꒰﹕﹒ thank you, stranger ❀ park sunghoon
⌗ in which . . . after a chance airport mishap leads to an unexpected day together, you and park sunghoon turn a long delay into something fleeting but unforgettable
流星 ໑ . . nonidol!sunghoon x fem!reader
⌗ includes . . . fluff, meet-cute, emotional intimacy, soft romance, found connection, light humor, airport setting | wc: 4.5k
♪ el’s bubble: taking a quick break from all the freaky 🤓 what do you guys think will happen next 🤔 lemme know ! very obviously wrote this during a power outage so everything’s pretty jampacked . . . enjoy — likes, reblogs, and feedbacks are deeply appreciated on here ♡ requests are always open if you want to see me write something specific ۫ ׅ
tags: @wonscapes @simsimluver @maishee @grdientlips | just ask if you want to be a part of my tag list ˙𐃷˙
now playing . . . about you by the 1975
The trolley cart wobbles beneath your grip, three suitcases stacked precariously on top of each other like some kind of luggage Jenga tower.
You should've checked at least one of them, but hindsight is twenty-twenty.
Now you're stuck maneuvering this beast through the crowded airport terminal at nine in the morning with arms that are already protesting.
The overhead speakers crackle to life with an announcement you've heard three times already: all flights delayed indefinitely due to severe weather conditions and emergency runway maintenance.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, rain sheets down in thick curtains, turning the tarmac into a blur of gray.
Perfect. Just so, so perfect.
You adjust your grip on the cart's handle, trying to navigate around a family of five who've set up camp near Gate 14, their children sprawled across carry-ons like it's naptime.
The cart lurches left when you want it to go right, the weight distribution all wrong, and you're fighting it more than steering it at this point.
The cart hits something, or rather, someone, and you hear the unmistakable sound of liquid splashing, followed by something hitting the floor with a wet plop.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"
You abandon the cart immediately, rushing around to survey the damage.
A tall guy stands there, looking down at his shirt where water has splattered across the fabric.
At his feet, what used to be a slice of apple pie now sits face-down on the terminal floor, the paper plate bent at an unfortunate angle.
An empty plastic water bottle rolls sadly away.
"I'm so, so sorry," you repeat, already reaching for the napkins in your jacket pocket. "The cart just—it got away from me, I swear I didn't mean to—"
He looks up then, and you forget what you were going to say next.
That's the first thought that crosses your mind, unbidden and immediate.
Sharp features softened by the gentle surprise in his dark eyes, black hair falling across his forehead, lips parted slightly as he takes you in.
There's something almost ethereal about him, even with water dripping from his shirt.
"It's okay," he says, and his voice is quiet, a little uncertain. "Really, it's fine."
"It's not fine, I literally just destroyed your breakfast." You crouch down to pick up the ruined pie, carefully gathering the mess. "Let me buy you another one and a new bottle of water. It's the least I can do."
"I insist." You stand, holding the sad remains of his pie. "I'm the one who weaponized a luggage cart. I should face the consequences."
The corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he wants to smile but isn't sure if he should. "Weaponized? What do you mean?"
"I mean, look at that thing." You gesture to your cart, which has now rolled slightly away and is listing to one side. "It's clearly a menace to society. I should've gotten a license to operate it."
This time he does smile, small and brief, but it transforms his entire face.
Your heart does a weird little flip that you're going to ignore for now.
"I'm serious though," you say. "Let me replace your pie. There's a café right over there." You point to a small shop a few gates down, its warm lights promising coffee and pastries and redemption for your sins.
He hesitates, and you can see him weighing his options — politely decline and go about his day, or accept the offer from the stranger who just assaulted him with luggage.
"Okay, okay," he finally says. "But only if you let me help you with your cart first. It looks like it's about to stage a rebellion."
You laugh, surprised and delighted. "Deal."
He walks over to your cart and somehow, with what seems like minimal effort, redistributes the bags so the weight is more balanced.
You watch his hands as he works, long fingers adjusting straps and shifting suitcases with careful precision.
"How did you do that?" you ask when he's finished. The cart now sits perfectly level, docile as a lamb.
"Physics," he says simply, then adds with that almost-smile again, "and a lot of practice. I travel a lot for work."
"Well, you're officially my hero." You test the cart, and it glides smoothly now, responsive to your touch. "Okay, now I definitely owe you pie."
The café is small but cozy, with a glass display case showing off various pastries and sandwiches.
You insist on paying despite his protests, ordering him another slice of apple pie and a bottle of water, and getting yourself a coffee because you have a feeling it's going to be a long day.
"Do you want anything else?" you ask, studying the menu board. "A coffee? A croissant? My eternal gratitude?"
"The pie is fine," he says, but he's looking at something in the display case with interest.
You follow his gaze. "The tiramisu?"
He looks almost embarrassed to be caught staring. "I was just looking."
"Yeah," he admits. "It's kind of my favorite."
"No way." You turn to him fully now, delighted by this discovery. "It's my favorite too. I'm literally obsessed with it. I once went to three different restaurants in one day just to compare their tiramisu."
His eyes widen slightly. "Who won?"
"This little Italian place in my neighborhood. The owner makes it fresh every morning with his grandmother's recipe. It's life-changing."
You turn to the barista. "Actually, can we get two of the tiramisu as well?"
"Consider it a peace offering for the pie murder," you say solemnly. "Plus, now I'm curious about airport tiramisu. It's probably not going to compare to the grandmother’s secret recipe, but we should investigate. For science or something."
This time his smile is wider, more genuine, and you feel absurdly proud of yourself for putting it there.
You find seats near a window where you can watch the rain continue its assault on the world outside.
The terminal is getting more crowded as delayed passengers settle in for the long haul, but your little corner feels separate somehow, insulated.
"Wait, I'm so, so sorry, I just realized I've been monopolizing your morning and I don't even know your name," you say, setting down the tray with your spoils. "I'm Y/N."
"Sunghoon," he says. "Park Sunghoon."
"Nice to meet you, Sunghoon. Sorry it involved pie casualties."
He laughs, like actually laughs, and the sound is warm and a little surprised, like he doesn't do it often. "I've had worse introductions."
You hand him his replacement pie and one of the tiramisu cups, keeping the other for yourself.
"Okay, moment of truth. On three, we try the airport tiramisu. One... two... three."
You both take a bite at the same time.
Well, it’s not grandmother-level, but respectable.
The mascarpone is creamy, the coffee flavor pronounced, the ladyfingers properly soaked.
Sunghoon considers this seriously, like you've asked him to judge a competition. "Seven out of ten. The ratio of cream to cookie is good, but the espresso could be stronger."
"Okay, wow, I'm very impressed. That's exactly what I was thinking, too." You take another bite. "You really know your tiramisu."
"I told you, it's my favorite." He seems more relaxed now, his shoulders less tense. "What about you? What made you a tiramisu expert?"
"My best friend in college was Italian. Well, Italian-American, to be precise. Her mother would send care packages with homemade tiramisu sometimes, and after I tried it, I was ruined for all other desserts." You smile at the memory. "We used to have tiramisu nights where we'd try different versions from different places and rate them. It was very serious business."
"That sounds nice," Sunghoon says softly. "Having someone to share that with."
There's something wistful in his voice that makes you look at him more closely.
He's focused on his tiramisu, using his spoon to carefully separate the layers.
"Do you travel alone a lot?" you ask.
"Yeah. For work, mostly." He glances up at you. "It's fine. I'm used to it."
"Used to it doesn't mean you like it," you point out gently.
He pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth, and you can see you've surprised him again. "No," he admits. "I guess it doesn't."
The conversation flows easier after that.
You learn that he's a figure skating coach, which explains the travel and the physics knowledge and the graceful way he moves.
He learns that you work in publishing, that you're on your way back from a conference, that you have a habit of collecting snow globes from every city you visit even though you're running out of shelf space.
"I can't help it," you say, laughing at yourself. "They're just so charming. Little worlds you can hold in your hand."
"I get that," Sunghoon says. "I collect postcards. I never send them, just keep them."
"That's actually really sweet."
He ducks his head, and you notice the tips of his ears are turning pink.
"You know what?" you say, checking your phone and seeing another delay notification. "It looks like I’m going to be here for a while. The airline just pushed my flight back another three hours."
"Mine too," Sunghoon confirms, looking at his own phone.
"Want to hang out?" The offer comes out before you can second-guess it. "I mean, we're both stuck here, and you seem nice, and I promise to keep my luggage cart away from you."
He looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he smiles, soft and genuine. "I'd like that."
The airport is massive, you discover, when you're exploring it with someone else instead of rushing through it to catch a flight.
There are shops you never knew existed, tucked away in corners and down corridors.
Sunghoon follows as you investigate a bookstore, a tech shop, a place that sells nothing but travel pillows in every shape and color imaginable.
"Do you think anyone actually buys these?" you ask, holding up a pillow shaped like a croissant.
"I hope so," Sunghoon says. "Otherwise this store is just someone's very specific fever dream."
You burst out laughing, and the elderly woman behind the counter gives you both a disapproving look.
You and Sunghoon exchange glances and quickly exit, your laughter following you into the terminal.
"I can't believe you made me get kicked out of the pillow store," you say, still giggling.
"We weren't kicked out. We left voluntarily."
"From a look. A single look, by the way."
"It was a very powerful look," you insist, and he's smiling again, that same soft smile that makes your chest feel warm.
You find a seating area near Gate 52 and collapse into the chairs, your legs grateful for the rest.
You've been walking for over two hours now, and the terminal is starting to blur together.
"Okay, people-watching time," you announce, settling into your seat. "It's a crucial airport activity."
"Is there a scoring system?" Sunghoon asks, and you're delighted that he's playing along.
"Obviously. We rate based on outfit creativity, luggage situation, and overall vibe."
"You know, like... are they giving 'stressed business person' or 'excited vacationer' or 'I haven't slept in three days'?"
Sunghoon nods seriously. "Ah, yes, I agree. Those are important distinctions."
You spend the next thirty minutes creating elaborate backstories for passing travelers.
The woman in the purple suit is definitely a spy.
The man with seven carry-ons is either moving his entire life or has a serious problem with commitment.
The teenager with the skateboard is running away to join a circus, obviously.
"What about them?" Sunghoon asks, nodding toward a young couple who are asleep on each other, the girl's head on the guy's shoulder.
"Hmm. College sweethearts. They're going to visit his family for the first time and she's nervous, so he's been telling her jokes all morning to calm her down. He's not even that funny, but she laughs anyway because she loves him."
When you look over at Sunghoon, he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read. "That's very specific," he says quietly.
"I might've missed my calling as a novelist," you joke, but something in the air feels different now, charged.
"What about us?" he asks. "If someone was watching us, what would they think?"
You consider this, looking at the two of you objectively. "Hmm. Probably that we're friends who travel together a lot. Or maybe coworkers on a business trip who actually like each other, which is rare."
"Not strangers who met a few hours ago?"
"Do we seem like strangers?"
He thinks about this. "No," he says finally. "We don't."
Somehow, impossibly, it feels like you've known him longer than a few hours.
The conversation is easy, natural, punctuated by comfortable silences that don't feel awkward at all. He's opened up gradually, his initial shyness giving way to dry humor and thoughtful observations.
You've noticed things about him, like the way he tilts his head when he's thinking, how he fidgets with his phone case when he's listening, the small smile he gets when something genuinely amuses him.
"You're cute," you say without thinking, and then immediately want to take it back because his eyes go wide and his ears turn that endearing shade of pink again.
"Sorry, I just mean like… you remind me of my best friend from college. She was super introverted when we first met, and wouldn't really talk to anyone. But once she got comfortable, she was hilarious and sweet and just... yeah. You remind me of her."
"Oh," Sunghoon says, and you can't tell if he's relieved or disappointed. "That's... thank you?"
"It's a compliment," you assure him. "She's one of my favorite people in the world."
He nods, looking down at his hands. "I'm not usually good at this. Talking to people I don't know. But you make it easy."
“Woah there,” you say, trying to act surprised despite the amusement in your voice.
Your heart does that weird flip thing again. "You make it easy too."
By the time early evening rolls around, you've covered what feels like every square foot of the airport.
You've browsed duty-free shops, tested massage chairs, taken photos in front of a weird modern art installation that neither of you understand, and discovered a quiet observation deck that overlooks the runways.
The rain has finally stopped, leaving everything wet and gleaming.
The sky is starting to clear, streaks of orange and pink breaking through the gray.
"It's so pretty," you say, watching the sunset paint the clouds.
"Very," Sunghoon agrees, but when you glance over, he's looking at you instead of the sky.
You feel your cheeks warm and quickly look away. "Should we find dinner? I'm starving."
The food court is crowded, but you manage to find a table after ordering from different vendors — you get Thai food, he gets Korean.
You end up sharing, pushing your plates to the middle of the table and swapping bites.
"This is really good," Sunghoon says, trying your pad thai.
"Right? Here, try this too." You offer him a spring roll, and he leans forward to take a bite, your fingers nearly brushing his lips.
The moment feels oddly intimate, and you're suddenly very aware of how close you're sitting, how his knee is almost touching yours under the table.
"What about this?" He holds up a piece of bulgogi with his chopsticks, offering it to you.
You lean in and take it, and the flavor explodes on your tongue — sweet, savory, and perfect. "Oh my god, that's amazing."
"My mom's recipe," he says, and there's pride in his voice. "Well, the restaurant's version. But it tastes like home."
"You must miss it," you say. "Home, I mean. With all the traveling."
"Sometimes." He's quiet for a moment. "But sometimes it's easier to be away. Less pressure, you know? I can just be... me."
You understand that more than you want to admit. "Yep, I get that."
The conversation drifts to families, to the expectations placed on you both, to the ways you've tried to carve out your own paths while still honoring where you came from.
It's deeper than you expected, more vulnerable, and you're grateful for it, for him, for this incredibly unexpected connection.
"Can I ask you something?" Sunghoon says as you're finishing your food.
"Do you believe in fate? Like, things happening for a reason?"
You think about this, about the trolley cart and the spilled pie and the countless hours you've spent in this airport.
"I don't know," you say honestly. "I think I believe in moments. Like, maybe everything is random, but some moments matter more than others. They change things."
"Yeah," he says softly. "I think so too."
The airport gets quieter as night deepens. Shops start closing, lights dimming.
You and Sunghoon find yourselves wandering again, drawn to the movement even though you're both exhausted.
"My feet are going to file a formal complaint," you announce, and Sunghoon laughs.
"There's a seating area up ahead," he says. "We could rest for a bit."
You collapse onto the padded bench with a dramatic sigh. "I'm never walking again. I'm going to live here now. This is my home."
"This specific bench. I'm going to set up a little camp. Maybe get some plants."
Sunghoon sits next to you, closer than necessary given how much space there is. "What about food?"
"I'll forage from the food court. Live off of abandoned french fries and coffee."
He's smiling at you again, that soft look that makes you feel like you're the only person in the entire airport.
You smile back, and for a moment, you just look at each other.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"For today. For making this delay actually... nice."
"Are you saying you enjoyed being trapped in an airport for twelve hours?"
"I'm saying I enjoyed being trapped in an airport with you for twelve hours."
There's something in his eyes, something tender and open that makes your heart race.
You're suddenly very aware of how close he is, how easy it would be to just lean in a little, to close the distance between you.
Instead, you bump his shoulder with yours, keeping it light. "Well, you're pretty good company yourself, Park Sunghoon."
He bumps you back, gentle. "Yeah?"
You sit there for a while, watching the few remaining travelers pass by, the airport settling into its late-night rhythm.
Sunghoon tells you about his students, about the little girl who insists on wearing a tutu over her skating dress, about the teenage boy who's going to the Olympics next year.
You tell him about the manuscript you're editing, about the author who sends you recipes with every chapter, about your dream of maybe writing something yourself someday.
"You should," he says. "Write something, I mean. You're good at stories."
"Making up backstories for strangers isn't the same as writing a book."
"Maybe not. But you see people. Really see them. That's super important, you know."
You don't know what to say to that, so you just lean your head on his shoulder.
He goes still for a moment, then relaxes, letting you rest against him.
"Yeah," he says, and his voice is soft. "This is okay."
You must doze off because the next thing you know, Sunghoon is gently shaking your shoulder.
"Hey," he says. "It's almost one. We should probably move around a bit."
You sit up, disoriented and a little embarrassed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep on you."
"It's fine." He stands and stretches, and you notice the way his shirt rides up slightly, revealing a strip of skin. You quickly look away.
"Want to walk some more? Wake up a bit?" he says, running a hand through his hair.
The airport is almost eerie now, most of the shops closed and shuttered, the crowds thinned to almost nothing.
Your footsteps echo on the tile floor.
It feels like you're the only two people in the world.
"I'm getting hungry again," you admit. "Is that weird? We ate like three hours ago."
"It's almost two in the morning. The normal rules don't apply."
You find a 24-hour convenience store still open and browse the limited options.
You grab chips and chocolate, he gets a energy drink and two protein bars.
At the register, you notice a small display of instant noodles.
"Oh, wait." You grab two cups. "We need these."
"Do we need instant noodles?"
"It's an airport tradition. Eating questionable food at unreasonable hours."
He doesn't argue, just adds them to the pile.
You find a small seating area with a hot water dispenser and make your noodles, the smell of artificial flavoring filling the air. It shouldn't be good, but somehow, at 1:47 AM in an airport, it's perfect.
"This is kind of terrible," you say, slurping your noodles.
"Yeah," Sunghoon agrees, doing the same. "But also kind of great?"
"The duality of instant noodles."
You're both laughing, tired and a little slaphappy, and it feels good.
After you finish, you keep wandering, drawn by some unspoken agreement to keep moving, to stretch out these last hours.
You find a small shop that's somehow still open, selling fresh-made dumplings and buns.
"Oh, we have to get some," you say, already heading to the counter.
"Didn't we just eat noodles?"
"That was at least twenty minutes ago. I'm a growing girl."
He laughs and follows you towards the stall.
You order pork dumplings, he gets beef. When they arrive, steaming and perfect, you find a quiet corner to eat them.
"These are so good," you moan around a mouthful of dumpling. "Why is airport food at 2 AM better than it has any right to be?"
"I believe everything tastes better when you're sleep-deprived," Sunghoon says, but he's smiling.
You're about to take another bite when he reaches over with his chopsticks, offering you one of his dumplings.
You lean forward and take it, and the flavor is incredible, rich and savory, the beef perfectly seasoned. "Oh wow, that's amazing."
"I remembered," he says quietly. "Earlier, you said you were an absolute sucker for beef."
You freeze, the dumpling suddenly feeling very significant.
He listened to some throwaway comment you made hours ago and remembered.
"Sunghoon," you start, but you're not sure what you want to say.
He's looking at you with those dark eyes, soft and warm and full of something you're afraid to name.
The dumpling sits between you, this small gesture that feels enormous.
"Thank you," you finally say. "That's... really sweet."
He smiles, a little shy, and offers you another one. You take it, and this time, your fingers brush his. Neither of you pulls away.
You finish the dumplings slowly, savoring each bite, the silence between you comfortable and charged all at once.
When you're done, you check your phone and see that it's nearly 2 AM.
"I should probably head back to my gate," you say reluctantly. "Check on my flight status."
"Sure, go ahead," Sunghoon says. "I’ll do the same."
But neither of you moves.
"This was really nice," you say. "Today, I mean. All of it. I'm glad my luggage cart attacked you."
He laughs softly. "I'm glad too."
"Maybe..." you hesitate, then push forward. "Maybe we could exchange numbers? Stay in touch?"
Something flickers across his face — hope, maybe, or longing. "I'd like that."
You pull out your phone, but before you can open your contacts, an announcement blares over the speakers: "Attention, all passengers on flight 1009 to Osaka, now boarding at Gate 67. Final boarding call for flight 1009."
Sunghoon's head snaps up. "What the, that's my flight."
"What the? But I thought—"
"They must have moved it up." He's already standing, gathering his things. "I have to go, the gate is on the other side of the terminal."
"Wait, let me just—" You're fumbling with your phone, trying to pull up your contact info, but he's already moving.
"I'm sorry," he says, and he looks genuinely distressed. "I have to run or I'll miss it."
But he's already jogging away, his bag bouncing against his hip.
You watch him disappear into the crowd of late-night travelers, and just like that, he's gone.
You stand there for a long moment, your phone still in your hand, the contact screen still open and empty.
Around you, the airport continues its endless cycle, people coming and going, connections made and broken.
Slowly, you make your way back to your own gate.
Your flight is still delayed, won't board for another two hours at least.
You find a seat and sit down, feeling the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with you.
Your bag is at your feet, and when you reach down to adjust it, you notice something tucked into the outside pocket. A piece of paper, folded small.
With shaking hands, you pull it out and unfold it.
The handwriting is neat, careful. Just two words, but they hit you like a physical force:
Take care of yourself, Y/N ♡ with all my gratitude, Sunghoon ◡̈
You read it again. And again.
Words that mean goodbye, that mean thank you, that mean I'll remember this, I'll remember you.
You fold the note carefully and tuck it into your wallet, right next to your ticket home.
Outside the windows, the sky is still swallowed in darkness, heavy and still, with only the faintest hint of light beginning to press against the horizon.
Maybe you'll see him again.
Maybe fate or chance or whatever force brought you together in this airport will bring you together again.
Maybe the red string is real, and it's just stretched tight right now, waiting for the right moment to pull you back to each other.
Or maybe this was it, one perfect day, one unexpected connection, one person who reminded you that strangers can become something more in the span of nineteen hours.
You don't know. You can't know.
But as you sit there, watching the world stay wrapped in deep night, everything quiet and shadowed, as if the sky is holding its breath — you realize you’re okay with that.
If it's meant to be, it'll be.
And if not, you'll always have this, the memory of tiramisu and laughter, of walking miles through an airport, of a boy with a soft smile who fed you dumplings early in the morning and remembered that you loved beef.
You'll have the note, five words in careful handwriting.
Take care of yourself, Y/N ♡
Somehow, that's slightly enough.
It doesn’t feel like goodbye, just distance stretching gently between two moments.
Still, you think — thank you, stranger.
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