a red plastic sheet—the kind photographers use for color correction—from your bag. Your cousin's old trick. "Try reading it through this."
He looks skeptical but places the red sheet over the paper. His eyes widen. "The cat sat on the mat." He reads it perfectly. Looks up at you with an expression you can't quite name. "What the fuck."
"Colored overlays help some people with dyslexia. The colored filter reduces visual stress and makes the letters more stable." You're trying to keep your voice steady, professional, but your heart is racing. "This doesn't mean you're stupid, Sunghoon. It means your brain processes visual information differently."
He's still staring at the paper through the red sheet, reading the sentence over and over like he can't believe it. "All this time," he says finally, voice rough. "All these fucking years, and it was just—"
"Not your fault," you finish firmly. "Never your fault." He looks at you then, and something shifts in his expression. The armor cracks, just a little.
"Can you—" He stops, clears his throat. "Can you teach me? Actually teach me, not just make me read shit I can't understand?"
"Yes," you say without hesitation. "But we're going to need more time than an hour twice a week."
"I work at my dad's garage after school most days. Can't really get out of that."
"Evenings?"
He hesitates. "There's a diner. Miller's, out on Route 40. They have booths in the back, it's quiet. I could meet you there. After the garage closes. Seven?"
Your mother is going to have opinions about you spending evenings at a diner with Park Sunghoon. Your father is going to ask if this is really the best use of your time when you should be focused on AP classes and scholarship applications. "Seven works," you hear yourself say.
His smile is small but genuine. "Okay. Tuesday?"
"Tuesday." He leaves with the red plastic sheet folded carefully in his pocket, and you sit there in the empty library wondering what you've just started.
Mrs. Henderson, the librarian, appears at your elbow. "That was kind," she says quietly.
"I just showed him a color filter."
"You gave him hope." She pats your shoulder. "Sometimes that's more important."
You pack up your things slowly, thinking about Sunghoon's expression when he read that sentence. About years of being told he wasn't trying hard enough. About intelligence that doesn't fit in the boxes that schools make. About the fact that you just agreed to spend your evenings in a diner with the most dangerous boy in school.
And the scariest part? You're looking forward to it.
—
Tuesday night arrives too fast and too slow at the same time. You tell your mother you're studying at the library. It's not technically a lie—you are helping someone study. She doesn't need to know the someone is Park Sunghoon or that the library is actually a diner on the edge of town.
Miller's Diner looks like it hasn't changed since 1955. Red vinyl booths, checkerboard floor, a jukebox in the corner playing Tiffany. The smell of coffee and frying oil. A handful of truckers at the counter, a couple of farmers in the corner booth, and exactly zero people from school.
Sunghoon is already there, sitting in the last booth by the window. He's changed out of his leather jacket into a plain black t-shirt, and there's grease under his fingernails. He sees you and something in his expression softens. "You came," he says, like he half-expected you to bail.
"I said I would." You slide into the booth across from him, setting down your bag full of books and teaching materials. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
"People make promises they don't keep." He shrugs. "Had a few tutors give up before."
"I'm not going to give up."
"We'll see."
A waitress appears—Sally, her name tag says, probably in her fifties with kind eyes and a skeptical expression when she looks at Sunghoon. "What can I get you kids?"
"Coffee, black," Sunghoon says. "And a chocolate milkshake."
You raise an eyebrow. "Both?"
"Coffee's for staying awake. Milkshake's for when reading gives me a headache." He looks almost defensive. "What?"
"Nothing. I'll have the same."
Sally writes it down, her skepticism softening into something that might be approval. "Be right back."
When she's gone, you pull out your materials. You've spent the past four days researching dyslexia, strategies, techniques. Your cousin sent you a care package—more colored overlays, a reading ruler, special paper with slightly tinted backgrounds that's easier on dyslexic eyes. "Okay," you start, spreading everything out. "First things first. I'm not a diagnostician, so I can't officially test you for dyslexia. But I can teach you strategies that help people with dyslexia read more effectively."
"Like the red sheet."
"Exactly. Different colors work for different people." You push the stack of overlays toward him. "Try these on a page of your book. See which one makes the words most stable."
He pulls out Of Mice and Men, that same destroyed copy, and starts testing. Blue—no good. Yellow—better. Green—worse. Red— "Red's still best," he says finally.
"Then red it is. I also got you this." You slide over a reading ruler—a long transparent strip with a colored bar that helps track lines of text. "And this paper." Special cream-colored pages. "Some people find it easier to read on colored backgrounds."
He's looking at all of it like you've just handed him gold. "You did all this for me?"
"It wasn't a big deal. My cousin had extras."
"It's a big deal to me." His voice is quiet. Genuine. "Nobody's ever—" He stops. Starts again. "Thank you."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "You're welcome. Now let's see if we can get through chapter one together."
For the next hour, you work. You read passages out loud while he follows along with the red overlay and reading ruler. You stop every few paragraphs to discuss what's happening, to make sure he's comprehending. When he gets frustrated with a particularly difficult section, you break it down sentence by sentence. The milkshakes arrive halfway through. You're both so focused you barely notice Sally setting them down.
"This is about friendship, right?" Sunghoon says suddenly. You're on chapter three now, George and Lennie planning their dream farm. "Like, George takes care of Lennie even though it makes his life harder."
"Yes. Exactly." You're surprised by how quickly he's grasping the themes. "Why do you think George does that?"
"Because Lennie's the only person who sees him as more than just some ranch hand. Because having someone need you is better than being alone." He pauses. "And maybe because George knows what it's like to be different. To not fit."
You stare at him. That's a deeper reading than half your AP class came up with. "That's—that's brilliant, Sunghoon."
He looks up, startled. "Really?"
"Really. You're understanding the emotional core of the story. That's harder than just reading the words."
"But I can't write a paper about it. Can't spell half the words I'd need."
"So we'll work on that too. Writing strategies. Spell check. Audio recording your ideas and transcribing them." You're already making notes. "There are ways around every obstacle."
"You really believe that?"
"I really do."
He takes a long drink of his milkshake, studying you over the rim of the glass. "Why are you doing this? And don't say it's for college apps. You've got those locked down."
The question catches you off guard. You consider lying, giving some easy answer about community service or helping others. But something about the way he's looking at you—open, genuine, vulnerable—demands honesty. "Because nobody should feel stupid when they're not," you say finally. "Because intelligence comes in so many forms and school only tests for one. Because you deserve someone who sees you as more than just a problem to fix."
His expression does something complicated. "You don't even know me."
"Then tell me about you. Who is Park Sunghoon when he's not in the back of English class?"
He hesitates, then: "I work at my dad's garage. Park's Auto Repair, down on Fifth Street. Been working there since I was twelve. Can rebuild an engine blindfolded."
"Really?"
"Really. Cars make sense to me. They're logical. If something's broken, there's a reason. A fix. It's all mechanical. No hidden meanings or metaphors or bullshit."
"Unlike English class."
"Unlike English class." He grins—the first real smile you've seen from him. It transforms his whole face. "But mostly I build cars. Race them, sometimes."
"The Mustang?"
"The Mustang. '67 Fastback. Bought it for five hundred bucks three years ago when it was basically a rusted shell. Been rebuilding it piece by piece ever since." There's passion in his voice now, the same passion that's been missing when he talks about school. "She's almost done. Just needs a new transmission and some body work."
"She?"
"All cars are she." He says it like it's obvious. "You probably think it's stupid. Racing."
"I think it sounds exciting. Terrifying, but exciting."
"You scared of going fast?"
"I'm scared of everything going wrong."
He studies you for a moment. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Stuck-up. Judgmental. Like everyone else who's got their shit together." He's playing with his milkshake straw now, not quite looking at you. "But you're not. You're... nice. Actually nice, not fake nice."
"You're not what I expected either."
"What did you expect?"
"Honestly? Someone who didn't care. Someone who'd blow off tutoring or not even try." You pause. "But you're trying really hard. You care about this even though it's difficult."
"I care about graduating. Getting out of this town."
"Where would you go?"
"Anywhere. Indianapolis, maybe. Or Detroit. Somewhere with real garages, real racing circuits. Somewhere I'm not the Park kid who can't read." The bitterness creeps back into his voice.
"You can read. You're reading right now."
He looks down at the book, the red overlay, the progress you've made. "Yeah. I guess I am."
For a moment, you just sit there. The diner's nearly empty now, the jukebox playing something slow. Through the window, you can see the Mustang parked under a streetlight, all black paint and chrome, beautiful and dangerous. "Same time Thursday?" you ask.
"Same time Thursday." He pauses. "And... thanks. For not giving up on me after one session."
"I told you I wouldn't."
"Yeah, but people say a lot of things."
"I'm not people."
His smile is small but genuine. "No. You're really not."
You leave the diner at nine, and your mother's waiting up when you get home. "The library was open until nine?" she asks, voice carefully neutral.
"I was helping someone study. Lost track of time."
"Someone?"
"A classmate." Not technically a lie.
She studies your face, and you wonder if she can see it—the flutter of something new and dangerous. The feeling that tonight was about more than just teaching someone to read. "Just be careful," she says finally. "Senior year's important. Don't let anyone distract you from your goals."
"I won't, Mom."
But later, lying in bed, you think about Sunghoon's smile when he read that first sentence. About the passion in his voice when he talked about his Mustang. About the fact that you're already looking forward to Thursday. And you wonder if maybe, possibly, you're already distracted.
—
The next six weeks blur together in a pattern: School. Student council. Thursday tutoring in the library for appearances. Tuesday and Thursday nights at Miller's Diner for actual progress.
You learn things about Sunghoon: He drinks his coffee black because his dad taught him that's how men drink it, but he'd secretly prefer cream and sugar. He's left-handed. He has a younger sister, Soo-ah, who's in eighth grade and wants to be a vet. His mom left when he was ten and he doesn't talk about it. He can identify any car by the sound of its engine. He's terrified of failing English again. He thinks Holden Caulfield from Catcher in the Rye is whiny but he understands why the character's so angry at everything.
You learn how to teach him: Breaking chapters into smaller sections works. Audio books help, but he feels guilty using them, like they're cheating. He comprehends better when he can discuss ideas out loud rather than writing them down. His spelling is creative but phonetic. When he's frustrated, he needs five minutes to walk it off before trying again. Positive reinforcement matters more than criticism. He works twice as hard as anyone you've ever met.
You learn things about yourself: that you look forward to Tuesday and Thursday nights more than any other part of your week. You started leaving your hair down instead of in a ponytail. You think about him during AP Calc. The sound of an engine makes your heart race now, wondering if it's his Mustang. You're lying to your parents about where you spend your evenings and you don't feel guilty enough about it.
By mid-October, Sunghoon's reading at a tenth-grade level—not great, but light years beyond where he started. He got a B-minus on his Of Mice and Men essay. Mr. Peterson, the English teacher, wrote "significant improvement" on the top. "I can't believe it," Sunghoon says, staring at the paper like it might disappear. You're in your usual booth at Miller's, chemistry homework spread out in front of you (because you still have actual classes), his English work in front of him.
"I can. You earned it."
"We earned it. I couldn't have done this without you."
"You did the work. I just showed you different strategies."
He looks up, and there's something intense in his expression. "It's more than that. You believed I could do it. That matters."
The air between you feels charged suddenly. You're very aware that you're sitting in a back booth of a diner where nobody from school ever comes, that it's just the two of you and Sally wiping down counters, that Sunghoon is looking at you like you're something more than just his tutor. "I should—" You gesture vaguely at your chemistry homework. "Midterm next week."
"Right. Yeah." He clears his throat, looking away. "You want help?"
"You want to help with chemistry?"
"I'm good at it. Sciences make sense. They're like cars—everything has a reason, a reaction, a cause and effect." So you trade. He helps you understand molecular bonds and chemical reactions, explaining them with an ease that surprises you. You help him with his reading comprehension questions for Catcher in the Rye.
It's past ten when you finally pack up. Sally's given up pretending she's not watching you two, a small smile on her face as she tops off Sunghoon's coffee for the third time. In the parking lot, you walk toward your car—a sensible Honda Civic your parents bought you junior year—but Sunghoon catches your wrist. "Hey," he says. "You want to see something?"
"See what?"
"The Mustang. Properly. I finished the transmission last week."
You should say no. It's late. Your mom's going to ask questions if you're not home by ten-thirty. You have homework still. "Yeah," you hear yourself say. "I'd like that."
He leads you to the Mustang, parked under the streetlight like always, but this time he opens the hood. The engine gleams underneath—chrome and steel and meticulous care. "You rebuilt all of this?" you ask, genuinely awed.
"Most of it. Dad helped with some of the specialized stuff, but yeah. Took three years." There's pride in his voice. "Want to hear her run?"
"Please." He slides into the driver's seat, and when he turns the key, the engine roars to life. It's loud and powerful and sounds like controlled chaos. He revs it once, and you can feel the vibration in your chest.
When he kills the engine and gets out, he's grinning. "What do you think?"
"I think she's beautiful."
"Yeah?" He's standing close now, close enough that you can smell motor oil and coffee and something that's just him. "You want to go for a ride sometime?"
Your heart's racing. "Where would we go?"
"Anywhere. Nowhere. There's this place, about twenty minutes out of town. The quarry. People race there sometimes." He pauses. "I could teach you to drive stick shift."
"My parents would kill me."
"They don't have to know."
It's a terrible idea. Sneaking around. Going to the quarry where kids race and drink and do all the things that good students don't do. Getting into a car with a boy your parents definitely wouldn't approve of. "Saturday?" you ask.
His smile is worth every risk. "Saturday. Pick you up at eight?"
"I'll meet you. The QuickMart on the edge of town."
"You don't want me picking you up at your house."
"My dad owns a shotgun and strong opinions about boys. So no."
He laughs—full and genuine. "Fair enough. QuickMart at eight."
You drive home with butterflies in your stomach and the sound of that engine still echoing in your ears. When you slip in the front door at 10:45, your mom's reading on the couch. "Library close late again?" she asks.
"Big project. Sorry."
She studies you over the top of her book. "You're smiling a lot for someone who's been doing homework all night."
"Just had a productive study session."
"Uh-huh." She doesn't believe you, but she doesn't push. "Get some sleep. You look tired."
In your room, you try to focus on chemistry but your mind keeps drifting to Saturday. To the Mustang. To Sunghoon's smile and the way he looked at you in the parking lot. Your phone rings. The landline extension in your room. You pick up. "Hi." It's him. You don't know how he got your number, but you're glad he did.
"Hi."
"I just wanted to make sure you got home okay."
"I'm fine. It's like fifteen minutes."
"I know. But still." He pauses. "I'm looking forward to Saturday."
"Me too."
"Good. Get some sleep. I'll see you Thursday."
"See you Thursday." You hang up, and you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. Your best friend Wonyoung is going to lose her mind when you tell her about this. If you tell her about this. Because maybe some things are meant to be secret. Maybe some things are just yours.
—
Saturday night at 7:55 PM. You're standing in the QuickMart parking lot wearing jeans and a sweater, telling yourself this is fine. This is normal. Lots of people go to the quarry on Saturday nights. (Except you're not lots of people. You're the girl who spends Saturday nights doing extra credit or organizing student council activities or watching movies with Wonyoung while she talks about her on-again-off-again thing with Jake Sim.)
The Mustang rumbles into the parking lot at exactly eight, all black paint and chrome gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Sunghoon leans over to open the passenger door, grinning. "You came."
"You sound surprised."
"Half-expected you to bail. Come to your senses."
"Maybe I came to my senses by showing up."
His grin widens. "Get in." You do. The interior's been restored too—black leather seats, a tape deck, the smell of new upholstery and possibility. "Buckle up," he says, and then he's peeling out of the parking lot, and you're pressed back against the seat as the engine roars.
He drives fast but controlled, taking the roads out of town with easy confidence. The radio's playing—some rock station, The Bangles bleeding into Bon Jovi. The windows are down and the October air is cold and crisp and perfect. "Where'd you tell your parents you were going?" he asks over the music.
"Wonyoung's house. Movie night."
"She covering for you?"
"She doesn't know. I'll call her later, make sure our stories match if anyone asks." You glance at him. "Where'd you tell your dad?"
"That I was going to the quarry. He doesn't care as long as I'm home by midnight and don't wreck the car."
"Different parenting styles."
"You could say that."
The quarry is exactly what you expected and nothing like it at the same time. It's an old limestone quarry, abandoned for years, now filled with water that's probably freezing and definitely not safe to swim in. There's a flat area at the top that's become the unofficial racing strip—a quarter mile of cracked pavement with enough room for two cars to line up side by side.
There are maybe twenty cars already there when you arrive. You recognize some from school—Jay Park's Camaro, Jake Sim's pickup truck, a few others. Music blasts from someone's stereo. A group of kids stands around a bonfire that's definitely illegal. Sunghoon parks at the edge of the group, and immediately people start gravitating toward the Mustang. "Yo, Hoon!" A guy you vaguely recognize from auto shop class—Jay, you think—jogs over. "Transmission finally done?"
"Finished her last week." Sunghoon gets out, popping the hood. "Want to see?" You get out too, feeling wildly out of place in your neat jeans and sweater while everyone else is in leather and ripped denim and the kind of casual confidence that comes from belonging.
"Holy shit," Jay says, looking at the engine. "You did this yourself?"
"Mostly. Dad helped with the specs."
More people gather, asking technical questions about compression ratios and torque and things you don't understand. You stand slightly apart, and that's when you notice her. A girl about your age, leaning against a cherry-red Corvette, watching you with undisguised curiosity. She's gorgeous—leather jacket, dark lipstick, the kind of effortless cool you've never managed. She walks over. "You're new."
"I'm—yeah. First time here."
"I can tell." She's not mean about it, just observational. "I'm Ryujin. That's my car." She gestures to the Corvette. "You're Sunghoon's tutor, right?"
Apparently everyone knows. "Yeah. How did you—"
"Small town. Word travels." She studies you with sharp eyes. "You seem nervous."
"Is it that obvious?"
"Little bit. But don't worry. Nobody bites. Well, Jay bites sometimes, but only if you ask nicely." Despite yourself, you laugh. "There we go. You have a smile." Ryujin nods toward where Sunghoon's still showing off his engine. "He talks about you, you know."
Your heart skips. "He does?"
"All the time. 'My tutor this, my tutor that. She's so smart. She actually believes I can pass.'" Ryujin's expression softens. "It's good for him. Having someone who sees past the reputation."
"What reputation?"
"Park's delinquent kid. The one who can't hack it academically. The loser who's going to end up pumping gas at his dad's garage for the rest of his life." She says it matter-of-factly, but there's an edge of anger underneath. "People are assholes."
"He's not—he's brilliant. He's just dyslexic."
"I know. But nobody else seems to get that." She glances back toward Sunghoon. "Anyway. I'm glad he brought you. He doesn't bring people here. It's his space, you know? The fact that he wanted to share it with you means something."
Before you can process that, Sunghoon's back, sliding an arm around your waist casually, naturally, like he's done it a hundred times before. "You good?" he asks.
"Maybe." They're grinning at each other, and you realize this is friendship. This is his people—the ones who see him as more than the kid who failed English three times.
"I'll race you later," Ryujin says. "Right now, I think you were going to teach your girl to drive stick." Your girl. The words settle warm in your chest.
Sunghoon leads you back to the Mustang, away from the crowd. "You ready for this?"
"To drive your baby? The car you've spent three years restoring?"
"To learn something new." He opens the driver's door. "Come on. Slide in." You do. The driver's seat feels different—powerful, dangerous. Sunghoon gets in the passenger side, talking you through the basics.
"Clutch, brake, gas. Three pedals instead of two. You're going to push the clutch all the way down, put her in first gear, then slowly let the clutch out while giving her gas. Too fast, she'll stall. Too slow, she'll—" The engine dies immediately. "—stall. That's okay. Everyone does that the first time. Try again."
It takes six tries before you manage to actually move forward without stalling. By try seven, you're doing laps around the parking area, grinding the gears occasionally but mostly getting it. "You're a natural," Sunghoon says, and he sounds impressed.
"I'm terrible at this."
"You're learning. That's different." He guides you through shifting to second, then third. "Feel that? The way she catches when you hit the right spot? That's perfect."
You do three successful laps, and on the fourth, you catch him watching you instead of the road. "What?"
"Nothing. You just—you look happy."
"I am happy."
"Good."
You park after the fifth lap, heart racing with adrenaline and something else. Something that might be dangerous. "That was amazing," you say.
"You did great."
"No, I mean—this. Being here. Learning something completely unrelated to school or college applications or my parents' expectations. Just—doing something for me."
He's looking at you with that intense focus that makes your stomach flip. "You don't do things for yourself much, do you?"
"I'm busy."
"That's not an answer."
"No," you admit. "I don't. Everything I do has a purpose. An end goal. Get into Stanford. Make my parents proud. Secure my future."
"What do you want? Not your parents. You."
The question catches you completely off guard. Nobody's asked you that before. Nobody's cared to ask. "I don't know," you say finally. Honestly. "I've spent so long doing what I'm supposed to do, I'm not sure what I want anymore."
"That's sad."
"That's realistic."
"Maybe." He shifts in the seat, turning to face you fully. "You want to know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think you're scared. I think you've built this perfect life, this perfect plan, and you're terrified of anything that might mess it up. But I also think—" He pauses. "I think you're only here, in this car, at this quarry, because part of you wants something different. Something real."
Your heart is pounding. "And if I do?"
"Then maybe you should let yourself have it."
You're sitting in his Mustang, at a quarry where people race and break rules, with a boy who makes your heart race faster than any engine, and you're tired. So tired of being good. Of being perfect. Of doing everything right. "Teach me to race," you say suddenly.
His eyes widen. "What?"
"Teach me to race. Actually race. Not just drive around a parking lot."
"That's—do you know how dangerous that is?"
"I'm asking anyway."
He studies you for a long moment. "You're serious."
"Completely."
A slow smile spreads across his face. "Okay. But not tonight. You need more practice first. Real practice. We'll come back next Saturday. And the Saturday after that. I'll teach you everything."
"Everything?"
"Everything." The word hangs heavy with promise. The night continues. You meet more people—Jay, who's loud and funny and clearly Sunghoon's best friend. Yuna, who drags her boyfriend Sunoo around by the hand and asks you about student council. Niki, who's only sixteen but drives better than half the seniors here.
You watch three races. Ryujin wins two of them, Sunghoon wins the third. The way he drives is like watching art—controlled chaos, perfect timing, raw skill. At eleven, he takes you back to your car at the QuickMart. "Same time next week?" he asks.
"Same time next week."
"And Thursday. Diner."
"I'll be there."
He leans across the console, and for a moment you think he might kiss you. But instead, he just tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "Drive safe," he says.
"You too." You call Wonyoung from the parking lot, apologizing for the short notice, establishing your alibi. She's suspicious but covers for you without question, because that's what best friends do.
When you get home, your mom's asleep but your dad's still up, reading in his study. "Good movie?" he asks.
"Great movie."
"You and Wonyoung have fun?"
"Always."
He studies you over his reading glasses, and you wonder if he can see it—the change. The fact that his perfect daughter just spent the evening at an illegal street racing spot with a boy he'd definitely disapprove of. "Get some rest," he says finally. "You have SAT prep in the morning."
"Right. SAT prep."
In your room, you strip off your sweater, and it smells like motor oil and bonfire smoke and freedom. You should wash it immediately. Instead, you fold it carefully and put it in the back of your closet, where the smell might linger just a little longer. You lie in bed thinking about Sunghoon's hands on the steering wheel. About the way he looked at you when you said you were happy. About the fact that for the first time in your carefully planned life, you have a secret that's just yours.
And you're not sorry about it at all.
—
November arrives cold and sudden, turning Millbrook into a postcard of autumn—all orange leaves and early frost, the smell of wood smoke and approaching winter. You and Sunghoon fall into a rhythm. Tuesdays and Thursdays: Miller's Diner. Books and milkshakes and watching him improve week by week. He's reading at grade level now. Got a B on his Catcher in the Rye essay. Mr. Peterson keeps looking at him like he doesn't quite believe the transformation.
Saturdays: The quarry. Learning to drive—really drive. Stick shift, speed shifting, the physics of acceleration and control. The first time you beat Niki in a practice race (his reaction time was slow, you didn't actually outdrive him, but still), you screamed so loud Sunghoon laughed until he cried. Weekdays: Stolen moments between classes. His hand brushing yours in the hallway. Notes passed during English (ironic, since he can actually read them now). The way your heart jumps every time you see the Mustang in the parking lot.
It's not dating. You're not calling it dating. That would make it real, and real things have consequences. But it's something. Something that makes you smile when you should be concentrating on calculus. Something that has Wonyoung giving you knowing looks across the lunch table. "You're going to have to tell me eventually," she says one Monday, stealing a fry from your tray.
"Tell you what?"
"Who he is. The guy you're sneaking around with."
Your heart stops. "I'm not—"
"Please. You smell like motor oil every Saturday night. You smile at your phone. You're distracted in student council meetings." She grins. "I'm your best friend. I know everything."
"It's complicated."
"Complicated is fun. Uncomplicated is boring." She leans closer, voice dropping. "Is it Park Sunghoon?"
You nearly choke on your water. "What? No. Why would you—"
"Because he looks at you in English class like you're the only person in the room. And you look back the same way when you think nobody's watching."
"We're—I'm tutoring him. That's all."
"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England." But she doesn't push, because Wonyoung gets boundaries. "Just be careful, okay? I know you. You're all-or-nothing. When you fall, you fall hard." The problem is: she's right. You're falling.
—
The first time Sunghoon holds your hand (really holds it, not just brushes against it), you're at the diner on a Thursday night in mid-November. You've just finished analyzing a chapter of Lord of the Flies, and he's frustrated because the symbolism still doesn't quite click. "Why can't the conch just be a conch?" he says, stabbing at his milkshake with a straw. "Why does everything have to mean something else?"
"Because that's how literature works. Golding's commenting on society, civilization, human nature—"
"Through a fucking seashell."
"Through a symbol that represents order and democracy." You're trying not to smile at his frustration. "You're overthinking it."
"I'm underthinking it. That's my problem. Everyone else sees this deep meaning and I just see a story about kids on an island."
"The story IS about kids on an island. The symbolism is just another layer."
He looks at you, and something in his expression softens. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Make me feel like I'm not stupid even when I don't get something."
"Because you're not stupid. You just learn differently."
His hand reaches across the table, covering yours. It's not accidental this time. It's deliberate, warm, sending electricity up your arm. "Thank you," he says quietly. "For everything. For not giving up. For making me believe I could actually pass this class."
Your throat is tight. "You're going to pass. You're going to graduate."
"Because of you." He doesn't let go of your hand. Neither do you. Sally comes by to refill coffee and doesn't comment on it, but you see her smile.
When you leave that night, he walks you to your car like always, but this time he doesn't step back. He stands close, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him even in the November cold. "I've been wanting to ask you something," he says.
Your heart's in your throat. "Okay."
"There's a race next Saturday. Real race, not just practice. Winner takes two hundred bucks." He pauses. "I want you to come. Not to race. Just to watch. To be there."
"I'm always there on Saturdays."
"I know, but—" He runs a hand through his hair, looking uncertain for the first time since you've met him. "I want you there as mine. Not my tutor. Not my friend. As—as my girl."
The world narrows to just the two of you, standing in a diner parking lot under harsh fluorescent lights that suddenly feel romantic. "Sunghoon—"
"I know it's complicated. I know your parents wouldn't approve. I know I'm not the kind of guy you're supposed to be with." The words rush out. "But I like you. More than like you. Have for weeks. And I think—I hope—you might feel the same?"
You should say no. Should remind him about Stanford, about your carefully planned future, about all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Instead, you reach up and kiss him. It's brief and sweet and tastes like chocolate milkshake and possibility. When you pull back, he's staring at you like you've performed a miracle. "Yeah," you say, breathless. "I feel the same."
His smile is brilliant. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You kiss him again, longer this time, his hands coming up to cup your face, gentle and sure. "I'll be there Saturday. As yours."
"As mine," he repeats, like he's testing out the words. "I like the sound of that."
You drive home giddy and terrified, the taste of him still on your lips. Your phone's ringing when you get to your room—the landline, Sunghoon's voice on the other end. "Hi," he says.
"Hi. You just saw me twenty minutes ago."
"I know. I missed you already." You can hear the smile in his voice. "Is that stupid?"
You talk for an hour about nothing and everything. About his sister's soccer game and your student council drama and what it felt like to finally kiss each other after weeks of dancing around it. When you finally hang up, it's past midnight, and you have a chemistry test tomorrow you haven't studied for. You don't even care.
—
Saturday's race is different from practice runs. There's money on the line, real stakes. The crowd's bigger—maybe thirty cars, fifty people. You spot a few seniors from school and hope they don't recognize you. Sunghoon's racing against Jay, best two out of three. The Mustang versus the Camaro. Both engines roar at the starting line, and you're standing with Ryujin and Yuna, heart in your throat. "He's good," Ryujin says, watching the cars line up. "But Jay's reckless. Could go either way."
"Sunghoon's better," you say with more confidence than you feel.
"Look at you. All defensive of your man." She grins. "It's cute."
The flag drops. They're off—two bullets of metal and gasoline, neck and neck down the quarter mile. Sunghoon takes the first race by half a car length. Jay takes the second by less. The third race is for everything.
You can barely watch. Can barely breathe. The engines scream, the crowd roars, and then Sunghoon crosses the finish line first by inches. The crowd erupts. Jay's laughing, shaking Sunghoon's hand, because it's all good fun until it's not. Money exchanges hands. And then Sunghoon's walking toward you, adrenaline-high and grinning, and he picks you up and spins you around right there in front of everyone. "Did you see that?" he says, breathless.
"I saw. You were amazing."
"I had good motivation." He sets you down but doesn't let go, his forehead resting against yours. "Wanted to win for you."
"Sunghoon—" He kisses you, right there in front of everyone, and it's not brief or sweet. It's deep and claiming and says mine more clearly than words ever could.
When you break apart, half the people there are staring. Including Jake Sim, who's in your AP History class and definitely knows who you are. "Shit," you mutter.
"What?"
"Jake goes to our school. This is going to be all over by Monday."
Sunghoon's expression hardens. "Is that a problem?"
"My parents—they're going to—"
"Hey." He cups your face, making you look at him. "If you want to keep this quiet, we can keep this quiet. I get it. I'm not exactly parent-approved material." The hurt in his voice kills you.
"No. I don't—I don't want to hide." The words surprise you, but you mean them. "I'm tired of hiding. Of being perfect. Of living my life for everyone else's approval."
"You sure?"
"Completely."
His smile is slow and genuine. "Good. Because I'm done pretending you're just my tutor."
The rest of the night is perfect. You meet his friends properly—Jay and his girlfriend Jungwon, Niki who's secretly a poetry nerd, Yuna and Sunoo who are the most wholesome couple you've ever seen. They accept you immediately, and it's strange and wonderful to be part of a group that doesn't care about GPAs or college applications or any of the things that usually define you.
Around eleven, Sunghoon pulls you away from the crowd, leading you to a spot overlooking the quarry. The water's black and still below, stars reflected on the surface. "I've been thinking," he says, sitting on the hood of the Mustang and pulling you to stand between his legs. "About after graduation."
Your stomach drops. "What about it?"
"I'm not going to college. Can't afford it even if I wanted to, and honestly? I don't want to. I want to work with my dad, take over the garage eventually. Maybe open my own shop someday."
"That sounds perfect for you."
"But you're going to Stanford. All the way across the country." The reality of it sits heavy between you. You've been so focused on now—on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Saturday nights—that you haven't let yourself think about graduation. About what happens when your carefully planned future collides with this unexpected present.
"Maybe I don't go to Stanford," you say quietly. His eyes widen."Maybe I stay. Go to Indiana State or Purdue. Somewhere closer."
"No." He says it firmly. "Absolutely not. You're not giving up Stanford for me."
"It wouldn't be giving up. It would be choosing—"
"You'd resent me. Eventually. You'd look back and wonder what if, and you'd hate me for it." He takes your hands. "I care about you too much to let you do that."
"So what, we just break up when I leave?"
"I don't know." The honesty in his voice breaks your heart. "I haven't figured that part out yet. All I know is that I want you to go chase your dreams, even if it means losing you."
You kiss him to shut him up, to stop the conversation from going somewhere too painful. His hands settle on your waist, pulling you closer, and for a while there's nothing but this—the two of you, the Mustang, the stars overhead. "We have seven months," you murmur against his mouth. "Seven months before we have to figure any of that out."
"Seven months."
"So let's make them count."
"Yeah." He kisses you again, deeper. "Let's make them count."
You stay like that for a while—his hands in your hair, yours in his, the city glittering below and the night cold around you—and the kissing shifts into something else slowly, the way things do when you’ve been holding back for a long time and the holding back finally stops. "Hey," he says softly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hands frame your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones. "You sure?"
You’ve never been more sure of anything. "Yes." He kisses you again—slower now, intentional, one hand sliding down your waist—and then he’s reaching past you to recline the passenger seat, and you climb over the console and into his lap, and the Mustang’s interior is small and warm and entirely yours.
He undresses you carefully, methodically, like he’s done everything in his life—with patience and complete attention. Your sweater first, then his jacket, his eyes on your face the whole time, watching for hesitation. There isn’t any.
"You’re beautiful," he says, and it’s so simple and so honest that it lodges somewhere in your chest and stays there.
His hands are warm everywhere they touch—down your sides, over your hips, learning you the way he’s learned everything that matters to him: slowly, thoroughly, like he means to know it forever. When his fingers find the hem of your jeans, he pauses. "Still yes?"
"Still yes." He takes his time. That’s the thing about Sunghoon—he has always taken his time with things that matter. His mouth finds your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, and you’re acutely aware of the city lights through the windshield and the sound of both of you breathing and how small and perfect this space is.
He works you open with his fingers first—slow and attentive, watching your face, adjusting when your breath catches—his thumb circling your clit in a rhythm that makes your hips roll against his hand involuntarily. You grip the headrest behind him and he says your name, just your name, low and reverent. "Okay?" he asks.
"More than," you manage. "Don’t stop." He doesn’t. He keeps going until you’re shaking and breathless, until you come with your forehead dropped against his shoulder and his name in your mouth like a prayer. He holds you through it—both arms, steady—and presses his lips to your temple like it matters, which it does, which everything does with him.
When you finally shift, rising over him, his eyes stay on yours. His hands settle warm on your hips, steadying but not directing—letting you set the pace, the depth, the whole thing, because that’s always been how he is with you. He gives you the wheel.
You take him in slowly. He exhales long and low, jaw tight, hands gripping your hips hard enough to feel it, and you understand in that moment that he’s been holding back too. That there has been patience on both sides of this for months, accumulating. "You okay?" he asks, voice rough.
"Perfect," you say, and mean it in every possible sense. You move together—unhurried, finding the rhythm, his cock filling you completely, his thumb finding your clit again as you roll your hips—and it’s nothing like you expected and exactly what it should be. He tips his head back and watches you with dark eyes and that unguarded expression he only ever gives you, the one that has no performance in it at all.
His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your tits, and you arch into the touch. He sits up, mouth finding your throat, and the change in angle makes you gasp. "There," you breathe. "Right there—"
"I’ve got you," he says against your skin, and he does. His arms wrap around you, pulling you tight against him, and he rocks into you from below, steady and deep, and you hold on and let go at the same time. The second orgasm builds faster, sharper, and when it breaks you’re holding his face in your hands and looking right at him and he’s looking back with something in his expression that you have no word for but will spend a long time remembering.
He follows you, his whole body pulling you closer as he does, your name on his lips like a finish line he’s been driving toward this whole time.
Afterward you stay tangled together in the reclined seat. The city still glitters through the windshield. His heartbeat slows under your palm. Your head fits perfectly in the curve of his neck, like it was made for exactly that purpose, which you are starting to believe it was. "Seven months," you say quietly, into the warmth of his chest.
He presses his mouth to the top of your head. "Seven months," he agrees. "Every single one."
—
Monday arrives with exactly the fallout you expected. Jake Sim must have told someone, who told someone else, who told everyone, because by second period the entire school knows you're dating Park Sunghoon. The reactions vary:
Wonyoung: "FINALLY. I've been waiting for you to admit it. Also, he's hot. Well done." Your lab partner in Chemistry: "I didn't know you were into bad boys." Some random freshman: "Aren't you supposed to be smart?"
The worst is lunch. You're sitting with Wonyoung and your usual student council crowd when Sunghoon appears. "Can I sit?" he asks, looking directly at you, ignoring everyone else.
The table goes silent. This is unprecedented. Park Sunghoon doesn't sit with the honor students. The honor students don't sit with the kids who've failed English three times. But you're not most honor students. "Yeah," you say, scooting over to make room. "Sit."
He does. Drops his lunch tray next to yours like he belongs there, which apparently he does now. The student council people exchange glances. Wonyoung's grinning like Christmas came early. "So," Sunghoon says, stealing a fry from your tray. "What are we discussing? Student council stuff? World domination?"
"Both," Wonyoung says immediately, because she's never met an awkward silence she couldn't fill. "We're planning the winter formal. Theme, decorations, the whole thing."
"What's the theme?"
"Winter Wonderland. Very original, I know."
"You could do Winter Racing. Decorate with checkered flags and—" He stops, looking at your expression. "What?"
"That's actually not a terrible idea."
"Don't sound so surprised."
The conversation continues, and slowly, impossibly, your two worlds start to merge. Wonyoung asks Sunghoon about cars. He asks her about whatever Jake drama is currently happening (apparently there's always Jake drama). Your student council friends warm up when they realize he's funny and not actually scary. By the end of lunch, it almost feels normal.
Until you're walking to English and Principal Morrison stops you in the hall. "Can I see you in my office?" she asks. Not quite a question.
Your stomach sinks. "Now?"
"Now."
Sunghoon squeezes your hand once before you follow Morrison down the hall. Her office still smells like coffee, but there's no warmth in her smile today. "I've been hearing things," she says once the door closes. "About you and Mr. Park."
"We're dating." You say it firmly, even though your heart's racing. "Is that a problem?"
"That depends. Is this relationship interfering with your tutoring duties?"
"No. He's doing better than ever. You've seen his grades."
"I have. Which is why I'm concerned." She leans forward. "You're an exceptional student with a bright future. Stanford. Pre-law. You've worked very hard to get where you are."
"I'm aware."
"Park Sunghoon is a nice young man, but he's not on the same path you are. I'd hate to see you distracted. To see your focus shift away from your goals." The implication is clear: he's not good enough for you. He's going to drag you down.
"With respect, Mrs. Morrison, my personal life is my business." Your voice is steady even though you're shaking. "I'm maintaining my grades. I'm fulfilling my student council responsibilities. What I do outside of school isn't up for discussion."
"I'm just trying to look out for you—"
"I don't need looking out for. I need people to trust that I can make my own decisions." You stand. "Is there anything else?"
She sighs. "Just—be careful. That's all I'm saying."
"I will be. Thank you." You leave her office furious and shaking, and Sunghoon's waiting in the hall even though he's definitely supposed to be in class.
"What did she say?" he asks.
"That I'm making a mistake. That you're going to ruin my future." The words taste bitter.
His expression shuts down. "Maybe she's right."
"Don't." You grab his hand. "Don't do that. Don't let other people's opinions make you doubt this."
"I'm not good enough for you. Everyone thinks it. Hell, I think it sometimes."
"Good enough according to what? Their standards? Fuck their standards." The profanity feels good, rebellious. "You make me happy. That's what matters."
"Your parents are going to lose it when they find out."
"They'll find out when I'm ready to tell them." You kiss him quick, not caring who sees. "And when they do, I'm not changing my mind."
His smile is small but real. "You're kind of badass when you're angry."
"I'm learning from you."
"Nah. This was always in you. You just needed permission to let it out."
—
Thanksgiving arrives, and with it, the dreaded family dinner where your parents expect you to discuss your college applications and your perfectly planned future. Instead, you spend the morning texting Sunghoon while your mother prepares turkey. Sunghoon: What are you wearing?
You: Why, are you coming over to see me?
Sunghoon: No, but I'm thinking about you. Want to picture it accurately.
You: Sweater and jeans. Very exciting.
Sunghoon: Everything about you is exciting.
You: Smooth talker.
Sunghoon: I'm working on my English skills. My tutor's really good.
You: Your tutor thinks you're pretty great too.
Sunghoon: Just pretty great?
You: Fishing for compliments?
Sunghoon: Maybe. Is it working?
You: You're incredible. Happy now?
Sunghoon: Very. What time's dinner?
You: Six. Why?
Sunghoon: Because I'm picking you up at eight. There's a place I want to show you.
You: It's Thanksgiving. I can't just leave family dinner.
Sunghoon: Sure you can. Tell them you're going to Wonyoung's.
You: I use that excuse too much.
Sunghoon: Then tell them the truth. That you're seeing your boyfriend.
The word stops you. Boyfriend. He's never used it before. You've never defined what this is, too scared to put labels on something so new and fragile. You: Is that what you are? My boyfriend?
The little text bubble appears, disappears, appears again. Finally: Sunghoon: I want to be. If that's okay with you.
Your heart soars. You: It's more than okay. I'll see you at eight, boyfriend.
Sunghoon: See you at eight, girlfriend.
Dinner is exactly as expected—your dad asking about Stanford applications, your mom discussing scholarship opportunities, your older brother (home from MIT for the holiday) pontificating about the importance of networking. Around seven-thirty, you clear your throat. "I'm going out after dinner," you announce.
Your mother looks up from the pumpkin pie. "Out where?"
"To see someone."
"Wonyoung?"
"No. A friend. From school."
Your father's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "What friend?"
This is it. The moment of truth. You could lie, make up another excuse, keep hiding. Instead: "His name is Sunghoon. He's my boyfriend." The silence is deafening.
"Boyfriend?" your mother repeats faintly.
"Since when do you have a boyfriend?" your brother asks.
"Since October. We've been seeing each other for about two months."
Your father sets down his fork carefully. "Who is this boy? Do we know his family?"
"Park's Auto Repair. His dad owns it."
Recognition flashes across your father's face. "The Park boy? The one who's failed English multiple times?"
"He's passing now. Because I've been tutoring him."
"That's what this is about?" Your mother's expression clears with relief. "You're tutoring him. That's not dating, honey."
"It started as tutoring. It became dating. There's a difference."
"Absolutely not." Your father's voice is firm. "You are not dating that boy."
Your heart pounds, but you keep your voice steady. "I am. And I'm going to see him tonight."
"You are not leaving this house."
"I'm eighteen. You can't stop me."
"We can take away your car. Your allowance. We can make this very difficult for you."
The threat hangs in the air. Your mother looks distressed, your brother shocked, your father furious. "Do what you need to do," you say quietly. "But I'm still going." You stand, grabbing your coat, and your father stands too.
"If you walk out that door to see that boy, there will be consequences."
"I understand."
"You're throwing away your future for someone who isn't worth it."
That snaps something in you. "He's worth more than you know. He's kind and smart and he works harder than anyone I've ever met. The only people who can't see that are people who judge based on grades and class and things that don't actually matter."
"Grades matter. Your education matters. Stanford matters."
"I know. And I'm still going to Stanford. I'm still maintaining my 4.0. I'm still doing everything I'm supposed to do." You pause at the door. "I'm just also choosing to be happy." You leave before they can respond.
The Mustang's idling at the end of your driveway, and when you climb in, Sunghoon takes one look at your face and knows. "You told them."
"I told them."
"And?"
"And my dad's pissed. My mom's horrified. My brother thinks I've lost my mind." You buckle your seatbelt. "But I did it. I chose you."
His expression does something complicated. "You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did. I'm tired of hiding. Tired of living my life for other people's approval." You take his hand. "Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere special. You'll see."
He drives out of town, past the quarry, along back roads you've never seen. The radio plays soft—Fleetwood Mac, "Landslide"—and his hand stays linked with yours. After twenty minutes, he pulls onto a dirt road that leads to a field. In the distance, you can see Indianapolis's skyline glittering, all lights and possibility. "What is this place?" you ask.
"My spot. When everything gets too much—school, my dad, all of it—I come here." He parks, and you both get out. The November air is freezing, but he pulls a blanket from the trunk, spreading it on the hood of the Mustang. You climb up, and he settles behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder. The city sparkles in the distance, close enough to see but far enough to feel like a different world.
"I've been coming here since I was fifteen," he says quietly. "Whenever I felt like I didn't fit anywhere, I'd drive out here and look at the city. Remind myself that there's more than just Millbrook. More than just people who think I'm stupid."
"You're not stupid."
"I know that now. Because of you." He holds you tighter. "You changed everything for me. Not just teaching me to read—though that's huge. But making me believe I'm worth something. That I have value beyond fixing cars."
"You always had value. I just helped you see it."
"Same thing you did for me, you did for yourself." He turns you to face him. "Before us, you were so focused on being perfect that you forgot to be happy. Now look at you. Standing up to your parents. Choosing what you want instead of what you're supposed to want."
"I'm terrified."
"Good. Being terrified means it matters."
You kiss him as the city lights blur behind your closed eyes, and it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff—scary and exhilarating and exactly where you're supposed to be. "I'm falling in love with you," you whisper against his mouth. The admission feels huge, terrifying.
He pulls back to look at you, his expression soft and open and completely vulnerable. "Good," he says. "Because I fell in love with you weeks ago. Just been waiting for you to catch up." You laugh, and cry, and kiss him again, and in the distance Indianapolis glitters like a promise that maybe, just maybe, everything's going to be okay.
—
Your parents aren't speaking to you. Well, they're speaking—terse, polite conversations about dinner times and whether you need the car—but the warmth is gone. Your mother looks at you like you're a stranger. Your father's disappointment is a physical presence at every meal.
They took away your allowance but not your car (you need it for student council, and they're not quite willing to sabotage that). They've forbidden Sunghoon from coming to the house. They've made it clear that this relationship is temporary, a phase, something you'll grow out of when you come to your senses. You've made it equally clear that you disagree. The upside is: You're no longer sneaking around. The downside: Everything is harder now. But you have Sunghoon, and somehow that makes it bearable.
—
The first real snow falls on a Tuesday in mid-December. You and Sunghoon are at Miller's Diner, working through a Lord of the Flies essay that's due Friday. He's gotten good at this—organizing his thoughts verbally, using voice-to-text for first drafts, then going back to clean up spelling and grammar. "So Piggy represents intelligence and reason," he says, "but nobody listens to him because he doesn't fit their idea of what a leader should be."
"Exactly. What does that say about society?"
"That we're idiots who value the wrong things?" He grins. "That sound about right?"
"Bit cynical, but not wrong." You're making notes for him to reference later. "What evidence supports that?"
He flips through the book—using his red overlay, reading more fluently than he did three months ago. It's not perfect. It's probably never going to be easy. But it's worlds better than where he started. "Here," he says, pointing to a passage. "Where they're voting for chief and everyone picks Ralph because he's good-looking and has the conch, even though Piggy's clearly smarter."
"Perfect. Use that quote, explain why it matters, connect it to real-world examples."
"Real-world examples like people thinking I'm dumb because I can't read?"
Your heart squeezes. "Yeah. Like that."
He's quiet for a moment, then: "You know what's weird? I used to hate English. Hated everything about it. But now—" He gestures at the books, the notes. "It's not so bad. Some of it's actually interesting."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I mean, Golding's kind of depressing, but he's got a point. People do judge based on stupid shit. They make assumptions. And the conch thing—order versus chaos—that actually makes sense when you think about it."
You're grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. "You're doing literary analysis. Voluntarily."
"Don't sound so shocked."
"I'm not shocked. I'm proud."
His smile is soft, genuine. "Thanks. For not giving up on me."
"Never." Sally brings your milkshakes—chocolate for him, strawberry for you, a routine she's memorized by now. The diner's nearly empty, just a couple of truckers at the counter and you two in your usual booth.
"How are things at home?" Sunghoon asks carefully.
"Tense. My mom keeps leaving college brochures on my desk like I've forgotten about Stanford. My dad barely looks at me." You stir your milkshake. "But I'm not backing down."
"I hate that I'm causing problems with your family."
"You're not. Their expectations are causing problems. I'm just finally standing up to them."
"Still." He reaches across the table, taking your hand. "If you ever want to—if this gets too hard—"
"Don't." You squeeze his fingers. "I'm not giving up on us. Not for them. Not for anyone."
"Even if they cut you off? Refuse to pay for Stanford?"
The fear in his voice breaks your heart. "I'll figure it out. Loans, scholarships, whatever it takes."
"You shouldn't have to—"
"But I will. Because you're worth it." You mean every word. "Besides, I'm not doing this just for you. I'm doing it for me. For the first time in my life, I'm choosing what I want instead of what everyone else wants for me."
His expression softens. "What do you want?"
"You. Stanford. A future where I don't have to choose between love and ambition." You pause. "Is that too much to ask?"
"No. It's exactly right."
You work for another hour, then Sunghoon walks you to your car like always. The snow's still falling, turning the parking lot into a winter postcard. His hands settle on your waist, pulling you close. "You cold?" he asks.
"A little." He shrugs out of his jacket—that same leather jacket he always wears—and drapes it over your shoulders. It's warm from his body heat and smells like him, motor oil and cologne and something that's just Sunghoon. "You're going to freeze," you protest.
"I'll survive. Besides, you look good in my jacket." You do. You've seen yourself in mirrors, in car windows—his too-big jacket swallowing you up, making you look dangerous and claimed and exactly like someone who'd date Park Sunghoon.
You kiss him in the falling snow, and it's perfect. Movie-perfect. The kind of moment that would be cheesy if it wasn't so real. "I love you," he says against your mouth.
"I love you too."
"Even though I'm causing problems with your parents?"
"Especially because of that. You make me brave."
His smile is everything. "You were always brave. You just needed permission to show it."
—
The winter formal is the third Saturday of December, your mother assumes you're going with Wonyoung or solo. She's bought you a dress—beautiful, conservative, exactly the kind of thing the future Stanford student should wear. "I'm going with Sunghoon," you tell her Friday night at dinner.
She nearly drops her fork. "Excuse me?"
"To the winter formal. Sunghoon's my date."
"Absolutely not."
"I'm going either way. You can't stop me."
Your father sets down his newspaper. "We can forbid you from going at all."
"Then I guess I'm forbidden." You stand, taking your plate to the sink. "But I'm still going. So you can either accept that I'm going with Sunghoon, or you can spend the evening knowing I'm there against your wishes. Your choice." You leave before they can respond, and you're shaking but proud. Standing up to them is getting easier, but it still takes everything you have.
Saturday arrives clear and cold. You get ready at Wonyoung's house—she's going with Jake (they're on-again this week), and she helps you with your hair and makeup. "You're really doing this," she says, watching you in the mirror. "Going with him. In front of everyone."
"Yeah."
"Your parents are going to lose it."
"They already have."
"And you're okay with that?"
You think about it—really think about it. About the future you'd planned, the one where you did everything right and made everyone proud. About the future you're building now, messier and scarier but entirely yours. "Yeah," you say finally. "I'm okay with it."
The dress your mother bought hangs in your closet at home. Instead, you're wearing something Wonyoung helped you find—still nice, still appropriate, but edgier. A dark red dress that your mother would call too much and you call perfect. Sunghoon picks you up at Wonyoung's at seven, and when he sees you, he stops mid-step. "Wow."
"Good wow or bad wow?"
"Incredible wow." He's wearing actual dress clothes—dark slacks, button-down, tie. He looks unfamiliar and handsome and still completely him. "You're beautiful."
"You're not so bad yourself."
He hands you flowers—simple roses from the grocery store, but the gesture makes your heart melt. "Ready?"
"Completely."
The dance is in the school gym, transformed with the Winter Racing theme that won the student council vote (Sunghoon's idea, your influence). Checkered flags, silver and white decorations, lights that make everything sparkle. When you walk in together, conversations stop. People stare. This is unexpected—the valedictorian and the kid who failed English, together at the most visible school event of the year. But Sunghoon's hand is firm in yours, and you're done hiding. "Want to dance?" he asks.
"I should warn you—I'm terrible at it."
"Then we'll be terrible together."
He leads you to the dance floor just as a slow song starts. His hands settle on your waist, yours on his shoulders, and you sway to music that's probably supposed to have actual dance steps but you're both improvising. "People are staring," you murmur.
"Let them."
"Doesn't it bother you?"
"Used to. But then I figured out that people's opinions don't change who I am. I'm still the guy who rebuilt a Mustang from scrap. Still the guy who's finally passing English. Still the guy who's somehow dating the smartest, most beautiful girl in school." He pulls you closer. "Their opinions don't matter."
"When did you get so wise?"
"I have a really good tutor." You laugh, and the tension breaks. The next song is faster, and Wonyoung drags you both into a group dance with her and Jake and some other student council people. Sunghoon's terrible at dancing but enthusiastic, and watching him attempt choreography he's clearly making up is the highlight of your night.
Around nine, you slip outside for air. The December night is freezing, and you're shivering in your dress when Sunghoon's jacket settles around your shoulders. "You need to stop giving me your jacket," you say. "You're going to get hypothermia."
"Worth it." He stands behind you, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. "You having fun?"
"The most fun. You?"
"Better than I expected. Though I still think the refreshments are weak. Diner milkshakes are better."
"Obviously."
You stand there in comfortable silence, watching your breath fog in the cold air, and you think about how much has changed since September. How you've changed. "What are you thinking?" Sunghoon asks.
"That I'm happy. Really, genuinely happy. And that scares me."
"Why?"
"Because happiness like this doesn't last. Because we're graduating in June and you're staying here and I'm going to California and—" Your throat tightens. "Because I don't know how to keep this when everything's pulling us apart."
His arms tighten around you. "We'll figure it out."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But we will." He turns you to face him. "I love you. That's not going to change just because you're three thousand miles away."
"Long distance is hard."
"So? Lots of things are hard. Reading's hard. Racing's hard. Standing up to your parents is hard. But we do them anyway because they matter." He cups your face. "You matter. We matter. And I'm not giving up on us just because it's going to be difficult."
You kiss him, tasting determination and promise and the future you're both trying to hold onto. "Seven months," you say. "We have seven more months before Stanford."
"Then let's make them count."
The rest of December passes in a blur of finals and family tension and stolen time with Sunghoon. You ace your finals (because some things don't change). He passes English with a B-minus (because some things do). Christmas is awkward. Your parents got you practical gifts—a new laptop for college, organizational systems, things that say we're investing in your future whether or not we approve of your present.
You spend Christmas night at the quarry with Sunghoon and his friends, sitting around a bonfire, drinking hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps that Ryujin brought. "To surviving senior year," Jay toasts, raising his mug.
"To graduation," Niki adds.
"To getting the hell out of Millbrook," Ryujin says.
"To the people who make staying worthwhile," Sunghoon says, looking directly at you.
Everyone drinks, and you lean into Sunghoon's side, warm despite the December cold, surrounded by people who've become your friends as much as his. This is what family should feel like, you think. Not obligation and expectation, but choice and acceptance and love. "What are you thinking?" Wonyoung asks. She's on Jake's lap (they're very on-again), but her eyes are on you.
"That I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."
"Even though it's complicated?"
"Especially because it's complicated."
She smiles. "Good answer."
Later, Sunghoon drives you home, but instead of dropping you off, he parks down the street. "I got you something," he says, pulling a small wrapped box from his jacket pocket. "For Christmas."
"Sunghoon, we said no gifts—"
"I know. But I saw this and thought of you." You unwrap it carefully. Inside is a keychain—simple silver, with a tiny Mustang charm attached. "It's from my car," he explains. "Well, a replica. Because wherever you go, whatever happens, you'll have a piece of us. A piece of this."
Your eyes are burning. "It's perfect."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You lean across the console to kiss him. "I love it. I love you."
"I love you too."
You sit there in his Mustang, engine off, snow falling outside, and you make promises you hope you can keep. That distance won't change things. That you'll make it work. That love is enough. You want to believe it. You have to believe it. Because the alternative—losing him—is unthinkable.
—
January through March pass faster than you want them to. Stanford acceptance letter arrives in early March—thick envelope, congratulations, everything you've worked for. Your parents are ecstatic. They throw you a celebration dinner, invite relatives, act like your relationship with Sunghoon is a phase that's ending now that you've gotten into your dream school. You don't correct them. You just smile and accept congratulations and hold the letter that represents your future while thinking about the boy who represents your present.
Sunghoon's proud when you tell him. Genuinely, completely proud. "Stanford," he says, kissing you in the diner parking lot. "That's huge."
"It doesn't feel huge. It feels like goodbye."
"It's not goodbye. It's—" He pauses, searching for words. "It's see you later."
"That's optimistic."
"I'm learning optimism from you."
Spring arrives with brutal honesty about the future. Graduation is June seventh. You leave for Stanford's summer orientation June twentieth. That gives you less than two weeks after graduation before everything changes. The quarry races continue through April, and you've gotten good. Not as good as Sunghoon or Ryujin, but good enough to win against Niki (who's actually trying now) and to place second against Jay (who's still reckless but respects your skill). "You should race for real," Ryujin says one Saturday night in mid-April. "There's a circuit in Indianapolis. Real tracks, real prizes. You could do it."
"I'm going to California in June."
"But you're here now."
You look at Sunghoon, who's watching you with that expression that means he's proud and scared and trying not to show either. "One race," you say. "Before I leave. A real one."
His smile is beautiful and sad. "Yeah. One real race."
You tell your parents you're staying after school for a student council project on the last Friday of April. Instead, you drive to Indianapolis with Sunghoon, Ryujin following in her Corvette, to register for your first real race. The track is terrifying and exhilarating. Professional. Dangerous. Everything the quarry isn't. "You don't have to do this," Sunghoon says as you're filling out forms.
"I want to."
"Why?"
"Because I've spent my whole life playing it safe. Doing the smart thing. The responsible thing." You sign your name with a flourish. "I want one irresponsible thing to remember. One time I did something just because it scared me."
"Racing scares you?"
"Terrifies me. That's why I have to do it."
The race is scheduled for the second Saturday in May. That gives you two weeks to practice, to prepare, to possibly come to your senses (you don't). You practice at the quarry every Saturday, and Sunghoon teaches you things he's learned from years of racing. How to take curves at speed. When to brake and when to accelerate. How to listen to the engine, to feel when the car's about to lose traction. "You're good at this," he says after a particularly clean run. "Natural."
"I have a good teacher."
"Best teacher you ever had?" He's grinning, cocky.
"Most humble, definitely."
The night before the race, you can't sleep. Sunghoon calls at midnight. "You nervous?" he asks.
"Terrified."
"Good. Use that. Fear keeps you sharp."
"What if I crash?"
"You won't."
"But if I do?"
"Then I'll be there to pull you out and tell you you're an idiot for racing in the first place." His voice softens. "But you won't crash. You're too good for that."
"How are you so sure?"
"Because I've watched you do impossible things. Ace AP classes. Stand up to your parents. Take a kid who couldn't read and teach him to love literature. Racing is just one more impossible thing you're going to conquer." You fall asleep with your phone pressed to your ear, his breathing steady on the other end, feeling brave and terrified and ready.
Race day arrives sunny and perfect. The track in Indianapolis is packed—real racers, real crowds, real stakes. You're racing in the amateur division, but that doesn't make it less intimidating. Your parents think you're at a college prep seminar. Wonyoung knows the truth and made you promise to be careful. Sunghoon's in the pit area, having helped prep the Mustang (you're borrowing his car for this, because yours is sensible and slow and entirely wrong for racing). "You ready?" he asks, checking the tire pressure for the third time.
"Ask me after."
"You're going to be great."
"You're biased."
"Completely. Doesn't make it less true."
Ryujin appears, already in her racing suit. "You're up in fifteen. Stop overthinking it."
"I'm not overthinking—"
"You're absolutely overthinking. It's what you do." She grins. "Just drive like you do at the quarry. Pretend you're trying to beat Niki's sorry ass."
"I heard that!" Niki calls from somewhere nearby.
The fifteen minutes pass too fast. Suddenly you're in the Mustang, helmet on, strapped in tight. The engine's roar is familiar now, comforting. You can do this. The flag drops. You're off, and for the first few seconds you can't think, can barely breathe. Then muscle memory kicks in. Sunghoon's lessons, hours of practice, raw instinct.
The track blurs. You're not first—not even close—but you're not last either. Sixth out of twelve. Holding your own. Lap two: you pass someone. Fifth place. Lap three: someone passes you. Back to sixth. Lap four (final lap): You see an opening. A gap between two cars. It's risky. Probably stupid. You take it.
The Mustang responds perfectly, threading the needle, and suddenly you're fourth. The finish line approaches and you're laughing inside the helmet because you're doing it, you're actually doing it— You cross the line in fourth place. Not first. Not even podium. But fourth out of twelve in your first real race, and when you pull into the pit area, Sunghoon's there pulling you out of the car and spinning you around and kissing you right there in front of everyone. "Fourth place!" he's saying. "In your first fucking race!"
"I can't believe I did that."
"I can. I knew you would." He's grinning so wide it must hurt. "You were amazing."
Ryujin finished second (because of course she did), and she's laughing at both of you. "Not bad for a brainiac. You've got real potential."
"Thanks."
"You racing again?"
The question makes your stomach drop. Because the answer is no. You're leaving in five weeks. This was it. Your one race. Your one irresponsible thing. "Probably not," you say quietly.
Ryujin's expression shifts to understanding. "Right. Stanford." She squeezes your shoulder. "Then I'm glad you got to do this one. Fourth place is nothing to sneeze at."
The rest of the afternoon passes in a celebration. Jay brings beer (illegal but who cares), and you all sit in the parking lot reliving the race, analyzing turns, celebrating small victories. This is freedom, you think. This is what it feels like to do something just because you want to, not because it's part of a plan or looks good on applications or makes anyone proud. This is what it feels like to be young and reckless and alive.
Later, Sunghoon drives you back to Millbrook, and you're quiet, processing. "You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About?"
"About how in five weeks this is over. This—" You gesture between you. "—is over."
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "It doesn't have to be over."
"How? You're here. I'm going to be three thousand miles away."
"We'll figure it out. Phone calls. Visits. We'll make it work."
"Do you really believe that?"
He's quiet for a long moment. "I want to. I'm trying to."
"But?"
"But I'm scared." The admission costs him. "I'm scared that you'll get to California and realize there's a whole world of guys who aren't broken. Who can read without colored filters. Who graduated on time and don't work at their dad's garage."
"Sunghoon—"
"I'm scared you'll forget about the small-town kid who fell in love with you over milkshakes and car engines."
You reach across the console, taking his hand. "I could never forget you. You changed my life."
"For now. But in a year? Two years?"
"Forever," you say firmly. "You changed me forever."
He pulls over at your usual spot—the overlook of Indianapolis, the city glittering in the distance. Turns to face you fully. "I love you," he says. "I'm always going to love you. But I also love you too much to make you choose between me and your dreams."
"What does that mean?"
"It means—" He swallows hard. "It means when you leave for Stanford, I'm not going to hold you back. I'm not going to guilt you or make you feel bad for living your life. I want you to experience everything. To be free."
"I don't want to be free. I want to be with you."
"You can't have both. Not really. Not with three thousand miles between us."
Tears are streaming down your face now. "So what, we just break up? Pretend this never happened?"
"No. We love each other for the next five weeks. We make every moment count. And then—" His voice cracks. "And then we let each other go."
"I don't want to let you go."
"I don't want to let you go either. But we have to."
You climb into his lap in the front seat of the Mustang, kissing him desperately, trying to memorize everything—the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the way he holds you like you're precious and breakable and strong all at once. "Five weeks," you whisper against his mouth.
"Five weeks," he agrees. "Let's make them perfect."
He drives. Not back to town—not yet. He takes the back roads out past the quarry, past the field where you used to watch Indianapolis glow, until he finds a stretch of empty road where the stars are visible and the nearest person is miles away. Then he parks. Neither of you speaks for a moment. The Mustang idles and then goes quiet and the May night presses warm against the windows. "Come here," he says softly.
You go. You cross the console and fit yourself against him and he holds you so tight it almost hurts, his face buried in your hair, both of you breathing like you’ve been running. This time it isn’t urgent the way the first time was—that first night at the overlook, the months of held breath finally released. This time it’s slower and sadder and more deliberate, the way you do something when you know you’re doing it for the last time in a long time.
He undresses you like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s filing it away somewhere safe. Every piece of clothing that comes off, his hands follow—mapping your shoulders, your waist, the curve of your spine—and you do the same for him, learning by touch what you already know by heart. His chest, the line of his collarbone, the old scar on his ribs from a car part that slipped when he was sixteen. "I love you," you say, against his shoulder. Not for the first time. But with a weight to it you haven’t used before.
"I love you," he says back, and pulls you closer. He lays you back in the reclined seat and takes his time. His mouth traces down your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your breast—lips finding your nipples, soft at first and then less so, until your fingers are in his hair and you’re arching up toward him. He smiles against your skin and keeps going.
His hand slides down your stomach, fingers stroking through your folds with the ease of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing now, who has paid close attention every time before this. He finds your clit and works it slow and steady until your hips are rocking against his hand and you’re whispering his name at the dark of the car ceiling. "Sunghoon—"
"I know," he says. "I’ve got you. I always have you." He pushes two fingers into your pussy and curls them, thumb still on your clit, and you come apart quietly—the way you do now, the way you’ve learned to, teeth pressed into your lower lip, breathless and shaking and his. He holds you through it, watching your face like he’s trying to memorize that too.
Then he settles between your thighs and presses into you slowly—taking his time even now, or maybe especially now—and you wrap your legs around him and pull him closer and closer until there’s no space between you at all. He moves like the night is long and he intends to use all of it. Deep and unhurried, his cock filling you completely with every thrust, his forehead resting against yours so you’re breathing the same air, his eyes open and on yours the whole time. It’s almost too much—the eye contact, the closeness, the specific weight of knowing what this is. You don’t look away. Neither does he.
He shifts his angle and you gasp and his jaw goes tight and he keeps it there—that exact angle, the head of his cock dragging against the right place every time—until the tension winds up tight and sharp and breaks in a long wave that makes you clutch his shoulders and hold on. He follows you—"I love you," he says, rough and honest and helpless, right at the end—and stays there, arms around you, both of you catching your breath while the Indiana night hums outside.
You stay tangled together for a long time. Long enough that the windows fog. Long enough that somewhere in the dark a car passes on the far road and its headlights sweep briefly across yours and neither of you moves. "Don’t let go yet," you say quietly.
His arms tighten. "Not yet," he says. "Not yet."
—
The last five weeks of senior year pass in a blur of lasts. Last student council meeting. Last AP exam. Last time sitting in your assigned seat in English class. Last ordinary Tuesday at Miller's Diner. You and Sunghoon make a pact: No talking about Stanford. No discussing the future. Just now. Just these five weeks. It's denial and it's beautiful and it's breaking both your hearts.
Prom happens the third weekend of May. You go together—officially, publicly, to hell with anyone who has opinions. Your parents don't speak to you for three days after, but you don't care because you have pictures of you and Sunghoon in formal wear, his arms around your waist, both of you smiling like nothing bad is coming.
Senior Week is a blur of parties and celebrations. The quarry fills up every night with graduates celebrating freedom and dreading change. You race twice more—not officially, just for fun—and win once against Jay (he claims the track was slippery).
Wonyoung throws a party at her house the Saturday before graduation. Her parents are gone for the weekend (conveniently), and half the senior class shows up. "I can't believe this is almost over," she says, slightly drunk on the punch that someone definitely spiked. "We're leaving. All of us. Going to different colleges, different states. Everything's changing."
"Not everything. We'll still be friends."
"Promise?"
"Promise." But even as you say it, you wonder if it's true. If friendships survive distance and change and growing up. If anything survives that.
The Tuesday before graduation, you and Sunghoon are at Miller's Diner for the last time. You both know it without saying it—after graduation, this routine ends. Sally brings your milkshakes without asking. "Last week of school?"
"Last week of everything," Sunghoon says.
She pats his shoulder sympathetically. "You kids going to be okay?"
"We're going to try to be."
When she's gone, you're both quiet. There's no homework to do. No tutoring needed. Sunghoon passed English with a B. He's graduating. Everything you worked for together is complete. "I've been thinking," he says finally. "About us. About what happens after."
"You said no future talk."
"I know. But we need to talk about it. We can't just pretend—"
"I know." You take a shaky breath. "What have you been thinking?"
"That I love you. That I'm always going to love you. But that trying to hold onto something when we're both moving in different directions is just going to hurt more in the end."
The tears are already falling. "So what are you saying?"
"That I think we should make a clean break. After graduation. You go to Stanford, I stay here, and we don't drag it out with phone calls and promises we can't keep."
"I could keep them. I would keep them."
"For how long? A semester? A year? Eventually you'd meet someone there. Someone smart and ambitious who's going places. Someone who fits your future better than a mechanic from Millbrook."
"Don't do that. Don't diminish yourself."
"I'm being realistic. You deserve someone who can give you everything. I can only give you parts and pieces and long-distance phone calls."
You're crying harder now. "You give me everything that matters. You make me happy. Isn't that enough?"
"Not when it means holding you back."
"You're not—"
"I am. Your parents are right about that." He reaches across the table, taking both your hands. "You're meant for amazing things. And I'm so proud to have been part of your journey. But I can't be the thing that keeps you from flying."
"I don't want to fly without you."
"You don't have a choice. We both know this was always temporary. We just pretended it wasn't."
You're sobbing now, and Sally's watching from behind the counter with sad eyes, and Sunghoon's crying too even though he's trying to hide it. "I don't want this to end," you manage.
"Neither do I. But it has to." He stands, pulling you up with him, holding you while you both fall apart. "But we still have four more days. Let's not waste them being sad."
—
Graduation Day arrives. You're wearing your honor cords, valedictorian medal, all the symbols of everything you've achieved. Sunghoon's in his cap and gown next to you in the alphabetical lineup, grinning like a kid because he's actually here, actually graduating. "We did it," he says.
"You did it. This was all you."
"Couldn't have done it without you."
The ceremony is long. Principal Morrison gives a speech about futures and potential. You give your valedictorian speech about change and growth and becoming who you're meant to be. (You wrote it thinking about Sunghoon. Everyone assumes it's about college.) When they call his name—"Park Sunghoon"—the cheering is loud. His dad is in the stands, looking proud and slightly shocked. His sister's jumping up and down. You're clapping so hard your hands hurt.
He walks across the stage, accepts his diploma, and when he looks out at the audience, he finds you. Smiles. Mouths "we did it." You mouth back "you did it."
After the ceremony, there are pictures and celebrations. Your parents are polite to Sunghoon when he appears in family photos, but the frost is still there. His dad shakes your hand, thanks you for helping his son, doesn't quite meet your eyes. "Party at the quarry tonight," Jay announces to everyone. "Everyone's invited. Last blowout before we all scatter." You and Sunghoon exchange glances. Tonight. This is it.
The quarry is packed for graduation night. Someone's brought a whole sound system. The bonfire's huge. There's alcohol and celebration and the particular bittersweet feeling of knowing everything's about to change. You stay close to Sunghoon all night. Dancing when the music's good, sitting on the hood of the Mustang when you need quiet, kissing like you're trying to memorize the taste of him.
Around midnight, he pulls you away from the crowd. "Come with me. I want to show you something." He drives out to the overlook—your spot, where Indianapolis glitters in the distance. Parks the Mustang and leads you to sit on the hood, arms around you, both of you looking at the city. "I'm going to miss this," he says quietly. "Every part of this."
"Me too."
"You changed my life, you know. Before you, I thought I was stupid. Broken. Going nowhere. But you saw something in me that nobody else did. You made me believe I could be more."
"You were always more. I just helped you see it."
"Same thing." He turns you to face him. "I'm going to let you go tomorrow. It's going to be the hardest thing I've ever done. But I need you to know that you're the best thing that ever happened to me. That these eight months were the happiest I've ever been." You're crying again, and he wipes your tears with his thumbs. "I need you to promise me something," he continues. "Promise me you'll go to Stanford and be brilliant. Promise me you'll chase every dream. Promise me you won't look back and regret this. Regret us."
"I could never regret us."
"Promise me anyway."
"I promise." Your voice is shaking. "But only if you promise me something too."
"Anything."
"Promise me you'll be happy. That you won't let anyone make you feel small again. That you'll remember you're brilliant and talented and worthy of everything good."
"I promise." You kiss him one last time at the overlook, the city glittering behind you, and it's desperate and perfect and goodbye.
The next morning, you're packing for Stanford. Your room is full of boxes, your whole life sorted into keep and leave behind. There's a knock on your door. Your mom. "Can I come in?"
"Yeah."
She sits on your bed, looking at all the boxes. "I've been thinking. About you and that Park boy."
Your stomach drops. "Mom—"
"Let me finish." She takes a breath. "I don't approve. I want to be clear about that. I think he's a distraction. I think he represents everything you're supposed to be moving away from."
"Thanks for the honesty," you say bitterly.
"But." She looks at you, really looks. "I've also watched you this year. You've been happier. More confident. More yourself than I've seen in a long time. And I can't ignore that he's part of that." You don't know what to say. "I'm not saying I approve. I'm not saying I think this will last. But I am saying—" She pauses. "I'm saying I see that he matters to you. And that you matter to him. And that's worth something."
"We broke up," you say quietly. "Yesterday. Decided it was better to end it than try to make long distance work."
Her expression softens into something that might be sympathy. "I'm sorry."
"Are you really?"
"I'm sorry you're hurting. Even if I think it's for the best." She leaves, and you sit among your boxes, holding the keychain Sunghoon gave you for Christmas, crying for everything you're losing.
—
You leave for Stanford orientation on June twentieth. Your parents drive you to the airport, help you check your bags, hug you goodbye. "We're proud of you," your dad says. "So proud."
"Make the most of this opportunity," your mom adds. "Don't waste it." You nod, unable to speak around the lump in your throat.
The flight to California is long. You press your forehead against the window and watch Indiana disappear beneath you. Somewhere down there is Millbrook. Miller's Diner. The quarry. A black Mustang and a boy who taught you to fly. You pull out your phone, scrolling to his contact. He hasn't called or texted since graduation night. Clean break, like he said.
Your finger hovers over his name. One call. One message. Just to hear his voice. You don't do it. You're strong enough to keep the promise you made. Instead, you clutch the Mustang keychain and cry quietly into your complimentary ginger ale while the flight attendant pretends not to notice.
Stanford is beautiful. Your dorm is nice. Your roommate is friendly. Orientation is overwhelming and exciting and everything you hoped for. But at night, alone in your new bed in your new life, you dream about engines and milkshakes and a boy who made you brave enough to claim your future. You just wish that future could have included him.
—
FOUR YEARS LATER
Stanford Law School graduation is held outdoors in perfect California sunshine. You're wearing your JD regalia, cum laude honors cord, everything you worked for. Your parents are in the stands, beaming. Your brother flew in from Boston where he's doing his medical residency. Wonyoung's here too—she's at UCLA, came up for the weekend to celebrate.
The ceremony is long. When they finally call your name, the cheering is loud, and you walk across the stage thinking about all the paths that led you here. Four years of undergraduate. Three years of law school. Summers clerking at firms in San Francisco, making connections, building a future. You have a job lined up at a prestigious firm. You have your whole career ahead of you.
You did everything you planned. Everything you were supposed to do. And you're proud. You are. But sometimes, late at night, you still dream about a diner in Indiana and a boy who taught you that plans aren't everything.
You haven't spoken to Sunghoon since the day you left. Kept your promise to make a clean break. Forced yourself not to check his social media (you blocked it all the first week at Stanford because you knew you'd be too tempted).
Wonyoung updates you occasionally. Sunghoon's still in Millbrook, working at his dad's garage. Took it over last year when his dad had a heart attack. Business is good. He's doing well. She never mentions if he's seeing anyone. You never ask.
After graduation, there's a reception. Food, drinks, celebration. You're talking to a professor about your upcoming job when your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number. Unknown: Congratulations, Dr. soon-to-be lawyer. I always knew you'd do amazing things.
Your heart stops. You know that phrasing. That voice. You step away from the reception, hands shaking as you reply. You: Sunghoon?
Unknown: Yeah. It's me. Sorry for texting out of the blue. I just—I saw Wonyoung's Instagram. You graduating. I wanted to say I'm proud of you.
You: How did you get my number?
Unknown: Wonyoung. Made her promise not to tell you I asked for it. Didn't want to pressure you.
You: It's been four years.
Unknown: I know. Too long. Not long enough. Both.
Your heart is racing. You look around at your graduation party, at your future unfolding exactly as planned, and you make a decision. You: Are you in California?
Unknown: Flew in this morning. I'm actually in Palo Alto. At a coffee shop near campus. I understand if you don't want to see me. I just thought—hoped—maybe you'd want to grab coffee. Catch up.
This is crazy. You have a reception to get back to. People waiting. A whole celebration planned. You: Where?
He sends you an address. It's ten minutes from where you're standing. "I need to go," you tell Wonyoung, grabbing your purse.
"Go where? We're celebrating you—" She sees your expression. "Oh my god. He's here, isn't he?"
"How did you know?"
"Because you only look like that when it's about him." She grins. "Go. I'll cover for you with your parents."
"You knew he was coming?"
"He asked for your number last week. Told me he wanted to congratulate you. I didn't think he'd actually show up." She pushes you toward the exit. "Go. Find out what four years has done to you both."
The coffee shop is small and crowded with students. You spot him immediately, sitting at a corner table, wearing jeans and a button-down shirt that's so different from the leather jacket and ripped jeans you remember but somehow still completely him. He sees you and stands. Older. Broader. Still beautiful. "Hi," he says.
"Hi." For a moment you just stare at each other, and then he's crossing the distance and pulling you into a hug that feels like coming home. "You're here," you say into his shoulder. "You're really here."
"I'm here." He pulls back to look at you. "You look amazing. Different. More—I don't know. More yourself."
"You look good too. Really good."
You sit, and for a minute it's awkward. Four years is a long time. You're not the same people who said goodbye in Indiana. "So," he starts. "Law school. That's huge."
"Thanks. What about you? Wonyoung said you took over the garage?"
"Yeah. Dad's heart couldn't take the long hours anymore. So now it's Park & Son Auto Repair." He smiles, proud. "We're doing well. Expanded last year. Hired three new mechanics."
"That's amazing."
"Not as amazing as law school."
"Different amazing."
The conversation flows easier after that. You tell him about Stanford, about your classes, about the firm job you're starting in San Francisco in August. He tells you about the garage, about his sister (she's at Purdue studying veterinary science), about life in Millbrook (some things change, most things don't). "I've been following you," he admits after an hour. "Not in a creepy way. But Wonyoung posts about you sometimes. I couldn't help checking."
"I blocked your social media that first week at Stanford."
"I know. I noticed."
"I had to. If I didn't, I would have looked every day. Tortured myself with missing you."
"Did you? Miss me?"
You look at him—really look. At the boy who taught you to be brave. Who believed in you before you believed in yourself. Who let you go because he loved you too much to hold you back. "Every single day," you admit. "For four years. Every day."
His expression does something complicated. "Me too."
"Then why didn't you call? Text? Anything?"
"Because I made you a promise. To let you go. To let you have your future without me pulling you back."
"That was a stupid promise."
"Maybe. Or maybe it was what we both needed." He reaches across the table, taking your hand. "You did it. Everything you set out to do. Would you have done that if I'd been calling every week? Visiting every break? Being a constant reminder of Millbrook?"
"I don't know," you admit.
"I do. You needed to be free to become who you were meant to be. And look at you." His smile is soft, proud. "You're brilliant. You're successful. You're everything I knew you would be."
"I'm also alone." The admission hurts. "I dated. Nothing stuck. Nobody was—"
"Was me?"
"Was you."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "I'm still in Millbrook. Still working at a garage. Still the guy who can barely read without colored overlays."
"I don't care about any of that."
"You should. You're about to start your career in San Francisco. You're going to be surrounded by successful people. People who—"
"Are you seriously still doing this? Four years later, you're still telling me I'm too good for you?"
"I'm being realistic."
"You're being scared." You squeeze his hand. "I'm scared too. I don't know how we'd make this work. San Francisco and Millbrook are three thousand miles apart. But—" You pause, heart racing. "But I've spent four years doing the practical thing. The smart thing. The thing everyone expected. And I've been successful and professional and completely miserable."
"You're not—"
"I am. Because I've been trying to fill a hole that's shaped like you." Tears are streaming down your face now. "I love my career. I love what I do. But I don't love doing it alone. I don't love going home every night to an empty apartment. I don't love dating men who check all the boxes except the one that matters."
"What box is that?"
"Making me happy. Making me feel alive. Making me feel like myself." You're full-on crying now. "You did that. Four years ago, in a town I couldn't wait to leave, you made me happier than I've been before or since."
He's crying too. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I don't want practical. I want you."
"I'm in Millbrook. You're starting a job in San Francisco."
"Then we'll figure it out. Phone calls. Visits. I'll fly home every few months. You can come to California. We'll make it work."
"That's what we said four years ago."
"No. Four years ago you decided we couldn't make it work. You didn't even give us a chance." You stand, pulling him up with you. "I'm not asking for perfect. I'm not asking for easy. I'm asking for a chance to try."
He studies your face, searching for certainty. Whatever he sees must convince him because suddenly he's kissing you, right there in the coffee shop, and it's desperate and perfect and tastes like four years of missing him. When you break apart, you're both laughing and crying. "I can't believe you flew three thousand miles to see me graduate," you say.
"I've been wanting to for four years. Today I finally worked up the courage."
"I'm glad you did."
"Me too." He kisses you again, softer. "So what now?"
"Now we try. For real this time. No clean breaks. No letting each other go."
"Long distance is hard."
"So? Lots of things are hard. We do them anyway because they matter." You smile, using his words from four years ago. "You matter. We matter."
"I love you," he says. "Never stopped."
"I love you too. Let's not waste any more time pretending we don't."
—
SIX MONTHS LATER
You're back in Millbrook for Christmas break, sitting in Miller's Diner in your old booth. Sally brings milkshakes without asking—chocolate for Sunghoon, strawberry for you. "Some things never change," she says, grinning.
"Best things don't," Sunghoon replies.
The past six months have been hard. San Francisco and Millbrook are three thousand miles apart. Your work hours are brutal. His garage has been expanding and demanding more time. But you've made it work. FaceTime calls every night. Visits once a month (you fly to Indiana or he flies to California, alternating). Texts throughout the day, sharing the small moments. It's not perfect. It's often frustrating. But it's worth it. "I've been thinking," Sunghoon says, playing with your fingers across the table.
"About?"
"About the future. Our future."
Your heart skips. "Okay."
"The garage is doing well. Really well. Well enough that I could hire a manager. Take a step back from the day-to-day."
"What would you do instead?"
"Move to California. Be with you."
You nearly drop your milkshake. "What?"
"I've been talking to some shops in San Francisco. There's actually a demand for mechanics who specialize in classic car restoration. I could start my own business. Build it up." He pauses. "But only if you want that. I don't want to pressure you. I know your career is important. I know you need space and independence and—"
You kiss him to shut him up. "Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, I want you to move to California. Yes, I want to build a life with you. Yes to all of it."
His smile is brilliant. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'm done with long distance. I want you there when I come home from work. I want weekends together. I want normal."
"Normal is overrated."
"Normal with you isn't."
He pulls a small box from his jacket pocket, and your breath stops. "I was going to wait until Christmas," he says. "Make it romantic. But I can't wait any longer." He opens the box. Inside is a ring—simple, beautiful, with a tiny diamond that catches the diner's lights.
"Four years ago, I let you go because I thought it was the right thing. Turns out, letting you go was the stupidest thing I ever did." He takes your hand. "I don't want to let you go again. Ever. So—will you marry me? Put up with late-night phone calls about carburetor problems? Let me mess up your very organized closet with my disorganized life? Build a future together that's messy and complicated and completely ours?"
You're crying and laughing and nodding all at once. "Yes. Yes, absolutely yes." He slides the ring onto your finger, and it fits perfectly. Like it was always meant to be there.
Sally's watching from behind the counter, grinning. "About damn time," she calls over.
Sunghoon laughs, pulling you around the table to sit in his lap. "We did it backwards. Fell in love, broke up, spent four years apart, and now we're getting engaged."
"Who says there's a right way to do this?"
"Fair point." He kisses you softly. "I love you. Have since that first day in the library when you called me brilliant."
"I love you too. Have since you looked at me like I could save you."
"You did save me. In every way that matters."
You sit in Miller's Diner, in the booth that's been yours for years, with a ring on your finger and a future stretching out ahead of you. It's not the future you planned when you were eighteen and valedictorian and sure you had everything figured out. It's better.
Because plans are just maps, and the best destinations are the ones you find by taking the scenic route. The ones that surprise you. The ones that feel like coming home.
And Sunghoon—dyslexic, street-racing, brilliant Sunghoon—feels exactly like coming home. "What are you thinking?" he asks, reading your expression like he's always been able to.
"That I'm glad I took the assignment. That day in Principal Morrison's office."
"Best assignment you ever got?"
"Best decision I ever made was showing up to tutor you. Second best was getting in this Mustang with you that first Saturday night."
"Third best?"
"Loving you. Choosing you. Over and over, every single time."
His kiss tastes like chocolate milkshake and promise and forever. "Let's get out of here," he says. "I want to take you to the overlook. Show you how Indianapolis looks on a winter night."
"Haven't we been there a thousand times?"
"Yeah, but never as fiancés." He grins. "Every view's better when you know you're keeping it forever."
You leave Miller's Diner hand in hand, and Sally calls out "Congratulations!" as the door swings shut behind you. The Mustang's parked outside, still beautiful, still loud, still the car he built from nothing with patience and skill and determination. Kind of like what you built together. "Ready?" he asks, opening the passenger door for you.
You slide in, the leather seat familiar and perfect. He climbs in the driver's side, starts the engine, and it roars to life. "Ready," you say. And you are. Ready for California. Ready for the future. Ready for whatever comes next, as long as it's with him.
He pulls out of the parking lot, and the Mustang's taillights disappear into the Indiana night, carrying two people who fell in love over milkshakes and literature and the radical act of seeing each other clearly.
Some stories end with goodbye. This one starts with it—and becomes something better.
⏤ pairing: coffee shop owner!jimin x female reader
⏤ genre: parents au, exes to lovers, fluff, and smut
⏤ rating: 18+
⏤ summary: jimin is the father of your four-year-old daughter, moon, and he’s also your ex. an ex you never considered getting back to, but that wasn’t until you both found yourself being single again. watching a movie with moon every sunday became the perfect excuse to flirt together discreetly. a flirt that brought back ten years of sweet love.
⏤ words: 14,388
⏤ warnings: mention of pregnancy, mention of breakup, sexual tension, flirting, long-haired!jimin, little moon is sick, mention of jealousy, some teasing, a lot of making out, mention of struggles after a breakup, praising, mention of postpartum struggles, some swearing, pet names, thigh riding, dirty talking, masturbation, dom!jimin, big cock!jimin, missionary, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, nipple play, creampie, and multiple orgasms
⏤ author’s note: hiiii guys ✨ so here you finally have sweet love!! as “before you”, it’s an old fic that i rewrote and in this one i’ve added extra scenes and conversations. it was definitely fun to rewrite it and make it part of the dads universe 🤗 hope you’ll enjoy it & happy jimin day 💞
Slowly, you open the door of your daughter’s bedroom.
“Are you ready?” You ask your small daughter.
She’s struggling to put on her little blue dress, but today, she insisted on dressing by herself. Apparently, a little girl at her school already does everything alone, and Moon, your four-year-old daughter, wants to be just like her. But in general, your little daughter has been showing you that she wants to become more and more independent.
You can totally understand her, you absolutely want her to do things on her own but it’s also okay to ask for a little help.
“Let me help, booboo.”
You rush in her direction to help her out with her dress. She doesn’t push you away or anything, she just lets you give her a hand. As you do so, you simply can’t believe that she is already four years old. For you, she’ll forever be the tiny little baby that she was at her birth.
Moon was born prematurely, almost five weeks before the due date. She was tiny and more fragile, but she quickly grew once outside and she easily gained weight. The doctors and nurses were actually very impressed by her fast growth. You still remember how proud you were of her ⏤ and you’re still very proud of everything she accomplishes.
But since the day she was born, you can only see her as a tiny little baby. Your tiny baby.
“Mommy, daddy is coming soon?” Her little eyes look up at you.
You quickly glance down at your watch to check what time it is.
“He should be coming any minute,” you tell her.
Moon’s father, Jimin, isn't your partner anymore, and today is the day he’s coming to pick her up to spend the week with her. When you broke up with Jimin, you agreed to share Moon’s custody. One week she’s with you, the next one she’s with Jimin. In the last three years, everything has been working out pretty well.
“Have you already chosen the movie you want to watch?”
For the past couple of weeks, the day you or Jimin pick up Moon at the other’s place, the three of you watch a movie together. You always come around 2 pm to enjoy a good afternoon together. Moon is always the one to choose the movie, and you and her father just let her do. It’s better if she enjoys this moment as much as she can. She doesn’t like watching tv, but she can open an exemption for her disney movies.
Since she’s a little baby, you’ve been watching all the disney movies with her so she would know them when she’s older. Today, she loves them so much that she just wants to watch them, making you and Jimin watch them again and again.
“Not sure yet,” she answers. “We can choose when daddy comes.”
“Okay, booboo.”
The dress is finally correctly put on your baby, she looks so beautiful. Every week, when Jimin takes her, it always breaks your heart. You perfectly know she’ll be in good hands but being apart from your baby is tough. If things depended on you, you’d be 24/7 around your daughter. But that’s life. She has a father who isn’t your partner anymore, and she deserves to be with him and to be loved by him. The only perk of sharing custody is that you can do your own things when Moon is at her father’s.
Your eyes roam at the tiny little girl standing in front of you, causing a smile to spread on your face. She looks a lot like her father. She isn’t totally a mini-living version of him, but she inherited a lot of his traits. There’s also a lot about her personality that reminds you of him. She clearly takes a lot after him. However, your favorite thing about their resemblance is the way she smiles with her eyes just like him.
The doorbell rings, making your daughter run to the entrance to open the door to her beloved daddy. She always does that when he comes, she always wants to be the first to see him. As you leave her bedroom to join the two of them, you hear Jimin’s voice.
“My little princess,” he says before grabbing his little daughter.
From afar, you watch this tender moment between a father and a daughter. Their reunion every two weeks melts your heart. It just perfectly shows the sweet and gentle love they have for each other. Even if today you aren’t with Jimin anymore, for sure, you chose the best father for your daughter.
As you see them today, you believe that breaking up was the best decision you both took three years ago. Things wouldn’t be as they are today, you’re completely sure about it. Most probably your little family would be more broken, and you’re convinced that you wouldn’t even speak with your ex which in the end would be absolutely sad.
At first, you deeply regretted offering your daughter this kind of dysfunctional family. For a long time, you were persuaded that she would be destroyed because of this separation that happened when she was only seven months old. However, as you and Jimin made everything to remain friends for her own good, you got to see your daughter blooming into this remarkable human being. In the end, this dysfunctional family is her kind of normal because you always made sure she came first.
“Hey,” you say as you get closer to the two of them.
Jimin’s face turns to look at you, his smile never leaving his face. Your heart squeezes when his eyes lock with yours. He looks absolutely stunning with that brown polo and black classic pants. His sleeves are rolled up, and you can see in his hands a black cap. His strong arms tightly hold your little princess who is now looking at you too.
Lately, things have changed between you and Moon’s father. After you ended things with your ex, a sexual tension has been growing between the two of you. At first, it was just a simple flirt between the two of you, something completely innocent. Honestly, you let it happen because it reminded you of the ten years you spent with him. It felt good to be back to how things were.
Seeing movies every sunday with your daughter is just an excuse to spend more time together. Honestly, it’s good to be able to spend more time together. Also, you’ve noticed how happier your baby is after the now-weekly movie session. In the end, this little excuse to flirt more and be more together has a lot of positive outcomes.
None of you has actually thought of what could eventually happen if you decide to ever go further than flirting. However, you are both trying to be extremely careful because there is Moon. Any decision that you might take will impact her first, and you both want to keep this dynamic that has been working for three years now.
“Hi, yn,” Jimin says as he takes a step closer in your direction.
The man presses a kiss on your cheek, causing an intense wave of heat to suddenly grow inside you. Lately, every time he presses a soft kiss on your cheeks or even if his body brushes against yours, you instantly feel extremely hot. The power the man holds over you still blows your mind.
Moon also takes advantage to press a kiss on your other cheek, and you smile as the two of them simply show you affection.
“Mama is really beautiful,” your daughter says as she looks now to her dad.
Your daughter always adores complimenting you, she probably takes that after her father. While you were together, the man would shower you with compliments, it was his way of showing his love for you. It honestly made you extremely happy, and now, you have this little pumpkin who constantly does the same.
“She really is!” Jimin agrees, his eyes still devouring you.
Your eyes don’t ever leave his figure. Jimin has been letting his hair grow lately, and you believe that it suits him really well. With the cap in his hand, you can totally picture him with it on his long hair. He must look like a whole damn snack. A snack you’d definitely love to take a bite.
“And both of you also are very handsome!” you reply with a bright smile on your face.
They are more than handsome. They are perfect. The most perfect human beings you have ever laid eyes on. Well, technically, Moon is only this perfect because the man holding her right now made love to you almost five years ago. She is perfect because her father is too.
For a brief moment, your eyes glance at the two of them, but every time they land on Jimin, all you can sense is the growing sexual tension. The tension between you and Jimin has reached its highest peak for the past few days. The man in front of you has been texting you a lot, being quite flirty with you, and honestly, he would have preferred if the two of you were alone. But today, he’s here for his daughter. For you, he already has some ideas behind his mind for another day.
“So, we’re going to watch that movie?” Jimin asks your little daughter.
His eyes move from you to his princess. Every time he looks at her, all he thinks about is the ten years of sweet love he shared with you. The ten years spent with you were definitely the best years of his life, and just like you, today, he doesn’t regret how things have changed between the two of you. For sure, he would have preferred to give another kind of family to his baby. If he could, he would give her the same kind of family he grew up in.
But it’s life.
Things can’t always be the way we want them, but Jimin has been trying to give the best to his daughter. Being on good terms with you has always been his top priority because he knows it will affect your little baby. Her happiness comes before anything else.
“Yes!” Moon exclaims with delight.
The three of you head to the living room, Jimin sitting on the couch while you grab the remote control. He sits on the couch with Moon on his lap, she gets all comfortable in her father’s arms before you quickly join them. As you turn the tv on, you take a seat next to your ex. Your little baby looks at you with a bright smile on her face, showing you just how much happiness this moment brings to her.
“Which movie do you want to watch?”
Moon starts thinking about what she’d like to see but knowing her, it’s probably going to take her three hours before she makes a decision.
“What about Frozen?” you suggest as you set Disney + on tv.
“No,” she says, shaking her head.
“Zootopia?” Jimin proposes.
Moon doesn’t seem convinced by your suggestions. That girl doesn’t watch that much tv but she’s still very tough when it comes to choosing something. On top of that, she’s also extremely tired today. Last night, she wasn’t feeling very well which led her to not sleep a lot. Most probably, she’s going to fall asleep during the movie but it’ll be okay. You prefer that honestly.
“Raya!” She almost screams as she sees the movie being suggested on the screen.
“Okay, booboo,” you say as you select Raya and the last dragon.
Moon gets all comfortable on her father’s lap after he pulls a blanket on her small body. You smile as you see them. The bond between a father and a daughter is truly magical. Every time you see Jimin and Moon interacting together, it reminds you of the close relationship you have with your father. He has always been there for you, he has always given you the right amount of love, and since you were a little baby, you’d do anything for him.
As you see Moon and Jimin, you know that they’ll share the same bond. It will for sure be different but it will be a very strong one. Plus, she’s a total daddy’s girl. She has Jimin wrapped around her little fingers, and he’ll do anything for her. For sure, in the future, she’ll be the one doing everything for him.
On the couch, you try to get as close as possible to them, but you also try to not stick your body against your ex's. Although things are getting to a completely new place with him, you’re just scared to do something completely inappropriate, especially with Moon around. When there’s just the two of you, it’s okay to be very touchy or to be flirty, but when Moon is around and awake, you try to be very careful with everything you do.
The movie starts, but you already know it by heart. Your daughter adores it so much, you have seen it a million times. But honestly, you also like the movie so you don’t mind watching it over and over again.
As the movie progresses, Jimin slowly moves closer to you while your baby is falling asleep in his lap. Since he’s really subtle, you don’t even notice his body getting closer to yours.
“She must be pretty exhausted,” Jimin whispers in your ear, causing you to jump with fear.
“Gosh, you scared me, Jimin!” You press your hand on your chest before looking up at him.
His face is very close to yours, his hot breath is falling on your face, and his dark orbs are glued on you. The last time you were this close was a week ago, at his place. Before the movie session, you both prepared some snacks in the kitchen, and you almost bumped into each other. That closeness almost caused you to kiss but it didn’t happen since Moon abruptly appeared in the kitchen.
Your heart is beating extremely fast in your chest. He’s way too close to you, and you don’t really know what to do. So your eyes glance down at your daughter to avoid looking at the man who has been haunting your wildest dreams for the past few weeks. As you look at your baby, you can see that she’s already sleeping peacefully on her daddy.
“She didn’t sleep well last night,” you admit as you watch her sleeping like a little angel. “She wasn’t feeling well, and she spent most of the night awake.”
Slowly, you glance up at him to catch a bit of his reaction. His facial expression gets softer as he realizes that his baby must be pretty exhausted. Nights like this are something you are both familiar with. Moon is still very young so she gets sick pretty easily which also impacts her sleep quality. Thankfully, she takes naps the day after to compensate.
“I’m actually relieved that she fell asleep now, I was scared she wouldn’t sleep at all today,” you tell him.
“But how was she this morning?” He asks with concern.
“She was sleepy but I put her in front of her favorite cartoons,” putting her favorite cartoons always makes her sleep, and it’s something that surprises you. “My parents were supposed to come but I canceled last minute to see if she could sleep a bit before you’d arrive.”
The entire morning, she was lying on the couch with her little milk in her hand and her eyes glued to the tv. Those things comfort her when she’s not doing well, and they always help to put her back to sleep. However, this morning, she only slept for about an hour.
“She didn’t sleep a lot, I guess she was just too excited to see you today.”
A small smile appears on his face. He also gets pretty excited when he needs to come to your place to pick her up. He loves to see his daughter.
“You could have told me,” he says. “I would have come on another day.”
“She’s not doing well, Jimin, and she needs her father.”
Just the thought of telling her that her daddy wouldn’t be coming today devastates you. You know how much she was looking forward to this exact moment. Nothing is as important as this right here.
“She would have cried if you didn’t come. She loves those movie sessions with us, she loves to see us coming to pick her up every Sunday. This is what helps her to feel good. I don’t want to take this away from her, especially when she’s not feeling well.”
Jimin presses a soft kiss on your forehead. Even if today you aren’t together anymore, he’s sure he chose the best mama for his baby. There’s nobody else he would have loved to have a kid with, and if he ever wants to have more, it’ll be with you. Nobody else. Even all the exes he has accumulated for the past three years can’t compare with you.
His mother told him once that no matter what, he’ll always be drawn to you. Not only you are his first love, but you’re also the mother of his child. Even if you’ll never be together anymore, the love and bond between you will always be special.
However, today, he’s convinced that it goes beyond that. Today, he’s convinced that he’ll never be able to love anyone else. Those last three years without you have taught him that. He has grown to understand that a life without you isn’t even possible.
The two of you started dating when you were only fifteen. You were very young but madly in love. Nobody thought things would work between you because you were very different. Jimin was the typical bad boy while you were more of a discreet girl. It almost looked like a cliché teenage movie, but eventually, the two of you completely changed the other.
After eight solid years of relationship, things started to get pretty rocky. All due to a friend you met at work. Jimin considered that he was clearly flirting with you, even in front of him when you strongly believed it wasn’t the case. Slowly, jealousy started to take a big place in your relationship and it destroyed the trust you both had for each other.
Since you didn’t want to lose Jimin, you took some distance from that coworker but it was obvious that your relationship with your boyfriend would never be the same. Things were different but you were doing everything to try to save it. In the middle of all that turbulence, you got pregnant, and you both worked harder to make it work.
Moon’s arrival clearly changed everything, but she didn’t help to improve your relationship. Everything was already falling apart when you got pregnant. When you realize it, you simply decide to end everything before it got worse. It wasn’t easy for the two of you. It was definitely hard to put behind ten years of love.
But it was the best decision for Moon.
“And how are you feeling?”
Jimin knows that if Moon hasn’t slept, you didn’t too. His little girl always needs her mama when she’s not feeling well because nobody can bring as much comfort to her as you do.
His concern warms your heart. Beyond being all flirty with you, Jimin has also shown a lot more love to you. In the end, you’re not just Moon’s mother. Slowly, you rest your head on his shoulder because you need to feel him in any way. He puts his head on top of yours, his heart being overwhelmed with love. Two of the women he loves the most are snuggled up against him.
“I’m tired, but I’ve known worse,” you whisper.
The first weeks of Moon’s life were a nightmare, and you survived them. She was very tiny and needed her mother and father. She’d cry a lot which was totally normal for a newborn since she wasn’t able to take care of herself. On top of that, she was born prematurely so you’d visit the pediatrician quite often to make sure she’d be alright.
So if you survived that period, you believe that nothing can be worse than that.
Although your daughter is sleeping peacefully, you and Jimin keep watching the movie together. This feels like heaven for the two of you. Almost like you were brought back to three years ago.
Once the movie is finished, Jimin takes Moon in his arms and places her on her little bed. He’s definitely not going to take her home now, he prefers that she sleeps. From her room’s door, you watch him put her carefully on the bed, an apparent smile growing on your face. He pushes the sheets on her tiny body before joining you.
As his eyes roam your face, he tries to think of a way to express his wish to stay longer. He’s thinking about how to formulate it without sounding like a desperate man. However, he ignores that you want him to stay.
“Do you want to stay until she wakes up?” you offer him.
Without any second thoughts, he nods, more than happy to stay longer than he was supposed to initially.
“A glass of wine?” you suggest.
“No, I still need to drive Moon to my place,” he tells you. “But if you have anything else, I won’t say no.”
Certainly, you have more than just wine to drink in your house. Your little daughter is too young to drink alcohol, but she’s obsessed with apple juice. You always make sure to have enough of her favorite juice at home so for sure you have some of it. The two of you leave her little room to head to the kitchen. Once you’re inside, you open the fridge to see what you have inside to drink.
“I have some leftovers of Moon’s apple juice in the fridge,” you tell your ex. “Or I have water,” you show him the bottle on the worktop of the kitchen.
“I’ll take the apple juice.”
His fridge is also full of apple juice just for his little baby. Every Saturday, he does some grocery shopping, and he buys everything Moon loves. He constantly makes sure to have all her little things in his house in case some emergency appears and she has to stay with him on the week she’s supposed to be with you.
You take the juice box as well as two glasses, and you fill them with the sweet juice. You hand one glass to Jimin before taking the other for yourself. His eyes never cease to glance at you. He takes one sip before putting his glass on the little table. The man comes closer to you, your heart hammering in your chest as the distance between the two of you slowly disappears.
Your mind keeps wondering what he’s going to do. After ten years of relationship, you can easily say that this man right here is completely unpredictable. He can go from sweet to dirty in a blink of an eye. And when he gets dirty, he really gets super dirty. His super dirty mind will bring the two of you to bed, his head between your thighs.
Once his face is super close to yours, your eyes are instantly fluttering shut. A smirk grows on his face as he watches you closing your eyes. His breathing caresses your face while his sweet scent lingers in the air. Your heart is beating extremely fast, ready to leave you at any moment.
“There’s something we started last week that Moon didn’t let us finish,” he whispers in your ear with his deepest voice.
Shivers run down your spine, and you keep your eyes close, too scared to take a look at the man in front of you. You perfectly can picture the expression on his face right now. For sure, the dirtiest smirk is on his face, and his eyes are filled with lust. That expression will for sure have you so weak that you’ll instantly fall into his arms.
“What are you talking about?” you tease him a bit.
You perfectly know what he’s referring to, but it won’t hurt to just play a tiny bit with him. Well, most probably, Jimin will tease you a million times more.
“Do you want me to remind you?”
Instantly, you open your eyes, your heart pounding extremely fast as you realize what is about to happen. For the past week, your mind has been thinking over and over again about the moment where you almost kissed. That moment, you desperately wanted to taste his lips on yours again but Moon put an end to that.
Jimin’s eyes are hungrily devouring you while he waits for an answer from you. Your eyes move from his eyes to his plump lips, resting a little too much on them while you wonder how it will feel to kiss him again. Will it be like before? Or will it feel like kissing him for the first time? The more you think about it, the more you want to taste them.
“Yes, remind me what Moon interrupted,” you almost beg.
The black-haired man doesn’t waste another second before pressing his lips against yours for a fervent kiss. His hand finds its way to the back of your neck, holding you while he hungrily kisses you.
After three years, you’re kissing again. It seems unbelievable.
His lips are extremely soft, but you were kind of expecting it. His plump lips have always felt soft when you both kiss, and you always loved that. However, even if you were expecting this softness, this kiss feels like the first one. This seems like it’s the first time you’re doing it while you have ten years of kissing history. Slowly, he starts moving his lips to passionately kiss you.
Soon enough, his tongue is licking your lips so you can open your mouth. His tongue is desperate to meet yours after all this time. He’s desperate to deepen this kiss because just your lips on each other aren’t enough for him. He has been dreaming of this for the past couple of days.
His hands move to your waist before bringing your body closer to his. He’s craving to feel more friction and to simply feel your body pressed against his. This sudden closeness after three years of simply co-parenting is driving both of you completely crazy. The two of you are starting to pant hard but it clearly doesn’t matter.
His hands snail up to cup your face in them while the kiss becomes more and more ardent. This kiss is clearly indicating how desperate you both are for each other. The sexual tension has really been too much to handle lately.
Out of breath, you break the kiss before pressing your forehead against his. Jimin is smiling, his eyes glued to your face while you try to catch your breath. Even after all those years, he still finds you extremely pretty and attractive.
As you look down at his hands, you notice the tattoo on his wrist. Four years ago, a couple of days after Moon’s birth, he got the number 13 tattooed. Not only does it stand for his birth date but it also stands for Moon’s birth date. Just like her father, she was born a 13. That tattoo always warms your heart in unexplained ways.
“We should probably move to my room in case this goes any further,” you suggest before looking up at him.
“But do you want to take this further?” Jimin asks.
Even if your body is showing all the apparent signs that you want to do more than just kissing, he wants to be completely sure you want this. He doesn’t desire you to regret this tomorrow morning when you wake up. Even though this might be a simple one-night stand, he doesn’t want you to regret it.
“More than you can imagine,” you reply before pressing a soft kiss on his lips.
The father of your child kisses you back, more than excited to show you how much he misses you. You intertwine your fingers together before guiding you both to your bedroom. The two of you try to be as quiet as possible since Moon is peacefully sleeping, and you don’t want to wake her up after the terrible night she had.
Once inside your bedroom, you make sure to close the door. It wouldn’t be a great idea to have Moon seeing you doing unholy things with her father. Hopefully, she’ll sleep for a good two extra hours, and you won’t need to worry about being caught by your daughter. But it’s better to take precautions.
Jimin’s eyes roam the room where he hasn’t ever come in three years. After your breakup, you sold your shared apartment to move into a new one. The memories shared in that place were too intense and none of you wanted to stay there. Quickly after, you moved into this apartment but the only room Jimin never got to see was your bedroom.
There is barely any decoration. There’s just a big bed in the middle of the room, two nightstands, one on each side of the bed, and there are some pictures here and there, mostly pictures of Moon. This room reminds him of his own bedroom.
After living with you, it was hard to be on his own. A bedroom without you by his side was also extremely hard so he decided to put the bare minimum. However, his bedroom feels constantly empty, almost as if someone is missing. Today, he’s convinced that you’re the one missing.
Jimin kisses you again once his eyes have done a quick tour of your bedroom. Naturally, you move to your bed where you know things will take a sexual turn. You can still stop things if you desire but your body is desperately craving for your ex. Your body needs are completely clouding your mind, and you honestly don’t care. Right now, all you want is to be intoxicated by your first love.
As you break the kiss, you take his brown polo off, revealing his bare skin to your hungry eyes. You enjoy the view while being sat on his lap; his torso is in full display just for you. The first thing that catches your eyes is his ‘nevermind’ tattoo, it’s still extremely big but you always loved this tattoo so damn much. Then, you can’t help but notice how toned his torso has become.
“You’ve been working out a lot for the past three years,” you say as your fingers touch his rib tattoo.
“After Moon’s birth, I became so lazy, and it was time to work out again like I used to.”
Jimin used to work out so much before your daughter’s arrival. There wasn’t a day where he wasn’t at the gym working out or he wasn’t doing any sport. He used to dance a lot as well as doing karate.
“Do you still dance?”
Your fingers trace from his tattoo to his chest, causing Jimin to shiver at the feeling of your fingertips brushing against his skin.
“Of course, I never stopped,” he replies before pressing a quick kiss on your lips. “Dancing saved me after our breakup.”
Hearing that your breakup equally devastated him breaks your heart. Jimin deserves all the best in the world because he’s such a beautiful soul. Never before have you met someone like him. He was your sunshine when you were together. Unfortunately, things weren’t working anymore, and it was definitely better to simply let go even if it was painful.
And it was.
Raising Moon on your own and not having Jimin constantly by your side was extremely hard. For sure, it was the most complicated time you faced in your life. But today, things are better and that experience made you grow as a human.
You press your lips against his, expecting to reassure him in some way. He licks your bottom lip before he grips it with his teeth, making you moan. As he hears your sweet moan, his dick twitches inside his pants. As the sweet moan leaves your lips, you open your mouth, and Jimin seizes the occasion to slip his tongue inside your mouth. Another moan leaves your pretty lips at the feeling, and unintentionally, Jimin flexes his toned thigh. That simple action is felt in all the right places in your body, making your pussy clench around emptiness.
Jimin instantly smirks, looking like the devil himself, and his hands snail down on your body to take off your shirt. His fingers softly caress your back as he brings you closer to him. His soft gestures create goosebumps all over your skin and a small whimper leaves your lips.
His lips come closer to your ear before he whispers in the shell of it. “Take your pants off, honey.”
Slowly, you stand up to undress in front of the man. He bites his lower lip as you unbutton your jeans, his length growing harder in his pants at the sight you’re offering him. He hasn’t seen you dressed in so little clothing in more than four years. The last time it happened was during your pregnancy. After Moon’s birth, you simply avoid having any sexual interactions.
His cock twitches when he sees you wearing only your underwear. Even after giving birth to his favorite human, you look fine as hell. The thought of knowing that in a couple of minutes you won’t be wearing anything is slowly driving him crazy.
When you start walking closer to him, Jimin adjusts himself in the bed, his back pressed against the headboard. He spreads his legs, subtly making you understand to take a seat on only one leg. There’s no doubt that he wants you to ride his thigh, and nothing in the world would make you happier than doing it.
Dry humping is something you used to do a lot when you were together. Your sex drive was insanely high during your whole relationship, and you’d have sex in very unusual places, even in public. It was hard to resist each other.
As you place yourself on his thigh, Jimin’s eyes roam your body. He bites harder on his bottom lip, especially once your body is on his thigh. This is highly alluring.
“You look like a fucking dream!” He whispers.
In those three years, he has seen a very huge amount of women but you are for sure the prettiest he has ever seen. He still perfectly remembers how he constantly compared all those women to you. It was most probably toxic, but you’re the only person he has ever found pretty.
The compliment makes you smile as you know it’s a sincere one. After giving birth to Moon, it was hard to look at yourself in the mirror. Your body changed so much but with time, you learned to love it even more than before. That body you were despising was the first home to your baby and it also provided her all the nutrients she needed after she joined you. That was more than magical. Your body deserved to be loved for that.
With the way you’re sitting on his leg, Jimin now has a proper view of your black laced panties. They hide enough of your private area but they also reveal just enough to make him want to see your pussy. His eyes are completely glued to your clothed pussy pressed against his dark pants.
As you’re scared that Moon will wake up in the next few minutes, you waste no time in rolling your hips against his toned thigh. One of the perks of all the dancing and karate classes he took younger is his extremely toned thighs. Even when he stops working out or dancing, they are still super toned.
But damn, those thighs have already procured you so much pleasure.
“Fuck, yn,” he groans when you start moving your hips against his thigh.
Jimin presses his lips on yours for a filthy kiss, his tongue passing past your lips to meet yours. This feels more than good. He forgot how everything about you can be addictive, and damn, he wants to do more than this. He wants to fuck you senseless until all you can think about is him.
As his tongue plays with yours inside your mouth, his hands find their way to your waist and guide your hips as you’re straddling his thigh. A small moan leaves your lips but the man in front of you swallows it directly. Those intimate moments between you are something he has missed dearly. The connection you have is something extremely unique that he never experienced before with anyone else.
Even if he wasn’t virgin when he met you, he truly discovered everything with you. The two of you explored so many things in your sexuality, and it made the bond between you grow stronger. When he looks into your eyes, he can exactly tell what you want, he doesn’t need you to verbally express it, something he couldn’t understand with any other girl.
Your first love pushes his thigh firmly against your clothed pussy before flexing the muscle once more.
“I like how you’re riding my thigh, yn,” he whispers against your lips.
As you’re slowly moving your hips faster, you place your hands on his shoulders to balance yourself. Jimin shivers as your soft hands touch his body.
“But I want to feel you properly,” he adds.
Of course, he’s enjoying this moment with all his soul but he craves more. One of his hands slides down on your body to tug aside the fabric of your panties until your clit is directly pressed against his black pants. A breath falls from your lips as you drag your pussy against the thick material of his pants.
Jimin pulls you firmly against his flexed muscle, and once his hands are back on your waist, he quickens the pace of your hips. Although you’re fighting as much as you can to not moan a lot, it’s almost impossible due to all the pleasure you’re feeling at the moment. This will for sure wake up your little baby. A trail of barely audible moans leaves your mouth, loving the friction of his pants against your pussy.
“I wish you didn’t have to hold back your moans, honey,” he whispers in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “I’d love to hear you moan my name.”
Jimin is a master when it comes to dirty talking. He just knows what to say and when to do it. In your ten years of relationship, he was able to make you come just with words which is extremely incredible.
As you’re riding his thigh harder and faster, his cock gets harder and tighter inside his pants. If he doesn’t do anything right now, he’ll explode in his pants. While you’re still completely euphoric by the way you’re riding his thigh, he lowers his pants and underwear a tiny bit to allow his cock to slap against his lower stomach.
When you notice the little monster being freed, your eyes glance down at it. His cock takes your breath away, standing proud in between your bodies. His fingers grab a hold of his cock before moving them up and down the length. This sight alone gets you wetter.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, his head slowly going back at the feeling of his fingers on his length and your clit rubbing against him. “You’re doing this so well, honey.”
Your teeth bite your bottom lip as you stare deep into his eyes. The intimacy of the eye contact with the friction against your clit makes the wave of pleasure grow intensely inside you. You know that you won’t last long before your orgasm hits you hard.
“Pleasuring yourself on my thigh while I touch myself,” he growls in your ear while his hand keeps pumping his cock. “It’s extremely hot, honey.”
Jimin runs his thumb over the tip of his cock, his teeth gripping his bottom lip between his teeth. The pace of his strokes on his cock follows the pace of your hips working on his thigh. You can see on his face that it’s also a matter of minutes or seconds before he’s coming on his hand.
“Fuck, yn,” his eyes glance down at your throbbing pussy rubbing against his thigh, “you’re doing it perfectly.”
At his words, you buck your pussy faster against his thigh. You can feel that you’re getting closer and closer to hitting your orgasm.
“Jimin,” his gaze meets yours once again when you say his name, “I’m so close...” you almost whimper.
The hand resting on your waist snails down on your body, his thumb starting to circle on your clit. It instantly sends you over the edge, the wave of pleasure hitting you hard. You bite your lips and close your eyes at the overwhelming feeling. You try as hard as possible to not moan as you don’t want to make too much noise.
The sight of you coming undone makes him come. Just like you, he bites his lips to refrain any moan to leave his lips. Your daughter’s sleep is extremely important. As the orgasm overwhelms him, cum flows on his hand and some spurts of cum hit his abs.
Your eyes glance down with marvel at the way he’s coming. His hot cum flowing from his head makes you want to lick it. Before any of you gets the time to do or say anything else, you hear the handle of your bedroom’s door moving.
“Shit, she’s awake,” you swear before quickly standing up to put your clothes back on.
As you’re putting the clothes on again, you give Jimin some towels to clean himself before he also puts his clothes back on. A loud knock is quickly heard, and Moon’s voice calls for you. Her little sleepy voice melts your heart instantly, causing you to feel sorry to have closed the door. But damn, you don’t regret anything that happened with Jimin.
Moon knocks again at the door before speaking once more. “Mama, why is your door closed?”
Once you’re fully dressed, you take one quick look at Jimin. His clothes are again on him but his hair is all messed up. Anyone looking at him can perfectly understand that he just had an orgasm. A small smile appears on your face.
Quickly, you run to the door and open it to your baby. To her surprise, she sees both her parents in the same room. That is something quite unexpected for her, but she’s happy that her mama and dadda get along so well.
“Why is dadda in your room?” She asks, her little finger pointing to her father.
As she raises the question, you know that you have like five seconds to come up with something otherwise it’ll be suspicious. Jimin gets closer to the two of you, his hand pushing his hair back to arrange it a bit.
“We were taking a little nap while you were sleeping,” he presses a small kiss on her forehead before taking her in his arms. “But how are you feeling, my little princess?”
Jimin knows that if he completely changes the conversation’s topic, Moon will forget about this little weird moment. None of you ever imagined being interrupted by your little daughter during such a moment, but that for sure made it unforgettable.
“Tired,” she simply replies before pressing her little head on the crook of his neck.
Your heart instantly melts, and you can’t help but press a soft kiss on her forehead. She’s absolutely adorable but you know that she’s sick. For sure, tomorrow, you’ll have to go to the doctor with her to see what’s going on with your little baby. You and Jimin hate to see her like that, you feel extremely powerless.
Jimin’s aware that he can’t just take her home like that, she needs her mama more than anything else right now.
“I’ll take you home with me now, baby,” he starts saying. “What do you think if mama comes with us?”
His eyes glance down at you to see your reaction. He believes it’d be a good idea that the three of you go to his place so Moon can fall asleep easier tonight.
“If mama is okay to come with us,” he adds.
Your hand brushes back your daughter’s hair so you can see her little face even if she’s hiding most of it. Nothing will ease your heart than going with them to Jimin’s place. Tonight, you know you won’t be able to sleep if she’s far away from you while being sick.
“I will come with you, booboo. Is that okay for you?” You ask her before pressing a sweet kiss on her plump cheek.
Of course, you’ll only go if she wants it. You would never want to make her feel uncomfortable in any way. You’ve already been a lot of times to his place when she was feeling sick, and it wouldn’t be something new. But this time around is different, you’ll be leaving your place together to go to his place. This never happened before, and you’re a bit scared that she wouldn’t feel comfortable.
“Yes, I want mama,” she says with a very little voice.
Your heart aches at her little voice. You hug Jimin to have your daughter in between the two of you. Feeling loved during this hard time for her will for sure help her, you know it. She always calls for the missing parent when she’s sick.
“I’ll come then,” you whisper.
Although this little hug is mostly for your daughter, your and Jimin’s hearts are also overwhelmed with love. This sweet and soft moment right after such a wild moment feels like going to heaven. The three of you close your eyes to enjoy this very rare moment.
This is family, an unbreakable bond between parents and their children.
The three of you are in Jimin’s kitchen.
Moon is sleeping once again in her father’s arms, she fell asleep right after eating her dinner, and you and Jimin are talking. After arriving at his place, you and her father prepared dinner together. You also took her temperature, and it’s unusually high. There’s no doubt that tomorrow, you’ll call her pediatrician to check up on her health. Something is definitely wrong with her, and it breaks your heart.
“Tomorrow, I’ll call the pediatrician to check if she has some availabilities.”
Your fingers run through her soft black hair, the exact same hair color as her father’s. She looks like a little angel when she sleeps, and when she’s sick, her little cheeks get pink which makes her look even cuter.
“I’m so worried,” you add.
Jimin’s eyes move from his daughter to you.
“She’s going to be okay, she’s a little fighter like her mama,” he tries to reassure you. “She’ll be fine in a week or so.”
“I know but my little mom’s heart always gets so concerned when she gets sick.”
His face gets closer to yours before his lips press a soft kiss on top of your head. This tender gesture really warms your heart. You’re more than thankful to have him by your side when it gets hard with Moon.
“It’s normal, but I’ll always be by your side, yn.”
When your eyes look up at the man holding your baby, you close the small distance between your faces by kissing him. Those past few days and especially today have confirmed that the flame that you thought had died three years ago is still there. Your heart still deeply loves Jimin. Your ex wasn’t expecting this at all but it definitely brings hope for the future.
“Thank you, Jimin.”
He presses another quick kiss on your lips.
“We've been on this together since the second Moon bloomed in your stomach,” his eyes look down at the little princess sleeping in his arms.
Being a father has been the biggest achievement of his life. Nothing brings more happiness than seeing his daughter bloom into the little person she’s becoming. She’s very strong and independent which always makes him feel pride.
Becoming the father of Moon only happened because you carried her for nine months before giving birth to her. He’s a father because the two of you worked together to bring her to life and to raise her. So, he’ll forever be thankful for it.
“I’ll put her in her bed, she’ll be more comfortable,” Jimin says before the two of you stand up. He holds Moon tightly in his arms as he walks to her little bedroom. You open the door for him, and once again, he puts her on her bed.
Hopefully, tonight, she’ll be able to sleep a bit more than she did last night as well as during the day. Your eyes glance down at your baby with concern. All you hope is that tomorrow she’ll feel at least a bit better because you won’t be able to handle seeing her like this for a long time.
Jimin leaves her bedroom after he makes sure that she’s safe under her bedsheets. Since Moon is deeply afraid of the dark, he leaves the door open so the light of the hallway lightens her room.
“Would you like to stay a little longer?” he asks while you’re walking in the hallway. “I’d like to suggest bringing you home,” he quickly glances at his daughter’s bedroom, “but there’s Moon.”
Jimin would have loved to drive you home so he’d get a tiny bit more time with you. However, his little princess is sleeping in her little bed. He can’t leave her here or to take her with you.
Your heart is beating fast. It’s a bit surprising that he’s proposing you to stay at his place. Well, it occurs you that maybe ⏤ just maybe ⏤ he wants to finish what you started at your place. You wouldn’t mind at all to end what you began earlier. Sex with Jimin has always been mind blowing. For sure, after three years, you still have to rediscover each other in bed.
“Well, I’d like to if you let me,” you finally say with obvious nervousness in your voice.
A bright smile appears on his face as he hears your words. He doesn’t dare to look at you as he also feels nervous. Obviously, he likes you and wants to maybe give another chance to your relationship.
But being around you, and even thinking of spending the night with you, makes him feel like this is all new. It makes him feel like he’s back to high school when he was trying to flirt with you more than ten years ago.
“There’s nothing I’d like more, yn,” he says while finally looking at you.
You’re now at the entrance of the living room, standing face to face. He leans against the outline of the door while crossing his arms against his chest, his eyes never once leaving yours. For a moment, you simply don’t speak, only looking at each other.
His eyes are sparkling, just like they did when you started dating thirteen years ago. You wonder if you’re looking at him the same way. Definitely, you really want to stay a little longer with him. It feels good to be around him. It feels good to be wanted all over again by your first love.
“In all honesty, yn,” Jimin says after a little while. “I would really like to give us a second chance.”
The past three years, he has been hooking up with a lot of girls. At first, it was to drown his sorrows, to get you out of his head. He knew he’d never find love in those women, and honestly, he didn’t want to love any of them. The pain of the breakup was still hard to handle.
However, a year ago, he fell in love with Gayeong. He really loved her, he even introduced her to Moon. In his mind, he was certain that he’d be with her for a long time. On your side, you were dating Seokhoon for two years. This new blended family was working just fine for all of you. Moon even adored Gayeong and Seokhoon.
Nevertheless, things with them ended. It was hard but slowly, everything changed between you. What was an innocent flirt turned into Sunday’s movies and suddenly, you’re here, wanting to give each other another chance.
And now, your heart is hammering like crazy in your chest, ready to burst any second.
“Flirting with you lately has brought me back to when we were fifteen,” a little smile appears on his face. “To when I was trying to desperately get you.”
You still remember perfectly how it felt to be chased by the one and only Jimin, the popular guy every girl desired to be with. You were young and very naive as well, but he was the first man to have ever truly seen you. Of course, you really wanted to start dating him, but you still make it a bit difficult for him to see how far he’d go to have you.
However, once you got together, you thought it’d be for life. Time prouved you wrong. Yet, lately, you’ve been feeling like probably he has been the one since the beginning. Maybe, you just needed some time apart to grow.
“Things are for sure different now due to the fact that we have a daughter,” his smile grows bigger as he mentions his daughter. “But the feeling is the same,” he pauses for a hot minute. “I want you.”
Right there and then, you feel the world freezing instantly. Even though it was pretty clear that he’s been wanting you back in your life, it’s something different to hear it from his mouth. It makes it feel real.
Although it warms your heart to hear those words, there is a harsh reality. Today, you have a daughter, and obviously, she’d understand you’re together. Most probably, she’d be super happy that her parents are back together. So, if things go wrong all over again, she’ll suffer the most from it.
There’s no doubt that no matter what, you’ll keep it cordial with Jimin. But it’d be too painful because this time around, Moon will be hurt.
“Jimin,” you break the small distance between you. Your face gets super serious, and Jimin almost instantly regrets his words. “As you said, things are different now. We can’t just step into a relationship like that. There’s Moon. If this all goes wrong, she’d be the first impacted.”
His eyes briefly close. The last thing he wants is to cause any harm to his daughter, but he can’t just push away his feelings for you. It’ll be unbearable to be around you and not be able to love you the way he wants.
“I know, yn,” he opens his eyes. “She’s always the person I put first under any circumstances,” his right hand travels to your cheek to caress it. “But right now, you’re the person I want to be with,” you close your eyes. “This whole thing of watching movies together wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t love you,” he marks a little break. “I never stopped loving you, yn. Never,” he insists on his last word.
Jimin being vulnerable like he is right now doesn’t happen often. Most of the time, he hides his feelings, too scared to be hurt. During your ten years of relationship, he wouldn’t hide anything from you. But he closed himself to you once you broke up. So this right here warms your heart beyond comprehension.
You rest your hand on top of his, stroking it with your thumb. “I don’t want to get hurt,” evident sadness can be heard in your voice. “I don’t want our daughter to get hurt.”
Your daughter’s father wishes he could promise that none of you will get hurt, but it’s a promise he can’t make. The future isn’t predictable. However, he can promise he will do everything in his power to avoid hurting any of you.
“I can’t promise that, yn,” he murmurs.
Hearing those words break your heart. It’s obvious he can’t guarantee that, life is full of surprises after all. The proof is that you broke up three years ago when you thought he’ll forever stood by your side.
“But I can promise you that I’ll do everything in my power to not do it,” you open your eyes to look at your first love. “That’s all I can do.”
You press your head against his chest while closing your eyes. Although you wish he’d say something else, you perfectly know that it’s the only thing he can promise. And it goes both ways. Obviously, you want to try again but there is a possibility where you’re the one hurting him. There is possibility where you’re responsible for your daughter’s pain.
Jimin wraps his arms around you before pressing a gentle kiss on top of your head. For a while, you simply stay like that. There’s nothing to be said nor that needs to be said. This is a moment you both need. Of course, there’s been a lot of flirting, and teasing lately which inevitably lead to what happened at your place. You don’t regret it. But it opens the door to a possibility where you both give another shot to your relationship.
However, it leaves you wondering if it is a good idea.
“Can I stay for the night?” you finally break the silence.”I don’t want to stay too far from Moon,” you try to find an excuse.
“Yes,” he instantly replies. “I’ll leave you my bed and I’ll sleep in the couch.”
This sounds like the correct approach, especially since you’re not sure about anything right now. Even though there’s nothing more you’d want but to sleep next to him, it’s better like that.
“I can sleep in the couch,” you tell him. “I almost invited myself to your place so no need to make you sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest so I’ll never make you sleep in my couch,” he starts saying. “And my couch can turn into a bed so don’t worry, yn.”
Well, knowing Jimin, you can argue as much as you can, he’ll stand his position. There’s no way he’ll let you sleep on the couch so no need to keep arguing. It’ll just be a waste of time for both of you.
“Okay,” you say.
You don’t let go of Jimin for a solid ten more minutes. It feels good to be in his arms, it feels good to only be intoxicated by his sweet scent. There’s no other place you’d want to be right now.
After that, he guids you to his bedroom. This is a place you’ve never seen before. It feels like you’re violating his intimate area. Your eyes wander in this very simply decorated room while he grabs some bedsheets.
“Would you want pajamas?” he proposes.
“If you don’t mind.”
Jimin simply nods before handing you one of his pajamas. He doesn’t have many pajamas, he only used them during winter as it gets very cold. Otherwise, he doesn’t use them at all.
“Thanks,” you smile at him while grabbing it.
Your baby’s daddy smiles back at you. “I’ll let you sleep. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry,” you tell him.
“Goodnight, yn,” he whispers before pressing a kiss on your forehead.
“Goodnight, Jimin,” you reply with your eyes closed.
This morning, Moon woke up feeling great which was a huge contrast with how she was yesterday. But it eased your mother’s heart. So you took the decision with Jimin to not go to the pediatrician today, but you’ll keep a close eye on your baby.
When she saw you this morning, she was more than happy. She definitely wasn’t expecting it, you could tell it by the way her eyes were sparkling. She was even happier when both her parents dropped her at school. Afterwards, Jimin drove you to your place so you could get ready to go to work.
This weekend was intense, but one you’ll for sure never forget. You flirted with your ex-boyfriend, then had sex with him, and finally, had an openhearted conversation.
The entire day, your mind was constantly replaying Jimin's words, wondering what to do. However, what you’re certain of is that you want to have a conversation with him. So, you texted him that your mother would pick up Moon at school.
Jimin is the proud owner of a coffee shop. He opened it a couple of years ago, it was his dream. It wasn’t easy at first. There were a lot of expenses and it wasn’t easy to find customers. But slowly with time, it became easier.
As you step inside the little shop, you instantly notice that there are quite a lot of people. You aren’t actually very surprised. This coffee shop is currently a bit popular on instagram and tiktok, and in some way, it makes you incredibly proud of him.
Your eyes look around, admiring how it has been decorated. It’s been a while since you last came here. Well, if you think about it, the last time you were here was at the very early beginning. This shop has existed for like four years, it’s as old as Moon. So, it definitely has been awhile.
Jimin now has four employees helping him out with everything. At some point, it became just too much for one person so he slowly hired new people. Right now, he is behind the cash register, talking with someone. He’s smiling at the person, and you can’t help but find him adorable.
As he looks up, his gaze meets yours before his smile grows bigger. Although you informed him you’d like to speak, he wasn’t expecting you to actually come here. He thought that you’d like him to come to your place or something like that. However, it’s a very pleasant surprise.
You walk in his direction, queueing as it’d be rude to just pass before everyone else. You look at menu hanging behind Jimin, thinking about what you’d like to order. When you’re finally in front of him, you both look at each other with the brightest smiles.
“What would you like to order?” he asks.
“Well, I’d like to order the owner,” you teasingly say, causing Jimin to blush. “Together with a simple latte with soy milk and a portion of banana bread.”
For a brief moment, your baby daddy seems to be thinking about what he could reply to this.
“I can give you all of that,” he replies. “For the owner though, you’ll have to wait a little longer.”
“No problem,” you know you both look like two idiots right now but you absolutely don’t care. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing, it’s on the house.”
“I can’t accept that, Mister Park,” you instantly say with evident seriousness.
Jimin sighs. If he even tries to argue, he knows it’s a lost cause. He knows how damn well you can be very subborn. So he ends up making you pay for your order. You then head to the counter on your right to wait for your order, but the wait isn’t long as a server quickly brings it to you. Afterwards, you look for a place to sit while you wait for Jimin, aka the man who owns your heart.
Since it’s almost closing time, it slowly gets less and less crowded. Once there are barely any customer left, Jimin takes a seat on the chair in front of yours, your bodies being only separated by a table.
“Wasn’t expecting you to come,” he smiles at you.
“Me neither,” you reply. “I decided last minute,” you continue. “I was going to wait at my place, but then I wanted to see your coffee shop.”
Jimin doesn’t know how to describe how he’s feeling right now. For sure, it’s been a long time that he hasn’t seen you here. Last time, Moon was only a couple of months old.
“I’m very glad you came.”
Seeing him this happy warms your heart beyond comprehension. On top of that, being around him lately also makes you happy. He’s obviously a fucking tease, but he’s someone you deeply care for and love too.
“Me too.”
“So where do you want to go?” he asks while placing his elbows on the table to rest his head on his hands.
“Maybe to my place?” you suggest. “Or yours if you prefer.”
“Both suit me,” he says. “Then, we can go to yours.”
He isn’t sure what you want to talk about, but as long as he gets to spend a tiny bit more time with you, it makes him happy.
You simply nod at his answer, and he quickly informs one of his employees to close the store since he’s leaving now. In a matter of seconds, he’s back again so you both can go to your place.
Jimin drives you to your place, and quite honestly, it’s incredibly hot to see him driving. As you sometimes eye him during the drive, seeing him so focus reminds you of your own daughter. She has the same face when she’s deeply concentrate. It always startles you how much she takes after him.
Once you arrive at your place, you both take a seat on the couch. Your love interest looks at you with evident joy, you don’t doubt at all that he’s glad to be here with you. Honestly, you’re happy as well.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about yesterday’s conversation,” you decide to not waste any second and jump directly into the much needed conversation. Jimin nods. “I guess you could understand by all that has been going on that I want you too.”
Jimin’s heart starts beating crazily in his chest. He’s more than aware of it, but it still makes him feel something to hear those words coming out of your mouth.
“I also never stopped loving you, and honestly, I only realized it when this whole Sunday’s movies happened.”
During your relationship with Seokhoon, you thought you had gotten over Jimin. It wasn’t easy sometimes to see him when you’d pick up Moon, but you were convinced you had moved on. Honestly, it was just a mirage. You never stopped loving him, and flirting with him is what made you realized it.
“I guess I will never stop,” you add. “I would also like to give us a second chance, but I’m so scared of everything.”
Jimin gets closer to you.
“I’m afraid to be losing you all over again, I’m afraid to unintentionally hurt you, and Moon, I’m afraid that this time around it won’t work, and I’m afraid of too many things,” you admit. “This time around, I feel like our decision will have a bigger impact on everything.”
Jimin is beyond grateful that you openly speak about your concerns. It isn’t easy to be vulnerable in front of someone we love.
“For sure, it will,” he tells you. “So much has happened since we started dating thirteen years ago, but we still want to be together.” Jimin makes a small break, his eyes roaming your face. “It won’t be easy, but we can at least try. We can still give each other another chance while still being careful.”
You bite your lower lip as you think about the situation. There is no doubt you’ll keep flirting as you still deeply crave each other. There will be more sex since you can’t resist each other. No matter what you decide, it won’t change the reality. At least, if you give your relationship another shot, on top of all this physical attraction, there will be romance.
“However, I’m not really sure how we could hide this from Moon, but we’ll have to be careful,” he says.
“Me neither,” you say. “She was so happy this morning to see us.”
You can still picture her radiant smile and the joy on her face when she spotted you at her dadda’s place. Naturally, you wish to constantly see her this happy but for now, it’s best she can’t imagine you being together again.
“Yeah, she really was,” Jimin smiles with evident joy.
Right now, being with Jimin is the only thing you desire with your entire soul, but as you said before, you’re simply afraid of too many things. However, for the entirety of the day, you’ve only been thinking about the fact that if you don’t try, you’ll deeply regret it. You can’t predict the future and there is a possibility where this doesn’t end well, but you’ll never know if you don’t try.
Maybe you’ll be extremely happy and fulfilled.
“I love being around you,” you say. “I really love our Sunday’s movie sessions, and I would like to turn it into an everyday thing.” Your heart is beating crazingly in your chest. “I’m very afraid, but I want to try because I love you.”
Jimin’s heart is ready to burst any minute.
“I just want us to protect Moon as we’ve been doing so far and to only let her know once we believe it’s the right time.”
Moon’s father wraps you around his arms as he’s noticeably happy. Even though he expected this conversation to be about a possible relationship, he never thought that you’d actually say that you wanted to try. He believed that you’d needed some more time before noticing the obvious.
However, he’s extremely happy to hear those words.
This hug catches you by surprise but it’s a very welcomed one. Jimin’s embraces are your favorite place on earth. Even when you were going through a break up, he hugged you a couple of times and it felt great. For a minute, it felt like everything was still going well.
“I’ll promise I’ll do everything to never hurt you,” he whispers in your ear.
Your eyes flutter shut to savour this wonderful moment.
“Me too,” you whisper as well.
Those promises are the only ones you can make. All the rest will obviously depend on external factors, but hopefully, it won’t cause any harm to your relationship.
Less than a year ago, none of you imagined this moment would happen. Back then, you were in happy relationships so this would be the last thing you’d think of. But you’re definitely in very different places today.
When you put an end to the hug, you fervently and desperately kiss each other. You kiss as if there’s no tomorrow. His tongue meets yours in your mouth, your teeth bite his lower lips, and soft moans escape both your moans as your eagerly kiss each other. It’s a kiss filled with passion.
“We didn’t finish what we started here yesterday,” he says against your lips and out of breathe. “Would you mind if we finish it?”
Your eyes look up at him. One of his hands place a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Well, it depends what you have in mind…” You tease him before biting your lower lip.
A smirk grows on his face before he gets even closer to you.
“I was planning to have sex with you.” He whispers in your ear, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine.
Instead of replying, you just press your lips again against his to kiss him. There’s no hesitation when he kisses you back, enjoying every second of being able to kiss you again.
“Maybe we should move to my bedroom,” you say.
Jimin simply stands up before holding your hand and rapidly walking to your bedroom. By the way he’s walking fast, you can tell how needy he’s right now.
“Take your clothes off, honey,” he says once you've reached your bedroom. “I need you, now.”
You simply nod before stripping for him. The urge can be felt as you quickly take off your clothes while he does the exact same thing. Jimin doesn’t want to wait anymore, he wants to have you in every possible way. After all, it feels like he has been waiting three years for this moment.
You also take off your underwear, offering him the opportunity to see your body completely naked for the first time in three years. Jimin takes the time to roam your body once he’s also naked. He still remembers how your body was before you split. Although most of your pregnant belly had disappeared, it wasn’t how it was before you got pregnant.
But today, as he looks at you, it almost feels like you’ve never been pregnant. There are no visible indications of pregnancy, but your body has clearly changed. He can’t really express it into words but you’re different, and he loves it. He loves every single part of you.
On the other hand, Jimin’s body is being hungrily scanned by your lust-filled eyes. He has also changed, he’s not the same anymore. His body is definitely more toned than before. For sure, he’s a damn dilf.
As you both look at each other, it feels like you’re discovering the other for the first time. Almost as if you’re about to have sex for the first time. Well, your first time together was a little bit awkward but you made it through together.
“Lay in bed, baby,” he instructs you once you’ve both finished glancing at each other.
The urge he’s feeling is something that you sense, and you can understand it. If Moon hadn’t woken up, you would have had sex right after that mind-blowing thigh riding. You don’t even question his commands, laying on his bed. His body hovers over you, his eyes getting lost in yours.
It’s been a long time that you both haven’t found each other in this exact position.
“I missed you,” he admits with a deep voice, his thumb caressing your cheek.
At the feeling of his soft finger on your face, you close your eyes. The love you share with Jimin has always been so sweet. A sweet love.
“I missed you too, Jimin,” you answer before pressing a soft kiss on his cheek.
Without any warning, his other hand moves down to your core, his fingers brushing over your folds, snatching a moan out of you. His thumb rubs your clit, making you moan even more. He’s doing this to prepare you for his cock, knowing perfectly that he can’t just slip it into you, it’ll hurt you too much.
Once he feels you’re wet enough, he stops torturing your clit with his fingers. He places himself in between your legs, spreading them a bit more while he pumps his cock with one hand, getting ready for you. His face leans closer to yours, his lips finding yours for a passionate kiss as he buries his thick cock inside your soaked core, stretching your velvety walls.
For the past three years, you’ve had sex with other men. It was good, and with others, it was like going to heaven. But having Jimin’s cock pushing inside you is like going back home. Jimin is your first love, he was the first man with whom you had sexual activities. Then, for ten years, he was the only man you ever had sex with. So, in a way, your body considered him as your home.
Having sex today with him is like you’ve found your way back home.
His cute little hands find their way to your waist, caressing your soft skin. Both of you softly groan as he slowly pushes his thick cock inside you, but his lips swallow every sound. Your eyes roll back, loving the feeling of his length stretching you open.
Jimin takes a little step back to take a look at the wonderful woman beneath him. As he does so, he gives you the time to adjust to his thick size.
“Did I already tell you how pretty you are?” he asks before he leans closer, pushing his cock a bit deeper inside you. You shake your head because you want to hear him say it. “You’re so damn pretty, yn!”
His lips kiss yours once more, but honestly, all this making out feels amazing. It brings peace to your soul. A much needed peace.
“I’m going to fuck you nice and slow,” his deep voice whispers in your ear, sending shivers down your spine.
When he takes that deep voice, you just want to come because damn, it’s so sexy.
“Go for it, Jimin,” it almost sounds like you’re begging him.
Honestly, all you want is to be fucked rough and good as he used to do it before. You want to see if this older version of Jimin can still keep up with how he used to fuck you four years ago. He pulls back a bit to look at you in the eyes, a smirk rising on his face.
“After this, you won’t be able to walk.”
You desire nothing more than this. To be completely sore.
Jimin slowly pushes back, leaving only the tip of his cock inside you. His eyes never leave your figure, watching you holding back every moan that threatens to leave your mouth.
“It’s so good to feel you again around me.”
Brutally, he pushes his cock fully inside you, and this time around, you can’t hold back a moan. A smirk appears on his face as he realizes that this time around, he managed to cause a little moan to leave your pretty lips.
For a little while, he doesn't move. He’s only hovering over you and watching you with delight. His eyes glance down on your body. Watching your pussy sucking his cock is something that he used to love to do.
Jimin groans as he watches himself buried deep inside you. “Your cunt takes me so well, honey.”
You close your eyes, completely enjoying having him fully inside you. Once he sees that you’re ready to take more, he pulls back brutally before slamming himself back into you. The bed under you squeaks, the headboard hitting the wall just behind you.
Your first love once again stops when he’s fully inside you, torturing you just to hear you begging him to fuck you. This is also something he deeply missed, so he’s for sure going to make you beg all night long.
“Jimin, move,” you start saying. “Please,” you beg.
As he loves to hear you begging for more, he just gives you what you want, pushing his cock back before slamming into you with both hands on your hips. The slick sound of your pussy soaking his cock quickly fills the room.
“Shit,” he gasps, thrusting into you with no mercy, “you feel so good.”
You’re completely drunk in the feeling of his cock filling you up, his hips hitting against yours with every thrust. This all causes sparks of pleasure to shoot throughout your body, your arousal dripping from your core and creaming his cock. Jimin smirks as he notices the sticky mess you’re causing.
Everything about the moment that is happening right now is something you both missed so dearly. These past few days of flirting with each other caused your feelings and the physical attraction to grow a lot. It wouldn’t surprise any of you if you keep doing this all night long.
His cock is buried deep inside you, causing you to grip the sheets as hard as possible to steady yourself from Jimin’s hard thrusts.
“You’re so fucking wet, honey,” he hisses before biting his lower lip.
His hands press harder into your skin when he feels your walls tighten around him. Every time he pushes his hips back, he watches with delight the way his cock is completely covered with your arousal. Nothing drives him crazier than seeing this, you can see it in his eyes.
Jimin bends down, pressing a sloppy kiss on your lips while his thrusts slow down. A desperate whine gushes from you, a sound that he swallows directly. His hands move up on your body, grabbing your breasts and squeezing them before his fingers start playing with your nipples.
“It feels wonderful,” you whisper as you’re completely lost in your euphoria.
Slowly, Jimin begins to thrust hard into you again, your walls sucking in his cock as he slams his hips into you with more force. His fingers keep playing with your very sensitive nipples, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. His eyes look at you, contorting with pleasure as it slowly builds within you.
His hands can feel the way your body quivers with each thrust. The way he’s torturing your body is only making you lose yourself further.
Small groans leave his lips when he feels the warmth of your walls wrapping tighter around him. “Your cunt is clenching so hard, honey.”
The sweat is dampening his body, sticking his black long hair to his face. With your hands, you push some strands of hair to be able to have a proper look at his handsome face. Jimin looks like a god right now.
“You’re so pretty,” you whisper as you move your hips to meet his thrust.
The man over you smiles at your compliment. It always feels heartwarming to hear you compliment him.
“Thanks, honey,” he presses another sloppy kiss on your lips while you keep creaming his cock with your arousal.
As he keeps thrusting into you, he senses how close you are. He knows that the vision of you coming will make him come as well. But before that happens, he needs to know where you want him to come.
“Where do you want me to come?” he asks, panting hard.
“On my belly,” you say as you touch your lower stomach.
For the moment, it’s better to not have him coming inside you. There’s absolutely no way you’ll get pregnant right now. You’re already scared of what is going on right now, and it’s better to avoid adding a second child to the mix. It’s preferable to enjoy your reunion.
His fingers pinch your nipples harder, making the wave of pleasure grow bigger inside you.
“I’m gonna come,” you exclaim with despair.
Jimin’s cock twitches inside of you at your words, a low groan rumbling in his throat. One of his hands slowly snails down on your body, passing your stomach, and landing on your throbbing clit. His fingers start to rub your sensitive spot.
The simple feeling of his cold fingers against your clit is what you need to be completely hit by your orgasm, making you come hard around him. Your arousal completely covers his cock while your walls are squeezing him on repeat.
While you’re completely lost in your euphoria, he speeds up the pace of his hips slamming into you to chase his own high.
The coil in his lower stomach tightens inside of him, and it completely clouds his thoughts. The only thing he sees is the image of you coming under him. Breathy whines escape his pretty lips as he looks down at the mess you made on his cock. His eyes are completely hypnotized by your body.
With despair, he pushes his cock out of you with his left hand. Instantly, hot spurts of cum are being projected over your stomach. Breathy moans escaping both your lips, a smile appearing on your face as you feel his sperm touching your skin.
Jimin collapses next to you, both of your bodies covered in sweat after this intense sex session. Your heavy breathing is now the only thing that can be heard in his bedroom, but you quickly stand up to grab a towel to clean yourself before his cum gets dry on your stomach.
Once cleaned, you hand him the towel so he can clean himself. “Well, this was something,” he says with a bright smile on his face while rubbing his cock with the towel.
“It definitely was,” you answer as you grab your bra and panties to put them back on. “Although you’re older, you’re still very good at it.”
“For the past three years, I’ve been taking care of other gardens,” you frown, not understanding what this guy is saying.
“You’re comparing a pussy with a garden?” you ask with obvious confusion and disbelief.
Jimin starts laughing at your reaction. He has an inside joke with his friends about gardening. Instead of saying that they are having sex, they’ll say that they are going to do some gardening. It all started when they were drunk and started comparing sex with gardening.
They said that it’s the exact same thing. For gardening, you take care of a garden, and for fucking, you take care of a pretty pussy. It’s weird, but it’s better to not raise any questions.
“Eeeh, you have a pretty little garden, honey,” he says while coming next to you to hold you in his arms.
“You’re weird,” you say before pressing a gentle kiss on his plump lips.
“And you love my weirdness,” you nod.
Jimin is your weirdo.
“Since Moon is with your parents, we could perhaps spend the night together and maybe go to a restaurant?” he suggests.
You nod once more before resting your head on his chest. It feels wonderful to be around him again. It makes you feel at home, and it’s such a powerful feeling. Even though you’re absolutely scared of what the future might hold, you feel a sense of completeness right now. It almost feels like everything is falling into place now.
You can’t wait to spend the rest of your life with your first love.
You come home from three years abroad not by choice but for your grandmother’s funeral and walk straight back into YANG JUNGWON — lead businessman at Yang Industries and standing beside a life that doesn’t include you. Your grandmother’s will fractures your family, though it was already fractured, the letters she left begin exposing secrets, and the manor starts unravelling everything it’s been hiding — affairs, business ties, and truths no one wanted uncovered. Every moment alone with him drags you back toward those buried feelings since you were teens and makes you confront the one thing you never said; your grandmother planned this. But did she really bring you back just to watch your family spiral — or to force the two of you to face what she always knew was ‘meant to be’?
parings. . . yang jungwon x female reader ┃ wc. 27.7k
⟡themes. . . childhood best friends to lovers, second chance romance, right person wrong time, mutual pining, slow burn, angst with payoff, unspoken feelings, complicated relationships, love vs duty, rich family drama, inheritance drama, toxic family dynamics, sibling rivalry, jealousy, family secrets, corruption, old money, forced proximity, shared history, emotional repression, house as a character, flashbacks, happy ending
⟡content warnings. . . mature content (18+), fingering, oral sex (f), slight repression of breathing (fingers in mouth), penetrative sex, multiple orgasms, cowgirl, missionary, eye contact, light restraint (wrists pinned), praise kink, slight dom/sub undertones, loss of a loved one, grief, infidelity, family dysfunction and manipulation, emotional repression, mild angst, morally grey side characters
⟡now playing. . . Wicked Games by Chris Isaac // To Love by Suki Waterhouse // she heart by Cameron Cabelo
⟡laceys note // I really loved writing this and how the grandmother is so present in the story while not being present, she controls the whole narrative. The family secrets always just a matter of time before they came out. I put a lot of heart into this and I hope it shows, i didn’t indent for it to be this long but oh well! I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing! Enjoy💞 (ps I’ve rebloged with all those who asked to be tagged bc tumblr has a limit 😫)
THE FLIGHT FROM BARCELONA LANDED FORTY MINUTES LATE.
You didn’t mind. Forty minutes was forty minutes less of being home, and you needed every one of them. You sat in your seat while the other passengers stood and jostled for overhead luggage and you looked out the small oval window at the grey Korean sky and you thought about your grandmother’s hands.
The way they looked when she shuffled a deck of cards. The way she’d lay one down on the table and look at you sideways and say what does that tell you before you’d even had time to see the face of it.
She’d been teaching you something your whole life. You were still figuring out what.
Your phone had forty-three unread messages by the time you turned it off airplane mode. Thirty-one of them were from your sister Haeun. You read the first one — the lawyer says the reading is Thursday, I need to know what grandmother told you — and put your phone face-down on your thigh and breathed through your nose until the seat belt sign dinged off.
She hadn’t told you anything. That was the thing about Han Sooja. She never told you anything. She offered, suggested, implied. She left doors slightly open and trusted you to be curious enough to walk through them. Every Sunday for three years you’d called her from your apartment in Barcelona — the one with the yellow kitchen tiles you hated and then grew to love — and she’d talk about the garden, about the house, about whatever book she was reading, and at the end she’d say something that didn’t make sense until weeks later.
The last call had been eight days before she died. She’d asked if you still had the book she gave you before you left. Italo Calvino, the one about invisible cities. You’d said yes, it’s on my shelf, and she’d made a small sound of satisfaction and said good girl the way she used to when you found a hidden room in the manor, small and proud and like she’d been waiting. You hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. The book was in your carry-on bag right now. You didn’t know why you’d packed it. It had felt necessary in the way that irrational things sometimes do.
The Han family estate sat forty minutes outside of Seoul, through the kind of countryside that looked different in every season and the same in all of them. Your father had arranged a car. You sat in the back and watched the city dissolve into hills and treelines and you felt the specific vertigo of returning somewhere that exists more fully in your memory than in real life.
You hadn’t been back in almost three years. Barcelona had been good to you. Your degree, your small studio, your Sunday markets and your terrible attempts at Catalan and the way the light hit the Eixample buildings at five in the afternoon like the whole city was on fire. You had built a life there from scratch, which was something, which was actually a lot. You had been proud of the distance.
Now the distance was just kilometres you’d swallowed in nine hours and your grandmother was dead and the estate gates were opening in front of you and you were twenty-three years old and somehow eight years old at the same time. The manor was lit from inside. Warm amber in every window, the way it always looked in winter, the way it looked in every memory you had of arriving home from anywhere. Your chest did something complicated.
You were barely out of the car when the front door opened. Your mother came down the steps first. She looked beautiful and exhausted and somewhere behind her eyes was a grief that was doing battle with something sharper. She held you and you held her back and she smelled like the same perfume she’d worn your entire life and for a moment you just let yourself be held. “You look thin,” she said, pulling back to look at your face. Her hands cupped your jaw the way she’d done when you were small.
“I’m not thin.”
“You’re thin.” She said it like a conclusion and took your bag from you before you could argue. Your father appeared behind her. Tall, silver-templed, the kind of handsome that photographs well. He kissed your cheek and said welcome home, sweetheart and squeezed your shoulder and you smiled and said thank you and the whole thing lasted four seconds and felt utterly normal and you pushed down the small unnameable thing it stirred in you and went inside.
Haeun was in the sitting room with her husband Minjae, who was tall and quiet and had the energy of a man who had learned to occupy as little space as possible to survive his marriage. She stood up when you came in and crossed the room and hugged you and over her shoulder her eyes were already doing the thing — already calculating, already moving pieces around a board.
“You look wonderful,” she said, and she meant it as something other than a compliment.
“So do you,” you said, and you sat down, and you accepted the tea someone put in your hands, and you listened to your family talk around the actual subject the way families do, and you thought about your grandmother’s hands again. The way she’d lay a card down. What does that tell you?
You were so inside your own head that you didn’t hear the second car arrive. You didn’t hear the front door. You didn’t hear the voices in the hall. The first thing you registered was your mother’s posture changing — a small straightening, a social smile replacing the real one — and then the sitting room door opened and Jungwon walked in.
He was wearing black. Of course he was, it was a house in mourning, but it suited him in a way that felt almost unfair. He’d grown into himself in the years since you’d last seen him — not taller, he’d always been tall, but somehow more present, like he’d learned to take up the exact right amount of space. His father walked in behind him and then a woman you didn’t recognise, and then you did recognise her, you’d seen her tagged in photos online the way you absolutely had not been keeping track of, and her name was Seo Yerin and she was very beautiful and her hand was in the crook of Jungwon’s arm like she’d grown there.
Jungwon’s father greeted yours with the practiced warmth of two men who had been doing business together for decades. Your mother offered Yerin tea. Haeun said something charming. Minjae stood slightly behind Haeun and looked at the ceiling. And then Jungwon looked across the room and found you.
There was a moment — just a moment, small enough that you could convince yourself later it hadn’t happened — where his face did something unguarded. Something that looked like there you are and oh no at the same time. And then it resolved into a smile. Warm, professional, genuine enough to be dangerous. “You made it,” he said.
“I made it,” you said. He crossed the room and hugged you and he smelled different — something expensive, cedar and something clean — but underneath it was the same, was him, was the boy who had eaten your grandmother’s good biscuits and blamed it on you and laughed so hard he’d fallen off the kitchen counter. You pulled back before you held on too long.
“How was Barcelona?” he asked. His voice was careful. Friendly.
“Cold right now,” you said. “How’s the company?”
“Growing,” he said. And then, quieter, under the room noise: “She talked about you. Every time I visited. Said you were doing well.”
Something lodged in your throat. “She talked about you too,” you said. Yerin appeared at his shoulder like a weather system. Her smile was lovely and precise. “You must be the friend,” she said. “Jungwon’s told me so much.”
You held her gaze for exactly the right amount of time. “Good things, I hope,” you said pleasantly.
“Of course,” she said. And her hand found Jungwon’s arm again. And the moment sealed shut.
Dinner was the thing it always was in this house — too much food, too much wine, too much history in the walls. You sat across from Jungwon and next to your father and you told yourself to eat and listen and feel nothing in particular.
Your grandmother’s chair at the head of the table was empty and remained empty the entire meal. Nobody had moved it. Nobody had suggested moving it. It sat there with its carved wooden back and the slightly worn armrest where she’d rested her right hand for sixty years and it was the loudest thing in the room.
After dinner, when the adults had migrated to the sitting room and Haeun was performing warmth at Yerin with the energy of a woman collecting intelligence, you slipped out. The hallway was quiet. The manor at night had its own sound — old wood settling, the particular silence of high ceilings, the grandfather clock at the end of the east corridor that had been six minutes fast for as long as you could remember and which your grandmother had refused to correct because she said she liked having six extra minutes that nobody else knew about.
You stood in the hall outside the library and pressed your hand flat against the wall. Old wallpaper. Pale blue, faded at the seams. You knew what was behind it. Third panel from the left, your grandmother had said when you were nine, crouching down to your eye level with absolute seriousness, you push at the bottom corner, not the middle, because the middle is what they expect. And then she’d winked at you and Jungwon and said the house has more rooms than anyone thinks. That’s true of most things.
You pressed the bottom corner of the third panel. Nothing happened for a second. Then the soft mechanical exhale of something old and well-made, and the panel gave, and the smell of cool air and stone and something faintly like old paper came out of the dark.
You stood there looking into it. Behind you, very quietly, someone said: “You remembered.” You turned around. Jungwon was leaning against the opposite wall with his hands in his pockets, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read in the low hall light.
“You followed me,” you said.
“I saw you leave.” He pushed off the wall and came to stand beside you, looking into the dark passage the way you both used to as kids — like it was a dare, like it was an invitation. “I used to come here,” he said. “After you left. With her” You looked at him. “She’d make tea and we’d sit in the passage room with a candle and she’d make me do the crossword and not let me leave until I finished it.” He had a smile on his face.
Your throat did the thing again. “She never told me that,” you said.
“She never told me she called you every week either,” he said. “I found out from the phone records when we were going through her things.” A pause. “She listed you as the Barcelona girl in her contacts.”
A sound came out of you that was almost a laugh. It hurt a little on the way out. The passage waited. Dark, familiar, smelling of everything unchanged. “We should go in,” Jungwon said quietly.
“Now?” He looked at you sideways and for a second he was twelve years old and the whole world was just this house and summer and whatever stupid adventure came next.
“She would have wanted us to,” he said. And the thing was — he was right. You both knew it. This was exactly the kind of thing she would have engineered if she could have. And the thought that maybe she had — maybe this was the beginning of something she’d set in motion from a long way back — made the back of your neck prickle. You reached into the dark for the torch she’d always kept on the inside ledge. It was there. Fresh batteries. Recently placed. Of course it was. What does that tell you, she would have said.
You clicked it on. “Come on then,” you said. And Jungwon followed you into the wall.
The passage room was exactly as you remembered. Small, stone-floored, with a ceiling low enough that Jungwon had to duck slightly now in a way he hadn’t needed to at fifteen. There was a wooden table, two chairs that didn’t match, a candle in a brass holder with a box of matches beside it, and a shelf of books along the far wall that had nothing to do with the library on the other side of it. Your grandmother had curated this room the way she curated everything — deliberately, privately, with a logic that only revealed itself if you were paying attention. Jungwon lit the candle without being asked. Old habit.
You swept the torchlight along the bookshelf. Calvino. Borges. A Korean translation of an Agatha Christie you’d never seen before. Three books on architecture that made your chest ache with something fond.
And at the end of the shelf, propped against the stone wall like it had been recently placed and not forgotten, a tin box. Small, olive green, the kind that used to hold biscuits. You both looked at it. “That wasn’t here before,” Jungwon said.
“No,” you agreed. Neither of you moved toward it immediately. That was something she’d taught you both without ever making it a lesson — patience. The instinct to look before you touched. To let a thing be what it was for a moment before you decided what to do with it. You sat down in one of the mismatched chairs. Jungwon took the other. The candle made the room flicker and warm and very small.
“When did you last come here?” you asked.
He thought about it. “Two weeks before she died. She wanted to do the crossword and said the library was too bright.” A corner of his mouth moved. “She said fluorescent lighting was an act of violence against the human spirit.”
“She said that about my university’s studio lighting on a phone call once,” you said. “I’d sent her a photo of my desk.”
“She printed it,” Jungwon said. “It was on her dresser.” You looked at the candle flame. Three years of Sunday calls and she’d printed a photo of your desk and put it on her dresser and filed Jungwon under the boy who visits in whatever internal registry she kept and said nothing to either of you about the other and you had both thought you were each grieving her separately and privately and it turned out she had been holding you both the whole time, one in each hand, like she always had. “I should have come back sooner,” you said. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Jungwon was quiet for a moment. “She wouldn’t have wanted you to. She was proud of you being there.” He paused. “She showed me your graduation photos.”
“She wasn’t at my graduation.”
“I know. But you sent them to her.” He looked at the table. “She showed me on her phone. Stood there in the garden and made me look at every single one and told me what each building in the background was.” A beat. “She knew all of them.” Of course she did. Han Sooja had read every book in this room and a thousand more and had never once made a performance of knowing things.
You stood up and crossed to the shelf and picked up the olive tin. It wasn’t locked. The lid lifted with the soft resistance of something sealed against air and inside was not another letter, not yet, but a folded piece of paper and beneath it a photograph and beneath that a single playing card.
The seven of spades. You picked it up. Turned it over. On the back, in her handwriting — small, precise, the handwriting of someone who had learned to write when paper was expensive: Not everything buried is lost. Some things are just waiting for the ground to be ready. — start with the east corridor, third door.
Jungwon leaned over and read it. His shoulder was warm against yours. “The east corridor,” he said.
“Third door is the old study,” you said.
“Your father and mine use it when they’re doing paperwork. She always hated that.”
Something shifted in Jungwon’s expression. Not much. Just enough. “Why did she hate it?” you asked.
He picked up the tin lid and turned it over in his hands. “I don’t know,” he said. Which meant he knew something and wasn’t sure yet whether to say it. You let it sit. Patience. Look before you touch.
You folded the note back up, put it in your pocket, and placed the seven of spades carefully back in the tin. “Tomorrow?” you said.
He nodded. “Tomorrow.”
—
The will reading was at ten in the morning in the manor’s formal sitting room, which your grandmother had always called the room where people go to say things they’ve rehearsed.
The family lawyer, an older man named Mr. Oh who had been handling Han Sooja’s affairs for thirty years, sat at the writing desk with a folder open in front of him and his reading glasses pushed to the end of his nose. Your mother sat straight-backed in the good armchair. Your father beside her. Haeun on the small sofa with Minjae, who had the expression of a man attending something he had been asked to attend and was determined to survive neutrally. The Yang family were not present for this — this was immediate family, just yours, just the people your grandmother had chosen to name. And it surprised you that she hadn’t named Jungwon.
You sat in the chair nearest the window. Old habit. Whenever your grandmother held court in this room she’d saved that chair for you because it got the best light and she knew you liked to draw in the margins of things.
Mr. Oh read the preamble in the formal language of legal documents and your mother’s posture got incrementally straighter with each clause and Haeun’s hands in her lap were very still in the way that meant they wanted to be doing something else. The estate. The grounds. The property in full — to you and Haeun jointly, held in trust until such time as you both agreed on its future. Haeun’s shoulders dropped a fraction. Okay. Shared. That was manageable.
The financial holdings, the investments, the accounts — split equally between the two of you. Still manageable. Still even. Your mother’s face was carefully neutral.
And then: The personal correspondence, the private library, the contents of the third floor study, and sole guardianship of the estate’s architectural records and original documents — Mr. Oh paused in the way lawyers pause when they know what they’re about to say will change the temperature of a room — to my granddaughter, Y/N, who has always understood that a house is not a building but a living record, and who I trust to know what to do with what she finds.
The room was very quiet. You felt your mother look at you. You didn’t turn. Haeun said, lightly, carefully, as if the words hadn’t been sitting in her mouth for thirty years: “The architectural records.”
“All original documents pertaining to the construction and modification of the estate,” Mr. Oh confirmed. “Floor plans, correspondence, modification records. All to your sister, as specified.”
“I see,” Haeun said. Her voice was a closed door. Mr. Oh continued. There were smaller bequests — to staff, to a charity your grandmother had supported quietly for decades, to a cousin you barely knew. A piece of jewellery to your mother, significant and old and chosen with the precision of someone who knew exactly what a gift could mean and what it could also withhold. Your mother held the jewellery box in her lap and looked at it and you saw, briefly, the grief crack through the composed surface of her face.
She had loved her mother. Whatever else was happening in the register beneath that love, the love was real and it was enormous and she was going to feel both things at the same time for a very long time.
The reading ended. Mr. Oh gathered his papers. Minjae quietly offered to fetch tea as a reason to leave the room. Your father stood and shook Mr. Oh’s hand. Haeun stood up and came to you. “Congratulations,” she said. The word had nothing to do with congratulations.
“I didn’t ask for it,” you said.
“No,” she agreed. “You never have to.” She left the room. You watched her go and thought about the seven of spades in the tin box in the passage room and your grandmother’s handwriting and the specific, deliberate way she had chosen to distribute what she knew and what she owned. Not everything buried is lost.
Your father’s hand on your shoulder again. That same four-second warmth. “Your grandmother loved you very much,” he said.
“She loved all of us,” you said.
He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “Of course she did.”
Six weeks before she died — Sunday, Barcelona, 4pm
The light through your kitchen tiles was doing the thing it did in late autumn, coming in flat and amber and making everything look like the inside of a memory. You had your phone wedged between your ear and your shoulder and you were attempting to re-pot a plant that had been dying slowly since August.
“The Calvino,” your grandmother said. “You still have it?”
“On my shelf,” you said. “It’s been there for three years, Halmoni.”
“Good.” That sound of satisfaction. “I want you to read it again before you come home.”
“I’m not planning to come home.”
“I know,” she said. Not sadly. Just factually, the way she said most things. “Read it anyway. There’s a passage in the chapter about Octavia — the spider-web city — that I want you to think about.”
You looked at your dying plant. “About what?”
“About the nature of what holds things together,” she said. “And what happens when you finally look down.”
You’d laughed a little, because she was always doing this, always dropping things into conversation like seeds into soil. “You could just tell me what you mean.”
“Where would be the fun in that,” she said. Not a question. The plant lost a leaf. You caught it. “Jungwon came by yesterday,” she said, at the end, in the place where she always put the things that mattered most.
You were quiet for a second too long. “How is he?” you asked, carefully.
“The way young men are when they’re doing the right thing for the wrong reasons,” she said. “He brought me tangerines. He stayed for four hours.” A pause. “He asked how you were.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you were building something beautiful and that you missed home more than you admitted.”
“Halmoni—”
“I told him the truth,” she said serenely. “Goodnight, my girl.” The call ended. You stood in your yellow-tiled kitchen in Barcelona with a dead leaf in your hand and the flat amber light going dark around you and you thought about Jungwon asking how you were. You didn’t call him and you could almost see your grandmother's disarming look.
—
Your grandmother’s bedroom was at the end of the east wing. Nobody had gone in since she died. You could tell by the way the door resisted slightly when you turned the handle — not locked, just untouched, the air on the other side of it thick and still in the way that rooms get when they’ve been holding their breath. The staff had respected it. Your mother had respected it, or avoided it, and those two things looked identical from the outside. You went in alone.
The curtains were half-open the way she always kept them — enough light to see by, not enough to bleach the colours, she’d said once, about curtains and about most other things. Her bed was made with the precise, almost architectural tidiness of a woman who had made her own bed every morning for eighty-one years. On her nightstand: reading glasses, a glass of water someone had forgotten to remove, a library book three weeks overdue, and a small framed photograph.
You crossed the room and picked it up. It was the two of you. You and her, you couldn’t have been more than ten, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the passage room with a candle between you and a crossword spread out on the stone floor and your face screwed up in concentration. You had no memory of the photo being taken. You had no idea who had taken it. You stood there holding it for a long time. Then you put it down, carefully, exactly where it had been, and you looked at the room.
She had left it for you to find. Whatever it was. You knew that the way you knew the batteries in the torch had been fresh — she had arranged this, she had thought about you standing in this room, she had trusted you to look properly. So you looked.
Her desk first. Neat, deliberate. Correspondence in one pile, addressed and stamped and ready to post — you’d find out later she’d written them in the last week of her life, small notes to old friends, a letter to a charity, one to Mr. Oh with an addendum to her will that simply read make sure she gets the Calvino back if she doesn’t bring it herself. Her pen in its holder. A magnifying glass. A small jade figurine of a rabbit that had sat on every desk she’d ever owned since before your mother was born.
You moved to the wardrobe. Her clothes, her good coat, a shelf of shoeboxes at the top. You pulled each one down and opened it with the care of someone who understood that your grandmother did not waste containers. Shoes in most of them.
In one — the second from the right, which was the kind of specific detail only she would have noted — a bundle of letters tied with kitchen string, and beneath it a leather notebook, and beneath that a folded envelope. Your name on the front. Both names. For my granddaughter and for Jungwon-ah — to be opened together, in the house, when the time is right. You’ll know.
Your hands were very steady. That surprised you. You sat on the edge of her bed — something you’d done a thousand times as a child, sitting there while she brushed her hair or told you something she wanted you to remember — and you held the envelope and you didn’t open it. Not yet.
She’d said together. She’d written both your names. She’d trusted you to know when the time was right and you knew, the way she’d taught you to know things, that the time was not right alone in her bedroom at nine in the morning while the house was waking up around you. You put the envelope inside your jacket, against your chest, and you took the leather notebook too because it had no name on it and therefore belonged to you the way all unnamed things in this house now did, you put the shoeboxes back exactly as you’d found them, and you straightened the bed where you’d sat, and you took one more look at the photograph on the nightstand.
There’s a passage in the chapter about Octavia, she’d said. About the nature of what holds things together. You’d read it on the plane. You’d sat in seat 24A at thirty thousand feet over France and read the passage about the spider-web city suspended over an abyss and the people who lived in it who did not think about the abyss because to think about the abyss was not the point. The point was the net. The point was the thing that held. The life of Octavia’s inhabitants is less uncertain than that of other cities, Calvino had written. They know the net will only last so long.
You left the bedroom. You pulled the door back to exactly where it had been.
The leather notebook turned out to be a record. You found this out that afternoon, sitting on the floor of the passage room with the candle lit and your back against the cold stone wall, and it was not what you expected and it was completely what you should have expected because this was Han Sooja and she had never done anything without documentation.
It was dated across seven years. Small entries, some only a few lines, written in the spare economical way she wrote everything. It read less like a diary and more like case notes — observations, dates, names, figures. The early entries were oblique enough that you had to read them twice. The later ones were less patient with their own obliqueness.
Your father’s name appeared on the fourth page. And then a name you didn’t recognise. A woman’s name, recurring, with dates beside it and in one entry a location — a restaurant in Gangnam, a hotel in Busan, a work trip that had not been a work trip. Your grandmother had written these things in the same tone she used to note the weather or the overdue library book. No exclamation. No fury. Just the facts, recorded with the quiet, devastating precision of a woman who had known for years and decided that the right time to use what she knew was not while she was alive to be argued with.
Your father, the last entry about him read, dated eight months ago, has made choices that your mother has chosen not to see. I have chosen not to intervene in my daughter’s choices. But I have chosen not to reward his with my silence after I’m gone. He will know, when the estate goes to you, that I knew. That is enough.
You read that three times. Then you turned the page. The next section was about the company. Your father’s company and the Yang family company and the specific way they were connected, which your grandmother laid out in the same case-note fashion — dates of agreements, figures, the shape of something that had been built quietly over decades. You didn’t understand all of it. You understood enough. You understood that it was the kind of thing that would matter enormously to Jungwon, who was now running his family’s side of it, who had taken over from his father without knowing everything his father had built. Or maybe knowing some of it. You didn’t know yet what Jungwon knew.
The last entry in the notebook was not about your father or the companies. It was short, just four lines, and it was the only entry in the whole notebook that had nothing to do with documentation. I have watched those two children for fifteen years and I have been patient because patience was what was needed. They are both very clever and very stupid in the way that people are when they are in the middle of something they can’t see the edges of yet. I am leaving them the house and each other and every door I can think to unlock. The rest is up to them. I trust them. I always have.
The candle burned. You sat on the cold floor of the secret room your grandmother had shown you at nine years old and you held a notebook full of everything she’d known and you pressed the back of your hand to your mouth and you did not cry, quite, but it was a near thing.
—
You found Jungwon at the edge of the garden. He was standing at the low stone wall that separated the formal garden from the fields beyond it, the ones where you used to chase the chickens, the ones that looked in winter like a grey-green painting of themselves. He had his coat on and his hands in his pockets and he was looking at the fields the way you’d been looking at the manor from the car yesterday — like something that was more inside him than outside. “Jungwon,” you said.
He turned. Registered your face. “What happened?” You hadn’t known it showed. You’d been careful on the way out of the house.
“I found something,” you said. “In her room.” You took the envelope out of your jacket. Held it out so he could see both your names on it. He looked at it for a long time without moving. The winter fields were quiet behind him. The house was warm and lit behind you. You were standing exactly between the two of them, which felt like something your grandmother would have arranged if she could have. Maybe she had.
Jungwon reached out and took the envelope from your hand. He turned it over. Ran his thumb across the handwriting. “She wrote both our names,” he said.
“She said to open it together. When the time was right.”
He looked up at you. “Is it?”
You thought about the notebook in your jacket. About the woman’s name recurring through seven years of entries. About the company and the figures and the connection between your families that neither of you had been told about. About the seven of spades and the east corridor and the third door. About the passage room, two chairs, a candle. About him asking how you were from three years and three thousand kilometres away through the relay of your grandmother’s voice. “Not yet,” you said. “But soon.”
He nodded slowly. He held the envelope for a moment longer and then he held it back out to you. “You keep it,” he said. “She gave you the house. She’d want it kept here.”
You took it. Put it back inside your jacket. “There’s something else,” you said. “The notebook. I need to tell you about it. Not now, not here—” you glanced back at the house, at the lit windows, at the shapes of people moving behind glass— “but soon. There are things in it about the company. Your family and mine.”
Something moved behind his eyes. Just a fraction. “How much do you know?” he asked. His voice was careful. Professional. The voice he used in the sitting room, not the voice from the passage with the candle.
“Enough to know you might know some of it already,” you said. He held your gaze. The wind moved between you.
“Tonight,” he said. “Passage room.”
“Tonight,” you agreed. He nodded and turned back to the fields. You stood beside him for a moment, not saying anything, looking at the same grey-green view, and it was almost like being ten years old again except that you were both carrying things ten-year-olds don’t carry and the weight of it was very quietly changing the shape of everything.
“She kept a photo of us,” you said. “In the passage room. Do you know who took it?”
“She did,” he said. “She had one of those cameras with the timer. She set it up on the shelf.” A pause. “She has about fifteen of them. Of us, from different years. She kept them in the tin.”
You thought about the olive green tin. The photograph beneath the note beneath the playing card. “I only found the one,” you said.
“There’s a second tin,” he said. “She showed me once. It’s in the east corridor study.” He paused. “Third door.” You looked at him. He looked back at you. Not everything buried is lost.
“Tonight,” you said again. And you both stood at the wall in the winter garden and looked at the fields where you used to chase chickens and neither of you said anything about the thing that had been living in the space between you for longer than either of you had names for it yet.
—
The Yang family came at seven. Your mother had spent the afternoon directing the staff with the focused energy of a woman who needed something to control. The good dishes. The good wine. Flowers on the table that were tasteful and seasonal and had been ordered from the florist your grandmother had used for forty years because some things you don’t change even when you are quietly furious at the dead person who used to order them. You’d spent the afternoon in your room with the notebook open on your bed and your laptop beside it, cross-referencing what your grandmother had recorded in her careful case-note hand against what you could find publicly about your father’s company and the Yang Group. You’d built a partial picture. Partial was enough to make your chest feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with the altitude change from Barcelona.
You closed everything at six-thirty and got dressed and looked at yourself in the mirror of your childhood bedroom. The room still had your things in it. Sketchbooks on the shelf. A poster from a Barcelona exhibition you’d sent home because you’d had no wall space. A corkboard above the desk with old photos and ticket stubs and a hand-drawn map of the manor’s ground floor that you’d made when you were twelve and that contained, you now noticed, three rooms that weren’t on it that you’d known about since you were nine. She’d taught you to keep secrets the way other grandmothers taught you to knit. Quietly. Practically. With the implication that the skill would matter someday.
You put your earrings in and went downstairs. Jungwon’s father, Yang Junho, had the big laugh and the easy warmth of a man who had learned early that charm was infrastructure. He embraced your mother, clapped your father on the shoulder, kissed your cheek and said look at you, all grown up and making us all feel old in the way that powerful men say things to young women — benevolent, slightly proprietary, not quite seeing you. Yerin arrived in something that was architecturally perfect for the occasion. You noticed it the way you noticed good design — involuntarily, with a kind of professional appreciation that sat alongside everything else. She was very good at this. At the surface of things.
She found your eyes across the hall and smiled. You smiled back. Jungwon was behind her, talking to your father, and you watched the two of them shake hands and exchange the warm professional pleasantries of men from families that had known each other a long time and you thought about the notebook in your room and the figures on page four and the way your father’s hand had been on your shoulder after the will reading, and you kept your face very still. Haeun arrived late, which was a statement, with Minjae in tow, which was a footnote.
Dinner was served at eight.The dining room in winter was all candlelight and dark wood and the accumulated weight of every meal that had ever been eaten in it. Your grandmother’s empty chair was still at the head of the table. Still nobody suggested moving it or filling it. It sat there and presided. You were seated between your father and Jungwon’s father, which was either an accident of place settings or your mother’s idea of diplomacy or the universe testing your ability to eat soup while sitting on top of a secret. Jungwon was diagonally across from you. Yerin beside him, her hand on the table near his, not quite touching. She had positioned herself with the precision of someone who understood rooms and sightlines and what it meant to be seen next to the right person. You understood rooms and sightlines too.
The first course arrived. Conversation did what conversation does at these dinners — it found the safe channels and moved through them. Business. The economy. A mutual acquaintance’s new venture. Your Barcelona degree, which Yang Junho asked about with genuine interest and which you answered clearly and concisely and felt Jungwon listening to without looking at you. “Architecture,” Junho said, nodding. “Your grandmother always said you’d do something with buildings.”
“She said I’d do something with spaces,” you said. “She made a distinction.” Junho looked pleased by this in the way people look pleased when they’re reminded of someone they miss. “That sounds like her.”
“She was very specific about words,” Jungwon said. He was looking at his wine glass. “She used to correct my crossword answers even when they technically fit.”
“Because fitting and being right are different things,” you said, before you could decide not to. He looked up. Found your eyes. “Yes,” he said. “That’s what she said.” Yerin reached for her wine.
Haeun chose the main course to begin her campaign. She did it beautifully. That was the thing about your sister — she was genuinely skilled at this, at the long game of dinner table conversation, at the way you could introduce a subject so casually that by the time people realized they were discussing it they’d already committed to a position. “It’s such a comfort,” she said, during a lull, with the warm sincerity of a woman who had rehearsed warmth until it became real, “that grandmother’s things will stay in the family. The records, especially. The architectural history of this place.” A smile at you. “I know how much it means to you.”
“It does,” you said.
“It’s just interesting,” Haeun said, tilting her head slightly, “that grandmother felt those should be — separated out. From the general estate. Don’t you think, Mum?” Your mother’s expression didn’t change. “Your grandmother had her reasons.”
“Of course.” Haeun smiled. “She always did. I’m just thinking about practicality. If we’re going to manage the estate jointly, having certain documents siloed with one person seems—”
“Haeun,” your father said. Quiet. Warning. “I’m just raising it,” Haeun said pleasantly. “This is family. We can talk about family things.” The table had gone the particular kind of quiet where everyone is pretending not to listen while listening completely. You set your fork down. “Grandmother specified it in the will,” you said. “Mr. Oh read it out. I’m not sure what there is to discuss.”
“I’m not disputing the will,” Haeun said. “I’m asking whether it makes sense.”
“She thought it made sense,” you said. “I trust her judgment.”
“She was eighty-one and she hadn’t left this house in two years.” The silence that followed that sentence was a different quality entirely. Your mother put her glass down very carefully. Yang Junho cleared his throat and said something about the food being excellent, which was what men like him did when a table needed rescuing and he was the one with the social capital to do it. Your father laughed too quickly at something that wasn’t funny. Minjae became deeply interested in his plate. Jungwon wasn’t looking at your sister — instead at you — with an expression that was too controlled to read and too attentive to be neutral. Yerin said, lightly, pleasantly, into the recovering silence: “It must be wonderful to have a place like this to come home to. Even under sad circumstances.” She was looking at you when she said it. Even under sad circumstances. “It is,” you said. You held her gaze. “I’ve missed it.”
“Barcelona must be quite the change,” she said. “All that sun. All that distance.”
“I like distance,” you said pleasantly. “It gives you perspective.” Her smile stayed exactly where it was. “I imagine it does,” she said.
like it owed him something. “Your sister,” he said.
“I know.”
“She’s going to contest it.”
“She’s going to try,” you said. “She won’t succeed. Grandmother was meticulous.”
“She was,” he agreed. A pause. “She was meticulous about everything.” You thought about the notebook upstairs. The passage room tonight. The envelope against your chest earlier, both your names in her handwriting. “How much do you know?” you asked. Quietly. The same question as the garden, but in here it landed differently. In here it was just you two and the too-loud clock and the chipped tile and fifteen years of history in the walls. He looked at his hands on the table. “About the company — some. Not all. My father has been—” he paused, choosing the word— “selective about what he’s handed over.”
“Jungwon.”
“I know.” He looked up. “I know there’s something. I’ve been finding the edges of it for six months.” He held your gaze. “What did she leave you?”
“A notebook,” you said. “Seven years of notes. Dates, names, figures.”
He was very still. “My father’s name is in it,” you said. “Yours is too.” He looked at the table again. The muscle in his jaw moved once. “Tonight,” he said. “Show me tonight.”
“I will.” The clock ticked. The kitchen held you both the way it always had — indiscriminately, warmly, without judgment or agenda. Through the door you could hear the distant murmur of the sitting room. Your families on the other side of a wall. All their history and all their secrets and all the careful surfaces they maintained. “She sent me a tangerine once,” you said. Not because it was relevant. Because you needed a second.
Jungwon looked up.
“From the tree in the garden,” you said. “She packaged it up and posted it to Barcelona. Just one tangerine, wrapped in tissue paper, with a note that said the tree had a good year. Thought you should taste it. Nothing else.”
He was quiet for a moment. “She sent me a crossword clue once,” he said. “Just one clue. In the post. No puzzle, no page, just the clue on a card.” He almost smiled. “Seven letters. What two people share when they stop pretending.”
You looked at him. “Did you figure it out?” you asked.
“Eventually,” he said. He looked away first. “Honesty.” The clock ticked. The sitting room murmured. Neither of you said anything for a while, and the kitchen held you both, and outside the window the winter garden was dark and the fields beyond it were darker and somewhere in the walls of this house there were secret rooms and hidden documents and a dead woman’s careful architecture and the net was holding, still holding, over an abyss neither of you had looked directly at yet.
The door opened. Yerin stood in the doorway. Her eyes moved from you to Jungwon and back to you in a fraction of a second and her face showed nothing and showed everything. “There you are,” she said. Just to him.
“Just getting water,” Jungwon said. He stood up. Straightened. The professional composure settling back over him like a coat. Yerin’s eyes found yours one more time. The smile was small and precise and had teeth somewhere inside it. “Of course,” she said. Jungwon followed her out. You stood in the kitchen alone and listened to the clock tick and looked at the stool he’d been sitting on and thought about seven letters and everything that word contained and didn’t contain and how your grandmother had sent it to him in the post like a key and trusted him to find the lock eventually. You finished your water. You went upstairs. You sat on your bed with the notebook and the envelope and the Calvino and you waited for midnight.
—
Midnight in the manor sounded like this: The grandfather clock in the east corridor striking twelve with the particular resonance of something that had been marking time in the same place for longer than anyone alive could remember. The house settling into itself, old wood finding its resting position. Wind against the north-facing windows. And underneath all of it, the specific silence of a building full of sleeping people who didn’t know what was happening in its walls. You’d waited until one in the morning to be safe. You’d sat on your bed with the Calvino open to the Octavia chapter and read it three times and then put it face-down on the duvet and stared at the ceiling and thought about the crossword clue. Seven letters. What two people share when they stop pretending. Then you’d picked up the notebook and the envelope and the torch and gone to the third panel from the left.
Jungwon was already there. He’d brought a second candle and a blanket from somewhere, which was so specifically him — practical, quietly considerate, the kind of thoughtfulness that didn’t announce itself — that it did something small and inconvenient to your chest. He’d pushed the two chairs closer to the table and there was a thermos between them that smelled like barley tea and you stood in the entrance of the passage and looked at all of this and thought about your grandmother writing I have been patient because patience was what was needed and understood, not for the first time tonight, exactly what she had meant.
“You found the second tin,” you said. On the table beside the thermos: the olive green tin, open. And beside it, spread out in a loose arrangement, photographs. You crossed the room and looked at them. Fifteen photographs. Maybe more. All of you and Jungwon, all taken in this house, spanning — you picked them up one by one — what looked like a decade. You at nine in the passage room, cross-legged over the crossword, face screwed up in concentration. At eleven, standing in the kitchen covered in flour from some disaster you vaguely remembered involving a recipe and overconfidence. At thirteen, outside in the summer fields, both of you caught mid-run, the chickens a chaotic blur in the background, your face turned back toward the camera mid-laugh. At fifteen, sitting on the stone wall at the edge of the garden, shoulders touching, looking at something outside the frame, both of you with the particular quality of stillness that means you don’t know you’re being watched.
At seventeen. The last summer before Barcelona. The two of you in the library, you on the floor with a sketchbook, him in the armchair above you reading something, and neither of you looking at each other but the angle of your bodies saying everything that the lack of eye contact was trying not to say. Your grandmother had taken all of them. Arranged them. Put them in a tin in a secret room in the house she left specifically to you. I am leaving them the house and each other and every door I can think to unlock. “She documented us,” Jungwon said. He was standing beside you, looking at the photographs spread on the table. His voice was careful in the way it got when he was feeling something he hadn’t categorised yet.
“She documented everything,” you said. You sat down. He sat down. You poured the barley tea because your hands needed something to do. Then you put the notebook on the table. You walked him through it methodically the way your grandmother had recorded it — chronologically, without editorialising, the way she’d taught you to present information. Let the facts be the facts. Let them land before you decide what they mean. He listened without interrupting. That was one of the things about Jungwon that had always been true — he knew how to be still while someone was talking, genuinely still, not the performance of patience but the real thing. His father had it too but in him it felt like strategy. In Jungwon it had always felt like respect. You got to the woman’s name. The dates. The hotel in Busan. Jungwon looked at the notebook. “Your father.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Seven years that she documented. Possibly longer.”
He was quiet. “Does your mother know?”
“She knows something,” you said. “I don’t think she knows the shape of it.”
“Haeun?”
“I don’t know. Haeun would have used it by now if she did.” He nodded slowly. You turned to the next section. The company. The figures. The structure of the agreement between your families that had been built quietly over decades in the particular way that men build things they don’t want scrutinised — in pieces, in separate rooms, in the gaps between what was documented and what wasn’t. You watched Jungwon’s face while you walked him through it. He was very still. “You knew some of this,” you said. Not an accusation. A calibration.
“I knew the shape of it,” he said. “Not the detail.” He turned a page, read something, turned it back. “My father told me when I took over that there were legacy arrangements with certain partners that were — grandfathered in. His word. He said they were historical and that I didn’t need to concern myself with the mechanics, only the outcomes.”
“Did you accept that?” A pause. The candle moved. “For about four months,” he said. “Then I started finding things that didn’t add up and I started asking questions and my father told me I was looking too hard at things that didn’t need looking at.” He looked at the notebook. “I stopped asking questions to his face. I kept looking on my own.”
“What did you find?”
“Enough to know there’s a liability,” he said. “Enough to know that whatever this arrangement is, it would not survive scrutiny. Not legal scrutiny.” He looked at you. “Enough to know that if it came out, both companies would be implicated. Both families.” The candle. The stone walls. The photographs on the table.
“She knew,” you said. “She knew all of it and she left the documentation to me and she left you the crossword clue and she trusted us to—” you stopped. “To what?” he said.
“I don’t know yet,” you said honestly. “But she didn’t do this so we’d bury it again.”
He looked at the notebook for a long time. Then he reached out and turned to the last entry. Read it. His expression did something very quiet and very complicated. I trust them. I always have. He sat back. Pressed his hand over his mouth for a moment. Dropped it. “She should have told us,” he said. Not angry. Just — something underneath anger that hadn’t found its shape yet. “She told us everything,” you said. “We just didn’t have the key yet.” He looked at the photographs again. The one from the library, you on the floor, him in the chair, both of you tilted toward each other without knowing it. “She saw everything,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” you said. The word sat between you. Everything had a weight in this room, in this house, with these photographs spread on the table between you and the barley tea going cold and your grandmother’s handwriting on the pages of a notebook she’d spent seven years filling for this exact moment. You reached into your jacket and put the envelope on the table. Both your names. Her handwriting. Jungwon looked at it. “Now?” he said. You thought about the Octavia chapter. About nets and abysses and the things that hold. About patience, and what it was for, and when it ended. “Not yet,” you said. “There’s still the east corridor. The third door.”
He looked at you. “You want to go now.”
“I want to go now.” He almost smiled. It was the almost that got you — the way it stopped just short, the way the boy who had chased chickens with you was right there behind the composed professional surface, three millimetres from the outside, held back by three years and a girlfriend and a company and everything that had accumulated in the space your absence had left. He stood up. Picked up the torch. “Third door,” he said.
The east corridor at one in the morning was a different place entirely from the east corridor in daylight. The wallpaper, pale blue, faded at the seams, turned grey in the torchlight. The portraits of your grandmother’s family watched you pass with the unsettling patience of people who had been watching things happen in this house for a very long time. You moved quietly, both of you, the old instinct from childhood — sock feet on the floorboards, weight on the outside of the step, don’t breathe past the third portrait because the floor creaks. You didn’t breathe past the third portrait. Jungwon didn’t either. The third door. It was heavier than the others — solid wood, original to the house, with an iron handle that your grandmother had refused to replace with something modern. You turned it slowly and pushed and the room opened up in the torchlight.
Your grandmother had called it the old study. Your father and Yang Junho used it when they met here — papers spread on the desk, the door closed, the polite fiction of privacy in someone else’s house. It smelled of old paper and woodsmoke and faintly, underneath that, the cedar and something clean that you’d noticed when Jungwon had hugged you in the sitting room two days ago and had been careful not to think about since. He’d been in here recently. “You came here,” you said. Not an accusation. “After she died,” he said. He moved into the room, swept the torchlight along the walls. “I wanted to understand what my father and yours were doing in here. What they kept here.”
“Did you find anything?”
“The desk was clean,” he said. “Whatever they kept here they took when she died. Or before.” He stopped the torch beam at the far wall. “But she was smarter than that.” The far wall was bookshelves. Floor to ceiling, the same as the library on the other side of the passage, filled with the kind of books that accumulate in old houses — mismatched, well-read, organised by a logic that was entirely your grandmother’s. You crossed to them and ran the torchlight along the spines and then you remembered something. Third door, her note had said. And then: start with the east corridor. Not the room. The door itself. You turned back. The door was solid wood, original to the house. Iron handle. And on the back of it — you moved the torch slowly — carved into the wood at hip height, almost invisible, a small symbol. A circle with a line through it. The same symbol your grandmother used to mark the starting square of any puzzle she set you. Start here.
You crouched down. Ran your fingers along the bottom of the door frame. A loose board. Not rotten, not accidental. Deliberately loosened, the nails removed and replaced with something that held the board in place but gave when you pressed the right spot. You pressed the right spot.nThe board lifted. Inside: a metal document box, dark with age, sealed with a combination lock. Three digits. Jungwon crouched beside you. His shoulder against yours again. “She changed the combination every year,” he said. “She told me that once. She said the only constant was the starting number.”
“Seven,” you said immediately. He looked at you. “She always started with seven,” you said. “Every combination, every puzzle. Seven was the beginning. She said it was the only number that looked like someone thinking.” He took the box. Turned the dial. Seven. Then you looked at each other. “Her birthday,” you said. “The month.”
“Four,” he said. Seven. Four. One digit left. “The crossword clue,” you said slowly. “Seven letters. She sent it to you. The answer—”
“Honesty,” he said. “Eight letters.”
“No,” you said. “Think about what she actually wrote. What two people share when they stop pretending.” You looked at the lock. “She wouldn’t use the answer. She’d use the question.” Jungwon was quiet for a second. “The number of the clue,” he said. “She sent me one clue.”
“Which number was it?” He thought. The candle from the passage room was far away now, just a distant suggestion of warmth. In the torchlight his face was all shadow and focus and the particular expression he’d had at nine years old whenever a puzzle was almost solved. “One,” he said. “It was clue one across.”
Seven. Four. One. The lock opened. Inside the metal box: A folder of documents. Financial records, correspondence, agreements bearing both your fathers’ signatures, dated across fifteen years. The architecture of the thing your grandmother had recorded in her notebook, now in primary source form — not her observations but the actual evidence, the originals, the paper trail that would make a lawyer sit up very straight. She had not just documented it. She had collected it. For fifteen years she had quietly, methodically, with the patience of someone who understood that the right time was not now but was coming, gathered every piece of paper that passed through this house and made copies and built a case and put it in a box under the floor of the room where the men who didn’t know she was watching met to do their careful, private business.
Jungwon sat on the floor of the study with the documents spread around him and read. You sat beside him and read. The candle burned down in the passage room. At some point you’d both ended up with your backs against the wall beneath the window, shoulders touching, documents in your laps, and the torch propped against the skirting board pointing at the ceiling and making the room dim and amber. Outside, the manor was completely silent. Inside, the only sound was the occasional turning of a page.
Around three in the morning Jungwon said, quietly: “He knew I’d find this eventually.”
“My father?”
“Mine.” He turned a page. “He structured it this way on purpose. Grandfathered it in so that when I took over I’d inherit the liability without inheriting the knowledge.” He paused. “He was protecting himself. He thought if I didn’t know the detail I couldn’t be held responsible for knowing and saying nothing.”
“He was wrong,” you said.
“Yes,” Jungwon said. “He was.” You looked at the document in your lap. Your father’s signature at the bottom of an agreement dated eleven years ago. Neat, confident, the signature of a man who did not expect to be looked at too closely. “What do we do with this?” you said.
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But we don’t bury it.” She didn’t do this so we’d bury it again. Your own words from earlier, back to you. “No,” you agreed. “We don’t.” You sat on the floor of the old study in the dark with the evidence of your families’ careful deceptions around you and the envelope with both your names in your jacket and the photographs in the passage room and the clock somewhere in the east corridor counting its six extra minutes that nobody else knew about.
Jungwon’s head tipped back against the wall. He looked at the ceiling. “I used to think about what it would be like,” he said, “when you came back.” You were very still. “I’d built this whole — picture of it,” he said. “You walking in. Me being normal about it.” A short almost-laugh. “I was not normal about it.”
“You were professional,” you said. “You were very professionally warm.”
“I know,” he said. He sounded tired in a way that had nothing to do with three in the morning. “I’ve been professionally warm about a lot of things for a long time.” The torch light flickered. Steadied. “Jungwon—”
“Not yet,” he said quietly. He turned his head and looked at you and his face in the low amber light was very close and very tired and very much the face of someone carrying something he didn’t have a name for yet. “I know. I know there are — I know.” You looked at him. He looked at you. The house was completely silent. “Okay,” you said. Quietly. “Not yet.” He nodded. Looked back at the ceiling. You both sat there for another hour, reading your families’ secrets in the dark, shoulders touching, not saying the thing, the envelope in your jacket ticking like a clock. Outside, eventually, the dark began to grey at the edges. “We should go back,” you said.
“Yes,” he said. Neither of you moved for another minute. Then he gathered the documents with the careful deliberate hands of a man who had decided something, put them back in the box, locked it. Looked at the combination — seven, four, one — and then at you. “She really did plan everything,” he said.
“Down to the last detail,” you agreed. He almost smiled again. Three millimetres from the outside. “Infuriating woman,” he said. With so much love it wasn’t an insult at all. You put the box back under the board. You both stood up. In the corridor you walked in single file, sock feet, outside edge of the step, not breathing past the third portrait. At the point where the corridor split — your wing, his — you stopped. He stopped. “The envelope,” he said.
“Soon,” you said. He looked at you for a moment. The grey pre-dawn light from the window at the end of the corridor fell across half his face and left the other half in shadow and he looked like something your grandmother would have photographed — like something that belonged to this house, to this particular quality of light, to the specific hour before the world woke up and everyone put their surfaces back on. “Okay,” he said. He went left. You went right. You lay on your bed as the manor began to fill with the sounds of morning and you stared at the ceiling and you held the envelope on your chest over your heartbeat and you thought about seven letters and what they contained and you thought:
Soon.
—
You slept for three hours. It wasn’t restful sleep — it was the kind that happens to you rather than for you, pulling you under between one thought and the next and depositing you back on the surface before you’d actually recovered from anything. You dreamed about the passage room. About the photographs spread on the table. About your grandmother’s handwriting, the letters getting smaller and smaller until they were too small to read and you were pressing your face to the page trying to find the last thing she’d written and waking up with your cheek against the envelope. You lay there for a moment with the morning light coming through the curtains at the angle your grandmother had approved of and you listened to the manor breathing around you.
Somewhere below, the kitchen was already alive — the smell of rice and something warm coming up through the house the way it always had, the particular smell of this house in the morning that had lived in your memory for three years like a frequency you couldn’t quite tune out. In Barcelona your mornings smelled like coffee and exhaust and the bread from the bakery two streets over. You had loved that smell. You had also, on certain mornings, stood in your yellow-tiled kitchen and closed your eyes and tried to remember this one.
You got up. Showered. Dressed. Put the envelope in the drawer of your childhood desk beneath a sketchbook, which felt both insufficient and like exactly what your grandmother would do — hiding things in plain sight, in the most obvious containers, trusting the right people to know where to look. Then you went downstairs. The kitchen at eight in the morning held your mother, a cup of tea, and the particular quality of silence that meant she’d been sitting there long enough for the silence to have settled into something deliberate. She looked up when you came in. Her eyes moved over your face the way mothers’ eyes do — reading something, calibrating, deciding how much to say. “You were up late,” she said.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you said. Which was true. She nodded. Looked at her tea. “Your grandmother used to do that. Walk the house at night.” A pause. “She said the house was different in the dark. That you could hear it thinking.” You poured yourself tea and sat down across from her.
In the morning light your mother looked her age in a way she rarely allowed. The grief was closer to the surface now, unguarded, the performance of composed widowhood resting somewhere else for the hour before the house fully woke up. She had loved Han Sooja with the complicated ferocity of a daughter who had never quite understood her mother and had spent sixty years trying to. That love was real. You had never doubted it. “Are you alright?” you asked.
She looked at you for a moment. Something moved across her face — an assessment, a decision. “I’m managing,” she said. Which was not the same as yes and they both knew it. You wrapped your hands around your mug and thought about the notebook. About the woman’s name and the dates and Busan. About your grandmother sitting in this house for seven years watching your father’s careful second life and recording it and saying nothing to your mother because your mother had chosen not to see and Han Sooja had respected that choice while quietly preparing for the consequences of it. You thought about how to carry what you knew and not let it show. You were apparently not as good at this as your grandmother. “What is it?” your mother said.
“Nothing,” you said. “I’m just tired.” She looked at you for another moment. Let it go. “Haeun called a lawyer this morning,” she said. Conversational. Almost. “Her own lawyer. She says it’s just to understand her options.”
“Of course she did,” you said.
“She’s not—” your mother stopped. Started again. “She’s not wrong that your grandmother could have been clearer about her reasoning. For the records. The architectural documents.”
“She was very clear,” you said, carefully. “She put it in the will.”
“I know she did.” Your mother’s hands moved around her cup. “I know.” A pause that had more inside it than its length suggested. “Your grandmother kept a great deal to herself. I accepted that. I spent my whole life accepting that.” Something small and old in her voice. “I sometimes wonder what she knew that she didn’t tell me.” The kitchen clock ticked. You looked at your mother’s face. At the grief in it, and underneath the grief the older, more weathered thing that had been there longer. The thing that had learned to sit next to an absence and call it marriage. She knows something, you’d told Jungwon. I don’t think she knows the shape of it. “She loved you,” you said. “She just loved you in her own way.” Your mother smiled. Small, tired, true. “Yes,” she said. “She did.”
You found Haeun in the formal sitting room at nine with her laptop open and a woman you didn’t recognise sitting across from her — late forties, professional, the kind of person who carries a briefcase as a personality trait. The lawyer. Already here, already seated, already opening something on her tablet. Haeun looked up when you came in. Her smile was immediate and warm and about as genuine as a show home. “Good morning,” she said. “You look tired.”
“Good morning,” you said. “I see you’ve been busy.”
“Just preliminary conversations,” Haeun said lightly. “You know me, I like to understand things properly. This is Ms. Bae, she specialises in estate law.”
Ms. Bae nodded at you with the professional neutrality of someone being paid to have no opinions. “Haeun,” you said. “Grandmother has been dead for three weeks.”
“I know that.”
“Her body is barely—”
“I know that,” Haeun said. Her voice didn’t change. Didn’t sharpen. Stayed exactly where it was, which was somehow worse. “I’m not doing this to hurt anyone. I’m doing this because grandmother made decisions that affect this whole family and I think it’s reasonable to—”
“She made her decisions very deliberately,” you said. “Specifically. With full possession of everything she knew and everything she was.”
“She was eighty-one and isolated and possibly—”
“Don’t,” you said. Quiet. “Don’t say it, Haeun. Not in this house.” A silence. Ms. Bae became deeply interested in her tablet. Haeun looked at you for a long moment. And then, beneath the performance of reasonableness, you saw something real — something that wasn’t greed, not exactly, but the older wound underneath it. The child who had grown up knowing their mother had a favourite. Not unloved but not — first. Never quite first. You understood it. You even felt for it. But you had a notebook upstairs and an envelope in a drawer and a dead woman’s trust and you were not going to let that be dismantled because your sister was still trying to win an argument with someone who was no longer here to have it.
“I’m not going to fight you,” you said. “But I’m also not going to make it easy. Whatever grandmother left me she left me for a reason and I intend to honour that.” Haeun held your gaze. “Fine,” she said. The warmth had gone down to its lowest setting. “Then we’ll let the lawyers talk.” You left the room.
Yerin found you at eleven. You were in the garden — the formal part, the clipped hedges and the stone paths, where you’d gone to be outside and think and be somewhere that wasn’t a room full of someone else’s agenda. You had your sketchbook with you out of habit, but you hadn’t opened it. You were just sitting on the bench near the old sundial, which had been telling the wrong time since the seventies and which your grandmother had also refused to correct. She came down the path alone. No Jungwon. That was intentional — you registered it immediately, the way you registered everything about Yerin, with the involuntary alertness of someone in the presence of a thing that requires careful watching. She was dressed impeccably even at eleven in the morning in someone else’s country house garden. She sat down on the other end of the bench without asking and crossed her ankles and looked at the hedge in front of her and said nothing for long enough that it became its own kind of statement. You waited. “You grew up here,” she said finally.
“Yes,” you said. “The families are neighbours.”
“But you treated this house like yours.”
“My grandmother lived here,” you said. “She made it feel like ours. Mine and Jungwon’s.” The name landed. You’d done it deliberately, put it out there plainly, because you were tired and had slept for three hours and were not in the mood for the slow-motion version of this conversation. Yerin turned and looked at you directly for the first time. She had remarkable eyes — dark, steady, the eyes of someone who had decided a long time ago that she would not be the one to look away first. “He talks about this place like it raised him,” she said.
“It did, partly,” you said. “His family’s estate is half a kilometre that way.” You gestured. “We were back and forth constantly. His mother and mine were close.” A pause. “He and I were close.”
“Were,” she said. “We haven’t seen each other in almost three years,” you said. “People change.”
“Do they,” she said. Not a question. You looked at the sundial. “I’m not here to cause problems,” you said. “I came home because my grandmother died.”
“I know why you came home,” Yerin said. And then, very precisely: “It’s not why you’re staying that I’m thinking about.” You looked at her. She looked back. That steady, unblinking gaze. “I know what you two were,” she said. “Not because he told me — he’s very careful about what he tells me. Because of the way he is in this house.” She paused. “He’s different here. He laughs differently. He moves differently.” Something moved across her face that was not quite hurt and not quite anger and was instead something more complicated and more honest than either. “I’ve been with him for a year and a half and I have never seen him laugh the way he laughed in that kitchen two nights ago.” The garden was quiet. You didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say that wouldn’t be a lie or a cruelty. “I’m not stupid,” Yerin said. “I know what his father wants. I know what my family wants. I know what this relationship is built on and I know what it isn’t built on.” She turned and looked at the hedge again. “But I’m also not going to simply—” she stopped. Started again. “I have worked very hard to be what he needs. What everyone needs him to have.”
“That sounds exhausting,” you said. Quietly. Without any edge. She was quiet for a moment. “It is,” she said. Which surprised you. The honesty of it, the sudden flatness of it, stripped of the careful surface. “It really is.” You sat with that. The sundial gave its wrong time to the grey winter sky. “I don’t have a plan,” you said. Truthfully. “I don’t know what I’m doing here beyond what I’ve told you. I came home for the funeral. I’m dealing with the estate. I’ll go back to Barcelona.”
Yerin looked at you. “Will you.”
“I have a life there,” you said.
“Yes,” she said. “You do.” She stood up, smoothed her coat, looked down at you with those steady dark eyes. “And he has one here. One that was built very carefully. One that a lot of people are depending on.” A pause. “I want you to remember that.” She walked back up the path toward the house. You sat on the bench and watched her go and thought about what she’d said and what she hadn’t said and the specific way she’d said I have worked very hard to be what he needs with the exhaustion of someone describing a job they are very good at and do not love. You thought about Jungwon laughing in the kitchen. The three millimetres. You thought about a net over an abyss and what it meant to finally look down. You opened your sketchbook. You didn’t draw anything. You just sat with the blank page.
He found you there at noon. He came down the same path Yerin had come down an hour earlier and you watched him come and thought about what she’d said — he moves differently here — and looked for it and found it immediately, the thing she’d named. He walked like the house was familiar to him at the cellular level. Like his body remembered it even when the rest of him was trying to be someone who’d moved on. “Yerin talked to you,” he said. Not a question. “How did you know?”
“She told me,” he said. He sat down on the bench — the middle of it, not the far end. Closer than Yerin had sat. “She said she needed to talk to you and I asked her not to and she did it anyway.”
“She loves you,” you said. He looked at the sundial. “I know.”
“And you—”
“Don’t,” he said. Quietly. You stopped. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, looking at the ground between his feet. His jaw was tight. The professional composure was not all the way up this morning — three hours of sleep and a garden and nobody watching except you and it had slipped. “I know what you’re going to say,” he said.
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“You were going to ask if I love her.” He paused. “The answer is that I care about her and I respect her and I have not been—” he stopped— “I haven’t been fair to her. I know that. I’ve known it for—” another stop. Longer.
“Jungwon,” you said. He looked up. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you said. “We’re not—” you gestured vaguely— “I’m not owed that.”
He looked at you for a long moment. “That’s the problem,” he said. His voice was very quiet. “That’s exactly the problem.” The wind moved through the formal garden. Somewhere across the grounds a door opened and closed. The manor held its breath. You looked at him. He looked at you. Three millimetres. “The envelope,” he said.
“Tonight,” you said. “Passage room.” He nodded. Looked away. Looked back. “She told me,” he said, “that you’d go back to Barcelona.”
“I have a life there,” you said. The same words.
“I know,” he said. He stood up. Straightened. The composure coming back up like a tide. “Tonight,” he said.
“Tonight,” you said. He went back up the path. You sat on the bench with your blank sketchbook page and the wrong-time sundial and the specific feeling of being someone standing at the edge of something enormous trying to decide whether enormous things were better walked toward or run from. Your grandmother had never run from anything. You closed the sketchbook.
—
The house went quiet at eleven. You heard it happen the way you always had — the gradual diminuendo of a building settling into night, the last doors closing, the last lights going off under the gap at the bottom of the corridor, the grandfather clock doing its twelve-stroke accounting of the hours. Your father had gone to bed early. Your mother had sat up reading, or pretending to read, until ten. Haeun and Minjae had retired without saying goodnight to you, which was its own kind of statement. Yang Junho had gone back to the Yang estate after dinner, taking his easy laugh and his careful warmth with him. Yerin was in the room at the end of the east guest corridor.
Jungwon was — you didn’t know exactly. His footsteps had gone past your door at ten-thirty and not come back. You sat on your bed with the envelope in your hands and the Calvino face-down beside you and you waited until the house was completely still.
Then you went to the third panel from the left.
He was already there. Both candles this time, placed at opposite ends of the small stone table, and the photographs still spread from two nights ago, and the barley tea thermos again because apparently this was something he did now — thought about whether you’d be cold, acted on it, said nothing about it. The second mismatched chair was pulled out at the angle that meant this is for you. You sat down. He sat down. You put the envelope on the table between the two candles.
Both your names. Her handwriting. The paper slightly worn at the fold from the number of times you’d handled it without opening it. You both looked at it. “I keep thinking,” Jungwon said, “that once we open it that’s it. Whatever she says becomes the thing she said. You can’t—” he paused— “you can’t unknow it.”
“We already know most of it,” you said.
“Not what she meant to do with it,” he said. “Not what she wanted from us.”
You looked at the envelope. “She wanted us to be ready,” you said. “That’s why she didn’t just leave it with the will. That’s why she put the notebook in the bedroom and the box under the floor and the photographs in the tin.” You turned the envelope over in your hands. “She was building up to this. She wanted us to find everything else first so that when we read this we’d—”
“Have the context,” he said.
“Be ready,” you said again.
He looked at you. “Are you?”
You thought about three years in Barcelona. About Sunday calls and tangerines in the post and the Calvino on your shelf and the way you’d stood in your yellow-tiled kitchen with a dead leaf in your hand and almost called him and didn’t. About the photograph on your grandmother’s dresser — your desk, your lamp, your small evidence of a life being built somewhere else. About the library. Seventeen years old. Him in the chair above you, you on the floor, neither of you looking at each other. “No,” you said honestly. “Open it anyway.”
He broke the seal. His hands were steady. Steadier than yours would have been — you knew that about yourself, that you went very shaken when things were enormous, that shakiness was your version of bracing.
He unfolded the paper with the care of someone handling something irreplaceable and laid it flat on the table between the candles. Her handwriting. Small, precise. Three pages, front and back, in the blue ink she’d used your entire life. You both leaned in and read.
To my granddaughter, and to Jungwon-ah.
I am writing this in October, which is the best month in this garden, and I am sitting at my desk with the window open and I can hear the tree. I want you to know that I am well as I write this. Clear-headed, if slower than I used to be. I have thought carefully about what I want to say and I have decided to say it directly because I am eighty-one years old and I have spent enough of my life being indirect and while I believe indirectness is an art form and frequently undervalued I think you two have earned something plainer.
First: the house. I am leaving it to you, my girl, because you understand what a building is. Not the walls or the deeds or the history that other people will try to tell you it represents. You understand that a house is a record of what happened inside it. That the walls remember. You will know what to do with what you find here and you will know what to do with the house itself when the time comes. I trust this completely.
Jungwon-ah: I am not leaving you the house because you already know where everything is. You have spent fifteen years learning its rooms and its passages and its particular way of holding secrets. You don’t need the deed. You need the person who has it.
Now. The harder things. I have kept records for seven years. You will have found them by now — the notebook, the box, all of it. I want to be clear about why I kept them. Not for revenge, though I will not pretend there is no satisfaction in the idea of your father finding out that I saw everything he thought he was doing privately. Not for leverage. I kept them because the truth was happening in my house and I refused to let it happen without a witness. Someone had to see it. I decided that person would be me. What you do with the records is your decision, not mine.
I have opinions, which I will share: the arrangement between the companies is not survivable in its current form and the longer it is maintained the larger the liability becomes. Jungwon-ah, your father built something with good intentions and poor judgment and the combination is always more dangerous than either alone. You are more careful than he is. You are also more honest, which he would consider a weakness and which I consider the only thing that will save you.
As for your father Y/N, I have watched him for twenty-two years. I have watched your mother choose not to watch him. I will not make that choice for her. When the time comes — and it will come, these things always do — she will need you both. Not to fix it. You cannot fix it. Just to stay.
And now the thing I have been working up to. I have watched you both for fifteen years. I have taken photographs and kept crosswords and sent tangerines in the post and asked questions I already knew the answers to and I have been, I think, excessively patient. I want to explain why. I was not waiting for the right moment. I was waiting for you both to become the people who could survive the right moment.
You were children and then you were young people and there is a specific kind of damage that happens when the right thing arrives before a person is ready to hold it and I was not willing to risk that with either of you. I believe you are ready now. I am saying this plainly because I am eighty-one and I have earned the right to be plain: I have never in my life seen two people more thoroughly and more stubbornly fail to see what was directly in front of them. I say this with tremendous love and only moderate exasperation.
You grew up beside each other. You ransacked my kitchen and chased my chickens and ran through my house with muddy shoes and I watched you do all of it and I watched what happened in the spaces between the noise, which is where the real things were. I watched you learn each other. I watched you become the people each other needed. I watched you not say it and not say it and not say it and I thought: they are seventeen, they have time.
And then you left, my girl. And I understood why, and I respected it, and I watched Jungwon-ah come and sit in my garden and not say anything about it for three years, and I watched you call me every Sunday from Barcelona and not ask about him directly, always sideways, always carefully, and I thought: they are going to need some help. This is the help.
I am giving you the house and I am giving you the records and I am giving you the passages and the photographs and the puzzles and the box under the floor. I am giving you October light through an open window and barley tea and two chairs in a room nobody else knows about. I am giving you every door I can think to unlock.
The rest is yours. I love you both. I have loved watching you. I am not afraid of where I’m going but I am sorry to miss what comes next. Take care of the tree.
— Halmoni.
P.S. Jungwon-ah; the seven of spades. You will remember what that means. It was always yours.
The candles burned. You read it once and then you sat back and looked at the stone ceiling and blinked several times in rapid succession. Your grandmother had said she was going to be plain and she had been plain and it had landed exactly as she’d intended it to, which was with the force of something that had been true for a very long time and had simply been waiting for someone to say it out loud.
Jungwon had not moved. He was still leaning forward, elbows on the table, reading the last page. Or re-reading it. Or sitting very still the way he did when something was enormous.
You looked at the side of his face. At the candlelight on it. At the line of his jaw and the way his eyes moved across the page and the three millimetres that had been there since you’d walked into the sitting room and found him across the room and felt your stomach drop straight through the floor. He sat back.He looked at the letter for another moment. Then he looked at you.
“The seven of spades,” he said. His voice was different. Quieter. Stripped of something.
“What does it mean?” you said. He reached into the pocket of his shirt. And he put something on the table. A playing card. The seven of spades. The one from the first tin, that you’d left there — or a second one, identical, worn at the edges with age.
“She gave it to me,” he said, “when I was sixteen. We were playing cards in this room and she dealt us both a hand and when I turned mine over there was a seven of spades on top and she said—” he paused— “she said that one’s yours. Keep it. And I didn’t know what she meant, I thought she was just being—” a brief sound that was almost a laugh— “herself. Being her. So I kept it.” He turned the card over in his fingers. “I’ve had it in my wallet for seven years. I take it out sometimes. I never knew what it meant.”
You looked at the card. “Seven of spades,” you said. “In cartomancy—”
“I looked it up eventually,” he said. “Three years ago. Right after you left.”
“What does it mean?”
He put the card down on the table. Looked at it. “Unfinished business,” he said. “Something that was set in motion and hasn’t resolved. Something that’s still—” he stopped.
“Still in motion,” you said.
“Yes.” The candles. The stone room. Fifteen photographs on the table. Your grandmother’s handwriting on three pages of blue ink telling you both the plainest truth she’d saved for last. I have never in my life seen two people more thoroughly and more stubbornly fail to see what was directly in front of them. “She was right,” you said quietly. “About the thoroughly and stubbornly part.”
“Infuriating woman,” he said again. But his voice broke slightly on the last word and it wasn’t exasperation at all, it was grief, it was the specific grief of missing someone who knew you completely and there was nothing to do with that kind of grief except let it be exactly as large as it was.
You reached across the table. Your hand over his. He looked down at it. He didn’t move for a moment. Then he turned his hand over beneath yours and held it. Just that — palm to palm, his fingers closing around yours, the simple warm weight of it. You sat like that for a while. “Jungwon,” you said eventually.
“I know,” he said.
“There’s—” you started. “There’s a lot happening. The records, the companies, Haeun, your father—”
“I know.”
“And Yerin.” His hand tightened slightly around yours. Not pulling away.
“I know,” he said. A third time. A different weight each time.
You looked at the letter. At the last line before the postscript. I am not afraid of where I’m going but I am sorry to miss what comes next. “She would have loved this,” you said. “Being right.”
“She would have been unbearable about it,” he said.
“She would have been so restrained,” you said. “She would have just looked at us and not said anything and somehow that would have been worse.” He made that almost-laugh sound again. It was closer this time. It was getting closer. “She sent me one tangerine,” you said.
“She made me finish the crossword,” he said.
“She kept fifteen photographs in a tin.”
“She put fresh batteries in the torch.” You both looked at the candles. “She planned everything,” you said.
“Everything,” he agreed. His thumb moved. Once, across your knuckles. The smallest possible thing.
The candle on the left burned down to its base and went out. The room got smaller. The remaining candle made everything amber and close and the stone walls pressed in gently and the photographs were spread on the table and his hand was in yours and outside the manor the winter was doing whatever winter does at two in the morning.
“Tell me something about Barcelona,” he said. Quietly. Like he was asking for something he’d wanted for a long time and had finally decided to ask for. You thought about it.
“There’s a building,” you said. “In the Eixample. Not famous, not on any list, nobody goes specifically to see it. But at five in the afternoon in autumn the light hits the facade in this particular way and it looks like—” you paused, finding the words— “it looks like it’s remembering something. Like the building is having a memory.” You paused. “I used to walk past it on the way home and think about this house. About how old buildings hold things.” He was quiet. “I used to think about you,” you said. Because your grandmother had spent three pages telling you to stop not saying things. “When I walked past it. About showing you.”
He looked at your joined hands. “I used to drive past the airport,” he said. Not looking up. “When flights from Barcelona came in. Not to meet anyone. Just—” he stopped.
“Just,” you said.
“Just,” he said. The last candle flickered. In the amber half-dark you looked at each other and everything your grandmother had written was true and had been true for longer than either of you had been willing to name it and the net was still holding, still holding, and below it was the abyss which you were both finally, for the first time, looking directly at.
He leaned forward. You leaned forward. The candle went out.
In the dark: his forehead against yours. His breath. Both your hands on the table between the photographs. Just that. Just the weight of it. The held thing, finally held between two people instead of inside one. “Not yet,” he said. Against your forehead. His voice was barely sound.
“I know,” you said.
“I have to—” he stopped. “There are things I have to do first. Things I have to say. To her. To my father. I can’t—” he exhaled. “I won’t do this like it’s something to hide. I won’t do that to you.”
Your eyes had adjusted to the dark. You could just see the shape of him. The outline. “Okay,” you said.
“Soon,” he said. And it was your word back to you, the one you’d been handing back and forth for days, and in his mouth it meant something different now. It meant a door about to open rather than one being held closed.
“Soon,” you said.
You stayed like that for another minute. Foreheads together in the dark. Hands on the table. The letter between the extinguished candles.
Then you both sat back. He found the torch. Clicked it on. The room came back. He looked at you in the white torchlight and you looked at him and there was something different in the air of the room now, something that had been there all along but had finally been acknowledged, and it was terrifying and it was also — underneath the terrifying — the most settled you had felt since you’d stepped off the plane.
He folded the letter carefully and put it back in the envelope. “Keep it with the notebook,” he said.
“I will.” He stood. You stood. He looked at the seven of spades on the table. He picked it up. Held it for a moment. Then he put it in your hand.
“She said it was mine,” he said. “I think she meant it was ours.” You closed your fingers around it. He picked up the torch. You followed the light out of the secret room and back into the walls of the manor, and the house held you both the way it always had, and somewhere in the east corridor the grandfather clock ticked through its six extra minutes that nobody else knew about, and the walls remembered everything.
—
Morning came in like it hadn’t been briefed on what happened the night before. Pale winter light through the curtains. The kitchen smell rising through the house. The grandfather clock doing its eight-stroke announcement of an hour you’d technically only slept through three of.
You lay on your back with the seven of spades on the nightstand beside the Calvino and the envelope in the drawer and you stared at the ceiling and felt the specific quality of a day that was going to be significant before it had done anything yet. Forehead against yours. His breath. Soon.
You got up.
You didn’t see Jungwon at breakfast. His seat was empty. Yerin’s too. You registered this with the carefully neutral expression of someone who had been trained by their grandmother to reveal nothing at inopportune moments and you ate your rice and drank your tea and listened to your father talk to Yang Junho about something that had nothing to do with anything your grandmother had documented and you watched your father’s face and thought about the woman’s name recurring through seven years of entries.
Yang Junho was in good form this morning. Easy, expansive, filling the room the way he always did. He’d stayed over — the guest room on the second floor, the one with the good view of the garden. He spoke warmly about your grandmother, about the estate, about the families’ long history together and what a comfort it was to be here, to be among people who understood the weight of a loss like this.
Your mother smiled at him. Your father nodded. You watched the space between the three of them and thought about what your grandmother had written. Your father built something with good intentions and poor judgment and the combination is always more dangerous than either alone. She had meant Yang Junho. But sitting here watching your own father nod along, the sentence fit like a coat made for two people.
Haeun arrived at half past eight with the bright eyes of someone who’d slept well because they’d externalised all their feelings into legal strategy. She kissed your mother’s cheek and sat down and accepted coffee and was charming to Yang Junho and you watched her work the table and thought: she has no idea. She is fighting about the wrong things entirely. None of them know what’s in this house. None of them know what’s in the walls.
You found out where Jungwon was at nine-fifteen when you were coming back from the garden and heard voices in the east corridor. Not arguing. Not quite. But the specific register of a conversation that was trying very hard not to become an argument and was losing. Yerin’s voice, low and controlled: “I just want to know if something changed.”
Jungwon’s voice, careful, deliberate, the voice he used when he was being honest and it was costing him: “Nothing happened.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A pause. “Yerin—”
“Don’t.” A silence. “Don’t say my name like that. Like you’re managing me.” You had stopped walking. You were standing three metres from the bend in the corridor with your hand flat against the pale blue wallpaper and you were not moving.
“I’m not managing you,” he said. “I’m trying to—”
“You’ve been trying to say something since we got here,” she said. “I’ve been watching you try to say it for three days. And last night you didn’t come to bed until four in the morning and you thought I was asleep but I wasn’t.” A long silence.
When he spoke again his voice was different. Quieter. The professionalism gone all the way down. “I know,” he said.
“Is it her,” Yerin said. Not a question. The wallpaper under your hand was cool and slightly rough, the texture of something very old.
“It’s not—” he started.
“Jungwon.”
“It’s not that simple,” he said. “It was never—” a pause— “I didn’t come here intending for anything to—”
“I know you didn’t,” she said. And the thing in her voice was not what you expected. It wasn’t fury. It was the exhausted, clear-eyed honesty of someone who had known something for a long time and had chosen not to name it and had now run out of reasons not to. “I’ve known since we arrived. I think I knew before we arrived. I think I’ve known for—” she stopped herself.
“I’m sorry,” he said. And he meant it. You could hear that he meant it completely.
“Don’t apologise for having feelings,” she said. “Apologise for letting me come here. For letting me stand in that sitting room and meet her and pretend I didn’t see it immediately.” Her voice wavered once, precisely once, and then steadied. “Apologise for making me the person who had to see it clearly while you were still pretending.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. Different weight.
“Is it real?” she said. “Or is it just — this house, the history, grief making everything feel—”
“It’s real,” he said quietly. “It’s been real for a long time. Before Barcelona. Before the company. Before any of this.” A pause. “I should have known that before I—” he stopped. “I should have been more honest with you from the beginning. About what I was carrying.” You closed your eyes.
“Your father is going to be furious,” Yerin said. Not bitterly. Just factually.
“I know.”
“Mine too.”
“I know.” Another silence. Longer. You could hear the quality of two people recalibrating.
“I don’t hate her,” Yerin said finally. “I wanted to. It would be easier.” A short sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “She’s exactly what I expected her to be. Which is somehow the worst part. I’m going to need some time,” she said. “And I’m going to need you to not be — kind about this. I can’t do kind right now.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Go sort out whatever you need to sort out,” she said. “I’ll handle the rest.” Footsteps. You moved. Fast, silent, back around the bend in the corridor and into the doorway of the linen room, pressing yourself into the shadow of it, heart going considerably faster than was dignified.
Yerin came around the corner and walked past you without seeing you. Her face was composed and dry-eyed and very, very tired and she walked like someone who had made a decision and was now simply executing it, one step at a time, down the corridor and around the next bend and gone. You stood in the linen room doorway and breathed.
You didn’t go to him. That was the right thing and you knew it was the right thing — he needed time, she needed time, the corridor needed to stop being the corridor where that conversation had happened before it was the corridor where you appeared. So you went to the library instead and sat in the armchair — his armchair, seventeen years old, the photograph, you on the floor — and opened the Calvino and read three pages without taking in a single sentence.
The library was the warmest room in the house in winter. South-facing windows, old rugs, the smell of paper and wood and decades of accumulated reading. Your grandmother had called it the room that minds its own business, which was the highest compliment she gave to spaces. You put the Calvino face-down on your knee and looked at the ceiling.
He’d said it. It’s been real for a long time. Before Barcelona. You thought about being seventeen in this room. Him in the chair above you. Neither of you looking at each other and both of you angled toward each other like plants toward light, so obvious in retrospect, so invisible from the inside. You thought about the morning you left for Barcelona. Five-thirty, still dark, your father loading the car. Your mother with tea in a thermos for the journey. And Jungwon — he’d come over, you hadn’t expected him, you’d seen the lights of his car in the driveway and felt something lurch in your chest and he’d gotten out and stood there with his hands in his pockets and said text me when you land and you’d said I will and the distance between you had been three metres and had felt like something that would grow and that you were choosing to let grow and that you were not going to say anything about.
That was all. Three years of Sundays with your grandmother and not once had you called him directly. Thoroughly and stubbornly, she’d written. I say this with tremendous love and only moderate exasperation. You pressed the book against your face and made a sound into it that was not your most dignified moment.
The knock on the library door came at eleven. Not Jungwon. You knew by the knock — two short, businesslike, the knock of someone who had decided they were coming in regardless of the answer. “Come in,” you said.
Your father. He came in and closed the door behind him with the careful quietness of someone who wanted this conversation to stay in the room. He was dressed well, as always, silver-templed, handsome in the way that photographs well, and this morning there was something different in the way he was holding himself. A tension in the shoulders. Something behind his eyes that was working too hard to look like nothing. “I thought I’d find you here,” he said.
“It’s a good room,” you said. He looked around it. Nodded. Came and sat in the chair across from you — not Jungwon’s chair, the other one, lower, the one your grandmother had used when she wanted to read facing the garden.
“How are you doing?” he said. “Really. With all of it.”
“I’m managing,” you said.
“The business with Haeun and the will—”
“I can handle Haeun.”
“I know you can.” He smiled. The practiced warmth of it. “You’re the most capable person in this family, you know that. You always have been. Your grandmother always said so.” You looked at him. He was too eager to know what the letter said, too careful about the manor.
“She mentioned you in the letter,” you said. You hadn’t planned to say it. But you were your grandmother’s granddaughter and you had learned from the best and sometimes the direct approach was the one that told you the most. His face did not change. That was the tell — a different face would have changed, would have shown surprise or curiosity, would have asked what did she say?
His face stayed precisely where it was, which meant he’d been expecting this, which meant he’d been thinking about what she might have known and deciding how to handle it. “That’s kind,” he said. “She was a remarkable woman.”
“She was,” you said. “She was also very thorough.”
“What do you mean?” he said. Light. Careful.
“She kept records,” you said. “Of the house. Of the people in it. Of — everything, really. You know how she was.”
“Of course,” he said. The smile staying exactly where it was.
“Dad,” you said. Quietly. Not an accusation. Just his name. And something shifted. Something small but real — a crack in the surface, so quick you’d have missed it if you weren’t watching carefully, if you hadn’t been trained your whole life by the woman who’d taught you that the truth lived in the space between what people said and what their face did when they said it.
“Whatever you think you know,” he said. Still quiet. Still composed. “I want you to understand that things between your mother and I are—”
“Complicated?” you said.
“Adult,” he said. “They’re adult. They’re not—” he stopped. Reorganised. “Your grandmother had opinions about my marriage that she never fully expressed to me but which I was always aware of. Whatever she wrote—”
“I haven’t decided what to do with it yet,” you said. That landed. He looked at you. Really looked at you, for the first time in the conversation, with the eyes of a man recalibrating what he was dealing with.
“You’re very like her,” he said. Slowly. And it wasn’t a compliment exactly and it wasn’t a threat exactly and it sat in the space between those two things doing something complicated.
“Thank you,” you said. As if it had been a compliment.
He stood up. Straightened his jacket. Moved toward the door. At the door he stopped. “The architectural records,” he said. Without turning around. “The original documents. The floor plans.” A pause. “Is there anything in them that would be — relevant to current matters.”
You thought about the metal box under the floor of the third room. The fifteen years of documents. His signature at the bottom of an agreement dated eleven years ago. “I haven’t gone through everything yet,” you said. He nodded. Once. And left.
—
The thing about a house full of people keeping secrets is that the secrets create pressure. And pressure, sustained long enough, finds the weakest point. The weakest point turned out to be the sitting room at two in the afternoon when the families had reconvened in the way they kept reconvening, pulled together by the gravity of the occasion and the shared fiction that everything was normal, that this was simply a gathering of old friends in mourning, that the ground was solid.
Yang Junho was telling a story about your grandmother — a good one, genuinely funny, about a business meeting she had attended thirty years ago and dominated completely without ever raising her voice. Your mother was laughing. Your father was laughing. Even Haeun was laughing.
Jungwon was sitting across the room. He’d come in ten minutes ago and taken the chair by the window and met your eyes briefly when he sat down and then looked away. He hadn’t spoken much. Yang Junho had put his hand on his son’s shoulder when he came in and Jungwon had not visibly reacted and you had watched the specific quality of that not-reacting and understood that something had already happened between them this morning.
Yerin was not in the room. Nobody had asked where she was.
You were watching the fire when Haeun’s phone rang. She glanced at it, made a small apologetic gesture, and stepped out. Two minutes later she came back in and her face had done something you hadn’t seen it do in a very long time — it had gone genuinely, unperformatively still. The stillness of shock. She looked at your father. “I need to speak with you,” she said. “Now.”
The room shifted. Your father’s laugh ended. “Haeun—” your mother said.
“Not you,” Haeun said. Still looking at your father. Her voice had no warmth in it at all, no performance, nothing. “Just him.”
“Whatever you need to say—” your father started.
“I was just on the phone with Ms. Bae,” Haeun said. And something in her voice made everyone in the room go very still. “She’s been going through the estate filings. The things that were submitted publicly as part of the probate record.” She paused. The pause was a grenade with the pin already pulled. “She found a company filing. Seven years ago. A subsidiary registered under a holding name.” She looked at your father. “Your name is on it. And so is the name of a woman who is listed as a joint director.”
The fire crackled. Your mother turned to look at your father. And on your father’s face — just for a moment, one unguarded moment before the composed surface came back up — was the expression of a man who had known this day was coming for seven years and had convinced himself it wouldn’t. “Haeun,” he said. Warning.
“Her name is Park Jooyeon,” Haeun said. She said it clearly, without hesitation, the way you rip off a plaster because fast is kinder than slow. “She’s been listed as a director of your subsidiary for seven years. The filing also shows a residential address which is—” she glanced at her phone— “not this house.” Your mother said nothing. The room held its breath.
“I think,” Yang Junho said, standing up with the practiced authority of a man who had been managing rooms for forty years, “that this is perhaps a family conversation—”
“Sit down, Junho,” your mother said. He sat down. Everyone looked at your mother. She was looking at your father. Her face was doing something you had never seen it do and hoped never to see again — not anger, not shock, but the specific expression of a person watching something they already knew become something they could no longer choose not to know. The shape of it finally arriving. The avoidance finally over. “How long,” she said. Your father opened his mouth. “Don’t lie to me,” she said. Very quietly. “I have lived in the shape of this lie for long enough. Don’t make me hear another one.”
“Mum—” you said.
“Not now,” she said. Without looking at you. Still looking at him.
“At least twenty years,” Haeun said. She’d gone very pale. Her voice had lost its edge — she’d wanted ammunition and she’d gotten a detonation and they were different things and she was just now feeling the difference. “Ms. Bae found earlier filings. Different company name. Same address.”
Twenty years. The number went around the room. Your mother stood up. “I would like everyone to leave this room,” she said. With the composure of someone who had spent sixty years learning from Han Sooja how to be still when everything was breaking. “Except for my husband.”
People stood. Moved. Yang Junho put his hand briefly on your mother’s shoulder as he passed and she didn’t acknowledge it and he didn’t require her to. You stood in the doorway. Your mother looked at you. Her eyes were dry. They would probably stay dry — that was her way, the Han way, grief and fury going inward first and only surfacing when she was ready to let them. You recognised it because you did it too. She gave you the smallest nod.
The corridor outside the sitting room. Jungwon was there. He’d come out just ahead of you and he was standing at the window at the end of the corridor with his back to the room, looking out at the winter garden, his hands loose at his sides. You came and stood beside him.
Below: the formal garden, the stone paths, the sundial giving its wrong time. The bench where Yerin had sat beside you. The path where you’d watched him walk back to the house with his composure settling over him like a coat. “She planned this too,” you said quietly. “Not the sitting room. But — she knew this would happen. Eventually. She wrote it in the notebook. It will come, these things always do.”
“Yes,” he said.
“She wanted us here when it did.”
“Yes,” he said again. You looked at the garden.
“Your father,” you said. “This morning.” He exhaled. Not a sigh — something more deliberate than that. Something he’d been holding since before breakfast.
“He came to me at eight,” he said. “He’d already spoken to yours. Some kind of warning system they’d apparently arranged.” His jaw tightened. “He told me there might be some questions raised about the companies in the coming days and that I should be prepared to manage the narrative.”
“Manage the narrative,” you said.
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him,” Jungwon said carefully, “that I’d been looking at the companies for six months and that I thought what he’d built with your father was a liability and that I wasn’t prepared to manage any narrative that involved me pretending I didn’t know what I knew.”
“How did he take that?”
“About as well as you’d expect.” You looked at his profile. The set of his jaw. The tiredness in him that was different from yesterday’s tiredness — this was the tiredness of someone who had said the honest thing to their father and was living in the aftermath.
“Yerin left,” he said. “An hour ago. Her driver came.”
“I know,” you said. “I heard — I was in the corridor. This morning. I didn’t mean to hear.”
He looked at you. “How much?”
“Enough,” you said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He looked back at the garden. “She was right about all of it. I wasn’t fair to her.” A pause. “She deserved better than what I gave her.”
“She’s going to be alright,” you said. Because it was true — you’d seen it in Yerin’s face, that hard clear-eyed competence. She would grieve this in private and then she would be formidable again. Women like Yerin always were.
“I know,” he said. “That doesn’t make it better.”
“No,” you said. “It doesn’t.” Below, the sundial. The wrong time. Your grandmother’s unrepentant refusal to correct anything that she’d decided was fine as it was. Inside the sitting room your mother was having the conversation that had been twenty years in the making.
In the walls of the house the passages waited, the photographs on the table in the candlelit room, the seven of spades somewhere in your jacket. “What happens now?” you said.
He turned from the window and looked at you directly and his face had none of the professional composure on it and none of the careful distance and was just — him. Tired and honest and present in the way he’d been at one in the morning on the floor of the old study and in the way he’d been at seventeen in the library and in the way he’d always been when it was just you and the house and none of the surfaces required. “Now,” he said, “everything falls apart for a while.”
“And then?”
He looked at you for a long moment. “And then we see what’s left,” he said. From behind the sitting room door, muffled and distant, your mother’s voice. Not loud. Never loud. But with an edge in it like a clean cut, precise and final, the voice of a woman who had decided that the shape of this particular truth was one she was done living inside.
The house held it all. The grief and the reckoning and the long-delayed arrivals of things that had been on their way for years. The walls remembered. They always had. Your grandmother had known that. She’d counted on it.
—
The house didn’t sleep that night. Not really. It had the shape of sleeping — quiet corridors, dark rooms, the grandfather clock marking hours into silence — but underneath it was awake the way houses get when something significant has happened inside them. Like the walls were still processing. Like the rooms needed time to absorb what they’d held that afternoon.
Your mother had come out of the sitting room at four o’clock. She’d walked past you in the corridor with her back straight and her face composed and her eyes doing the thing they did — grief going inward, fury going inward, everything going inward to be dealt with in private on her own terms in her own time. She’d touched your face with one hand as she passed. Just that. Her palm against your cheek for three seconds, warm and dry, and then she’d gone upstairs.
Your father had left the sitting room twenty minutes later. He’d taken his coat from the rack by the front door and gone outside and you’d watched from the corridor window as he walked down the front drive and stood at the gate and made a phone call and you had not needed to wonder who he was calling.
Haeun had found you at five and said I didn’t mean for it to come out like that and you’d said I know because you did know — she’d wanted leverage and had accidentally dismantled the family instead and the gap between those two things had clearly shaken her more than she’d expected. You’d made her tea. You’d sat with her in the kitchen while she held the mug and stared at the table. That was the most honest you’d been with each other in years, sitting in silence while your family reconfigured itself in the rooms above you.
Yang Junho had left at six. Businesslike, minimal. He’d shaken your father’s hand when your father came back in and something had passed between them in that handshake — something that looked like a renegotiation — and then he was gone.
Jungwon had stayed. You’d seen him at dinner, which was quiet and reduced and nothing like the dinners this house was built for. Your mother had come down and eaten and said almost nothing and your father had sat at the opposite end of the table from her and the distance between them had the specific quality of a distance that had always existed but had only just been measured.
Haeun and Minjae had left after dinner. Minjae had squeezed your shoulder on the way out, which was the most he’d ever communicated to you directly and which you’d appreciated. And then the house had gone quiet. And you had lain on your bed and stared at the ceiling and waited for sleep and sleep had declined the invitation.
The clock in the east corridor struck two when you were already in the kitchen. You hadn’t turned the overhead light on. Just the small light above the stove, the one that had always been there, the one that turned the kitchen amber and warm and made it look the way it looked in every memory you had of it.
You were standing at the counter with both hands wrapped around a mug of tea you hadn’t drunk yet and you were looking at the window above the sink and the darkness outside it and you were thinking about your mother’s palm against your cheek. Just to stay, your grandmother had written. Not to fix it. You cannot fix it. Just to stay.
You heard him before you saw him. The particular sound of his footsteps — the outside edge of the step, old habit, the way you moved in this house at night without deciding to. The door opened. You didn’t turn around. He came in. Stopped. Registered the amber light and you at the counter and said nothing for a moment. Then he crossed the room and stood beside you at the counter and looked at the dark window and also said nothing. You handed him your tea. He took it. Drank. Handed it back. “How is she?” he said. Quietly.
“She went to bed at nine,” you said. “I don’t think she’s sleeping either.”
“No,” he said.
“He’s in the guest room,” you said. “The east one. He didn’t try to go to their room.”
“Small mercies,” Jungwon said. The clock in the east corridor was very faint from here. Just a suggestion of ticking. The kitchen had its own sound — the refrigerator’s low hum, the settling of the old pipes, the back door with the broken latch occasionally sighing in the wind.
“Your father,” you said.
“We talked again after dinner,” he said. “When you were with your mother.” He paused. “I told him I’ve been building a case for six months. That I know what the arrangement is. That I’m going to have to restructure the company’s position and that it’s going to require disclosure and that he needs to be prepared for that.”
“How did he take it?”
“He told me I didn’t understand business.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I understood it well enough to know that what he’d built was going to collapse eventually and that the only question was whether we were the ones who dismantled it carefully or whether it fell on us.” A pause. “He said I sounded like your grandmother.”
“Good,” you said. Something moved in Jungwon’s face. Almost a smile. You put the mug down. Turned around and leaned against the counter with your arms crossed not as a defence but as something to do with your hands. He turned too, mirroring you, and you stood there facing each other in the amber kitchen light and the house was completely quiet and you were both in old clothes — him in a dark t-shirt and soft trousers, you in whatever you’d put on when sleep became definitively not happening — and there were no surfaces up at two in the morning in this kitchen. There never had been. That was the thing about this room. It didn’t allow for them.
“She’s going to be alright,” you said. About your mother. About the specific quality of her composure.
“I know,” he said. “She’s a Han woman.”
“Don’t let her hear you say it like that or she’ll take it as an insult.”
“She’d be right,” he said. “It was completely a compliment.”
You looked at him. He looked at you. The refrigerator hummed. “Jungwon,” you said.
“Yes,” he said. Not a question.
“What you said this morning. To your father. About the company.” You held his gaze. “That was the hard version. The harder version than anything I’ve asked you to do.”
“It needed to be done,” he said.
“I know. I’m saying — I know what it cost.” He looked at you for a moment. Something in him settling, like a weight redistributed. “She would have approved,” he said.
“She would have handed you the crossword and not said anything and that would have been the approval,” you said. He made that sound again, the almost-laugh, and this time it came all the way out — quiet, real, and the boy who had chased chickens was fully present in it and the three millimetres collapsed entirely and you felt it in your sternum like a struck bell.
He reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. His hand stayed. Cupped the side of your face. You went very still. His thumb moved along your cheekbone. The same gesture your mother had used in the corridor except that this one was slow and deliberate and asking something.
“I talked to Yerin,” he said. Quietly. “She called tonight. We — it’s done. It’s properly done. I wanted you to know that.”
“Okay,” you said. Your voice was not entirely steady.
“I told you I wouldn’t do this like something to hide,” he said. “I meant it.”
“I know you did.” His eyes moved over your face. Unhurried. The way he moved in this house — like he knew every room and had time.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “about what to say. Since the passage room. I had things arranged. Sentences.” The corner of his mouth. “They’re all gone.”
“Say it without sentences,” you said.
He looked at you. “I drove past the airport,” he said. “Every time a flight came in from Barcelona. I did that for three years. I told myself it was nothing. I told myself I was just—” he stopped. “I didn’t tell myself anything, actually. I just drove there.”
Your hand came up and covered his where it held your face. His breath shifted slightly. “I have my grandmother’s crossword clue for you in my head,” you said. “Seven letters. I keep thinking about it.”
“Honesty,” he said.
“Honesty,” you said. And then neither of you said anything else.
He closed the distance — not rushed, not after all this time, not after three years and this house and fifteen photographs and both your names on an envelope — he closed it like he’d been planning the exact geometry of it for longer than either of you were going to admit, one hand still cradling your face and the other coming to rest at your waist and his mouth meeting yours with the specific quality of something that had been waiting long enough that when it arrived it felt less like a beginning than like a return.
You kissed him back with every Sunday call you hadn’t made and every time you’d almost said something and every seven of spades and every tangerine in the post and the whole accumulated weight of it came through in the way your hands went to the front of his shirt like they already knew where they were going.
He made a quiet sound against your mouth. His hand moved from your waist to the small of your back and pulled you closer and you went, easily, completely, like a thing that had been resisting gravity for three years finally letting go. He tasted like tea and the faint ghost of something warmer and he kissed the way he did everything in this house — like he knew the rooms, like he had time, thorough and unhurried and devastatingly present.
His hand slid from your face into your hair and tipped your head back and you made a sound you didn’t intend to make and felt him inhale sharply at it. “Hi,” he said against your mouth. His voice low and a little wrecked already.
“Hi,” you said.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand still in your hair, yours still twisted in his shirt, both of you breathing like you’d been doing something more athletic than standing in a kitchen.
In the amber light his eyes were dark and his mouth was slightly swollen and he was looking at you with an expression that had nothing professional or composed or carefully maintained about it whatsoever. He was looking at you the way he looked at the passages when they opened — like something that had been there all along and was finally, finally being seen. “Three years,” he said quietly.
“More than three years,” you said. He kissed you again and this one was less careful — his hands moving down your back, yours sliding up to his shoulders, the counter behind you taking your weight as he pressed closer.
He kissed down the line of your jaw and you tilted your head back and looked at the amber ceiling and thought distantly that your grandmother had planned everything except possibly this specific configuration in her kitchen at two in the morning and that she would have been insufferably pleased about it.
“Upstairs,” you said. He lifted his head. Looked at you. Checking.
“Yes,” you said, to the question he hadn’t asked.
Your childhood bedroom with the sketchbooks on the shelf and the Barcelona exhibition poster and the corkboard above the desk looked different at two in the morning with Jungwon closing the door behind him and turning to look at you across the room. He looked at the room first. The way he always looked at rooms — registering, cataloguing, the thing your grandmother had done too, the thing you did.
Then he looked at you. “I used to stand outside this door,” he said. “When we were kids. Waiting for you to come out.”
“I know,” you said. “I could always hear you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I liked knowing you were there,” you said. Something in his face. Something very warm and very undone. He crossed the room. There was a quality to being undressed by someone who had known you for fifteen years that had nothing to do with unfamiliarity and everything to do with its opposite — the specific intimacy of someone who already knew the shape of you in other ways and was learning this one slowly, like a new room in a house they’d lived in for years.
His hands were unhurried. His attention was total. He treated each thing like it mattered and it made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with sadness. You pulled his shirt over his head and put your hands flat against his chest and felt his breathing. “Still thinking in sentences?” you asked.
“Not even close,” he said. He took your chin between his fingers and tilted your face up and kissed you properly — deep and unhurried and completely in charge of it — and you felt the dynamic settle into place like something clicking. Jungwon had always had this quality. This absolute certainty. In every other context you’d spent years watching it from the outside.
You pushed him back onto the bed. He pulled you with him, one hand at your waist, and you landed against his chest and he rolled you gently and hovered over you and looked at your face again with that same thoroughness, like he was memorizing you. Then he moved down your body and the careful part began.
He took his shirt off first — unhurried, watching your face while he did it — and then he came over you and looked down and something in his expression was focused and warm and entirely certain. “I’m going to take my time,” he said. Like a statement of intent. Like he was informing you.
“Okay,” you managed.
“You’re going to let me.” Not a question.
“Yes,” you said.
He kissed your cheek again — that specific tenderness, completely at odds with the authority in his voice — and then his mouth moved to your throat and the careful, methodical dismantling began. He learned you like a map he intended to memorize. His mouth at your collarbone, the inside of your wrist — pausing there when your breath hitched, pressing his lips back to the same spot twice — your stomach, the soft curve of your hip. His hands moved with his mouth, cataloguing, noting, and every time you made a sound his eyes came to your face briefly. Checking. Watching. “Good?” he murmured against your ribs.
“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes.”
“Good girl,” he said quietly, and continued. His fingers found the edge of your underwear and he looked up at you from where he was and raised an eyebrow. Asking without asking. You lifted your hips. He drew them down slowly, dropped them, and settled between your thighs and looked at your pussy with an expression of complete, focused attention that made you want to press your thighs together out of sheer overwhelm.
He didn’t let you. His hands pressed your thighs apart, firm and certain. Held them there. “Don’t,” he said simply. Then his mouth found your clit and your back left the mattress.
He ate you out like he had nowhere else to be and no interest in being anywhere else — long slow strokes of his tongue through your folds, his lips sealing over your clit and applying exactly the right pressure, his eyes coming up to your face every few moments to read your expression and adjust accordingly. He was thorough in the way that only someone genuinely paying attention could be, cataloguing every hitch of your breath, every clench of your thighs against his hands.
The sound that left you was embarrassingly loud. His eyes came up. “Shh,” he said against your folds — not unkind, just certain. Then he pressed two fingers against your lips. Firm. “Here.”
You opened your mouth and took them in. “Good.” His voice low and approving. He pressed them deeper against your tongue and returned his mouth to your cunt with noticeably more intent — like your compliance had unlocked something — his tongue working faster, two fingers from his other hand pushing slowly into your hole and curling upward. You moaned around his fingers and clenched around the ones inside you and he made a low sound against your pussy that you felt everywhere.
He worked you with complete focus — his tongue on your clit, his fingers curling inside your hole, your wetness absolutely everywhere and him making quiet reverent sounds about it that were muffled against your folds. Your hand went to his hair and gripped and he let you, kept going, his fingers in your mouth pressing down on your tongue every time you got too loud.
“Look at me,” he said against you. You looked down at him. Dark eyes looking up at you from between your thighs. That eye contact while his mouth was on your cunt was almost more than you could process. “Stay with me,” he said. “Right here.”
When you came it crashed through you in deep rolling waves, your cunt clenching hard around his fingers, your moan muffled completely by his hand, your thighs pressing around his face and his hands not letting them close. He worked you through every single pulse — not stopping, not slowing — until you were pulling at his hair and trembling. He pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your inner thigh. Then another.
Then he was kissing up your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone, the corner of your mouth. “There she is,” he murmured against your cheek. “How are you doing?”
“I’m—” You laughed weakly. “I’m good. Really good.” He kissed your cheek.
“Yeah you are.” He reached for the bedside drawer himself, sorted himself out, and came back to you and looked at your face and brushed your hair back from your forehead with both hands like you were something worth being careful with.
Then he took both your wrists and pressed them above your head, his hand wrapping around them, pinning them to the pillow. “Keep them here,” he said quietly.
“And if I don’t?” you said. The look he gave you was patient and very slightly dangerous.
“Keep them here,” he said again. He pushed inside you slowly — that long, aching stretch — and the sound you both made was simultaneous and involuntary, his a low broken groan, yours a gasp that turned into his name.
He held there for a moment, fully seated, his forehead dropping to yours, his hand still pinning your wrists above your head. “Okay,” he breathed. Like a reset. Like he needed a second.
“Jungwon—”
“I know.” He kissed the corner of your mouth. “I know. You feel—” He stopped. Pressed his lips to your cheek. “Perfect. You feel perfect.”
He started to move. Long and deep and measured, his hips rolling in that deliberate rhythm, his cock filling you completely with every stroke and withdrawing slowly — the kind of pace that was specifically designed to make you lose your mind.
Your hands stayed above your head because he’d told them to and because his hand around your wrists was warm and present and you weren’t going anywhere. “Good girl,” he murmured. Watching your face. “Look at you.”
“Jungwon — harder—”
“Not yet.” Steady. Infuriatingly steady. “When I say.”
He kept the pace exactly where he wanted it — deep and thorough, hitting somewhere inside you that made your toes curl — and his free hand found your clit and worked it in slow circles and you arched up into him. “There,” he said. Dark and satisfied. “Feel that?”
“Yes—”
“Yeah.” The circles on your clit tightened. His hips snapped forward once, harder, and you gasped. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He built you up carefully and completely, his cock and his fingers working in tandem, his eyes on your face the entire time — that absolute quality of attention that dismantled you, that had always dismantled you, fifteen years of it turned toward this single purpose.
“Close,” you managed. “Jungwon, I’m—”
“I know.” He didn’t slow down. “Give it to me.” The second one rolled through you deep and long and he watched your face through every second of it — your mouth falling open, your back arching, your hands straining against his grip above your head — and he kept going through all of it, his fingers not stopping until you were clenching and crying his name and he said “there she is, good girl, there she is” against your cheek like a quiet litany.
Then he released your wrists and pulled you up.
“Your turn,” he said. He lay back and you understood immediately. You swung your leg over him and his hands went to your waist — not guiding, not yet, just there — and you sank down onto him and the sound that left him was the most gratifying thing you’d ever heard. Low and wrecked and completely involuntary.
You rolled your hips. “Fuck,” he breathed. His hands tightened. “Do that again.” You did. Set your own pace, slow and grinding, finding the angle that made your vision blur and staying there.
His head pressed back into the pillow, his jaw tight, his eyes on your face with that dark focused expression cracking at the edges into something rawer. “Look at you,” he said, rough and quiet. “You’re perfect. Do you know that?” His jaw went tight as you clenched around him. “God.”
“Don’t stop talking,” you said breathlessly. “Please—”
“You feel incredible.” His hands moved you faster without asking permission. “Your pussy is—you have no idea. No idea what you—”
He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around you, and kissed you deep and you rolled your hips and he held you through it and you came for the third time with your face in his neck and your nails raking down his back and he groaned at the sting of it — not pulling away, pressing closer, like he wanted that, like he’d been waiting for your nails.
He rolled you back down. Both of you past careful now — his cock driving into you deep and purposeful, your legs over his shoulders, his hand pinning your wrists above your head again. His other hand pressed flat to your lower stomach and he felt himself moving inside you and his expression went somewhere completely undone.
“Eyes on me,” he said. You looked at him. He looked at you. Dark and certain and something underneath it — something fifteen years old — looking out. “You’re mine,” he said quietly. Not possessive. Just true. Like he was finally saying something he’d always known.
“Yes,” you said. “Yes, Jungwon—”
“Good girl.” Driving deeper. “My good girl.” Your nails went to his back again — raking down — and he hissed through his teeth and his rhythm stuttered and then he was coming, buried as deep as possible, your name in his mouth, his whole body shuddering through it in slow waves while you held him and felt every pulse of it.
Afterward you lay in the narrow single bed of your childhood bedroom with his arm around you and your head on his chest and his heartbeat slowing gradually back to something normal under your ear. The house was very quiet.
Outside the window the winter garden. The sundial. The stone wall at the edge of the fields where you’d stood together three days ago and looked at the grey-green view and said nothing about the thing that had been living in the space between you.
“The tree,” you said. Against his chest. Almost asleep.
“What?”
“Her letter. At the end. Take care of the tree.” He was quiet for a moment.
“The tangerine tree?” he said.
“I don’t know how to look after a tangerine tree.”
“I do,” he said. “She taught me.” Of course she had. You made a sound into his chest that was grief and fondness and exhaustion and something newly made and warm all at once. His arm tightened around you. “Sleep,” he said. Quietly. Into your hair.
“There’s still so much to sort out,” you said. “The companies. Your father. Mine. The records. Haeun—”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “All of it tomorrow.”
You were quiet. “She would have liked this,” he said. “She would have smiled like she’d won something.”
“She did win something,” you said. He made the sound — the real laugh, quiet and warm, in the dark.
“She won everything,” he said. The house breathed around you. The walls remembered. The tree stood in the winter garden under the wrong-time sundial and the six extra minutes ticked by in the east corridor and outside the window the fields were dark and still and the net held, the net held, it had always been holding.
—
Morning came differently. Not the grey reluctant morning of the days before — this one had actual light in it, thin and winter-pale but present, coming through the curtains at the angle your grandmother approved of and landing across the bed in a way that felt almost deliberate. Like the house had decided something had shifted and was adjusting its lighting accordingly.
You were awake before him. This was not surprising. You had always been the one who woke first — in Barcelona, in studio all-nighters, in every version of your life you’d constructed away from this place. Your brain came online quickly and completely and then immediately started cataloguing everything that needed to be dealt with, which was both a useful quality and an exhausting one.
You lay still and let it catalogue. Your mother down the hall. Your father in the east guest room. The notebook in your desk drawer and the metal box under the floor of the third room and fifteen years of documentation that was going to require very careful decisions made by people who were currently in various states of devastation. Haeun, who had driven home last night after dismantling the family dinner table and was presumably now sitting in her very expensive apartment feeling something she didn’t have a script for. Yang Junho, who had been told by his son that the careful architecture of his business legacy was going to be pulled apart and rebuilt into something honest. The tangerine tree in the garden.
You turned your head. Jungwon was asleep. This was — notable. He slept with the specific quality of someone whose body had been running on insufficient rest for days and had finally been given permission to stop. On his back, one arm still loosely around you, his face completely unguarded in a way it almost never was when he was awake. The professional composure was entirely absent. He looked like the boy in the photographs on the passage room table.
You looked at him for longer than was strictly necessary. Then you carefully moved his arm, and got up, and got dressed, and went to find your mother.
She was in the garden. Not the formal garden — the kitchen garden at the back, the working one, where your grandmother had grown things with the same methodical attention she gave everything. It was winter-bare now, the beds turned over, the herbs cut back, but your mother was standing at the edge of it with a cup of tea in both hands and her coat over her pyjamas and her hair not yet done and looking at the dormant beds like they owed her a conversation. You came and stood beside her. She looked at you. Her eyes moved over your face the way they had yesterday in the corridor — reading, calibrating. This morning they stilled on something and she looked at you for a beat longer than usual and you thought: she knows. Of course she knows. She is a Han woman and she has been reading rooms since before you were born.
She said nothing about it. “The mint comes back every year,” she said instead. Nodding at one of the beds. “No matter what. Your grandmother never planted it twice.”
“Persistent,” you said.
“Invasive, she called it,” your mother said. “But she never pulled it out.”
You stood beside her. The kitchen garden in the early morning, both of you in coats, tea and no tea. “How are you?” you said.
“I’ve been better,” she said. Dry. Almost wry. A Han woman’s version of honesty.
“Mum—”
“I’m not broken,” she said. “I want you to know that before you start.” She looked at the mint bed. “I’ve known the shape of this for a long time. Not the detail. Not the name, not the company, not the—” she stopped briefly— “not all of it. But the shape.” She turned her mug in her hands. “Your grandmother knew I knew the shape. We never discussed it because discussing it would have made it real in a way I wasn’t ready for.”
“I know,” you said.
“She left you the records,” your mother said. “Because she knew you’d know what to do with them.”
“I’m still figuring that out,” you said honestly. Your mother nodded slowly.
“Whatever you decide — about the companies, about the documentation — I want you to know that I don’t expect you to protect him on my account.” She looked at you directly. “I’ve done enough of that for both of us. You don’t inherit that.”
You looked at her. “She wrote about you,” you said carefully. “In the letter. She said you’d need us to stay. Not to fix it. Just to stay.”
Your mother’s face did something very small and very real. “That sounds like her,” she said.
“She loved you,” you said. “The jewellery she left you — she chose it specifically. I know she did.”
“She chose everything specifically,” your mother said. And then, quietly: “She was infuriating.” Her mouth curved, just slightly, just for a second, the specific curve of someone who misses a person and is furious at them and loves them all at once. “She was the most infuriating woman I have ever known and I have been her daughter for sixty years and I would give almost anything for one more conversation with her.”
Your throat. You put your arm around your mother’s shoulders. She leaned into it. Just slightly. Just enough. “The mint will come back,” you said. “It always does,” she said.
—
Your father found you at nine. You were in the library — the room that minded its own business — with the notebook open on the table and your laptop beside it and three years of your grandmother’s documentation laid out in the order you’d decided to present it. You’d made decisions in the kitchen garden with your mother’s shoulder under your arm and the winter light coming up over the dormant beds, and the decisions were clear and final and felt like the most your grandmother’s-granddaughter thing you had ever done. Your father came in and looked at the table and went still. “Sit down,” you said.
He sat. He looked at the notebook. He looked at the laptop. He looked at your face. “I’ve been through all of it,” you said. “The notebook, the financial records from the box, the subsidiary filings that Haeun’s lawyer found. I have a complete picture.” You held his gaze. “I want to tell you what I’m going to do with it before I do it, because she would have done that. She would have told you directly.” He was very still.
“Jungwon and I are going to work with our respective company counsel to restructure both companies’ positions and make the necessary disclosures. The arrangement your father and his built — the liability your grandmother documented — will be unwound properly. Not buried, not managed. Dealt with.” You turned a page in the notebook. “There will be consequences. Probably financial, possibly regulatory. We’re going to take them straight rather than sideways.”
He opened his mouth. “I’m not finished,” you said quietly. He closed it.
“The personal documentation — your relationship with Park Jooyeon — is not something I intend to make public or use. That’s not mine to use. That’s between you and Mum and whatever comes next for the two of you.” You looked at him steadily.
“But I want you to know that I have it. That grandmother had it. That she saw everything and chose the moment and the recipient very carefully.” You paused. “She trusted me with it because she knew I’d tell you directly rather than use it as leverage. So I’m telling you directly.”
Your father was quiet for a long time. He looked older than yesterday. Something had come down overnight — a structure he’d maintained for twenty years, load-bearing, invisible until it wasn’t. “She always knew,” he said. Not a question.
“Yes,” you said.
“Your mother—”
“Is dealing with it on her own terms,” you said. “In her own time. That’s between you and her and I’m not going to be in the middle of it.” You closed the notebook. “But I am going to be here. For her. For as long as she needs.”
He looked at the closed notebook. “You’re very like her,” he said again. The same words as the library yesterday, same tone — not compliment, not threat, something that had moved past both into something more complicated and more honest.
“Good,” you said again.
He stood up. He looked at you for a moment with the eyes of a man who was reassessing something fundamental and finding the reassessment uncomfortable and necessary in equal measure. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For — all of it. The parts that touched you.”
“I know,” you said. He left. You sat in the library for a minute after he’d gone, in the room that minded its own business, and you breathed and looked at the ceiling and thought about your grandmother writing case notes in her precise blue hand for seven years and choosing you and trusting you and leaving you every door she could think to unlock.
I trust them. I always have.
“I know,” you said to the empty room. “I know you did.”
—
Jungwon was in the kitchen when you came down at ten. He’d made breakfast — actual breakfast, not just tea, the kind of breakfast that required navigating someone else’s kitchen and finding things and making decisions about eggs. You stood in the doorway and looked at this and something in your chest did a quiet complicated thing.
He looked up. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” you said.
“I found the eggs,” he said. “I hope that’s alright.”
“It’s very alright,” you said. You came in and sat at the kitchen table — the big scrubbed one, the one you’d sat at a thousand times — and watched him move around the kitchen with the ease of someone who had been in it almost as often as you had, who knew which drawer had the spatulas and which cupboard had the good salt, who knew to use the second burner because the first ran hot.
“I talked to my father’s lawyer this morning,” he said. Back to you, watching the pan. “Started the process. It’s going to take months. There’ll be restructuring costs, probably some regulatory disclosure, definitely some uncomfortable conversations with the board.” He turned around. “But it’s started.”
“I talked to my dad,” you said. “The personal side — I left that between him and my mother. But the business — he knows what’s coming.” Jungwon nodded.
He brought two plates to the table and sat across from you and for a moment you both just looked at the food. “She would have had opinions about the eggs,” you said.
“She would have said I used too much butter.”
“You absolutely used too much butter.”
“The correct amount of butter,” he said, “for a kitchen that has been through what this kitchen has been through in the last four days.” You looked at him. He looked at you. The kitchen held you both in its amber morning warmth and the back door sighed in the wind and the clock ticked its slightly-too-loud tick.
“Barcelona,” he said. Your fork stopped. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “About what you said. The building at five in the afternoon. The light.” He looked at his plate. “I want to see it.” You looked at him. “I want to see where you’ve been. What you’ve built. The studio, the yellow tiles, all of it.” He looked up. “I’m not asking you to come home. I’m not — I know you have a life there and I’m not going to be the person who asks you to fold that up.”
“Jungwon—”
“I’m saying I want to come to you. If that’s—” he stopped. “If you want that.”
You thought about your Barcelona apartment. The yellow tiles you’d hated and grown to love. The building in the Eixample at five in the afternoon. The Sunday light coming flat and amber through the kitchen window and you standing there with a dead leaf and almost calling him. “When?” you said.
Something shifted in his face. The last of the composure, the very last of it, releasing. “As soon as I can arrange it,” he said.
“The companies—”
“Will take months to sort out. I can do that from anywhere with a phone and a laptop.” He looked at you steadily. “I’ve been doing everything from this house and this office and this city for three years and I think—” he paused— “I think I’ve been using that as a reason to not go anywhere I actually wanted to go.”
You held his gaze. “There’s a market on Sundays,” you said. “Near the apartment. They have good tomatoes even in winter, I don’t know how.”
“I’ll need to know where to get good coffee,” he said.
“I know three places,” you said. “Ranked.”
“Of course you do,” he said.
“The first one is wrong,” you said. “Everyone thinks it’s the best and they’re wrong. The second one is correct.” He smiled. The real one, the full one, no millimetres of distance at all. You smiled back.
Outside the kitchen window the winter garden was pale and still. The tangerine tree stood at the edge of the formal garden where it always had, bare-branched, patient, waiting for the season that would bring it back. The sundial offered its wrong time to the thin morning light. The fields beyond the stone wall were grey-green and quiet.
Inside: two plates of eggs with the correct amount of butter, and the kitchen clock ticking, and the back door with the broken latch, and the house breathing around you in the way old houses breathe when something they’ve been waiting for has finally arrived.
“Take care of the tree,” you said.
“I will,” he said.
“She’ll want a report,” you said. “I’ll take notes,” he said.
“In a small book,” you said.
“Obviously,” he said.
You ate breakfast in the warm kitchen of your grandmother’s house while the morning came properly through the windows, and the walls remembered everything, and somewhere in the passage behind the library fireplace the candles had burned down to nothing and the photographs were still on the table and the letter was in your desk drawer with both your names on it in blue ink, and Han Sooja had been right about all of it, every last word, and the tree would come back in spring and so would you.
SPRING
The tangerine tree bloomed in April. Jungwon sent you the photograph at seven in the morning Barcelona time, which meant he’d been in the garden at eight Korean time, which meant he’d gone specifically to check and then specifically to tell you. No caption. Just the photograph — pale blossoms on the bare-becoming-green branches, the stone wall behind it, the edge of the formal garden catching the early spring light.
You were in bed with your phone and the yellow morning light coming through the kitchen tiles and you looked at the photograph for a long time.
Then you typed: she knew it would.
He replied immediately: she knew everything.
Then: flight lands Friday. Is the second coffee place still correct?
Still correct, you typed. I checked yesterday.
Of course.
You put the phone down and looked at the ceiling of your Barcelona apartment and listened to the street coming alive below and thought about the building in the Eixample at five in the afternoon and the light that made it look like it was remembering something, and you thought about what it meant to show someone the life you’d built from scratch in a city that had been yours alone, and you thought about your grandmother in her garden in October with the window open writing three pages of blue ink to two people she trusted to be ready.
You were ready.
You went to the kitchen and put the coffee on and stood at the window with the yellow tiles warm in the morning light and outside the bakery two streets over was already sending its bread smell into the world and somewhere behind you on the shelf the Calvino stood between its neighbours and in the back of it, tucked where it had always been, the recipe card with the hand-drawn map of a house full of secret rooms.
Not everything buried is lost. Some things are just waiting for the ground to be ready.
The coffee finished. You poured two cups out of habit and then looked at the second one and smiled and didn’t move it.
༯ synopsis : in which jang yn earns a job as a babysitter to the daughter of a dangerously handsome single father, and ends up spending most of her days with the small family,
or… in which jang yn slowly (and accidentally) makes her way into park jongseong's heart with her patience and skills and becomes his SAFEHAVEN.
༯ wc : 20,6k
༯ warnings (MINORS DNI) : a veryyyy small smut scene near the end (sorry if it isn't the best, i didn't really plan on adding smut so it was kind of effortless...), unprotected piv (pls dont!), slight breeding kink, a bit of marking, squirting, coming inside, pet names (baby, pretty).
༯ author's note : okay so this was better when it was planned out in my head hscbsjbiwb, but whatever! i got this idea when i saw this video of someone saying how great jay would be as a father and i was like... nice. honestly think this could've been wayyy better but oh well :/ i rly hope u guys enjoy this nonetheless!
plussss!!! happiest birthday to jongseong ♥️
tags : @enhainurheart
SEEKING FOR A RELIABLE BABYSITTER FOR 5 YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER.
you had been scrolling for what felt like hours. the soft glow of your laptop illuminated your tired face as you sat on your bed, finger lazily flicking on the touchpad. retail, cafe barista, convenience store clerk, receptionist. over and over again, different titles but the same image in your head — you standing behind a counter, forcing polite smiles, counting hours by the ticking of a clock that never seemed to move.
it didn't feel right.
you sighed and were about to lock your phone when that exact listing caught your eye. it wasn't flashy. there were no emojis, no exaggerated promises. just straightforward. you thought about it for a moment and eventually clicked on it.
name : park jongseong
address : 23 riverside residence, seoul, south korea
number : 010-****-**** (text if you applied)
in need of :
- a trustworthy and organized individual.
- preferably a woman.
- can be of any age.
you bit your lip, thinking. babysitting wasn't new to you. you'd done it before — neighbors' children, your cousin's toddler during summer breaks, even a part-time daycare assistant job in high school. you remembered sticky hands tugging at your sleeves, tiny giggles echoing in the living room, the strange but comforting responsibility of watching over someone small and fragile.
it wasn't easy, but it wasn't soul-draining either.
you entered the page. your fingers moved quickly at first, then slowed as doubt crept in. you carefully typed your name, your age, your previous experiences. you reread everything. once, twice, then a third time. your heart pounded as you pressed submit. you opened your messaging app afterwards and stared at the number.
you inhaled deeply and began typing.
[jang yn] :
good afternoon, my name is jang yn. i assume this is mr. park jongseong.
i found your number on a job application website. it said you needed a babysitter for your daughter.
i have applied for it.
you stared at the message for a long second. before you could overthink further, you hit send. immediately, panic settled in. you locked your phone and tossed it beside you as if it had burned you. your stomach twisted with nervous anticipation. what if he already found someone? what if he didn't like your resume? what if—
buzz. your phone vibrated against your bedsheets. your eyes widened. that was way too fast. you slowly reached for it, bracing yourself.
[park jongseong] :
hi, yn. please, call me jay.
thank you for reaching out.
i would like to interview you beforehand to see how you work.
are you perhaps free tomorrow at 4 p.m.? we could meet at my address.
you blinked — an interview, tomorrow, at his house. you swallowed, reading the message again. his tone was polite and direct, not overly formal, not cold either. you sat up straighter, fingers hovering above your keyboard.
[jang yn] :
yes, that sounds great.
you pressed the send button with a thumping heart. and right after, three dots appeared on the side of the screen.
[park jongseong] :
perfect.
see you then.
the next day, you arrived ten minutes early. the house wasn't huge, but not too small either. a neat one-story home with clean white walls, wide windows reflecting the afternoon sun, and a soft greenery lining the walkway.
your gaze dropped. a pair of tiny pink shoes sat neatly beside the door. that made your nerves worse.
you took a deep breath before pressing the doorbell. a faint shuffling sound echoed from inside. "coming!" a voice called out, slightly muffled. the door opened eventually.
jay looked different from you imagined. he was simpler — navy shirt that fit him well, jeans, hair pushed back slightly like he had run his hand through it. no accessories, no effort to impress — yet somehow it worked. his shoulders were broad, posture relaxed, and when he looked at you, his eyes were steady in a way that made you suddenly aware of how fast your heart was beating. "hi," he greeted first, offering a small smile. his voice was lower than you expected, steady and almost grounding. "you must be yn."
you nodded quickly. "yes, i am." you hoped your voice didn't sound as nervous as you felt. he stepped aside, opening the door wider. "come in."
you slipped off your shoes carefully beside the pink pair. the house smelled like fresh laundry detergent and something sweet, like baked goods. as he led you to the living room, you took in everything without meaning to.
a small rack filled with colorful, petite shoes next to a second rack holding darker, larger ones. photographs were framed neatly on the wall. a little girl with bright eyes and pigtails. the same little girl sitting on a man's shoulders — him. a picture of the two of them on what looked like a beach, her laughter frozen mid-moment. there were no other family photos. your chest tightened slightly at the realization.
the living room was warm. a fireplace, a television, a tall bookshelf with both adult novels and children's picture books, and toys scattered in organized chaos.
and then, a small blur ran across the room. tiny footsteps padded against the wooden floor, and a little girl collided gently with the man in front of you, hiding behind his leg almost instantly. she peeked at you with wide, cautious eyes. jay glanced down, tone shifting to something softer immediately. "seoyeon. say hi."
she didn't. she only stared. instead of forcing anything, you crouched down slowly so you were closer to her height. "hi seoyeon," you said quietly with a small smile. "i'm yn."
she blinked, then hid again. you noticed a drawing book open on the coffee table, pages filled with colorful scribbles of flowers, stick figures, and what looked like a purple cat. "i heard you like drawing. i'm not very good at it," you admitted dramatically, lowering your voice like it was a secret. "maybe you can teach me?"
there was a small pause, then she peeked again. this time, a little more of her face showed. you took that as an accomplishment.
jay lifted her into his arms. up close, you noticed how easily he carried her, one arm secure around her like it was the easiest thing in the world. "appa needs to talk to yn first, okay? you can color while we talk." seoyeon nodded lightly before he set her down again. she waddled back to her spot, glancing at you once more before sitting.
"please," he gestured toward the couch. you sat on the edge of it, posture straight. "so," he began, resting his hands together loosely. "i read your application. you've done this before?" he asked. you nodded, "yes, i have. mostly for relatives, and i volunteered at a daycare for a few months."
he listened carefully — not distracted, not checking his phone.
"are you currently studying?" he implied. you shifted in your seat, "no, i'm not. i graduated just a few months ago."
he asked more questions on discipline, emergencies, routines, and you answered as clearly as you could. but something felt slightly different. you couldn't pinpoint it exactly but maybe it was the way he watched you as you spoke — not rude, but attentive. or maybe it was how he held eye contact for a second longer than necessary every time after you finished answering like he was trying to read you beyond your works.
in the middle of the interview, you saw seoyeon take her small little steps to her father. she stood beside him, clutching a stuffed bunny to her chest. "is she your favorite?" you asked gently. she acknowledged and nodded this time. "what's her name?" you raised an eyebrow. "...mimi," she mumbled, voice low and shy. you gasped softly, hand over your chest. "mimi? well, mimi is very cute," you said seriously, leaning in slightly like it was official business.
that made her smile. a real one. jay noticed it. he leaned back slightly, observing the interaction carefully. you didn't rush her, didn't reach out without permission, didn't try to win her over loudly.
"you like coloring, don't you?" you questioned. she nodded again. you frowned and hummed as if thinking, "maybe next time you can show me your drawings."
"okay."
jay cleared his throat. "she's usually really shy with new people," he said, impressed. you glanced at him, "that's okay. i don't mind going slow." you turned back to seoyeon, face automatically going softer. "as long as this sweetheart gets comfortable."
she grinned, scrunching her nose slightly. you mirrored her expression without thinking. at that very moment, jay studied your face — really studied it. the way your eyes softened when you spoke to his daughter, the quiet patience in your voice. "you're patient," he commented. you shrugged a little. "kids need time," you responded. his gaze gentled slightly at your words because he realized that you understood what you were doing.
seoyeon stepped a little closer to you. she gazed at her dad, then back at you. "are you coming tomorrow?" the question surprised the both of you. you instinctively looked at jay. he met your eyes for a brief second before turning to her. "we'll see, princess. yn can be busy too."
after a few more practical details about hours and payment, jay stood. you stood too. "i'll let you know by tonight," he said. "thank you for considering me," you replied.
when you walked toward the door and slipped your shoes back on, you heard small, light footsteps behind you. you turned to see seoyeon. she held out mimi up proudly. you bent down just a little, "bye mimi. bye to you too, seoyeon." the small girl gave you a rather wide smile before waving her hands enthusiastically. you returned it.
before you shut the door, you looked back up and found jay already looking at you. you gave him a small girn, a little more relaxed now than when you first arrived. he returned it — softer this time — with a polite nod, though his gaze lingered just a second longer than necessary.
then, the door closed softly. behind it, jay remained still for a moment, hand resting on the doorknob. he exhaled slowly. he walked back to the couch, and seoyeon climbed onto his lap. "is she nice?" jay asked casually and seoyeon nodded without hesitation. "she's really nice, appa," she added. jay hummed, melting into the soft cushion.
he had interviewed others. some were too loud, some tried too hard to impress, some even looked distracted. but you? you didn't rush, didn't even try to win her over. he rubbed his hand over his face lightly. he didn't like trusting people easily — usually couldn't. but something about you felt correct. seoyeon shifted on his lap. "i like her."
jay looked down at her with a cocked eyebrow, "that fast?" and she nodded again. he stared at the ceiling for a moment. then he muttered quietly to himself. "she'll do."
that night, after seoyeon had fallen asleep, the house fell into a deep, comfortable silence. jay sat at the dining table with his phone in his hand. he opened your contact and typed.
[park jongseong] :
hi, yn. it's jay.
i'd like to move forward if you're still interested.
then, he added.
[park jongseong] :
seoyeon likes you.
said you're really nice.
he set his phone face down on the table immediately after, leaning back in his chair like it didn't matter. five seconds passed, then ten. he flipped it over again, but there wasn't a reply yet.
another minute passed, then— buzz.
[jang yn] :
yes, i'd love to.
thank you so much!
and the next day, you stood in front of the same door. it felt different from the previous day because this time, you were staying rather than only visiting. you adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder and knocked softly.
the door opened almost immediately. jay stood there, already dressed for work — dark slacks fitted neatly, a simple button-up tucked in, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. his hair was styled, sharp but effortless, and he smelled faintly of clean cologne and coffee. "morning," he said. you blinked. "...morning." you stepped inside with a small gulp.
seoyeon was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by a kingdom of toys. when she saw you, she paused mid-play, eyes widening slightly, then she waved. you grinned immediately, "hi, seoyeon."
jay cleared his throat, "okay. so. before i leave..." he walked toward the kitchen and you followed. "she already ate breakfast. but if she says she's hungry again, there are cut fruits in the fridge," he mentioned first.
then, he hit you with many of them.
"she's not allergic to anything, but don't give her too much sugar."
"sometimes, she takes a nap around two, but that depends on her."
"she sleeps at nine. i'll be back before then."
"there's a small first aid kit in the cabinet above the microwave."
finally, he let himself breathe. you blinked slowly, trying not to smile. "okay." you could tell he wasn't doubting you. he just wasn't used to not being the one in control of every tiny detail. letting someone handle them felt foreign.
seoyeon padded into the kitchen and tugged on his pants. "appaaa." she mumbled. jay melted instantly, "yeah, princess?" his voice softened without effort.
"are you leaving now?" she pouted sadly, eyes glossy and round. he nodded slowly, "mhm. soon." he crouched down to her level, "i'll be back before bedtime, okay?" he patted her head gently. she looked between you and her dad, weighing her options. "okay," she decided.
jay stood, adjusting his watch. "if anything happens, call me. even if it's small. i just... like to know," he confessed. you gave him a small nod, "it's okay, i understand." and that seemed to ease something in him.
he grabbed his keys from the counter. before leaving, he looked at seoyeon once more, then at you. "thank you," he murmured. it sounded more sincere than yesterday. you nodded, "you're welcome."
and like that, the door closed and the house became quieter.
you looked down at seoyeon, she looked up at you. "appa talks a lot," she declared bluntly before running back to the living room. you laughed softly, the awkwardness fading.
it surprised you how easy it was to befriend her. all you had to do was step into her world — mimi had dramatic backstories, barbie dolls had complicated lives, coloring books required serious artistic discussion. somehow between the imaginary tea parties and emergency doll hospitals you had to run, you and seoyeon had practically become best friends.
and by the third day, you didn't have to ask where anything was. you knew where the cups were, which drawer had the extra hair ties, and that she absolutely despised bread crusts.
that morning, jay was getting ready for work while you crouched to help seoyeon put on her shoes for the park. "she didn't finish her milk," he called from the kitchen. "i know. she said it tasted weird today," you explained. he froze, "it's the same brand..."
"maybe it was just too cold. i warmed it a little and she finally drank some," you replied lightly. soon, you finished tying seoyeon's shoelaces. "there, all done."
jay observed quietly but was interrupted by seoyeon jumping up and hugging his leg. he absentmindedly rested his hand on her head, but his gaze was still on you.
later that afternoon, he came home a little later than usual. you were sitting on the floor with seoyeon, building a tower out of blocks. the living room was slightly messy with toys scattered around and cushions out of place. seoyeon burst into laughter as one of the pieces wobbled dangerously. "careful," you whispered dramatically as if the lightest gust of air could push the building, but the tower collapsed anyway. seoyeon gasped and clapped her hands like it was the most exciting event of the day.
that was when you looked up and noticed him. "oh. you're back early," you said, brushing hair away from your face.
he nodded, "yeah, meeting ended sooner." he stepped inside, his eyes drifting back to the half-destroyed tower. seoyeon was laughing loudly. "look, appa!" she shouted. "we made a castle!"
jay walked closer and knelt near you. "that's... really tall," he anticipated. "it fell three times," you admitted "four!" seoyeon corrected proudly. you both laughed, and jay found himself smiling without realizing it.
that night, something even stranger happened. seoyeon brushed her teeth without being reminded. "did you tell her to?" jay questioned. "about bedtime? no, she remembered," you shook your head. he glanced toward the bathroom, stunned. that almost never happened.
a few minutes later, seoyeon walked out in her pajamas. "i'm sleepy," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes. the clock read 8:52. he looked at you, "you didn't tell her to go to bed?"
"no," you said. "she just started rubbing her eyes." you created the motion.
after seoyeon went to bed, the house felt calmer. jay leaned against the kitchen counter while you washed your hands. "you're adjusting very quickly," he praised. you glanced at him, "is that bad?"
"no. it's just... i'm used to reminding her about everything." he explained. you dried your hands with a towel. "everything's easier when there's two people, right?"
he didn't answer right away. because that was the thing. he wasn't used to there being two people. for years, it had only been him — managing, scheduling, remembering every detail so nothing slipped through. now, without even trying, you were sharing the weight. he looked at you again, "thank you," he said after a moment. you chuckled, "you don't have to thank me every day."
he almost smiled back. "i probably will anyway." and he did. he never once forgot to mention those words after every visit. and you always chuckled to yourself whenever he did.
the first week with seoyeon wasn't all that difficult. there were cries, of course. also some dramatic tantrums, the kind that started in her toes and worked their way up until her whole body trembled with injustice. and one particularly impressive floor-flop in the middle of the living room that would've earned a standing ovation from broadway.
but overall? normal and manageable. you handled it well — suspiciously well. and jay started paying attention more than he thought he should've.
one morning, you arrived at the house like usual. seoyeon ran to the door before jay could even turn the knob. "yn's here!" she announced proudly to absolutely no one and everyone at once. you laughed when the door opened. "i'm here seoyeon!" you echoed with equal excitement, crouching slightly as she barreled into you.
jay leaned against the doorway, watching the way she immediately grabbed your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. like you had always been part of her routine. "hey," jay said, quieter. you gave him that small, polite smile, "hi."
and for a moment, he forgot what he was about to say.
not even an hour into the shift, the first storm rolled in. seoyeon stared down at her drawing, lip trembling. "it's not a butterfly anymore," she whispered. jay saw the warning signs instantly. the shoulders rising, breath hitching, fingers tightening around the crumpled paper.
here we go.
but before he could step in, you slid onto the floor beside her. you studied the page carefully. "you're right," you agreed thoughtfully. "it doesn't."
jay's mouth parted slightly and seoyeon hiccupped mid-cry. you only tilted your head. "it looks like a butterfly that's flying really, really fast. maybe that's why the wings look like that. they're moving too quick."
a sniffle, "really?" she blinked. "mhm," you nodded. "fastest butterfly i've ever seen."
seoyeon stared at the drawing again. her breathing slowed, tiny brows furrowing in consideration. then, as if the universe had reset, she scrambled. "i need a magnet!" and five minutes later, the "fastest butterfly in the world" was proudly displayed on the fridge. jay stood in the hallway, arms crossed, equal parts confused and impressed. he glanced at you. you were smiling so casually, like the whole situation had been nothing. he shook his head slightly to himself.
how were you doing that?
that afternoon, the three of you headed to the grocery store. originally, jay had planned to go alone. but seoyeon insisted on going along with you, which meant the trip became a group event.
the candy aisle was inevitable. "yn, yn!" seoyeon gasped, clutching a bag of gummy bears like it was a life-or-death discovery. "i really, really want this! can i have it pleaseee?"
jay stepped in smoothly. "not today, princess. we have candy at home." and there it was. the face scrunch, the inhale, the rising tremor. you saw it too. her wail echoed dramatically through the aisle that a couple turned their head. jay braced himself.
but you simply knelt down, lowering yourself to her level. your voice stayed soft and steady — too quiet for him to catch every word. "you really wanted those, huh?"
her cries softened into shaky breaths. you continued, "do you want to help me pick a snack for movie night instead? something we don't already have?" you offered. she sniffed. you added, "and next time we plan for candy, we can put it on the list together."
then slowly, she nodded. she placed the gummy bears back on the shelf herself.
jay stared at you. when you resumed walking, he leaned closer, "how are you doing this?"
you glanced at him, confusion plastered on your face. "doing what?" you huffed. "this," he gestured vaguely at the now calm child inspecting crackers like nothing had happened. "you're not even stressed."
you shrugged lightly, "she's just communicating the only way she knows how." you looked at him like it was an obvious point. he let out a disbelieving laugh. "communicating? that was a full emotional hurricane."
"yeah," you smiled. "but hurricanes pass, right?"
you grabbed a box of cereal from the shelf and added it to the cart. "thing is, jay, i pick my battles. and i remember she's not giving me a hard time... she's having a hard time."
the words hit him harder than he expected. he thought about the nights he'd snapped a little too quickly. the times exhaustion blurred his patience.
seoyeon turned around suddenly, beaming at you. "can we get the star pasta?" her eyes brightened. you tapped her nose gently. "is it on the list?" you asked. she slapped her forehead, "i forgot!"
you whispered dramatically, "mission impossible." she giggled and ran ahead to fetch the crumpled paper from the cart's cup holder. jay watched the exchange quietly. he had expected exhaustion from you by now. or at least a crack in the calm. maybe even a frustrated sigh when you thought he wasn't looking. but instead, you moved through it all with steady hands and softer eyes than he'd ever seen.
even later that evening, when seoyeon refused to put on pajamas because "the clouds on them looked sad," you didn't argue. you asked her why they were and you suggested maybe they needed a bedtime story too. somehow, the pajamas were on within minutes. jay leaned against the hallway wall, arms folded, pretending he wasn't watching. pretending he wasn't thinking about how different the house felt lately.
after you tucked seoyeon in, you stepped into the kitchen to grab your bag. jay was already there, rinsing a glass. "you don't get overwhelmed?" he asked out of the blue. you considered the question honestly, "of course i do."
"i just don't let her see it when she's overwhelmed too," you added. "she needs someone steady, not someone sinking with her."
he swallowed. "you're kind of amazing," he muttered, almost to himself.
you couldn't hear him, too busy adjusting the strap on your bag. "sorry?" you leaned. he shook his head quickly. "nothing. drive safe."
that was that. but one night, everything took a turn.
jay had been in his room for hours, laptop open, spreadsheets blurring into one another as he answered emails and finished up reports. at some points, the numbers stopped making sense. he didn't realize how much time had passed until his eyes burned and he finally glanced at the clock in the corner of his screen. it was past seoyeon's bedtime.
his brows knit together. the house had been quiet for a while — too quiet, now that he thought about it. usually there was some last-minute protest, a request for water, s mall voice calling his name, a dramatic declaration that she wasn't sleepy at all.
he pushed his chair back and stepped out of his room, loosening the sleeves os his shirt absentmindedly as he walked toward the living room.
that's when he saw it. seoyeon was asleep on the couch. one small arm dangled off the edge, fingers limp and curled. her hair fanned messily against the pillow, cheeks warm and flushed. an episode of peppa pig played softly on the tv, bright animated voices murmuring into the otherwise still room.
and you. you were kneeling beside the couch. you didn't notice him, you were too focused on her. carefully, you lifted her hanging arm and placed it over her stomach. your movements were slow and deliberate like you were afraid the air might wake her. then you pulled the blanket up to her neck and tucked the corners in, smoothing the fabric with your palm.
jay didn't move. something about the scene held him there.
the lamp in the corner was on, casting a warm light over the couch, softening the edges of everything it touched. your hair fell slightly forward as you leaned closer to adjust the pillow beneath her head. you brushed a small strand away from seoyeon's face with the back of your finger. "sweet dreams, princess." you used the nickname jay usually did.
you looked natural there. the thought hit jay so suddenly that his chest tightened. he stood there longer than he thought, just staring. the house didn't usually look like this. it was usually quiet in a different way — empty, functional, clean but cold.
but right now? it felt warm, and you were at the center of it.
you stayed kneeling for another moment, eyes tracing the toddler's face. only then did you lift your head and froze slightly when your eyes met his. you stood up slowly, brushing your hands against your jeans. "she fell asleep while watching," you explained with a low voice, almost like you didn't want to disturb the silence too much.
he cleared his throat, "you could've just told me."
"it's okay, really. she looked tired," you replied gently.
he glanced at seoyeon before back at you. you didn't look tired nor annoyed. you looked calm and comfortable like this wasn't hard for you. and that realization unsettled him.
"i'll carry her to bed," he said finally. you nodded and stepped aside. he bent down carefully, sliding one arm beneath seoyeon's knees and the other around her back. she stirred lightly, nose scrunching, but didn't wake. her hand instinctively grabbed onto his shirt.
as he walked toward her room, he felt your eyes on his back. or maybe he just imagined it. he laid seoyeon down, pulled the covers up, and pressed a quiet kiss to her forehead. when you came back to the living room, you were already grabbing your bag. "i should go," you announced softly. he hummed, "yeah."
he walked you to the door like usual. you slipped your shoes on, "night."
"goodnight." the door clicked shut and the house was quiet again. but it felt different. jay stood there for a moment too long. his jaw tightened slightly, running a hand through his hair. it was ridiculous, nothing happened. you tucked his daughter in. that was it. so why did the image keep replaying in his head? you kneeling by the couch. the way it looked like—
"stop." he exhaled sharply. but the thought kept reciting itself and it irritated him more than anything. he had spent years building his life in a careful, controlled way — just him and seoyeon. it was manageable and safe. and now you were slowly becoming part of that picture without even trying.
trust was one thing, relying too. but letting himself get used to this was dangerous. but a small part of him didn't want to push the thought away. somewhere in that mind of his, mini but noticeable, he liked how it looked, how it felt. and that was exactly why he shouldn't.
he closed his eyes for a second, back against the door now, but the image didn't leave — refused to. "get a grip, jongseong."
"don't make it too tight," seoyeon complained as you gathered her soft hair into a small ponytail. you smiled, adjusting your grip. "okay, okay. tell me if it hurts."
she squinted at you through the mirror on the wall, dramatically suspicious. "it always hurts," she rolled her eyes. "it does not," you gasped lightly. "you're accusing me."
behind you, a door clicked open. jay stepped out his room, hair still slightly messy from a previous shower. he paused when he saw the two you. morning light spilled through the window, soft and golden. you stood behind seoyeon with quiet concentration, tongue pressed lightly to to the corner of your mouth as you tied the hiarband. seoyeon sat on the stool swinging her legs, wincing every few seconds like she was undergoing a life-threatening procedure.
you noticed him first and gave a small nod. "good morning." he gulped, "morning." his voice was normal and steady. like he hadn't spent hald the night replaying the image of you kneeling beside seoyeon's bed, brushing her hair back, whispering "good night" soft enough that he almost couldn't hear it.
he grabbed his coffee and leaned against the counter, pretending to focus on the steam rising from it. seoyeon suddenly twisted around to look at him, "yn's picking me up today, appa!"
you blinked. "only if that's okay," you added quickly. jay paused for half a second, cup hovering near his mouth. "...that's fine," he said after a second. your shoulders relaxed slightly and seoyeon cheered as if she had won something monumental.
later that afternoon, you stood outside the preschool gates. the sun was a little too warm. children ran in every direction like unleashed confetti. parents chatted in clusters, some glancing at you curiously — you looked young compared to most of them. you shifted your weight from one foot to another, scanning the doorway.
"yn!" your head snapped up. seoyeon burst through the gate the second she saw you, backpack bouncing wildly against her back. you crouched instinctively so she wouldn't crash too hard into you. but she still did. you laughed, steadying her. "hey, princess. how was school?"
"i painted a frog today but it looked like a blob," she declared. you tilted your head, "blobs are very artistic, you know?" she narrowed her eyes at you, unconvinced.
without thinking, you slipped her backpack off her shoulders and carried it yourself. she immediately grabbed your hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
jay arrived a few minutes later. he told himself he was nearby, that he had finished work early, that traffic was light — all reasonable excuses. he spotted the two of you near the small playground outside the school. seoyeon was talking non-stop, her hands moving dramatically as she narrated her day. and you were listening like every word mattered.
you noticed jay a few steps away and waved. "thought you were gonna arrive later."
"finished some things." he glanced down at seoyeon, "did you behave?" he squinted. "yes," she mumbled quickly. you raised an eyebrow playfully. "mostly," you corrected. jay's lips twitched before he could stop them.
the three of you began walking toward the parking lot. seoyeon walked between you. she grabbed your hand first. then, after a second, she grabbed his. so the three of you walked like that — seoyeon swinging your joined hands back and forth, humming something off-key.
a mother passing by glanced at the three of you and smiled warmly. "you have such a sweet daughter," she said to you. you froze slightly, fingers tightening around seoyeon's hand for just half a second. "oh— i'm not—" you began.
"thank you," jay said smoothly.
the woman nodded and continued walking. you looked at him immediately, he avoided your gaze, staring straight ahead like nothing unusual had happened. seoyeon kept swinging your hands, blissfully unaware.
when you finally reached the car, you let go first like you were putting distance back where it belonged. jay noticed that too.
the following days began to blur into something comfortable. you picked seoyeon up regularly now, remembered she preferred apple juice over orange, that thursdays exhausted her because of outdoor play, and she would get quiet and clingy around dinner,
you no longer waited for jay to give instructions. he stopped giving them, anyway — he didn't even realize it. he would come home to find the two of you on the floor surrounded by puzzle pieces. or hear seoyeon whispering secrets into your ear, her tiny hand covering her mouth like it was classified information.
once, he watched you both while drinking a cup of coffee. seoyeon was giggling uncontrollably while you dramatically pretended to misunderstand her drawing. "this is clearly a dinosaur, seoyeon," you insisted.
"it's a cat!" she insisted. you frowned, "it's a very ferocious cat," you joked. she gasped loudly. "it's not ferocious!"
you laughed at her reaction, and for some reason, jay's heart echoed loudly in his own ears.
one evening, as the sky turned soft orange, you knelt near the front door helping seoyeon put on her shoes. "other foot," you demanded gently. she leaned heavily into your shoulder while trying to balance.
"you're coming tomorrow, right?" she asked suddenly. you nodded without hesitation, "of course."
she wrapped her arms tightly around you before you could stand up. you froze for just a second — then hugged her back naturally. your hand rubbed her back slowly. "it's okay, princess," you mumured when she didn't let go immediately.
jay saw how easily she clung to you, how easily you responded.
seoyeon finally pulled back. "promise?" she lent out her pinky. you entangled it with yours. "promise."
you stood up and reached for your bag. jay walked you to the door like he always did now. it had become routine at this point.
your eyes met his. there was something unspoken lingering there. something neither of you named. as you slipped your shoes on, you felt his gaze again. "you don't have to walk me every time," you said softly. he leaned against the doorframe. "i know," he replied. you smiled with a shake of your head before stepping down the porch.
since then, it was like the universe had developed a quiet sense of humor. nothing dramatic, nothing loud. just small, accidental collisions that felt anything but accidental.
seoyeon's "castle hospital" took up the entire living room floor — plush bears with twisted imaginary ankles, dolls suffering from mysterious fevers. mimi tragically injured from a staircase incident that, according to seoyeon, involved "too much hopping and not enough holding the rail."
you were sitting cross-legged on the floor, sleeves pushed up, fully committed to your role as doctor yn. "doctor yn is on the scene," you declared. "we will save everyone."
seoyeon beamed, entirely serious. jay watched from the couch, tie loosened, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. he looked tired from work but softer here. he caught his eyes drifting back to you more than the stuffed animals.
"mimi fell down the stairs," seoyeon repeated gravely. you gasped, "not the stairs. that's the most dangerous place in the castle."
jay let out a low breath that betrayed him. you pointed at him, "sir, please. this is a hospital." he grinned, dimples faint but unmistakable. "apologies, doctor."
a moment later, seoyeon demanded a bandage. the toy medical kit was just within reach. and without thinking, both you and jay leaned forward at the same time. your fingers brushed. it was barely contact, just the faintest graze of skin against skin. but both of you stopped. your hand hovered under his. his breath shifted — so slight it might've been imagined.
you pulled your hand back first, "sorry."
"it's fine."
later, soeyeon suddenly promoted to "castle architect," demanded structural renovations that required moving cushions, chairs, and tables. "appa, hold this!" she commanded, handing jay one end of a blanket. he obeyed immediately.
you climbed onto the couch to drape the other side over the bookshelf. the cushion dipped under your weight more than expected, and your balance faltered for just a fraction of a second. jay stepped closer immediately. "careful," he murmured.
you felt him behind you before you fully registered it. his hand hovered near your waist, not touching but there.
you stepped down carefully, turning in the narrow space between the couch and coffee table. there wasn't enough room. as you moved, you almost bumped straight into him. his hand came up instinctively and this time, it did touch. his palm brushed the side of your waist through the thin fabric of your shirt.
your breath caught. you were close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you. close enough that if either of you moved an inch, it would mean something.
"appa, it's falling!" seoyeon cried from inside the half-built fort.
you stepped away fastly with a gulp. jay cleared his throat softly and moved to the other side, "right. sorry, princess." but his voice wasn't as steady anymore.
seoyeon, blissfully, oblivious, declared the fort a success and insisted both of you sit inside. it was cramped — very. jay sat across from you, knees almost touching yours in the dim blanket-filtered light. seoyeon nestled between you both, narrating an elaborate story about royal doctors and brave kings.
you didn't miss the way his gaze lingered a second too long when you laughed at something seoyeon said. and he didn't miss the way your eyes flickered to his mouth before you caught yourself.
the rest of the day, none of you spoke about it. but there was an obvious shift in the air. you thought it'd been just that, but another moment happened as you were cooking dinner.
the house was dimmer now, evening settling in comfortably, the fort half-collapsed but still standing proudly in the living room. you were cutting vegetables while jay stood beside you, making himself a cup of tea. you walked over to the fridge, there was a small toy car near it that you didn't notice
your heel caught it and your balance tipped backward. you didn't fall, though. because jay stood up quick enough and his hand landed at your waist instantly — holding you, steadying you. your hand flew up in instinct and grabbed his forearm. you felt the muscle tense beneath your fingers.
you were far closer than before. you could feel the warmth of his palm fully against your waist now, steady and sure. the faint scent of his cologne mixed with clean laundry and something unmistakably him.
your eyes lifted carefully. his eyes were already on you. "i'm okay," you said softly. but you didn't let go immediately. his gaze dropped briefly to where your hand was still holding his arm, then back to your eyes.
his hand slid away slowly — too slowly to be accidental. fingers trailing just enough to leave a line of warmth behind. "watch your step," he said quietly. it sounded like it meant more than the floor. you nodded, but neither of you stepped back right away. and somewhere behind you, in the living room, seoyeon's small voice floated down the hallway.
"appa? doctor yn? the king needs help!"
jay exhaled softly — almost a laugh. but his eyes never left yours. "duty calls."
you both walked back as seoyeon rushed you, insisting the king required immediate surgery. jay ended up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, holding a plush lion while you wrapped it in gauze with the seriousness of an attending physician.
you could still feel the warmth of his fingers from the hallway. you were both pretending you couldn't.
"is he going to live?" seoyeon asked gravely. you glanced at jay, "that depends. has he been eating his vegetables?"
jay blinked once, then caught on. "terrible diet. refuses broccoli," he played along. you laughed, soft and unguarded. jay watched you and nearly smiled to himself.
later, after seoyeon was tucked in and the house had gone still, the quiet settled in layers. the dishwasher hummed softly and blended with the muted city sounds outside, the hallway light cast a dim amber glow across the wooden floors.
you stood at the kitchen sink, rinsing soap from your hands when you felt it — that awareness of someone still there.
he usually retreated to his study once seoyeon was asleep. but tonight, he lingered. he leaned against the kitchen counter, sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to his forearms, tie loosened but not removed. "can i ask you something?" he said.
you reached for the towel, drying your hands slowly. "you just did," you joked. a faint smirk appeared on his face, but it faded quickly.
"she's been refusing to sleep in her own bed lately." his tone shifted, quieter now. "she ends up in mine every night."
you turned to face him fully. "that's not new."
"no," his jaw flexed. "but she used to at least try first." he stared at the marble countertop instead of at you. he continued, "i don't know if i should push her to sleep by herself or just let her be with me."
you tilted your head, "what do you think she's afraid of?"
he hesitated. "that i'll disappear." the words came out flat and controlled, but they hung in the air heavier than he meant them to. you stepped a little closer. "then forcing her won't fix it."
his jaw shifted again. he already knew that, of course he did. jay researched everything, prepared for everything. but this wasn't something you should spreadsheet your way out of. "stay with her until she falls asleep," you added gently. "consistency builds security. if she sees you're there every time she opens her eyes, eventually she won't be afraid you won't be."
he nodded slowly, like he was filing your advice somewhere permanent.
and ever since that moment, jay found himself seeking and caring for you more. you realized it too.
the next night, your phone buzzed at 9.47 p.m.
[park jongseong] :
running late.
don't let her stay up waiting for me.
you were sitting beside seoyeon on her bed while she carefully arranged her stuffed animals in a very specific order. you typed back right away.
[jang yn] :
okay!
she already brushed her teeth.
i'll read one book for her.
drive safe :)
three dot appeared almost immediately, stopped, then appeared again.
[park jongseong] :
did you eat?
you frowned, fingers pausing above the screen.
[jang yn] :
yep
a pause.
[park jongseong] :
okay.
just asking.
you leaned back against the headboard, staring at the screen. because he had never "just asked" before.
something happened two days later when he came home with grocery bags. seoyeon bolted toward him the second the door opened. "appa! did you bring treasure?" she skidded across the floor in her socks and collided with his legs. jay crouched, setadying her with one arm while ssetting the bags down with the other. "snacks," he corrected.
she immediately dug through the paper bag with dramatic intensity. "but i don't like those crackers," she declared, nose wrinkling. she took out a box of cheese crackers — the ones you loved.
jay didn't look at you when he replied. "you used to, princess."
"no, i didn't" she shot back stubbornly.
he cleared his throat, suddenly very focused on rearranging the contents of the bag. "well, um... we have them now."
then, his eyes lifted and your eyes met over seoyeon's head. there was the briefest flicker of realization in his. he hadn't bought them for her. he had bought them because one night, while cleaning up after dinner, you casually mentioned how those crackers reminded you of residency nights — vending machine dinners and hallway trips at 3 a.m.
you pretended not to notice. but after that day, small things kept happening. things that were easy to dismiss individually but harder to ignore together.
"should i sign her up for piano or let her choose?"
"do you think i'm being too strict about screen time?"
"she said you're coming tomorrow. is that still okay?"
and every time, he phrased it like he was just checking, gathering a second opinion. but he waited for your answer. and when you disagreed with him once — gently — he went quiet for almost a full minute before nodding. you suggested that maybe seoyeon didn't need two structured activities on weekends. "she's five," you said softly. "let her rest sometimes."
he went still, then nodded. like he trusted you more than he intended to.
one evening, you went out of the bathroom to find him already home. seoyeon was sprawled on the living room floor with crayons scattered everywhere, tongue peeking out slightly as she focused on her drawing. jay sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, staring at nothing. he looked tired. emotionally. he glanced up when you stepped inside, and something in his shoulders loosened. it was subtle, but you saw it. "rough day?"
he huffed a soft breath. "board meeting."
you nodded, settling into the armchair across from him. a few seconds passed, then he surprised you. "they want expansion. two new branches. but i don't think it's stable yet," he continued. "cash flow projections look fine on paper, but market conditions aren't predictable. if it fails..." he paused. "it affects employees, even families."
he never talked about work like this.
you leaned back slightly, "then don't expand."
he finally looked at you properly. you held his gaze. "if you're hesitating, there's a reason." you said, calm and steady. the room was quiet except for seoyeon humming to herself. jay's eyes didn't leave yours. you could almost see the internal shift — the way he weighed your words instead of automatically countering them. he exhaled. "okay."
later that night, after seoyeon was asleep and you were gathering your things, he walked you to the door like he always did. but he stood a little closer than usual. you spoke first as you slipped your shoes on, "you don't have to answer every time. you know that, right?"
his brows drew together. "answer what?"
"every doubt."
his jaw tightened slightly. "i'm not doubting," his voice was nowhere above a whisper. you gave him a look, a soft one. he held your gaze for a long second. then, quieter than you'd ever heard him, "it's easier when you're here." it wasn't a confession, but it was dangerously close.
you only nodded slowly. you finally reached the door. "i'll see you tomorrow, jay."
you walked to your car, heartbeat a little unsteady. and as soon as you slid into the driver's seat, your phone buzzed. you didn't have to look to know who it was. still, you did.
[park jongseong] :
text me when you get home.
the kitchen was dim except for the soft amber glow of the stove light. it was well past midnight and the whole house felt like it was holding its breath. seoyeon had fallen asleep on the couch an hour ago — curled into the corner cushions with the blanket half-dragged to the floor, one sock missing, and a children's book open against her chest. you carried her to bed carefully. she didn't even stir.
now the house was quiet again. you stood at the kitchen counter rinsing strawberries you didn't actually need to wash. the faucet ran in a gentle stream, water tapping against the sink in a rhythm that filled the silence just enough to keep it from feeling too heavy. it gave your hands something to do.
jay stood beside you. he didn't say anything when he first walked in. he had simply leaned against the counter next to you, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, arms folded loosely across his chest. you didn't look at him, but you could feel him.
"she talks about you a lot." his voice broke the silence. you glanced at him in surprise before a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. "does she?" you murmured.
he nodded once, pushing himself slightly from where he had been leaning. "yeah," he exhaled faintly through his nose, the smallest hint of amusement in it. "all the time."
you tried to hide the warmth that spread across your chest. "what does she say?" you questioned curiously. he huffed a small, almost amused breath. "that you listen." and added, "that you don't treat her like she's... small."
"she hasn't been this comfortable with someone since..." he stopped. the unfinished sentence lingered in the air like a thread left hanging. you saw it happen — the split-second shift in him, the wall rising halfway. his jaw tightened just slightly, like he had bitten down on something too sharp. the openness in his expression pulled back just a little.
you didn't push, though. you just looked at him. and this time he noticed it. he lifted his eyes to meet yours, and for a brief moment, something passed between the two of you that felt different from anything before. there was something there that you had never seen before. not anger, not deflection, not that easy sarcasm he used like armor. more like getting exposed.
"she's just..." he ran a hand through his hair before letting it fall back to his side. the movement looked more frustrated than casual. "it's been a while since she's let someone in like that."
your voice softened, "that's a good thing, no?"
he nodded again, though his gaze drifted to the floor. "yeah."
the refrigerator hum grew louder in the quiet. you didn't know what to say — not because there was nothing to say, but because it felt delicate. like if you had moved too fast, he would snap shut again. you turned off the faucet and reached for a towel.
he studied you for a moment. "she used to—" he cut himself off. his throat shifted as he swallowed the rest of the sentence. your heart tugged a little.
he looked away. "i just..." he exhaled slowly. "i don't want her getting attached to someone who—" he cut himself off again. when he realized what he said, you saw it — the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of regret crossing his eyes like he could physically pull the sentence back into his mouth.
the silence stretched before he exhaled slowly. "when we decided to separate," he said quietly, not looking at you. "i thought she could handle it." he rubbed a hand over his face, fingers dragging down slowly like it exhausted him just from remembering. "i told myself it was better this way. that seoyeon wouldn't grow up watching two people who don't... love each other properly."
he rubbed his forehead. "i wasn't scared about losing her," he continued, voice lower. "i was scared about failing her." the vulnerability in the sentence was almost raw.
"the first night she stayed with me alone..." he huffed a humorless breath. "she cried for her mom. and i just stood there in the hallway outside her room thinking—" for a moment you could almost see it. a younger version of him standing in a dark hallway, one hand braced against the wall, listening to a toddler cry on the other side of the door.
"i didn't know how to do it by myself," he admitted. "i didn't know how to be both parents. i didn't know if i was enough." his throat tightened. "i still don't."
something in your chest ached. you stepped closer, more deliberately. close enough that you stood directly in front of him. "jay."
he lifted his head then, finally looking at you fully. his eyes were glassy. the guard he usually wore so carefully was lowered — defenses loosened in a way you had never seen before. "it was so messy," he continued. "the divorce, lawyers, custody schedules... seoyeon asking questions i didn't know how to answer." he shook his head slightly. "i felt like everything stable in her life was breaking because i couldn't make my marriage work." the guilt sat heavy across his expression.
your hand moved before your brain could stop it. you reached for his wrist gently, fingers wrapping around it with quiet certainty. "you didn't break her life, jay. you protected it." you comforted, making his brows pull together slightly. "you chose something healthier instead of something convenient. that is not failure."
his eyes searched yours like he tried to decide whether he was allowed to believe that. i was terrified," he added. "terrified she'd resent me one day. terrified she'd think i'm an awful father. terrified i was an awful father."
your hand slid slowly from his wrist to his hand. he didn't pull away. his fingers were warm, slightly tense. "you stayed," you whispered. "you learned. you showed up every single day." his grip then tightened around yours unconsciously. "she smiles," you carried on gently. "she feels safe. she laughs. she sleeps through the night. that doesn't happen by accident."
you exhaled. "i don't think you realize how much she looks at you like you're her whole world."
that did it. his composure cracked just a fraction more. he looked down at your joined hands, then at you. his thumb brushed lightly against your knuckles. "i really meant it, you know?" he said. you frowned in confusion, "meant what?"
"when i said it's easier with you."
your breath caught. his eyes moved slowly over your face — neither hurried nor reckless, just taking you in. like he was seeing you differently for the first time. like something had shifted inside him and he doesn't know what to do with it just yet.
"i didn't think i'd let anyone this close again," he said softly. jay's eyes dropped to your lips for half a second before lifting it back to your gaze. his hand still wrapped around yours, thumb still resting lightly against your skin.
the air felt too thin. for a moment, it felt like something was about to happen — something quiet but undeniable, the kind of moment where the world narrows until there's only the two of you standing in the same breath of space. but your heart panicked. you pulled your hand back quickly. "uh—" you glanced toward the hallway, toward the front door, anywhere but at him. "i should probably head home. it's kind of late."
he straightened immediately. the softness in his expression shutters halfway, confusion flickering across his face. "right. yeah, of course," he stuttered. you grabbed your bag from the chair near the counter, fumbling slightly with the strap because, for some reason, your hands felt extra clumsy.
why did you act like that?
"sorry, i didn't realize how late it got." you added, a little breathless. "it's fine." his tone was calm, but there was something underneath it — something unreadable. "i can walk you out." but he had already moved toward the door.
at the door, you slipped on your shoes, avoiding his eyes. the vulnerability from minutes ago hung between you like something fragile that neither of you knew how to pick back up. he opened the door for you, the cold night air rushing in.
you stepped onto the threshold, then hesitated. you turned back. he stood there, one hand still on the door, the other resting against the frame. his expression wasn't guarded anymore, but uncertain. like he was replaying the last five minutes and tried to figure out where the ground shifted.
"goodnight, jay."
he studied you for a second too long. "night."
the next evening, the air was cooler than it had been the night before. you noticed immediately when you stepped out of the car — the faint chill brushing against your arms, the smell of grass and damp pavement lingering after the sun had gone down, the soft rustling of leaves somewhere overhead.
the park lights had just flickered on, casting warm yellow circles across the walking paths. the playground glowed softly in the distance. seoyeon was already halfway across the playground before you had even finished closing the car door. "seoyeon—!" you called.
too late, she was gone. her small sneakers slapped against the rubber ground as she sprinted toward the jungle gym like she had been waiting all day to burn off energy. you shut the car door with a sigh, but there was a smile tugging at your mouth anyway. "seoyeon!" you tried again.
she turned around briefly while running, hair bouncing wildly. "no!" she yelled back with absolute confidence, then ran faster. you groaned, "oh, come on."
behind you, jay locked the car with a soft beep and leaned casually against it for a moment, arms folding across his chest as he watched the scene unfold. a quiet smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes drifted back to you. the way you had already started after her without hesitation, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy from the breeze. he caught himself watching for a second too long before he looked away.
somehow, after last night, everything felt slightly different. the kitchen conversation still lingered in your mind like an echo that hadn't faded yet. the way his voice sounded when he admitted he didn't know if he was enough. the way his hand had tightened around yours. the way his eyes looked at you like something inside him had shifted.
now here you were, standing a few feet away from him like nothing had changed. except it had, even if neither of you said it out loud.
"are you going after her or just letting her escape?" he called lazily from behind you. you glanced over your shoulder at him. his expression was relaxed, but his eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary. "i'm going. someone has to," you said, starting toward the playground. you pointed at him, "and i know it's not going to be you."
you jogged across the grass toward the playground. the moment seoyeon saw you coming, she gasped like a tiny criminal caught in the act. "noooo!" she darted behind the slide, disappearing from sight. you slowed down dramatically, placing your hands on your hips and pretending to look around. "hm, i could've sworn there was a tiny human here a second ago."
you walked slowly past the slide, a giggle echoing from behind it. "oh no..." you murmured. "i think she might be hiding."
another giggle burst out. you crept closer. "i hope she didn't disappear forever," you continued, playing along. her father would be very upset."
suddenly, seoyeon exploded from behind the ladder and ran straight past you. you gasped in exaggerated betrayal, "oh! there she is!" you chased her again, arms outstretched as she shrieked with laughter.
jay had wandered over to the benches by then, hands resting in his jacket pockets as he watched the two of you run circles. he didn't realize he was smiling. there was something about the way you treated her. not only playful, but also patient and easy, like being around her didn't feel like a responsibility to you. and when you laughed — breathless and bright — something in his chest tightened unexpectedly.
seoyeon finally ran out of steam near the swings. she bent forward slightly, breathing hard, hair messy from the wind and running. "appa," she called between breaths, pointing at the swing. jay pushed himself off the bench. "yes, princess?"
"push me."
you arrived a second later, trying to catch your breath. "she tricked me into cardio," you muttered. jay snorted, "rookie mistake."
seoyeon climbed onto the swing and grabbed the chains tightly. jay stepped behind her and gave the seat a gentle push. the swing moved forward slowly, then back, then forward again. "higher," the toddler demanded. jay pushed again, slightly harder this time. "you always say that."
you leaned against the metal frame of the swing set nearby, watching them. jay's movements were calm and familiar. there was something about him when he was with her. you noticed it more clearly now than you had before. your chest softened slightly.
seoyeon eventually dragged her shoes against the ground after a few minutes, slowing the swing until it stopped. then she hopped off as if she had finished an important mission, "okay!"
jay blinked. "that's it?"
but she had already grabbed both your hands before either of you could react. her tiny fingers wrapped tightly around yours and jay's. she started marching down the paved path that circled the playground. "walk with me."
seoyeon swung your arms as she walked proudly between you. the three of you moved slowly under the glowing park lights. the sky had turned deep blue, the first stars just barely visible between the tree branches.
for a moment, everything felt peaceful. then suddenly, seoyeon stopped so abruptly that you and jay nearly bumped into her. she looked up at the both of you with narrowed eyes. "why don't you two hold hands?"
your brain completely blanked. "i— what?"
jay cleared his throat, "that's not really—"
seoyeon frowned, "you guys are walking weird. like this—" she exaggerated two stiff arm swings while still holding your hands. "like robots."
during the demonstration, she had shifted slightly. now your hand and jay's were only a few centimeters apart. your fingers brushed lightly when she swung your arms again. both of you stiffened. seoyeon looked between you suspiciously. "just hold hands."
neither of you moved, making her sigh dramatically — the kind only toddlers somehow perfected. "you're adults." then she suddenly dropped both your hands. before you could do anything, she ran several steps ahead down the path. "you two catch up!"
and just like that, the buffer between you disappeared. now you were walking side by side. your hands hung awkwardly near each other, the space very noticeable — too noticeable. your hands brushed again accidentally when your steps matched.
jay hesitated, a small pause in his movements. like he was deciding something. then, his hand reached out. his fingers wrapped gently around yours. "for balance," he said quietly, like he was explaining it to himself as much as to you. you looked up at him. he kept his gaze forward, jaw tight. but the tips of his ears were faintly red. your chest fluttered. and this time, you didn't pull away. your fingers shifted slightly in his hand instead — fitting more naturally. something in your shoulders relaxed without you realizing it.
ahead of you, seoyeon turned around when she realized you weren't immediately behind her. her eyes dropped instantly to your hands, and her entire face lit up. "there! see? not weird anymore!" she pointed out proudly. jay laughed quietly under his breath. your fingers tightened around his slightly. and as you continued walking down the path together.
seoyeon marched ahead of you both like she was leading an expedition, hopping from one crack in the pavement to another with the full seriousness of someone balancing over lava. "careful, princess!" you told her. "i know!" she shouted back. her arms stretched out like a tightrope walker, lips pursed in concentration. "if i fall, i die!"
jay chuckled softly beside you. "that's dramatic," he said. "hey, those are the rules," you spat with a quiet laugh. seoyeon leapt across a wider gap, landing with a triumphant little hop before continuing down the sidewalk.
jay walked beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed occasionally when the path narrowed. your hand was still in his. for a while, neither of you spoke. but the silence wasn't uncomfortable. if anything, it felt careful — the both of you aware of something new between you and didn't want to move too quickly and break it.
the air carried quiet sounds of the evening. leaves rustling, a distant car passing, seoyeon humming to herself as she chased her own shadow further ahead. you watched her with a faint smile tugging at your lips. then you said it without really thinking. "well... enjoy it while it lasts."
jay glanced at you, brow lifting slightly. "hm?"
"i mean this." you gestured toward seoyeon, who was now trying to walk along the edge of the curb again like a balance beam. "the park trips. the chaos."
jay tilted his head slightly, amused. "you're acting like we're moving away tomorrow."
you laughed softly, shaking your head. "i just mean... eventually. i won't always be around to do this stuff with her."
the words were meant to be casual — an offhand comment. but the moment they left your mouth, jay stopped walking. your hand was still in his so when his steps halted, your arm tugged slightly. you turned toward him, "what?"
he was staring at you. not confused. it was something sharper than that. "what do you mean?" your smile faded a little. "oh— nothing," you said quickly. "just... you know. life." jay didn't move. the warmth of his hand around yours suddenly felt tense. "what life?" he pressed.
"i meant like... that's how life works," you replied with a small shrug. "people move. careers change. i might take opportunities somewhere else eventually."
the moment the words left your mouth, jay let go of your hand. "you're leaving?" he asked. you frowned, "i— i didn't say that."
"but you're thinking about it."
"i'm thinking about my future," you defended, confusion creeping into your voice. he dragged a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps forward before turning back toward you. "that's not the same thing, yn." you were confused. lost. you couldn't pinpoint what he meant. "jay, it's normal to have plans."
"plans that don't include us?" the words slipped out before he could stop them. "us?" you repeated slowly.
he looked away immediately, jaw tightening like he wished he could talk it back. ahead of you, seoyeon was still kicking a small rock along the pavement like it was a soccer ball, completely oblivious to whatever storm was unfolding behind her. "why are you reacting like this?" you asked in a whisper. "why does it matter so much to you?"
"you remember what i told you last night?"
your chest tightened slightly at the memory. the kitchen, the quiet house, the way his voice cracked as he spoke about standing in the hallway while seoyeon cried. "i remember," you said softly. jay nodded. "then you know why." he stepped closer, lowering his voice instinctively even though seoyeon was far enough. "do you know how long it took her to trust someone after everything with her mom?"
your stomach twisted. "jay—"
"i spent two years making sure she felt stable again. making sure she didn't think people just... disappear like that," he continued. "and now she's attached to you. more than i've seen with anyone in a long time."
you swallowed, "i care about her too."
"i know you do."
you shifted your weight. "then what's the problem?"
he looked at you like the answer should have been obvious. "the problem is that you're important not only to her." he inhaled before continuing. "you think it's easy for me? pretending i don't feel anything?" his frustration spilled just like the previous night. you stared at him. "what?"
jay let out a breath like something inside him had finally snapped loose. "do you have any idea how hard it is for me to act normal around you?" his voice was tight. "after everything i told you last night?"
"i was terrified of letting someone into my life again. everything got messy. it hurt seoyeon so much." he said. "and then you walk into our lives and suddenly everything feels different again." he gestured vaguely toward the street, the quiet neighborhood, the direction seoyeon had run. "the house feels lighter. she laughs more."
he added, "damn it, i even start looking forward to seeing you like some idiot."
"and now you're casually talking about leaving," he finished, voice dropping.
the silence between you stretched tight. you crossed your arms slightly, biting the inside of your cheek. "you think you're the only one struggling here, jay?"
he blinked.
"you think this, whatever this is, has been easy for me?" you continued. your voice wasn't loud, but it was slightly shaking now. "i've been trying to keep distance for months," you admitted. "trying to act like i don't notice the way you look at me. or how things feel when we're around each other."
"you're the one who said you didn't want anyone close again. you made it clear," you muttered. "so what exactly was i supposed to do with that?"
his expression faltered. the question hit him harder than anything else you had said. your voice lightened despite the ache building in your chest. "i care about you, jay." the admission settled into the night air between you. "I care about seoyeon too. and that's exactly why i've been careful."
his gaze dropped to the pavement. "i know. i was just scared."
your heart thudded painfully in your chest. after everything he told you last night about his marriage, about the divorce, about feeling like he failed, about everything — his reaction made sense.
seoyeon's voice suddenly floated back toward you from near the car. "are you guys coming?" she was standing near the car now, hands on her hips, impatient.
neither of you answered. jay's gaze lifted back to yours. you blinked, a tear slipping free. you wiped it quickly with the back of your hand. "coming, princess!" you forced your voice bright.
you turned and started walking toward her. but as you passed jay, he gently caught your wrist. his voice was quiet. "i don't want you to leave." the words were simple, but they carried everything he hadn't said before.
seoyeon groaned dramatically from the car. "if you guys are kissing, i'm telling grandma!" she tested. you let out a startled laugh through the leftover tears. jay rubbed the back of his neck, muttering under his breath, "unbelievable."
the next few days felt different. not dramatically different. nothing obvious enough for anyone outside the house to notice. the routines were still the same — the same breakfast table, the same afternoon cartoons, the same quiet evenings after dinner.
but the air between you and jay had shifted. it was the kind of change that lived in small things — the way conversations ended a little too early, the way both of you suddenly found something else to look at whenever the other walked into the room, the way a thin and fragile silence lingered longer than it used to.
on tuesday noon you were at the dining table beside seoyeon, leaning your elbow on the table as you helped her with her homework. or... tried to help.
she sat cross-legged on the chair, a pencil wedged between her teeth, cheeks puffed slightly as she stared down at the worksheet like it had personally insulted her. you watched her for a long moment before finally speaking. “you’re not even reading the problem,” you said gently. her eyes stayed on the paper, “i am." the words came out muffled around the pencil.
“you’re staring at it," you corrected. “that’s part of reading.” she frowned, looking up at you. you tried very hard not to smile.
across the table, jay sat with his laptop open. a spreadsheet filled the screen — rows and rows of numbers and documents layered behind it. a small bowl of grapes rested beside the laptop. normally by now he would've said something — like some sarcastic comment about seoyeon negotiating with basic math like it was a business contract. or maybe even tease you for being too patient with her.
today he didn’t. he just kept working. the quiet tapping of his keyboard blended with the soft scratching of seoyeon's pencil. you felt his presence in the room the same way you had for months. but now it made your chest tighten so easily.
your eyes stayed glued to the sheet. “so,” you said, tapping the page with the end of your pen. “if there are twelve apples in a basket and you eat four of them—”
seoyeon immediately shook her head. “i would never eat only four apples," she protested. you let out a slow breath. “okay. let's say you heroically eat six apples.”
she considered that carefully, then giggled. “better.”
“how many apples are left in the basket?”
she placed the pencil down and began counting on her fingers with intense concentration. her lips moved silently while she counted. "...six," she announced proudly. you narrowed your eyes. "princess, if you eat six out of twelve— oh." you blinked once, then twice in defeat. she pouted. “still six.”
you couldn't help it — a quiet laugh slipped out of you. "you're right. still six," you nodded solemnly which made seoyeon smile smugly.
out of the corner of your eye, you saw jay glance up from his laptop. the moment was short — barely a second — but it was enough for your stomach to twist. because the second your eyes started to lift, he looked away. and your heart sank a little.
later that evening, you stood on the back porch with your arms loosely wrapped around yourself, leaning your shoulder lightly against the wooden post. seoyeon ran across the grass, kicking a soccer ball that was a little too big. every few steps the ball bounced too far away from her and she chased it with frantic determination.
"careful!" you called half-heartedly. "i am careful!" she shouted back before kicking the ball too hard again.
through the sliding glass door behind you, you could see jay moving around the kitchen. he wiped down the counter slowly, one hand holding a dish towel while the other steadied himself against the marble.
it felt strange. just a week ago, you would’ve been standing inside with him — leaning against the counter, talking about something stupid, teasing him about the way he always looked overly serious while doing the most mundane things. now, it felt like there was an invisible line neither of you wanted to cross.
the memory of the evening at the playground had been replaying in your head on a constant loop. the quiet moment, the conversation, the words that hovered in the air between you. and your own words right before it.
i might take opportunities somewhere else eventually. you groaned quietly to yourself, pressing your fingers against your forehead. why did you say that? why did you make it sound like you were already halfway out the door?
the door suddenly shifted open behind you with a soft sound. your shoulders instinctively straightened. jay stepped outside, the cool air brushing past him as he closed the door. neither of you spoke right away. he walked over to the railing and leaned his forearms against it, his hands clasped together. his gaze drifted toward seoyeon running across the yard. “you’re gonna break something!" he called out to her. “i won’t!” she shouted back instantly before kicking the ball again — it flew sideways and nearly hit a garden pot — and jay could only sigh quietly under his breath.
he shifted slightly beside you. “you don’t have to stay out here,” he said after a moment. your brows knit together, “i know.” another pause settled between you.
god, this was painful. you used to talk so easily. now every sentence felt like stepping on unstable ground. you rubbed your arm absentmindedly, brushing your hand over your sleeve. jay noticed, “are you sure you’re not cold?”
“i said i'm fine.”
seoyeon suddenly kicked the ball too hard. it rolled straight toward the porch and bumped into the steps. she sprinted after it, slightly out of breath when she reached you. “did you see that?” she asked, pushing hair out of her face. “very impressive,” you smiled. jay nodded. “future professional.”
she beamed. then her eyes bounced between the two of you. her expression slowly changed, brows now scrunched. “why are you guys weird?” she asked. jay frowned slightly. “what do you mean weird?”
seoyeon planted a hand on her hips like a tiny detective. “you don’t talk anymore.”
you opened your mouth. nothing came out. jay shifted beside you. “that’s not true,” he said gently. “yes it is," she insisted right away, then pointed at both of you accusingly. “you used to laugh together, and now you don’t,” she added. the bluntness of it hit harder than you expected.
you crouched down in front of her. “we still laugh,” you said softly. she shook her head without hesitation. “no you don’t.” then, her voice grew smaller, “did you fight?”
your heart squeezed. “no,” you responded.
she looked unconvinced. her gaze shifted to jay. “appa?” jay hesitated for a moment, then he crouched down too, meeting her eye level. “we didn’t fight,” he said.
“then why aren’t you two smiling together anymore?” the question hung in the air. it was heavy. jay didn’t answer right away, neither did you. seoyeon looked between the two of you again, clearly waiting for a real explanation. jay rubbed the back of his neck in deep thought. “sometimes adults just… think too much,” he said.
“that’s a dumb reason.”
a chuckle escaped out of you. jay huffed out a quiet breath that might’ve been the beginning of a laugh too. seoyeon brightened immediately. “there!” she shouted suddenly, pointing. “you did it! you smiled at the same time.”
your chest tightened again. jay’s eyes lifted to yours for a brief moment. and this time neither of you looked away immediately, but the weight of everything unspoken was still there — lingering, quiet, and unresolved.
seoyeon kicked the soccer ball again. “okay,” she declared. “you’re both coming to play.” she grabbed your hand, then jay’s, and started pulling both of you toward the grass. jay sighed under his breath, but he let her drag him forward anyway.
the “soccer game” lasted longer than either of you had expected. mostly because seoyeon kept inventing new rules every five minutes. at first, it had been simple enough — kicking the ball back and forth across the yard while she ran wildly between the two of you, giggling every time she managed to steal the ball.
but at some point, the game stopped being soccer entirely. the rules had evolved into something closer to chaotic running, dramatic flopping, and occasional ball kicking. jay jogged after seoyeon as she attempted to run across the yard with the ball clutched under her arm. "hey! no hands, princess!" you yelled playfully. she stopped and gasped at herself, "oops." then she tossed the ball back down and kicked it again.
jay jogged past you with a quiet huff of laughter. "this kid is impossible," he groaned. you looked at him, "you're her dad, jay."
by the time seoyeon finally wore herself out, the sky had turned fully dark and the yard lights cast soft yellow circles across the grass. seoyeon flopped dramatically onto the ground, breathing hard. “i’m done,” she groaned, starfishing on the ground. jay nudged the soccer ball toward the porch with the tip of his shoe. “go grab some water.”
“i can’t move.” her chest heaved up and down rapidly as she tried to catch her breath. jay squinted suspiciously. “you can run ten laps,” he mentioned. seoyeon shook her head in disagreement, “no. i can run one lap ten times.”
“that’s still ten laps.”
seoyeon groaned louder but pushed herself up from the grass anyway, trudging toward the house like she had just completed a marathon. “i’m getting juice!” she shouted as she opened the sliding door. the door slid shut. and just like that, the yard fell quiet again. the sudden silence was noticeable. the distant hum of crickets filled the space where seoyeon's constant chatter had been seconds before.
you leaned your hands on your knees slightly, catching your breath. “she’s going to sleep well tonight,” you said. jay hummed. “one can hope.”
you were both watching the closed door, waiting to make sure seoyeon didn’t immediately reappear with another rule... or a snack she definitely wasn’t supposed to have. when she didn’t, jay finally stepped closer to the porch railing and rested his forearms against it. you joined him a second later.
jay rubbed the back of his neck slowly. your stomach tightened slightly — you knew that gesture. he was thinking about something. “hey,” he said quietly. you glanced over at him. “yeah?”
he didn’t look at you right away. instead, he watched the dark yard like the answer might be somewhere out there. “about what i said the other night," he started. your chest tightened immediately. of course. you tried to keep your voice steady. “which part?”
“…the part where i told you i didn’t want you to leave.”
your fingers curled lightly against the wooden railing. jay finally looked over at you. “i didn’t mean to scare you.”
you turned toward him a little more. “then why did you say it?”
he didn’t answer just then. the porch light cast soft shadows across his face. his jaw shifted slightly the way it always did when he was choosing his words carefully. “i didn’t plan to.” he rubbed his thumb across the railing absently. “for the record, i wasn’t trying to pressure you.” he said quietly. “i just…” he paused, searching for the right words. “i reacted.”
“to what?”
he finally turned his body toward you. “to the idea of you not being here.” the honesty in his voice made your stomach flip.
“like… you could wake up tomorrow and decide that a job somewhere else makes more sense,” he continued. “or that being tied to… this situation isn’t what you want long-term.” he gestured faintly toward the house — toward the life inside it, toward seoyeon.
your chest tightened. “that’s not fair.” jay looked deep into your eyes. “i know. but it matters to me.”
jay took a step closer, closing the distance enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence more clearly now. “you asked earlier why I reacted like that,” he said quietly. “this is why.”
your pulse thudded loudly in your ears. “jay…”
“i spent a long time convincing myself that i didn’t need anyone like that again,” he continued, his voice remained steady. “but then you showed up.” your heart was beating way too fast now. he carried on, “and suddenly everything I worked so hard to keep simple got complicated again.”
you let out a quiet breath. “you make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”
he shook his head slowly. “that’s the problem, yn.” he looked down for a second before lifting his gaze back to you. “it's not.”
he took another small step forward. now the space between you was barely a couple of feet. “do you know how many times i’ve almost said something to you?” he said quietly. your lips parted slightly. “what kind of something?”
his mouth twitched faintly, “exactly the kind you’re thinking.” your stomach flipped hard. his gaze dropped briefly to your hands resting against the railing, then slowly lifted back to your face. “i really tried not to. because i know that the moment i say it out loud, things will change.”
he studied you carefully. he inhaled like he was finally about to say the thing he’d been circling around for days. “yn, i—”
“appa!”
seoyeon’s voice burst through the open sliding door. the both of you jumped a little before turning toward the house. she stood in the doorway holding a bottle of juice. “i can’t open this!”
jay closed his eyes briefly, a quiet and defeated exhale escaping him. you couldn’t stop the small laugh that slipped out. the timing was almost unbelievable. seoyeon waved the carton impatiently. “hello?!”
jay rubbed his forehead. “coming, princess.”
he glanced back at you. then, seoyeon shouted again. “appaaaa!”
jay shook his head with a quiet sigh and started walking toward the door. but before stepping inside, he paused. his gaze flicked back to you once more. and even though he hadn’t finished what he was about to say… you were almost certain you already knew what it was.
that night, the kitchen smelled of garlic and sesame oil. the scent had slowly filled the apartment over the last twenty minutes, warm and savory, drifting down the hallway and curling around the living room like an invitation to come closer. the overhead light above the stove cast a soft golden glow across the countertops, reflecting faintly against the stainless steel pots and the glossy tiles behind the range.
jay stood at the stove, one hand gripping the handle of a pan while the other stirred slowly with a wooden spatula. every few seconds, the pan hissed quietly, the sound sharps but comforting in the otherwise calm kitchen.
you sat at the small dining table helping seoyeon arrange chopsticks beside the plates. the table had already been set with plates and napkins, but she had taken it upon herself to handle the chopsticks like they were the most important responsibility in the house. she approached it with the seriousness of a tiny event planner.
each pair had to be perfectly parallel. she placed one down, leaned back slightly to inspect it, then leaned forward again to adjust it by barely half a centimeter. then she frowned, then moved it again.
you rested your elbow on the table and propped your cheek against your hand, watching her reposition the exact same set for the third time. "princess," you muttered lazily, voice quiet but amused. "they were fine the first time."
"they're not," she replied stubbornly. she nudged one of them again, then the other.
you exhaled a quiet laugh through your nose. "you're very particular for someone who just spent thirty minutes making up illegal soccer rules," you murmured. "that wasn't illegal!" she protested, placing both hands on the table as she defended herself.
jay let out a quiet huff from the stove. he was still focused on cooking, shoulders relaxed while he stirred the pan again, but the corner of his mouth twitched faintly like he was fighting a smile. seoyeon noticed it. "see?" she pointed a finger toward him. "appa agrees with me."
"i didn't say anything, princess," he replied without looking up. she shrugged sassily, "you didn't have to."
you snorted softly, shaking your head.
the quiet comfort of the kitchen wrapped around the three of you after that, the argument dissolving into easy silence — the clink of dishes, the scrape of the chair leg against tile, the low hum of the range hood above the stove.
jay reached forward to turn the heat down slightly, stirring the vegetables once more before adding a splash of sauce from a small glass bowl. the pan hissed louder for a moment as the liquid hit the hot surface. the smell immediately deepened. seoyeon sniffed the air dramatically. "it smells so good," she announced. jay nodded, "that's the goal, princess."
a minute later, jay turned off the stove. the sudden quiet after the sizzling stopped made the room feel calmer somehow. "dinner's ready," he stated simply. seoyeon immediately climbed onto her chair at the table like she hadn't been the one pretending to be exhausted twenty minutes earlier after the so-called soccer match. you carried the last bowl over while jay set the pan down in the middle of the table, steam curling upward in thin ribbons.
the three of you settled into your seats. jay sat across from you. seoyeon sat beside you, swinging her legs under the chair while she picked up her chopsticks. for a few minutes, the only sounds were chopsticks tapping lightly against bowls and seoyeon happily chewing her food. then— "appa, i have something important to say."
jay glanced up. "that sentence never leads to anything good," he said. seoyeon's eyes widened, "it does!"
she then sat up straighter in her chair, clearly preparing for something dramatic. you glanced between the two of them with mild curiosity. "i have a performance next week!" she cheered. you raised both eyebrows, "really? what kind of performance?"
"dance!" her eyes sparkled with excitement. jay wiped his mouth with a napkin. "the one you mentioned yesterday with the sparkly shoes?" he cocked an eyebrow. she nodded vigorously, "yes!"
seoyeon then turned her full attention toward you. her expression suddenly softened into something hopeful. "yn?" she pouted. you blinked, "yes?"
"will you come?"
the question caught you a little off guard. your eyes flickered briefly toward jay. "i—" you hesitated for a second before answering carefully but warmly with a grin. "i would love to." her face immediately lit up. "but," you added, lifting a finger. "only if your appa says it's okay."
seoyeon turned her entire body toward jay so quickly her chair squeaked against the floor. "appa, you have to say yes. you're going to say yes. pleeeeeease."
he narrowed his eyes slightly as he studied her, leaning back in his chair slowly. "why are you negotiating like this?"
"because this is really important."
jay looked at you. you tried to seem neutral, suddenly very interested in your rice. seoyeon leaned across the table toward him. "she has to come," she practically threatened. jay frowned slightly, "why?" he questioned. seoyeon looked like the answer was obvious. "because." she uttered. jay tilted his head in mild amusement, "that's not an explanation."
she thought for a moment. then pointed at you. "because she's my person." the words landed softly but heavily in the space between you. your chest tightened a little, warmth flooding up into your throat. you stared down at your plate, blinking quickly as you felt the slightest sting behind your eyes. across you, jay went still for a mere moment.
seoyeon continued, completely unaware of the emotional bomb she had just dropped. "and everyone's parents will be there," she explained. "and some people even bring their grandparents and cousins and stuff."
jay rubbed his temple. "you'll already have me there."
she crossed her arms stubbornly. "yeah, but that's not the point." she leaned closer, lowering her voice like she was revealing a top secret mission. "i want both of you there."
your heart skipped a beat. jay stared at her. "...both of us."
seoyeon then slid out of her chair. she marched around the table and planted herself beside jay, wrapping her arms around his arm dramatically. "appa," she pleaded. jay looked down at her, "you're emotionally manipulating me."
she only squeezed tighter. "please?" she begged over and over. jay sighed quietly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "you know she doesn't actually need my permission to attend a public school performance," he explained, glancing toward you. you shrugged lightly. "she asked you."
"appaaaaa," she sang. jay looked at her again. her eyes were wide, hopeful, completely determined. he stared at her for a long moment, then his gaze shifted toward you. something thoughtful passed through his expression. "...fine."
seoyeon gasped like it was a miracle. "really?!"
he nodded, "yes." when the words left jay's lips, she immediately launched herself into a hug around his neck. "you're the best appa ever!" she celebrated. he chuckled, patting her back, "i know."
she spun around toward you with pure excitement. "you're coming!" she jumped up and down. you laughed softly, "i guess i am."
and the next week arrived quicker than you expected. the days seemed to blur together in a strange mix of routine and anticipation. every morning started the same way — seoyeon reminding both of you about her performance like it was a national holiday. at breakfast, before school, after school, during dinner, and once while brushing her teeth with toothpaste foam still clinging to the corners of her mouth.
"you're coming, right?" she had asked for what had to be the fifth time that morning while tugging on her backpack straps. jay stood near the door holding his car keys, already half prepared to drive her to school. "yes," he said patiently. "we're coming."
seoyeon narrowed her eyes slightly, studying him like she was checking for signs of dishonesty. she looked at you next, "you too?" she interrogated. you nodded, "i said i would."
she puffed her cheeks out slightly and tilted her head up toward you, eyes wide and suspicious in the most adorable way possible. "promise?" she inquired. you nodded with a chuckle, "promise."
the sky was gray by the time you and jay arrived at the school that afternoon. clouds hung low overhead, heavy with the kind of rain that felt inevitable. the parking lot buzzed with parents arriving, umbrellas tucked under arms just in case. children ran through the front gates laughing, their voices echoing across the courtyard.
jay walked beside you toward the gymnasium, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket. he looked somewhat tense. not obviously, but you noticed the small things. like the way his jaw shifted slightly, the way he kept checking the time on his phone, the way his fingers tapped lightly against the side of his leg as you walked.
"you look more nervous than she does," you murmured. jay glanced at you. "i'm not nervous," he claimed but his voice was slightly shaking. you hummed quietly. "right, of course."
he sighed under his breath. "it's her first performance," he said defensively. "and she worked really hard on it. so i just want it to go well." he looked ahead toward the gym doors, gulping. your lips curved slightly. "it will."
his eyes scanned your expression. "you sound very confident," he raised one eyebrow. you squinted, "she's literally seoyeon, jay." and that seemed to satisfy him more than any detailed explanation could have.
inside, the gym was already filling with families. rows of folding chairs stretched across the floor facing a small temporary stage decorated with colorful paper stars and balloons. soft music played from speakers near the stage while teachers hurried around organizing the children.
you and jay found seats about halfway back. the seats were close enough that your shoulders brushed occasionally when either of you shifted. neither of you commented on it.
jay leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees while scanning the stage. "do you see her?" his leg bounced anxiously. you squinted toward the curtain where a cluster of small dancers stood waiting in glittery costumes. "third from the left," you spotted. he followed your gaze. seoyeon stood near the edge of the group, wearing a sparkly blue outfit and matching hair ribbon. she was bouncing lightly on her feet like she physically couldn't stand still. jay let out a quiet breath. "god, she looks tiny."
you giggled, "she is tiny."
"i know, but still," he muttered. you could see the pride written clearly across his face.
when the lights turned off and the music finally started, the chatter in the gym quieted. the children ran onto the stage. seoyeon spotted the two of you almost immediately. her eyes widened and she waved enthusiastically. jay lifted his hand in a small wave back. "focus," you whispered, slapping his hand lightly. he dropped it quickly.
the dance began. it was a chaotic mix of enthusiastic arm swings, slightly delayed steps, and occasional confusion about where everyone was supposed to stand. but seoyeon danced like she was performing in front of a stadium. she spun dramatically, clapped off-beat, and at one point she looked directly at you and jay again just to make sure you were still watching.
jay leaned closer to you just a little. "is she supposed to be that far to the left?" he scratched the top of his head. you licked your lips, "...probably?"
"she's not following the line," he mumbled. you shook your head, "it's interpretive."
he huffed quietly and answered many questions, but the widest grin ever never left his face.
when the music ended, the entire gym erupted into applause. seoyeon bowed enthusiastically with the rest of the group. then the moment the curtain started to close, she bolted off the stage. you both barely had time to react before she came sprinting across the gym floor straight toward the two of you. "appa! yn!"
jay stood up just in time to catch her, carrying her into his arms. she crashed into him at full speed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "did you see me?!" she had the widest smile you'd ever seen. "yes! you were amazing, princess." he pulled her into a tight hug and landed a small kiss on the top of her head. she immediately turned toward you next. "did you see my spin?" she beamed. you leaned to hug her, "i saw everything."
without really thinking about it, the three of you ended up wrapped together in one tangled hug. seoyeon clung to both of you proudly. for a moment, none of you moved. it felt... natural. like something that had happened a hundred times before.
a voice suddenly spoke nearby, "oh! there she is."
you turned slightly. one of the teachers walked over with a clipboard in hand. she smiled warmly at the three of you. "she did wonderfully, didn't she?" she raised her eyebrows. jay nodded instantly, "she did."
the teacher looked between the two of you. "you must be very proud," she exclaimed. "we are," you said.
she tilted her head. "are you seoyeon's parents?"
your brain froze for a second. you wanted to deny it, the words were on the tip of your tongue. but before you could answer, jay spoke first. "something like that."
the teacher smiled kindly. "well, you two make a very supportive couple," she didn't forget to mention. you instinctively glanced at jay. he didn't correct her, didn't clarify, he simply held seoyeon in his arms while looking down at her with twinkling eyes. "thank you," he responded calmly.
the gymnasium slowly began to empty after the performance ended. parents gathered their children, teachers stacked folding chairs, and the low hum of conversation filled the space again as families filtered toward the exits. the stage lights dimmed, leaving the colorful paper stars hanging above the curtain swaying slightly.
you and jay walked toward the front entrance while seoyeon bounced between the two of you, still wearing her sparkly blue costume and ribbon. the tiny dance bag hung loosely from jay's shoulder as he followed along beside you.
jay glanced down at the two of you and shook his head softly when seoyeon couldn't stop talking and asking questions to you. "we created a monster," he said. you nudged him lightly with your shoulder and corrected, "you created a star."
by the time you reached the front doors, the sky outside had darkened noticeably. the heavy gray clouds that had hovered all afternoon had finally given in. it wasn't pouring yet, but a soft drizzle had started falling across the parking lot. seoyeon pressed both hands against the glass doors and peered outside, "rain!"
"we should run to the car," jay frowned. before he could even reach into the bag for an umbrella, seoyeon had already pushed the door open and darted outside. "what— seoyeon!" you said.
she skipped straight into the drizzle, tilting her face up toward the sky while raindrops dotted her ribbon. you laughed quietly and followed her out into the cool air. "hey, hey. you're going to get soaked, princess," you called, jogging a few steps closer to her. she stretched her arms out as the light rain fell around her, "but it feels nice!"
behind you, jay was still fumbling through the bag. by the time he finally found the umbrella and stepped outside, he noticed the two of you already several steps away in the rain. he sighed then jogged toward you.
you had just brushed a small raindrop off seoyeon's cheek when footsteps splashed quickly behind you. "seriously?" jay said as he reached you, slightly out of breath. you turned just in time to see him open the umbrella over his head. "i leave for five seconds and you two start a rain festival."
he then instinctively grabbed your wrist and pulled you under the umbrella with him. the movement was quick and automatic, and suddenly, you were standing directly beneath the umbrella with him — very close.
the umbrella wasn't very large, which meant your shoulders nearly touched. rain tapped softly against the umbrella above you, the steady sound filling the quiet space.
a few stray droplets had caught in jay's hair before he opened it. one slowly slid down along his temple before disappearing into the collar of his jacket.
you noticed it. and apparently he noticed you noticing.
the world suddenly felt a little quieter. seoyeon's splashing in a nearby puddle echoed faintly somewhere behind you, but the sound felt distant. jay cleared his throat softly. "you'll catch a cold," he murmured. you looked up at him, and he was already looking at you. there was barely any distance between your faces.
jay inhaled slowly, his chest rising and falling beneath the damp fabric of his jacket. the faint warmth of his breath mixed with the cool rainy air between you. rainwater slid off the edge of the umbrella and dripped steadily onto the pavement beside your shoes.
his hand brushed lightly against yours. your heart began beating just a little faster. jay's eyes flicked downward for a brief second — just long enough for you to notice — before returning to yours. his grip tightened slightly around the umbrella handle. another inch closer and—
splash! cold water exploded across the front of your shoes. both of you jumped. seoyeon stood there beside a large puddle, staring at you proudly. "look!"
the moment shattered instantly.
seoyeon stomped again and again. jay dragged a hand down his face with a quiet groan, "princess..."
you burst out laughing. jay turned to look at you, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "you're encouraging her," he accused. "i'm not," you protested through your laughter.
seoyeon grabbed your hand suddenly, "come jump with me!" she grinned. not giving you a chance to object, she tugged you toward the puddle. "hey—" jay began.
too late. splash! water soaked the edge of your pants as seoyeon jumped again, giggling loudly. jay stood there for a moment watching the two of you. then he sighed quietly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "unbelievable." but instead of stopping you, he stepped closer and tilted the umbrella so it covered the both of you again. "if you get sick, i'm not explaining to the doctors that you caught penumonia because you joined a five-year-old puddle gang."
you laughed again, breathless. jay watched you for a second longer than necessary. rain dotted the sleeve of your jacket, and you hair started to curl from the moisture. and for a bried moment, he thought — you looked really good like this. he cleared his throat quickly and looked away before the thought lingered too long. "alright, car. now."
by the time you returned home, night had settled quietly. the rain from earlier had faded into a softer drizzle that tapped lightly against the windows. inside, everything felt calm again after the excitement of the performance. seoyeon had changed out of her sparkly costume and into her pajamas, though the blue ribbon still hung slightly crooked in her hair because she refused to take it off. "i'm keeping it!" she declared, and jay didn't bother to argue.
now the three of you sat around the small living room coffee table. seoyeon laid on her stomach on the floor with a box of crayons scattered around her while she worked very seriously on a sheet of paper.
jay leaned back on the couch behind her, absently scrolling through his phone while keeping one eye on whatever she was doing. you sat nearby, legs tucked beneath yourself, watching the quiet little scene unfold.
"done!" she suddenly announced as she popped up onto her knees. "look!" she held the paper up proudly. you leaned forward immediately and jay lowered his phone. the drawing was exactly what you'd expect from a five-year-old — uneven stick figures, bright crayon colors, and a large yellow sun floating in the corner.
three figures stood in the center holding hands. "that's me," she said, tapping on the smallest one in the middle that had a blue ribbon scribbled on top of its head. then she pointed to the taller one on the left, "that's appa," she said. jay smiled faintly. then she pointed to the third figure, "and that's yn."
she beamed, "it's our family picture."
you breath hitched slightly. then you smiled softly, "it's beautiful," you told her. jay nodded slowly, though his eyes lingered on the drawing longer than yours did. "yeah, it is," he murmured. seoyeon happily hung the drawing on the fridge with a magnet before running off to brush her teeth, still humming the dance music from earlier.
the moment passed — or, at least it seemed like it had. later that night, the house was dark and still. seoyeon had fallen asleep almost instantly after jay carried her to bed. the hallway light glowed faintly under her door while rain continued to fall softly outside.
you were in the kitchen, rinsing a glass when you felt someone step into the room behind you. you dried your hands and turned to see him eyeing the fridge — seoyeon's drawing. something in his expression looked tight. "don't do that." his voice was quiet, but it cut through the silence.
your forehead bunched. "do what?" you queried. jay exhaled slowly, running a hand over the back of his neck. "don't make her get used to you if you're planning to leave."
the words hit harder than you expected. you stared at him for a moment, trying to process what he had just said. "i'm not planning to leave," you assured. his jaw shifted slightly, and he started rambling. "she's a kid and she gets attached. and if you one day just decide to leave—"
"i'm not planning to leave, jay," you repeated, now with a much louder voice. a long pause followed as he looked at you with his lips parted. then your voice softened, "...unless you don't want me to stay."
he froze. for a moment, the only sound in the room was the rain hitting the windows. "why would you say that?" he asked quietly. you crossed your arms, "because you're acting like i'm temporary. but what about you?"
his expression shifted, "what about me?" he blinked. you held his gaze, "if i left tomorrow, would that really just hurt seoyeon?" silence stretched between you. then he looked away, "no."
you hadn't realized how close you had stepped until you noticed you were standing only a foot away from him now. "she already sees you as a family," he said. you nodded once, "and you?" your voice barely rose above a whisper. his shoulders rose with a slow breath. with a rougher voice, he answered, "i tried not to. but i started looking for you too."
your heart thudded painfully in your chest. "you think i want to walk away from that?" you chuckled like it was ridiculous. jay looked at you again, the tension now thick enough to touch. "you have no idea what you've become to us."
you swallowed. "then stop acting like i'm going to disappear," you added. jay stepped closer without even seeming to realize it, and something in his expression broke then. he reached for you like it was reflex. his hand wrapped around your wrist before sliding up your arm, pulling you toward him.
the kiss happened before either of you could think twice. it wasn't gentle — weeks of tension crashed together in one breathless moment. his mouth found yours with a kind of urgency that made your pulse spike. jay's other hand slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him. the kiss deepened quickly, now hungry and desperate. all the words you'd been holding back poured into it instead.
when you finally broke apart to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. the both of you breathed a little harder than before. jay's hand was still resting at the back of your neck, fingers lightly tangled in your hair like he wasn't ready to let go. "you shouldn't have said that you'd stay," he murmured quietly.
your brows knit together, "why?" you asked as you tried to catch your breath. his thumb brushed slowly along your jaw, gaze searching yours. "because now i'm going to hold you to it."
the way he said it made your stomach tighten. "good," you said softly. something in his eyes flickered at that. his hand slid down to your waist and pulled you closer again. this time the kiss started slower and much deeper — like he was taking his time learning the shape of you.
jay backed you a few steps until your hips bumped lightly against the kitchen counter. his hands settled there, gripping while your arms slid around his shoulders. he paused just long enough to look at you again. "tell me to stop."
you didn't. instead, you pulled him down into another kiss. that was all the answer he needed.
he exhaled softly against your mouth, one hand sliding from your waist to rest against the small of your back. the warmth of his palm pressed you closer against him. your fingers slid into his hair, tugging lightly. he groaned when you did. "god..." he muttered under his breath, like he couldn't quite believe it was real.
he broke the kiss once more, both of you gasping for air. his breath came in ragged puffs. "i've wanted to do that for so long," he managed to breathe out. you chuckled to yourself, earning a smile from him.
you leaned back just a little, enough to see his whole face. you brushed his hair with one hand, then moved it to his cheek. your thumb rubbed lazy circles on it, jay unconsciously leaning to the warmth of your palm. for a moment, jay just looked at you, chest rising and falling, eyes dark and unreadable. then he let out a slow breath and muttered, "are you... willing to try something real?"
your heart skipped. the words carried so much weight, so much meaning, that it felt like the air itself had grown heavier. your gaze deepened, feeling the vulnerability and honesty behind his question. "yes. i want to try. i want... this."
a slow, relieved smile spread across his face, and he exhaled quietly, as if the words themselves had been holding him hostage. "you mean it?" he asked, caressing your hip.
you nodded, pressing closer, resting your head on his chest. his arms engulfed you in a warm embrace as he placed his head on yours.
"appa?" the small, high-pitched, and all too familiar voice cut through the moment. jay's arms tightened instinctively before he slowly pulled away, turning toward the source of sound. you peeked past his shoulders to see none other than seoyeon, mimi clutched in hand, hair tousled and eyes half-lidded.
jay coughed, clearing his throat. "hey, princess... why are you awake?"
the little girl rose on her tiptoes, eyes landing on you. "yn?" she called. you straightened and plastered a bright grin on your face, "hi, seoyeonnie."
seoyeon yawned. "what are you guys doing?"
jay inhaled sharply, you could practically hear the gears in his head turning. "we, uh—" he hesitated, then scratched the back of his neck.. "appa was just grabbing something behind yn."
seoyeon stared at him for another beat, unimpressed. then she rolled her eyes and turned away. "you could just say you were hugging." she walked back inside her bedroom, closing the door behind her, not forgetting to mumble a small "good night" as she did so.
your mouth hung open right away, a small chuckle of shock leaving your lips. jay stood frozen in front of you. "did she just—" he said, turning around to face you.
you placed a palm on your mouth to stifle your laugh, only to fail right away as you burst out laughing. jay only looked at you, clearly not amused. "you cannot be laughing in a situation like this."
"i'm sorry," you nearly choked on your own words as giggles kept coming out of you.
he rolled his eyes with a groan and dropped his forehead against your shoulder. "i hate you," he murmured. you only laughed harder, knowing his words meant anything but that. "right," you teased softly, "of course you do."
you were still laughing when he let out a long sigh, his breath warm through the fabric of your shirt. "unbelievable," he mumbled. "i just confessed my feelings, almost died of embarrassment, and my daughter decides to humble me." you bit your lip, trying to compose yourself, but a grin kept tugging at the corners of your mouth, "she's too smart."
he straightened, expression now softer and less guarded. "stay."
you blinked, "tonight?"
he nodded, a little hesitant. "not for anything like that," he added quickly. "just... stay. in case she wakes up again. in case i mess up explaining things in the morning." a small pause, then, "in case i need you."
your heart warmed. "i wasn't planning to," you smiled. relief flickered across his face, followed by something quieter and deeper. he glanced at your lips for a second, and you took that as a sign to lean in, lips locking with his again. he moaned, the sound muffled.
your hand travelled down to his chest, then lower to his toned stomach. you felt him shiver under your touch. he leaned back with a small whine escaping his lips, "fuck, yn." you only managed to smirk before he crashed his mouth onto yours yet again.
this time, his hands travelled under your top, landing on your waist and gave it a small squeeze. you whimpered and gripped his hair, inching closer to his body, leaving little to no space in between the two of you. he caressed the soft skin with his thumb, making you melt more each second. he managed to slip his tongue inside your mouth, his spit now mixing with yours. and when the kiss was broken, a string of saliva connected you. you panted lightly, catching your breath. he sighed. "my room?"
you had never accepted to an invitation to bed so fastly, but you didn't (and don't) regret it. honestly, how could you when he was such a gentleman even in an intimate situation?
you laid on the bed, now bare, with jay hovering above you, clothes stripped off as well. "no condom? you sure, baby?" he reassured once more, looking at you with eyes full of care. you nodded once, "i'm so sure, jay. i'm on the pill." and jay mumbled an "okay." you split your legs apart on instinct, a silent call for him to scoot closer.
he looked down, lining up his shaft with your folds. he moved his hips, dick sliding on your slicked pussy. the pressure on your clit made you roll your eyes, "jay... please."
and without further delay, his cock slipped inside you in a painfully slow motion. it felt too good, how his cock slowly and surely filled you up inch by inch. you covered your mouth with a hand, stifling your moan. "ngh!" you muttered, back arching slightly.
jay was no better. god, the feeling of your tight pussy hugging and pulsing around him — he had never felt so much pleasure. "shit, so fuckin' tight," he groaned, voice small, careful not to wake up seoyeon next door.
bottoming out, he asked you, "can i move? do you need a moment?"
you shook your head, and jay immediately got to work. he pulled out more than half, only to slide in again with the same painful amount of force. you moaned along with him, walls now clenching harder around his shaft. "my god, jay—" you cut yourself off with a gasp when he grinded deeper. - he dropped his body on top of yours, pleasure too much to take. he whined beside your ear, "mmh, pussy's practically gripping my cock."
you wrapped your arms around his neck. "jay, more. please," you begged. he thrusted in and out of you with a faster pace then. he latched his lips onto your neck, suckling and leaving marks. "ah—!" you yelped when you felt his teeth nibble slightly on the skin under your ear.
"god, you drive me crazy, yn. you don't know," he muttered between wet kisses on your collarbone. "wanted this for so long." his hand moved up to your breasts, fondling then flicking a nipple. you whined at the feel of it.
he then propped into a slightly different position before continuing his movements. his cock brushed deeper with the new angle, making you moan louder than intended. "jay, fuck—! so deep!" you scratched his back, leaving a red line on his skin. he groaned at the sensation, "y'like that?" and you couldn't form any words, moaning as an answer instead. he chuckled, "yeah, you do, don't you?"
he straightened back up, eyes scanning your body under his. he nearly let out a sound at the sight of you — face contorted in pleasure, hair all messy, sweat glistening your skin, breasts bouncing with each thrust, pussy swallowing his cock whole. "so beautiful, yn. prettiest girl ever," he praised.
your hands fell to your sides, fingers gripping the sheets. your mouth parted, eyebrows scrunching. "jay, i—" you tried to speak, only for the air to be knocked out of you with a hard thrust. "hm? what is it, pretty?" he tilted his head.
"gonna— cum!" your pussy tightened unconsciously, making him groan. "wanna cum, baby? all around my cock?" he teased with an annoyingly attractive smirk on his face. you nodded, "mhm."
"cum for me, then."
and when you let go of the knot in your stomach, you nearly screamed from the feeling. your eyes rolled to the back of your head, body arching more than it ever had. above you, you heard jay curse, "oh, fuck— you squirted, baby, shit—" you looked down to see a liquid covering jay's abdomen. his pace started to falter, his grip on your waist also loosening now that he is closer to his climax. "ngh— gonna fill you up. you want that? want me to fill you with my babies?"
you whined in response, "please."
"shitshitshit—!" he chanted. you felt ropes of warm liquid filling you full from the inside. you looked up at jay whose head was thrown back, mouth opened with a loud moan following it, abs convulsing. he gave one last thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
he then fell beside you, breath heavy with his chest heaving up and down. you turned your head to look at him, and he did the same. a small laugh broke the tension. "come here," he murmured after a second, quieter now.
you shifted closer, resting your head against his chest like you had earlier. his time, he didn't tense. his arms came around you naturally, settling you against him like you belonged there. his fingers traced absent patterns along your arm, slow and careful, like he was memorizing the moment. "that was..." he questioned softly. you nodded against him, "crazy."
you both giggled. you looked up at him, eyes staring deep into his. he leaned down to plant a kiss on your forehead. you beamed, smiling widely. and slowly, your eyes closed and you drifted to sleep with the sound of his steady heartbeat beneath your ear.
morning came with sunlight slipping lazily through the curtains and the unmistakable sound of small footsteps racing down the hallway. you had barely stepped out of jay's room when the door across the hall flew open. "appa!" seoyeon stood there, fully awake now, hair still messy but eyes bright with energy. jay, who had just come up behind you, froze instantly. "morning, princess," he said, voice still rough with sleep.
she tilted her head, eyes bouncing between the two of you, suspiciously observant for someone her age. "hi yn," she greeted more calmly. "good morning, seoyeon," you smiled.
there was a pause. a very loud, very telling pause. "did you guys hug again?"
jay choked. you pressed your lips together, already feeling laughted bubbling up. jay turned to you, eyes wide in silent betrayal. "why is that your first question?" he demaned. seoyeon shrugged, completely unfazed. "i'm curious. it's also because you lie weird, so i'll know if you are."
you couldn't hold it anymore. you laughed, turning away as jay groaned and dragged a hand down his face. "i do not lie weird," he muttered. "you do, appa. you say too many words," she insisted. you leaned down slightly, lowering your voice as if sharing a secret, "i agree with you, seoyeon." she giggled while jay pointed at you. "stop encouraging her."
seoyeon gasped softly, "so you did hug."
"no— yes— i mean—" jay stopped, exasperated. "we're not having this conversation." jay blinked furiously in embarrassment. she crossed her arms, looking entirely unconvinced.
you reached for jay's hand then, lacing your fingers with his before he could overthink it. he stilled for a second, then glanced down, a quiet smile tugging at his lips despite everything. seoyeon notice immediately, eyes widening. "ohhh," she dragged out, pointing at your joined hands. "that's not just hugging."
jay closed his eyes, "i'm never speaking again."
and judging by the way his fingers tightened around yours, he didn't really mean that. not even a little.
⏻ CONCEPT. — LOVE CREDITS is a huge projet of mine that is definitely going to last for a while so this is only the beginning of it. It is heavily inspired by the idea of otome game in which you get to make choices throughout a story that you build yourself until ending up with one of the love interest(s).
↬ EPISODES. — Each episode will be composed of several parts, all ending with one choice that you make that will impact your relationships.
They are mostly written parts, but there will also be socmed parts depending on where the plot is going. The parts will mostly be short, to avoid confusion.
↬ CHOICES. — Your choices will hold a great importance as you will have an entire route based around it. Little by little, you will build a relationship with the characters, getting closer to them, until eventually you end up dating one of them, which is the purpose of this.
Your choices will be displayed as such :
Option 1 : …
Option 2 : …
To make your choice, you will simply have to click on the link to be guided to the next part ect…
⚠︎ Some choices will be marked as important and might change the plot but your choices will mostly influence the points you get with the different love interests.
↬ SYSTEM. — Depending on your choices, you will either win or lose a certain amount of points with one or several love interest(s). It shall be indicated at the very beginning of the next part like this :
As the parts will go on, you will automatically get more and more points with them, and by the end of this LOVE CREDITS, the love interest closest to 1009 love points will be your fated lover.
There will most likely always be a lot of parts to make sure that your choices have a true impact and that it leads to a coherent story.
⚠︎ Do not worry, you will not need to remember your amount of points to know where to click at the beginning of each chapter. It would quickly become annoying to follow.
However, you will be assigned a letter at the end of each episode; and you will need to read each new episode’s first part that is assigned to the letter you received to be able to keep your points unchanged as the story goes on.
↬ TAGLIST. — It is open ! If you want to be tagged you just need to ask in the comments or in my inbox ! :)
↬ DISCLAIMER. — Please you will need patience. This is meant to be fun and interactive, however it is a really long process as it takes lots of reflection whether it is for the choices or for the various routes so I hope you won’t mind if the episodes take a moment to be posted.
THE SEVEN LOVE INTERESTS — their roles
To avoid any lack of balance between all love interests, the reader does not know any of them as the story begins so you will start from 0 point with all of them.
↬ 김선우 KIM SUNOO. — Best Friend. You met him first when arriving in your new campus and since both of you don’t know anyone, you’re often hanging out together.
↬ 이희승 LEE HEESEUNG. — Senior student. He is older than you and as he’s also a teaching assistant, he’s giving some classes to you, making him appear a bit unattainable.
↬ 심재윤 SIM JAEYUN. — Roommate. You started sharing an apartment with him after finding yourself unable to settle in the dormitory, making him a part of your daily routine.
↬ 西村力 NISHIMURA RIKI. — Project partner. You only share one class but as the teachers paired you together, you’ll have to work with him often for the big assignment.
↬ 박종성 PARK JONGSEONG. — Club mate. As you chose the same club as him, you end up asking him lessons to get better at playing guitar, resulting in regular sessions together.
↬ 박성휸 PARK SUNGHOON. — Regular. He’s both your gym coach and the barman where you hang out, making you meet him in multiple contexts, inevitably making you closer.
↬ 양정원 YANG JUNGWON. — Coworker. He’s the one who helped you joining the team and you’re now working together as baristas in a pretty good café near campus.
EPISODE 0 — WILL BE POSTED ON APRIL 15TH.
*all the love interests do not automatically appear in every single episode.
❝ I once believed love would be black and white But it's golden ❞
°❀࿔ PAIRINGS. (이희승) x 𝒻 !reader
°❀࿔ SUMMARY. You came to Castillo Creek, Texas with a suitcase and a job offer you took because it was the furthest thing away from everything you knew. You didn’t come for the man who owns Sunrise Ranch and has the gorgeous smile. You didn’t come for his gap-toothed, too-perceptive young boy. But Castillo Creek has a way of giving you what you need before you know you need it. And some people, it turns out, are worth staying for.
°❀࿔ WARNINGS. angst with resolution, mild angst, brief mention of a broken engagement, past relationship, brief emotional manipulation from an ex, themes of running from your past, slow burn tension, explicit sexual content (+18 minors dni), penetrative sex, kissing, soft domestic content, found family themes, mentions of abandonment, fluff to the max
°❀࿔ WORD COUNT. 29.6k
°❀࿔ LACEYS NOTE. this has been brewing in my drafts for at least a week and i finally bothered to finish it. took me so long bc of the news about heesueng but i wish him well on his solo journey and will still support him! ENHAOT7! anyway, i hope this fic heals something within you all and the domestic bliss of it makes me so happy and giddy. comments, feedback, reblogs and likes keep me writing, feel free to send ask too! enjoy honies!
The bus drops you at the edge of nowhere.
That’s not entirely fair — the sign reads Castillo Creek, Pop. 412 in sun-bleached letters, and there is, technically, a street. One of them. It runs maybe four blocks before it gives up and dissolves into dust and open sky, flanked on either side by a hardware store, a diner with a hand-painted sign, a church with a crooked steeple, and a general store with a rocking chair out front that currently holds an old man who has not looked up from his newspaper since the bus wheezed to a stop.
You step down onto the road and the heat hits you like a physical thing.
Chicago in September is crisp. Leaves turning, wind off the lake, the smell of the city sharpening into something almost bearable. You have lived your whole life in that particular kind of autumn and you are standing here now in what should by all rights be the tail end of summer and the ground is baking. The sky is enormous. There are no buildings tall enough to interrupt it, nothing to cut the blue into manageable pieces, and for a moment you just stand there with your suitcase at your feet and your hat in your hand and feel very, very small.
“You the new schoolteacher?” You turn. A young man — can’t be more than nineteen — is leaning against the side of the bus stop with his arms crossed and his dark hair falling into his eyes. He’s got a look on his face that isn’t quite a smile but is clearly thinking about becoming one.
“That obvious?” you say.
“You’ve got a suitcase and a look on your face like you’re trying to figure out if you made a terrible mistake.” He pushes off the wall and picks up your larger bag before you can protest. “Riki. I work out at Sunrise Ranch but I’m in town most days. Mr. Lee sent me to check if you’d arrived.”
You blink. “Someone was expecting me?”
“Mrs. Calloway at the boarding house would’ve had your room ready since Tuesday,” he says, already walking. “Small town. News travels.”
You pick up your smaller case and follow him. Mrs. Calloway. The name lands somewhere behind your sternum and sits there, inert. Just a name. A common enough name. You are done flinching at common names. “I’m Y/N,” you say.
“I know,” Riki says, not unkindly. “Everyone does.”
—
Main Street — the only street, really, though two dirt roads branch off it like afterthoughts — is quiet in the way that feels inhabited rather than empty. A woman sweeps her front step and nods at you. Two men outside the hardware store pause their conversation to watch you pass with open, unapologetic curiosity. A little girl with two braids chases a dog around the side of the church and neither of them pays you any attention at all, which you find oddly comforting.
The diner is called Park’s and it has a specials board in the window that reads Tuesday: Peach Pie in chalk letters, and through the glass you can see red vinyl booths and a long counter with spinning stools and a man behind it who catches your eye through the window and raises a coffee pot in greeting like he’s been expecting you too. “That’s Jay,” Riki says, following your gaze. “He’ll want to talk your ear off. I’d give yourself a day before you go in or you’ll never get unpacked.”
“Is everyone here this—” you search for the word.
“Friendly?” Riki offers.
“I was going to say informed.”
He considers this. “Yeah,” he says. “Both.”
The boarding house sits at the end of the main street where the road widens slightly, a two-storey white clapboard building with a porch and a wind chime and flower boxes in the windows. It is, you think, the most aggressively quaint thing you have ever seen in your life. You grew up in an apartment on the fourth floor of a building that smelled like other people’s cooking and city rain and you are trying very hard not to let your face say anything impolite about wind chimes.
Mrs. Della, the landlady — not a Calloway, you exhale quietly — is a broad warm woman in her sixties with silver hair and flour on her apron who opens the door before you knock and says “There she is” like you’re something she ordered and is pleased to find arrived undamaged. “Come in, come in, you must be half dead from that bus.” She takes your smaller case clean out of your hand. “Riki, you staying for supper?”
“Can’t,” he says, setting your larger bag inside the door. He looks at you briefly, something almost like reassurance in it. “You’ll be alright here,” he says, which is a strange thing to say and which you believe immediately, and then he’s back down the porch steps and heading up the road with his hands in his pockets.
“Good boy,” Mrs. Della says, watching him go. “Lee Heeseung took him in two years back, gives him work and a roof. That man would give you the shirt off his back.” She says it the way people say things that are simply true, established fact, no elaboration required, and ushers you inside before you can ask who Lee Heeseung is.
Your room is small and clean and has a window that looks out over the back garden and a field beyond it and then nothing but flat land and sky all the way to the horizon. The bed has a quilt on it in yellow and white. There is a writing desk and a lamp and a hook on the back of the door.
You sit on the edge of the bed and let the quiet settle around you. In Chicago there is always noise — traffic and neighbours and the radiator banging in winter and the el train every twelve minutes rattling the windows. You have slept to that noise your whole life. This quiet is a different texture entirely. Crickets, somewhere. Wind moving through something dry. The distant low sound of what might be cattle.
You think about the apartment you gave up. The life you gave up — or that was given up on — and the way the story circulated, the whispers at the school where you’d taught for three years, the way your mother had said maybe if you’d been less difficult, Y/N, as though your own broken engagement was a character flaw you’d displayed in public. You’d applied for twenty-seven jobs in towns you’d never heard of. Castillo Creek, Texas was the one that wrote back.
You lie back on the yellow quilt and look at the ceiling and think: New soil. See what grows.
In the morning Mrs. Della makes you eggs and biscuits and coffee so strong it makes your eyes water and tells you that the schoolhouse is two blocks north, that school starts Monday which gives you four days to settle, that the previous teacher Miss Hargrove retired to be closer to her sister in San Antonio and left her lesson plans in the desk drawer, and that if you need anything at all you are to ask and not to be proud about it. “We don’t stand on ceremony here,” she says, refilling your cup. “You’ll find people are plain. They say what they mean.”
“That’s refreshing,” you say, and mean it more than she knows.
“You’ll fit in fine,” she says, in the same tone Riki used last night, that same easy certainty, and you don’t know yet whether Castillo Creek is simply a town full of optimists or whether they can see something in you that you can’t currently see in yourself.
After breakfast you walk the street. Slowly, no destination, just learning the shape of the place. The hardware store is run by a man named Gus who shakes your hand and calls you ma’am and means it respectfully. The general store has everything from canned peaches to horse liniment arranged with cheerful illogic on its shelves. The church noticeboard has a harvest dance announced for the first week of October, hand-lettered on card. A tabby cat sleeps on the post office step and does not move when you step over it.
You end up at Park’s because you are not made of stone and the peach pie in the window has been watching you since yesterday. The bell above the door chimes when you push it open. The diner smells like coffee and something frying and woodsmoke and the particular warm smell of a place that has been feeding people for a long time. Three of the booths are occupied — two older men playing cards over the remains of breakfast, a young woman nursing a baby and reading a magazine, a teenager staring out the window like he’s being paid for it.
The man behind the counter looks up and grins like you’ve just won something. “There she is,” he says, which is apparently how everyone in this town greets you. He’s handsome in an easy, untroubled way — dark eyes, an apron over his shirt, the kind of smile that has probably never caused him a day’s trouble because it is entirely, disarmingly genuine. “Jay Park. Welcome to Castillo Creek, and more importantly, welcome to my diner. Sit anywhere. Coffee?”
“Please,” you say, sliding onto a counter stool. “Y/N.”
“I know.” He’s already pouring. “The whole town knows. Don’t let that spook you — it’s not menacing, we’re just starved for news.” He sets the cup in front of you. “You surviving Mrs. Della’s biscuits?”
“They’re extraordinary.”
“Don’t tell her I said this but mine are better.” He leans on the counter. “How are you finding it so far?”
“I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours.”
“First impressions.”
You wrap your hands around the coffee cup. Outside the window the main street sits quiet in the morning sun, dust turning gold where the light hits it, a man on horseback moving slow at the far end of the road, hat low against the glare. “It’s very quiet,” you say.
“City girl.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“The accent gives you away a little,” he says, not unkindly. “Chicago?”
“Born and raised.”
He nods like this explains something. “You’ll either love it here or you’ll be back on the bus in a month. There’s not usually an in-between.” He tilts his head, studying you with the frank, comfortable curiosity of a man who talks to everyone and has learned to read them quickly. “My money’s on love it.”
“Why?”
“You ordered coffee before you ordered pie,” he says. “Practical. And you’re still here instead of back at the boarding house wondering what you’ve done. Means you’re the kind of person who walks toward things.”
You look at him for a moment. “You do this with everyone?”
“Do what?”
“Make them feel like you’ve known them for years.”
Jay grins, unabashed. “Only the interesting ones.” He reaches under the counter and produces a plate with a slice of peach pie on it, sets it in front of you without asking. “On the house. Welcome to town.”
You eat the pie. It is, genuinely, one of the best things you’ve ever tasted, which you tell him, and he looks so pleased about it that you find yourself smiling for what feels like the first time in a long time — the real kind, not the composed kind you’ve been wearing since spring.
You are still there an hour later when the bell above the door chimes and a man walks in. You notice the hat first. Worn tan leather, shaped by years and weather, pushed back just enough to see his face.
Then the face — and it is, unfairly, a lot of face: dark eyes, jaw that belongs in a painting, and a smile that appears when he spots Jay like the sun deciding to come out from behind something. He is tall and lean in the way of men who work with their bodies, wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled and boots with actual dust on them, and he moves through the diner like a man who is completely comfortable taking up space, not arrogantly, just — naturally. Like the room fits him.
Half the diner looks up when he walks in. You notice this and then notice that he doesn’t seem to notice it. “Heeseung,” Jay says. “You’re late.”
“Riki let one of the mares out this morning,” the man says, dropping onto the stool two down from you. “Had to get her back in before she ate the garden.” His voice has the particular warm drawl of a man who has lived in Texas his whole life, the vowels long and unhurried. He glances over — and for just a moment, before the smile arrives, you see him register you. A quick, frank, unguarded look. Then the smile.
It is, you think distantly, a remarkably good smile. “You must be the new schoolteacher,” he says.
“So I’ve been told,” you say.
He huffs a quiet laugh and extends a hand across the empty stool between you. “Lee Heeseung. I run Sunrise Ranch, out east of town.” A pause, then, easy as breathing: “Welcome to Castillo Creek, darlin’.”
The darlin’ lands warmly, casually, the way he probably says it to everyone. You shake his hand. His grip is firm and his palm is calloused and he lets go at exactly the right moment. “Y/N,” you say.
“Pretty name,” he says, and turns back to Jay to ask about the lunch special, and that is that.
You finish your pie. You say goodbye to Jay, who tells you to come back tomorrow, and nod to Heeseung, who tips his hat slightly without looking up from his coffee, and you push out into the dry Texas morning with the bell chiming behind you and the sky enormous overhead. You think: new soil.
You walk back toward the boarding house and do not think about the smile. (You try.)
—
The schoolhouse is a single rectangular building painted white, sitting back from the road behind a low wooden fence with a gate that sticks. There is a bell above the door on a rope, a covered porch with two steps, and six windows along each side that let in long rectangles of morning light. Inside: four rows of desks, a blackboard, a bookshelf with a sadly depleted top shelf, a globe with a crack running through the Pacific, a teacher’s desk at the front with a chair that wobbles on its left leg, and the lesson plans Miss Hargrove left in the drawer, written in such small precise handwriting that you have to hold them close to the lamp to read them.
You spend the weekend getting acquainted with it. You rearrange the desks slightly — four rows feels regimented for fourteen children ranging from five to eleven — into a looser configuration that won’t make the little ones feel like they’re waiting to be sentenced. You find chalk in the wrong drawer and a box of coloured pencils in the right one. You fix the gate with a piece of wire you find coiled on the porch. You read Miss Hargrove’s lesson plans and her notes on each child, written in the margins in that same small hand: Clara D. — very bright, reads above her level. Tommy H. — struggles with numbers but never says so. Eli L. — clever, restless, tests limits. Handle firmly but don’t let him know you’re doing it.
You read that last one twice. Eli L.
You’d heard the name once already, briefly, the way you hear a lot of names in a town like this — someone mentioning someone else in passing, the social web of a small place where everyone is connected to everyone by approximately two degrees. Riki worked at Sunrise Ranch. Sunrise Ranch belonged to Lee Heeseung. Lee Heeseung had a son. Clever, restless, tests limits.
You put the lesson plans back in the drawer, look at the rearranged desks.
Monday morning arrives with the particular clarity of a sky that has not clouded in weeks. You are at the schoolhouse by seven-thirty. You write your name on the board — Miss Y/N — and you stand at the front and look at the empty desks and do something you haven’t let yourself do since you stepped off that bus: you feel, briefly and privately, afraid. Not of the children, not of the job — you have been a teacher for three years and you are good at it, this you know — but of the starting over. Of the standing in a room and introducing yourself to people who don’t know you yet and hoping that this time, in this place, what they learn about you is something you’ve chosen.
You take a breath. You put your composed face on. You go stand on the porch to watch them arrive.
They come in ones and twos, mostly walked by mothers who linger at the gate with polite curiosity to get a look at you, a few by fathers, one or two on their own who are clearly old enough to have decided they don’t need walking. The little ones are solemn and wide-eyed. The older ones are watchful. They file onto the porch and past you with varying degrees of shyness, and you smile at each of them and say good morning, and most of them say it back.
The boy who doesn’t say it back arrives at eight on the dot, alone. He is small for seven — wiry and dark-haired with his father’s eyes and a gap where one of his front teeth used to be — and he walks through the gate with his lunch pail swinging and his chin up with the specific energy of a child who has decided in advance that he is not going to be impressed. He stops at the foot of the porch steps and looks up at you.
You look down at him. “Good morning,” you say.
He considers you. His gaze is frank and assessing in a way that reminds you immediately, disconcertingly, of his father. “You talk funny,” he says.
Behind him, two of the other children go very still in that particular way children do when someone has said the thing everyone was thinking. “I do,” you agree pleasantly. “Good morning.”
He blinks — he was expecting something else, you can tell — and then, almost against his will: “Morning.” He goes inside. You allow yourself precisely one second of satisfaction and then follow him in.
Their names, as you learn them through the morning: Clara, Tommy, Ruth, Beau, Ida, Jesse, Mae, Henry, Grace, Daniel, Lottie, Patrick, Susie, and Eli. Fourteen children, five to eleven, in one room with one teacher, which is simply the way of it in a town this size and which you knew going in and which presents itself as exactly the specific beautiful chaos you anticipated.
The little ones need different work from the older ones, the older ones need to be trusted enough not to resent the time you spend with the younger, and the whole arrangement requires a kind of orchestrated independence that takes most new teachers a month to establish.
You have it running by lunch. This is not arrogance. It is three years of practice and the lesson plans of Miss Hargrove, who clearly knew what she was doing, and the children themselves, who are — beneath the shyness and the staring — genuinely good. Clara reads to the two youngest while you work arithmetic with the middle group. Tommy, who struggles with numbers and has clearly been told by someone who loves him to hide it, relaxes visibly when you kneel beside his desk and show him the same problem three different ways without making it a thing. Grace, who is eleven and takes her seniority seriously, helps you hand out the coloured pencils for the afternoon drawing exercise with the gravity of someone performing a civic duty.
Eli sits in the second row and does exactly enough work to be technically compliant and spends the rest of the time studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s deciding whether to bother solving. He is not disruptive. He does not cause trouble, exactly. He just — watches. And occasionally says something, not quite under his breath, that makes the children near him stifle laughter, and when you look at him he is already looking at the ceiling or his pencil or the middle distance, expression perfectly innocent.
At half past two he raises his hand for the first time. You are, cautiously, relieved. “Yes, Eli?”
“How come you don’t say cahn’t like us?” he says. “You say can’t like it’s short.” The room goes quiet with interest.
“Because I grew up in Chicago,” you say. “People talk differently there.”
“Why?”
“That’s a good question. Different places develop different ways of speaking over time depending on who settled there and where they came from originally. It’s called a dialect.”
He turns this over. “So you’re not talking wrong, you’re just talking different.”
“That’s exactly right.”
He seems to file this away somewhere. He looks at his desk, then back up at you. “My dad says Chicago’s real big.”
“It is.”
“Did you like it?”
There is nothing loaded in the question — he is seven, he is simply curious — but the room is listening and you have a composed face for exactly this and you use it. “I did,” you say. “But I like it here too. Different things to like.” You hold his gaze for just a moment. “Good question, Eli.” He ducks his head in a way that might, if you’re reading it right, be pleased.
You let them out at three o’clock. They pour off the porch like water and scatter in every direction — some toward the main street, some down the side road, a few collected by waiting parents at the gate. You stand on the porch and watch them go with the pleasant exhausted satisfaction of a good first day, the kind where you know the shape of things now even if the details are still forming.
The last child through the gate is Eli, lunch pail swinging again, cap pushed back on his head. He pauses at the gate and turns back. “Miss?” he calls.
“Yes?”
He looks at you for a moment, that assessing look. Then: “You fixed the gate.”
“It was sticking,” you say. He nods, apparently satisfied with this. And then he’s gone, off down the road at a trot, and you lean against the porch post and look at the empty yard and the long afternoon light making everything gold and think that clever, restless, tests limits is right but that the note should have also said watching everything, deciding what to do with it.
Jay brings you pie. Not in the diner — he appears at the boarding house at half past five with a covered plate and the energy of a man who has been wanting to ask you about your day since approximately eight that morning. Mrs. Della lets him in with the equanimity of someone accustomed to Jay Park appearing with baked goods and sets an extra cup on the table. “Well?” he says, sitting down across from you with the plate between you, which you note he has not uncovered, clearly operating on the pie as leverage.
“Well,” you say.
“First day.” He tilts his head. “Good? Bad? You still here, which is promising.”
“Good,” you say honestly. “They’re good kids.”
“They are.” He uncovers the plate — cherry, this time. “Any trouble?”
You think of dark eyes and a gap-toothed grin and you talk funny. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Jay smiles, something knowing in it. “Eli Lee give you a hard time?”
“He was perfectly behaved.”
“That’s almost worse, honestly.” He leans back in his chair. “He’s a good kid. He just — tests people. Wants to know if you’re going to stay.” He says it lightly but you hear something underneath it, something careful. “His last teacher, Miss Hargrove, he adored her by the end. Took him a month.”
“I’ve got time,” you say.
Jay looks at you the way he did that first morning at the counter, that frank easy assessment. “You know Heeseung came into the diner after you left Friday,” he says, with the absolute casualness of a man deploying information he has been sitting on for days.
You cut into the pie. “Did he.”
“Asked how you seemed. Whether you looked settled.” Jay’s expression is the picture of innocence. “Just being neighbourly.”
“That’s nice of him.”
“Mm.” Jay drinks his coffee. “He doesn’t usually ask.”
You eat your cherry pie and look at Jay Park over your fork and decide that you like him enormously and that he is also going to be an absolute menace and that these two things are entirely compatible. “Thank you for the pie,” you say.
Jay grins. “Anytime, darlin’.”
The word lands differently in his mouth — friendly, careless, the way you’d expect. The way it probably sounds from everyone. You eat your pie and don’t think about the way it sounded Friday morning on a counter stool two seats down from you, unhurried and warm, like the man saying it had all the time in the world.
Wednesday afternoon you are erasing the board after the children have gone when you hear the gate. You turn, chalk dust on your hands, and Heeseung Lee is coming through it.
He has his hat in his hand this time — held at his side, the gesture you will come to learn is his version of courtesy, the small deliberate thing he does when he’s on someone else’s ground. He is in his work clothes, boots dusty, shirt with the sleeves rolled like the first time you saw him, and he is looking at the schoolhouse with a particular quiet expression that you can’t read yet. “Mr. Lee,” you say from the porch.
He looks up. “Miss Y/N.” The smile comes easy and unhurried, the same one from the diner, and you are annoyed to find that it works just as well the second time. “Hope I’m not disturbing.”
“Not at all.” You dust the chalk from your hands on your apron. “Is something wrong?”
“No, ma’am.” He reaches the foot of the steps and stops there, which you note — he doesn’t come up onto the porch uninvited, just stands at the bottom with his hat in his hand. “Eli mentioned you fixed the gate.”
You blink. “It was sticking.”
“I know. I kept meaning to get to it.” He looks at the gate briefly and back at you. “Just wanted to thank you. And to say — he told me about the dialect conversation.”
“Oh?”
“He came home and used the word dialect four times at supper.” Something warm moves through his expression. “He hasn’t stopped asking questions about Chicago.”
You lean against the porch post. “He’s very bright.”
“I know,” Heeseung says, quietly, the way parents say things about their children when they’re proud and trying not to make a production of it. “He can be a handful.”
“He’s been fine,” you say, and mean it. “He’s testing me. I don’t mind being tested.”
Heeseung looks at you for a moment — that same brief, unguarded register you caught in the diner, there and then gone. “Miss Hargrove said the same thing about him.” A pause. “She was right, and so are you.” He puts his hat back on, settling it with the ease of long habit. “I won’t keep you. Just — thank you. For the gate and for the patience.”
“It’s my job,” you say.
“The gate wasn’t,” he says simply, and tips his hat, and walks back through it — and you notice, as he goes, that he lifts the handle the right way so it doesn’t stick on him. He knew how it worked. He just hadn’t gotten to it.
You stand on the porch for a moment after he’s gone, chalk dust still on your apron, the afternoon light going gold and long across the schoolyard. Alright, you think. But it’s a different alright than the one on the bus.
—
You learn the rhythms of Castillo Creek the way you learn anything new — by paying attention. Monday through Friday the main street wakes slowly, the diner first, Jay’s lights on before six and the smell of coffee reaching the boarding house if the wind is right. The general store opens at seven, the hardware store at eight. The church bell rings at nine for no reason anyone can explain except that it always has.
Afternoons are quiet in the way that heat makes things quiet, everyone retreating into shade, and then around four the street comes back to life — horses at the post, trucks pulling in, the sound of voices carrying in the dry air. Evenings on the boarding house porch: crickets, the occasional distant sound of music from the diner where Jay sometimes puts a record on after hours, the sky going colours you don’t have names for yet.
Weekends the ranch hands come into town. This is when you first understand that Sunrise Ranch is not a small operation. Saturday morning and there are three trucks parked outside the general store and Jay’s counter is full and the voices are different — louder, easier, the particular looseness of men at the end of a working week. You are becoming a recognisable figure on the main street now, two weeks in, and people nod or wave or say morning, Miss Y/N with the comfortable familiarity of a town that has decided you belong, or is at least willing to extend the provisional assumption.
Riki finds you at the general store on the second Saturday, reaching for a tin on a high shelf. “Here,” he says, getting it down for you without ceremony.
“Thank you.” You put it in your basket. “How’s the mare?”
He blinks, then remembers. “Back in her paddock. She does it once a month like clockwork.” He falls into step beside you toward the counter, hands in his pockets. “How’s Eli?”
“Getting there,” you say.
Riki’s mouth twitches. “He told me you knew what a dialect was.”
“He told his father the same thing four times at supper, apparently.”
“Five times,” Riki says. “I was there. Mr. Lee made him use it in a sentence correctly before he could have dessert.” Something soft moves through his expression — fond and private, the look of someone describing a home. “He does that. Makes it a game so Eli doesn’t know he’s being taught.”
You look at him. “You live at the ranch?”
“Have done for two years.” He picks up a paper bag of something from the counter and adds it to your basket without asking, then pays for it along with his own things before you can protest. “Mr. Lee offered me the room off the stable when I first got here. Said I could work it off.” A pause. “I haven’t worked it off yet. I don’t think he’s keeping count.”
You think of the gate. Of a man standing at the foot of porch steps with his hat in his hand, not coming up unless invited. “He seems like a good man,” you say, carefully.
Riki looks at you with the frank, uncomplicated assessment of a nineteen-year-old who has not yet learned to be oblique. “He’s the best man I know,” he says simply. And then the door opens and two of the other ranch hands come in and Riki’s face shifts back into something easier and the conversation moves on, but you carry that best man I know out of the store with you and into the bright Saturday morning and find that you believe it without quite knowing why.
The invitation comes through Eli. It is a Thursday, three weeks into term, and Eli has — incrementally, perceptibly, in the way of a child who makes decisions slowly and then commits to them entirely — decided that you are acceptable. This has manifested in: asking you approximately forty questions about Chicago over the course of various lunchtimes, showing you a drawing he did of his horse with the air of someone bestowing an honour, correcting Tommy’s arithmetic before you can get there and then looking at you to see if you’ll mind, and most recently appointing himself the unofficial distributor of coloured pencils, a role Grace has had to be diplomatically persuaded to share.
On Thursday he stays behind after the others have gone.
You are at your desk reviewing the week’s work when you become aware that he is still in his seat, lunch pail on the desk in front of him, regarding you with his father’s eyes and an expression of elaborate casualness. “Yes, Eli?” you say, without looking up.
A pause. “My dad says you should come see the ranch.”
You look up. He is studying his lunch pail. “He said if you wanted. He said don’t make it a thing.” He glances up at you briefly. “I’m supposed to say it like it’s my idea.”
You press your lips together very firmly. “Whose idea was it?”
Eli considers the ethics of this for a moment. “Both,” he decides. “I said you’d like the horses and he said he’d been meaning to ask.” He picks up his lunch pail. “Saturday morning. Riki said he’d make sure the good horses are out.”
You look at this seven-year-old boy with his gap-toothed earnestness and his father’s dark eyes and the absolute transparency of a child who is not yet old enough to be a convincing liar and feel something in your chest do something inconvenient. “Saturday morning,” you say.
Eli nods, satisfied, and slides off his chair. At the door he pauses. “Miss?”
“Yes?”
“Dad said wear boots if you have them.” A beat. “Do you have boots?”
“I’ll manage,” you say. He looks doubtful but lets it go.
You do not have boots.
Mrs. Della solves this problem on Friday evening by producing a pair from somewhere in the back of a wardrobe that fit you well enough and have clearly belonged to several people before you, worn in and comfortable in the way of things that have been used properly. She does not make a fuss about it. She sets them by your door and says “for your visit to the ranch” with the serenity of a woman who knew this was coming before you did, which you are beginning to understand is simply Mrs. Della’s relationship with information.
Saturday morning is cooler than usual, a thin cloud cover cutting the worst of the heat, and you walk the road east of town with Mrs. Della’s boots on your feet and the particular feeling of a person going somewhere they haven’t decided how to feel about yet.
Sunrise Ranch announces itself before you reach it. The land opens up, the scrub giving way to fenced pasture, horses moving slow in the morning light — four, five, you count seven in the near paddock — and then the gate with Sunrise in iron letters across the top, and beyond it a long low ranch house in weathered timber, a stable block, a water tower, a barn with its doors open, and the general cheerful disorder of a working property.
Eli appears from nowhere, running. “You came,” he says, like this was uncertain, and then immediately: “You have boots.” He looks at them. “They’re okay.”
“Thank you,” you say gravely.
“Come see Maple.” He is already walking, assuming you’ll follow, which you do. “Maple’s mine. Dad got her for me last year. She’s brown.” He says this last detail with enormous authority, as though colour is the primary criterion for horse quality.
“Is she,” you say.
“She’s the best one.” He pushes open the stable door. “Don’t tell Riki’s horse.”
The stable smells of hay and horses and something warm and animal that is not unpleasant, and the light comes through the high windows in long dusty bars, and Maple is indeed brown and does indeed regard you with the large patient eyes of a creature who has learned that humans are mostly harmless if you wait them out. Eli shows her off with the proprietorial pride of a small boy who has been trusted with something real, and you let him lead you through every detail — her feeding schedule, her preferred brushing side, the way she does something with her ears when she’s happy — and listen properly, because he is telling you something important about himself by telling you about the horse. “She’s beautiful,” you say, and mean it.
Eli glows. “Yeah,” he agrees. He strokes her nose. “Dad taught me to ride on her. Well — on her and Scout. Scout’s too big for me yet but I can get on him if someone helps.”
“Who’s Scout?”
“Mine,” says a voice behind you. You turn. Heeseung is in the stable doorway, hat on, a coffee cup in one hand, backlit by the morning in a way that is doing no one any favours. He looks at you with that easy unhurried expression and then at Eli. “You showing her around properly?”
“I was getting to the rest,” Eli says, with dignity.
“Sure you were.” Heeseung’s gaze moves back to you. “Morning. Glad you came.” He says it simply, no particular weight on it, and holds out the second coffee cup that you hadn’t noticed he was holding. “Mrs. Della said you take it black.”
You take the cup. “She told you that?”
“Jay told me. Mrs. Della told Jay.” He lifts a shoulder. “Small town.”
You drink the coffee. It is good — strong and dark and made by someone who takes it seriously. “Thank you.”
“Thank Eli,” he says. “It was mostly his idea.”
“He told me,” you say.
Heeseung looks at his son with an expression of fond resignation. “Did he.” Eli, sensing this conversation is edging toward accountability, has become very interested in Maple’s left ear.
He shows you the ranch himself, Eli orbiting ahead and behind like a satellite, Riki appearing occasionally from whatever task he’s been given and nodding at you with the quiet approval of someone whose opinion you hadn’t realised you were seeking.
Heeseung walks beside you with his coffee and talks about the land with the ease of a man who has known it his whole life — the pasture his father planted, the fence line he extended six years ago, the water table, the horses by name and temperament, the rhythm of the seasons out here where seasons are more about rain than temperature. He is not performing. That is the thing you notice, watching him from the corner of your eye as he points out the far ridge where the light hits different at sunset. He is simply telling you, the way people talk about things they love when they’re comfortable enough to let it show. “How long has your family been here?” you ask.
“Three generations,” he says. “My grandfather broke the land. My father ran it until—” a brief pause, easy enough that you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention “—until I was ready to.” He looks out at the pasture. “I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”
“I used to think that about Chicago,” you say, before you mean to.
He glances at you. “What changed?”
The morning light is warm on the fence rail where you’ve stopped. The horses move slow in the paddock. Eli is attempting to convince Riki to let him ride something he’s probably not supposed to, and Riki is maintaining a very patient no. “Things do,” you say. “Change.”
It is not an answer and you both know it. But Heeseung doesn’t push — just nods once, slow, and looks back out at the pasture, and the silence that follows is the comfortable kind. The kind you don’t feel obligated to fill.
“Scout,” he says, after a moment. You follow his gaze. A large grey horse has appeared at the paddock fence — appeared is the right word, horses move quietly for their size, you’re learning — and is regarding you with the same patient assessment as Maple, though with more authority behind it.
“He’s enormous,” you say.
“He’s a gentleman,” Heeseung says. “Come here.” You follow him to the fence. Scout watches you approach with ears forward. Heeseung holds out his hand and the horse drops his nose into it with the ease of long familiarity, a small exhale of breath like a greeting. “Give him your hand,” Heeseung says. “Palm up.”
You do. Scout sniffs your palm, his breath warm and grass-scented, and then shifts his nose slightly to nudge at your wrist, which makes you laugh — actually laugh, surprised out of it, the unguarded kind. Heeseung is watching you when you look up. He looks away just a moment too late, back to Scout, and settles his hand on the horse’s neck. “He likes you,” he says.
“Or he wants something.”
“Same thing, with horses.” The corner of his mouth lifts. He rubs Scout’s neck once and steps back from the fence. “You ride?”
“No.”
“You want to?”
You look at Scout. Scout looks at you. He is very large and very calm and the morning is soft and there is coffee going warm in your hand and no one in this field knows anything about you except that you fixed a gate and knew the word dialect and took your coffee black. “Yes,” you say.
He doesn’t put you on Scout — that comes later, he says, and something in the later is easy and assuming in a way that you notice and don’t examine — but on a smaller bay mare named Honey who is, in Eli’s expert opinion, basically a chair, she’s so calm, which Heeseung overrules diplomatically.
He helps you up with one hand steadying the stirrup and one hand briefly at your waist — functional, impersonal, the practiced efficiency of someone who has helped people onto horses many times — and then steps back and talks you through it. Heels down. Hands soft. Don’t grip with your knees. Breathe.
You walk Honey around the paddock twice with Heeseung at her head and Eli on the fence calling encouragement that is mostly suggestions about how you’re holding the reins wrong. By the third pass Heeseung drops back and lets you go alone, and there is a specific feeling in that — in him deciding you’re ready, stepping back, watching from the fence with his arms resting on the top rail and his hat low — that you don’t have a name for but that sits somewhere behind your sternum and stays there. “You’re a natural,” he calls.
“She’s a chair,” you call back, and hear him laugh from across the paddock, a real one, the kind that alters the whole shape of his face.
Eli says “I said that” with great indignation.
You stay until noon. It isn’t planned. It is the accumulation of small things: Eli deciding you needed to see the barn cat’s new kittens, the kittens being an objectively compelling argument for staying, Riki appearing with a plate of something Mrs. Lee — Heeseung’s housekeeper, an iron-haired woman named Bea who has been with the ranch for twenty years — had left covered on the kitchen table. You all eat on the porch in the late morning sun, Eli wedged between you and Heeseung with a kitten in his lap that he has named Chicago with the satisfied look of someone cementing an inside joke.
It is — easy. Unreasonably easy for a woman who has spent two months being careful about everything.
Heeseung sits with his ankle crossed over his knee and doesn’t push any conversations and doesn’t fill silences that don’t need filling and listens when you talk in the particular way that makes you feel actually heard rather than waited out. Once, when Eli says something that makes you laugh, he catches it — the laugh — in that peripheral way, not staring, just noticing, and then looks deliberately at something else. You notice him noticing. You look at something else too.
He walks you back to the gate at noon. Eli has been redirected to afternoon chores with the selective enthusiasm of a child who has negotiated the terms. Riki raises a hand from the stable door. The horses stand easy in the afternoon quiet.
At the gate Heeseung stops and holds it open — it swings cleanly, well-oiled, this one — and tips his hat. “Thank you for coming,” he says. “Eli’s been talking about this since Thursday.”
“Only since Thursday?” you say.
He smiles. God, that smile. “Since Tuesday,” he admits. “I told him to wait.”
You step through the gate and turn. He’s on the other side of it, hat tipped forward, the morning light going warm gold over the ranch behind him. Scout visible in the paddock beyond, Maple beside him. “Thank you for the coffee,” you say. “And the riding lesson.”
“Anytime,” he says. And then, easy as breathing, the way he always does it, like it costs him nothing: “You’re welcome here, darlin’. Any time you want.”
You walk the road back to town with the borrowed boots and the feeling of a morning that opened up something you hadn’t known was closed. Behind you the gate swings shut, clean on its hinge. New soil, you think. See what grows.
—
October arrives like an exhale. The heat doesn’t break exactly — you’re learning it doesn’t really break here, not the way it does in Chicago where summer ends with a week of storms and then suddenly you need a coat — but it softens. The mornings are cooler now, the light coming in at a different angle, and the scrub on the edge of town goes colours you weren’t expecting: amber and rust and a dry pale gold that isn’t quite like anything you’ve seen before. Mrs. Della puts a second quilt on your bed. The church noticeboard updates the harvest dance announcement with a date: Saturday, October 12th. All welcome. Bring a dish.
You have been in Castillo Creek six weeks. You know, now, which floorboard in the schoolhouse creaks and how to avoid it during silent reading so you don’t startle the little ones. You know that Tommy is left-handed and was made to switch and that this is why his numbers come out backwards sometimes, and you have quietly, without making it a thing, begun letting him work with his left hand and watching his shoulders drop two inches with relief. You know that Clara will read anything you put in front of her and that the shelf of books in the schoolhouse is genuinely inadequate and that you have written to the county school board about this and received in response a letter of such elaborate non-commitment that you have started a separate fund from your own salary, small but growing. You know that Eli Lee will behave perfectly for four days and then on the fifth do something just left of the line — not malicious, never malicious, just testing — and that the correct response is to look at him steadily and say his name once, and he will subside, and on day six he will be angelic in a way that is clearly an apology.
You know that Jay’s cherry pie is better than his peach, that Riki takes his coffee with enough sugar to make your teeth hurt, that Bea at the ranch makes the best biscuits in Texas and would probably agree with you about this if you said so, that the tabby cat on the post office step is named Gerald and will accept exactly one ear scratch before moving to bite you. You know that Heeseung Lee tips his hat to every woman on the main street and that it means something different when he does it to you, and you have not examined this too closely because you are being careful and new soil takes time and you are not here to start anything. You are just noticing. That’s all.
Eli asks you about your family on a Tuesday. It is lunchtime, the other children spread across the yard in the October sun, and Eli has taken to eating his lunch on the porch steps near where you stand with your coffee. This started without announcement — one day he was in the yard, the next he was on the steps — and you have not remarked on it because remarking on it would make him self-conscious about having done something soft. “Do you miss Chicago?” he asks, through a mouthful of whatever Bea has packed him.
“Sometimes,” you say. It’s true. You miss the lake. The particular smell of the city in November. The diner near your old apartment that made pierogi on Thursdays.
“What do you miss?”
“The lake,” you say. “Lake Michigan. It’s enormous — like an inland sea. You can stand at the edge and not see the other side.”
Eli processes this. “We have the creek,” he offers.
“I know. I like the creek.”
He nods, satisfied that the comparison comes out even. Then: “Do you have family there?”
“My parents,” you say. “A brother.”
“Do they visit?”
You think of your mother’s voice on the telephone — the one call you’ve made since arriving, standing in the general store with the receiver pressed to your ear, your mother saying when are you coming home in the tone that meant you’ve made your point now. “Not yet,” you say.
Eli swings his feet against the step. “My grandma visits sometimes. Dad’s mom. She lives in Austin.” He picks at his lunch. “I don’t have a mom,” he says, with the casual directness of a child who has been saying this long enough that it no longer feels like a wound, just a fact. “She went away.”
Your chest does something careful and quiet. “I know,” you say, gently. “I’m sorry.”
“Dad says she got sick,” Eli says. “But I think—” he stops. Looks at the yard. Starts again: “I think that’s not the whole story. But he doesn’t want me to be sad so he says it that way.” He looks up at you with those dark perceptive eyes. “Do you think that’s bad? To say a not-whole story?”
You look at this seven-year-old boy who is so much older than seven in the specific ways that loss makes children old, and you think about not-whole stories and composed faces and she wanted a simpler life and how many versions of the truth are actually just the parts you can bear to carry in public.
“I think,” you say carefully, “that sometimes people tell not-whole stories because they’re trying to protect someone they love. And I think when you’re older you’ll understand the rest, and your dad will tell it to you when you’re ready.” You meet his eyes. “Does that make sense?”
Eli thinks about it seriously, which is the only way he thinks about things. “Yeah,” he says. Then: “You’re smart.”
“Thank you.”
“Dad thinks so too.” He says it with absolute offhand innocence and takes a large bite of his sandwich and looks at the yard, and you look at the middle distance and drink your coffee and say nothing at all.
The thing about a small town is that the architecture of people’s lives is visible in a way it never is in a city. In Chicago you could live next door to someone for three years and know nothing about them. Here the walls are thin by design — not maliciously, just the natural result of everyone’s business being conducted in the same four blocks, the same diner, the same church on Sundays, the same post office queue. You learn things about people without trying. You learn them through Jay, who is a font of town history delivered in the register of casual conversation, and through Mrs. Della, whose knowledge of Castillo Creek extends back forty years and who shares it in the same tone she uses to describe the weather — matter of fact, no particular drama.
This is how you learn that Heeseung Lee has been running the ranch alone since he was twenty-six. That his father died the year before Eli was born, and his mother moved to Austin to be near her sister, and Heeseung stayed because someone had to and because the land was in him the way some things get into people.
That Clara — his wife, Eli’s mother — left when Eli was two. Jay tells you this on a Wednesday evening when you’ve stayed past closing, helping him wipe down the counter because you were in the middle of a conversation and neither of you wanted to stop it, and he says it quietly, without the gossipy relish he sometimes deploys for lesser information. He says it like he’s trusting you with something.
“She wasn’t unhappy,” Jay says, wiping the same spot twice. “Or — she was, but not because of him. She was a person who needed more than this place could give her and she stayed too long trying to want what she had and then she left.” He sets down the cloth. “Eli was two. Heeseung — he didn’t fall apart. That’s the thing about him. He just. Kept going.” He looks at the counter. “He hasn’t let anyone close since. Not like that.”
You are quiet for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?”
Jay looks at you with his frank dark eyes and the expression of a man who has thought carefully about what he’s going to say. “Because you’re going to be around for a while,” he says. “And I think you should know who he is. The real shape of him.” A pause. “And because he asked about you again today.”
“Jay—”
“He asked if you seemed settled,” Jay says. “Same question as before. He asks it like it’s nothing.” He picks the cloth back up. “Heeseung doesn’t ask about people, is the thing. He notices them. He listens. But he doesn’t ask.” He looks at you. “He’s asking about you.”
You go home to the boarding house and sit at your writing desk for a long time without writing anything.
—
The week before the harvest dance, Eli presents you with a drawing.
This is not unprecedented — he has given you two previous drawings, one of Maple and one of what you eventually identified as the schoolhouse, rendered in the bold confident lines of a child who draws from feeling rather than observation. This one he places on your desk at the end of Friday with the elaborate casualness he deploys for things that matter to him.
You wait until the room is empty before you look at it. It is two figures. One small, one tall. The small one has a gap in its teeth rendered in careful pencil. The tall one has long hair and is wearing — you look closer — a dress with a collar, which is clearly you. They are standing in front of something you take a moment to identify as the paddock fence, and between them, taking up most of the page, is a horse. Brown. Maple, you think, though the horse has been given an expression of benevolent authority that transcends species.
At the bottom, in the large uneven letters of a child still mastering the relationship between thought and handwriting: MISS YN AND ELI. FRIENDS.
You sit with that for a long moment. Then you take a piece of tape and put it on the wall beside the blackboard, where you can see it from your desk, and you go home for the weekend with something warm sitting in your chest that you don’t try to name.
Saturday, the day before the harvest dance, you are in Jay’s diner mid-morning when Heeseung comes in. This is not unusual. He comes in most Saturday mornings, sometimes with Riki, sometimes alone, and you have in six weeks arrived at a kind of comfortable parallel presence with him — you are often there, he is often there, you talk easily when you talk and don’t force it when you don’t, and Jay watches the whole thing with the serene satisfaction of a man who has predicted an outcome and is waiting for everyone else to catch up.
Today he comes in alone and sits at the counter and orders coffee and then turns to you with his hat on the stool beside him and says: “You going to the dance tomorrow?”
“Mrs. Della seems to think I’m obligated,” you say.
The corner of his mouth. “She’s not wrong. First harvest dance as a Castillo Creek resident is non-negotiable.” He turns his coffee cup in his hands. “It’s good. They do it right.”
“Do you go every year?”
“Every year.” He pauses. “I usually take Eli for the first part. He passes out around nine and I bring him home and come back.”
“Who looks after him?”
“Bea stays late.” He glances at you sidelong. “She has opinions about the dance. Mostly that someone should be dancing and it might as well be me.”
You smile. “Sound advice.”
“Mm.” He is quiet for a moment in the comfortable way he does quiet. Then: “Would you want to — go over together? You and me and Eli. He’d like that.”
The way he says it: simple, direct, no particular performance of casualness but no weight on it either. Just an offer, made plainly. You look at him. He is looking at his coffee cup with the expression of a man who has said the thing and is now waiting without making it a big deal either way. “Yes,” you say. “I’d like that.”
He nods, once, and drinks his coffee, and Jay behind the counter turns to do something at the back shelf that absolutely does not require his attention, and the diner is warm and smells of coffee and something frying and outside the Texas October is going gold in the morning light.
That afternoon you go back to the boarding house and sit on the edge of the bed and look at the window.
Outside: the field, the flat land, the sky. You think about Richard. You do this less than you used to — the thinking about Richard — which is itself a kind of measurement of how much has shifted in six weeks. He is still there, the way a bruise is there: faded but present when you press on it, the particular combination of shame and anger that comes from having your own story told about you rather than by you. The thing he did was not dramatic. That is almost the worst of it. He simply — ended the engagement, and then explained it in a way that made people look at you, and you could not stay in a city where everyone was deciding what version of you to believe.
You think about what Jay said: He asks about you. You think about Eli’s drawing on the wall beside the blackboard. You think about a gate that swings clean on its hinge, and a man who knew how it worked all along.
You are being careful. You are allowed to be careful. A woman who has had her story taken from her is allowed to be careful about who she gives it back to. But you are also — and this is newer, tentative, growing in the way things grow in new soil when they finally get enough light — you are also here. Present, in this room, in this town, in this life that is beginning to feel less like a retreat and more like an arrival.
You look at the field and the sky until the light goes gold and then rose and then the soft dark blue of a Texas evening. Tomorrow there is a dance. Heeseung Lee is going to take you and his son and bring you home after, and this is a simple thing, a neighbourly thing, a Castillo Creek thing where everything means less than it would mean somewhere else.
Or it means exactly as much as it means, and you’re just going to have to find out.
Eli arrives at the boarding house at six o’clock exactly.
You hear him before you see him — the gate, then footsteps on the porch, then a knock that has clearly been practiced for being the right amount of grown-up. You come downstairs to find Mrs. Della already at the door with the expression of a woman who has been waiting for this moment since approximately Tuesday.
Eli is in a white shirt with the collar buttoned and his hair combed flat in a way that will not survive the evening. He is holding his hat in both hands the way his father holds his, you notice — at his side, turned slightly. He looks up at you and his face does something he can’t quite control, a brightness that he immediately tamps down into dignity. “Dad’s outside,” he says.
“You look very smart,” you tell him.
He stands slightly taller. “Bea made me tuck in,” he says, in the tone of a man who has suffered and endured. Behind you Mrs. Della makes a sound that is definitely not a laugh.
You have worn the blue dress. You own three dresses suitable for an evening out and the blue one has a collar and buttons down the front and a skirt that moves when you walk and it is the one that makes you feel most like yourself, which is the only criterion that matters tonight. You have your hair down, which you don’t do at school, and Mrs. Della’s good earrings which she pressed on you with the firmness of a woman who will not be argued with about earrings.
You step out onto the porch. Heeseung is at the foot of the steps. He is in a dark shirt, clean boots, his hat. He looks up when you come out and there is a moment — brief, unguarded — where his expression does something he doesn’t quite catch before the easy steadiness comes back. His eyes move over you once, quickly, and then he looks at Eli.
“Hat,” he says. Eli puts his hat on. “Good.” Heeseung looks back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Miss Y/N,” he says. “You look real nice.”
“Thank you,” you say. “So do you.”
He makes a small sound, not quite dismissive, like a man who doesn’t know what to do with a compliment offered plainly and has decided not to examine it. He offers his arm — an old-fashioned gesture, natural on him — and you take it, and Eli immediately takes your other hand with the confidence of someone who has decided this is simply how the arrangement works, and the three of you walk down the road toward the lights and the music already drifting from the community hall at the end of the street.
The harvest dance is, as advertised, done right. The community hall is a low timber building you’ve walked past without knowing what it was, and tonight it is strung with lanterns and smells of sawdust and food and the particular excitement of a town that doesn’t get many occasions. Tables along the walls hold enough food to feed Castillo Creek twice over — Mrs. Della has contributed a peach cobbler, which you carried over earlier, and it is already half gone. A four-piece band is set up at the far end: fiddle, guitar, upright bass, a woman on piano who plays with her whole body. The dancing has already started, couples moving on the cleared floor, children weaving between adult legs at the edges.
The town turns to look when you walk in. Not unpleasantly — it is the small-town version of a head-turn, curious and warm, the collective noting of Heeseung Lee with the new schoolteacher that you can feel passing through the room like a current. Several women note it with expressions ranging from warmly approving to something more carefully neutral, which tells you what Jay has already told you about the general feeling toward the man beside you.
Heeseung appears to notice none of it. He steers you toward Jay, who is leaning against the far wall with a plate of food and the expression of a man who has been looking forward to tonight for reasons that are entirely about watching other people. “Well,” Jay says, looking between you with magnificent restraint, “don’t you both clean up nice.”
“Food’s good,” Heeseung says, ignoring this.
“I made the cornbread.”
“I know. I already had some.” He looks at Eli, who has been scanning the room with the efficient tactical assessment of a child locating friends. “Stay where I can see you.”
Eli is already gone. Heeseung watches him go with the particular expression of a parent who knows better than to fight it and has positioned himself where he can see the whole room.
The evening unfolds the way good evenings do: without agenda, in the accumulation of small moments. You eat. Jay introduces you to people you haven’t met, which turns out to be fewer than you expected — you know more of Castillo Creek than you realised, the six weeks of main street mornings and school gate conversations having done their quiet work. Mr. and Mrs. Holt from the farm to the north, who have a daughter in your class — Ruth, the one who does everything left-handed and ambidextrously, a fact you have been admiring for weeks. Old Pete from the hardware store, who shakes your hand and says “you fixed the school gate” with the respect of a man who rates practical competence above most other virtues. The minister’s wife, who is warm and enormous and has clearly decided you are good people and broadcasts this to the room through sheer force of conviction.
Heeseung stays near you without being beside you constantly — he moves through the room the way you’ve noticed he does, at ease everywhere, known to everyone, the smile given genuinely and the name remembered for everyone he talks to. Women approach him with the practised ease of long familiarity and he is warm and kind to all of them and doesn’t linger with any of them and drifts back in your direction after each one with the reliability of water finding level. Jay watches this and eats his cornbread and says nothing, which from Jay is extremely loud.
Eli reappears at intervals to report on things of importance: that Tommy has had four pieces of pie, that someone’s dog has got in and is under the far table, that the fiddle player has a hole in his boot which Eli finds compelling for reasons he can’t fully articulate. Each time he appears he is slightly more dishevelled — the collar loosened by degree, the hair no longer remotely flat, a smear of something on his cuff that you choose not to investigate.
The ninth time he appears he is pulling someone by the hand. “Miss Y/N,” he says, with great ceremony, “this is my friend Cody. Cody, this is my teacher. She’s from Chicago and she knows what a dialect is.”
Cody, who is approximately Eli’s age and has the look of a child who has eaten too much pie, nods with solemnity. “What’s a dialect?” he asks you. You explain it, briefly, and both boys listen with their heads slightly tilted, and Heeseung beside you makes a sound very low in his chest that is a laugh he has decided not to have.
The boys disappear again. You look up at Heeseung. He is already looking somewhere else, but his mouth is still doing the almost-laugh. “He’s been telling people that for weeks,” he says. “The dialect thing.”
“I know,” you say. “Grace told me he explained it to the minister’s wife.” The laugh escapes this time, quiet and genuine, and the shape it makes of his face is something you file away without meaning to.
The band shifts tempo around eight. The faster songs have been running for most of the evening — the kind of music that makes your feet move without asking — and now the fiddle drops into something slower, longer, the bass underneath it steady and low. Couples move differently on the floor. The children at the edges drift toward the food tables.
You are by the lantern at the far wall when Heeseung appears beside you. “Dance with me,” he says.
Not would you like to or may I have this — just dance with me, quiet and direct, the way he says most things, like an offer that trusts you to say no if you want to. You look at him. The lantern light is warm on his face, the hat casting a slight shadow, and he is watching you with the patient steadiness that is simply how he is — unhurried, undemanding, there. “Alright,” you say.
He takes your hand and leads you to the floor and puts his other hand at your waist, and you are aware of the warm weight of it through the blue dress, and you put your hand on his shoulder and you dance.
He is good at it. Not showy — he doesn’t have the look of a man who thinks about whether he’s good at things — but easy and sure, the same way he moves through everything. He leads without being heavy about it, and after the first few measures you stop thinking and just follow, and the music goes slow and the lanterns are warm and the whole room is soft at the edges. “You’re surprised I can dance,” he says.
“A little,” you admit.
“My mother’s doing.” Something fond in it. “She said a man who can’t dance is a man who doesn’t know how to listen.” He tilts his head slightly. “She’s right about most things.”
“She sounds formidable.”
“She’d like you.” He says it simply, without apparent awareness of what it implies, and you think: he means it exactly as plainly as he said it, which is somehow more significant than if he’d been trying.
You dance without talking for a while. The fiddle goes somewhere low and sweet. Around you other couples turn slowly, and across the room you can see Jay watching with the expression of a man witnessing the inevitable and finding it satisfying. “Can I ask you something?” Heeseung says.
“Yes.”
“Why Castillo Creek?” He looks at you — not the look he uses on everyone, the warm social look, but something quieter and more direct, the look you’ve caught a few times when he doesn’t know you’re watching. “Of all the places.”
“It was the furthest,” you say. You’ve given this answer before, half-answer that it is, and you feel him register the incompleteness of it.
He doesn’t push. He nods once, slow. “Were you running from something?” he asks. Gently. No judgment in it, just the question, open-handed.
The music turns. You consider him — the steadiness of him, the patience, the careful way he holds you on the dance floor like something he doesn’t want to break but also doesn’t want to handle too gingerly. “Yes,” you say. First time you’ve said it plainly.
He absorbs this. “You don’t have to tell me what,” he says.
“I know.”
“But if you ever want to—” he stops. Starts again. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I’m not going anywhere. Said so simply, with no particular weight on it, just a fact, and yet it lands in you somewhere deep and quiet and stays there like something settling.
“Thank you,” you say. He nods. You dance.
Eli falls asleep in a chair at half past eight. Not gracefully — he is mid-sentence, apparently, Cody reports, about something to do with the dog, and then he simply isn’t anymore. He is curled in the chair with his hat over his face in a pose of complete unconscious dignity, and Heeseung looks at him for a moment with an expression that is purely and simply love, uncomplicated by anything else. “I’ll take him home,” he says.
“Of course.” You help him get the boy upright — Eli stirs briefly, says something about the dog, and goes back under — and Heeseung lifts him with the ease of long practice, the boy’s head dropping onto his shoulder.
“Come back,” Jay says, appearing from nowhere.
“Give me twenty minutes,” Heeseung says. He looks at you over Eli’s sleeping head. “Will you—” a pause, something careful in it. “Will you still be here?”
“Yes,” you say. He holds your gaze for a moment. Then he nods, and carries his son home through the warm October night, and you go back to Jay and the music and the lanterns and the feeling of a hand at your waist that you can still feel even though it’s gone.
“Well,” says Jay.
“Don’t,” you say. He puts his hands up, peaceable, and hands you a glass of lemonade. But he is smiling.
Heeseung is back in eighteen minutes. You are talking to Mrs. Holt when you see him come through the door, hat resettled, and he finds you in the room immediately — doesn’t scan for you, just finds you, the way you find a light when you walk into a dark room. He comes over and Mrs. Holt makes a gracious excuse and leaves, and he stands beside you and accepts the glass of lemonade you’ve been holding for him without either of you remarking on why you knew to have it.
The band starts something slow again. Heeseung looks at you. You look at him. “Again?” he says.
“Again,” you say.
This time when he puts his hand at your waist you don’t catalogue it, don’t file it, don’t hold it at a careful distance to examine later. You just — let it be what it is, warm and steady and real, his hand and your shoulder and the fiddle going slow and the lanterns burning low, and if the space between you is slightly less than it was the first time then neither of you mentions it.
You dance until the band stops for a break and then you get food and eat it on the hall steps in the cool October night and talk — easily, unhurriedly — about nothing much and everything, the ranch and the classroom and things you’ve read and things you’ve seen, the way a conversation goes when two people discover they have more to say to each other than they anticipated.
At some point you become aware that the music has started again inside and neither of you has moved to go back in. At some point after that you become aware that your shoulders are nearly touching on the step and neither of you has moved apart.
The night is clear, stars enormous in that Texas sky that has too much room in it, the music muffled through the wall, and Heeseung is talking about the ranch in winter and you are listening and also listening to the warm unhurried sound of his voice and the night is soft and something is very quietly happening, the way things happen in new soil: without announcement, without drama, just the steady irresistible work of growing.
He walks you home at eleven. The street is quiet, the dance still going distantly, the air cool and smelling of dust and something dry and sweet. He walks beside you with his hands in his pockets and you walk with your arms crossed against the chill and at the boarding house gate you stop. He is looking at you.
The porch light is on — Mrs. Della — and in it his face is all warm shadow and that particular steadiness, and you are aware that this is a moment, the kind that has a before and after, and that you are both standing in it. “I had a good night,” you say.
“Me too,” he says. Quiet. Sincere. A pause. The street is empty. The stars are doing what they do.
He reaches out — slowly, deliberately, giving you every opportunity — and tucks a strand of hair back from your face, his fingers barely grazing your cheek, and it is such a small thing, so careful, and it takes your breath in a way that no grand gesture ever has. He drops his hand. “Goodnight, darlin’,” he says. Soft. Just yours.
“Goodnight,” you say. He tips his hat and walks back down the street and you watch him go and then you go inside and you sit on the edge of your bed in the dark and you press your fingers to your cheek where his hand was.
Outside the stars are enormous. New soil, you think. Something’s growing.
—
Nothing is said. This is the thing about Heeseung Lee — he does not press. He does not arrive at the schoolhouse the next morning with declarations or at Jay’s diner with meaningful looks or at the boarding house gate with anything that requires you to respond to it formally. He simply — continues. Being present in the way he is always present, warm and steady and unhurried, and the only difference after the harvest dance is a slight calibration in the frequency with which he finds reasons to be near you, and the way the darlin’ sounds when it’s only the two of you, lower and more deliberate, like a word that has been renegotiated.
You continue also. Teaching, reading, eating Jay’s pie, watching the season turn. But you are aware of him now in a way that has moved past noticing into something more like — waiting. Not anxiously. Just the particular heightened attention of a person who has begun to understand that something is being built, slowly, with care, and who has decided to trust the pace of it.
Eli notices. Of course Eli notices. He is seven and perceptive and he has his father’s eyes. He doesn’t say anything directly — he is too clever for direct — but the quality of his watching changes. He begins positioning himself as a reason for the two of you to be in the same place. Dad, can Miss Y/N come see the new foal. Miss, Dad says you should have Bea’s recipe for the cornbread. The transparent architecture of a child conducting an operation he believes to be covert, and which you and Heeseung have both silently agreed to treat as such because he is seven and it is working and no one is going to be the one to make him stop.
The new foal is three weeks old when Eli invites you to see it, and it has not yet decided what its legs are for. Eli brings you to the ranch on the second Saturday of October — I asked Dad and he said yes and also that it was fine if you were busy but you’re not busy, right? — and the foal is in the small paddock nearest the stable, bewilderingly long-limbed, a dark bay that will probably lighten as she grows. She looks at you when you approach the fence with the expression of a creature that has been in the world twenty-one days and has not yet accumulated the patience to find humans interesting. “She doesn’t have a name yet,” Eli says. “Dad said I could name her.”
“What are you thinking?”
He has clearly been thinking about it for days and has not decided, which is unusual for him — he is not generally a boy who holds back opinions. He leans on the fence rail and watches the foal with unusual gravity. “It has to be right,” he says.
“It does,” you agree. Heeseung is on the other side of Eli, his arms resting on the fence, watching the foal with the particular quiet warmth he reserves for the ranch and for his son. He glances over Eli’s head at you and something passes between you — amusement, tenderness, the shared appreciation of a child being serious about something — and it is so easy, so natural, that for a moment you don’t know what to do with how easy it is.
“What about Chicago?” Eli says. Casually. You look at him. He is studying the foal. “The horse you name,” Heeseung adds. “The barn cat?”
“The barn cat’s name is Chicago,” you tell Heeseung.
“I know,” he says. He is looking at the foal. His mouth is doing the thing. “He named it the day you came to the ranch.”
Eli has achieved maximum innocence, his face a study in disinterest.
“I think Chicago is a good name,” you say. The foal, as if in response, takes three uncertain steps and sits down abruptly.
Eli looks at his father. His father looks at you. You look at the foal, sitting in the dirt with its legs at improbable angles and its ears pricked forward as if this was entirely the plan. You all three start laughing at the same moment.
Riki makes coffee. This has become a thing — the coffee on the porch, the late morning sun, the ranch quiet around you. You have been to Sunrise Ranch four times now and each time it has arranged itself into the same comfortable shape: Eli showing you something, Heeseung nearby, Riki appearing and disappearing like a benevolent ghost, Bea’s food involved at some point, the afternoon light eventually demanding that you walk back to town.
Today Riki sits on the porch steps with his cup and looks out at the paddock where Chicago the foal is attempting, again, to organise her legs. “She’s going to be good,” he says, about the foal. “Look at the shoulder on her.”
“You know horses?” you ask.
“Mr. Lee taught me.” He says it simply, the way he says most things about Heeseung, with that uncomplicated weight of someone describing a fact that is also a debt he’s decided he’s glad to owe. “When I first came here I didn’t know anything about any of this. I just needed work.” He drinks his coffee. “He didn’t ask a lot of questions. He said: here’s the work, here’s the room, the rest we’ll figure out. And then he just — showed me things. Every day. How to work the land, how to read a horse, how to fix what breaks.” A pause. “He does that. Shows rather than tells.”
You think of the riding lesson. Heels down. Hands soft. Don’t grip. Breathe. And then stepping back and watching from the fence to see what you’d do on your own. “Yes,” you say. “He does.”
Riki glances at you with his dark eyes and the particular directness of someone who is not quite nineteen yet and hasn’t learned to be oblique about what he observes. “He’s happy,” he says. “More than usual. I thought you should know.”
You look at your coffee cup. The morning is warm and still.
“Thank you, Riki,” you say. He nods and goes back to watching the foal, and the matter is settled, and you sit on the porch of Sunrise Ranch in the October sun and feel the particular quiet terror of something you want very much beginning to feel possible.
—
The almost-kiss happens on a Wednesday. It is not planned. It is not even exactly an almost-kiss, which is perhaps the most honest thing about it — it is more a moment in which a kiss becomes a possibility that both of you become aware of simultaneously, and the awareness itself is so charged that it amounts to nearly the same thing.
You have stayed late at the schoolhouse marking reading assessments, the kind of work that requires the particular quiet of an empty room, and you are still there at five when you hear the gate and look up to see Heeseung coming through it with something in his hand. He stops at the foot of the steps. “Bea sent this.” He holds up a cloth-wrapped parcel. “She made too much.”
Bea, you have come to understand, always makes too much. This is not accidental. “Tell her thank you,” you say.
“You tell her. She likes you more than she likes me.” He comes up the steps — this is newer, the coming up the steps, the crossing of the porch — and you open the door and he follows you inside because the light is going and neither of you suggests he leave.
He sets the parcel on your desk and looks at the wall beside the blackboard. Eli’s drawing. He looks at it for a long moment without saying anything. “He gave it to me on a Friday,” you say. “I put it up that evening.”
Heeseung is quiet. In the low afternoon light his profile is — you don’t look directly. You tidy the papers on your desk. But you are aware of him in the specific physical way you have been aware of him since the harvest dance, a warmth that doesn’t require proximity to function, that exists simply because he is in the room. “He doesn’t give drawings to people,” Heeseung says, finally.
“I know.”
“He gave one to Jay once.” A pause. “Jay cried.”
“Did he?” You let out an amused breath.
“He’ll tell you he didn’t.” He turns from the wall and the small distance of the schoolroom is between you, both of you standing in the last of the afternoon light through the windows, the assessment papers on the desk and Bea’s parcel beside them and the drawing on the wall. “You’ve been good for him,” he says. “For Eli.”
“He’s been good for me,” you say. Heeseung looks at you. The directness of it, steady and warm and something beneath it that is no longer entirely hidden from you — something careful and wanting and very, very controlled.
He takes a step. Just one. The room is small and one step is a significant renegotiation of the space between you, and you are aware of your own stillness, the way you are not moving away, the way you are — you realise — leaning, fractionally, toward him.
His hand comes up. The same gesture as the gate night — slow, deliberate, no ambiguity about the intention — and his fingers brush your jaw, not your cheek this time but your jaw, tilting your face up very slightly. He looks at you. You look at him. The moment is right there, the exact shape of it, and you can feel his breath and the warmth of his hand and the whole quiet room holding itself still— the gate.
You both hear it. A second later: footsteps on the porch, and Eli’s voice, Dad? Riki said you came here, and the door opens.
Heeseung’s hand drops. He steps back — not hastily, not guilty, just back — and turns toward the door as Eli comes through it with his schoolbag still on his shoulder from wherever he’s been, looking between the two of you with eyes that miss nothing.
“Bea sent food,” Heeseung says.
Eli looks at the parcel. Looks at you. Looks at his father. He is seven years old and he has the perceptive assessment of someone three times that age and you watch him put something together behind his eyes and decide, with great and deliberate charity, not to say it. “Okay,” he says. He drops his bag. “Can I have some?”
—
November comes in quietly. The cold arrives properly now, the mornings sharp, the light later. You have a proper coat from the general store — Castillo Creek wool, practically indestructible, Mrs. Della’s recommendation — and your own boots now, bought from the hardware store with the heel worn to fit your foot. You are, you realise one morning walking to the schoolhouse in the frost, no longer performing belonging. You just — belong. In the small ordinary way of someone who knows which floorboards creak and which gate sticks and which order to say good morning to the main street in. This is a thing you didn’t know you needed until you had it.
The children change too — they are yours now, fully, in the way a class becomes yours when they’ve stopped watching you to see if you’ll stay and started simply assuming you will. Tommy does his arithmetic left-handed and his numbers come out clean. Clara has read everything on the bookshelf and you’ve started lending her your own. The new books arrived last week from the county — three boxes, more than you expected, apparently the board received two letters — and the morning you unpacked them Eli said did you write two letters? and you said the second one was more strongly worded and he looked at you with pure satisfaction and said good.
Grace organises the shelf. Eli helps whether or not he’s asked. The little ones treat the new books with the reverence of sacred objects, which is the correct response.
The second time it almost happens is on your porch. Heeseung walks you home from the diner on a Friday — you’ve fallen into this, the Friday evenings at Jay’s that end with him walking you the two blocks home — and at the gate he stops, as he always does, and you turn, as you always do.
But tonight is different. Maybe it’s the cold, the way it makes the air sharp and close. Maybe it’s the week that’s been — Eli had a difficult day on Tuesday, something about a boy from another farm saying something about his mother, and he’d been quiet for three days until this evening when he’d appeared at Jay’s with Heeseung and been loud enough to make up for it, and you’d watched Heeseung watch his son come back to himself and felt something in your chest pull tight with feeling.
Maybe it’s just that you’re tired of the careful distance and your body is making decisions your head hasn’t approved.
You are at the gate and he is looking at you and the cold is making your breath visible between you and you say, before you’ve decided to: “You could come in.” He goes still. “For coffee,” you say. “Mrs. Della makes it before bed. She won’t mind.”
He looks at you for a long moment. The street is empty and dark and cold and the porch light is on and he is — you watch him weigh something, watch the careful consideration of a man who has learned the cost of moving without thinking, and you wait, and you don’t take it back.
“Not tonight,” he says. Quietly. Not as a rejection — the quality of it is entirely different from rejection, warm and regretful and something else, something that sounds almost like not yet. His eyes hold yours. “But—” he stops.
“But?” you say.
His hand finds yours, briefly, in the cold — not holding, just his fingers over yours for a moment, warm against the chill, a contact so small it might be nothing and is absolutely not nothing. “Soon,” he says.
You look at your hands. His fingers over yours. “Okay,” you say.
He squeezes once and lets go and steps back. Tips his hat. “Goodnight, darlin’.”
“Goodnight.” You go inside. You stand in the hallway for a moment with your hand held against your chest. Soon, you think.
Outside, his footsteps on the road, going home.
Tuesday in the third week of November, after school, after everyone has gone, the room is empty and the light low and you are at your desk and Heeseung has come — ostensibly to fix the wobbling chair leg, he appeared with a tool and a particular determined expression — and has fixed it and straightened up and you are still at the desk and the room is quiet and the space between you is approximately nothing.
He looks at you. You look at him. You say: “Heeseung.” Just his name. No question in it, no instruction, just the sound of it in the empty room, and something in him — the careful controlled something — gives way.
He crosses the room and his hands find your face and he kisses you.
Gently. Almost unbearably gently for a man who has been waiting this long — his mouth soft on yours, one hand curved around your jaw and one in your hair, the kiss slow and thorough and so tender that you feel it behind your eyes. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it, like he’s been thinking about exactly this and is in no hurry now that he’s here.
You make a sound, quiet and involuntary, and his hands tighten slightly in your hair — controlled, so controlled — and then he pulls back just enough to look at you, your face between his hands, his forehead almost touching yours. “Been wanting to do that,” he says, low, “since the diner.”
“The first morning?” you say. Your voice is not entirely steady.
“The first morning,” he confirms.
You pull him back down. This kiss is different — less tender, more certain, the both of you having established the territory now and moving through it with more confidence. His hands stay in your hair and at your jaw and you have one hand in his shirt and one on his arm and the chair leg is fixed and the school room is empty and the afternoon is going dark outside the windows.
Eventually — reluctantly — you separate. He rests his forehead against yours. His breathing is not entirely steady either, which you find deeply satisfying. His thumb moves along your jaw, once. “Eli’s at the ranch,” he says.
“I know.”
“Riki’s with him.”
“I know.” He pulls back enough to look at you properly. The expression on his face is something you haven’t seen before — open, unguarded, the steadiness still there but with something warmer beneath it, something that has stopped being controlled.
You look at him. This man who fixes things slowly and holds gates open and walks beside you without filling every silence and has been waiting, you realise, as carefully as you have — the both of you circling something real at a respectful distance because you both know the cost of getting it wrong. “Not here,” you say. “Not yet.”
He nods immediately, no argument, no pressure. “No.” He straightens. His hand drops from your jaw to your shoulder, rests there for a moment. “Soon.”
“Soon,” you agree.
He kisses you once more — brief, deliberate, a punctuation — and steps back and picks up his tool from the floor. At the door he pauses with his hand on the frame. “Fixed the chair,” he says.
“Thank you,” you say.
The corner of his mouth. He puts his hat on. He goes. You sit in the fixed chair in the empty schoolroom with your fingers at your lips and the particular feeling of someone standing at the very edge of something they’ve been walking toward for a long time.
You don’t see him come in — you’re at the schoolhouse, mid-morning, working fractions with the older children while the little ones do their letters — but the town sees him, which amounts to the same thing. A black car, which is the first thing, because nobody in Castillo Creek drives a black car, everyone drives trucks with dust on them, and a black car with city plates sitting outside the boarding house is the kind of thing that travels the length of the main street in approximately four minutes.
Jay tells you at lunch. He appears at the schoolhouse gate during the midday break with his hands in his apron pockets and the expression of a man who has information he doesn’t want to deliver but will, because not delivering it would be worse. “Someone checked into Mrs. Della’s this morning,” he says.
You are eating a sandwich on the porch steps. “Who?”
“Man from Chicago.” He watches your face. “Name of Calloway.”
The sandwich stops being something you’re interested in. Jay sees it — the thing that happens to your face, the quick controlled shutting-down of it, the composed face coming up like a shutter. He sees it and his expression does something careful and angry on your behalf. “Richard,” you say. Not a question.
“Mrs. Della said he asked for you by name.” Jay’s voice is even, but only just. “Said he was an old friend.”
You set the sandwich down on the step beside you. In the yard the children are playing — Eli is attempting to teach Cody something that involves a great deal of running, unclear objective, self-invented rules — and the sound of them is bright and ordinary and very far away from the thing that is happening in your chest. “How long is he staying?” you say.
“Didn’t say.” Jay pauses. “You don’t have to see him. I mean it. You don’t have to do a single thing.”
“I know, Jay.” You look at the yard. Eli has apparently won whatever the game was and is explaining this to Cody with both hands. “Thank you for telling me.”
Jay looks at you for a long moment with the expression of a man who wants to say more and knows you well enough to know not to. “I’ll be at the diner,” he says. “All night if you need.” He goes. You sit on the steps and watch the children play and breathe.
You see Richard in town at four o’clock. You don’t plan it — or rather you plan to not plan it, to go home the back way and avoid the main street, but you have never been a person who runs from things indefinitely, which is different from a person who retreats to regroup, which is what Castillo Creek was supposed to be, and the distinction matters to you.
So you walk the main street at four. He is outside the general store. Six months since you’ve seen him and he looks exactly the same, which is the particular cruelty of certain kinds of men — Richard Calloway at thirty has the same easy handsomeness he had at twenty-five, the good jaw and the good clothes and the way of standing that broadcasts money without appearing to try. He is talking to Mr. Gus from the hardware store with the particular charm he deploys on strangers, warm and attentive, and Mr. Gus, who is a perfectly reasonable man, appears to be finding him perfectly reasonable.
Richard sees you at the same moment you see him. “Y/N,” he says. He says it the way he’s always said your name — with a kind of ownership, like the name is his to use, like he coined it. Six months ago that sound did something to you. Now it does something different: a cold clarity, like being fully awake.
“Richard,” you say. Mr. Gus, sensing something, makes a gracious excuse and goes inside.
Richard crosses the distance between you with that easy unhurried gait. He is looking at you the way he always looked at you — the assessing look, cataloguing, deciding what he’s working with. He looks at your coat, your boots, the dust on them. “You look well,” he says.
“What are you doing here?”
No preamble. His expression flickers — he expected something else, you can tell, some version of the composed uncertainty he knew how to work with — and then recalibrates. “I wanted to see you.” He tilts his head. “I’ve been worried. Your mother has been worried.”
“My mother knows where I am.”
“She knows where you are.” He glances around — the main street, the hardware store, the distant sound of the diner — with an expression that is almost too carefully neutral. “She’s less certain about why.”
“I am,” you say. “Certain about why.”
Something moves through his expression. Not hurt — Richard doesn’t do hurt, exactly, he does the performance of it — but something more like recalculation. He has come here with a script and you are not following it and he is deciding which page to go to next. “Can we talk?” he says. “Properly. Not — here.”
“Not today,” you say.
“Y/N—”
“I need to get home,” you say. “I have work to do.” You walk past him. You feel his gaze on your back the whole length of the street and you keep your spine straight and your pace even and you do not look back, and you turn the corner to the boarding house and you stand in the hallway for thirty seconds with your hand flat against the wall.
Then you go upstairs and sit at your desk and write lesson plans for the following week with the particular furious focus of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing and exactly why.
He stays.
This is what you didn’t account for — or what you knew, somewhere, and didn’t want to know: that Richard Calloway does not come somewhere and leave without getting what he came for, because Richard Calloway has not, in thirty years of life, not gotten a thing he came for. He is patient in the manner of a man who has never had to be truly patient, which is a different thing from Heeseung’s patience — Heeseung’s patience is the patience of someone who understands that good things take the time they take. Richard’s patience is the patience of someone who is simply waiting for the situation to arrange itself correctly.
He is in the diner on Friday morning when you come in. He has clearly been there a while — Jay’s expression when you walk in tells you everything, the tight professional smile of a man maintaining composure in his own establishment — and Richard stands when he sees you with the automatic courtesy of old money and gestures at the booth across from him like you’ve just arrived somewhere he owns.
You sit at the counter instead. Jay puts coffee in front of you without being asked and goes to the back. Richard slides onto the stool beside you. “Your friend doesn’t like me,” he says pleasantly.
“Jay doesn’t know you,” you say. “He’s good at people.”
A flicker. “I see you haven’t lost your—” he pauses, finds the word “—sharpness.”
“I’ve been busy,” you say. “Teaching.”
“Yes.” He turns his cup in his hands. This is a gesture you know — he does it when he’s choosing his approach, the hand movement while he thinks. “You’re a good teacher, Y/N. You were always good at it. You could be doing it in Chicago. Somewhere with—” he doesn’t finish it but you hear it: resources, standing, people like us.
“I like it here,” you say.
“You’ve been here two months.”
“Ten weeks.”
“Ten weeks,” he says. “In a town with four hundred people.” He looks at you sidelong. “Is this really what you want? Or is it just — the furthest you could get?”
The question lands because he knows you well enough to know it might. You drink your coffee.
“Both,” you say. “And then it became what I wanted.”
He is quiet for a moment. Then, lower, the charm dialed back, something more direct underneath: “I made a mistake.” You look at him. “The way I handled things,” he says. “The way I — let people talk.” He meets your eyes. “I should have been clearer. About what happened.”
“What did happen, Richard?” you say. “Tell me your version.”
Something careful moves through his face. “We weren’t right for each other. I should have said that, instead of—”
“Instead of implying that I was unstable,” you say pleasantly. “Instead of telling your mother that I had become erratic, which she told her friends, which—” you stop. The composed face. “You know what was said. You know what it cost me.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he says. “I want to make it right.”
“By coming here,” you say. “To this town with four hundred people where I have managed, without your help, to make a life.”
He looks at you. His jaw is set slightly. “Come home,” he says. “That’s all I’m asking. Come home and we can—”
“No,” you say. Quietly. No drama. Just no, the way you should have been saying it for the two years you spent trying to become something that would satisfy him.
You finish your coffee. You put the money on the counter. You stand. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit,” you say. “The peach pie is very good.” You walk out. Behind you the bell chimes.
You don’t tell Heeseung. This is the thing you’ll come back to later — not telling him. It’s not deception, exactly, or you tell yourself it isn’t. It is the particular guarded instinct of a woman who has had her story taken from her once and is not ready yet to hand it to someone else to hold, even someone she trusts, even someone whose hands are the careful kind.
But Castillo Creek is four hundred people and a black city car parked on the main street and Richard Calloway has his father’s charm and the town is talking.
Jay doesn’t tell him either — you don’t have to ask, Jay simply knows — but Jay also cannot control what a town talks about, and towns talk.
You are outside the schoolhouse at half past four, gate latched behind you, walking toward the main street, and Richard is there.
He has been doing this — appearing at the edges of your day, not enough to be a confrontation, enough to be a reminder. Outside the general store, at the end of the street when you’re walking from the diner, once at the boarding house gate, though he didn’t approach that time, just stood at the end of the road as you went in.
Today he is at the corner near the schoolhouse and when you come through the gate he falls into step beside you. “I need you to stop,” you say.
“I just want to talk.”
“We’ve talked.”
“Y/N.” He takes your arm. Not hard — he’s never hard, that’s not how he operates, Richard operates through persistence and charm and the slow rewriting of reality until you can’t find the original — his hand on your arm, a familiar gesture from a thousand ordinary moments, the gesture of someone who knows where your arm is.
“Let go,” you say.
He does. Immediately, palms up, the gesture of a reasonable man. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“Richard.” Quietly. Firmly. “Go home.”
You step around him and walk. You don’t see Heeseung at the end of the street. But he sees you.
He doesn’t come to the diner on Friday. This is the first Friday in all the weeks you’ve been here that he doesn’t come. Jay notices — of course Jay notices, Jay notices everything — and he watches the door and watches you and keeps your cup full and doesn’t say anything, which from Jay means he is thinking very carefully about what not to say. You notice the absence like a change in weather. A front coming in.
He doesn’t come on Saturday either. Eli is in town — you see him outside the general store with Riki, who gives you a look you can’t fully interpret, something complicated — and Eli waves but doesn’t run over, which is so unlike him that something cold and certain settles in your stomach. You go to Jay. “What does he think he saw?” you say.
Jay is wiping the counter. He wipes it for a while. “Man from the city with his hand on your arm,” he says finally. “Outside the schoolhouse.”
“Richard grabbed my arm. I told him to let go. He did.”
“I know that.”
“Heeseung doesn’t.”
Jay sets down the cloth. He looks at you with the expression of a man who cares about two people who are being stupid at each other and has to navigate this carefully. “He didn’t ask me,” he says. “Which tells you something. If he thought it was nothing he would’ve asked.” You look at the counter. “He’s not angry,” Jay says. “He’s just — he’s gone back inside himself. The way he does.” He pauses. “You know about Clara.”
“I know she left.”
“He watched her talk to someone for a week before she told him she was going. He came home one day and she was packed.” Jay says it plainly, not for drama, just because you need to know the shape of what’s happening. “He doesn’t — he doesn’t do this consciously. It’s just where he goes. When it looks like someone’s about to leave.”
“I’m not leaving,” you say.
“I know.”
“He doesn’t know why Richard is here.”
“No.”
You are quiet for a moment. The diner is warm around you, the smell of coffee and the distant sound of the radio, and outside the window the main street is grey and cold under the November sky. “I should have told him,” you say.
“Yes,” Jay says, not unkindly. “You should have.”
—
Riki appears at the boarding house in the early morning of Sunday with his hands in his pockets and the look of someone who has decided to do something and is committed to seeing it through. You sit on the porch together in the cold and he looks at the street. “He’s not eating properly,” Riki says.
“Riki—”
“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad. I’m saying it because you should know what’s happening over there.” He looks at his hands. “He got up at four this morning and went out to the fence line and I don’t know when he came back.” He pauses. “Eli asked him why you hadn’t visited and he said you were probably busy. Eli didn’t believe him. He’s seven and he didn’t believe him.” You close your eyes briefly. “The man from the city,” Riki says. “Who is he?”
“My ex-fiancé,” you say. “He came here to bring me back. I told him no. What Heeseung saw—” you stop. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”
Riki is quiet for a moment. “He won’t ask,” he says. “He’ll just—” he does a gesture, a closing-in, both hands coming together. “He’ll just decide it’s already over and start making peace with it. He does it fast. He had a lot of practice.”
The cold is sharp on the porch and the street is empty and you think about a man up at four in the morning walking a fence line alone. “I’m going to the ranch,” you say.
Riki stands. “Good,” he says. Simply. And goes back down the porch steps and up the road, and you watch him go and then you go inside and put your coat on.
The ranch is quiet in the Sunday morning. Heeseung is at the paddock fence when you come through the gate — you know his shape at this distance now, the particular way he stands, the hat — and he turns when he hears you and goes very still. You walk toward him. The cold air is clean and the horses move slow in the paddock and the sky is white and enormous.
You stop at the fence beside him. He looks at you — that careful, closed look, the inside-self look that Jay described, and underneath it something that is trying very hard to be nothing and isn’t.
“His name is Richard Calloway,” you say. “He was my fiancé. He ended our engagement and made sure the story that circulated made me look like the problem. I came here because I needed to be somewhere no one knew that story.” You look at the paddock. “He came here to bring me back. I told him no. What you saw — he took my arm. I told him to let go. He did. And then I walked away.” Heeseung is very quiet beside you.
“I should have told you he was here,” you say. “I know that. I was—” you stop. Find the honest word. “I was holding it. My own story. I’ve had it taken from me before and I wasn’t ready to hand it to someone else yet, even someone I—” you stop again.
The paddock. The white sky. Chicago the foal, visible at the far end, picking her way through the grass. “Even someone I trust,” you finish.
A long silence. “He’s gone?” Heeseung says. His voice is careful. Controlled.
“He left yesterday morning,” you say. “Mrs. Della told me.”
Another silence. You can hear him breathing beside you, and the sound of it — the slight unevenness of it — tells you more than anything he’s said. “I thought—” he starts. Stops. Jaw tight. Starts again: “When I saw him with his hand on your arm I thought—”
“I know what you thought,” you say, gently. “I know why you thought it.”
He looks at you then. The inside face, still there, but cracking slightly at the edges. “I don’t do this well,” he says. “The—” he stops. “I’m not good at trusting that people—” another stop. He takes his hat off and turns it in his hands, looking at the brim. “I had six years of practice at being fine on my own and I got good at it.”
“I know,” you say.
“And then you came here,” he says. Quietly. “And Eli drew you on his wall.” Your chest does the thing it does. “And I started—” he stops again. The hat in his hands. “Getting bad at being fine on my own.”
You reach out and put your hand over his on the fence rail. Just your hand over his, the way he did at the boarding house gate in the cold, that same small warm contact. He looks at your hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say. “I fixed the gate. I’m staying.”
Something in him — the closed, careful, six-years-practiced something — gives. Not all at once, not dramatically. Just a breath, long and slow, and his hand turning under yours so his fingers can close around it. “Okay,” he says.
You stand at the fence in the cold white morning with his hand around yours and the horses moving slow in the paddock and the whole quiet ranch around you.
“I have to tell you something else,” you say.
“Alright.”
“I’ve been in love with you since approximately the harvest dance,” you say. “Possibly since the coffee in the stable. I’m not sure of the exact date.”
Heeseung is quiet for one moment. Then he makes a sound — low and startled and something that becomes a laugh, helpless, the kind that alters his whole face — and he pulls you toward him, one hand at the back of your head, and presses his mouth to your hair, your temple, and holds you there against the paddock fence in the November cold. “The coffee in the stable,” he says, into your hair.
“You’d already made two cups,” you say. “You knew I was coming.”
He laughs again, quieter. His arm is around you and his chin is on your head and across the paddock Chicago the foal is watching you both with enormous disinterested eyes. “Since the diner,” he says. “The first morning.”
“I know,” you say.
“You know?”
“You looked at me before you smiled,” you say. “Just for a second. Before the smile came. That’s when I knew.”
He pulls back enough to look at you. His expression — open, unguarded, the steadiness still there but warm all the way through now, nothing held back. “Lord,” he says softly. “You see everything.”
“I’m a teacher,” you say. “It’s the job.”
He kisses you. Right there at the paddock fence in the cold, his hand in your hair and yours in his coat, and it is nothing like the gentle kiss in the schoolroom — it is certain and warm and long and he kisses you like a man who has been holding something carefully for a very long time and has finally been told he can put it down.
When you separate, eventually, you are both slightly breathless. “Darlin’,” he says, low, the word doing what it does when it’s just yours.
“Yes?” you say.
“Come inside,” he says. “Bea made enough breakfast for six people and Eli is going to absolutely lose his mind when he sees you.”
You laugh. You take his hand. You go inside and Eli does, in fact, lose his mind. Not loudly — he is not a loud child, not in the way of tantrums or theatrics — but in the specific Eli way, which is a brightness that takes over his whole face before he can manage it, and then the immediate, instinctive suppression of it into dignity, and then the dignity failing completely because he is seven and some things are too good to be dignified about.
He is at the kitchen table with Bea when you come through the door behind Heeseung, still holding his hand, which Eli clocks immediately with the particular alertness of a child who has been waiting for exactly this data point. His eyes go to your joined hands. Then to your face. Then to his father’s face. Then back to your hands.
Bea, who misses nothing and reacts to nothing, sets a plate on the table. “Sit down,” she says. “Food’s hot.” Eli sits down. He is vibrating slightly.
You sit across from him. Heeseung sits beside you, easy, his knee against yours under the table. Bea puts coffee in front of you without being asked and goes back to the stove. Eli looks at you. “Hi,” you say.
“Hi,” he says. Carefully. Then, unable to help it: “Are you staying for breakfast?”
“If that’s alright.”
“It’s alright,” he says, very quickly. He picks up his fork. He puts it down. He looks at his father with the expression of a child requiring confirmation of something he doesn’t want to ask directly. Heeseung looks at him steadily. “Yes,” he says.
Eli picks up his fork again. He eats a bite of egg with enormous composure. Then: “I told Cody you’d probably end up friends.”
“Did you,” Heeseung says.
“I said probably.” He cuts a piece of biscuit with careful precision. “Cody said maybe.” He looks at you. “I was right.”
“You usually are,” you say.
This pleases him so deeply that he has to look at his plate to manage it. Bea, at the stove, makes a sound that is not quite a laugh but contains one.
Breakfast at Sunrise Ranch on a Sunday morning. This is what it is: the kitchen warm from the stove, the windows fogged slightly at the corners, Bea moving with the unhurried authority of someone who has run this kitchen for twenty years and will run it twenty more. Eli eating and talking and eating and talking, a stream of school information directed primarily at you — Tommy can do multiplication now and Clara finished the new books already, both of them and Grace thinks she should be in charge of the globe but the globe has a crack in it so it seems unfair — and Heeseung beside you, knee against yours, drinking his coffee and listening to his son with that expression, the open unguarded one, the love-without-complication one.
Once, while Eli is telling you about the globe, Heeseung’s hand finds yours under the table. He doesn’t look at you when he does it. He is looking at Eli. His thumb moves once across your knuckles and stays. You look at Eli and listen about the globe.
After breakfast Eli disappears outside — Riki materialises to take him to the stable, the easy choreography of a household that has its rhythms — and Bea goes to do something elsewhere in the house with pointed discretion, and you are alone in the kitchen with Heeseung and the remains of breakfast and the Sunday morning quiet.
He refills your coffee. He sits back down, closer this time, turned toward you slightly, his arm along the back of your chair. “Tell me about him,” he says. “If you want. Richard.”
You look at your cup. “I don’t want to spend the morning on Richard.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I want to understand what he did. What you were carrying when you came here.” His voice is even. “Not for any reason except I want to know what it cost you. Because I think it cost you a lot and I don’t think many people asked.”
You look at him. The steadiness of him, and underneath it now, openly, the warmth. You tell him. Not everything — there is no everything yet, some things need more time and more trust before they become speakable — but the shape of it: the engagement, the ending of it, the way the story moved through their social world with Richard’s fingerprints invisible on it, the school where you’d taught finding reasons to see you differently, your mother’s voice on the phone saying maybe if you’d been less. The twenty-seven job applications. Castillo Creek writing back.
Heeseung listens the way he always listens — completely, without filling the pauses, without deciding what your story means before you’ve finished telling it.
When you’re done he is quiet for a moment. “He came here thinking you’d go back,” he says.
“Yes.”
“And you—”
“I was never going back.” You look at him. “I think I knew that before he arrived. I think Castillo Creek stopped being a retreat and started being — this — weeks ago. I just hadn’t said it out loud yet.”
Heeseung nods, slow. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with the same careful deliberateness he always uses — the gesture that gives you time to move away, that assumes nothing — and leaves his hand curved at your jaw. “He doesn’t get to have this,” he says. Quietly. “What happened to you back there. He doesn’t get to have the last word on it.”
“He doesn’t,” you agree.
“You fixed a gate,” Heeseung says. “You wrote two letters to the school board. You put a drawing on your wall.” His thumb at your jaw, the lightest movement. “You’re not someone who needed rescuing.”
“No,” you say. “I’m not.”
“Good,” he says. And kisses you, soft and brief, like a conclusion.
—
The weeks that follow are the best of your life.
You will think this later and it will surprise you — not the fact of it but the simplicity of it, that best can be made of such ordinary material. Morning coffee. The schoolhouse. Eli’s questions at lunch. Jay’s diner on Friday evenings. The ranch on Saturdays, your boots by the stable door, your coffee cup with the small chip in the handle that has become yours without anyone saying so.
Heeseung walks you home from the diner on Fridays and comes in now — Mrs. Della receives him with the satisfaction of someone whose predictions are being validated in real time — and they drink coffee at the kitchen table, all three of them, and talk until late, and then he walks back to the ranch and you watch him from the porch.
He kisses you in ordinary places: at the boarding house gate, in Jay’s diner when Jay has turned to the back shelf, at the paddock fence with one arm over the rail and one around you. He kisses you like someone who is very aware of what he has and intends to be careful with it. Tender, deliberate, thorough. You are, you think, going to have to do something about the thorough.
It happens on a Saturday in early December. Eli is in town with Riki — a deliberate arrangement, you’ll think later, with the particular transparency of a child who is also operating a long game — and Bea has gone to her sister’s for the weekend, and the ranch is quiet and cold and yours.
You come over in the morning with the box of marking you’d told yourself you’d do at the kitchen table, which is true, and which you do, for approximately forty minutes while Heeseung works at the desk in the adjoining room doing ranch accounts. The domestic ordinariness of it — the scratch of his pen, the occasional sound of a horse outside, the winter light — is the kind of thing you want to press into memory and keep.
Then the pen stops. You hear his chair. His footsteps. He appears in the kitchen doorway and leans against the frame and looks at you. “You’re not working,” you say, without looking up.
“I finished,” he says.
“I haven’t.”
“How much is left?”
You look at the stack. “Some.”
“Y/N.” You look up. He is in the doorway with his arms crossed and that expression — the warm one, the open one, the one that has nothing controlled about it — and the morning light behind him and the whole quiet ranch around you.
“Come here,” he says. You put your pen down. You go.
He kisses you in the hallway, backed against the wall with one hand braced beside your head and one at your waist, and it is immediately different from all the careful public kisses — there is nothing held back in it, nothing managing itself, just his mouth on yours and the warmth of him and the knowledge that there is no gate, no Eli, no diner bell, nowhere either of you needs to be.
You pull him closer by the front of his shirt. He makes a sound low in his chest — something between a groan and an exhale, the sound of a man whose patience has run its full course — and his hand moves from your waist to your hip and presses there, firm and deliberate. “Heeseung,” you say, against his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says. Like he knows.
“Bedroom,” you say. He pulls back enough to look at you — checking, the way he always checks, that you mean what you say — and you look back at him clearly, no ambiguity, and he makes that sound again and takes your hand and takes you there.
His bedroom is the ranch made interior: worn timber, a quilt in faded colours, the window looking out over the paddock. Clean and spare and entirely his. It smells like him — something warm and outdoor and specific, the smell you’ve catalogued without meaning to over months of being near him.
You sit on the edge of the bed and he stands in front of you and you reach up and take his hat off and set it on the nightstand. He looks down at you with that open expression, the warmth all the way through. “You’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he says.
“Since the diner,” you say. “The first morning.”
He laughs, surprised out of it, and cups your face in both hands and tilts it up and kisses you — but then he slows, and the kiss goes gentle again, the unbearable gentleness, and you feel it in your throat. “I want to take my time,” he says, against your mouth. Low. Deliberate. “That alright?”
You think about six months of composure and careful distances and soon and not yet. “Yes,” you say. “But you should know I’m not going to be patient about it.”
The corner of his mouth, close to yours. “That a fact.”
“Fair warning.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the soft place below your ear, taking his time as advertised and apparently fully at peace with the consequences of this, and you grip his shirt and close your eyes and let him.
He undresses you slowly.Each button on the front of your dress — his fingers finding each one, unhurried, like he has nowhere to be in the world except here — and watching his face while he does it: the focus, the deliberateness, the slight tension in his jaw that tells you the patience is real but not effortless. “You’re staring,” you say.
“Yes,” he agrees, without apology. When the dress is off he looks at you in the winter light from the window and the expression on his face — unhidden, unmanaged — does something to you more immediately than any touch. “Lord,” he says, soft. Same word as the paddock. Different weight.
“Your turn,” you say, and reach for his shirt buttons. He lets you. He watches you work through them with the stillness of a man exercising enormous self-control, and when you push the shirt off his shoulders you let your hands sit on his chest for a moment — warm skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms — and look up at him.
“Hi,” you say. Something breaks open in his face. He pulls you up and against him and holds you there, skin to skin, his arms around you and his face in your hair, and you feel him breathe.
“Hi,” he says. Into your hair. Low and wrecked and yours.
He keeps his word about taking his time. He lays you back and moves over you and learns you slowly — his mouth at your throat, your collarbone, lower, taking inventory with the thoroughness of a man who intends to know exactly what he’s doing and is not embarrassed about the methodology. He finds the places that make you make sounds and stays there, patient, deliberate, until you are gripping the quilt. “Heeseung—”
“Mm,” he says. Not a response. A sound of someone occupied.
“I said I wouldn’t be patient—”
“I heard you.” He looks up at you from where he is, and the look on his face — dark-eyed, certain, that half-smile with intent behind it — dismantles you completely. “I’m getting there, darlin’.”
The darlin’. In that voice, in this room, low and deliberate. Just yours. “You are going to be the death of me,” you say.
“Not the plan,” he says, and goes back to what he was doing.
When his fingers find you you are already slick and wanting, six months of tension and patience and soon and careful distances arriving at this, and the sound you make is entirely involuntary. He stills. “Okay?” he says.
“Yes,” you say. “Please.”
He watches your face while he works — that focused look, reading you the way he reads everything, paying attention — and his fingers are skilled and patient and exactly right, and you are aware of him watching you come apart under his hands and aware that you don’t mind, that the composed face is nowhere and you don’t miss it. “That’s it,” he says, low, when your hips lift toward him. “There you go.” The voice. The drawl. The absolute certainty of him.
You come with his name in your mouth and his hand at your hip steadying you and his eyes on your face the whole time, and he works you through it with the same thoroughness he brought to everything else, and when you’re done he presses his mouth to your temple and stays there. “Good?” he says.
“Don’t be smug,” you say.
He laughs. “Not smug.”
“You’re a little smug.”
“Maybe a little.” He pulls back to look at you, and the smugness is there, yes, but underneath it something so warm and open that it cancels the smugness out entirely. “You’re beautiful,” he says. Simply. The way he says things that are just true. You reach up and pull him down. You have him on his back.
This is where you reclaim the pace — you swing your leg over and sit up and look down at him and watch his face do something entirely new, an expression you haven’t seen before: surprise, quickly followed by want, and underneath both of them something that is trying to be collected and isn’t. “Hi,” you say.
“Hi,” he says. His hands find your hips. He is, you note with satisfaction, not as composed as he was.
You move — slowly, deliberately — and watch his jaw set and his hands tighten on your hips and his head press back into the pillow. There is a specific pleasure in this that has nothing to do with the physical, or not only — the pleasure of watching Lee Heeseung, who is patient and steady and controlled, lose every one of those things because of you. “Lord,” he says, choked.
“Mm,” you say. His own syllable, returned.
“Y/N—”
“I heard you,” you say. “I’m getting there.”
He makes a sound that is half a groan and half a laugh and his grip on your hips tightens and his hips roll up to meet you and the laugh is gone, replaced by something lower and more urgent. “You’re—” he starts.
“I know,” you say.
“No, I mean you’re—” he stops again, jaw tight, eyes dark, looking up at you with the expression of a man whose vocabulary has been significantly reduced. “God, darlin’—”
His hand leaves your hip and finds your hair and pulls you down and kisses you deep and then his arms wrap around you and he rolls you over and you go, laughing, and then the laughing stops because he is looking at you with that expression still, wrecked and warm, and moves and you stop thinking about anything at all.
Afterward the ranch is quiet around you. You are in the faded quilt and his arm is around you and your head is on his chest and you can hear his heartbeat, slower now, and outside the paddock the horses move in the winter afternoon. His hand is in your hair, a slow absent movement. “That wasn’t what I expected,” he says.
“What did you expect?”
A pause. “Not that,” he says, and you can hear the smile in it.
You prop yourself up to look at him. He is looking at the ceiling with an expression of serene disbelief. “You look like a man who’s had a revelation,” you say.
“Something like that.” He looks at you, and the expression shifts into the warm open one, the real one. “You’re something else,” he says.
“Is that a complaint?”
“No,” he says. Definitively. “Not even close.”
You lie back down. His arm comes back around you. “Eli’s back at four,” you say.
“I know.”
“I should probably be at the kitchen table with my marking.”
“Probably,” he agrees, and makes no move to change the current arrangement. You lie in the quiet ranch afternoon and listen to his heartbeat and the horses and the winter silence and feel — you take inventory carefully, the way you do when something feels too good to trust yet — feel, genuinely and completely, right. In this room, in this town, in this life that was built from the furthest-job-offer and a broken gate and a man who made two cups of coffee because he knew you were coming.
“Heeseung,” you say. “I’m staying,” you say. “I know I said it at the fence. I’m saying it again.”
His arm tightens. Just once. “I know,” he says.
“I want you to know it,” you say. “Really know it. Not — hope it. Know it.”
A silence. His heartbeat steady under your ear. “I know it,” he says. Quietly. And then: “I’m not going anywhere either.”
I’m not going anywhere. First time he said it, at the harvest dance, it was an offer. Now it is something else — an answer, a matching of weight, the both of you putting the same thing down on the same table and deciding to trust it.
Outside: the paddock, the winter sky, Chicago the foal grown enough now to move with some authority, her dark coat catching the low December light.
Inside: the quilt, the heartbeat, the quiet. New soil, you think, for the last time that way. Because it isn’t new anymore. It’s just — yours. The roots are in. The thing has grown.
You stay exactly where you are until three forty-five, and then you get up and go back to your marking, and when Eli comes home at four and finds you at the kitchen table with your papers and his father making coffee at the stove he looks between you both with the assessment of a child who has gotten what he wanted and finds the result satisfactory.
He sits down across from you and opens his schoolbag. “I have reading,” he announces.
“Do it, then,” his father says.
Eli opens his book. You mark your papers. Heeseung brings coffee and goes back to the stove. The kitchen is warm and smells like dinner starting and outside the winter light is going gold over Sunrise Ranch. Eli reads three pages and then looks up. “Miss?” he says.
“Mm?”
“Are you staying for dinner?”
You look at Heeseung. He is at the stove and not looking at you but the back of his neck says everything. “If that’s alright,” you say.
Eli looks back at his book with an expression of profound satisfaction. “It’s alright,” he says.
—
December in Castillo Creek is cold and clear and strung with the particular quiet of a place that doesn’t make much noise about the holidays but means them deeply. The church puts candles in its windows. The general store gets a pine wreath on the door. Jay hangs lights along the diner’s front awning — coloured glass, old, the kind that have been on the same string for fifteen years and still work because Jay is meticulous about the things that matter to him. Mrs. Della bakes for a week straight and distributes the results to the whole street, appearing at doors with tins and brooking no argument.
The schoolhouse gets a paper chain. This is Eli’s doing — he arrives one Monday in the first week of December with a paper bag of coloured strips and announces to the class that they are making a paper chain, his tone suggesting this is non-negotiable, which it is. Grace organises the distribution of strips by colour. Tommy figures out the interlinking system and explains it to the little ones with unexpected patience. Eli and Clara argue about whether it should go across the windows or along the beams and settle on both, and by Friday afternoon the schoolhouse has been transformed by fourteen pairs of hands into something festive and faintly chaotic and entirely theirs.
You stand at the back of the room on Friday and look at it. Two months, you think. Ten weeks. The number Eli’s father said and you corrected, that first confrontation with Richard outside the general store that feels like it happened to someone in a different chapter of a different book.
You have been here three months now. You look at the paper chain and the drawings on the wall — Eli’s has been joined by two others, unsolicited offerings left on your desk on separate Mondays, one from Lottie of what appears to be you and a horse, one from Tommy of the schoolhouse with everyone standing outside it, their names printed carefully above their heads — and something in your chest is so full it has nowhere to go. You put your coat on and lock up and walk home in the cold.
Heeseung takes you riding properly for the first time on a Saturday in the second week of December. Scout this time — not Honey, not the chair — and you get on him in the yard with Heeseung holding the bridle and talking you through it, that same teaching voice, patient and specific and trusting you to get there. Scout is large and entirely calm and turns out to have a gait so smooth it borders on considerate.
“Told you he was a gentleman,” Heeseung says, walking beside you for the first few minutes.
“You can let go,” you say.
“I know.” He does. Steps back. Watches. You ride Scout to the end of the paddock and back, and then around the perimeter, and somewhere in the second circuit you stop thinking about what your hands are doing and just ride, and the feeling of it — the size of the animal beneath you, the cold air, the ranch open around you in the winter morning — is the kind of feeling you didn’t know you were missing until it arrived.
Heeseung is at the fence when you come back, arms resting on the rail, watching you with that expression he gets when he’s pleased about something and not performing it. “Well?” he says.
“He’s better than Honey,” you say.
“Don’t let Honey hear that.”
You dismount — not elegantly, but functionally, which is an improvement — and Scout drops his nose to Heeseung’s shoulder in greeting and Heeseung rubs his neck without looking away from you. “There’s a place I want to show you,” he says. “If you’re up for a longer ride.”
“How long?”
“Hour out. Hour back.” He tilts his head. “Worth it.”
You look at Scout. Scout looks at you with patient equine agreement. “Alright,” you say.
He takes you east, past the fence line, up into the low hills where the land changes from flat scrub to something rougher and more interesting, the winter grass pale gold, the sky enormous and white-edged. They ride side by side where the terrain allows and single file where it doesn’t, Heeseung ahead on the narrow parts, and he doesn’t talk much on the way, just rides, and you learn something about him in the riding — the ease of it, how completely at home he is moving through this land, how he and Scout communicate in small adjustments with no visible negotiation.
The place he wants to show you is at the top of the second hill. It is, simply, a view: the whole of the valley below, Castillo Creek visible as a cluster of shapes in the distance, the ranch a paler geometry of buildings and fence lines to the west, and beyond everything the flat enormous Texas horizon going all the way to where the sky meets the earth. You sit on Scout at the top of the hill and look at it. “Oh,” you say.
“Yeah,” he says.
The winter light is doing something particular to the valley — low and golden and very clear, the kind of light that makes everything look more itself than usual. You can see the creek, barely, a dark thread through the scrub. You can see, or imagine you can see, the white corner of the schoolhouse.
“My father used to bring me here,” Heeseung says. Beside you now, Scout and his horse standing easy. “When I was Eli’s age. Said if you ever got confused about what mattered you could come up here and look at it.”
“Does it work?”
“Every time.” He looks at the valley. “I came here a lot after Clara left. Trying to—” a pause “—get the proportion of things right.”
You look at him. He is looking at the valley with that quiet expression, the one that belongs to this land and this ranch and the private life he’s lived in them. “Did it help?” you say.
“Eventually.” He glances at you. “Took a while.”
You look back at the valley. Castillo Creek in the winter light. The white edge of the sky. “I want to bring Eli here,” you say. “When he’s old enough to—” you stop, aware suddenly of what you’ve just said — the assumption in it, the future in it, the easy taking-for-granted of a thing that is still, technically, new.
But Heeseung isn’t looking at the valley anymore. He is looking at you. “He’d like that,” he says. Simply. No performance of casualness, no careful management. Just the statement, meaning everything it means.
You look at him. He looks at you. The horses stand easy in the winter wind. “I love you,” you say. First time, on a hilltop in December with the whole valley below you, because it is true and it has been true for long enough that not saying it has become its own kind of dishonesty.
Heeseung is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches across the space between the horses and finds your hand and holds it, his thumb moving across your knuckles in the way it does. “I love you,” he says. “Been a while since I said that to anyone.” He looks at your joined hands. “Feels different this time.”
“Different how?”
He considers this with the seriousness he brings to things that matter. “Steadier,” he says. “Like saying something I already knew instead of something I was hoping would be true.”
You look at the valley and his hand around yours and the winter sky and the whole quiet particular life you have landed in, with its paper chains and borrowed boots and gap-toothed boy and a man who makes two cups of coffee because he knows you’re coming. “Steadier,” you agree.
Christmas at the ranch. This is not planned either — or it is planned by everyone except you, you discover, Mrs. Della and Bea and Jay all operating in quiet coordination, the whole thing arriving complete and inevitable on Christmas morning when Heeseung appears at the boarding house at ten with Eli and Riki and the truck and says “come to the ranch” in the same simple offering voice he uses for everything. Mrs. Della has already sent the cobbler ahead.
The day is the kitchen and the table extended to fit everyone — Jay materialises at noon with cornbread and the particular satisfaction of a man in his preferred social configuration — and Eli opening things with the focused efficiency of a child who has been patient about this for weeks, and Riki eating more than anyone else and not being asked about it, and Bea’s food, and the fire in the front room where you end up in the afternoon, the cold coming down outside and the ranch warm and close around you all.
Eli falls asleep in the armchair at four, his new book open on his chest. Jay catches your eye across the room and very deliberately does not look at Heeseung beside you on the sofa, which is Jay at his most ostentatious.
Riki carries Eli to bed with the long-practiced ease of someone who has done it before. Bea goes home to her sister. Jay stays for dinner and then takes himself off with the timing of a man who knows exactly when he’s no longer needed, and then it is just you and Heeseung in the front room with the fire going low.
He has his arm around you. Your feet are tucked up on the sofa. Outside the ranch is quiet and cold and dark. “Good day,” he says.
“Very good day,” you say.
He presses his mouth to your hair. “Stay,” he says. “Tonight. Eli’s asleep. You can take the—”
“Yes,” you say.
A pause. “I was going to say the spare—”
“I know what you were going to say,” you say. “Yes.” His arm tightens. He laughs, low and warm, into your hair. You don’t take the spare room.
—
January comes cold and clear. The new year settles over Castillo Creek with the quiet confidence of a place that has seen many of them and expects to see many more. The schoolhouse reopens the second week of January and the children arrive back with the particular energy of people who have been inside for two weeks and have run out of patience with it. Eli is approximately three inches taller, which you mention, and he tells you seriously that Bea measured him on the door frame and he grew one inch and you are not to exaggerate.
Tommy’s numbers are clean and confident now, left-handed from the start, and you watch him work through a column of addition with the ease of someone who has finally been given the right tool for the job, and feel the specific satisfaction of a teacher who has solved the right problem.
Clara has started writing stories. She brings you the first one on a Thursday in a folded piece of paper, her best handwriting, three pages, a story about a girl who goes on a journey and comes back changed. She stands by your desk while you read it and doesn’t pretend not to care about your response, which you respect enormously. It is good — genuinely good, the instinct for story already there, the voice already hers. “This is wonderful,” you tell her.
“Really?” she says, in the voice of a child who already knows but needs to hear it.
“Really.” You set it on the desk. “Have you shown your parents?”
“Not yet.” She folds the paper back up carefully. “I wanted to know if it was good first.”
“It’s good,” you say. “Show them. And write me another one.” Clara goes back to her seat with her story in her hand and the particular glow of a person who has been given something real to carry.
On the last Friday in January, Jay closes the diner early. He does this without explanation, just turns the sign and pours three glasses of something that is not coffee and sets them on the counter, and looks at you and Heeseung on opposite stools and says: “I want to make a toast.”
“Jay,” Heeseung says.
“I’m serious. I’ve been waiting for the right moment and I’ve decided this is it.” He picks up his glass. “To the new schoolteacher. Who fixed the gate,” Jay says, overriding you. “And stayed when she didn’t have to. And who—” he stops, and something moves through his expression that is not the easy social warmth but something deeper and more real “—who is good for this town. And for the specific people in it who needed good things to happen to them.”
He looks at Heeseung when he says the last part. Heeseung is looking at the counter. The back of his neck does the thing. “To Castillo Creek,” Jay says. “And to people who stay.”
You pick up your glass. Heeseung picks up his. “To Castillo Creek,” you say.
Jay grins. You all three drink. “Right,” Jay says, setting his glass down with a decisive click. “Now. Heeseung. Are you going to ask her or are you going to make me wait another six months.”
The diner goes very quiet. Heeseung looks at Jay with the expression of a man who is going to have a word with his best friend at a later date. Jay looks back with the expression of a man who has no regrets. “Ask me what?” you say.
Heeseung turns to you. He is — you watch the careful management dissolve, replaced by something undefended, the real face he’s been showing you more and more since December, since the hilltop, since steadier. He looks at you for a moment and then he does something you haven’t seen him do: he reaches into his shirt pocket. “I was going to do this differently,” he says.
“Jay ruined it?”
“Jay ruined it,” he agrees, without looking at Jay, who has the good grace to say nothing.
What’s in his pocket is not a ring box — not the velvet-and-presentation kind. It is a ring wrapped in a piece of cloth, unwrapped in his palm: gold, simple, a small band with a detail you can’t quite see yet. His mother’s, you’ll learn later. The one his grandmother brought from her own mother and passed down and which his mother pressed into his hand the Christmas before last and said when it’s right, you’ll know. He holds it in his palm and looks at you. “I know this is fast,” he says.
“It’s not,” you say. “It’s been since the diner.”
The corner of his mouth. “Since the diner,” he says. “I’ve been—” he stops. Tries again. “I don’t have a speech. I thought I’d have one by now but I don’t.” He looks at the ring in his hand. “I know what kind of person you are. I’ve watched you for four months and I know.” He looks up at you. “You fixed things that weren’t yours to fix. You stayed when it would have been easier to go. You put a drawing on your wall.” He closes his hand briefly around the ring, then opens it again. “My son thinks the sun rises and sets with you, which is—” his voice does something “—which is not a small thing. Coming from him.”
You are doing everything in your power to hold your face together and succeeding imperfectly. “I love you,” he says. “And I would very much like you to stay. Not just in the town. Here. At the ranch.” He holds the ring out toward you, steadily, his hand not moving. “With us.”
The diner. The coloured lights along the awning. Jay, very carefully, looking at the ceiling. You look at Heeseung Lee with his mother’s ring in his palm and his whole face open and waiting and none of the patience effortless anymore, all of it visible, the hope and the care and the barely-controlled terror of a man asking for the thing he wants most. “Yes,” you say.
Jay makes a sound. Heeseung lets out a breath that has been held since approximately November.
He puts the ring on your finger — it fits, which is either luck or fate or Bea, who you will later determine took one of your gloves to a jeweller in the next town, bless her — and then he holds your hand and looks at it and then at you, and the expression on his face is something you will carry for the rest of your life: unguarded and certain and entirely, quietly, happy. “Finally,” says Jay, with enormous feeling.
“I’m going to fire you,” Heeseung says.
“You don’t employ me.”
“I’m going to stop eating here.”
“You were here yesterday and you’re here now.” You are laughing, you realise. Both of you are laughing, your hand in both of his, and Jay is pouring more of the not-coffee and the diner lights are warm and outside Castillo Creek is cold and dark and going about its business.
Eli knows before you tell him. You don’t know how — this is simply a thing about Eli, that he knows things — but when you and Heeseung sit down with him on Saturday morning at the kitchen table with the specific parental gravity of people who have something to say, he looks at you both and then at your hand and then back at you and says: “Are you going to live here now?”
“If you’re alright with it,” you say.
He looks at his cereal. He stirs it. He does this for long enough that something uncertain stirs in you, the awareness that this is a seven-year-old boy whose mother left and whose life is about to change and who is allowed to have feelings about that. “Eli,” Heeseung says, gently. “You can say whatever you’re thinking.”
Eli looks up. His face is doing several things. “I just,” he starts. Stops. “I named the foal Chicago,” he says. “Before. I named it before because—” he stops again. Stirs his cereal. “I wanted you to stay from the beginning,” he says, quickly, like getting a thing out before he can change his mind. “I knew you were good before Dad did. I told Riki.”
“What did Riki say?” you ask.
“He said he knew too.” Eli looks at you. “Are you going to be my—” he stops at the word, turns it over, decides something. “Are you going to be my mom?”
The kitchen is very quiet. You look at this boy — gap-toothed, dark-eyed, too perceptive for his own good, who named a foal after a city to make you feel at home, who put FRIENDS at the bottom of a drawing in careful uneven letters — and your composed face is absolutely nowhere to be found. “I would very much like to,” you say. “If you want that.”
Eli looks at his cereal for a moment. Then he gets down from his chair and comes around the table and climbs into your lap, which he has never done before, and sits there with the specific decision of a child who has made up his mind. “Okay,” he says. You put your arms around him.
Across the table Heeseung has his hand over his mouth and is looking at the ceiling, which is the composed face losing, and you have never loved him more than right now. Eli, from your lap: “Can I still call you Miss at school?”
“You have to call me Miss at school,” you say.
“Good,” he says. “’Cause Cody would be weird about it.”
Riki takes the news with characteristic economy. He looks at your hand. He looks at Heeseung. He looks at you. He nods once, slowly, like a man confirming a long-held suspicion. “I told Eli in October,” he says. “That you were going to stay.”
“You told me in October,” you say. “That he was happy. More than usual.”
Riki looks between you both. “Yeah,” he says. He picks up his coffee and goes back toward the stable. Then, over his shoulder, not quite casually enough: “About time.”
February. The foal is four months old and has decided what her legs are for and uses them constantly, her dark coat catching the winter light where it falls across the paddock. Eli visits her every day before and after school and maintains a detailed running report on her progress that he delivers at the dinner table with the authority of someone who considers herself the foremost expert on Chicago specifically.
Your things have migrated slowly from the boarding house to the ranch over the course of January, the natural movement of a life toward where it belongs — books first, then the rest, Mrs. Della receiving each removal with the particular warm satisfaction of a woman who considers herself personally responsible for the outcome and is not incorrect.
Your coat is on the hook by the ranch door. Your coffee cup — chipped handle, yours — is in the cupboard. Your books are on the shelf in the front room, mixed in with Heeseung’s without ceremony, which is the most domestically intimate thing you’ve ever done and which undoes you slightly every time you look at it.
The drawing is still on the schoolhouse wall. It will stay there. You’ve decided this. Miss Y/N and Eli. Friends. Let every child who comes through that room see it — the evidence that teachers are people who belong somewhere, that belonging is a thing that can be built, that a drawing on a wall can be the most important document in a room full of books.
The last Friday in February, you and Heeseung are at Jay’s after closing. This is the usual arrangement — Jay with his counter, you on the stools, the diner warm and the street dark outside. But tonight Jay has put a record on, something slow, and the coloured lights along the awning are on outside, and it is, you think, the same scene as nearly five months ago except that nothing is the same at all. “Dance with me,” Heeseung says. The same words as the harvest dance. The same quiet directness. You get off the stool.
He takes your hand and you dance in Jay’s empty diner to the slow record, your hand on his shoulder and his at your waist and the ring on your finger catching the light when you turn. Jay watches from behind the counter with the expression of a man who has everything he wanted from this situation and finds it entirely satisfactory. “First dance,” you say. “You said your mother taught you.”
“She did.”
“I want to meet her.”
His hand at your waist, warm and firm. “She’s coming in March,” he says. “She’s been asking since October.”
“October,” you say.
“Eli told her about the dialect conversation.” His mouth at your temple. “She said anyone who could get Eli to use the word dialect correctly in a sentence was worth meeting.”
“High bar,” you say.
“For her, yes.” He pulls back slightly to look at you. The expression — open, warm, steady all the way down. “She’s going to love you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says. Simply. “She knows people. Runs in the family.”
You think of a seven-year-old boy naming a foal Chicago in October. Knowing before anyone else. “Apparently it does,” you say. He smiles — the real one, the full one, the one that you catalogued on a diner stool on your first morning in Castillo Creek and have been cataloguing ever since, the one that is different when it’s just yours — and turns you slowly on the diner floor.
Outside: Castillo Creek, cold and clear, the stars doing their enormous Texas thing. The main street quiet, the church dark, the boarding house where you no longer live, the schoolhouse with its paper chain long since taken down and its drawing still on the wall. Inside: the music, the lights, the man, the ring, the dancing. New soil, you think, for the very last time and immediately think: no. Not new anymore. Just home.
—
Spring comes to Castillo Creek the way it comes to places that have earned it. Not dramatically — no single morning where you wake and everything is different — but incrementally, the way the best things happen: a degree warmer each week, the scrub going from pale gold to something greener at the edges, the creek running higher with the snowmelt from somewhere distant and northern. The horses grow restless in the way of animals that can smell a season changing. Chicago the foal gallops the length of the paddock every morning for no reason except that the air tastes different and her legs are finally, fully hers.
The schoolhouse gets its windows opened for the first time since October. This is a significant event. The children treat it as such, orienting their desks subtly toward the new rectangles of warm air, their attention drifting pleasurably to the sounds coming in — birdsong, wind, the distant sound of someone on the main street calling to someone else. You allow this. Spring arriving through classroom windows is an education of its own kind.
Eli sits at his desk on the first warm Friday and tilts his face toward the window with his eyes closed and the expression of a person receiving something they’ve been waiting for. “Eli,” you say.
“I’m thinking,” he says, without opening his eyes. You carry on.
Margaret Lee arrives on a Tuesday in the second week of March. She is not what you expected, which means you had built an expectation without realising it — some composite of your own mother and the idea of a woman who raised Heeseung, formidable and warm. Margaret Lee is both of these things and also neither of them, which is the way of people who exceed the categories you’ve prepared.
She is small. This is the first surprise — Heeseung is tall and she is small, barely to his shoulder, which he accommodates with the automatic ease of someone who has been bending toward her his whole life. She has grey-streaked hair and her son’s dark eyes and the particular posture of a woman who has decided exactly who she is and arranged herself accordingly. She steps down from the bus and looks at the main street of Castillo Creek and then at you, standing beside her son at the bus stop, and her face does something quick and assessing and then opens entirely. “There she is,” she says.
Heeseung looks at you. You look at Heeseung. “I feel like people keep saying that to me,” you say.
Margaret Lee laughs — genuine and sudden, the same quality of laugh as her son’s, the kind that alters the whole face — and takes both your hands in hers. “Lee Heeseung has been talking about you since October,” she says, without preamble. “He didn’t know he was doing it. He thought he was just giving me news from the town.” She pats your hands and releases them and looks at her son. “He mentioned you in every single letter.”
“Mama,” Heeseung says.
“The schoolteacher fixed the gate,” she says, in a perfect impression of neutrality. “‘The schoolteacher came to see the ranch. The schoolteacher can ride.’” She picks up her bag. “Every letter, Lee. Every one.”
“I’m aware,” he says.
“He thought I didn’t notice,” she tells you.
“I’m standing right here,” he says.
“I know, baby.” She pats his arm and walks toward the truck. You fall into step beside her and catch, from the corner of your eye, Heeseung’s expression — the exasperated tender helpless expression of a man who loves his mother and is entirely at her mercy and has made his peace with both of these facts. You like her immediately and completely.
She stays two weeks and in those two weeks she does the following: reorganises the kitchen at the ranch in a way that Bea approves of and Heeseung adapts to without complaint, teaches Eli three card games of increasing moral dubiousness, tells you four stories about Heeseung’s childhood that he would prefer you not to have, sits with you on the porch every morning with coffee and talks to you the way women talk when they’ve decided to trust each other — plainly, without ornament.
On the fourth morning she says: “Tell me about before.” You look at the paddock. Chicago the foal. The pale spring sky. “Before Castillo Creek,” she says. “If you want. You don’t have to.”
You think about before. The specific weight of it, which has changed — not lighter exactly, but different, the weight distributed differently now, held up by more points of contact so no single place takes all of it. You tell her.
She listens the way her son listens — completely, without deciding what it means before you’re done. When you finish she is quiet for a moment. “My husband left me once,” she says. “Heeseung’s father. We were young, we had a fight about something I can’t even remember now, and he left and I thought — that was that.” She looks at the paddock. “He came back in three days. But those three days I understood something I didn’t know before. That some people leave to see if you’ll chase them. And some people leave because they’re gone.” She looks at you. “The man you described sounds like the second kind.”
“He is,” you say.
“Good,” she says. “Those ones you let go.” She drinks her coffee. “My son is the staying kind. In case you didn’t know.”
“I know,” you say.
She looks at your ring. “My mother wore that for fifty-three years,” she says. “She said the secret was that you had to choose each other every day. Not just at the beginning.” She looks up at you. “Can you do that?”
“Yes,” you say. Without hesitation.
She nods. She looks at the paddock. “Good,” she says again. And that is that, and you drink your coffee together in the spring morning, and when Heeseung appears in the doorway looking for his mother she looks at him with the expression of a woman who has conducted her own assessment and is satisfied with the results, and he looks between you both with the wariness of a man who knows he has been discussed and decides not to ask.
The last week of March brings something you didn’t anticipate: a letter from the county school board. You open it at your desk on a Thursday afternoon while the children are doing their reading, and it takes you two passes through it to understand what it says, and then you put it down flat on the desk and look at the middle distance.
“Miss?” Eli, from the second row. The class has the particular sharpening of attention that occurs when a teacher does something unexpected.
“Keep reading,” you say. You pick up the letter and read it a third time.
A school is being built. A larger one, two rooms, in the next town along — not Castillo Creek, but a town of similar size twenty miles east. The county board is expanding provision across the region. They need a head teacher for the new school. They have, they write, been impressed by the correspondence and the results from Castillo Creek. They are writing to offer the position to you. You fold the letter.
You teach the afternoon out. You fix a disagreement between Patrick and Beau about a coloured pencil. You listen to the little ones read and hear in Grace’s oral assessment that her comprehension has jumped significantly since January and make a note to tell her parents. You let them out at three and stand on the porch and watch them go.
Then you go home to the ranch. Heeseung is at the paddock fence when you arrive. He turns when he hears the gate and reads something in your face immediately — not worry, just attention, the way he attends to you when something is different. “What happened?”
You hand him the letter. He reads it. His face is careful while he reads, the deliberate neutrality of a man withholding response until he understands what he’s responding to. He folds it when he’s done and holds it and looks at the paddock. “Twenty miles,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Head teacher.”
“Yes.”
He turns the folded letter in his hands. He looks at the horizon, the flat Texas line, and then at you. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know yet,” you say honestly. “I only just read it.”
He nods. He unfolds the letter and folds it again the other way, a thinking gesture. “It’s a good offer,” he says.
“I know.”
“The children here—” he starts.
“Would have a new teacher,” you say. “Someone good. Someone who needs a start.”
Like you needed a start. Neither of you says it but it’s there. “Twenty miles is a commute,” he says. “Not impossible.”
“No.”
He looks at you steadily. “Whatever you want to do,” he says. “I mean that.”
“I know you do.” You take the letter back, fold it into your pocket. “I need to think.”
He nods. He turns back to the paddock and after a moment his arm comes around you, easy and present, and you stand at the fence together while Chicago runs the length of the paddock for the joy of running and the spring evening comes down gold over Sunrise Ranch.
You think for three days. You think about the schoolhouse and the paper chain and Tommy’s clean left-handed numbers and Clara’s stories and Eli’s drawing on the wall. You think about fourteen children who have become yours in the particular way children become yours when you’ve solved them, when you know which problems are the real ones underneath the presenting ones, when you know who reads above their level and who is covering for a difficulty and who is going to do something surprising one day.
You think about what it would mean to build something from the beginning. Two rooms. New intake. The particular freedom and weight of being the person who sets the tone before there is a tone. You think about twenty miles and a commute and a husband with a ranch and a son who is eight in May. You think about what you came here to do and whether you’ve done it and what comes next.
On the third evening you tell Heeseung. “I’m going to turn it down,” you say.
He is at the kitchen table. He looks up. “Because of us?” he says, carefully.
“No,” you say. “Because of me.” You sit down across from him. “I came here to start over. And I have. And this—” you gesture, vaguely, at the kitchen, the ranch, the everything “—this is what I was starting over toward, even when I didn’t know it. I’m not done here. Castillo Creek isn’t done.” You look at him. “Clara is going to be a writer. I’m not done with Clara.”
Heeseung looks at you for a long moment. “You’re sure?” he says.
“I’m sure.”
He nods. Something in him settles — not the relief of a man who was afraid you’d go, because he’s past that, but the quieter thing, the satisfaction of a man watching someone he loves make a choice that is fully hers. “Write them a good letter,” he says.
“I will,” you say. “Strongly worded.” The corner of his mouth.
You write the letter on Saturday morning at the kitchen table, Eli doing his homework across from you with the focused efficiency of a child who has been told that homework-before-fun is a rule and has decided to take it seriously, Heeseung somewhere on the ranch, the spring morning coming through the window.
You thank them. You decline clearly. You recommend, in the final paragraph, that they consider expanding the library provision at existing schools before building new ones, and include three specific data points about reading outcomes, because some habits are simply who you are now. You seal the envelope. Eli looks up. “Done?”
“Done,” you say.
“What was it?”
“A job offer,” you say. “A bigger school.”
He looks at you. “Are you going?”
“No.”
He looks back at his homework. He does another line of arithmetic. Then, without looking up: “Good,” he says, in the tone of a person confirming the correct outcome. You put the letter in your pocket and drink your coffee and watch the spring morning come through the window, and outside Chicago the foal runs the paddock in the new warm air, her legs entirely hers, her name written on the sky.
May brings Eli’s birthday. He is eight. This is a serious number, he has informed you, because eight is when you can help with the real work on the ranch, not just the small stuff, and Heeseung has responded to this with the expression of a man who knows his son and has been quietly preparing for this specific negotiation for some time.
Riki gets up at dawn to decorate the stable on the day — this is Riki’s doing entirely, streamers in the ranch colours, a sign that says 8 in letters that are clearly Riki’s work and not a calligrapher’s but are heartfelt — and Eli discovers it at six-thirty when he goes to check on Chicago and comes back into the kitchen with the expression of a person who has been given something real.
Jay brings cake. Margaret, who has come back for the occasion — this is not a small thing, the coming back, and you watch Heeseung receive his mother at the bus stop with the quiet particular gratitude of an adult child who is still his mother’s, will always be — Margaret brings a present wrapped in brown paper and a ribbon, which Eli opens with the concentrated focus of someone who intends to remember the opening.
Inside: a pocket watch, old and gold, with an inscription on the back. Eli reads it. His lips move. He looks at his grandmother. “What does it say?” you ask him, gently.
He holds it out to you. You take it and read the back: Go steady. Go kind. Go far.
“It was your grandfather’s,” Margaret says. “And his father’s before that.”
Eli takes it back. He holds it in both palms and looks at it for a long moment with that Eli expression, the one where he is processing something bigger than seven-going-on-eight years of life have quite prepared him for. Then he closes his hands around it and looks at his grandmother and says: “Thank you.” No gap-toothed performance. No dignity management. Just the real thing, plain and clear.
Margaret cups his face in one hand. “You’re welcome, baby,” she says. Heeseung, beside you, takes your hand.
After the cake and the streamers and the stable and Riki being beaten at three card games by an eight-year-old, after Margaret and Jay have gone and Riki has taken himself off to give the evening its shape, you are at the paddock fence with Heeseung in the last of the May light.
Eli is with Chicago. He has had his horse for a year now and the relationship has settled into its permanent form: mutual trust, complete understanding, the particular bond between a child and an animal that is its own language. He is telling her something, pressed to her neck, and she is standing completely still with her ears forward in the way that means she is listening. “He’s going to be extraordinary,” you say.
Heeseung looks at his son. “He already is,” he says. He says it simply, no performance of it, just the fact. You lean into him. His arm comes around you.
The May evening is warm and going golden, the long Texas light doing what it does to the land, making everything more itself, more vivid, more worth looking at. The ranch in the evening — the fence lines, the water tower, the barn with its doors open, the horses in the paddock, Chicago standing still for an eight-year-old boy who is telling her his secrets. “Thank you,” you say.
“For what?”
“For the coffee,” you say. “That first morning. For making two cups.”
He looks at you. The smile — the full one, the real one, the one that is different when it’s just yours, that has been yours since a diner stool in September. “You noticed that,” he says.
“First morning,” you say. “I noticed everything first morning.”
He shakes his head slightly, the almost-laugh. His arm tightens around you. “Jay cried when I told him,” he says. “About the coffee.”
“Jay cried about Eli’s drawing.”
“Jay cries about a lot of things,” Heeseung says, affectionately.
“He does,” you agree. “It’s one of his best qualities.”
Eli has turned from Chicago now and is watching you both from across the paddock with the expression of a child conducting a quiet and ongoing assessment of the results of his work. He catches you looking and raises one hand in a small wave. You raise your hand back. He turns back to Chicago. Heeseung presses his mouth to your temple. Stays there. “Darlin’,” he says.
“Mm.”
“Come inside,” he says. “Bea left dinner.” You stay exactly one more minute — the warm arm around you, the evening light, the boy and the horse, the whole quiet extraordinary ordinary life of it — and then you go inside together, through the gate that swings clean on its hinge, into the ranch that smells like dinner and woodsmoke and home.
Behind you the sun goes down over Castillo Creek in all the colours you don’t have names for yet.
You’re staying. You’ll learn them.
This is home.
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four boys five stories. all kinds of love that don’t play fair.
inspired by Short n’ Sweet by sabrina carpenter, this series leans into the messy side of it all one night mistakes, complicated friendships, lines that should’ve never been crossed, and feelings that hit way too hard.
some moments are soft, some are reckless, and some you’ll wish never happened but every single one pulls you in and this is where love gets a little dangerous.
🗯️ JO'S NOTES : i can’t believe that im finally posting this, eeek im so excited 😣 comment down to be added to the taglist 💌 ps : gonna do a mans best friend version next, stay tuned
JUNO
synopsis : you’ve always known one thing for certain — living next door to lee heeseung is a nightmare. he’s loud, insufferably cocky, and way too aware of the fact that he’s campus royalty the basketball captain with a guaranteed shot at the nba. late night practices, louder parties, girls in the hallway he’s everything you avoid. and he makes a game out of getting under your skin.
snide remarks turn into arguments, arguments into silence. an unspoken rule you don’t exist to each other.until one night, at a party, everything slips.too much to drink and one reckless moment. you wake up in his bed.panic hits and you run before he wakes, before it becomes real. you bury it pretend it never happened. Until your body says otherwise, nausea missed period.
two lines, and now the one person you can’t stand is the one you can’t escape.
pairing : basketball captain heeseung x neighbourf!reader
trope : accidental pregnancy + forced proximity
estimated wc : 30k - 35k words
release date : april
GOOD GRACES
synopsis : you and jay have always been inseparable since scraped knees and shared lunches at six years old to late night calls and quiet understanding that no one else ever really got.somewhere between the end of high school and the start of university, things changed.
it started small lingering touches, drunk confessions that were brushed off the next morning, lines blurred until they didn’t exist anymore. you never put a label on it, never asked what are we? because with jay, you were always something more even when you were nothing at all.
but Jay runs hot and cold. one moment, he’s yours deep inside you backstage, looking at you like you’re the only person in the room. the next, he’s distant, untouchable, lost in the chaos of his rising fame and the attention that comes with being the lead guitarist of a band everyone suddenly knows.
you tell yourself it’s fine that this is enough. until you catch him kissing someone else and realize you were never as exclusive as you thought.so you walk away. and when anton, his bandmate, offers you something steady instead of confusing, you choose him.
jay isn’t used to that. he isn’t used to you slipping through his fingers, to watching you laugh with someone else, so he fights for you. and by the time Jay understands that what he felt was never just friendship, never just convenience but love
you’ve already started learning how to hate him.
pairing : rockstar!jay x bestfriendf!reader
trope : childhood best friends + situationship + friends with benefits
estimated wc : 20k - 25k words
release date : may
BED CHEM
synopsis : you’ve loved kake for as long as you can remember — your best friend jamie’s twin brother, the one person who was always just out of reach.
back in high school, the three of you were inseparable until jake drifted into a different world new friends, popularity, a girlfriend and eventually, a different university. you told yourself you were over him but you weren’t.
so when he suddenly transfers to Decelis University after a breakup with his girlfriend karina, it feels like everything you buried comes rushing back. being around him again is easy, familiar dangerous. then karina shows up too.
and jake, desperate to keep things under control, asks you for help fake date him.jamie surprisingly agrees, but only after laying down strict rules.
No falling in love.
No kissing.
No sex.
it’s supposed to be simple just an act. but nothing about jake has ever been simple to you. because pretending to be his girlfriend means late nights, lingering touches, shared spaces, and stolen glances that feel a little too real.
it means learning the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention and the way your name sounds different on his lips now.and somewhere between fake dates and real tension, the lines start to blur.
rules don’t just bend they snap. because the truth is the only chemistry between you and jake isn’t just how well you get along
it’s how impossible it becomes to stay out of each other’s bed.
pairing : jake x f!reader
trope : fake dating + best friends twin brother + forbidden love
estimated wc : 35k words
release date : june
ESPRESSO
synopsis : park sunghoon has always been that guy — charming, popular, and the unbeatable captain of the university ice hockey team. he gets what he wants, when he wants it, and people especially girls are never an exception.
until you the new figure skater at the rink. talented disciplined beautiful and completely uninterested in him. you don’t smile at his jokes, don’t entertain his flirting hell, you barely even acknowledge his existence. and for the first time in his life, sunghoon doesn’t know what to do with rejection.
so when his teammates start mocking him, his best friend heeseung throws out a bet make you fall in love with him and agree to date him or publicly admit he’s a loser who gets no girls. it’s supposed to be easy.
Step one : get you to talk
Step two : get you to like him
Step three : win
but somewhere between stolen glances on the ice, late night practices, and the rare moments where you do let your guard down sunghoon stops playing the game. because now, he doesn’t just want to win the bet he wants you.
and for the first time in his life, he’s terrified that if you find out the truth, he’ll lose you before he ever really had you.
pairing : he falls first and harder + hidden bet
trope : ice hockey player sunghoon x figureskater f!reader
estimated wc : 25k words
release date : july
TASTE
synopsis : you grew up attached at the hip with the four boys next door — Heeseung, Jay, Jake, and Sunghoon who treated you like their little sister, their safe place, their personal shadow. sleepovers, shared secrets, scraped knees, and stupid promises. then high school hit like a goddamn freight train.
puberty didn’t just touch you it fucking curb stomped you. suddenly those big doe eyes are glossy and dangerous, your lips look permanently swollen like you’ve been kissed stupid, your tits fill out every top until buttons are begging for mercy, and those long legs ? they’ve turned innocent school skirts into a war crime.
the boys who once carried you on their backs now can’t decide whether they want to protect you or fucking ruin you. heeseung catches himself staring too long when you stretch. jay’s jaw clenches every time some other guy even breathes in your direction.
jake’s golden retriever energy has morphed into something darker, hungrier he’s touching you “accidentally” more often.
sunghoon, the quietest one, is the most lethal his gaze feels like ice melting straight down your spine while he imagines breaking every boundary you never knew you had. they’ve spent years pretending you’re still that clumsy kid. now they’re all circling like wolves who finally realized the lamb they raised grew into the prettiest meal they’ve ever seen.
they don’t just want your attention anymore. they want a taste. and they’re done playing nice about it. you guys have been best friends since they were in diapers. now they’re all just trying not to nut in their jeans every time you walk into the room.
and the worst part? you’re starting to notice and you’re not exactly running away.
synopsis. You know you should be ecstatic about the invitation to Chaewon’s and Jaemin’s wedding in your mailbox, but you can’t help the nerves gnawing away at your stomach. There are too many things you’ve left unresolved after moving to Seoul—your aunt, your friends, and most of all Sim Jaeyun, the boy you’ve never let yourself love.
genre. childhood/high school friends that grow apart to lovers, angsty fluff, small town au, mutual pining bc they're idiots, this is kind of like hometown but different i promise, SMUT MDNI !!!!
warnings. characters are aged up (late 20s), reader is a little clueless but she's doing her best okay, family issues and family member death, jake is exclusively referred to as jaeyun deal with it
word count. 35.3k
author's note. listen to the playlist here + as always a big thank you to @zreamy for beta reading this and freaking out over jaeyun!!! happy very very late birthday can't wait to name my firstborn child after you... Zreamy Lee what a beautiful name... im sure anton will be stoked when i let him know!
Most of the time
When he looks at me I change my mind
And I don’t think he even cares a bit
How much I have to give
Just as long as I’m awake
To love him every day
[...] Of all the people in the world
[He] says my name the best
Most of the Time, Jackie Evans
From his seat on the couch, Jaeyun stares at the golden inflated balloons spelling out ‘Congratulations, Y/N!’ on the wall of your aunt’s living room. The more he stares, the more the capital letters seem to be mocking him.
He allows himself one last moment of selfishness, during which he thinks the last thing he wants to do, today or ever, is to congratulate you on getting your one-way ticket out of this town. He downs his fruit punch and winces at the overly sweet, artificial taste, then marches towards the crowd around you, trying on different smiles that might seem convincing. None of them fit.
August is nearing its end already. Summer has always felt lazy, molasses-slow, pleasantly neverending to Jaeyun—this year, it blinked by him. He closed his eyes as the schoolbell rang for their last ever period; he opens them again and he is here. Wasn’t prom just yesterday? Graduation? Did he realize that the last bonfire party was just that, the last?
Your birthday isn’t for another week, but you’re leaving tomorrow. Everyone huddles around you, eagerly awaiting your reaction as you open gifts. If it wasn’t for the presents and the chocolate fudge cake waiting in the fridge, this wouldn’t be a birthday party so much as a going-away party. The dreadful words on your wall make that clear: everyone here knows you’re much happier about leaving than about turning eighteen. You said so yourself a few days earlier, and Jaeyun tried his hardest not to burst into tears.
“I can celebrate my birthday every year. I’ll only get accepted into the program of my dreams once.”
You were sitting, just the two of you, atop one of the hills that overlooked your town. Jaeyun knew that when you looked out, you already saw your past, while he could only see his whole life, past, present and future indistinguishable from each other, spreading out for miles and miles and miles.
Up until a few months ago, when Jaeyun looked at you, he could only see his whole life. But ever since you received your acceptance letter, he hasn’t been so sure. He watched as you celebrated leaving him behind, stayed silent as you raved about your plans for the future. Plans he wasn’t a part of. These past months have been the only time seeing you smile made him sad.
He stays at the back of the small crowd, close enough to make out your presents as you unwrap them but not quite joining in. Hands in his back pockets, he wears his best neutral expression一if he can’t fake a smile, he can at least try and not look so depressed. As your friend, he owes you that much. He might hate every moment of this but he’d feel even worse, knowing he was raining on your parade.
You seem to like your gifts. After spending your teenage years together, your friends know what you like. Scented candles, cute notebooks that you’ll probably keep preciously rather than actually use, a personalized calendar for the upcoming school year with a different picture of you and your loved ones every month. Jaeyun shows up a few times in group pictures; it’s just the two of you in April, which is too far away for his liking. Far away enough for you to have forgotten all about him.
As you flip through the calendar, despite your friends’ protest for the pictures to be a surprise each month, it’s on April that you linger the most. There’s a small smile on your face, a sad smile. Your fingers play with the pendant on your necklace, Jaeyun’s gift that he gave you before everyone else even arrived. It was too intimate a gift for him to hand it to you in front of all your friends. He almost died of embarrassment when your eyebrows rose at the sight of the delicate, silver chain, of the letter ‘J’ hanging off it, and it was just the two of you; if anyone else had been in the room, his shyness would’ve gotten the best of him, and the jewelry box would’ve stayed safely tucked in his coat pocket.
You lift your gaze towards him. He didn’t even know you’d noticed him joining everyone, and yet your eyes found him immediately. He has no idea what on Earth is going through your head. Are you finally realizing that the days of seeing each other every single day are over? Are you finally figuring him out, how it isn’t only friendship that has kept him by your side all these years, but the feeling deep in his gut that he gets whenever he thinks of you?
Do you have that feeling, too?
Your eyes shine. For a second, Jaeyun thinks you might start to cry. Then someone, Miji or Yurim, who knows, says that she’s on the next page. Your gaze falls back to the calendar in your hands. Your fingers let go of your necklace, and you flip Jaeyun’s page.
.
.
A tight ball of dread has been sitting in your stomach ever since you got that letter in the mail. You’ve tried to rationalize it many ways: it feels weird to receive a wedding invitation, the first from someone out of your childhood group of friends. Even more so when that someone is the girl you called your best friend for all of your teenage years, but you aren’t sure you deserve that title anymore. Even more so when you’re 28 and couldn’t be further from drafting a wedding invitation yourself.
You know what it really is: it’s the address for the reception, the name of a place in which you haven’t set foot in years blinking innocently up at you. It’s the second piece of paper inside the envelope, a handwritten note asking you to come a few days earlier so that all of you “can gather just like the good old times.”
I’m getting married, Y/N. I’m turning into a proper adult. I just want one last time of feeling like a sixteen year old, and I can’t have that without you here. Say you’ll be there, pretty please? XX
You remember sighing after reading that note, your brain already coming up with excuses to justify your future absence, fully aware that you wouldn’t miss this wedding for the world.
Damn Chaewon, you thought then, and still regularly think now. Damn her and her emotional manipulation, as you’ve decided to view it, forcing you to make that dreaded trip home—not that you really consider that place home anymore.
It was a wonder that you and Chaewon were such good friends back then, good enough to still keep in touch throughout your adult lives. Just like every baby in the family, she was born in the upstairs bedroom of their home, the mayor’s daughter, known and loved by everyone in town, and had always adored her small-town life. You showed up out of nowhere at age fourteen, initially making no effort to befriend anyone, annoyed by the whispers that followed you. You wanted to leave as soon as you arrived, and you eventually did; although along the way, Chaewon’s kind-heartedness melted even your ice walls, and you gradually opened the gates to let the other kids in.
For almost a decade, you’ve been working to close those gates again. You were almost there; they were barely agape, there was just that tiny thread that kept an infinitesimal part of you tethered to that place, and you were sure it was close to snapping. Chaewon and her damn wedding invitation pushed the gates back open, and it took you all your strength to not look back and walk through again.
You left something there, and you aren’t sure you’re ready to retrieve it.
The ball of dread, as though tethered to a chain around your ankle, won’t stop following you. Up until now, you hadn’t noticed how much everything around you seemed to revolve around romance. The TV you watched. The content on your phone. Couples in the street. Even your work was full of it. You’re the editor for the Culture and Media segment of Limelight Monthly, the magazine you work at, not Relationships or even Lifestyle, and yet, in the weeks after receiving the invitation, it felt like all your staff could write about were the latest romance novels everyone raved about online, the best reality TV shows about exes getting back together or forever-singles searching for their first love, and which destinations were the most romantic for couples to travel to this summer.
You do a good job hiding it at first. Although you’re not as focused as you usually are reading your staff’s articles to greenlight them for publication, two years of doing this job means no typos or clunky sentences pass you by. You make sure to greet everyone with your usual cheer, and you don’t miss any Thursday evening afterwork drinks, a tradition of your team’s. Most of the time, you’re able to relegate Chaewon’s wedding and everything it entails to the back of your mind, but it’ll come back up at random moments. You’ll be filling the kettle for tea in the communal kitchen when a certain face will fill the forefront of your thoughts; your heart will start beating uncontrollably, and before you know it, water will be overflowing from the kettle and onto your hands. You’ll stare at the awfully familiar name of a book character in one of your coworkers’ reviews and only snap out of it once someone’s called your name three times in a row, like being summoned out of a trance.
These moments are few and far between, but they add up. When your coworkers ask you whether everything’s okay, at first, it’s lighthearted, like they’re just curious about what got you so lost in your thoughts. Slowly, eyebrows start to furrow, concern starts creeping in their eyes and voice. You’re one zone-out away from an intervention. A few days ago, you overheard Juhee and Haewon, your team’s two most recent recruits, whispering in the break room about their concern for your well-being: “I think she goes home and just, I don’t know, has takeaway and white wine in front of her TV.”
They’re wrong about the takeaway. You’re actually a pretty decent cook. The rest of their sentiment, however… Well.
It takes Minjeong, your favorite coworker-turned-friend, a couple of weeks before she decides to take matters into her own hands. One Tuesday after work, she waits for you outside the building’s main entrance, and as soon as you step outside, grabs your wrist and drags you to the subway station that’ll lead both of you to her apartment. “I’m making you chicken alfredo and you’re telling me what the hell is wrong with you,” she says before you can protest.
You wrench your wrist out of her grasp, shrug on the bag strap that had fallen off your shoulder with a discontented huff, and follow her anyway. “Fine, but I’m only coming for the chicken alfredo.”
“I’ll tie you down to the chair until you speak.”
“Kinky.”
She halts dead in her tracks in the middle of the busy street, ignoring the nasty stares from the other homebound office workers heading for the station. She turns to face you, wearing a severe expression. “I’ve known you for five years, and you’ve never cried in front of me. Not even when we watched Titanic.”
Nonplussed, you reply, “I already knew how it ended.”
“That’s not the point. It’s usually impossible to get a read on you, so when not one or two, but three people come up to me and ask whether you’re alright, that means something’s seriously wrong. I’d be a terrible friend if I didn’t try to find out what that was.”
You hesitate. You’re embarrassed that you’ve been so obvious, and that you’re even this upset in the first place. Who on Earth has such a hard time being happy about her childhood best friend’s upcoming wedding? Your first reaction should’ve been to call Chaewon and rave with her and ask for all the details. You should be sending her pictures of potential dresses and asking her which one fits her color palette the best. You shouldn’t be needing the aforementioned intervention.
It isn’t like you have to follow Minjeong and air your dirty laundry out to her. If it came to it, your couple inches over her might help you win a physical fight. But something about her sincere concern makes you fold—how long has it been since you let someone worry about you like this? Long enough that you forgot how nice it feels, apparently.
She must sense a shift in your demeanor, because she relaxes. “Let’s go,” she says, and this time, she doesn’t need to drag you with her.
From the moment you met Minjeong, you knew she came from money. It wasn’t that she flaunted it or appeared out-of-touch with reality; she just had a way of moving through the world with the air of confidence of someone who knew they belonged, who was used to getting what they wanted. It also helped that she often came to work with a new designer bag and always had flawless hair and nails.
It intimidated you at first, the way she seemed to have worked in this office her whole life, whereas it took you weeks before you stopped being so eager to please and be overly polite with everyone. But it quickly became clear that although you found her infinitely cool, she wasn’t cold. You didn’t work for the same segment, but you spent your lunch breaks together, getting scolded by your respective bosses more than once for coming back half-an-hour late; you would often be so busy talking, you wouldn’t keep track of the time.
But it wasn’t until you stepped inside her apartment for the first time that you realized just how wealthy she, or her family, was. She lived in one of the fanciest neighborhoods of town, in an apartment that you could hardly afford now as an editor, let alone when you were just starting out at the magazine—yet she’d been living there since graduating from university. It’s on the top floor of a brand new apartment complex and composed of three bedrooms and two bathrooms, a ridiculously large open plan kitchen and living room, and a balcony with possibly the best view over the city you’ve ever seen. Her furniture looked and felt expensive, and it made you dizzy trying to figure out how much the artwork that hung on her walls and decorated her shelves must’ve cost. To this day, you haven’t been brave enough to ask.
When you step inside her apartment today, she wastes no time before ordering you to sit at the kitchen island. You watch as she grabs a bottle of wine from the fridge, hesitates, then puts it back. Instead, she grabs a bottle of gin and an unopened one of tonic from a cupboard, two glasses and some ice from the freezer. You smile and sit silently as she expertly pours two drinks. “Here,” she says, sliding a glass towards yours. “I thought you might want something stronger.”
“Should I be worried you just have this on hand?” you tease.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s for emergencies like these, obviously.” You clink your glasses and take a wonderful sip. Then, she looks you straight in the eyes and says, “So, tell me what’s been on your mind.”
So you do.
You tell her about the wedding invitation and what it entails: travelling back to the town you used to live in, having to face everyone you left behind there. You keep things vague. You don’t name names, or dump your entire backstory on her; you simply tell her you didn’t have the best relationship with your aunt when you left, and phone calls between the two of you have been few and far between in the time you’ve moved away. And that this goes for a few other people from home, namely one other person.
Of course, this isn’t enough for Minjeong. She prods, and prods, and prods, until you finally give in. With a sigh and a heavy gulp of your wine, you ask, “Where do you even want me to start?”
She smiles. “From the beginning.”
You stare each other off for a few beats. Even as your instincts tell you to keep your mouth shut, a small voice at the back of your mind says, For once, why not?
“I don’t… talk about this,” you say, voice shaky.
Worry knots Minjeong’s eyebrows together. “Is it that bad?”
“It’s not that it’s bad,” you reply quickly to reassure her. “I just don’t like even thinking about it. So talking about it… Well, that forces me to think about it, doesn’t it?”
“Listen,” Minjeong says, walking over to your side of the island, resting her hand over yours. “If you really don’t want to talk about it, I won’t force you. But from what I can tell, it’d do you some good.” She takes a deep breath, then speaks all in one go. “Also I’m dying to know. I’m not supposed to tell you this but everyone at the office has a theory about where you come from because you never talk about it.”
When you gasp, she shakes her head and squeezes your hand. “I promise everything said here will stay here. I’d derive much more satisfaction from being the only one knowing about your past than blabbing about it to everyone anyway.”
For some reason, this works on you. Maybe Minjeong feels trustworthy enough. Or maybe you know she’s right, you know it’ll do you good to speak about it, to release some of the burden.
“Okay.”
You really do start from the beginning, and work your way up from there. Why you had to move to Gimcheon without your parents. Why it was difficult living with your aunt, and why you could hardly make friends at first. Why it was your sole goal in life to move back to Seoul at eighteen, and why with every passing year, the thought of leaving became harder and harder. Why you did it anyway.
What it cost you.
It feels strange to speak so much at once, and about yourself. Minjeong is plating dinner as you’re wrapping your story up. She has so many questions, it takes you almost an hour to finish your food. But you find yourself readily answering every one of them; you’ve gone this far already, so you might as well give her the fullest picture you can.
Oddly enough, it’s perhaps her easiest question that has you hesitating the most. It’s the end of the night, and you’re surprised your eyes have stayed dry throughout it; but when she asks you this, your nose starts to prickle.
“What’s this guy’s name, anyway? We’ve talked so much about him, and you’ve only referred to him as your friend.”
You can’t help but smile even as the word tugs sharply on your heartstrings.
“Jaeyun.”
.
.
As the date of the wedding approaches, the tight knot of nerves in your stomach grows bigger. The evening before your flight, it takes you hours to fall asleep, your packed suitcase next to your bed startling you every time you lay eyes on it. You sleep fitfully for three hours, then a never-ending loop of worst-case scenarios plays in your head as you go through the motions of getting yourself ready and to the airport. An older woman sits next to you on the plane; anxiety must be emanating from you like a bad odor for her to rest a kind hand on your shoulder and tell you that domestic flights like these are very safe, that she’s flown many times and that nothing bad’s ever happened. You don’t have it in you to tell her, a total albeit nice stranger, that it’s not the journey that’s worrying you so much, but the destination.
Stepping inside the airport at Daegu feels surreal. The few times you’ve traveled between Seoul and Gimcheon, you drove—but Chaewon forced you to fly down, saying you couldn’t just get in your car and leave if you suddenly felt like it. You didn’t tell her you could almost just as easily get a same-day flight, if it really came down to it.
You hope it won’t.
The airport is so relatively unbusy, so it doesn’t take you too long before you arrive at the parking lot, eyes searching for your aunt and her green little car that she’s always driven and that has somehow yet to break down.
But it’s another familiar face that your eyes land on.
The sight feels like a punch to the gut. For a few seconds, you swear you stop breathing, the sound of your heartbeat so loud in your ears that it cuts off all other noise around you, of planes taking off, people reuniting, car doors slamming shut.
You weren’t supposed to see him so soon. You were supposed to meet your aunt, go through a slightly awkward car ride, maybe have your first adult conversation with her now that you weren’t, or at least less of, an angsty teen. You were then supposed to get ready, both mentally and physically, for seeing all of your friends at once again, for seeing him. Who was standing in front of his car, staring at you with a small smile that kept breaking your heart over and over again, clearly here to pick you up.
He lets you stare back. Lets you stand there, mouth agape in shock, fingers wrapped so tight around the handle of your suitcase that your nails dig into the skin of your palm. You weren’t supposed to see him so soon. You didn’t get enough time to prepare, to adjust to being here, and now you’re standing there dumbly like you’ve just seen a ghost.
In a way, you have.
You regain part of your senses. When you try to say his name, your voice is hoarse, and it comes out as a whisper, barely audible even to you. So you clear your throat, try a second time.
“Jaeyun.”
The name feels clumsy on your tongue, like a foreign language you once knew but lost due to lack of practice. And yet, when he smiles and says your name back to you, it sounds so right, like no one else is as deserving of saying it as he is.
“Hi, Y/N.”
Your feet move of their own accord as they step towards him; he mirrors you, and in mere seconds you’re face-to-face with him, and when he reaches out you think he might hug you but all he does is take your suitcase from you and roll it to the trunk of his car. A sigh escapes your lips, but you’re unsure whether it's one of disappointment or of relief.
“There was an emergency at the hospital, so Auntie asked me to pick you up. I hope it’s okay with you,” he explains. You watch, transfixed, as he closes the trunk, then walks over to the passenger side, opening the door and motioning for you to go in.
You nod. “Yeah, it’s okay. Thank you.”
Instead of walking right away to his side of the car, he stays there, one hand on top of the door as you take a seat and fasten your seatbelt. “It’s no worries,” he says finally before gently shutting your door.
There are so many things to think about. Usually, you’d get hung up over the fact that even on the day of your coming back home for the first time in years, your aunt still prioritizes her job over you, or over the fact that Jaeyun still calls her Auntie, despite the resolve you’ve had since you were fourteen of calling her by her first name, and her first name only.
Now, as the boy — the man — beside you starts the car, hands steady compared to your trembling ones, a peaceful expression on his face, all you can think about is the improbability of it all, of being back here, of being next to Jaeyun of all people and not knowing what to say to him. If someone had told you ten years ago, that one day a reunion with Jaeyun would mean silence and cramp-inducing nerves, you would have either laughed them off, or been scared into never leaving at all.
Your mind conjures an infinite list of conversation starters, but none of them seem good enough. They’re all too relaxed, too intense, too inappropriate for a situation like this. Like a fish out of water, you keep opening your mouth to say something, only to close it when you decide not to.
Jaeyun being this quiet only makes things worse. If there’s one thing about him, it’s that he’s always talking like he can’t get the words out fast enough—but maybe it’s been too long for you to speak with any authority about what Sim Jaeyun is like. You know you’ve changed a lot in ten years—how can you expect him to be the same boy you left? You can’t even tell whether he’s just calmer now or if he’s decided to torture you by silence.
As he keeps his eyes on the road ahead of him, you risk furtive glances, trying to assess how much about him might’ve changed. There’s still something of the boy who used to split clementines with you in the winter, who would whisper the answers to you when you got called on in class and blanked. He’s grown into his features, he’s learned how to style his hair, but his kind smile and eyes haven’t changed in the slightest. You still find yourself inexplicably drawn to everything about him, even the small cut on his jawline, probably from shaving—your fingers crave to feel it, this sign of a private life that you haven’t been privy to for years. That you haven’t been a part of.
Minutes pass by like eternity. He’s only pulling out of the parking lot and joining the freeway and you’re already wondering how you’ll survive the twenty-minute car ride to your aunt’s. Thankfully, Jaeyun eventually puts an end to your agony.
“There’s so much I want to tell you that I don’t know where to start.” His voice is low, infused with a kind of timidity you’ve rarely heard from him. It seems to reflect your feelings exactly, and you’re so relieved you could cry.
A small chuckle escapes your throat. “Me too,” you say, glancing at him briefly, avoiding his gaze by the fraction of a second. It’s hard enough being in an enclosed space with him; eye contact isn’t an option right now. Every time his eyes flick over to you, the side of your face heats up so much you think it might melt right off.
“How—how are you?” he asks.
You’re not sure whether he means right now, or in general—but you don’t really feel like examining your feelings about being back here more than you already have, and especially not in front of Jaeyun, so you go for the second meaning.
“Good,” you say. “Everything’s going well at work. And I’ve got a few really great friends. What about you?”
A few beats pass without his answer—in the corner of your eye, you see his head swivel back-and-forth between the road and your face. “What, that’s it?” he finally says with a small, disbelieving chuckle. “The last time I saw you was three years ago. Surely you have more to say than that.” He doesn’t sound angry, just genuinely eager to get more information out of you. But his words make you angry at yourself, because they remind you that it’s your fault you know so little about each other’s lives now. It’s not for his lack of trying, and you both know that—since you left ten years ago, his unwavering kindness and lack of resentment towards you has surprised you every time you’ve seen him again.
“I don’t know, nothing’s really happened. I was promoted pretty recently—”
“Okay, that’s definitely not nothing. Congratulations, Y/N. You deserve it.”
They’re words you’ve heard a hundred times before, but coming from him, they sound so heartfelt, like he truly is proud and happy for you, that you can’t help but soften at them. Smiling, you say, “You’ve never seen me at work. Maybe I slack off all day and hand in everything late.”
“I’ve seen you in high school, and that’s enough to know you’d rather pull out your hair strand by strand than hand in anything a minute late.”
You laugh, and when he turns his head to look at you, this time, you mirror him. He can only keep his eyes off the road for so long, but a second is all you need. Your gazes meet, and he’s wearing one of your favorite smiles of his, the one that makes you feel like he’s really glad to see you again, and a weight is suddenly taken off your shoulders.
Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
Thankfully, the remainder of the car ride is much less awkward than its first few minutes.You find Jaeyun to be as talkative as ever, not shy in the slightest to tell you about everything going on in his life, from the arguments he gets into with his colleagues — which happen to mostly be members of his family — to the hikes he’s been going on more frequently now that he’s adopted a dog, a Border Collie he says you have to meet.
Your nerves are appeased. The last time you saw Jaeyun three years ago, it was for his grandmother’s funeral. She was the main reason he’d stayed here—back in high school, he’d had vague plans of moving to Seoul after graduating from university in Daegu. But when she got sick, with his brother abroad and his parents working hard to afford the hospital bills, he decided there should be someone to keep her company and take care of her, and that someone would be him. You could count on one hand the number of times you’d been back, and when she passed was one of them. He tried to keep a brave front, smiling as he greeted and thanked everyone for coming, but you could see right through the facade, although it’d been a long time since you could call yourself a close friend of his.
You only stayed three days. The night before you went back to Seoul, you went over to his apartment to make him dinner. In front of you, he let it all out—he’d always cried easily, but never like this. You spent so much time comforting him and offering him your shoulder that in the end, you could only make him a bowl of pasta with tomato sauce that he barely ate half of. You knew only too well what sort of pain he was going through. While your brain has wiped most of your memories of the events soon following your parents’ deaths, you remember the hurt that lasted months, years, that still comes back now from time to time, when you least expect it. It was partly thanks to Jaeyun’s friendship that your grief was easier to overcome—as you got to know him and your new classmates, he took your mind off of things little by little, until one afternoon, you came home from school and realized you hadn’t felt suddenly sad or irrationally angry the entire day.
The moment you left him that night, his cheeks tear-stained and his eyebrows furrowed even in sleep, you made a promise to yourself that you’d be there for him at twenty-five as he was for you at fourteen, despite the distance that separated you. You texted him everyday, called three times in a row if he didn’t answer, made sure your mutual friends checked up on him often.
But Jaeyun was, is strong and he had amazing people surrounding him, people he’s known his entire life and that have his back. He was back on his feet soon, sooner than you expected, for how close he was to his grandmother. Because of, or thanks to that, when you felt like he didn’t need you to look after him anymore, you only felt a little guilty for pulling away. More accurately, the guilt ate relentlessly at you, but you had excuses to make yourself feel better. His dad made all his favorite dishes. Jaemin took him out fishing. A neighbor of his had a dog who gave birth, and he adopted one of the pups. With or without you, he was going to be fine.
You didn’t mind looking after him. But as soon as you felt like you were relying on him, you panicked. And you were starting to look forward to your weekly calls far too much for your liking. So you reached out less often. It was a busy time at work — when wasn’t it, after all? — and you buried yourself in it so that when you told him you were too busy to call or to head back for the weekend, you weren’t lying.
Things went back to the way they were for the seven previous years. You were as relieved as you were heartbroken.
You look at him now, listening to his lively rants with a smile on your face, thinking how glad you are it all turned out okay. The sadness of being apart from him, the longing of missing him, you’d do it all again if it meant he’d be laughing like this in the end.
Parked in front of your aunt’s house, Jaeyun turns off the ignition and turns to you. “Do you want me to come in with you?” he asks.
How easily you fall back into your old ways. Twenty minutes with him and you feel like a teenager again, annoyed with him for being so nice, so unrelentingly nice, annoyed at your stupid heart for beating up a storm in your chest every time he so much as smiles at you. You want desperately to say yes. To have someone to lean on as you walk into the house that contains so many bad memories—fights with your aunt followed by silence, the feeling of loneliness that pervaded your teenage years and that you haven’t quite managed to shake off. It’d be so nice to have Jaeyun there with you—and judging from the concern on his face, he seems to know how you feel.
But you can’t let him, because you can’t let yourself need him. Not again. Not when you already know how it ends.
You smile and shake your head, ignoring the disappointment that flashes across his features. “It’s okay. I don’t wanna take up more of your time.” He looks like he’s going to say something, so you quickly add, already opening the passenger door, “I’ll see you later for the reunion, yeah? Thank you for the ride, Yun.”
With a sigh, he lets go of whatever it was he wanted to say. “Of course. Anytime.”
He gets out of the car even though you tell him not to, and helps you with your suitcase, which really isn’t that heavy. You can tell that your declining his offer has dampened his enthusiasm somewhat, and yet, he waits until you’re at the front door, one hand on the handle, the other waving him goodbye, to drive away. As though he wanted to keep an eye on you for as long as he could—and so do you. You watch his car get smaller until it disappears around a corner. Then, inhaling and exhaling deeply, you turn the key you haven’t used in years inside the keyhole and push the door open.
The first thing you notice is the unchanging smell of the house. Like the cleaning product your aunt uses, and a slight stale odor of food, because she always forgets to crack open a window or turn on the oven fan when she cooks. Plus a scent specific to the house that reminds you of your aunt, of the clothes she wears, of the blanket she covers herself with while she watches reality TV after particularly long shifts.
Gently closing the door behind you, you stand in the entrance for a while, letting yourself take the time you need to get used to this place again. You’re glad your aunt isn’t home to usher you in and pretend she’s happier to see you than she is, or that you didn’t let Jaeyun accompany you. You don’t want anyone, least of all him, to witness you looking around the house like it’s the first time you step foot in it.
Everything is the same as ever. Same furniture, same photos in the frames, same wallpaper, which make the few novelties even more striking. A plant in the corner of the living room, a new, more modern kettle in the kitchen. The black-and-white, low quality scan of your first ever article printed in Limelight is still displayed on the fridge, held up by the Brisbane magnet seventeen-year-old Jaeyun gifted you after he came back from visiting his family there.
You make your way upstairs slowly, holding onto the wooden rail for support, more emotional than physical. Your bedroom is a time capsule of your time in Gimcheon, with the same plain purple bedsheets your aunt bought before you arrived, the same posters of the boybands fifteen-year-old you obsessed over on your walls, the same fantasy series you used to devour during summer break on your shelves. You can’t help but crack a smile at the sight of it all. In all the times you’ve come back to this house, you’ve never had it in you to change anything about this room. You want to keep it preciously, as if changing anything about it would change the memories associated with it, both good and bad.
Losing both of your parents at once had made you anything but an insouciant teenager. You were overly serious and reserved, grief forcing you to grow up far before any kid should have to. And yet, standing in this room, you remember the fleeting moments during which your biggest worries were a pimple on your chin or a test in a subject you didn’t like.
For all your grievances against your aunt, you would’ve turned into a much different person if she hadn’t taken you in back then. Your dad’s family lived in another country, and you knew from conversations with your aunt that she and your mother didn’t have the best relationship with their parents. Their brother had three kids of his own, whereas your aunt had none; it only made sense for her to welcome you into her house. When you were mad at her, you told yourself it was only her moral and legal obligation to take care of you as your closest relative, but when you were feeling more generous — which, for fifteen-year-old you, could be rare — you realized that having a comfortable room to yourself and cupboards always stocked with your favorite snacks was something to be grateful for.
And there were the friends you made here, whose pictures fill five entire photo albums. They made everything more tolerable, and even fun, when you allowed it to be. Of course, you would have never told them that, back then—you liked your cold exterior and the way they saw right through it.
Setting down your suitcase by your bed, you decide to go through the photo albums you assiduously filled back in high school instead of putting your things away. It’s a better way to settle in and get yourself ready—your nerves dissipate as you flip the pages, bright pictures blink up at you, of your friends at each others’ houses, at the park on weekends, at the corner store after school. You’re not in many of the pictures, usually hidden behind the camera, exaggeratedly frowning when Jaeyun managed to pry it from your hands and forced you in the frame.
He never heeded your protests when he wanted to swap places so you could be in the pictures you so often took. You remember the puppy eyes he’d make at you, which had no business being so effective, and the way he’d rest his larger hands on yours on the camera. Too unaccustomed to the feeling of your heartbeat speeding up, you would quickly hand it over to him then, turning away from him so he wouldn’t see the obvious effect his touch had on you. It didn’t help that he’d always show you the photo afterwards, pointing at you on the small screen, grinning as he said, “See? You look pretty,” even though fear of being unphotogenic wasn’t the reason you didn’t like your picture to be taken.
Soon, your anxiety at seeing your friends and ex-classmates, after so long of making yourself unavailable to them, is almost entirely gone, replaced by excitement. There remains a pang of shame, especially at the thought of seeing Chaewon. How long had it been since you’d called her when you received that wedding invitation? Like Jaeyun, you know she won’t even be really mad, and that makes it worse—she might make a light-hearted quip about it, but it’s as though they’re scared that lecturing you about being MIA might only push you away further.
You tell yourself there’s nothing to be scared about. The people you’ll see tonight are but older versions of the people smiling at the camera, at you, in your photo albums.
You flip to a picture of you and Jaeyun taken without your knowledge, by Yunjin, if you remember correctly. Both of you sport wide smiles, the neon lights of the arcade game you were playing reflecting on your faces. It was his phone’s home screen for ages.
You’re so immersed in this trip down memory lane that you lose track of time—when the front door opens and your aunt calls out your name, two hours have passed already. Pushing your awkwardness to the side, you let her hug you and repeat her words back to her when she tells you she missed you. You did miss her, but you only realize it once the familiar scent of her hair. She’s a creature of habit—she still uses the shampoo she used when you first moved here at fourteen.
She was only twenty-six back then, younger than you are now. You don’t know if you could deal with a temperamental, grieving teenager while you’d just lost your sister yourself.
“How was the trip down? I’m sorry I couldn’t come and get you at the airport. I sent Jake instead, I figured you wouldn’t mind if it was him,” she rattles, already filling the kettle for tea. This is so like her, saying a million things at once, always busying herself with something. You know that in an hour, when you leave for Chaewon’s house, she’ll settle herself on the couch and won’t leave it for the remainder of the evening, drained from her shift at the hospital.
“It was fine, I didn’t have any problems with my flight,” you reply, taking the knife from her hands and taking over the apple-cutting. “There was an emergency at work?”
She sighs. “Yeah, you know how we’re so understaffed in the summer. Some teenagers were messing around in a house under construction, and fell through a floor that wasn’t done. No big injuries, but they needed an extra person to deal with parents and paperwork. At least I got to see these little shits get the talking-to of their life,” she says, making you laugh. She reaches for something in the cupboard, pulls out a packet of your favorite chocolate-flavored snacks from back then. “I got you these, if you want.”
“Wow, I haven’t eaten these in ages,” you say, chuckling at the familiar cartoon turtle on the bag.
“Do you not like them anymore?”
“No, no, I do,” you say quickly to make your aunt’s worried expression go away. “I just can’t eat a bag in one sitting like I used to anymore, and they go stale too soon.”
She chuckles. “That’s being an adult for you. I got a stomachache from a can of Coke the other day. Just one.”
You have time to spare before you need to start getting ready for Chaewon’s, so you sit at the dinner table together and catch up. The conversation floats somewhat on the surface of things, more about what you’ve been doing than how you’ve been doing. You’re overly polite, keeping a distance for her sake more than your own, unsure how happy she really is to have you here—and you have the feeling she thinks the same of you. The memory of your last fight hangs heavy in the air between you two, unspoken but tangible.
It’s been easier talking to her since you moved away than it ever was when you lived here. You guess distance really does make the heart grow fonder, more willing to forgive and make amends—that, and growing up. Even after your fight, which you quickly understood had only happened because you let your emotions get the best of you after seeing Jaeyun in such a dishevelled state from losing his grandmother, you can have a normal conversation like this. It’s a far cry from the silence that could stretch on for days when you were in high school.
Like with most dreaded things, you belatedly realize how much time you wasted stressing out about coming home, when there was nothing to worry about. Your mind had made up all sorts of scenarios, like your aunt would start yelling at you the moment you came through the door, rehashing your argument, or would barely give you the time of day during your entire stay. It’s as though you forgot she was always the one who knocked on your door with a slice of takeaway pizza or a piece of buttered toast when you were being moody and wouldn’t come down to eat. Who took you out for ice cream when she felt bad for being so caught up in work you’d hardly seen her all week. Who recorded your Saturday evening dramas on the TV while you were over at a friend’s house.
You’ve still got some talking to do, but it might not be as hard as you thought it would.
Fresh out of the shower, you’re changing into a nicer outfit and putting on light makeup when a text from Jaeyun lights up your phone. He’s asking if you want a ride from him, which you decline—your aunt’s house is out of his way and it’s only a ten-minute bike ride for you, which you find yourself quite excited to go on, for purely nostalgic reasons.
Ok :) I’ll see you later, he texts back, and your stomach twists with both apprehension and giddiness. Having him there will make things so much easier, and yet the thought of spending prolonged time in his vicinity makes you unreasonably nervous.
It’s just Jaeyun, you tell yourself, the guy who drooled on his textbook when he fell asleep in class. Who never got mad unless, in true soccer player fashion, felt another player had committed an unforgivable offense against him. Who insisted on watching horror movies then spent them with his face behind his hands.
You catch yourself smiling in the mirror and shake your head.
It really does feel like you’ve been transported back to ten years ago as you wish your aunt a good evening and hop onto your bike, still in its same spot, resting against the side of the house, then ride down the streets you’ll always know by heart. Gimcheon is at its prettiest during this time of year, the trees plump, their leaves dark green, the flowers bright. The summer evening breeze is warm on your skin, and the sun, low in the sky, casts a beautiful golden light on everything around you.
It’s not long before you reach Chaewon’s house—it’s still amazing to you how you can stand in front of it and say, yes, my friend owns this house. It actually belongs to her—and her fiancé, Jaemin, of course. You don’t know of a single person your age in Seoul who owns their apartment, except for Minjeong, but she’s just exceptionally well-off. It’s a nice, traditional house, with a wooden porch around the front where you know Chaewon, a Korean Nara Smith if you’ve ever met one, will make gochujang and soy sauce from scratch once she’s less busy with work and wedding preparations.
The gate is ajar, so you slide it further and let yourself in, calling out your friend’s name tentatively. Immediately you hear footsteps from inside the house, Chaewon squealing your name before she comes barrelling through the door and running towards you. She practically flings herself at you, and you stumble back a few steps as you catch her, laughing at her enthusiasm.
“Ugh, I’m so happy you’re finally here!” she exclaims, squashing the side of her face onto yours.
“I’m happy to be here, too,” you reply, chuckling. “Thank you for the heartfelt welcome.”
Hands on your shoulders, she leans back, assesses you head-to-toe. You follow her gaze, wondering if the mid-thigh sundress you chose was a good decision. Is it too much cleavage? At your all-female workplace, there is no such thing as too much cleavage. “You look good.”
“Okay, no need to sound so surprised.”
“I’m not!” she says, laughing. “Okay, a little bit, I’m sorry. I thought you’d look all dishevelled like those busy city girls in the movies. Running around, getting coffee, whatever it is city people do. That’s what you look like when you FaceTime me after work.”
You sigh. “That’s great to hear, Chae, thanks.”
“No, don’t take it the wrong way, it’s hot! But it’s nice to see you like this, with your hair down instead of your buns so tight they snatch your eyebrows.”
You frown. “I like my tight buns.”
“So do I,” she says, tapping your butt with a cheeky smile. Before you can protest, she takes your hand and leads you into the house. “Come on, we’ve made some changes inside, let me show you.”
“Am I the first person here?” you ask. The house is empty save for you and her, and probably Jaemin, somewhere.
She smiles at you mischievously. “Of course. We’re going to catch up first. And who the hell starts a party at 6 p.m. anyway?”
Chaewon’s presence is everywhere around her house, from the white gauze curtains that flutter in the wind to the trinkets that line the shelves of a cupboard passed down onto her from her grandparents. There are new pieces of furniture here and there, and a nice patterned rug in the living room, but the biggest change has been done to the kitchen. It’s been fully renovated to be more modern since you were last here, and it’s fully functional now, with everything she needs to make her homemade bread and her thousand side dishes that accompany every one of her meals. It’s a good thing Jaemin’s a nice person—you staunchly believe that not many people are deserving of the kind of care Chaewon is able to provide. You remember making that very clear when you came to visit for the holidays, and got a little too drunk with Chaewon for New Year’s Eve—you can’t recall exactly what you said to him, but he could hardly look you in the eye for the remainder of your stay, so it must’ve left an impression.
There’s barely an inch of free space on the counter, and the fridge isn’t faring much better. All sorts of salads and dips, meat and vegetable skewers, marinating chicken thighs, and of course, cupcakes. Tons of cupcakes. She doesn’t let you linger—Jaemin walks into the kitchen, and you’ve barely hugged him hello and exchanged niceties with him that she’s already dragging you someplace else, telling rather than asking her fiancé to finish getting the food ready.
She sits you down on a chair outside then heads back in, telling you she’ll be right back. It gives you some time to admire her backyard, the way it’s all been set up for tonight, cute cushions on the patio sofas, fairy lights strung in the trees, ribbons on the fence around her vegetable patch. Even back in high school, she grew green onions and avocados on the window sill of her parents’ kitchen. You’re excessively moved knowing that she has a whole garden to tend to now. It’s so easy to picture her, wearing a sunhat as she waters and adds soil to her plants.
When she comes back out, it’s with two glasses of suspiciously pink liquid in her hands. She sees your weary expression and says, “Don’t worry, you can barely taste the alcohol in it.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” you reply, but take a sip anyway. God knows you’re going to need some liquid courage to face tonight. It’s overly sweet, tasting mostly of strawberry syrup, and almost not at all of the vodka and prosecco Chaewon says she put in. Fine with you.
She launches straight away into her usual interrogation. It’s less daunting, because you can expect it—every reunion with Chaewon means she’s going to have a thousand questions for you if you don’t turn the subject around on her at some point. She wants to know all of the office gossip as though she has personal stakes in who your coworkers are dating and what the workplace dynamics are like. She asks about your daily life, your friends, whether you’re seeing anyone.
“I’d have told you if I had a boyfriend, Chae,” you say.
She shrugs, a little sheepish. “I don’t know. There’s lots of things you don’t tell me about, you know…”
There it is, the sharp pang of guilt in your stomach. The summer breeze suddenly feels cold on your bare skin, the stillness of the countryside oppressive. Up until now, it felt like barely a few weeks had passed since you’d last seen Chaewon, but reality catches up to you now, with its distance and silences, the ones you imposed between the two of you. “I’m sorry,” you say quietly.
“No, I’m not mad!” she exclaims, panicked. “I’m just saying, I don’t know so much about your life anymore, so this could be something I don’t know about either… I’m making this worse, aren’t I?” she asks when she sees the pained look on your face.
You shake your head. “You’re right, though. I know I should call more often, I just…”
“Want to put this all behind you, I get it. You always talked about wanting to go back to Seoul in high school, so I’m happy you’re able to thrive there now,” she says, although there’s an edge to her voice that you know means she’s more hurt than she wants to let on.
“But it isn’t fair to you.”
She shrugs again. When she looks at you, there’s a small smile on her face that looks a little too forced. For as long as you’ve known her, Chaewon has been wholly averse to conflict—this is probably the hardest she’ll scold you for being so absent. But because it’s from her, it’s an effective reminder to be a better friend.
You can’t help but put everything and everyone here in the same corner of your mind. You thought that to move on from one person, you’d need to move on from everyone, even Chaewon. You can only hope it’s not too late to start realizing how much of a fool you’ve been.
“Look, I didn’t get you all the way here to talk about this. I just wanna know how you’ve been.”
“I’ve been good, Chae, really. And now it’s your turn to present your life to me in excruciating detail.”
She chuckles and says, “Fine, but we’ll need a refill for this.”
“What? Has it been bad?”
In the doorway, she turns around to look at you. “Oh, not for me. My life’s been so awesome that you’ll need to drink your jealousy away, babe.”
And indeed, when she comes back and tells all about her life recently with a dreamy look in her eyes, it isn’t that you’re jealous per se, but that you realize this is the life a lot of people wish for—married with a nice house before thirty, and children soon, if you know her at all. And you agree these things sound nice, but they’re not what you want for yourself right now. Sure, there have been hurdles: her parents-in-law are pretty conservative, but Jaemin always stands up for her, and her job as an elementary school teacher can be very tiring, but, she says, “having someone like him to come home to makes everything so much easier.” She’s always had a sentimental streak to her, but this close to the wedding, you can tell her love for Jaemin has never been so strong. You’re reassured to see it doesn’t stop her from ordering him around as usual, or scolding him when he puts the chocolate sprinkles on top of the blue frosted cupcakes even though she told him at least a million times that the star-shaped sprinkles went on those.
“But the star-shaped ones taste like nothing, honey,” he says. You shake your head even if he can’t see you. Chaewon gasps like he just told her to go fuck herself—and in her eyes, it’s probably as though he has.
As much as she hates arguments, this is something she’d lay her life down for. She heads into the kitchen to give him a piece of her mind, leaving you to reflect over her words. It makes everything so much easier. You do wonder what that must feel like, to have someone to come home to after a long day instead of a silent glass of wine. At least the wine can’t judge you.
The two glasses of Chaewon’s pink mixture must really be getting to your head, because when she sits back down next to you, face flushed from a heated conversation about sprinkles, you find yourself telling her what’s on your mind. “I’ve almost had that a couple times, you know. Someone to come home to,” you say, feeling her gaze on the side of your face as you keep yours on the garden in front of you. “I did tell you about some of the guys I dated.”
“Yeah, and you always seemed super unfazed about the break-ups.”
“I was. I always expected it to end one day or another, so I wasn’t so surprised when that day came.” Her hand on your forearm is warm, anchoring, silently telling you that it’s okay to go on. “It’s not that I don’t want that life. But whenever they started talking about meeting their parents, or moving in together, let alone get married… It just freaked me out. The idea of someone being so close to me, eventually knowing so much about me. How—” You interrupt yourself, taken aback by the tears you feel pooling in your eyes. You turn to look at Chaewon, and something in her expression, in the familiarity of her features, makes you take a deep breath and keep talking. This is Chaewon. She won’t make fun of you for crying. “How do you do it, Chae? How do you trust someone to still love you when they know about all the worst sides of you?”
“Oh, honey,” she whispers, standing up to wrap her arms around you. A few silent tears stream down your cheeks, hopefully not staining her dress, as you hug her back tightly. “What about me? Minji, Yunjin? What about Jaeyun?”
Her voice seems to soften on his name, or maybe it’s your heart that softens upon hearing it. A part of you thinks he may be at fault for your unsatisfactory love life—knowing he’s out there makes it harder to fall for someone else. But that’s something you couldn’t admit to Chaewon—you can barely admit it to yourself as it is.
“I’m sorry,” you say, sniffling against her shoulder. “I shouldn’t be doing this today, of all days.”
She shushes you. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m glad you’re letting it out. Listen.” She crouches in front of you, brushes away strands of your hair that got stuck in your wet eyelashes. “There’s nothing monstrous about you that would drive anyone away. You’re more cautious than most of us when it comes to relationships, and that’s okay. It just means that when you finally do give your heart to someone, they’ll be all the more deserving of it. And I promise you that someone is out there.” She smiles, adding, “Maybe closer than you think.”
“What—what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on,” she says with a laugh, unfolding from her crouch and holding her hand out to you. “Your makeup’s all messed up. I’ll help you fix it before everyone else gets here.”
In her upstairs bathroom, she pushes off all the clothes laying haphazardly on an armchair and instructs you to sit there. With four cocktails between the two of you, everything becomes funny—you’re both laughing so hard at the shape of her mascara tube that it takes her five minutes to properly apply the makeup to your lashes. She keeps scolding you for scrunching your eyes in laughter and stopping her from doing her job, as if she’s not the one who can’t see through the tears in her eyes. “Now my mascara’s running!” she complains when she sees her reflection in the mirror.
Like little girls playing around with their mother’s beauty products, she applies eyeshadows of all colors on your lids, tries out a different lipstick on each half of your lips to see which one fits you best. You look ridiculous, but you’d probably let her keep going for hours if it wasn’t for the sudden ring of the doorbell. You both freeze mid-laughing fit as if the whole point of this evening wasn’t for people to come over, the blush brush in Chaewon’s hand floating inches from your cheek.
“Who is it?” you whisper, unable to tell who it is from the voices mixing with Jaemin’s downstairs.
“Sounds like Jeno and his new girlfriend,” she whispers back. “You haven’t met her. She’s way too cool for him.”
“As are all of Jeno’s girlfriends.”
Chaewon nods. Before she can say anything else, Jaemin’s voice rings out in the house, calling out for her. “Be down in a minute!” she shouts back, then turns to you. Her energy seems to have shifted from when you were laughing around together when she says, “Let’s get this off you. I made you look a little crazy.”
As she douses a cotton pad with makeup remover, you ask her quietly, “Are you okay?”
With the cotton over your eyes, you can’t see her expression, but you’ve known her long enough to picture it. The tight lips, the slightly furrowed eyebrows. “I’m okay, just a little nervous,” she says. “It’s been a while since we’ve had this many people over at once.”
Your surprise only lasts a second—although Chaewon had appeared nothing but excited every time you talked about this weekend, you remember how she’d grow anxious in the last moments before any party she threw. You take the cotton pad from her hands, holding onto her wrist as you look earnestly into her eyes. “It’s going to be an amazing evening, Chae. You’re the best hostess in this town. The food looks great, as it always does, and everyone’s going to be ecstatic to see each other again. And to congratulate you! You’re getting married in two days!”
A small smile was forming on her lips as you spoke, but it’s the mention of her wedding that really seems to do the trick. “I am,” she says quietly, smiling down at her feet like a giddy schoolgirl.
“And your fiancé’s waiting downstairs for you. Along with Jeno and his cool girlfriend.”
She sighs deeply. “You’re right. I’ve been busy all day getting everything ready, and now that there’s nothing left to do, I’m panicking.”
“There’s no reason to,” you tell her, squeezing her wrist warmly. “Go. I’ll take care of my makeup.”
With a quick hug, Chaewon thanks you and heads downstairs. In the mirror, it really does look like a small child had far too much fun on your face. Wiping it all off with her cleansing oil and digging through her pouch for liner and a lip tint, you remember all the evenings spent at your aunt’s house, her combing through your closet before a party because your aunt let you buy little tops that her parents would have a seizure seeing her wear. For once, the roles are reversed.
Calming her down has had the same effect on your nerves, although the heavy doses of vodka and prosecco in the cocktails might’ve helped. Your heart is only slightly beating faster than usual as the doorbell rings again, the voices of more people filling Chaewon’s and Jaemin’s living room. For some reason, you’re worried that coming downstairs as they’re all greeting each other will be more awkward than meeting them out in the backyard, so you wait until it sounds like they’ve left the room. But your plan isn’t so successful—you’re halfway down the stairs when the door opens again, the person entering seemingly familiar enough to this house to come in without announcing their presence. Your body registers the sight of him first, heart dropping to your stomach, electricity reaching all the way to your fingertips before his name has even made its way to your brain.
“Jaeyun,” you breathe out, the wind knocked out of you as though you didn’t see him mere hours ago and as though you were unaware of his being here tonight. What is wrong with you? Are you sure Chaewon didn’t lace your drinks with something else?
His smile has the power to reassure you and double your nerves all at once. He waits for you, watching as you make your way down the remaining stairs. “Long time no see,” he says when you reach him, an infuriatingly charming grin on his lips. You can’t bite back the one growing on your own. “I hope you didn’t miss me too much.”
“It was a struggle, but I made it through.”
He chuckles, and a few seconds pass in which you don’t quite look at each other; you’re about to offer to join the others in the yard, but he speaks first. “You look beautiful.” Three simple words, but coming from Jaeyun, and spoken with that low, intimate tone, they pack a punch.
You hope you don’t look too obviously flustered as you gaze down at yourself, picking up the hem of your dress and rubbing the fabric between your fingers self-consciously. “Thanks, Yun,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. You give yourself a few seconds to assess him, and the conclusion you come to doesn’t help your state—you’ve seen him wear white button-ups dozens of times before, at school events and fancy gatherings, but you swear his arms didn’t always fill out the sleeves so perfectly, straining ever so slightly against the fabric. And sure, not having it buttoned to the top is fine, but are three undone buttons really necessary? You stop yourself from making a comment about cleavage and return his compliment instead. Then, with a frown, you tell him the others are already outside and turn on your heels.
Behind you, you hear a chuckle, then the sound of his footsteps following you. You thought it’d be nice to have Jaeyun around, a familiar and reassuring presence to look for if you ever felt awkward or out-of-place tonight, but it turns out it might be more distressing than anything.
Outside, all the newcomers, save for Jeno’s girlfriend, greet you with wide, surprised smiles, like they can’t believe you actually made it all the way here. Most of your old classmates have stayed in the area—one has gone abroad, a few have moved to Daegu, the closest big city, but for the most part, they either still live here or in nearby, somewhat larger towns with more job opportunities. That’s why they’ve remained such a tight-knit circle, why everyone knows everyone’s business, and why you were much more nervous than anyone should be at the idea of going to their high school reunion. Your distance is all the more obvious by their lack thereof.
No one is showing you open hostility like in the worst-case scenarios you’d dreamed up, so you must be doing a good job at smiling and catching up with them and being normal with your hands, although you gladly accept the champagne glass Jaeyun hands you, thankful for something to keep them busy. And you find that it’s nice to be here. It’s nice to know Yurim and Jimin are as inseparable as ever and are planning to do the whole baby-at-the-same-time thing (once they manage to both find a boyfriend). It’s nice to see Jeno start to look less like a nerd over time, but that he hasn’t lost his ability to bag the most beautiful women you’ve ever met, like Giselle, who he very proudly introduces you to, and who is indeed way cooler than him. She volunteers at the animal shelter in her free time and DJs for huge techno clubs in the city on the weekend, so to be fair, she’s cooler than most people.
As more people start trickling in, instead of retreating into yourself, you relax. The weather is perfect, the sun making its slow, lazy descent into the night, a warm summer breeze coming through; people are happy to be here, to see each other, to see you; when Chaewon isn’t frantically running around, making sure that everyone is doing okay and that there are enough mini-fours to go around, she actually looks like she’s enjoying herself.
And there’s Jaeyun. It’s not that you mean to notice him, but your gaze keeps drifting to him of its own volition. He moves through the crowd with ease, clearly surrounded by people he’s comfortable with, always being pulled into conversations or making small talk with everyone he bumps into. His eyes seem to find yours often, and every time, he smiles at you like he knows something you don’t. Instead of quickly turning away like he used to as a teenager, unashamed at getting caught, his eyes linger on your face before slowly returning to whoever’s talking to him.
There’s a really annoying moment when he’s standing by the barbecue, keeping Jaemin company while he grills sausages and skewers, holding a bottle of beer in one hand, talking and laughing seemingly without a care in the world, as though he doesn’t know, or care, how infuriatingly hot he is. Hair pushed back from his forehead, a slight blush on his cheeks from the heat of the grill, that stupid third button still popped open. He looks like he was taken straight from the front cover of a men’s magazine, and it shouldn’t be this attractive, but it is, and there’s nothing you can do about it but down the rest of your champagne glass.
Something’s different about him. Despite having seen him over the years, all this time, whenever you’ve thought of Jaeyun, the person who came to mind was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. A little shy, especially around girls, but with a smile that could charm a rock and that he hadn’t yet discovered the power of. The pant legs of his school uniform were a little too long because he was sure he’d have one last growth spurt in your final year of school after seeing Heeseung go through one. He never did, then couldn’t be bothered to exchange them or get them hemmed. They got soaking wet every time it rained. Of course some things have remained unchanged—he’s still as attentive as always, remembering small things about people, asking them about it, and listening with genuine interest when they answer. He doesn’t try to make things about him, and he doesn’t get annoyed when they ramble on for minutes on end without ever returning a question. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what it is that feels so new about him, so unfamiliar in this exciting, intriguing way.
After observing him through careful, discreet glances (which he seems to notice half of), you come to the conclusion that it’s in the way he carries himself. He stands straighter, walks with more confidence, and has figured out what to do with his arms. He’s always been a human magnet: old ladies made conversation with him in grocery lines, strangers stopped him in the street for directions, he was elected class president every year without ever putting himself forward. You remember the pressure he used to feel because of it, like he couldn’t bear to let anyone down although he was sure it’d inevitably happen—but now, he seems completely at ease with all this attention on him. Not like he’s gloating, but like he’s in his element.
Eager to avoid his gaze and the dreadful feelings it causes in you, you move around the backyard as often as he does under the guise of catching up with as many as you can, always managing to be part of a different group than he is. And you drink. Everyone does, so you’re not embarrassing yourself on your own—it’s a known fact that Chaewon can and will feed an army, so her guests bring tons of alcohol to make up for all her efforts. Your glass never goes empty for long simply because no one lets it—you could refuse, but you don’t.
You spend thirty minutes stuffing yourself with Chaewon’s cucumber salad and getting all the staff drama of your old school from Yunjin, who now works there as an English teacher. When she’s done telling you about the affair between the vice-principal and your Year 11 Geography teacher, she takes you aback by asking, “So, what’s up between you and Jaeyun?”
Back in high school, people often mistook you for a couple or joked around about you liking each other, so you do as you did then—you laugh it off, saying there’s nothing there. That doesn’t seem to satisfy Yunjin, however. She tilts her head at you, asking, “Are you sure? He seems so… attentive to you. Just now at the buffet he stopped you from getting the potato salad because there’s mustard in it. And in high school he was always running around doing things for you. All the girls were jealous of you.”
Your smile feels frozen, plastered on as you stare down at your plate. “That’s just Jaeyun. He’s nice to everyone, it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Y/N,” a voice says, but it definitely does not belong to Yunjin. Not only does it come from behind you, it’s also much too deep to be hers. When you lift your head, she’s looking right over your shoulder, surprise written all over her features. You turn around to find Jaeyun standing there, handing you a hot dog. “Delivery,” he says, tone light, but his closed-off expression betrays him. You don’t know how much of your conversation he heard, but he must’ve not liked it. You’re not sure why—it’s not like you lied. Jaeyun is nice to everyone.
You bite into the bread. It has all of your perfect toppings for a hot dog—ketchup, fried onions, shredded cheddar and jalapeños. When Yunjin leans towards you, a hand on your arm as she says, “I don’t think it doesn’t mean anything,” you wonder if she’s right.
A few drinks later, you’re stumbling inside the house, headed for the bathroom, when a hand wraps around your wrist. It belongs to none other than Jaeyun, whose expression is a mix of amusement and concern. Now that all the food’s come out, the kitchen is dark, bathing in the fairy lights’ glow from outside and from the few other lights in Chaewon and Jaemin’s garden. And it’s empty, save for the two of you. It’s only the copious amounts of alcohol running in your blood that makes you think how enticing he looks in this semi-darkness, or that makes you imagine the affection you think you see in his eyes.
Of course you’d spend all evening avoiding him only to find yourself face-to-face alone with him suddenly like this. You look down at his fingers on you, and he lets go.
“Here.” With his other hand, he offers you a glass of water.
“I’m good,” you say, trying to sound casual, but you don’t like the close attention he’s paying you. Or maybe you’re embarrassingly drunk and he’s sending you a message. In any case, it’s always been hard for you to accept Jaeyun’s small gestures—you always have to remind yourself he’s doing it out of the goodness of his heart and not because he especially cares about you.
“Y/N.” The way he says your name makes lightning zip down your spine. His voice is stern, but there’s a certain warmth to it. Like you’re being unreasonable, but cutely so.
You take the water from his hands and down it in one go. “Happy?”
“Very,” he says, a smirk on his lips that you frown at as he takes the cup back and places it in the sink. He rests his hands behind him on the counter, eyes searching your face, and you, for some reason, stand there and let him instead of going to the bathroom like you’d originally set out to do. Even as silence stretches out between you, your feet are frozen, and you’re finally courageous enough to meet his gaze without backing down. Even as his eyes scan your face, settling on your lips, and your heart threatens to give out. Even as he takes a step towards you and your chest starts visibly heaving up-and-down with every breath you take.
When he’s standing in front of you, he finally speaks, his voice unlike you’ve ever heard it before—low, vulnerable, and with a hint of ruggedness that makes your head spin. “Have you been avoiding me?”
“No—”
“Don’t lie to me, Y/N, please.” He sounds like he’s seconds away from pleading with you. He’s never been one to hide when he’s hurt, so you’ve heard him many times like this, but never when you were the cause of his upset. It was always because of a bad grade, a fight with his parents, a joke he took the wrong way. You wouldn’t know if you ever hurt him before, because he’s never come to you about it. It feels weird knowing you’re capable of such a thing.
“I’m n—Okay, yes, I’m avoiding you a little bit,” you say in a small voice. Whether it’s the look on Jaeyun’s face or the last cocktail you had, but you can’t bring yourself to pretend.
But you belatedly realize that of course, answering this question will only bring about another, much harder to answer: “Why?”
So you make up another lie that’s about as believable as the first one. “I—I don’t know, Yunnie. I’m just trying to speak to as many people as I can.”
“But not me?”
Is he drunk? He always got whinier after drinking. That must be it. Although his voice isn’t whiny at all—he’s not complaining, he rather sounds like he has answers he wants from you and is set on getting them. But it’s the only explanation you can come up with.
You’re unable to keep his gaze anymore. Looking down at the floor, you say, “We spoke earlier. We’re speaking now.”
“Yeah, and I practically had to corner you for it.” The vulnerability has left his voice and he sounds… frustrated?
He crosses his arms over his chest, and despite yourself, your eyes follow the movement. He’s rolled up his sleeves, letting out his forearms on full display for you. That’s an image you immediately need out of your head, so you make the mistake of looking up at his face again, only to be met with his jaw locked tight, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, and the intensity of his eyes staring right into yours.
He’s allowed to be mad, but does he have to look so good doing it?
As if he wasn’t close enough already, he takes another step towards you. It forces you to look up at him, and the sight of his face so near yours is devastating. You can already tell it’ll haunt you for nights to come.
“Do I make you nervous, Y/N? Is that why you don’t want to be around me?”
You inhale sharply, audibly, and the sound seems to amuse Jaeyun. The way he smirks down at you should be condescending, but he manages to make it impossibly attractive. Like he has you exactly where he wants you—which doesn’t make any sense. You don’t understand why he’s doing this, why it’d upset him that you’d rather talk to other people than to him, how he’s figured out the reason you’re avoiding him is the butterflies gnawing at your stomach every time your gazes intertwine. He’s never done any of this before.
“No,” you find yourself saying, but it’s an obvious lie to both of you. You’re breathless uttering that one word, fingers shaking from the tension in your body and Jaeyun’s proximity.
Then he sighs, and the Jaeyun you know is returned to you. A little tired by your antics, maybe, but more worried than anything. “I’ll take you home when you’re ready to go.”
“But—”
“No buts. Just come get me when you want to leave.” And with that, he turns and heads back outside, leaving you to wonder what that was all about as you wobble your way to the bathroom.
When you come back out, you make a point of sitting in the empty lawn chair next to Jaeyun and joining the conversation he’s in. He smiles at you and you glare at him, feeling like a scolded child.
Maybe alcohol makes you a little immature.
You’re having a grand old time listening to Jeno’s and Giselle’s travel stories, but as people slowly start making their way home, aware of the weekend full of festivities they’ve got ahead of them, dread sinks in. When the party’s over, you’ll be left alone with Jaeyun. Thankfully, there’s enough alcohol left to throw another party, and you serve yourself a couple of very generous cranberry-vodkas to prepare yourself for later. Maybe if you’re passed out in Jaeyun’s car you won’t have to talk to him.
When the garden’s really starting to empty out, you find a small moment during which Jaeyun is busy chatting with Jaemin and some other guys, and stealthily approach Chaewon to tell her you’ll be on your way now.
“Aren’t you leaving with Jae—”
You interrupt her with a hand to her mouth. Even though he’s across the yard from you, you don’t want to risk it. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you whisper, then tip-toe your way around the backyard to the front of the house, where your bike waits for you. Somewhere deep in the back of your head, part of you has remained sober enough to tell you how bad an idea it is to bike home after drinking so much. You wouldn’t run into many cars at this time of night, but it’ll be dark, and the ditches are deep here.
But you couldn’t have predicted for your best friend to betray you. Just as you’re succeeding on your third try to swing your leg over your bike, you hear her voice, clear as day, shouting, “Jaeyun! Y/N’s leaving without you!”
You swear he teleports over to you. You freeze, hoping that moving as little as you can will turn you invisible.
It doesn’t work.
“What are you doing?” Jaeyun asks as he makes his way over to you. You’re relieved when he doesn’t sound annoyed, just concerned. He stands in front of you, two hands on your bike handle right next to yours. “I told you to come get me when you were ready. You can’t go home on your own like this.”
“Sure I can.” You try to hoist yourself up onto your seat, and immediately lose balance, stumbling to the side. Thankfully, Jaeyun’s hand finds your waist before you can fall—it steadies your body but not your heart.
“Come on, Y/N. Let’s get you to bed.”
Does he hear himself? He’s just being a good friend, so why does he have to phrase things in such an intimate way, and make your heart go all pitter-patter like the sixteen-year-old you once were? Why does he have to speak to you in that low, affectionate tone of his, like you’re someone he can’t help but take care of?
You take a deep breath, resigning yourself to your fate. “Okay.”
He helps you off of your bike and into his car. His hold on you is gentle but firm, and you try your very hardest not to think about whether this is how he would hold you in other situations. Before he can even turn on the ignition, you close your eyes and pretend to sleep. You hear him chuckle, then back out of Chaewon’s and Jaemin’s driveway. Once or twice, you hear him inhale as though he’s going to speak, but he seems to decide against it. A ten-minute bike ride makes for a very short car ride, and before you know it, he’s already pulling up in front of your aunt’s house. You keep your pretense up as he walks around the car and opens your door, and you’re sure you make a very convincing show of waking up and being sleepy.
As he takes your hand to help you out of the car, you ignore your instincts yelling at you to jump away from him. You tell yourself it’s only so you don't get caught in your lie that you let him slip an arm over his shoulders and guide you to your front door. It has nothing to do with the fact that your skin tingles everywhere it touches his, or that it feels terribly nice to be handled with so much care and patience. The front door is unlocked, and he holds you steady as you slip out of your shoes. Only when he closes the door behind you do you snap out of it.
“Thank you, Yun. I’ll be alright from here.”
He narrows his eyes at you. “I’m not sure you will. I don’t trust you not to trip up the stairs.”
You panic as he leads you further inside the house. “But—What if my aunt sees us?”
He stops in his tracks, then turns his head to look down at you with something you think is mischief in his eyes. “Why? What about it?”
“She might misunderstand!” you whisper-yell.
“What’s there to misunderstand, Y/N? I’ve taken you home drunk a dozen times before. Besides, I’m just Jaeyun, right? This doesn’t mean anything.” You’re left speechless. So he did hear you earlier, and although he kept his tone light-hearted, something makes you think he isn’t entirely unoffended. You stare at him, sure the guilt on your face is obvious. Eventually, he sighs, starts walking again. “I’m just teasing you.”
Despite yourself, you are glad he’s there to help you up to your bedroom—the stairs are remarkably wobbly tonight. Even though he tries to sit you down gently onto your bed, you let yourself flop on the mattress, already half-asleep the moment your back hits it. You’re uncharacteristically pliant as he guides you into a more comfortable position, lifting your head to rest on your pillows, pulling your duvet over you. You somehow feel more drunk now than you were leaving the party, as though Jaeyun’s touch and proximity are stronger than any alcohol. Maybe that’s why you suddenly find this situation hilarious. Your first chuckle makes Jaeyun’s hand freeze on your blanket; then, when giggles start pouring uncontrollably out of you, he asks you what’s so funny, and has to shush you, saying you’ll wake your aunt up. But you can tell he’s amused, and it only makes you laugh more.
“Seriously, what’s gotten into you?” he asks, sitting next to you. For some reason, the dip of his weight on the mattress feels reassuring.
“This is just nice,” you mutter, eyes still closed. “It feels nice.”
He’s silent for a few seconds. “What is?” he whispers.
“This. You being here.”
He releases a shaky breath. “It could happen more often, if you let me. It could happen every night.”
You giggle, because you know he’s just joking around. But you let him, even if it hurts a little bit, and you play along. “Yeah, that’d be nice. I think I’d sleep a lot better.”
With a delicate finger, he brushes strands of hair away from your eyes. You hum, smiling contentedly at his touch. This is such a nice dream that you hope you won’t have to wake up too soon from. “I think I would, too,” he whispers, voice shaky like he isn’t at all happy like you are, which confuses you. “I don’t know what to do, Y/N. I want so badly to take care of you, but you won’t let me. I don’t know how else to show you how good I could be to you.”
“You’re taking care of me now.”
“Yeah, and you’re so drunk you probably won’t remember this tomorrow.”
He sniffles, and you suddenly get the sensation that this isn’t a dream at all. You keep your eyes closed anyway, frowning as you turn your head to the side, tears starting to form behind your eyelids.
“Be back in a minute,” he whispers.
You open your eyes to find him gone. You try to make sense of what just happened, but your thoughts are muddled and hazy, and more questions than answers appear. You don’t come to any satisfying conclusions, at least none that aren’t clearly fueled by your delusions concerning Jaeyun.
When he comes back, he’s holding a tall glass of water. He seems briefly surprised to see you awake. He puts the glass gently down onto your bedside table, then kneels by your bed, grabbing your hand that you’d slipped above the comforter. He looks into your eyes with an intensity you’re unfamiliar with coming from him, and that makes your stomach twist. “Listen, Y/N. You’re only here for a few days, so I’ll be very clear about this. And if you’ve forgotten by tomorrow, I’ll make sure to remind you.” He pauses here, takes a deep breath. There’s a furrow in his eyebrows as he speaks. He looks desperate, but for what, you couldn’t tell. “I’m not letting you go this time. I feel like I keep losing you, over and over again, just when I think I finally have you. I’m not letting that happen again. I don’t want to be apart from you anymore.”
Your mind is reeling. You feel dizzy. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. Jaeyun’s words are loud and nonsensical in your head. “Do you mean… as friends?” you ask, because the other option seems so impossible, even in your inebriated state, you can hardly seriously entertain it.
He sighs, and it sounds like disappointment. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll give up on trying to be more. But if it isn’t what you want, then no.”
Your eyes fly open. Does that mean…
“I’m in love with you, Y/N. I’ve always been, and I can’t take hiding it anymore. I’ll take rejection over another day of pretending all I want to be is your friend. I want to talk to you everyday. I want to see you more often. I can’t keep going like this, calling you once every few months and acting like I’m fine with it.”
You’re stunned into silence. Even your thoughts are frozen, your mind completely blank. How do you react to words you’ve wanted to hear your whole life, and have convinced yourself you never would, not in a million years?
“I—”
“You don’t have to say anything now,” he interrupts, and you’re relieved. “Whatever it is, I’d rather hear it when you’re sober. I’m sorry for springing this up on you, I just… I think I would’ve flaked out if I hadn’t done it right now.”
He gazes down at you with a fondness you’ve only seen in your dreams, and strokes your hair. “I’ll let you sleep now. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay,” you say, surprised you're able to speak.
“Okay.”
He seems to hesitate for a second, but whatever it is, he decides against it. He gets up, and with one final glance back at you, closes your bedroom door gently. You listen for his footsteps down the stairs, the sound of the front door, and of his car driving away, and find yourself wishing he’d stayed, wishing for proof that you didn’t dream up everything he just said.
.
.
I’m in love with you, Y/N.
You wake with a start. Jaeyun’s voice was so loud in your head, you thought he was standing right over you—but it’s only your imagination playing tricks on you, you realize with some disappointment.
Some moments from last night are blurry or simply inexistent in your mind. Yurim sent selfies a bunch of you took to the group chat, of which you have no recollection being a part of. You have no idea how the marker doodles appeared on your arm, nor who is the artist behind them. But Jaeyun’s words you remember with dizzying, intimidating clarity, the words he spoke to you in the near-complete darkness of this room, and that you don’t think you could ever forget, no matter your state.
Part of you has always longed to hear those words, but another part has always dreaded they would be heard one day. You don’t know which part is stronger right now. Replaying his voice in your mind, your heart flutters at the same time as your stomach sinks. They’re words that have the power to change everything, that perhaps already have, and that’s what terrifies you.
It’s already ten in the morning. You wish you could stay here all day, safe under the covers, rehashing those words until they lose all meaning, but you know that’s impossible. Not only do you have a pounding headache and a mouth drier than the desert to tend to, more importantly, you have a responsibility to be there for Chaewon and the things she’s planned for today. So you force yourself out of bed and begrudgingly make your way downstairs.
Your aunt has already left for work. Breakfast is ready on the dining table, along with a tall glass of water, ibuprofen, and a note that reads: I didn’t hear you come home last night, so I assume you had a good time. Take this and eat your weight in bread. There’s coffee left in the Keurig. Bless her. You know better than to eat too much, though—if there’s one thing Chaewon takes seriously, it’s brunch, so you know you’ll have plenty of food to cure your hangover in just a bit.
As hard as you try to divert your thoughts towards anything else, it’s impossible not to think of what Jaeyun said last night. It’s all your mind circles back to, like a vulture that’s found its prey and won’t let go. Despite that, the shock has yet to wear off, and you stare into your cup of coffee, searching in vain for answers there.
It took you a while to fall for Jaeyun, then it took you even longer to admit those feelings to yourself. At fourteen years old, stepping foot in Gimcheon for the first time, you wanted nothing to do with the people here. Not with your aunt, not with your classmates. You wanted to wallow in your grief, for the bitterness of the injustice that’d taken your parents away from you to fully take over you.
Jaeyun was one of the people who didn’t let that happen. Some of the kids in your class found you odd or standoffish, often whispering behind your back about your sudden arrival in town, but he and Chaewon never failed to try and talk to you despite your extremely low-effort replies, to invite you out for snacks or basketball after class, to send you the lessons you missed on days your body felt too heavy to get out of bed.
Nothing in particular happened for you to suddenly change your mind about them. Maybe it was because you thought they’d stop pestering you if you just said yes, or because you sometimes felt the sharp loss of your friends in Seoul, whose calls you’d all ignored since moving. You surprised your new classmates as much as yourself when they asked you if you wanted to go eat tteokbokki with them, and you casually said, “Sure, why not,” as if your acceptance was a daily occurrence.
The rest was history. Although it took some more time before you really opened up to them, they accepted you the way you were, sharp edges and all. With them, part of the person you were before could resurface, carefree, happy. You still went home to a mostly silent, grief-stricken relative, who was practically a stranger to you, but at least you could look forward to seeing your friends—and something as simple as that made life easier every day.
As soon as you thought they started to appear, you tried to squash your feelings for Jaeyun, to no avail. Just when you told yourself you could never be more than friends, he’d bring you strawberry milk from the convenience store he walks by on his way to school. After spending an evening making a list of all the reasons it’d be a bad idea for you to date (it’d be awkward with your friends, you and your sadness would be a burden to him, it was too scary to get close to someone when they could leave you at any time), you’d wake up the next morning with a text that said, Good morning!!!! Did you know that if the Sun stopped shining, it’d take 8.5 minutes for us to realize it??!
But I know right away when you’re not shining
:)
Mom’s making your favorite shrimp jeon tonight so you HAVE to come over
And even your strongest will wasn’t enough against the force of his kindness. You were forced to submit to it, and to suffer for it for years to come—when other girls offered him chocolate on Valentine’s Day. When Bae Sumin asked him to the dance, and you had to ignore his concerned expression as he repeatedly asked you if it was really okay that he went, and all you could do was smile and convince him that it was. When you left for university and you had to stop yourself from asking why it seemed to be making him so sad, so uncharacteristically upset with you, almost like he wanted to punish you for leaving him. When every time you came back after that, it became harder and harder to say goodbye to him again.
You got mad at him sometimes. If something unexpected reminded you of your parents, like your mom’s favorite dish being served at the cafeteria, or someone using an expression your dad often said, you’d become irritable, and would be unable or unwilling to explain why. He was so patient with you then, even more attentive to your mood than usual, but the feeling of being treated kindly, like he needed to walk on eggshells around you, incomprehensibly made you even more abrasive. You’d blow up at him: I don’t need your help, I don’t need your pity, get off my back, what are you even being so nice for anyways?
And his reply would only drive you further insane: Because I care about you.
You’d always wish he’d say anything else, something less vague like Because it’s the right thing to do, or Because that’s who I am, or even Because you’re my friend, but no, he’d say, “Because I care about you,” and it was worse than anything he could ever say.
Because of course, friends care about each other. Of course they help each other out and do kind things for one another. But you so desperately wished Jaeyun could care for you in another way. And that was the problem: you couldn’t stop yourself reading into his actions, devoid of the meaning you wanted them to have.
And there was always that lingering thought: I’m leaving anyway. You were a city girl at heart. You missed the beauty stores that occupied five floors, the animal cafés you and your friends had spent way too much of your allowance at, the billboards of your favorite celebrities in the subway, the libraries with their wide range of manhwas for you to choose from. As much as you’d come to love your life in Gimcheon, you knew you couldn’t stay. You knew you couldn’t live on a nearby campus during the week and come back on the weekends like most of your friends would be doing.
At eighteen years old, you wanted a clean break. You wanted to attend a prestigious university, to dress up for class, to have study dates at a cozy café, to go out to a club on the weekend and not worry about how you’d get home because the buses stopped running way before midnight. You’d daydream about the cool job you’d have, the cool clothes you’d wear, the cool people you’d meet. Then you’d go downstairs and see your aunt, and she’d ask if you were okay with frozen dumplings for a third night in a row. Or you’d arrive at school and see Chaewon and Yunjin shrieking over Got7’s new song. Or you’d get a text from Jaeyun, saying, Cats use physics to land on their feet. They’re not aware of it though. And suddenly, the idea of a clean break became much, much harder.
Once you left, your reasons for not confessing to Jaeyun didn’t change—if anything, they strengthened. Growing up didn’t make you any less scared of opening up to someone, of letting them see the vulnerable sides of you, and hoping they’d still love you. Even if you had a positive example in Chaewon and Jaeyun, you’d never experienced it with a romantic partner, and not only did your incessant but unconscious comparing of them to Jaeyun stop you from completely falling in love with the few boyfriends you’ve had over the years, your inability to fully bare yourself emotionally to them inevitably caught up to you. They’d point it out, trying to coax your story and emotions out of you with kind words, gentle touches—but you never wanted it enough to make the extra effort. They’d take your independence as a personal affront, like it was a fault on their part that you were allergic to relying on others. They’d get frustrated. Some of them would yell at you while you stared off into the distance, numb, wondering if you’d always be like this. They’d break up with you, and you’d move on like nothing happened.
The fear of loss still froze your heart into place. Even in the throes of puberty, your mother and father were your two favorite people on Earth. At thirteen, you thought they’d live forever. You were reasonable enough to know not everyone you loved would die—although the thought of going through that grief again did keep you up at night. A bad break-up was enough to terrify you. And what would you do when you finally handed your heart to someone, only for them to turn around and decide they don’t want it after all?
A handful of times, you tried to sit yourself down and imagine, as objectively as you could, what might happen if you confessed your feelings to Jaeyun. You tried, but you never could. It was too scary, with him. As your friend, he was the glue that held you together. If you took that one step closer, you’d be too far gone—and once that happened, who was to say, when it inevitably ended, if you’d ever be able to tape yourself back together.
You’ve had many self-indulgent thoughts over the years, many delusions you’ve had to compel yourself away from when he looked at you a little long, grew a little too quiet when you talked about another boy, came up with increasingly ridiculous excuses to walk you home even though it was out of his way. You’ve worked so hard to bury them deep, and here he comes, so late on a Thursday night that it became a Friday morning, telling you it was neither self-indulgence nor delusion.
It’s too much to process with a hangover.
Your shower doesn’t have the relaxing effect you hoped it would have on your nerves. Even when you turn the temperature as low as you can take it, your skin burns hot at the thought of seeing Jaeyun again, of him repeating himself in broad daylight. By the time you’ve dressed and gotten ready, your heart is still racing wild, and you’re no closer to figuring out what the correct attitude around him or right thing to say is.
You’re tying your shoelaces when the doorbell rings. Of course, it’s Jaeyun standing behind the door, asking you if you’re ready to go to Chaewon’s.
You just gape at him. You’d prepared yourself mentally to see him a little later, with other people around—you hadn’t expected this and your brain simply malfunctions as a result.
He chuckles. “I wasn’t going to let you walk all the way there. You left your bike, remember?”
From his softened tone and the way he gulps as he awaits your answer, you can tell he’s not just asking whether you remember the drive home. He looks at you, a little expectant, a little scared, and his demeanor relaxes you. He’s not acting like nothing happened last night, and he doesn’t seem overly confident after—well, after confessing his love for you. That’s what it was, wasn’t it? No matter how hard a time you have believing it. It relaxes you because it feels like you’re not worrying alone about this shift in your friendship, about this rearranging of things and feelings. With just one look, he tells you he’s right there with you.
And that’s all you need.
“Right. Thanks, Yun.”
He stands there for a little, expression morphing into something giddier, more hopeful, and you wonder how long he’d stay there looking at you if you didn’t clear your throat and say, “Should we… go?”
“Yes! Yes, of course, let’s go,” he says, laughing awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head as he turns away and heads towards his car.
Surely, he can’t always have been this obvious. Surely, if he’s been in love with you for as long as he says he has, then he learned just as well as you did to school his feelings and make them as discreet as he could. Because if he was acting this way all along, all boyish grins and non-stop glances your way, then you would’ve had to be the densest person on Earth not to notice.
And it hurts your pride a little to think you might’ve actually been this dense.
After a minute on the road, he asks, “How are you feeling? Not too hungover?”
“A little. But I’ll feel a lot better after having some of Chae’s pancakes.”
“Yeah. And the pressed orange juice as well. With the—”
“—Oranges from her grandparents’ garden?” you say at the same time, and laugh.
“Yeah. It’s the best,” he says.
“What about you?” you ask. “You didn’t drink that much last night, right?”
“Yep. Just a beer at the start of the evening, and that’s it.” Then, he smiles, a little smug, and adds: “Why? Were you watching?”
You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest as though he was making a ridiculous assumption, when you very well knew you were constantly aware of his whereabouts last night. Of course you noticed him sipping on either water or Pepsi the entire evening. “I was not. But you were able to drive, so I assumed.”
“Right.” That smug smile of his is still fixed on his lips, so you know you sounded just as unconvincing as you felt. “Well, I was watching. And I can tell you you drank something like seven different sorts of alcohol last night.”
For your own sanity, you ignore the first part, and focus on the second. You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “That’s why my headache’s so bad.”
Jaeyun reacts immediately. His head turns back-and-forth between you and the road ahead as he says, “Is it? Did you drink enough water? There should be some painkillers in the glove compartment, if you—”
“It’s okay, Yun,” you interrupt, laughing softly. “I took some ibuprofen already. I’ll feel better after eating.”
He seems skeptical. “Okay. But let me know if you need anything, yeah?”
“I will.”
As you feel the tingle of incoming tears in your eyes, you turn your head away from him. Looking out the passenger window, you think how stark the difference is between being on the receiving end of Jaeyun’s attentiveness when you were just friends, and now that you know the way he really sees you. The crushing weight of your repressed emotions is, at last, gone, and you’re only left with a light-heartedness you haven’t felt in years.
Is there really a universe where every day is like this? It feels too good to be true.
But when Jaeyun reaches out, the palm of his hand facing up as it floats above your thigh, his expression bashful, you think — you dare to hope — you might soon be living in that universe. You take his hand, and the rest of the car ride is silent, like this one simple touch is all the words you need.
You’re glad you remember what he told you last night. Hearing it again now, in broad daylight, with no alcohol in your system to be blamed for your reactions, would be too much to bear. The mere thought of it has your heart racing, more than it already is from the warmth of Jaeyun’s hand in yours. You look down at it, the way it sits so prettily in your lap, the way his fingers intertwine with yours like it’s what they were meant to do. You crave to touch his hand more, to turn it around and analyze the lines of his palm, to feel the ridges of his knuckles, the smoothness of his nails under your fingers, but you stop yourself. It’s an art piece in a museum that you content yourself with watching from afar, awed.
Too soon, you arrive at Chaewon’s house. The loss of Jaeyun’s touch is almost alarming—what if he changes his mind and this was the only time you’d get to do this?
But as though he can read your thoughts, he guides you with a hand to your lower back towards Chaewon’s and Jaemin’s front door—and he pauses before it, gazing down at you with a smile you want to interpret as reassuring.
I’m not letting you go this time. I’m not letting that happen.
Maybe you’re overly self-conscious, but you swear a few of your old classmates exchange knowing looks when you and Jaeyun arrive together. Chaewon is the least discreet about it, stopping in her tracks when she sees the two of you, a steaming plate of pancakes in her hands, her smile wide as she gets Jaemin’s attention and nods her head in your direction. You want to escape to the kitchen under the pretense of offering your help, but Jaeyun is already pulling out a chair for you and taking a seat in the one next to it.
Thankfully, almost everyone is in a state similar to yours, too hungover and tired to really pay either of you too much attention. Their minds are on the food in their plates and the coffee in their mugs—the atmosphere is relaxed, everyone making quiet conversation with their neighbors. With Chaewon on your right and Jaeyun on your left, you’re free to scarf down hash browns and scrambled eggs without having to entertain anyone. He seems to be pretty engrossed in his chat about soccer with Jeno, and yet, he knows every time you need something, standing up and reaching for the bacon or the orange juice before you’ve even said anything. He holds the plate while you serve yourself, then places it back to its original spot, shooting you a smile that never fails to make your stomach twist before returning his attention to Jeno.
Chaewon had kept this afternoon’s activities a secret, only telling you all to have your school uniform ready. Some came to brunch already wearing it, but you and a few other girls go up to Chaewon’s room to change. It feels like being back in a locker room again, a bit awkward, a bit fun, teasing Yunjin for her matching black lace set on this seemingly innocuous day, comparing the stretch marks you’ve obtained in the years since you last wore your uniforms.
It’s definitely odd, seeing yourself in the mirror in that familiar short-sleeved white shirt and knee-length marine skirt. Despite how badly you wanted to grow out of Gimcheon, some things have remained the same—that much, you’re forced to admit to yourself when you head back to the living room and see Jaeyun in his old school uniform, a blast from the past. He watches you come down the stairs with a smile, and you wonder if he’s thinking the same things you are—that you’ve never stopped feeling like a teenager around him, and that no matter where you were in life, seeing him was enough to make your dull heart race.
His uniform still fits him okay, although it’s impossible not to notice how his arms and thighs strain against the fabric now, sleeves not quite reaching his wrists. Try hard as you might, your eyes drift to the way his button-up clings to his chest, and it’s clear he isn’t oblivious to it. You swallow as you walk towards him, hands coming up to fix his tie like it’s second nature. “Seriously, Yun,” you mutter. “It was cute when you were seventeen, but at twenty-eight, really?”
He only smirks down at you, making you more flustered than you already were—and it doesn’t help when everyone in the room ooh’s at your gesture. You take a step back, but the damage has been done. It’s like you’re in high school again, rolling your eyes at your friends when they ask if you and Jaeyun are finally dating, pretending like the mere thought doesn’t have butterflies erupting in your stomach.
“I remember how Y/N used to fix his tie in front of the school gates every morning,” Chaewon says loudly, and you glare at her. “She said she didn’t want him to get scolded by teachers.” Everyone erupts in a chorus of so cute and I can’t believe they’re still not together and I’m sure they used to have a crush on each other. She looks happy with herself, blissfully unaware of the chaos she’s created for you—it’s been hard enough acting normally around Jaeyun this morning, you don’t need the added spotlight.
He doesn’t seem to share that sentiment, though. When he speaks, his voice cuts through the chatter. “My dad taught me how to tie a tie before middle school. But I was running late once and she fixed it for me. I always messed it up on purpose after that.” He turns to you. Your jaw is slack, your heart a wild, frantic mess. “Guess that trick still works.”
This really is high school all over again. Your classmates act like they’ve witnessed the revelation of the century, cheering and clapping, the boys clasping Jaeyun’s shoulder like he just scored the winning goal. Chaewon squeals. Yunjin pretends to faint. You’re rooted to your spot, too bewildered to react.
“So you really did like her back then, didn’t you?” Jeno asks, and everyone stops talking, awaiting Jaeyun’s answer with what seems like bated breath—you included, as though he didn’t tell you all about it last night.
He shrugs, but his grin, sheepish and bright at once, says it all. “I’ll let you guys come to your own conclusions.” When he turns to look at you, despite the fact that you want to strangle him for putting you on the spot like this, you can’t deny that his confession is a little bit — just a little bit — adorable. You think of fifteen-year-old Jaeyun looking at himself in the mirror, proud of himself for putting on his tie wrong, and you can’t help but smile. Of course, this only makes your friends crazier, but Jaeyun, as if he’s suddenly decided this was enough attention, says, “Is everyone ready? Let’s head out now.”
Chaewon instructs you all to meet in your high school parking lot. On the drive over, Jaeyun apologizes, asking if what he did was too much.
“It’s okay,” you tell him. “Even if I was a little embarrassed.”
“I wasn’t planning on doing anything like it, but seeing you in your uniform brought back memories, I guess,” he says, bashful. “I did say I would remind you of what I told you last night, didn’t I?”
You shrug, smile down at your hands. “You did. But it’s not like I’d forgotten.”
He doesn’t answer right away—but then, he suddenly looks over at you, and says, “You’re really pretty.”
Your stomach flips. You look down at yourself to avoid his gaze as heat creeps up your face. “What are you saying…” you mutter.
“I never told you properly when we were in high school. So I’m telling you now. I always thought you were the prettiest, Y/N.”
You fight it hard, but you can’t bite back your smile. All you can do is hide your grin behind your fist, resting your elbow on the sill of the open window as you turn away from him. For only a brief second, as if spurred on by the confidence his compliment gave you, you change your mind—you turn to him and abruptly say, “And I always thought you were the most handsome.” Then you whip back to the window and grin at the trees lining the road. But you feel his eyes on you, and when you look back at him, he’s staring at you, mouth agape. “Yun! Look at the road!” you chide, laughing.
“Sorry, sorry!” he exclaims, taking his eyes off you. “But—You—Seriously?”
You can’t believe it, how incredulous he sounds, how he seems as surprised as you felt last night. As you still feel now. “Of course,” you say quietly, feeling shy again.
He’s quiet for a few seconds. Then, “Seriously?!” he repeats, louder, almost yelling.
“Relax,” you say, laughing at his enthusiasm. “It’s not like I was the only one. Half the girls in our class had a crush on you.”
“Did they?” he asks, a shit-eating grin on his lips. You roll your eyes.
“You only received love letters, like, once a month.”
“But never from the person I wanted to receive one from.”
You hold his gaze for a second. Then another, and another—but you can’t handle more than that. The way he looks at you, you feel too seen. Like he can read your every thought, like he can see your heart beating through your chest, your breath making its shaky way up your throat. It makes you too vulnerable, makes your desire to soak in his affection, to let him keep talking to you like this, too strong. It’s a feeling too unfamiliar for you to accept yet.
You return to your spot, turned away from him, elbow on the windowsill. “Whatever,” you mumble.
But it seems like you admitting to having found him handsome when you were teenagers is all the confirmation he needs. Throughout the rest of the afternoon, he sticks close to your side. Since school is out for the summer, Chaewon asked Yunjin to convince her higher-ups to let your group have a ten-year high school reunion there. They agreed and got one of the janitors to act as your supervisor, as if you would damage or steal school property. In any case, he follows you around quietly while you and your classmates roam the old, familiar walls, reminiscing about all the stupid things you did, the gossip that felt like the most important thing in your lives at the time, the teachers you hated, the upperclassmen you crushed on. Mostly, you take loads and loads of pictures, reenacting memories, huddling together in front of the classroom door of your final year. Jaeyun always finds himself right behind you in the group pictures, his taller frame so close to yours you can feel his warmth.
He rests his hand on your shoulder for one of the photos, and your brain short-circuits at a touch that you wouldn’t have thought about twice as a teenager. Sure, back then, Jaeyun’s touch made you feel giddy, but it was also the most natural thing in the world. Linking arms on the way home from school. Your head on his shoulder during a long bus ride. His fingers in your hair when you let him play around with it. He always said it was practice for his future daughter: “I want her to have the prettiest hairstyles in all of her school,” he’d say, as if she was already here. And you’d think to yourself, He’ll make such a great dad. And although he was someone you could tell anything to, for reasons you didn’t like to think too much about at that time, this was something you kept to yourself. Now, you can hardly breathe from a hand on your shoulder. But now, you can also finally admit to yourself why that is.
And with every passing moment, every smile shared, every delicate touch of his hand to your arm, of your fingers brushing against each other, you think that maybe, just maybe, you might finally be able to admit to him why that is.
A while later, when everyone parts ways, heading home to get a few hours of rest before the big day tomorrow, Jaeyun asks you if you can hang back for a bit. He’s so cute about it, so much like a schoolboy asking his crush out, that you can’t turn him down despite the sleep you desperately need.
The soccer field by your school is surprisingly unoccupied—even at this time of year, when the school hallways are empty, there are usually teenagers playing here. You yourself used to spend entire afternoons here, chatting with Chaewon while the boys played soccer under the blazing sun. You remember pretending you weren’t engrossed in the sweat beading on Jake’s forehead or the way his cheeks turned crimson with the effort, and cheering for him whenever he scored a goal and turned towards you, yelling out “Did you see that?!” with that puppyish grin on his lips.
You remember the nights you spent here as well, the last summer before you left, when you and your friends wanted to drink without the adults seeing. You’d lay side-by-side, looking up at the stars as you shared your dreams and fears for the future. If Jaeyun’s hand brushed against yours, you’d wait a few seconds, then move your hand to rest on your chest instead. You always wondered if he noticed it, the small touch, its removal. You know your hand burned with both.
He leads you to the soccer field now, his hand warm and gentle in yours, like he’s scared holding on too tight will scare you off. He’s silent for a while, quietly bringing you down with him until you’re laying on the grass together—this time, you keep his hand preciously in yours, even as your palms turn clammy, even as the memories of being here like this flood in.
The summer breeze has nearly lulled you to sleep when he speaks, his voice soft, careful not to startle you. “I hated the last day of school.”
You turn your head to look at him, but he keeps his eyes trained on the blue sky above. “Of course you did. You were such a nerd, you would’ve stayed in school forever if you could’ve.”
He smiles, but he shakes his head. “No, that’s not it.” His tone is calm, full of significance, which you feel even more when he rests his steady gaze on yours. “It meant time was running out. It meant I’d spent five years liking you and still hadn’t had the balls to tell you.”
You gulp. You’re suddenly not in the mood to tease him at all. “Oh,” is all you can manage to say.
He laughs—clearly, seeing you flustered is amusing to him. “Yeah.” He props himself up on his elbow, gazing down at you in a way that sends your heart into a frenzy. “I got a little carried away last night,” he starts. “When Chaewon told me about her plans to dress in our school clothes and come here — yes, she told me before everyone else, don’t look at me like that — I’d planned to tell you today, I had a whole thing written out, but last night, you… I don’t know, you were drunk so maybe I shouldn’t have put so much weight to your words, but it sounded like you might like me back? And I couldn’t stop myself. I had to tell you immediately. And today… I’m not mistaken, right? You do like me?”
Tears prickle at your eyes. To think that this has been on his mind for so long, that you’re the reason behind the worried look on his face, that he’s the one asking for your confirmation—you can hardly make sense of it all. If only you’d looked closer, if you’d been less scared, you might’ve been wearing this exact same outfit, laying in this exact same place, ten years earlier. This isn’t to say that you aren’t scared anymore—you’re terrified out of your wits. But looking into Jaeyun’s face, you don’t need to search very long to find reassurance.
“I do, Yun. I really, really do.”
He only stares back at you for a few beats, as if waiting for you to change your mind, to tell him you’re joking. When you don’t, his mouth breaks into a wide, radiant smile, and he lets himself fall on his back, hands coming up to hide his face.
Suddenly, you realize how real this is. How genuine Jaeyun is. It isn’t a cruel prank he’s decided to play on you, but the truth of what he feels for you. For what must be the first time since last night, you let yourself react the way any sane person would upon finding out the person they’ve loved for years loves them back: you’re happy. Unbelievably, indescribably happy. And it’s terrifying when you know this happiness might be ripped from your hands at any moment—but you’ll worry about that later. Right now, all you see is the man laying next to you, his smile full of light, his sweet, glimmering eyes. A small tear escapes your eye at the same time as a chuckle leaves your throat.
He returns to his previous position, grinning down at you while he rests his upper body on his elbow. “Okay, this is totally cool. I’m not freaking out at all,” he says, making you laugh. His smile widens. He picks a daisy from the ground, reaches for your hand. Tying the stem around your ring finger, he says, “I wanted to tell you this today, in our school uniforms, as a way to get justice for my teenager self. I know it’s silly, but I feel like I’m only able to do this because he liked you so much.”
But it isn’t silly at all. It’s the nicest, most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you.
He takes a deep breath, looks up from where your hand rests in his, to your eyes. “I love you, Y/N. I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you. And I can’t explain to you how happy I am that I still have a chance after all this time.”
It’s not a singular tear rolling down your face anymore, it’s the whole waterworks threatening to explode the longer Jaeyun looks at you with those eyes, so tender and full of affection. You roll onto your side, resting your forehead against his shoulder so he can’t see your face—it’s enough that he can hear your sniffling, that he can feel your shoulders shake against him, especially as he wraps an arm around your waist to bring you closer. Your feelings overwhelm you—you want to cry, to laugh, to hold him as tight as you can, to run away and stop him from witnessing how vulnerable he makes you. With his free hand, he pets your hair, saying he hopes these are happy tears.
“They’re very, very happy tears,” you reply between sobs. You probably sound ridiculous, but Jaeyun doesn’t seem to mind, holding you through it all.
“Good,” he whispers.
It’s a shame that it took you this long to realize you forgot something you shouldn’t ever have—that people are the most important. Not relying on the ones you love doesn’t make you strong, it makes you a fool.
Jaeyun’s presence is reassuring, familiar, and you picture a life in which you lean on his shoulder and cry when you need to. In which you hold him tight and share every moment with him, not just the happy ones. It sounds so much better than what you’ve been doing for the past ten years. He smiles at you, and you’re flooded with the relief and gratitude that this is the life he wants, too.
For a while, he just holds you, the sun shining down on your bodies. This is what you were so fearful of—Jaeyun’s familiar scent enveloping you, his hand rubbing reassuring circles against your back, his hair soft in your hands. Eventually, he says, voice just loud enough for you to hear, “Later, will you talk to me? Will you tell me why you drifted from me?”
There’s no anger in his tone, no admonition. Guilt still pangs in your stomach, but that’s only because you know how badly he deserves an explanation, and because you’re amazed that even now, he’s so patient and understanding with you. “I will,” you reply.
You don’t know how long you stay there, laughing at Jaeyun’s anecdotes of all the ways he tried to show you he liked you. All the times he ran home in the rain because you didn’t bring an umbrella, all the fish cakes he sacrificed because they were your favorite part of tteokbokki, all the pocket money he spent on your favorite snacks.
“I thought about you so often once you left,” he says. “I worried so much. If you were eating well, if you were making new friends at university. Then if your job was treating you well. I wanted to call you all the time, but I didn’t want to annoy you. I thought you were moving on, and that maybe I should too. But I never was able to.”
You’re a little bashful as you tell him that you never did, either. “I compared all the guys I dated to you. And they were never as nice, as thoughtful, as—”
“As handsome, as smart, as amazing as me, I get it, don’t worry,” he teases, and you swat his shoulder lightly.
“Obviously, but you don’t need to be so smug about it.”
“If you’re going to tell me none of your little boyfriends measured up to me, of course I’m going to be smug about it, are you kidding me? This is the best news I’ve received in my life.”
You only realize how long you’ve been lying there when your phone dings with a text from your aunt, asking whether you’ll be home for dinner. It’s almost seven p.m. already—the two of you spent three hours, just talking and laughing. He pouts a little when you tell him you should head home, but he obliges anyway.
When he drops you off at your aunt’s house, he comes out of the car with you and hugs you tightly before you head inside. “Thank you for this afternoon. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he says, lips moving against your hair.
You nod and, with a quick peck to his cheek, you bolt for your front door before he can react and try to do something crazy, like properly kiss you.
“Wait, before you go,” he says as you grab the door handle. Turning around to look at him, breath catches, thinking he’s going to tell you something important, yet another thing that will change your life—“Can you tell me about those lame dudes you dated again?”
You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Goodbye, Jaeyun.”
“You love me!”
You smile at him, wide and unabashed.
Because you do love him. You really, really do.
.
.
You plop yourself on the couch next to your aunt, the latest Drag Race season playing on the TV. She hands you the bag of caramel popcorn and you grab a handful.
“I heard a car,” she says. “Did Jaeyun drop you off? Is that why you’re smiling so much?”
You only now notice the ache in your cheeks. “I’m not smiling that much,” you say, forcing your features into humorlessness, but the corners of your lips keep rising of their own volition.
“You’re smiling a lot. More than you already usually do with him,” she says, giving you a knowing look.
You gape at her. “Don’t tell me you knew too?”
“Knew what? That you and Jaeyun have liked each other since you were teenagers? I might’ve had an inkling, yeah.”
Her grin is wicked as you bury your face in your hands, groaning. “So it really was everyone but him and me.”
“I think you knew,” she says, her tone gentle. “But you didn’t want to admit it to yourself. Especially in the last few months before you left, you’d always get a look about your face when I mentioned him. You never wanted to say you were sad to be leaving, but it was clear you were, if only because of him.”
You frown. “I was sad to leave you, too. And Chaewon, and Yunjin. And Mrs. Kim, because I knew I wouldn’t find better tteokbokki anywhere else.”
She shrugs. “Sure. But you were sad to leave Jaeyun in particular.”
You fidget with your hands, letting her words sink in. “And I have to leave him again in two days,” you whisper.
She wraps an arm around your shoulder, squeezes it slightly. “But it’ll be different this time around, right?”
DIfferent. You’ll call. You’ll make plans for him to come. You’ll let him into your life, into your heart. You’ll let him break down your walls, brick by brick.
“Yeah. It will,” you say quietly, willing your worries to dissipate.
You meet her gaze, and she smiles. Jaeyun is only one of the many people you’ve kept at bay for too long now.
“Come on,” she says, getting up from the couch. “I’m making meatball pasta, your favorite.”
“It’s your favorite.”
It was one of the few meals she made on rotation whenever she had time to cook—it is your favorite, only because eating it meant you were spending the evening together. You cut vegetables while she seasons the meat, telling each other about your day. Maybe it’s because you’re in such a wonderful mood from your afternoon with Jaeyun, but the atmosphere between the two of you feels particularly light-hearted today, which is why you’re so surprised when she suddenly tells you you should talk about “what happened last time.” Your stomach clenches, but you nod—you knew it was going to happen sooner or later, so you might as well get over it quickly, and she seems to be of the same opinion.
“I know we’re both bad at this, so I’ll keep it short,” she starts, keeping her eyes on the preparation. You really are cut from the same cloth—you continue chopping carrots, glad to have something to do with your hands. “I’m sorry about those things I said. It was an emotional time for both of us, what with Jaeyun’s grandmother and all, but I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the best of me. It’s my fault we never talked about your parents. About your mom. I know you would’ve liked to, but I never could. And you do remind me of her. Gosh, you look so much like her at your age. But you can’t do anything about that, and what I said about looking at you and seeing her, that wasn’t fair. It sounded like I blamed you, which is the last thing I wanted to do.
“She always took care of me, because she was older than me by so many years, you know. She called herself my second mom. And all of a sudden, it felt like I had to take care of her. It’s ironic, since my literal job is to take care of people, but I didn’t know how to, with you.”
“I didn’t make it easy. I barely talked to you,” you say quietly. It’s true that you can’t expect the same maturity from a teenager and a young adult, but thinking back on it, you can’t help but think you could’ve been softer on your aunt. More understanding. You wanted her to replace your parents while resenting her for it. You made no effort at communication yet pushed her away every time she made an attempt to talk to you.
“You were so young, and dealing with all that loss. I should’ve tried harder, but you seemed so independent, spending all that time with your friends, making yourself dinner when I wasn’t home. It felt like you didn’t need me, and I have to admit, I was relieved. I was hanging on by a thread. I didn’t know how I could take care of a whole other human being.”
Your breathing is shallow. You spent so many years struggling, each of you in your little corner, at arm’s length from each other but too scared to reach out a hand.
“It felt like you didn’t want me around,” you whisper, head hanging low.
“Oh, honey.” She drops her spoon and in a second has you wrapped in her arms, the tightest hug she’s ever given you, tighter than when you first arrived at her house, tighter than when you first left. “I’m so, so sorry. I was so glad to have you here. Sure, it was a reminder that I’d lost my sister, but you were a reason to keep going. I had to go to work so you could eat. I had to stay healthy enough to work. You were the only person on this planet that needed me. I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job of it, and that I didn’t show you how much I needed you. How much I love you. But I promise that I never, ever wished you weren’t with me.”
It’s impossible to keep the tears at bay at this point. Tears start pouring down your face, and at the sight, her own tears quickly follow suit—you sob in each other's arms, apologizing over and over again, and by the time you’re done, the meatballs are overcooked and yet the best you’ve ever had.
Between Jaeyun this afternoon, and your aunt this evening, today has been a whirlwind of emotions—with Chaewon’s wedding tomorrow, you’ll probably be drained on your flight back to the city. You have half a mind to take Monday off, just so you can rest from your holiday.
For now, you’ll rest from today. You’re exhausted, but it takes a while for sleep to claim you—your mind is reeling, replaying Jaeyun’s words, the unspoken promises they contain. Your heart is still swelling with hope when you finally fall asleep.
.
.
It takes a few seconds for yesterday’s events to come back to you after you wake up. It feels like reliving them all over again—Jaeyun’s face next to yours on the soccer field, his hand in yours on the drive home, the conversation with your aunt that feels like one of many steps towards the right direction. And to think you dreaded this weekend for months before coming here.
When Jaeyun pulls up in front of your aunt’s house, she’s quicker than either of you, opening the door before he’s even reached it and inviting him in for coffee. You make a quick mental note of his outfit, a matching dark green suit and vest with a white button-up that fit him a little too well, the veins that run along his forearms down to his hands prominent and a debilitating sight if you’ve ever seen one. Out of concern for your well-being you put that image immediately out of your head—you really don’t need to know how attractive Jaeyun’s hands are.
While you’re trying to gather yourself, with a wide smile, your aunt stares at him sipping his drink, eyes darting around the room awkwardly. He’s always been a little nervous around her, which confused you back then, but endears you now—before every party he picked you up for, he’d be overly polite, assuring her he’d get you home early and safe, standing with his back straight in your hallway as he waited for you like someone trying to impress their girlfriend’s father. She’d wave him off, telling you you could come home shit-faced at three a.m. as long as you were with “this guy.”
It’s so obvious that she’s over-the-moon about him being her nephew-in-law. When he clears his throat, saying, “I’ll take good care of Y/N, I hope you can trust me,” like this is the seventies and he needs to ask her for your hand, she laughs in his face.
“Oh, I’m not worried about you. It’s her I’m worried about.”
“Auntie?”
She ignores you, slides her elbows on the table towards Jaeyun in a conspiratorial manner. “Listen. She can be very grumpy in the morning—”
“Auntie?!”
“And she overthinks everything, even if she’ll never let you know about it. She gets all these crazy ideas about people in her head, so just make sure to talk to her a lot so you know what’s going on up there. Even if you have to force her.”
You’re glaring at her by the time she’s done, but Jaeyun’s delighted. “Thank you for the advice. I’ll make sure to remember it.”
“Good. Now, off you two go. I’ll meet you tonight for the party,” she says with one last wink at you, unfazed by your I-will-murder-you expression as she gets up to put the empty mugs in the sink.
In the car, Jaeyun breaks the silence first. “So, grumpy in the morning, huh?”
“Oh my God,” you mutter, bringing a hand to your temple like your head aches. “I liked it better when you were terrified of her.”
Jaeyun laughs, reaching for your hand and resting it on your lap. “It’s okay. I’ll cheer you up every morning like my life depends on it.” You purse your lips to stop them from curving into a smile. It doesn’t work. “Plus, I can’t imagine you’d be grumpy waking up to this,” he says, pointing to his face.
You roll your eyes. “Don’t be so sure of yourself,” you say as though you don’t agree with him—seeing him first thing in the morning would surely do wonders for your mood, not just when you wake up, but for the entire day.
You know he’s only teasing you, but you have an unexpected problem to deal with now: thoughts of waking up to Sim Jaeyun, thoughts of being in a bed with Sim Jaeyun, thoughts of what usually happens when two people who love each other share a bed. You gulp. When you look over at him, there’s only a serene smile on his lips. One day in, and you’re already getting carried away. He’s probably not even thinking about such things, and you feel guilty about the dull ache in your stomach created by the pictures that your brain is conjuring.
When you arrive at the town hall, you’re greeted by your old friends, standing on the steps in their best clothes. The weather is perfect, the sun shining down warmly but a small breeze stops you from sweating your clothes off. Chaewon and Jaemin decided against staying cooped up in a small room before the ceremony—they thought it’d be much nicer to be there to greet their guests, and that getting to be around each other would prevent any last-minute nerves.
A little before eleven, Chaewon’s sister and Jaemin’s siblings, as the bridesmaids and groomsmen, start ushering everyone in. Once you’re seated inside and waiting for the ceremony to start, Jaeyun leans down towards you, and, quietly enough so only you hear him, whispers, “Should we hijack their wedding? They haven’t been waiting as long as I have.”
You gasp at his words, lightly swatting his chest while he only grins at you, clearly satisfied with your reaction.
“I’m just kidding,” he says. “This isn’t how I’m planning on proposing.”
“Planning on—Sim Jaeyun, be serious for a second.”
“What?” he asks, feigning an innocent tone even as mischief stays written on his features. “I’m very serious about propo—”
Who knows how his sentence ends, because his words are muffled by the hand you put over his mouth.
The ceremony is beautiful, presided over by Chaewon’s dad, who says that in all his years as mayor of Gimcheon, there isn’t a marriage he’s been happier to officiate than today’s. As Chaewon recites her vows, all you can see is your best friend at fifteen, crying because her favorite idol was embroiled in a dating scandal; at seventeen, making vision boards out of her mom’s old wedding magazines; at twenty-two, giggling on the phone because, “Did you know Na Jaemin has had a serious glow-up since high school?”
At twenty-five, telling you she hopes you’ll find the person who makes you as happy as Jaemin makes her.
Jaeyun’s hand stays in yours the entire time. You feel him glancing over you a few times, but you’re too scared that if you meet his eyes, you’ll break down crying, and you’ve done enough of that to last you a few weeks.
There are many pictures to be taken outside of the town hall, plus the bouquet toss — when Giselle catches it, Jeno’s face turns crimson — so it’s a while before you can all start heading to the cottage that Chaewon’s and Jaemin’s family have rented out for the occasion, for extended family and friends who couldn’t be lodged at someone’s house to stay in. For lunch, the caterer has prepared a large cold buffet with everything from thin slices of meat to charcuterie boards and three types of potato salad.
It’s a really idyllic place they’ve chosen, especially in the middle of July—the flowers are in full bloom, climbing cream and pink roses spilling over metal trellises, the scent of lavender bushes wafting delicately through the air. Chairs and tables covered in white drapes are neatly set around the garden and huge ribbons made of alabaster-colored gaze decorate a large oak tree.
You know from a phone call with Chaewon that as hands-on as she was with the wedding preparations, there was one thing that hadn’t been up to her to organize—the afternoon activity, between lunch with family and close friends and dinner with a larger number of guests. Jaemin’s sisters had told her they’d take care of it. “But they’re the kind of people who give people missions to do at parties,” she complained. “I once had to win at rock-paper-scissors with three total strangers.”
“But no one’s forcing you to participate,” you said.
“It was a question of pride,” she replied, firm. “I had to make a good impression.”
You can see the relief flood over Chaewon’s features when they announce that they’ve planned a scavenger hunt for this afternoon, and that those who don’t wish to partake can hang back and have a rest. The groups are assigned randomly, so you’re separated from Jaeyun, but your teammates are friendly—Jaemin’s great-aunt and Chaewon seven-year-old little cousin make for a surprisingly comedic duo, and you and Giselle, who you can confirm once and for all is much cooler than her boyfriend Jeno, spend the whole time cracking up at their antics.
Jaemin’s sisters have created a list of clues to guide you to different places around the venue, where you need to complete little tasks—each team starts out with a different clue, and is guided around by the new clues they find at each spot. In the guest book by the entrance, you each describe a memory you share with the bride or groom; by the lily pond, the four of you take a polaroid picture as a keepsake for the newlyweds; behind the bar, there’s a corkboard on which you can tack heart-shaped pieces of paper and write down your predictions for their marriage. You write down that they’ll have 3 under 3, and Chaewon’s cousin writes that they’ll get to drink milkshakes for breakfast—when you ask him what that’s about, he says that his mom said only adults are allowed milkshakes for breakfast, “and adults are usually married, so maybe that’s what they’ll do.”
You arrive in fifth place, so you only win a piece of candy each—but when you find Jaeyun again, he tells you gloatingly that he’ll share his third-place box of chocolates with you. Slowly after that, more guests start arriving, including your aunt. The main room opens up, and you see just how much effort Chaewon has put into all of this—it’s straight from her Pinterest board, with white roses in the center of every table, tulle curtains draped over the windows, and fairy lights adorning the walls. Candied almonds in small white bags, with a tag that reads C+J, rest on every plate as gifts for the guests. The cottage was the perfect choice for the reception, with its wooden panels that contrast against the cream-colored decorations. They’ve hired Beomgyu, an old high school friend of yours, as their DJ, and for now, as he’s setting up his station, a relaxed R&B playlist drifts quietly through the speakers.
You’re seated between Yunjin and Jaeyun. You mingle at first, champagne glass in hand as you catch up with Chaewon’s mom, at whose house you spent so many of your teenage hours. She has stars in her eyes, telling you how happy she is for your daughter, and when she asks whether there’s a lucky man in your life, you can’t help but glance at Jaeyun, who’s talking with Mrs. Lee, one of his old elementary school teachers, Chaewon’s colleague now. She follows your gaze and exclaims in delight. “Chaewon always said you two would end up together! Well, better late than never,” she says with a wink. Someone calls her name then, and you’re left to process her words.
Considering Yunjin and your aunt had you figured it out, it isn’t so surprising that Chaewon would’ve long been aware of your and Jaeyun’s feelings for each other—what’s taking you aback is the fact she never said anything. She teased you just as much as your classmates did, and she did ask you a couple of times if you really didn’t feel anything for him (which you always adamantly declined, and you understand now that that must’ve only made her only more suspicious of you), but she never pushed any further. Her words from a few days earlier suddenly come back to you—”I promise you someone is out there. Maybe closer than you think.”
You make a mental note to find a minute alone with her tonight, and congratulate her for being much smarter and perceptive than you ever were.
The appetizers start rolling out—Jaeyun is still so engrossed in his conversation with Mrs. Lee that you go ahead and make him a plate with a little bit of everything. When you hand it to him, he looks at you like you’ve just handed him a million bucks. After you go back to your seat, you often feel him or Mrs. Lee glancing your way, and you have an inkling of what they might be talking about.
Before the main course, the parents give their speeches together—Jaemin’s share embarrassing anecdotes of their son and thank Chaewon for taking him off their hands; Chaewon’s mom is so emotional throughout her speech that her husband has to take over her parts.
The atmosphere at your table during dinner is great, and it’s very entertaining to see the champagne start to get to everyone’s heads—you’ve only had a couple glasses, and Jaeyun is driving later, so you’re both sober watching your friends exaggerate everything they say and laugh over nothing much. When you’re done eating, his hand often finds yours underneath the table, and it never fails to make your insides feel pleasantly warm.
After dinner, the music suddenly shuts off for a few seconds, before Can’t Help Falling In Love by Elvis Presley, the song for Chaewon’s parents’ first dance at their own wedding, which she wanted to turn into a tradition. Everyone watches the couple gently swaying around the dance floor. They look at each other as though they are the only people in this entire room; on this entire planet. After a minute, other couples start joining them; when Jaeyun stands up and offers you his hand, you don’t even hesitate for a second.
You feel a little shy, standing before him and looking into his eyes, so you rest your head on his chest instead, letting him hold you close to him and guide you around the dance floor, one arm around your waist, holding your hand in his free one.
“Thank you for waiting for me,” you say, lifting your face a little so he can hear you.
He bends down towards you, his lips grazing your forehead as he speaks. “Thank you, too, angel.” The nickname is unexpected, and makes your heart skip a beat. When he presses his lips to the top of your head, you think that if this wasn’t your best friend’s wedding, you might be debating the ethics of leaving before dessert’s been served. “I promise I’ll make you happy,” he whispers.
“You already are.” You wish you could live in the way he gazes down at you, eyes warm and full of adoration. “You make me feel like a teenager. Like I’m still the sixteen-year-old who got giddy at the thought of seeing you at school every morning.”
“Is that right?” he asks, smile turning a little smug. You like nervous, bashful Jaeyun better—this Jaeyun, the intensity of his gaze as it trails down your face until it reaches your lips, the feeling of his thumb roving across your waist, makes you want to curl up and hide your face in the crook of his neck. He makes your knees weak and your breath shaky.
You stop yourself from looking away, eyes set on his as you nod your head.
“That’s funny, because I’m very aware that we’re not teenagers anymore,” he says.
You don’t ask what he means by that, and he doesn’t offer an explanation, so you’re left to ponder his words on your own—although the tone with which he spoke, teasing and enticing, can’t leave you with much room for interpretation.
But just as your eyes drift down to his lips, and you swear he leans a fraction of the way in, the song is over. You step back from him a second after every couple has separated, turning towards the newlyweds and clapping for them.
It’s back to 2010s pop after that, and he doesn’t let you go back to your seat—the rest of your friends quickly join you anyway, and even you can’t say no to jumping around and screaming the lyrics when it’s Lady Gaga and Black Eyed Peas playing. Jaeyun makes you spin around, his hands firm on your hips during more sensual songs, his worst (or best, if you ask him) moves on display whenever a song calls for it, and you can’t stop laughing.
You need a large drink of water eventually, and take the opportunity to look for Chaewon. You find her at the dessert buffet, stacking mini brownies on her plate. She looks startled when you call her name. “These aren’t all for me,” she says quickly.
“I’m not judging,” you say, smiling.
“Okay, good, ‘cause they’re definitely all for me. I barely ate all night ‘cause I was so nervous and I’m famished now.”
You laugh and get a plate, filling it with more food for her before leading her to your presently unoccupied table. “Thank you,” she says with an exaggerated sigh as she plops down on Yunjin’s chair. “I love my family, but they’ve been taking up all of my attention. I just wanna come dance with you guys.”
“We’ll join them in a bit. Can I just tell you something first?”
She tilts her head at you, her smile like she already knows what you’re about to say. “Of course. And,” she says, taking your hands in hers, “I’ve got something to ask you, too. But you go first.”
You surprise yourself with how easily the words come to you—no hesitation over how to phrase it, no nervousness. They feel so natural, rolling off your tongue. “Me and Jaeyun are together.”
She squeals, immediately throwing her arms around you. “I knew it! Finally! It took you guys so long, I was so close to intervening and playing Cupid myself. Oh, Y/N!” she exclaims, bringing you into another hug, not letting you place a word. “Love is in the air. You know, I think knowing Jae and I were getting married might’ve been the trigger for Jaeyun. When he told me he wanted to confess to you over this weekend, I was ecstatic. You can basically thank me for having a boyfriend.”
You laugh. “Thank you, Chaewon. You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”
She nods proudly. “It was always so obvious. Jaeyun told me a few months after high school ended, but you—” She points an accusing finger at you. “You never did! But you tried too hard to pretend like you were indifferent when I mentioned him on the phone.”
You look down at the floor, feeling a little guilty, a little shy. “I could barely admit it to myself, let alone to anyone else. And I was so, so scared, Chae. Even now…” You look longingly over at the dance floor, where Jaeyun is clearly having the time of his life, throwing his limbs around with Heeseung and Jeno—when he meets your eyes, he waves happily, then returns to what seems to be an attempt at the robot. You sigh. “It’s not like I change my ways overnight, can I? Being so far from him, I don’t know…”
“Don’t think about that right now,” Chaewon says, commanding your attention back to her. “Just enjoy it. It’s what both of you deserve. When you run into a problem, you’ll figure it out together. He’s waited this long, I promise you it’s not a little distance that’ll drive him away now.”
You nod. “Okay. You’re right.”
“Of course I am. Now, I have some news to share too. And it’s our secret, okay?”
Excited, you shift forward on your chair, inching closer to her. “Okay.”
She gazes downward with a smile, lets go of one of your hands to rest on her stomach. Your mouth falls open, and when she looks back up at you, her eyes shiny, you immediately feel yours start to burn. “If you say yes, Y/N, you’ll be a godmother soon.”
“Oh my God, Chae,” you whisper, tears already pooling in your eyes.
She giggles. “Jaeyun’s already agreed to be the godfather, so it only makes more sense now, doesn’t it? And yes, before you ask, I’m absolutely using my unborn child as emotional blackmail to get you to call and visit more often. And I’ll be coming to see you in the city and make you take me around cute baby shops and buy me all the food I want.
“Oh my God, Chae. You’re having a whole baby,” you whisper, incredulous. Your heads lean in towards each other, almost bumping as you laugh.
“I know, right? We wanted to wait until our honeymoon was over to start trying, but… Well, I’ll spare you the details, but we’ve never gone at it so much since getting engaged—”
“Alright.”
“So, what do you say?” she asks, a hopeful expression on her face.
You squeeze her hands. “How could I say anything but yes? Of course I’ll be your kid’s godmother. I’m so honored that you’re asking me, when I haven’t been an ideal friend.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t. We understand you, Y/N, more than I think you give us credit for. And I trust you to make up for it now, okay?”
You nod, tears freely streaming down your cheeks now. “I will. I absolutely will. I love you so much, Chae. I’m so happy for you.”
Her laugh is the prettiest sound to your ears. “I love you too, Y/N.”
She leans back, takes a deep breath as she wipes her tears. “Is my makeup okay?” When you nod, she gets up and says, “Okay. To the dance floor!”
Now that they’ve gone through every step and are reassured that their wedding couldn’t have gone more smoothly, Jaemin and Chaewon let it all out on the dance floor. What starts out as a pretty big crowd, a large portion of the guests up and dancing, fizzles out as the hour grows late. The more elderly relatives have long retired, and it isn’t long before the older adults leave, too, finding their children asleep on random chairs and dragging them out of the venue. Soon, the population on the dance floor is more or less constituted of your high school friends and Chaewon’s and Jaemin’s cousins of your age. When Beomgyu starts to play slower songs around the three a.m. mark, you can’t believe it’s this late already. You were having so much fun you had no idea so much time had passed.
The catering crew has cleared the tables and packed away all their silver- and dinnerware, and your friends, in their drunken state, offer to wipe the floors and take the decorations down, but Chaewon and Jaemin shoo them off, assuring them that they’ll be taking care of it with their families in the morning.
You have to admit, now that the energy’s gone down, you start to feel yourself ready for bed, your feet aching from overuse, even though you took your high heels off hours ago to dance with more ease. It doesn’t help that Jaeyun stays right behind you as everyone starts heading off, his hand low and casual on your hip as you wave them all goodbye and promise to stay in touch. He only hangs back when you have to say goodbye to Chaewon—your flight is around noon tomorrow, so you won’t have time to see her again.
Hugging her tight, you tell her again how beautiful she looked tonight and how happy you are for her. You wish her and Jaemin a happy honeymoon, and she winks back, telling you to have fun, too. “But safe fun!” she yells as you and Jaeyun start making your way to his car. “I love you but you’re not stealing my baby’s spotlight!”
Jaeyun is still laughing as he gets in the driver’s seat, while you’re flooded with embarrassment. “So she told you, then?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“We’re gonna be godparents,” he says, grinning. “Some might say we’re moving a little fast, but I think it’s right.”
You’re smiling impossibly wide. “You’re stupid.”
“And you’re pretty,” he replies, brushing his knuckle along your jaw. It’s an innocent touch, but just like that, the dull ache in your stomach reappears—maybe it’s his proximity all night, all tension and no release, or the fact that it’s the two of you in pure darkness on this late night road, or Chaewon’s comment ringing in your head, but you suddenly find yourself craving for a lot more than an innocent touch. As though he can read your mind, Jaeyun clears his throat. “Do you, um, do you want to go back to mine?” he asks, eyes going back-and-forth between you and the road as though not wanting to miss your reaction.
“Yeah,” you whisper. The air conditioning is on full blast, yet your skin is on fire. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Okay.”
You’re silent for the rest of the car ride, mind racing with possibility. Jaeyun’s hand trembles ever so slightly in yours, like he can barely restrain himself, and you agree that the twenty minutes to his apartment are the longest you’ve ever had to endure. You play with his fingers, hoping the gesture will be calming to both of you, but the feeling of his skin against yours only makes your heart race faster.
His apartment is on the first floor of a small building in the center of Gimcheon. He leads you up the stairs, fingers intertwined with yours, only letting go to open his door. “Layla will be excited to meet you,” he says as he turns the key—indeed, you’re greeted warmly by the cream-colored Border Collie. She seems much happier to meet someone new than to see her boring old owner, who notices this with a frown, huffing something about “betrayal” and “your own kids…” as Layla licks your hands and presents her belly for pets.
“I should probably walk her quickly, she hasn’t been out since this morning,” Jaeyun says, an endeared smile on his face as he watches the two of you get acquainted.
“Should I come with?”
Crouching beside you, he shakes his head. “I know you’re tired, angel. I’ll just be ten minutes, you can wash up in the meantime.”
You follow him into the bathroom, where he hands you a towel and tells you to help yourself to anything you need. “Wait here a minute,” he says, then disappears into his bedroom, coming back with clean clothes for you to wear. He’s sheepish as he rests them on the sink counter, a small smile playing on his lips. “Here. They might be a bit big, but more comfortable than your dress.”
“Thanks, Yun.”
“No worries.” He hesitates for a second, then presses a quick kiss to your temple. “I’ll be quick.”
Even after he leaves, the smile on your lips is wide and unwavering, your heartbeat fast, your fingers twitchy and impatient. You find lotion to wipe your makeup off with, and have far too much fun analyzing all of his shower products as the hot water runs over your body. You can hardly keep your giddiness in check at the thought of washing yourself with Jaeyun’s soap, drying yourself with his towel, then wearing his clothes and finding yourself enveloped with the delicate floral scent of his laundry detergent. He gave you a navy t-shirt with the logo of his family’s business on the front and a pair of basketball shorts that reach your knees, and that you have to tie very tightly at your hips so it stays up. You can’t help but admire yourself in the mirror, for some reason feeling more like a girlfriend than ever before in your life.
When you hear the front door open, you come out to meet him in his living room. As Layla trots over to her bed, he stops for a second when he sees you, mouth slightly agape as his eyes rake your body. You feel shy under his gaze, but surprise yourself by also revelling in the attention, in the way his desire is so evident in his gaze, in the smirk that grows on his lips as he crosses the distance to you.
“Nice walk?” you ask.
“Yeah. You look good,” he says, hands finding your hips, shameless in the way he looks down at you now.
In the shower, you were so preoccupied with simply being here that you didn’t spare a thought for what would happen next—now, under the intensity of Jaeyun’s gaze and the effect of his proximity, you feel unprepared, completely at a loss for what to do with yourself.
It’s lucky for you that Jaeyun, on the other hand, seems to know exactly what he wants to do with you.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, voice low and gravelly unlike you’ve ever heard it before, and it sends shivers down your spines. You don’t trust your voice to work properly, so you nod your assent instead.
Seconds pass like eternity between his question and the moment his lips actually touch your lips. One of his hands leaves your hips to find your chin instead, raising it a little with his thumb so your face is perfectly angled towards his. His touch is gentle, more of a request than a demand, and you crave to melt into it, to let him lead you wherever he wants you.
His lips meet yours, delicate and cautious, like he doesn’t want to scare you off. They move languidly against each other, giving you the time you need to adapt to this without being overwhelmed. You raise your arms and wrap them around his neck while his hand sneaks its way to your lower back, pushing you gently closer towards him, your chest now flush to his. Fire courses through your veins as his tongue meets yours, deepening the kiss and making your thoughts hazy, incoherent, unimportant.
You never dreamed it would be this easy. One kiss, and it’s like a faucet’s opened up inside you, all the desire and want and longing that you’ve kept trapped inside pouring out of you boundlessly. You wouldn’t know how to control it if you had to—and thankfully, Jaeyun doesn’t seem to want you to. He meets you right where you are, holding onto you just as tightly as you are onto him, moaning shamelessly when your fingers tug sharply at his hair, his head thrown back as you pepper his throat with wet, messy kisses.
His mouth doesn’t leave yours as he walks you to his bedroom. Only when he sits down on his bed do you get a glimpse of his expression—the lust-blown pupils, the reddened cheeks, the lips plump and shiny with saliva. His hands are practically on your ass as he brings you down towards him, helping you into a straddling position on his lap. He presses kisses to your cheek, your jawline, then, resting his forehead against yours, asks with a throaty voice, “You’re okay with this?”
You smile, wrap your arms tighter around his neck. “I’m definitely okay with this.”
“Good,” he replies, then wastes no time pressing his lips back to yours.
Years of repressed feelings come out in this kiss—that much is clear in its desperation, in the way you both grab onto whatever parts of the other you can reach, like you want to tether yourselves to each other. When you break apart for air, Jaeyun whispers in your ear how long he’s wanted to do this, lips brushing against your skin as he speaks, making you shake lightly in his hold. The longer you kiss, the weaker the resistance in your thighs grows, and you soon find yourself sitting right on his lap, his bulge hard and demanding attention beneath you. His grip on your hips tightens, but it’s the only sign he gives you of being affected—only when you roll your hips experimentally against his does he let out a loud moan right into your mouth, which you take as a green light to keep going.
You push him down onto the mattress, practically laying on top of him as you grind yourself against him, a small whimper leaving your throat every time his erection rubs perfectly against your clit through your shared layers of clothing. He’s still wearing his wedding outfit, and when his hands leave your body to unbutton his shirt, you waste no time in helping him, untucking his shirt from his trousers, unbuckling his belt. He chuckles at your eagerness, but you can’t bring yourself to feel even a little embarrassed—you don’t think you’ve ever desired anything this badly, and it’s messing with your head. Jaeyun looks at you like he could eat you right up, so you decide there’s no use in hiding your appetite from him.
His hands slip underneath your t-shirt, and your skin blazes with the heat of his touch. They trail up your sides, nails briefly grazing your waist and back before they find your breasts. He gently rubs one of your nipples between his fingers, and Jaeyun curses when you release a moan in the crook of his neck, pressing your crotch against his with more urgency than before. “Does that feel good, baby?” he asks, voice breathy as you squirm under his touch.
“Yes, Yun.”
He hums in satisfaction, one hand on your ass to guide your movements against him, the other alternating between your breasts to pay them equal attention, lips never relenting in their quest to leave no inch of your neck unkissed.
It’s too much and too little at once. A familiar coil tightens in your stomach, and you can’t believe you’re already this close to coming undone from this—every man you’ve slept with before has had to put in a lot more work to get you even near the edge. But with Jaeyun, all it takes is a few minutes of heavy petting and his voice in your ears, telling you how well you’re doing for him, how pretty you look using him to get yourself off.
“That’s it, baby,” he coos as your moans get louder, your movements more erratic. “I’ve got you. Let it go for me.” It’s all you need for your orgasm to wash over you and leave you a trembling mess in his arms, his hold around your waist tight as he kisses your temple and shushes you gently.
When you’ve calmed down somewhat, he helps you onto your back, shifting so that your head rests on his pillows. Now that you’ve regained your senses, the reality of what you’ve done, what you’re doing hits you. Resting on his elbow, Jaeyun gazes down at you fondly, and although you would’ve reveled in it mere moments ago, the intensity of his attention now only brings heat to your face. You can’t quite meet his eyes, a small, bashful smile playing on your lips as you play with the lapels of shirt collar. He must sense this shift in your demeanor, and asks, “Do you wanna keep going?”
Lust pangs low in your stomach. You force yourself to look into his eyes, giving him an almost imperceptible nod. His desire is so obvious on him, and truth be told, you hadn’t even thought you might stop here when he still needs taking care of. The smile on his lips grows, but when you reach out to touch his erection, he tilts his head, grabbing your wrist and laying it back down next to your body. “I didn’t say I was done with you, baby,” he purrs, leaning down to kiss your neck, one hand slipping under your t-shirt again.
“But—”
“I’ve waited so long, angel. Dreamed about having you like this so many times. So be patient and give me this much, hm?”
You release a shaky breath. How can you say no when he makes it sound like letting him make you feel good is doing him a favor, and not you? “Okay.”
“Thank you, angel. Help me with this?” he asks gently, lifting his t-shirt you’re wearing over your head. You’d feel shy at lying half-naked underneath him if it wasn’t for the way he admired you, like an art lover in front of their favorite painting. “So fucking perfect,” he mutters, leaving a trail of kisses down your throat until he reaches your breasts. “Can’t believe you’ve been keeping this from me all this time.”
“I’m sorry, Yun.” You’re already squirming at this touch, body screaming for more than the feather-like kisses he presses to your skin.
“No, no, baby. Don’t apologize. I’d do it all over again, knowing I’d get to see you like this in the end. So perfect,” he repeats, and before you can reply, he wraps his lips around your nipple, tongue darting out to lick at the sensitive bud. Your back arches off his bed, but with a firm hand to your stomach, he stops you from writhing away from his touch.
He seems to be content with doing this for minutes on end, lips alternating between your nipples, fingers tending to the neglected one, teeth sometimes gently nibbling at your skin, leaving behind small marks on the sides of your breasts. “There, now you can’t forget me,” he says with a self-satisfied smirk when he leans back to admire his work.
“As if I could,” you whisper back, hands finding purchase in his hair as you bring him back towards you and kiss him.
But soon enough, another part of your body starts burning from lack of attention, but even as you buck your hips towards him to signal what you need, he doesn’t notice—or doesn’t care. “Yun…” you eventually whine, hoping he’ll understand what it is you want from this one word.
“What’s wrong, baby? You need something?” he asks, faking an innocent tone.
So he does know—he just doesn’t want to give it to you so easily. It’s too bad for you that you’re famously bad at asking for what you need.
You opt instead for grabbing his hand and leading it down to your core—surely, that’s enough of a message. He cups you over your shorts, and your thighs clasp around his wrist, instinctively attempting to create more friction. His hand slips below your waistband, and he groans, forehead falling against your shoulder, when he finds your lack of underwear there. He has direct access to your folds, and he wastes no time sliding two of his fingers there, humming in appreciation. “So wet,” he mumbles, seemingly more to himself than to you.
“Please, Yun,” you plead, voice almost a wince—and it is in a way painful, having him so close to where you need.
“I’m here, angel. I’ll give you what you want.” And indeed, the next second, the pads of his fingers are on your clit, rubbing torturously slow circles onto it. On the pillow, your head falls to the side in your search for more proximity with him—you feel his laboured breathing against your face, and you shift your body closer to him, worming one of your legs between his. As though this is getting to his head as much as yours, he’s silent for a while, his fingers gathering speed on your clit, occasionally sliding down your folds and inside of you. They go so much deeper than yours can, brushing against that spot that has your nails digging into his skin. But as he brings you closer and closer to the edge, you find yourself not wanting to fall right away, at least not like this.
“Yun…” you breathe out, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. He stops immediately, raising his head to look at you with unnecessary concern, making your heart soften for him.
“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“No, no, I just…”
You squirm uncomfortably beneath him, and his expression shifts—damn him for understanding so quickly what you’re too shy to say. “You just…” he trails, smug. Resuming his kisses along your throat, he says, “Tell me, baby.”
“You know,” you huff. He laughs against your skin, and even in your annoyance, the melodic sound makes your heart skip a beat.
“Hm, but I’d rather you tell me.”
You hesitate for a few seconds. Your hand finds his bulge again, and this time, he doesn’t stop you. You know he wants this as badly as you do, but if telling him is what he needs, then you’ll have to comply. “I need—I want—I want to come on your dick, Jaeyun, please,” you say, forcing out the words as quickly as you can, face burning in embarrassment.
He freezes. You hear his breathing get louder, more rugged, and it’s a few seconds before he raises himself onto his elbows, fingers at your waistband, dragging your shorts down. The smugness has all but left his features, leaving behind something like sternness—furrowed eyebrows, dark eyes, tight jaw. As he lifts over his head the white sleeveless tee he was wearing beneath his button-up, your hands make clumsy work of his trousers, pulling them down his thighs along with his underwear. His cock springs free, tip an angry-looking red, already leaking precum, and you wonder at the self-restraint he must’ve been exercising this entire time—it’s clearly stronger than yours.
You wrap a hand around the base, transfixed by the sight, and he groans. You pump him a few times, reveling in the small moans that leave his mouth, muffled in the crook of your neck, and in the way his fingers dig into the skin of your hips. He doesn’t let it go on for very long, soon leaning away from you and towards his bedside table. “Let me get a condom, baby,” he says, voice shaky.
“I’m on the pill. You don’t need to wear one.” His head snaps back towards you, eyes wide like a kid on Christmas day.
“Are you sure?” he asks, but he’s already coming back towards you, elbows on each side of your face, peppering the side of your face with kisses.
You wrap your hand around his dick again, letting his tip graze your clit before lining it with your entrance. “Yeah, I am.”
He releases a shaky breath, finding your hand and intertwining his fingers with yours before he finally pushes inside of you, slowly filling you up until he bottoms out. Slick from your previous orgasm and relaxed from his fingers, you accommodate him easily, only needing a few seconds before you’re already bucking up your hips against him, asking for more. For once, Jaeyun doesn’t tease you—he obliges instantly, pushing into you with slow, precise thrusts that have the coil tightening again in your stomach with embarrassing quickness. It doesn’t help that Jaeyun groans right into your ear, whispering curses, muttering about how good you feel around him, “Like you were made for me, baby.”
His free hand slides beneath your thigh and lifts it up to rest it against his hip—this new angle allows him to go deeper, to hit that sensitive spot with every one of his thrusts. As his movements gather speed, you feel yourself inching closer and closer to your orgasm, and when it finally hits, your nails dig into the skin of his bicep, you throw your head back, and you let the pleasure wash over you, your brain going haywire, a loud moan escaping your mouth.
Jaeyun takes the opportunity to latch his lips to your throat, biting and sucking at the skin there, surely leaving yet another mark for you to find in the morning. You’re holding onto him like you might float away if you don’t, thighs shaking as overstimulation starts to set in—and yet, when he asks with a low, gruff voice whether you can handle some more, you find yourself nodding vigorously, ready to take whatever he gives you.
“That’s my girl.”
He slips out of you and you whine at the loss. But he quickly fills you up again, first turning you onto your side as he spoons you from behind, lifting your thigh to grant him better access and pushing into you again with no hesitation. In this position, he’s able to snake an arm around you and play with your clit, making you throw your head back against his shoulder. His pace is gentle at first, as are the kisses he presses to the side of your neck and to your shoulder as he lets you adjust to this new, deeper angle. But it doesn’t take long for his rhythm to quicken as he seems to be nearing release himself—his thrusts get sloppier, harsher, the sounds he makes more desperate.
You didn’t think it’d be possible, but between his fingers on your clit, his dick deep inside you, and his filthy words in your ears, a chasm opens within you once more and you find yourself barrelling towards it at alarming speed. With a few final hard thrusts and the feeling of Jaeyun’s release filling you to the brim, you come undone for the third time tonight, your throat tight and scratchy from moaning so much.
Jaeyun stills inside of you. Without sliding out, he wraps an arm around your middle and brings you closer to him, his hold tight and reassuring. His chest is flush against your back and you feel it rise and fall with each of his breaths; your breathing slowly evens out, eventually matching the rhythm of his. With his fingertips, he draws unintelligible patterns across the skin of your stomach and waist. Tiredness makes your limbs heavy like they could sink right into his mattress. You must be mere seconds away from sleep when you feel him slip out of you. You roll onto your back as he grabs a tissue from his bedside table, cleaning you up gently as he presses a kiss to your temple. “How do you feel?” he asks. “Do you need anything? Some water? A shower?”
You rest an arm around his waist and wiggle closer to him. “Just you,” you say.
“I can give you that. Easy,” he says, the smile audible in his voice.
.
.
You wake up a few times during the night, unaccustomed to sharing a bed with someone else—and not just anyone at that, but Jaeyun, whose warm body you find yourself shifting closer to whenever you regain half-consciousness and realize you’re not in his arms anymore. He barely rouses as you nuzzle your face in his neck, an arm coming up to circle your waist to accommodate your body against his. You wish nothing more than to stay like this forever, but unfortunately, your faithful alarm clock rings at nine a.m. and as you reach for your phone to turn it off, Jaeyun’s loose hold on you tightens.
“Don’t go yet,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your hair, and his gravelly morning voice sends a shiver right down your spine.
You smile. “I’m not. I can stay ten minutes longer.”
He whines, pulls you in closer to him. Goosebumps appear where his fingers slightly dig into your skin. “That’s not long enough…”
“I can’t miss my flight, Yun.”
“Sure you can,” he says casually, and as he starts to press kisses to your neck, you almost think he might be right. “You can catch a later one. You can go home next week.”
You hum, lifting your head to grant him better access to your throat, shivering when his teeth graze your sensitive skin. “My boss might have something to say about that.”
Rolling you onto your back, he drops his forehead on your shoulder with a dramatic sigh. “Ten minutes, you said?” he asks, with a roll of his hips so small it could be seen as accidental. But with the way his erection presses into you, thick and firm, you have an inkling it was anything but.
“Fifteen if you drive fast,” you say, already starting to get out-of-breath.
“That’s plenty.”
Neither of you bothered to put on clothes again last night, so he easily slides two fingers between your folds, gathering your slick and trailing them upwards until they reach your clit. He seems satisfied with the wetness he finds there, quickly shifting to fill you up with his dick rather than his fingers. And indeed, fifteen minutes are plenty—in the time it takes for your alarm to ring again, he’s made you come twice, his thrusts deep and precise as though he has a knowledge of your body that dates back years and not a mere day. He releases inside of you with a groan.
It does suck, having to leave so quickly. You wish you could lay in bed with him for hours, take a shower so long it has negative environmental impacts, and have a late, hearty breakfast with him. Unfortunately, you have to speed through everything—you need to be at the airport at eleven at the latest, and having not foreseen you wouldn’t be spending the night at your aunt, you didn’t finish packing before the wedding. He seems to be as aware of this as you are, and although he keeps a smile on his lips at all times, you can see your sadness reflected in his eyes at the thought of having to say goodbye, so soon after finally opening up to each other.
But in a way, you find goodbye easier this time around. As you hug your aunt and thank her for letting you stay — at which she scoffs, saying this will always be as much your house as it is hers — you’re armed with the knowledge that you’re on good terms now, and that you’re not going back to another three years of near radio silence. It’s not an empty promise that you make her when you tell her you’ll be in touch.
You’ve never seen Jaeyun as talkative as on the drive to the airport. He blabbers away, filling every second of silence like his life depends on it—you don’t help him, quiet as can be out of fear of breaking into sobs in the middle of any given sentence. You remind yourself that this goodbye is only temporary, that you’ll soon make plans for him to visit, but still, your eyes burn at the thought of going home to an empty apartment and falling asleep in a half-empty bed tonight. He must sense this because he eventually tells you, voice soft and vulnerable, “Don’t cry, baby.”
You purse your lips to stop them from trembling, turning away from him so he can’t see your frown. “I feel like I already miss you,” you say, so low you wonder if he can even hear you.
“I’ll come see you soon. And I’ll text and call you so often every day that you won’t have time to miss me,” he replies, but you can hear it in his tone that he doesn’t quite believe what he’s saying, only trying to reassure you, and himself, maybe.
“That’s impossible,” you mutter. You’re both silent for the rest of the drive, but his hand in yours is warm, and it does more to comfort you than any words could.
He parks at the airport drop-off area and gets your suitcase out of the trunk for you. He wanted to park where he could leave his car longer, and go into the airport with you, but you convinced him that the quicker your goodbye, the better off you’d be. You have the sinking feeling you might burst into tears at any moment, and you don’t want his last image of you for the foreseeable future to be one with tears streaming down your cheeks, don’t want him to needlessly worry or drive off with a weight on his heart.
He holds you in his arms, hands rubbing reassuring circles on your back. “I’ll come up as soon as I can, okay?” he says. “In less than a month, I promise. Any longer and I might explode.”
You laugh. “I don’t want you to explode.”
“No, that’d be pretty unfortunate.”
With one final kiss to the pretty lips that you’ll be longing for until you see Jaeyun again, you grab the handle of your suitcase and walk towards the entrance of the departures area. “Text me when you land, yeah?” he asks.
You nod. “I will.” You just stand there looking at him for a while—you’re a bit too sad to appreciate the fact that this is your first openly emotional, tearful goodbye, but part of you basks in knowing the separation isn’t hard for you only. “I love you, Yun.”
He smiles, a beautiful mix of sorrow and happiness that you want to commit to memory. “I love you more, angel.”
Every time you turn around, he’s still there leaning against his car, possibly overstaying his time at the drop-off, until you’ve walked too far into the airport and can’t see him anymore.
.
.
It’s already dark outside when a text from Minjeong lights up Jaeyun’s phone. Just dropped her off, it says. I tried to stop her from drinking so much, but she said she was going through Jaeyun withdrawals, whatever that means. Anyways she’s wasted good luck lol
He shakes his head. He’d be annoyed if he wasn’t so excited to see you—he’d told Minjeong to keep you outside for a bit longer after work, not get you drunk. But before he has time to text her back, his phone starts ringing in his hand. Smiling, he picks up, your voice immediately filling his ear.
“Jaeyun,” you whine, extending the second vowel for too many seconds—Minjeong wasn’t just throwing words around when she said you were wasted. You must be in the elevator by now. He has half a mind to come and get you, just in case you’re stumbling around and pressing the wrong floor numbers, but if Minjeong dropped you off at your building and not your apartment, then you must have some awareness left.
He hopes. There’s something important he wants to talk to you about, and he’d rather you were sober for it.
“Hi, baby,” he says.
This is apparently the worst thing he could possibly say, sensing as you make a noise halfway between a grunt and a whine. “Don’t call me baby when I already miss you this much. We’ve talked about this!”
You definitely haven’t. “I’m very sorry,” he says, exaggerating his serious tone, but you don’t catch his sarcasm.
“Yes, you should be.” The telltale beep of your code being pressed into the keypad breaks the silence of your apartment, and Jaeyun’s heart races with excitement. “I’m coming home now, Minjeong took me to this—”
Your next words get caught in your throat the moment you step inside your apartment and see him, a few meters away from you in your kitchen. You stay frozen in place, phone still to your ear as he crosses the distance between you, smiling so hard his cheeks ache.
“Welcome home, angel.”
He’s glad to see you aren’t in too much of a wretched state. Even in your wide-gazed surprise, your eyes are a bit clouded over from the alcohol, and you aren’t standing quite straight on your feet, but the way Minjeong texted him, he half-expected to find you with vomit on the front of your shirt. He steadies you with a hand to your waist, grabs your wrist gently to bring your arm down now that he’s hung up—and right in front of you.
“You’re real?” you ask, and when he nods, as though that was all the confirmation you needed, you throw your arms around his neck. “My Yunie,” you exclaim, voice muffled against his sweatshirt, and he has to bite back his laughter. Even a year and a half into your relationship, that’s a new one. You still get flustered when a pet name escapes your lips instead of his name. Maybe he should let you get drunk more often.
You suddenly lean back, cupping his face between your palms, eyes slightly narrowed as they drift over every inch of his face, like you’re trying to see whether anything’s changed. He lets you, a small, endeared smile on his lips, glad for the opportunity to admire you in return.
You press your lips to his, a little more forcefully than you usually would, then rest your head against his chest once more. “What are you doing here?” you ask. “Did you know I was missing you extra lately?”
“Of course I did. I always know what you’re thinking.”
“Okay. What am I thinking right now?”
He hums, pretends to think for a little. “That you love me and are so happy to see me!”
You gasp. “Yes! You’re so smart,” you exclaim, hugging him even tighter.
Eventually, he manages to get you out of your coat and shoes, and leads you to the kitchen, where your counter is covered in flour and uncooked, homemade dumplings. He only needs to make a few more until he can start frying them. The rice is already cooked, and a miso and vegetable stew simmers on your stove. You make yourself useful by circling your arms around Jaeyun’s waist, your head resting on his shoulders as you watch him fold dough around a beef galbi filling, your favorite.
“Do you wanna go wash up before we eat?” he asks softly, afraid that in your sensitive state, you might take his words the wrong way. But to his surprise, you oblige without a word, giving his cheek a kiss before heading to your bedroom.
When you haven’t come back ten minutes later, he goes to check on you, and finds you laying on top of your sheets, feet not even on your mattress but still on your floor like you fell back sitting and just stayed there. You’ve managed to remove your makeup and let down your hair, but you apparently ran out of energy before you could change out of your work clothes. Drool pools at the corner of your open lips.
Jaeyun’s heart aches with happiness. Every time he looks at you, even like this — especially like this — all he can think is how badly he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. And with every passing day that you stay with him, that you tell him good morning and good night and I love you, he thinks he might have a shot at it.
He sighs, but there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing than slipping your trousers and blouse off of your frame and finding a large t-shirt for you to sleep in, then guiding your body underneath your sheets. You wake up once, giggle at yourself, and immediately fall back asleep.
A while later, after he’s cleaned up the kitchen, had a little bit of dinner — on his own, which he knows you’ll feel awful about tomorrow — and washed up for bed, he gently closes the door of the bedroom behind him, where you’re still in deep sleep.
So he’ll have to wait until the morning to share his news. It’s alright—he has the whole weekend to tell you he’s found the perfect house, not too far from Gimcheon or from Daegu, where your boss has already said you could be transferred. He visited it last week, and in every room, he could picture your future together so perfectly. The kitchen in which he’ll make you a late breakfast on lazy Sunday mornings, the room with a beautiful view over a garden that you could turn into an office for your work-from-home days, the bedroom that he could all too well imagine a crib in. Layla could run around in the garden. You could visit your family and friends whenever you wanted. You could be in Seoul in less than two hours with the train if you ever missed it.
You’ve been talking about moving somewhere together for a while now, but he’s still nervous to bring it up. It’s a huge step, and he can only hope you are as ready as he is to take it—and if you aren’t yet, he’ll gladly wait for you to be. But as he slips into bed with you, your warm body shifting into his embrace even in sleep, he doubts he’ll have to wait long at all. The days of holding back are long gone—ever since it’s fully gotten through to you that he won’t ever leave your side if he can help it, you’ve opened up to him like never before, let him take care of you like he’s always dreamed of.
He looks down at you and your peaceful sleeping face, his initial dangling on a thin silver chain that you’ve worn since you found it again while organizing your jewelry box a few weeks ago. This is enough for now. But one day, if you’ll have him, he’ll make you his with another piece of jewelry, and falling asleep with you in his arms won’t be a once-in-a-while occurrence anymore.
It’s more than enough, he thinks as he presses a kiss to your forehead, and lets the soft sound of your breathing lull him into sleep. It’s everything.
.
.
“My wife.”
Jaeyun’s voice is a low, possessive grunt in your ear. He says those two words like they hold the most precious meaning in the world, and it makes fire rise deep inside you.
You thought the reason Jaeyun had been so antsy during your journey to Hawaii was because he’d never travelled this far. You’d chalked up his need to have his hand in yours or resting on your thigh for the entirety of the flight to it being his first time on a long-distance plane. You easily dismissed his clinginess on the drive from the airport to your hotel as his being tired, which always made him a little needier.
But when he pressed his body to yours the moment the door of your hotel room shut behind you, you finally understood what had actually been on his mind this entire time—the feeling of his erection, hard and insistent on your lower stomach, left no room for interpretation.
To be fair, since getting married three days ago, in the familiarity of your backyard and surrounded by your loved ones, you’d barely gotten any alone time. Relatives of his that lived far away stayed at your house until yesterday night, and at bedtime every night, either one or both of you were too tired to initiate anything. You haven’t had sex since becoming Jaeyun’s wife, and clearly, this has been weighing on your husband.
He kisses you like he has been starving for months, desperate, ravenous, crazed. His arms around you hold you in a tight embrace, your bags haphazardly discarded at your feet. Eventually, he reaches for the back of your thighs and, legs hooked around his waist, carries you to the bed you’ll call yours for the next week. You hadn’t expected to break it in so quickly, but you wouldn’t have it any other way, not when Jaeyun’s tongue laps at your mouth like this, not when his teeth graze your bottom lip so deliciously.
“Need to touch you so bad, my love. Can I?” he asks, voice breathy.
“Yes, Yun, please.”
He slips a hand below your waistband and hums in satisfaction at the wetness he finds there. “Always so wet for me, aren’t you, baby? Always ready for me to fuck you.”
The feeling of his expert fingers on your clit render you unable to reply to him—it’s not like he’s waiting for an answer, anyway. The way you throw your head back and moan his name is all the confirmation he could need.
Although you’d be content to go on like this, it seems as though this isn’t enough for him. He quickly withdraws his fingers, swallowing your whine of protest with a kiss. It’s unusual, the speed with which he makes his way down your body until his face is level with your core. He normally likes to take his sweet time with you, trailing kisses all over your skin before giving in to your pleas for more. You take a little pride in knowing that you don’t have to beg—for once, he’s the desperate one, he’s the one who can’t wait a second longer.
It’s obscene, and obscenely hot, the way he presses his nose against the crotch of your sweatpants and inhales deeply, a guttural groan escaping his throat. He presses kisses to your inner thighs and core over your clothes before he actually slides them down your thighs, letting them pool at your knees like he doesn’t have time to take them off completely. He doesn’t bother with your t-shirt, either, simply snaking his hands underneath it until they reach your breasts.
“Fuck, I’ve missed this pussy so much,” he mutters, admiring it like it belongs in a museum.
You smile. “It’s been, like, four days.”
He shakes his head. “Never going without it for that long again.”
Jaeyun dives into your core, tongue licking a long stripe up your folds before it finds your clit and settles there, alternating between licking and sucking at the sensitive bud, two of his slender fingers quickly sliding inside of you. Your hands find purchase in his hair, tugging at it when a motion of his tongue feels particularly good, hips bucking against his mouth whenever his fingers hit that particularly deep spot inside you. He moans ceaselessly into your core, the vibrations making your thighs shake around his head, as though he needed this as much as you did—if not more. You swear you hear him mutter “my wife” at some point. Embarrassingly quickly, you start to feel that familiar coil of pleasure form low in your stomach, a warm, dizzying buzz spreading throughout your entire body all the way to your fingertips.
Your relief at not having to beg turns out to be short-lived. Jaeyun makes you come on his tongue a first, then a second time, as he is often wont to do. You’re impossibly sensitive, body heavy and boneless by the third time, but he isn’t satisfied. His grip on your hips is firm, and you don’t have the energy to fight it—nor the willingness, really. Tears stream down your face by the time your fourth orgasm hits you, at which point you can’t even tell pleasure from pain anymore. You really do need a break, though, and signal this to your husband — your husband — by lifting his head from your core.
He gives you a few minutes of physical respite, but the words that he whispers against your skin as he presses feverish kisses to your throat and jaw keep you in that hazy, nebulous headspace, and in those few minutes only, you already find yourself reaching for him, cupping his erection over his sweatpants.
You wince when he enters you, overstimulation setting in solely from having him inside you, but you shake your head when he asks if you need a longer break. “Want you, Yun,” you breathe out, holding onto his biceps, nails already digging into his skin.
As he pistons his hips into yours relentlessly, you almost can’t believe this is the same man who was standing before you at the altar mere days ago, the sweetest smile on his lips and tears in his pretty eyes. You guess he’s holding true to one of his vows—he said he’d never make you doubt how much he loves you, and right now, you can’t deny that he’s fucking you like you’re the only woman for him.
You think he must be close when his thrusts speed up and his grunts get louder. And recently, there’s been a new telltale sign that he was inching closer to his orgasm.
“Gonna fill you up, angel. Gonna stuff you full of my cum and make you the prettiest mommy ever. All round and beautiful, and carrying my baby. Show the whole world who you belong to.”
He mutters these words right into your ear just as his breathing gets heavier, more ragged, and seconds later, you feel him spurting ropes of his sperm inside you. When he first started talking to you like this, you assumed it was just long-term relationship dirty talk. But a couple of weeks ago, when you told him you were almost at the end of your last tablet of birth control, he asked how you felt about not renewing your prescription—so not just dirty talk, you realized.
He pulls out of you but stays on top of you, catching his breath as he rests his head on your chest and you play with his hair. Eventually, he grabs your left hand, lifts it to his lips, and presses them to your ring finger, right over the silver band. “Thank you for marrying me, angel,” he whispers. “You’ve made me the happiest man on Earth.”
You kiss the top of his head, basking in the pleasant warmth of his words, of his scent, of his reassuring weight as he lays on top of you. “I’m the lucky one.”
“Will you still feel lucky when I tell you we’re not leaving this room all day?”
When you lift your head to look at him, he’s wearing a devilish grin. “Why not?” you ask.
“Because,” he says, pressing his lips to yours, “I’m fucking the jetlag out of you.” Your body responds to him, heat already starting to swirl in your stomach as though you haven’t already taken more than you could handle—your desire for him is a bottomless well. “And, so that in fifteen years, we get to embarrass our kid by telling them they were conceived in Hawaii.”
Needless to say, over the next week, you spend a lot more time in your hotel room than you’d planned, often only going out around noon or coming back halfway through dinner—whenever Jaeyun sees that ring around your finger, he seems to need some alone time with you.
He doesn't think he'll ever stop needing alone time with you.
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