✧✎ synopsis: seungcheol's gotten used to living alone. he's turning a new leaf. closing doors but opening windows. taking life one day at a time. however, he's also learned a window left open lets in many things. a voiceless girl, for instance, unconscious and tattered on his step.
pairing: fem!reader x seungcheol
teaser word count: 526
actual word count: 80k
genres/tropes: widower!seungcheol + he's a retired private investigator + jeonghan/joshua are a couple bc i can't write anything without making people gay + original characters + an attempt at mystery (ooOOuuUU) + time travel!au + gets a bit sci-fi down the line but it's not overbearing + slowburn obviously + romance + very angsty so pls read the warnings! + some intense action scenes + comfort/fluff + smut
(!) warnings: PLEASE READDD PLEASUHHH > multiple mentions of character death + grief of losing a loved one + a side character's suicide is brought up various times + a particular character is a PHYSICAL ABUSER (scenes are not at all frequent but the moment is indeed graphic) + use of knives and a gun + gets quite bloody/gorey at a certain point + one instance of homophobia + mature language
✧✎ a/n: a shorter teaser than usual but i think it sticks the landing for the premise of the fanfic! this is quite a loaded series and may be very triggering for certain readers. if you skip this one, no hard feelings!
pls take care 🥰 i love you! xoxooxox
anywho, i don't know why, but i rly wanted to write something 'serious' for scoups. i think a lot of readers look to him for solace? he commonly plays a protective role so i wanted to try my hand at characterizing that while still allowing the reader to have her moments.
SO I HOPE YOU ENJOY 😀
important bullets:
chapter releases are every saturday at ~10pm EST
msg/dm/inbox me to be added to the taglist
the series is split into 5 chapters
majority is told from scoups pov!
PLEASE NOTE: i block contentless blogs who interact with my posts! if you like something, pls let the poster know 🫶
POST-JUMP.
When your eyes opened, you saw disorienting blackness. The fuzzy, twisted branches of trees slashing through a whole moon so blurry it seemed spilt. When your hand shifted, you felt the grit roll underneath. When your nose twitched, you smelled cold air overlapped by a receding burnt odour. It may have been an hour. Maybe two. Where you just lied on the grainy ground, watching the spilt-milk moon, knowing nothing about who you were, where you were, why you were there. You weren’t even sure if you were alive, although, every now and then, a breeze would whisper against your temples, stir your baby hairs.
Maybe you weren’t incorporeal.
Maybe you were… something. One breath from human.
And then it happened. A trenchant sizzle in your neck. It felt so hot and searing it was reminiscent of a bullet wound, had your fully-cognizant-self had to guess what a bullet wound might feel like. You shot up from the grit you were pancaked against, grabbing the side of your neck where the electric pain pulsed. At that moment, every limb, every bone, every muscle in your body seemed to brittlely crack at once, like a handful of dry twigs snapping between strong hands. Alone, under a nimbus sky, along a deadbeat path, you tried to scream. But it was the thinnest, wispiest trail of your failing voice, then, absolutely nothing.
Not one word.
Not one groan or a rumble.
It almost seemed mythological. Your voice suddenly stolen, stored somewhere, left swirling around discordantly in a spell-guarded jar. You tried to stand, but your body ignored whatever effort you willed. An ache with the same depth as hell itself charged through you and it took a moment of only soft breathing before you worked yourself up again.
Promptly, you began to crawl across the dirt and grit, wincing and dry-coughing, feeling the fabric of your clothes snag and tear. You didn’t know where to go, who to go to. You didn’t know fucking anything.
But you knew your body had reached something much more comfortable than that absent pathway. Your eyes squinched as you pulled the little sprigs between your fingers, smelling of petrichor and minerals. Your cheek collapsed and you laid there, hand tangled in what you had tried to place as grass. Maybe another hour went by.
Wind blew over your body.
Wriggled the singed tails of your clothing like you were something abandoned. A lost flyer. A stuck kite. A shiny wrapper.
The urge built quietly under the moonlight.
And the next time you moved, it was with intent.
You managed a very staggered, dilapidated walk, making it your mission to reach that tall, black pole with yellow light agleam and uncannily solar from the top. The pole was ice cold as you leaned your cheek against it, your dirty fingertips brushing over its rusting, flaked surface until you caught your next wind of fight. You followed the lights one after the other, using them as a goldlit pathway to nowhere, until your neck ferociously crackled again and your knees wobbled.
All your oil had been burned off.
So you collapsed onto an uncomfortable stoop, curling into yourself for warmth, ignoring the chewing discomfort, the aches, the pain.
She watched the droplets race down the window, her reflection distorted in the streaked glass. The restaurant was warm, almost suffocatingly so, with its dim amber lighting and the soft murmur of couples leaning across candlelit tables. Valentine’s Day. The most romantic day of the year, they said. She’d worn the black dress he liked, the one with the delicate straps that always made him smile that particular smile, soft at the edges, devastating in its sincerity.
Her phone sat face-up on the white tablecloth: 7:47 PM.
He was seventeen minutes late.
Not that she was counting. Except she was. She was always counting these days. The minutes he was late, the hours between texts, the days since he’d really looked at her with that attention she craved like oxygen. She’d become a mathematician of absence, calculating the distance between them in units of time and silence.
She told herself it was traffic. Seoul on Valentine’s Day was a nightmare of flower deliveries and last-minute gift runs, everyone desperate to prove their love in the span of twenty-four hours. Mingyu would be weaving through it all right now, probably cursing under his breath, that little crease appearing between his eyebrows the way it always did when he was frustrated. She could picture it so clearly. His long fingers gripping the steering wheel, his jaw tight, his eyes flicking to the clock on the dashboard.
I’m sorry, he would say when he arrived. Traffic was insane.
And she would smile and say, It’s okay, because it always was. Because she had built a home in the spaces between his apologies and arrivals, furnished it with understanding and patience and a love that had learned to wait.
The waiter approached for the third time, his professional smile starting to fray at the corners. “Would you like to order some wine while you wait?”
“Just water, please,” she said, and her voice came out steadier than she felt.
He nodded and retreated, and she was alone again with her reflection and the rain and the couples who had arrived on time, who were already sharing appetizers and laughing at private jokes. A woman two tables over fed her date a forkful of something creamy, and he closed his eyes as if it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Such a simple gesture. Such uncomplicated affection.
Her phone buzzed.
Almost there. 5 minutes. I’m so sorry.
Five minutes. The same five minutes he’d promised twenty minutes ago. The same five minutes that had been stretching and contracting like elastic for the past three months, ever since something between them had shifted. Subtle as a change in air pressure, but just as unmistakable.
She typed back: Okay. I’m by the window.
As if he wouldn’t know. As if he hadn’t made this reservation himself, hadn’t specifically requested the table by the window because she loved watching the city lights reflect off the rain-slicked streets. Or at least, he used to know these things. Used to remember.
The truth was settling in her chest like sediment, heavy and undeniable: she wasn’t sure anymore what he knew about her, what version of her still lived in his mind. The one who waited by windows? The one who wore black dresses and ordered water instead of wine because she wanted to be completely present when he finally arrived? Or some older version, frozen in amber, back when waiting felt like anticipation instead of dread?
7:52 PM.
Outside, a couple hurried past under a shared umbrella, their laughter visible even through the rain. The woman’s heels splashed through puddles, and the man pulled her closer, sacrificing his own shoulder to the downpour to keep her dry. She watched them disappear around the corner and felt something crack inside her chest, not breaking, just fracturing along old, invisible fault lines.
She and Mingyu had been that couple once. Three years ago, maybe four. Time had a way of blurring when you measured it in moments instead of months. They’d shared an umbrella in rain just like this, and he’d given her his jacket even though she’d protested, even though he was already shivering. He’d kissed her at a crosswalk while they waited for the light to change, tasted like coffee and rain and something ineffable she’d tried to name a thousand times since but never could.
Back then, they’d had conversations that lasted until sunrise, sprawled on his apartment floor with take-out containers scattered around them like offerings. He’d told her about his childhood, his fears, his dreams of building something meaningful with his life. She’d shared her secrets too, the ones she’d never told anyone else. Her insecurities, her ambitions, the specific way loneliness felt in a crowded room. They’d known each other in a way that felt sacred, irreplaceable.
When had they stopped talking like that? When had their conversations become logistics and small talk, weather reports and dinner plans? She couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment. It had been gradual, like watching a photograph fade in sunlight—imperceptible day by day, but devastating over time.
This, she’d thought then. This is it.
And maybe it had been. Maybe that was the problem. She’d found her it and built her life around it, while he’d kept searching, kept wondering if there was something more, something else, something beyond the edges of what they’d created together.
The waiter returned with her water, and she thanked him with a smile that felt like a performance. She was good at this now, at pretending everything was fine. At work, her colleagues had no idea. Her friends suspected, maybe, but she’d gotten skilled at deflection, at changing subjects and laughing at the right moments. Only her sister knew, and even then, she’d only admitted it once, late at night over too much wine: I think I’m losing him.
Her sister had said, Then let him go.
But how do you let go of someone who’s still holding on, just not tightly enough? How do you leave someone who hasn’t technically done anything wrong, who still says “I love you” before bed and occasionally brings home her favorite pastries, who just feels further away every day despite sleeping in the same bed?
7:56 PM.
Her phone buzzed again.
2 minutes. Promise.
She stared at the word: Promise. How many promises had they made to each other? Big ones about futures and forevers, small ones about dinner plans and weekend trips. Lately, it felt like they were drowning in broken promises neither of them acknowledged, tiptoeing around the debris of good intentions.
She remembered the promise he’d made six months ago, after the first time she’d told him she felt distant from him. They’d been in their apartment, the one they’d moved into together with such hope, such certainty. She’d stood in the kitchen, their kitchen, with the mismatched mugs they’d collected from different trips and the herb garden she could never quite keep alive, and told him she felt like she was disappearing. That she’d look at him across the dinner table and wonder if he even saw her anymore.
He’d held her face in his hands, those beautiful, careful hands, and promised to do better, to be more present, to fight for them. His eyes had been so sincere, wet with tears he refused to let fall. “You’re everything to me,” he’d said. “I’m sorry I made you doubt that.”
And he had, for a while. A few weeks of concentrated effort: earlier arrivals, longer conversations, weekend plans that actually happened. But then work got busy again. His friends needed him. His family called. Life intervened, the way it always does, and she became optional again. Not unloved, just… less essential.
The rain was coming down harder now, drumming against the window like it was trying to tell her something. She thought about all the movies and books that romanticized waiting—the loyal girlfriend keeping vigil, the dramatic reunion, the kiss in the rain that made it all worthwhile. But real waiting wasn’t romantic. Real waiting was her dress feeling tighter around her ribs with each breath, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for her water glass, the growing certainty that something was ending and had perhaps already ended, that she was just the last to know.
7:58 PM.
She saw him before he saw her.
Mingyu burst through the restaurant door like a storm himself. Soaked despite his jacket, hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving. He looked frantic, scanning the room, and when his eyes found hers, his whole body seemed to sag with relief.
He was beautiful. God, he was still so beautiful it hurt.
He weaved through the tables, apologizing to a waiter he nearly collided with, and she watched him approach with a strange sense of detachment, as if she were watching a scene in a film she’d seen before, already knowing how it ended.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching the table. His voice was breathless, desperate. “Traffic was—there was an accident on the bridge, and I couldn’t call because my phone was dying, and I—”
“It’s okay,” she said. The words automatic. Muscle memory.
He collapsed into the chair across from her, running a hand through his wet hair. Water droplets scattered across the tablecloth. “I feel terrible. I know I’m late, I know I promised—”
“Mingyu.” She said his name quietly, and something in her tone made him stop. Made him really look at her for the first time since he’d sat down.
The rain continued outside. Inside, a couple at the next table was celebrating something. An anniversary, maybe, or an engagement. Their joy felt intrusive, discordant.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and she could see the concern in his eyes. He did care. That was the worst part. He genuinely cared, just not enough. Just not the way she needed him to.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly.
He reached for her hand across the table, and she let him take it, let his fingers intertwine with hers. His hand was cold from the rain, and she wanted to warm it the way she always had, but something stopped her. Some final act of self-preservation.
“What’s wrong?” He squeezed her hand gently. “Talk to me.”
And there it was, the painful irony. He was asking her to talk, to communicate, to bridge the gap between them, when the gap itself was made of all the conversations they’d stopped having, all the words that had piled up unsaid.
“How long were you actually running?” she asked instead.
He blinked, confused by the question. “What?”
“Just now. To get here. How long were you running?”
“I… I don’t know. Five minutes, maybe? From where I parked. Why?”
Five minutes. He had run for five minutes through the rain to get to her. Five minutes of effort after twenty-two minutes of being late. And somehow, that seemed to encapsulate everything wrong between them, these short bursts of trying, surrounded by vast expanses of not quite caring enough.
“Do you love me?” The question fell out of her mouth before she could stop it.
His grip on her hand tightened. “Of course I do. You know I do.”
“Do I?”
“What kind of question is that?” He looked genuinely hurt, and she felt guilty for a moment, felt the old instinct to backtrack, to soothe, to make it easier for him.
But she was tired. So tired of making things easier.
“I waited for you,” she said. “I’m always waiting for you.”
“I know, and I’m sorry, I said I’m sorry—”
“I don’t mean tonight.” She pulled her hand back, needed the space to think clearly. “I mean… in general. I’m always waiting for you to have time, to be present, to choose me. And you do, sometimes. But it feels like I’m always hoping for someday instead of being enough for today.”
Mingyu sat back in his chair, and she watched the understanding dawn on his face, followed quickly by defensiveness. “That’s not fair. I have a demanding job, you know that. I’m doing my best—”
“Are you?”
The question hung between them like the rain hung in the air outside, inevitable, inescapable.
“I work hard so we can have a future,” he said, his voice rising slightly. The couple at the next table glanced over. “So we can afford the life we want. I’m doing this for us.”
“I never asked for that.” Her voice was steady now, calm with the clarity that comes from finally saying something you’ve been thinking for too long. “I never asked you to sacrifice us for some hypothetical future. I just wanted you here, now, present.”
“I am here.”
“You’re twenty-two minutes late.”
“And I apologized! What more do you want from me?”
Everything, she thought. Nothing. Something in between. She wanted the version of him that used to notice when she was sad before she said anything. The one who left work early to surprise her with picnics in the park. The one who looked at her like she was the most interesting thing in any room.
She wanted the man she’d fallen in love with, and she was sitting across from someone who wore his face but felt like a stranger.
“I want you to want to be here,” she said finally. “Not because it’s Valentine’s Day, or because you made a reservation, or because it’s what couples do. I want you to want me the way I want you.”
His jaw worked, and she could see him trying to find the right words, the ones that would fix this. But there were no right words, and they both knew it. You can’t logic your way into feeling something you don’t feel.
“I do want you,” he said, but it sounded hollow. “I love you.”
“I know you do.” And she did know it, could see it in the way he was looking at her now, desperate and lost. “But I don’t think you’re in love with me anymore. Not really.”
“That’s not true—”
“When was the last time you told me something real? Not about work, or surface stuff, but something that mattered to you?”
He opened his mouth, closed it. Thought. The silence stretched.
“Exactly,” she said softly.
“That doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
“No. But it means we’re not really together, are we? We’re just… existing in the same space. Going through the motions.”
The waiter approached tentatively, and Mingyu waved him off without looking. The poor man retreated quickly, probably relieved to avoid whatever was happening at table seven.
“What are you saying?” Mingyu’s voice was small now, afraid.
She looked at him, really looked at him. At the face she’d kissed a thousand times, memorized in different lights and moods and moments. At the man she’d built dreams around, carved her future to fit his shape. And she felt the love, still there, still real, but buried under so much disappointment and loneliness that it could barely breathe.
“I’m saying I can’t keep waiting,” she said. “I can’t keep hoping you’ll come back to me when I’m not even sure you know you left.”
“I never left.” He leaned forward urgently. “I’m right here.”
“No, you’re not. Not in any way that matters.”
His eyes were starting to shine, and she realized with a jolt that he might cry. In three years, she’d seen him cry exactly twice. Once at his grandfather’s funeral, once during a particularly emotional film. The tears made him look younger, more vulnerable, and she felt her resolve waver.
“We can fix this,” he said. “I’ll do better. I’ll—”
“You already promised that. Six months ago, remember?”
He did remember. She could see it in his face.
“I meant it then.”
“I know you did. But meaning it isn’t enough. Following through is what matters, and you didn’t. You can’t. And I don’t think it’s because you’re a bad person or because you don’t care. I think it’s because this—us—isn’t your priority anymore. Maybe it hasn’t been for a while.”
“You’re my priority—”
“I’m your obligation.” The words were gentle but firm. “There’s a difference.”
Outside, the rain was starting to ease. The sky was still dark, but the fury had passed, leaving only a steady, melancholic drizzle. She thought about how rain always does this—builds to a crescendo and then fades, leaving everything damp and changed.
“What if I try harder?” Mingyu’s voice broke on the last word. “What if I prove to you—”
“I don’t want you to have to try so hard to love me the way I need to be loved. It should be easier than this. And the fact that it’s not… that tells me everything I need to know.”
She could see him grasping for arguments, for logic, for anything to change the trajectory of this conversation. But they were past logic now, in the territory of feelings that couldn’t be debated or reasoned away.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, and the rawness in his voice almost broke her.
“I don’t want to lose you either. But I think we already lost each other somewhere along the way. We just haven’t admitted it yet.”
“So that’s it? You’re just giving up?”
The accusation in his tone sparked something in her. Not anger, exactly, but a firm sort of clarity.
“I’m not giving up. I’m accepting reality. There’s a difference.”
“The reality where you decide I don’t love you enough?”
“The reality where I deserve someone who doesn’t make me feel lonely even when we’re in the same room. Where I don’t spend my nights wondering if you’d notice if I disappeared. Where I don’t feel like I’m begging for scraps of attention from someone who’s supposed to be my partner.”
Her voice had risen slightly, and she caught herself, took a breath. The other diners were definitely pretending not to listen now.
“Is there someone else?” Mingyu asked suddenly, and she could see the fear in his eyes.
“No.” The answer was immediate and honest. “This isn’t about someone else. It’s about us. About the fact that we’re not working, and I don’t think we have been for a while.”
“We could go to therapy. Couples counseling or—”
“Mingyu.” She said his name with such finality that he stopped. “Do you really want to fight for this? Or do you just not want to be the bad guy who let it end?”
The question seemed to hit him like a physical blow. He sat back, and she watched him grapple with it, watched the truth work its way across his features.
“I…” He started, stopped. Started again. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then be honest with me. Please. Just this once, be completely honest.”
The silence that followed felt like standing at the edge of a cliff. She could see him wrestling with it, the truth he’d probably been avoiding even from himself.
“I love you,” he said finally, “but I think… I think I’m not in love with you the way you need me to be. The way you deserve.”
There it was. The thing they’d been dancing around for months, maybe longer. And hearing it out loud was both devastating and oddly relieving, like lancing a wound that had been festering.
“Thank you,” she said, “for being honest.”
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he continued, the words tumbling out now. “I don’t know when it changed, or why, I just… somewhere along the way, I think I got comfortable. And comfort turned into complacency, and I stopped trying because I thought you’d always be there. And that’s not fair to you. It’s not fair at all.”
She could see him clearly now, not the idealized version she’d been clinging to, but the actual person sitting across from her. Flawed, human, just as lost as she was in this relationship that had gradually become a cage for both of them.
“We both stayed too long,” she said. “I could feel it changing too, but I was so afraid of losing you that I convinced myself it was normal. That all couples go through rough patches. That if I just waited long enough, you’d come back to me.”
“I’m sorry I made you wait.”
“I’m sorry I let myself.”
They sat in the shared sadness of it, the mutual recognition that something precious had slipped through their fingers despite their best intentions. The restaurant hummed around them, full of people celebrating love, unaware of its quiet death at table seven.
“What happens now?” Mingyu asked.
She looked at him, this man she’d built a life with, shared a bed with, imagined growing old with. And she felt the future they’d planned together dissolve like sugar in rain.
“I think I need to move out,” she said. “It’s too hard to stay.”
He nodded slowly, accepting it. “When?”
“Soon. This week, maybe. I can stay with my sister while I look for a place.”
“You don’t have to rush—”
“I do.” She gave him a sad smile. “For both of us. Clean breaks heal better.”
“I don’t want you to remember me like this. Tonight, this… ending.”
“I won’t,” she promised. “I’ll remember the good parts too. There were so many good parts.”
And there had been. Three years of good parts, of laughter and inside jokes and lazy Sunday mornings. Of road trips and shared meals and the particular comfort of being known by someone. Those parts were real, even if they hadn’t been enough to sustain them.
“I really did love you,” he said. “I still do, in a way.”
“I know. I love you too. But love isn’t always enough, is it?”
“I guess not.”
The waiter approached again, and this time she nodded at him. “Just the check, please.”
“You didn’t even order anything,” Mingyu protested weakly.
“No. But we got what we came for.”
The waiter hurried away, and she realized they’d become that couple, the one having the breakup conversation in the Valentine’s Day restaurant, ruining the ambiance with their reality. She almost laughed at the absurdity of it.
“Can I ask you something?” Mingyu said.
“When did you know? That we were ending?”
She thought about it, scrolling through memories like photographs. “I think part of me knew months ago. But I didn’t let myself know it, if that makes sense. I kept making excuses, kept hoping. Tonight, sitting here waiting, watching the rain… I just couldn’t pretend anymore.”
“Because I was late.”
“Because you’re always late. Because I’m always waiting. Because I realized that five minutes of you running through the rain doesn’t make up for all the hours I’ve spent wondering if I matter to you.”
The check came, and they both reached for it. Old habit, muscle memory. Their hands touched, and she felt the familiar warmth of his skin, the way his fingers had once felt like home.
“I’ve got it,” he said quietly.
“Okay.”
He paid, and they sat for a moment longer, neither quite ready to stand up, to walk out of the restaurant and into whatever came next. The ending was here, inevitable as the rain, and all they could do was witness it.
“I don’t want to say goodbye,” Mingyu said.
“Then don’t. Not yet.” She stood up, smoothing down her dress. “Walk me to my car?”
He nodded, and they made their way through the restaurant together one last time. The other diners had lost interest in their drama, returned to their own celebrations. The world moved on, indifferent to their small tragedy.
Outside, the rain had stopped completely. The streets were slick and reflective, the city lights dancing on the wet pavement. The air smelled clean, new, like the earth after a storm.
Her car was parked two blocks away. They walked in silence, not touching, the space between them now acknowledged and honest. She thought about all the times they’d walked these streets together, hands linked, his jacket around her shoulders. Those people felt like strangers now, young, naive, convinced that love was enough.
At her car, she turned to face him. He looked lost, standing there in his damp jacket, his hair still messy from the rain and his frantic run. She wanted to smooth it down, the way she had a thousand times before, but she kept her hands at her sides.
“Take care of yourself,” she said.
“You too.”
They stood there, and she knew this was the moment—the one she’d remember, not the restaurant or the conversation, but this quiet goodbye on a rain-washed street. The moment where they both let go.
“Mingyu?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For the good parts. For the time we had. It mattered.”
His eyes were shining again. “It mattered to me too.”
She got in her car, started the engine. Through the windshield, she could see him standing there, hands in his pockets, watching her. She lifted her hand in a small wave, and he waved back.
Then she pulled away from the curb, into traffic, into whatever came next. In her rearview mirror, she watched him get smaller, until he disappeared around a corner.
The rain started again, light this time, just a mist. She turned on the wipers, and they moved in a steady rhythm. Back and forth, back and forth, clearing the view ahead.
Her phone buzzed in the cupholder. She glanced at it at a red light.
A text from her sister: How’s dinner?
She thought about how to answer, about trying to explain everything that had just happened in a text message. But some things were too big for summary, too complicated for quick explanation.
On my way to yours, she typed instead. I’ll tell you everything when I get there.
The light turned green. She pressed on the gas.
And as she drove through the city, past the restaurants full of couples, past the flower shops closing up for the night, past all the Valentine’s Day decorations that suddenly seemed garish and false, she felt something unexpected: not happiness, exactly, but something close to it. A lightness. A sense of possibility.
For three years, she’d been waiting. For him to come home, to pay attention, to choose her, to be present. She’d built a life around waiting, around hoping, around making herself smaller to fit into the spaces he left available.
But she was done waiting now.
The road stretched ahead, wet and gleaming in the headlights. She didn’t know where it led, couldn’t see around the curves and corners. For the first time in years, her future was uncertain, unplanned, unshared.
And somehow, that felt like freedom.
She thought about Mingyu, wondered if he was still standing on that corner or if he’d made his way back to his car, back to the apartment that would feel different now, charged with absence. She hoped he’d be okay. Hoped they’d both be okay, eventually.
The rain came down harder, and she turned the wipers up. They couldn’t quite keep up with the deluge, and her vision blurred at the edges, the city lights smearing into abstract patterns.
But she kept driving forward, through the rain, toward her sister’s place, toward the unknown.
And she didn’t look back.
Later that night, curled up on her sister’s couch with a cup of tea she wasn’t drinking, she would tell the whole story. Her sister would hold her while she cried, not the dramatic sobs she’d expected, but quiet tears for the death of what might have been. They would talk until dawn, processing and grieving. Her sister would say all the right things, would promise her that time would heal this wound, that she’d find someone who would choose her every day without hesitation.
But for now, in this moment between the end and whatever came after, she existed in a strange liminal space. She thought about all the versions of herself she’d been in this relationship, the giddy girl who’d fallen in love with his laugh, the woman who’d moved into his apartment with boxes full of hope, the increasingly hollow person who’d learned to make herself small enough to fit into the corners of his life. Which one was she now? Who would she be without him?
The questions didn’t scare her quite as much as she honestly thought they would anymore. Maybe she was still too numb for fear, or maybe there was something like relief buried underneath all the grief and sadness.
But in her car, driving through the Valentine’s Day rain, she existed in a strange in-between space, no longer part of a we, not yet comfortable as just I. The relationship was over, but its ghost would linger for months in old habits and phantom phone calls, in inside jokes she’d almost share before remembering there was no one to share them with.
Love, she was learning, doesn’t end cleanly. It lingers.
It lingers in the coffee maker he’d bought, in the drawer full of his t-shirts she’d slept in, in the way she still reached for two mugs in the morning before remembering. It lingers in songs and streets and the particular slant of afternoon light that used to make her think of him.
It would linger for a while, this ache, this absence, this proof that what they’d had was real even if it wasn’t enough.
But eventually, she knew, even the lingering would fade. The ghost would grow transparent, then invisible. She would build a life that didn’t include him, fill the spaces he’d occupied with new dreams and different hopes.
She would learn to be whole without him.
The thought didn’t comfort her yet, but someday it would.
For now, she just drove through the rain, the wipers keeping imperfect time, her heart breaking and mending and breaking again with each breath.
And in the distance, if she listened carefully past the sound of rain and traffic and her own thundering pulse, she could almost hear it: the first quiet note of a new beginning.
single dad choi seungcheol ll uncle kim mingyu ll uncle joshua hong ll uncle kwon soonyoung
The apartment was chaos incarnate at four in the afternoon on New Year’s Eve.
“Eunji, where are your gloves?” Seungcheol called out, rummaging through the entryway basket for the third time. His daughter’s purple mittens had apparently vanished into the same void that claimed single socks and hair ties.
“I don’t know, Dad!” Eunji’s voice floated from her bedroom, muffled and distracted.
Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair, catching sight of his reflection in the hallway mirror. Dark circles shadowed his eyes—a permanent feature these days, courtesy of single parenthood and a demanding job. But today wasn’t about exhaustion. Today was about giving his seven-year-old daughter a New Year’s Eve she’d remember.
“Found them!” Mingyu emerged from the living room, triumphantly holding up the purple mittens. He was already wearing his own coat, a designer puffer jacket that probably cost more than Seungcheol’s monthly grocery budget. “Kkuma was sleeping on them.”
As if summoned, the white puppy trotted into the hallway, tail wagging, clearly hoping this gathering meant she was going somewhere exciting.
“Sorry, girl,” Seungcheol said, crouching to scratch behind her ears. “You’re staying home where it’s warm.”
Kkuma’s tail drooped, and Seungcheol felt a pang of guilt. He left her with fresh water, extra treats, and her favorite blanket before straightening up to face the chaos again.
Joshua appeared from the kitchen, calmly sipping tea while surveying the scene with amusement. “We’re supposed to leave in fifteen minutes,” he observed mildly.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Seungcheol muttered, checking his watch. The reservation Mingyu had somehow secured at a restaurant overlooking Times Square was for seven o’clock. Getting there early was crucial if they wanted any chance of navigating the crowds.
“Where’s Soonyoung?”
“Bathroom,” Mingyu supplied. “He’s been in there for twenty minutes. I think he’s doing his hair.”
“His hair looks the same every day!”
“Uncle Mingyu, can you help me with my coat?” Eunji emerged from her room, dragging a puffy pink jacket that made her look like a tiny marshmallow. Her dark hair was pulled into two pigtails, and she wore a headband with sparkly “2026” written across it.
“Come here, princess,” Mingyu said, kneeling down. He helped her into the coat with surprising gentleness for someone so tall and generally clumsy. “Are you excited?”
“So excited!” Eunji bounced on her toes. “I’ve never seen the ball drop in person before!”
“It’s going to be crowded,” Seungcheol warned, though he couldn’t help smiling at her enthusiasm. “You have to stay close to us, okay? No running off.”
“I know, Dad.” Eunji rolled her eyes with all the exasperation a seven-year-old could muster. “You’ve told me like a million times.”
“Because it’s important. There will be thousands of people—”
“Hundreds of thousands,” Joshua corrected, still sipping his tea.
Seungcheol shot him a look. “Not helping.”
The bathroom door finally opened, and Soonyoung emerged, his hair indeed looking exactly the same as always. “Ready!”
“Just checking.” Seungcheol pulled on his own coat, a practical navy blue number that had seen better years. “Let’s go before we’re late.”
They filed out of the apartment building into the biting December air. The sun was already beginning its descent, painting the New York sky in shades of orange and pink. Seungcheol automatically reached for Eunji’s hand, and she took it without complaint.
The subway station was predictably packed. Seungcheol kept Eunji close, one hand on her shoulder as they navigated through the turnstiles. Mingyu, for all his height, somehow managed to trip over his own feet, stumbling into Joshua.
“Careful!” Joshua steadied him, laughing. “We haven’t even gotten to the crowds yet.”
“My feet are too big,” Mingyu complained, though he was grinning.
Soonyoung was already bouncing with energy, despite the fact they hadn’t even gotten on the train yet. “This is going to be epic. I can feel it.”
The train arrived with a mechanical groan, and they squeezed inside. Seungcheol positioned himself so Eunji was safely tucked between him and the door, away from the press of bodies. Mingyu and Joshua stood nearby, while Soonyoung somehow found a seat and immediately offered it to Eunji.
“Thanks, Uncle Soonyoung!” She climbed up, her feet dangling several inches above the floor.
The train lurched forward, and Mingyu grabbed a pole to steady himself. “So, I got us a table right by the window,” he said proudly. “Best view in the house.”
“How much did that cost?” Seungcheol asked suspiciously.
“Don’t worry about it.” Mingyu waved a hand dismissively. “Early Christmas present.”
“Christmas was six days ago.”
“Late Christmas present, then. Come on, Cheol. Let us spoil Eunji a little.”
Seungcheol wanted to argue, but he knew it was pointless. His friends had been helping him with Eunji since his ex-wife left three years ago, disappearing to pursue a career opportunity in London and leaving Seungcheol with sole custody and a daughter who’d cried herself to sleep for months. They’d been there through every hard moment, every doubt, every small victory. If Mingyu wanted to drop too much money on a fancy dinner, who was Seungcheol to stop him?
“Thank you,” he said instead, and Mingyu’s grin widened.
They emerged from the subway into absolute pandemonium. Times Square on New Year’s Eve was a special kind of madness—a sea of people wearing silly hats, holding signs, wrapped in blankets and winter coats. The smell of roasted nuts and hot dogs filled the air, mixing with the sharp cold. Enormous digital screens blazed with advertisements and countdowns. The energy was electric.
“Whoa,” Eunji breathed, her eyes wide.
“Stay close,” Seungcheol reminded her, tightening his grip on her hand.
They began navigating through the crowd, moving as a unit. Joshua took point, his calm demeanor somehow parting the masses like Moses at the Red Sea. Soonyoung stuck close to Eunji’s other side, while Mingyu brought up the rear.
“Excuse us, coming through,” Joshua said politely, weaving through clusters of tourists taking selfies.
A vendor called out, offering light-up necklaces and noisemakers. Eunji turned to look, and Seungcheol felt her hand pull in that direction.
“After dinner,” he promised. “We’ll get you something sparkly.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
They made progress slowly. The restaurant was only three blocks from the subway station, but those three blocks felt like three miles. People were everywhere—standing, sitting, dancing, singing. Someone had brought a portable speaker and was blasting pop music. A group of teenagers were attempting to start a wave.
“This is insane,” Soonyoung said gleefully. “I love it!”
Mingyu suddenly stopped short, causing Joshua to bump into him. “Is that—oh man, they’re selling hot chocolate!”
“Mingyu, we’re going to dinner,” Seungcheol said.
“But hot chocolate!”
“After dinner.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m keeping us on schedule.”
They finally reached the restaurant, a sleek modern place with floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unobstructed view of the ball. A hostess in a black dress greeted them with a professional smile.
“Reservation for Kim,” Mingyu said.
She checked her tablet. “Right this way.”
The restaurant was already half-full, filled with couples and families dressed in their New Year’s best. Seungcheol suddenly felt self-conscious about their casual attire—Eunji in her puffy coat and sparkly headband, himself in jeans and a sweater, his friends in their various states of winter casual wear.
But the hostess didn’t bat an eye, leading them to a table right by the window, just as Mingyu had promised. The view was spectacular. They could see the famous ball, still unlit, hanging above the square. Below, the crowd had already swelled to an almost incomprehensible size.
“This is amazing!” Eunji pressed her face to the glass.
“Careful, you’ll leave nose prints,” Seungcheol said, but he was smiling.
They settled in, shedding coats and scarves. A waiter appeared with menus and water glasses. Seungcheol helped Eunji into her booster seat and opened her menu, pointing out the kids’ options.
“Can I get the pasta?” she asked.
“You can get whatever you want,” he assured her.
“Even dessert?”
“Especially dessert.”
Joshua ordered wine for the table—just one glass each, since they’d need their wits about them in the crowds later. Soonyoung couldn’t decide between the steak and the salmon and ended up asking the waiter to surprise him. Mingyu ordered half the appetizer menu.
“Are you feeding an army?” Seungcheol asked.
“I’m hungry!” Mingyu protested. “Besides, we can share.”
The food began arriving, and it was excellent—crispy calamari, bruschetta, a cheese plate that made Eunji’s eyes light up. Mingyu, true to form, immediately dropped a piece of calamari on his lap.
“Seriously?” Seungcheol handed him a napkin.
“It was slippery!”
“It’s fried. How is it slippery?”
“I don’t know, it just is!” Mingyu dabbed at the oil stain forming on his jeans. “This is why I can’t have nice things.”
“You’re wearing a thousand-dollar jacket,” Joshua pointed out, amused.
“Yeah, well, the jacket is safe. It’s everything else that’s in danger.”
Eunji giggled, and Seungcheol felt his heart warm. This was what he wanted—his daughter laughing, surrounded by people who loved her, making memories that would last longer than the stain on Mingyu’s jeans.
Their main courses arrived. Eunji dug into her pasta with gusto, getting sauce on her chin. Soonyoung’s surprise turned out to be duck, which he declared was perfect. Joshua’s salmon looked like art on a plate. Mingyu’s steak was enormous.
“You’re never going to finish that,” Seungcheol said.
“Watch me.”
Twenty minutes later, Mingyu was still working on the steak, looking slightly defeated. “Okay, maybe it’s a little big.”
“A little?”
“I have hubris, okay? I always think I can eat more than I actually can.”
Seungcheol stole a bite from his plate. “That’s actually really good.”
“Hey!”
“You said you couldn’t finish it.”
They ate and talked and laughed, watching the crowd grow denser below. The ball began to light up as the evening progressed, shimmering against the darkening sky. Eunji kept looking out the window, her face a picture of wonder.
“Dad, what do you wish for the new year?” she asked suddenly.
Seungcheol paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. What did he wish for? There were the practical things—financial stability, a promotion at work, maybe finally fixing the leaky faucet in the bathroom. But looking at his daughter’s expectant face, surrounded by his closest friends, he realized he already had what mattered most.
“I wish for more moments like this,” he said honestly. “What about you?”
“I wish for a puppy!”
“We have Kkuma.”
“A bigger puppy. Like, a golden retriever.”
“We live in an apartment, sweetie.”
“A small golden retriever?”
Seungcheol laughed. “We’ll see.”
Joshua raised his glass. “To the new year. And to family.”
“To family,” they chorused, clinking glasses. Eunji clinked her water cup enthusiastically, sloshing a little on the table.
Dessert was a multi-layered chocolate cake that Eunji declared was the best thing she’d ever eaten. Mingyu, despite claiming he was too full, somehow managed to eat two slices. Soonyoung ordered coffee and spent ten minutes explaining his resolutions for the new year, which seemed to mostly involve exercising more and eating better.
“You say that every year,” Joshua said.
“This year I mean it!”
“You said that last year too.”
By the time they finished eating, it was after nine o’clock. The square below was now packed beyond capacity, a writhing mass of humanity all waiting for midnight. The restaurant was clearing out, guests settling their bills and heading back into the chaos.
Seungcheol paid the check despite Mingyu’s protests, thanking his friend for the reservation but insisting on covering the meal. They bundled back into their coats and scarves, preparing to rejoin the madness outside.
“Remember,” Seungcheol said, crouching down to Eunji’s level. “Stay close. If you get separated, don’t move. Just stay where you are and call for us, okay?”
“Okay, Dad.”
He straightened up, looking at his friends. “Same goes for all of you.”
“We’re not seven,” Mingyu pointed out.
“Physically, maybe.”
They stepped outside, and the noise hit them like a wall. Music, laughter, shouting, the sounds of noisemakers and horns. The temperature had dropped further, and their breath misted in the air. The ball glowed above them, a beacon of light and hope and commercial excess.
“Let’s try to get closer,” Soonyoung suggested.
They began moving through the crowd, which was somehow even denser than before. Seungcheol kept one hand firmly on Eunji’s shoulder, feeling her small body pressed against his leg. Mingyu was right behind them, Joshua beside him, and Soonyoung—
“Where’s Soonyoung?” Joshua asked.
They stopped, looking around. Soonyoung had vanished.
“He was just here,” Mingyu said.
Seungcheol felt a flutter of panic but pushed it down. Soonyoung was an adult. He probably just got caught in the crowd flow. “Keep moving. He’ll catch up.”
They continued forward, slower now. The crowd was so tight they could barely move. Someone stepped on Seungcheol’s foot. Someone else’s elbow jabbed into his ribs. He kept his focus on Eunji, making sure she wasn’t getting crushed.
“Dad, I can’t see!” she complained.
“Mingyu, can you—”
Before he could finish, Mingyu had already bent down and lifted Eunji up onto his shoulders. She squealed with delight, suddenly tall enough to see over the entire crowd.
“Better?” Mingyu asked.
“So much better! Uncle Mingyu, you’re the tallest person here!”
“Probably not,” he laughed, but he looked pleased.
They found a spot with a decent view of the ball and decided to stay put. Seongcheol checked his watch. It was 10:47. A little over an hour until midnight.
Soonyoung found them ten minutes later, breathless and grinning. “Sorry! I got distracted by a street performer doing magic tricks.”
“Of course you did,” Joshua said.
The time crept forward. The crowd grew louder, more excited. People started chanting countdowns even though midnight was still far off. Vendors circulated, selling glow sticks and hats and hot drinks. Seungcheol finally gave in and bought Eunji a light-up necklace, which she immediately put on.
“Dad, look! I’m glowing!”
“You’re beautiful,” he said, and meant it.
Mingyu bought hot chocolate for everyone, nearly spilling all five cups as he tried to distribute them through the crowd. He managed to splash some on his coat and his jeans.
“How do you do this?” Seungcheol demanded.
“It’s a talent,” Mingyu said sheepishly.
The hot chocolate was good though, warming them from the inside. Eunji drank hers carefully, still perched on Mingyu’s shoulders. Seungcheol worried about the weight, but Mingyu insisted he was fine.
“She weighs nothing. Right, Eunji?”
“I weigh forty-seven pounds,” Eunji informed him seriously. “The doctor said I’m in the fiftieth percentile.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. But the doctor said it’s good.”
11:30 arrived, and the energy of the crowd shifted. This was real now. Midnight was approaching. The ball began to glow brighter, its crystal panels catching and reflecting the lights of Times Square. The digital screens started showing the official countdown.
“Should I get her down?” Mingyu asked Seungcheol quietly.
“Let’s keep her up there,” Seungcheol decided. “She’ll see better.”
11:45. The countdown began in earnest now, people shouting out the minutes. Fifteen minutes to midnight. Seungcheol found himself caught up in the excitement despite himself. There was something magical about this, about being crammed into a square with hundreds of thousands of strangers, all waiting for the same moment.
“Dad!” Eunji called down. “This is the best day ever!”
His heart squeezed. “Yeah, baby. It really is.”
11:50. Ten minutes. Joshua started recording on his phone, capturing the moment. Soonyoung was dancing—somehow, in the limited space, he was dancing. Mingyu was steady beneath Eunji’s weight, his hands holding her ankles securely.
11:55. Five minutes. The crowd was deafening now. Confetti cannons were being prepared. People were kissing their partners, hugging their friends. Seungcheol looked at his makeshift family—these men who’d stood by him through everything, who’d helped him raise his daughter, who’d shown up today to make sure Eunji had a perfect New Year’s Eve—and felt overwhelming gratitude.
11:58. Two minutes. The ball began its descent, slowly dropping as the seconds ticked away. Everyone was shouting now, a collective roar of anticipation.
And then Seungcheol realized something.
“Where’s Eunji?”
His head snapped up. Mingyu’s shoulders were empty.
“What?” Mingyu reached up, feeling the empty space. “She was just—”
Panic crashed over Seungcheol like a wave. “Eunji!” He spun around, scanning the crowd. Hundreds of faces, none of them his daughter’s. “EUNJI!”
“When did she—” Joshua was looking around too, his calm veneer cracking.
“She must have climbed down,” Mingyu said, his voice rising. “I felt her moving, but I thought she was just adjusting—”
“EUNJI!” Seungcheol pushed through the crowd, his heart pounding. How long had she been gone? Thirty seconds? A minute? How far could a seven-year-old get in that time?
The crowd was too thick. He couldn’t move fast enough. People were annoyed at him, pushing back. Someone told him to calm down. He wanted to scream.
“Excuse me, coming through, we’ve lost a child,” Joshua was saying, his voice tight with controlled fear. People parted slightly, responding to the genuine emergency in his tone.
“Split up,” Soonyoung said. “We’ll cover more ground.”
“No!” Seungcheol grabbed his arm. “Stay together. If she comes back to where we were—”
“I’ll stay here,” Mingyu said. “You three search. I’ll be the landmark.”
11:59. One minute to midnight. The crowd was counting down, thirty seconds, twenty, and all Seungcheol could think about was his daughter, small and lost in this massive crowd. What if someone took her? What if she was scared? What if—
“Dad!”
He whipped around. There, being carried by a police officer, was Eunji. She was crying, her light-up necklace flashing, her sparkly headband askew.
“Eunji!” Seungcheol pushed through the final barriers of people, not caring who he shoved. The officer saw him coming and, after a quick verification, handed Eunji over.
She crashed into his chest, sobbing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I wanted to see that cart with the candy and I climbed down and then I couldn’t find Uncle Mingyu and everyone was so tall and I was scared—”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Seungcheol held her tight, his own eyes burning. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“I know. I know.” He looked up at the officer. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
The officer nodded. “She did the right thing. Stayed in one spot and called for help. Smart kid.”
Joshua and Soonyoung caught up to them, both looking relieved. They made their way back to Mingyu, who looked like he might cry himself.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have held her tighter—”
“It’s not your fault,” Seungcheol said firmly, though his hands were still shaking. “She knows better. Right, Eunji?”
“I’m sorry,” she hiccuped. “I won’t do it again.”
“You definitely won’t. You’re staying in my arms until you’re eighteen.”
“Dad!”
And then the crowd erupted. Ten! Nine! Eight!
They were together. They were safe. They were here.
Seven! Six! Five!
Seungcheol adjusted Eunji in his arms so she could see. The ball was nearly at the bottom now, glittering brilliantly.
Four! Three! Two!
“Make a wish,” he whispered to his daughter.
One!
“HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
Confetti exploded into the air, thousands of pieces of colored paper falling like snow. Noisemakers blared. People were cheering, crying, kissing. The ball completed its descent, and fireworks began somewhere in the distance.
Eunji was laughing now, tears forgotten, reaching up to catch the confetti. “It’s snowing! Paper snow!”
Mingyu grabbed them both in a hug, and then Joshua and Soonyoung piled on, and they were a tangle of arms and laughter and relief. Seungcheol felt tears on his face but didn’t care. They’d made it. They were here. They were together.
“Happy New Year, Uncle Mingyu! Happy New Year, Uncle Joshua! Happy New Year, Uncle Soonyoung!” Eunji was shouting, her earlier fear completely forgotten.
“Happy New Year, princess,” Mingyu said.
“Happy New Year,” Joshua echoed.
“Best year ever!” Soonyoung declared.
“Happy New Year, baby,” Seungcheol whispered into Eunji’s hair.
They stood there for a long time, confetti falling around them, the crowd celebrating, the city alive with possibility. Eventually they began the long journey home, moving slowly through the dispersing crowds. Eunji fell asleep on Seungcheol’s shoulder halfway through the subway ride, her light-up necklace still blinking softly.
When they finally made it back to the apartment, Kkuma greeted them with enthusiastic barking, tail wagging so hard her entire back half wiggled. Seungcheol carried Eunji to her room, not bothering to change her out of her clothes. He just removed her shoes and headband and tucked her in, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“Best day ever,” she mumbled, already half-asleep.
“Yeah,” he agreed softly. “Best day ever.”
He returned to the living room where his friends were collapsed on the couch, exhausted and happy. Mingyu had already ordered pizza, because of course he had. They ate in comfortable silence, too tired for much conversation.
“Thank you,” Seungcheol said eventually. “For today. For everything.”
“That’s what family does,” Joshua said simply.
“Even when Mingyu tries to give everyone heart attacks by losing the kid?” Soonyoung teased.
“I didn’t lose her, she lost me,” Mingyu protested weakly.
They laughed, the sound soft and warm in the quiet apartment. Outside, the city was still celebrating, but here in this small space, there was peace.
Seungcheol looked at his friends, thought about his sleeping daughter, felt Kkuma curl up against his feet. He thought about the year ahead, about all the challenges and joys it would bring. He thought about the year behind them, about how far they’d come.
And he thought that maybe, just maybe, they were going to be okay.
More than okay.
They were going to be great.
Through the window, he could see fireworks still painting the sky in brilliant colors. The old year was gone. The new year was here.
The apartment was unusually quiet when Wonwoo arrived at 7 PM sharp, backpack slung over one shoulder and a concerning amount of energy drinks tucked under his arm. He’d canceled his Friday stream.
Something his chat would absolutely roast him for later, but some things took priority. Eunji’s well-being was one of them, even if said sixteen-year-old would probably argue she didn’t need babysitting.
“I’m not a child,” Eunji had protested over the phone when Seungcheol announced the plan three days ago. “I can literally drive. In some countries, I could vote.”
“In this country, you’re still grounded from TikTok for the chemistry lab incident of last month,” Seungcheol had replied. “And I’m not leaving you alone for three days while I’m at a conference in Busan. Wonwoo and Mingyu are staying with you. End of discussion.”
Now, standing in the doorway, Wonwoo could hear voices from the living room. Mingyu had apparently arrived first, which tracked, the man treated punctuality like a competitive sport, especially when food was involved.
“—absolutely not. We’re starting from Season 1, Episode 1. That’s the law.” Mingyu’s voice carried the same serious tone he used when explaining why you couldn’t substitute baking soda for baking powder.
“Uncle Gyu, I’ve literally seen the entire series twice. I know what happens. I just want to refresh on Season 4 before the new season drops.” Eunji sounded exasperated in that specific teenage way that suggested she’d been having this argument for a while.
“And that’s exactly why we need to start from the beginning. Context. Character development. The subtle foreshadowing you definitely missed.” Mingyu was adamant.
Wonwoo kicked off his shoes and padded into the living room. The scene before him was quintessentially them: Mingyu had somehow already taken over the kitchen, various containers of prep work scattered across the counter despite being there for maybe twenty minutes, while Eunji was sprawled across the sectional in an oversized hoodie that definitely used to be Seungcheol’s, phone in hand, radiating teenage skepticism.
“Please tell him we don’t need to watch seventy-three hours of television,” Eunji said the moment she spotted Wonwoo. “Season 5 won’t even reference half of Season 1.”
“Season 5 will absolutely reference Season 1. The show’s built on callbacks,” Mingyu countered, pointing a wooden spoon in her direction. “Remember when they brought back—”
“If I don’t get what I want , I’m telling Dad you let me watch Saltburn.”
“We all watched Saltburn together and your father was in the group chat when we discussed it,” Mingyu said flatly. “Also, I specifically said you had to cover your eyes during certain scenes.”
“I’m sixteen, not six.”
“The bathtub scene—”
“ANYWAY.” Wonwoo dropped his bag on the floor with a decisive thud. “Starting from Season 1 is excessive. Let’s compromise. We start from Season 3. It’s a soft reset, new location dynamics, and it’s where the actual conspiracy escalation begins.”
Both Mingyu and Eunji turned to stare at him.
“Season 3?” Mingyu’s face did something complicated. “That’s… actually reasonable.”
“See, Won-uncle gets it.” Eunji sat up, vindicated. “This is why you’re my favorite.”
“I’m standing right here,” Mingyu said.
“You tried to make me rewatch twenty-five episodes.”
“For your own good!”
Wonwoo settled into the armchair, the good one with the lumbar support that Seungcheol had probably spent too much money on, and surveyed their weekend domain. The apartment was quintessentially Seungcheol: clean but lived-in, with Eunji’s chaos contained to specific zones like a teenage demilitarized zone. Textbooks stacked on the dining table. A half-finished art project spread across the coffee table. Photos covering one entire wall, Eunji through the years, Seungcheol looking progressively more tired but happy as she grew.
There was one from last summer: all of them at some beach, Mingyu holding Eunji upside down while she laughed, Wonwoo photobombing with an ice cream cone, Seungcheol looking exhausted and happy in the background.
“Okay,” Wonwoo announced. “Ground rules. Mingyu, you’re not allowed to pause every episode to explain cooking techniques when characters eat food. Eunji, you can’t check your phone during important scenes. And I get control of the subtitles.”
“Why do you need control of subtitles?” Eunji asked suspiciously.
“Because you always turn them off and Mingyu always puts them in Italian for some reason.”
“It’s immersive,” Mingyu protested.
“You don’t speak Italian.”
“I cook Italian food. It’s basically the same thing.”
Eunji snorted. “Uncle Gyu, that’s not how language works.”
“Says the girl who failed Spanish last semester.”
“I got a C-minus. That’s not failing, that’s strategically passing.”
The apartment’s intercom buzzed. All three of them froze.
“Did Dad say he was sending a care package?” Eunji asked.
“Your father is currently busy. He’s not sending packages.” Wonwoo pulled out his phone. No messages. “Mingyu, did you order something?”
“I brought all my ingredients.” Mingyu was already heading toward the intercom. “Hello?”
“DELIVERY FOR CHOI RESIDENCE.”
“We didn’t order anything.”
“SAYS HERE… EMERGENCY WEEKEND SURVIVAL KIT?”
All three of them stared at the intercom in silence.
“Oh my god,” Eunji said slowly. “Dad actually sent a care package.”
Mingyu buzzed them up. Two minutes later, he was hauling in a box that was frankly offensive in its size. They crowded around as he opened it.
Inside: six bags of different chip varieties, three types of candy, a family-size container of cheese balls, microwave popcorn, a note that said “TRY NOT TO BURN DOWN THE APARTMENT - Dad” in Seungcheol’s handwriting, and—inexplicably—a small first aid kit.
“Why did he include a first aid kit?” Wonwoo held it up.
“Last time you guys watched movies here, Uncle Gyu gave himself a concussion doing that stupid bottle flip thing,” Eunji said.
“It wasn’t stupid, it was impressive. I made it land.”
“On your head.”
“Still counts.”
Wonwoo set the first aid kit on the coffee table with a sense of foreboding. “Okay. Season 3, Episode 1. Let’s do this.”
Mingyu disappeared back into the kitchen. The sounds of aggressive vegetable chopping filled the apartment.
“What is he making?” Eunji whispered.
“Knowing him? Everything.” Wonwoo pulled up Netflix on the TV, navigating with the confidence of someone who’d been doing this at Seungcheol’s place for years. “He stress-cooks. It’s a whole thing.”
“What’s he stressed about?”
“Being responsible for you, probably.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m very low-maintenance.”
Wonwoo gave her a look.
“Okay, that was one time with the chemistry experiment, and technically the fire was very small—”
“Episode starting,” Wonwoo announced loudly.
The opening credits rolled. The synth music filled the apartment. Mingyu emerged from the kitchen with a tray of what appeared to be homemade mozzarella sticks that smelled like heaven had a baby with a pizzeria.
“You made these in twenty minutes?” Eunji’s eyes went wide.
“I prepped them at home, just fried them here.” Mingyu set the tray down. “There’s marinara, spicy aioli, and a pesto situation happening. Choose your fighter.”
They chose all three.
By the time Steve Harrington appeared on screen working at Scoops Ahoy, they’d demolished the mozzarella sticks and were deep into a bag of sour cream and onion chips. Wonwoo had claimed his spot in the armchair, Mingyu was stretched across half the sectional, and Eunji had somehow migrated to the floor, surrounded by pillows like a teenager nest.
“Okay but why is Steve’s character arc so good?” Eunji said during a quieter moment, and there was a specific tone to her voice that made both uncles glance at each other knowingly. “Like, he starts as this complete jock stereotype and becomes the mom friend who literally puts himself in danger for everyone.”
“Character development,” Mingyu said sagely. “It’s what separates good shows from great shows.”
“Also Joe Keery is very pretty,” Eunji added, her eyes fixed on the screen with an intensity that suggested this was more than casual observation. “Like, objectively. The hair alone—”
“You’re sixteen,” Mingyu said carefully.
“I’m aware of my age, Uncle Gyu. Doesn’t make him less objectively attractive. And Steve Harrington is—” she gestured vaguely at the TV, “—he’s perfect. The character development, the loyalty, the way he protects the kids, that scene with the baseball bat—”
“This is the Steve Harrington phase your dad warned us about,” Wonwoo said.
“There’s a PHASE?” Eunji’s head whipped around.
“He mentioned you’ve watched his scenes like forty times.”
“That’s an exaggeration.” A pause. “It’s only thirty-seven times.”
“Can we not?” Wonwoo said, eyes still on the screen. “Some of us are trying to watch the show.”
“You’ve seen this already.”
“And I’ll see it again. That’s how good media works.”
They made it through three episodes before Mingyu called for a break. “Food intermission. I’m making carbonara.”
“It’s almost midnight,” Wonwoo pointed out.
“And?”
“And that’s a heavy meal for midnight.”
“You want to survive a Stranger Things marathon on chips and candy? Be my guest. I’m making real food.” Mingyu was already up, heading to the kitchen with purpose.
Eunji stretched, joints popping. “I’m getting my blanket. It’s freezing in here.”
“Your dad keeps this place like a refrigerator,” Wonwoo agreed. “I brought a hoodie.”
“Weak. I’m getting my winter blanket.”
She disappeared down the hallway. Wonwoo could hear her rummaging around in her room, the muffled sounds of drawers opening and closing. The kitchen had erupted into organized chaos—Mingyu moving with the efficiency of someone who’d cooked in actual restaurant kitchens, which he had, for years, before opening his own place.
Wonwoo’s phone buzzed. A text from Seungcheol: “Everything okay? Eunji behaving?”
He snapped a photo of the living room, Netflix paused on screen, empty mozzarella stick tray, his energy drinks lined up like soldiers, and sent it back with: “We’re three episodes in. Mingyu’s making midnight carbonara. Your daughter just called Joe Keery pretty.”
Three dots appeared. Then: “She’s not wrong. Keep her alive. Tell her I love her.”
“Your dad says hi and that he loves you,” Wonwoo called out.
“Tell him we’re fine and he needs to stop worrying and focus on his boring conference,” Eunji yelled from her room.
“She says stop worrying and focus on your conference.”
“Absolutely not. I’ll worry if I want to,” Seungcheol texted back.
Mingyu emerged fifteen minutes later with three plates of carbonara that looked restaurant-quality, perfectly coated pasta, visible black pepper, a raw egg yolk sitting on top of Eunji’s portion like a crown.
“You have to mix it,” Mingyu instructed as he handed her the plate. “The residual heat cooks the yolk and makes it extra creamy.”
Eunji stared at it. “This feels fancy for a Friday night.”
“There’s no such thing as too fancy for carbonara.” Mingyu settled back into his spot with his own plate. “Okay, episode four. Let’s go.”
They ate and watched. The carbonara was, predictably, incredible. Wonwoo made a mental note to never tell Mingyu that, because his ego was already insufferable when it came to his cooking.
Halfway through episode five, Eunji spoke up during a particularly tense Hopper scene. “Do you think Dad would survive a Russian prison?”
Wonwoo and Mingyu both turned to look at her.
“What kind of question is that?” Mingyu asked.
“A valid one. Like, Hopper’s a cop, he’s got training. Dad’s a business man. What survival skills does he have?”
“Your father,” Wonwoo said thoughtfully, “survived raising you as a single parent for sixteen years. He could survive anything.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it though?” Mingyu gestured with his fork. “Russian prison or a toddler with a permanent marker and no co-parent backup. Similar chaos levels.”
“I wasn’t that bad.”
“You once colored your entire room blue,” Wonwoo said. “Walls, floor, part of the ceiling. Your dad called me crying.”
“I was three!”
“You were a menace. You still are, just with better motor control.”
Eunji threw a pillow at him. Wonwoo caught it without looking away from the screen.
By 2 AM, they’d finished Season 3. Eunji was visibly flagging, wrapped in her blanket burrito, eyes half-closed. Mingyu had relocated to the floor, claiming better back support, which was absolutely a lie. Wonwoo had worked through two energy drinks and was approaching what he privately called his “gamer stamina” the ability to stay up for thirty-six hours straight if properly motivated.
“Break?” Mingyu suggested.
“Sleep,” Eunji mumbled. “Normal people sleep.”
“We’re not normal people. We’re on a mission.” But Mingyu was already standing, stretching. “Okay, fine. Power nap. Two hours. We reconvene at 4 AM.”
“That’s psychotic,” Eunji said.
“That’s commitment.”
“Won-uncle, please tell him that’s insane.”
Wonwoo shrugged. “I’ve streamed for sixteen hours straight. This is nothing.”
“You’re both insane. I’m going to bed like a regular human being.” Eunji extracted herself from her blanket nest. “Wake me up at a reasonable hour.”
“Define reasonable,” Mingyu called after her.
“Not 4 AM!”
Her bedroom door closed with a decisive click.
Mingyu looked at Wonwoo. “We’re still starting at 4 AM, right?”
“Absolutely.”
They set alarms. Mingyu claimed the sectional, Wonwoo took the armchair, and they both passed out within minutes.
Wonwoo’s alarm went off at 3:45 AM. He silenced it, sat up, and immediately regretted every life choice that had led to this moment. His neck hurt. His back hurt. His eyes felt like they’d been replaced with sandpaper.
Mingyu was already in the kitchen somehow, because of course he was. The smell of coffee filled the apartment.
“How are you functional?” Wonwoo croaked.
“Chef hours. I’m used to 4 AM starts.” Mingyu handed him a mug. “Made it strong.”
“If I die, tell my subscribers to cancel their memberships so they don’t get charged next month.”
“So thoughtful.”
They stood in the kitchen, drinking coffee in silence, two men united in their poor decision-making.
“Should we wake Eunji?” Mingyu asked.
“And face her wrath? Pass.”
“Good point.”
They made it through two episodes of Season 4 before Eunji emerged at 6 AM, looking rumpled and confused.
“Why are you awake?” she asked.
“Why are YOU awake?” Mingyu countered.
“I have to pee. Why are you STILL watching?”
“Can’t stop won’t stop,” Wonwoo said, eyes glazed, staring at the screen like a man possessed.
Eunji stared at them. “You’re both completely unhinged.”
“Join us,” Mingyu patted the couch. “We’re in the deep lore now.”
“It’s 6 AM.”
“Time is a construct.”
“Uncle Gyu, that doesn’t apply here.”
But she sat down anyway, grabbing her blanket, tucking herself into the corner of the sectional. Wonwoo wordlessly handed her a coffee mug. She took it without comment.
They watched the sun come up through the apartment windows, light slowly filling the space, the TV screen competing with natural daylight. It felt surreal, like they’d slipped into some pocket dimension where normal rules didn’t apply.
Around 8 AM, Mingyu made breakfast. Proper breakfast—scrambled eggs with herbs, toast, fruit. They ate on the couch, plates balanced on laps, still watching.
“This is actually kind of nice,” Eunji admitted quietly. “Like, weird and chaotic, but nice.”
“Your dad used to do this,” Wonwoo said. “Before you were born, before he got married. The three of us would have these completely unhinged movie marathons. We once watched the entire Lord of the Rings extended editions in one sitting.”
“That’s like twelve hours.”
“Fourteen, actually. We were very stupid.”
“Still are,” Mingyu added. “Just with more responsibilities now.”
“Do you miss it?” Eunji asked. “Like, before I came along and made everything complicated?”
Wonwoo and Mingyu exchanged glances.
“You didn’t make anything complicated,” Mingyu said firmly. “You made everything better. Different, yeah. But better.”
“Uncle Gyu’s right,” Wonwoo added. “Your dad was happy before, but after you? He became like… I don’t know, the final form of himself. Does that make sense?”
Eunji was quiet for a moment. Then: “That’s really sappy.”
“It’s true though.”
“Still sappy.”
They pushed through Season 4, the episodes getting progressively heavier, the stakes escalating. Vecna appeared on screen and Eunji made a noise of distress.
“He’s SO creepy,” she said, pulling her blanket up to her chin.
“Great practical effects,” Mingyu observed.
“That doesn’t make it less creepy!”
“Fun fact,” Wonwoo said, “the actor did a lot of his own stunts.”
“How do you know that?”
“I watched behind-the-scenes content.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
“Says the girl who runs a Stranger Things fan account on Twitter.”
“That’s PRIVATE—how do you know about that?”
“Your dad showed me. He’s very proud.”
“Oh my god, I’m deleting everything.”
By noon, they needed another break. Real break. Food that wasn’t snacks, showers that were desperately necessary, a moment to remember what the outside world felt like.
Mingyu ordered pizza; proper pizza from the place he’d worked at years ago, the one where he still had connections. Eunji disappeared to shower. Wonwoo stepped outside onto the apartment balcony, letting cold air hit his face, checking his phone for the first time in hours.
Seventeen messages from his mod team wondering if he was dead. Forty-three Discord notifications. Three missed calls from his manager.
He texted back: “Still alive. Family emergency. Back to streaming Monday.”
The pizza arrived. They ate it at the dining table like civilized humans, a brief return to normalcy.
“How much do we have left?” Eunji asked, sauce on her chin.
“Four more episodes,” Mingyu said. “We can finish tonight.”
“We’re doing this all in one go?”
“We’ve come this far.”
“That’s sunk cost fallacy.”
“That’s commitment to the bit.”
Wonwoo’s phone rang. Seungcheol’s face filled the screen, a photo from two years ago, Seungcheol making a ridiculous face at some barbecue.
“Hey,” Wonwoo answered, putting it on speaker.
“Status report,” Seungcheol demanded.
“We’re alive. We’re watching Stranger Things. Mingyu’s fed us actual food. Eunji’s learned some colorful Russian phrases from the show.”
“Expensive and beautiful.” he added to Eunji. “I’ll be back tomorrow evening.”
“Take your time,” Wonwoo said. “We’ve got this under control.”
“That’s what worries me.”
They talked for a few more minutes before hanging up. The apartment felt quieter after, the absence of Seungcheol’s voice a reminder that this was temporary, that normal life would resume soon.
“Okay,” Mingyu stood up, collecting plates. “Final push. Four episodes. We can do this.”
“We’re really doing this,” Eunji said, but she was smiling.
“We’re really doing this.”
They settled back into their spots. The TV glowed. The episode started.
The final episodes of Season 4 were intense, all the storylines converging, Max’s Walkman scene making Eunji cry (“I’m not crying, my eyes are sweating”), the big showdown in the Upside Down. They watched in near silence, completely absorbed.
Every time Steve appeared on screen in danger, Eunji would lean forward, literally clutching her blanket. During one particularly intense bat attack scene, she made a strangled noise.
“He’s fine, he survives this,” Wonwoo said.
“I KNOW he survives, I’ve watched this twice, but STILL—”
When the season finale ended, the credits rolling, it was almost 9 PM. They’d been at this, with breaks, for almost twenty-four hours.
“So,” Wonwoo said into the silence. “Season 5 predictions?”
“Everyone dies,” Eunji said immediately, then her face did something complicated. “Wait, no. Take that back. Steve doesn’t die. Steve can’t die. If Steve dies, the show dies.”
“Little dramatic,” Mingyu observed.
“I’m being serious.” Eunji sat up straighter, her expression intense. “Uncle Gyu, Uncle Won, I need you to understand something. If Steve Harrington dies in Season 5, I’m dying too. Like, emotionally, spiritually, possibly physically. I will simply cease to exist.”
“Eunji—”
“No, I mean it. He’s been through so much. The character development, the growth, the way he’s become the heart of the group—if the Duffer Brothers kill him for shock value, I’m going to—” she made a dramatic gesture, “—I’m going to manifest into the writers’ room and have WORDS.”
“Manifest into the writers’ room,” Wonwoo repeated.
“Yes. Through sheer force of will and rage. It’ll be like Eleven’s powers but fueled entirely by my love for Steve Harrington.”
“This is the most intense thing you’ve said all weekend,” Mingyu said, clearly trying not to laugh.
“Because it’s IMPORTANT. He can’t die. He’s carrying that show on his back with his perfect hair and his baseball bat and his found family dynamics. If he dies, I die. I’m serious. You’ll find me collapsed in my room, clutching my Steve Harrington poster—”
“You have a poster?” Wonwoo asked.
“—irrelevant, the point is, he needs to survive Season 5 or I’m never emotionally recovering.”
“Pessimistic.”
“Realistic. Except for Steve. Steve lives. Non-negotiable.”
“I think they’ll resolve the Upside Down situation but leave it open for more stories in that universe,” Mingyu said. “Classic franchise building.”
“That’s so corporate of you.”
“I’m a business owner. It’s how I think now.”
“As long as Steve survives, they can do whatever they want with the franchise,” Eunji added firmly. “Kill Vecna, close the Upside Down, whatever. But Steve Harrington walks out of that finale alive or I’m rioting.”
“Noted,” Wonwoo said, amused. “We’ll add ‘Steve Harrington survival’ to our Season 5 drinking game.”
“This isn’t a joke, Uncle Won. This is my emotional wellbeing we’re talking about.”
They debated theories, picking apart plot threads, arguing about character arcs—though Eunji steered every conversation back to Steve’s importance to the narrative. Wonwoo made more coffee even though it was nighttime because he was too tired to sleep now, past the point of exhaustion into some weird second wind.
“We should do this more often,” Eunji said eventually. “Not the marathon thing necessarily, but like… this. Hanging out. The two of you don’t come over as much anymore.”
“You’re busier now,” Wonwoo said. “School, friends, your art stuff.”
“Yeah, but. I don’t know. I like this. I like having you guys around.”
Mingyu ruffled her hair, ignoring her protests. “We like being around too, kid. You’re stuck with us.”
“Even when I’m in college?”
“Especially then. Who else is going to make sure you’re eating vegetables?”
“I’m sixteen, not six.”
“And yet here we are.”
They put on a random comedy special as background noise, too wired to commit to anything else, too tired to move. Wonwoo documented the carnage via photos, empty pizza boxes, candy wrappers, coffee mugs everywhere, three people looking progressively more exhausted in each shot.
He sent them to the group chat with Seungcheol: “Mission accomplished. Your daughter is culturally educated and we only had one minor kitchen fire.”
“WHAT FIRE?” came the immediate response.
“He’s joking,” Mingyu texted. “Probably.”
“I hate all of you.”
“Love you too, buddy.”
Around 11 PM, they finally admitted defeat. Eunji had fallen asleep on the couch, mouth open, snoring slightly. Mingyu was nodding off in the armchair. Wonwoo felt like his eyes were going to fall out of his skull.
“Bed,” he announced. “Everyone bed.”
“But we’re not done,” Mingyu mumbled.
“We watched an entire season. We’re done.”
“There’s still discussion. Analysis.”
“Tomorrow. Sleep now.”
They didn’t have the energy to argue. Mingyu took the guest room, Wonwoo took the couch after relocating Eunji to her actual bed, and they all passed out within seconds.
Wonwoo woke up at 2 PM the next day feeling like he’d been hit by a truck. His phone showed multiple messages—his mod team relieved he wasn’t dead, his manager exasperated but understanding, and one from Seungcheol: “Landing in two hours. Thanks for taking care of her. Love you guys.”
He found Mingyu already awake in the kitchen, because the man was apparently a machine, making what looked like a full brunch spread.
“Why,” Wonwoo croaked.
“Habit. Also we need real food after that nutritional disaster yesterday.”
Eunji emerged shortly after, hair in disarray, one of her dad’s old hoodies swallowing her frame. She looked young like this, younger than sixteen, and Wonwoo was reminded viscerally of the toddler she’d been when they’d first met her, all big eyes and sticky fingers.
“Morning,” she mumbled.
“Afternoon,” Mingyu corrected, sliding a plate toward her. “Eat.”
They ate in comfortable silence, the kind that came from spending intense time together. The TV was off. The apartment was clean. Mingyu had apparently tidied while making breakfast because he was psychotic like that.
“So,” Eunji said eventually. “Next marathon when?”
“Bold of you to assume I’m surviving this one,” Wonwoo said.
“Come on. It was fun.”
“It was unhinged.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Mingyu laughed. “She’s got a point.”
“Fine. Next time there’s a show worth marathoning, we’ll reconvene. But I’m picking. No more sixteen-hour sessions.”
“Twelve hours?”
“Eight.”
“Ten and that’s my final offer.”
“Deal.”
They shook on it, solemn as a business agreement.
Seungcheol arrived home at 4 PM, tanned and relaxed and happy. Seungcheol immediately went to hug Eunji, who tolerated it with teenage grace before escaping to her room.
“How was it really?” he asked Wonwoo and Mingyu quietly.
“Good,” Wonwoo said honestly. “Really good.”
“No disasters?”
“Define disaster,” Mingyu said.
Seungcheol’s eyes widened.
“He’s joking. Everything was fine. We watched TV, ate too much food, didn’t sleep enough. Standard weekend.”
“You guys are the best,” Seungcheol said, pulling them both into a hug. “Seriously. Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”
“Hire an actual babysitter?” Wonwoo suggested.
“She’d traumatize them. You guys are already traumatized, so it works out.”
They stayed for another hour, helping unpack, catching Seungcheol up on the weekend, how the conference went, the boring keynote speakers, the networking dinner he’d had to endure. Seungcheol raised an eyebrow when Mingyu mentioned the “Steve Harrington survival clause” Eunji had dramatically declared.
“Oh, the Steve thing,” Seungcheol said knowingly. “Yeah, she’s been like this since Season 2. I’ve heard the ‘if he dies, I die’ speech at least fifteen times.”
“IT’S A VALID CONCERN, DAD,” Eunji yelled from her room.
“I know, baby! I agree with you!” he yelled back, fond exasperation clear in his voice.
Eventually though, it was time to leave, time to return to their own lives. Mingyu’s restaurant, Wonwoo’s streaming schedule, the ordinary world that existed outside this apartment.
At the door, saying goodbye, Eunji appeared.
“Thanks,” she said. “For the weekend. It was cool.”
“Anytime, kid,” Mingyu said.
“Literally anytime,” Wonwoo agreed. “Even at 4 AM apparently.”
“That was your idea.”
“And I’m owning it.”
She hugged them both, quick and tight, then disappeared back down the hallway.
Outside, walking to their cars, Mingyu turned to Wonwoo.
“We’re doing that again, right?”
“Obviously.”
“Good. I already have ideas for the next marathon.”
“Of course you do.”
They parted ways, driving home to their respective apartments, their separate lives. But Wonwoo felt good, the kind of good that came from time well spent, from people who mattered.
His phone buzzed. The group chat.
Eunji had sent a photo, the three of them crashed out on the couch from yesterday morning, all looking absolutely destroyed, the TV screen visible in the background showing Stranger Things.
Caption: “The Upside Down Survivors Club”
Seungcheol replied with a heart emoji.
Mingyu sent: “Best weekend ever”
Wonwoo typed back: “Same time when Season 5 drops?”
for the first time in seven years, kim mingyu thinks he might actually have a shot at standing on the podium. he has a decent car, a good teammate, and… a girlfriend? after f1 tv erroneously tags a complete stranger as his ‘partner’, mingyu now has to reckon with being one half of the newest couple on the grid.
🩵 pairing. formula one driver!kim mingyu x influencer!reader.
🩵 word count. 21.k.
🩵 genres/includes. romance, fluff, humor. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: formula one. mentions of food, alcohol consumption; profanity. the alex albon-ification of mingyu, down bad/yearner!mingyu, 97z adjacent to 2019 rookies, williams slander (soz).
🩵 notes. this is part of cam&em studio’s lights out collaboration. i had somehow deluded myself that this would not be that long, but combine my two special interests and.. bam 😦 always so humbled to be among caratblr greats. ty for hosting, @camandemstudios!!! let’s go racing!!! ᯓ★
Mingyu likes to think he’s calm. Composed. The kind of driver who takes Monza in stride, doesn’t let the history or the speed or the ridiculous number of Ferrari fans turn his knees into jelly.
That’s the version of himself he would like to believe. The truth is, Monza is the track that raised him. He was fifteen the first time he snuck into the stands with a handful of friends, listening to engines scream like they could shake the sky apart. Now, he’s back as a Williams driver, pretending he’s not vibrating with the same teenage excitement. Pretending the goosebumps under his race suit are just from the morning chill.
“Still staring at the track like it’s your first crush?” Seokmin’s voice drifts over, amused and much too loud for Mingyu’s pride.
He turns to find Lee Seokmin—McLaren orange splashed all over him, lanyard swinging, already grinning as if he knows he’s being insufferable. Which, of course, he does.
Mingyu adjusts his cap with a lopsided grin. “Bold words from the guy who once called Eau Rouge ‘kinda cute.’”
“That was one time,” Seokmin says, mock-offended, “and it is cute. In a terrifying, please-don’t-launch-me-into-the-fence way.”
Xu Minghao appears before Mingyu can volley back. The new arrival is in Mercedes gear, impossibly relaxed, sipping an espresso like he has all the time in the world. Minghao never hurries, never sweats, never looks anything less than editorial-spread perfect, even in a paddock crawling with cameras. It’s infuriating.
“Don’t encourage him,” Minghao says, eyes flicking to Seokmin. Then, to Mingyu: “You’re jittery.”
“I’m not jittery,” Mingyu protests, immediately aware that only jittery people insist they’re not. “I’m focused.”
Minghao takes a long sip, unimpressed. “You’re vibrating like a phone on silent.”
Seokmin nearly chokes on his laugh. “Oh my god, he is,” he cackles. “Someone put him in airplane mode before quali.”
Mingyu glares, but it’s half-hearted. This is how it always goes: Seokmin heckles, Minghao observes, Mingyu suffers. He can’t even complain, because the truth is he likes it. Likes that they’re here, together, even in rival colors. Likes that Monza isn’t just a track, it’s their track. The place where they were kids with bad haircuts and bigger dreams, trying to convince each other they’d all make it here someday.
And look at them now. Williams, McLaren, Mercedes. Not bad for three idiots who once got kicked out of a karting facility for trying to draft a security golf cart.
Seokmin slings an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders, nearly knocking his cap off. “Don’t overthink it, Gyu,” Seokmin says cheerfully. “Just drive like hell. If you don’t win, you’re only letting down half of Italy.”
“Comforting,” Mingyu deadpans.
Minghao’s mouth quirks. “Don’t listen to him. Just remember what we said when we were fifteen.”
Mingyu remembers. He remembers vividly. Sitting on cheap plastic seats, knees knocking together, promising each other they’d one day not just watch, but race. That they’d carry each other through, no matter where the grid scattered them.
“Win or lose,” Mingyu muses, “we always meet back here.”
Seokmin nods, unusually serious for a moment. Minghao just sips his drink, but his eyes soften.
Seokmin ruins it, as expected. “Cool. So when I beat you both, I can expect dinner Il Moro, yeah?”
Mingyu groans. Minghao sighs. Just like that, the moment dissolves back into chaos—the only way it ever really works with the three of them.
Still, as Mingyu turns back toward the track, he feels steadier. Ready. Because Monza isn’t just special. It’s home. This time, he’s not just the kid in the stands; he’s the one behind the wheel.
Qualifying at Monza is always chaos disguised as order, though. The track is so fast, so unforgiving, that one slipstream too many or one lock-up at Variante della Roggia can drop you down five places before you can blink. Mingyu knows this. He’s lived this. Still, it doesn’t stop his pulse from thundering when he’s released from the garage, when Williams sends him out into the blur of red, silver, orange, blue.
Minghao is clinical. His laps are precise, as if he’s painting with a ruler. Every apex kissed, every braking point exact. It’s maddening how effortless he makes it look, as if he’s just taking his Mercedes out for a polite Sunday stroll at 350 km/h.
Seokmin is chaos in motion. The rocketship of a McLaren twitches under him, but he wrangles it with surprising grace. Somehow, it works. He’s fastest through Sector 2, the radio full of his whoops and laughter. By the time Q3 ends, he’s snatched pole, punching the air with that face-splitting grin.
Mingyu? He lands a respectable P7. Solid. Reliable. The kind of position that makes engineers nod approvingly but doesn’t earn headlines. He knows it’s good work. He knows Williams is stronger than it’s been in years, that the upgrades are sticking, that the car beneath him is finally something more than a stubborn mule in corporate livery. But when he hears the crowd roaring for Seokmin’s orange car or sees Minghao’s name perched neatly in P2, it’s hard not to feel like the supporting character in someone else’s movie.
On his cooldown lap, the adrenaline settles into something softer. He loosens his grip on the wheel, lets the Monza trees blur past. It’s hard not to think back. To the hell that was Red Bull, to the brutal climb up the junior ladder, to the endless conversations about potential and promise. He’s spent years carrying Williams through development, pulling every scrap of performance out of machinery that didn’t always want to cooperate. Now he’s here, at the sharp end of a new chapter, finally with a car that might fight.
But still. No podium. Not yet.
He watches Seokmin celebrate over the radio, hears Minghao’s cool acknowledgment of his front-row start. Mingyu smiles, even laughs, but inside he tucks the thought away like a folded note: I’ll get there, too.
Because Monza raised him. Monza taught him how to dream. And tomorrow, maybe, it’ll teach him how to stand where he’s always wanted. Up high, champagne in hand, finally shoulder to shoulder with the friends who’ve always believed he could.
Mingyu finds his way to the decisively unglamorous Williams motorhome. It’s not much compared to the chrome-and-marble lounges that Ferrari or Red Bull roll out every weekend, but it’s comfortable in its own way. Blue accents, warm lighting, coffee machines that don’t sputter half the time anymore. Progress.
Joshua Hong sits at one of the tables, helmet still under his arm like he doesn’t quite trust leaving it anywhere else. Old habits from Ferrari, maybe. Back when every move was photographed, every angle scrutinized. He’s scrolling through data on a tablet, lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line. He’d qualified P13.
Mingyu drops into the seat across from him with all the subtlety of a collapsing deck chair. “You know, staring at telemetry won’t make the car magically faster,” he says delicately.
Joshua looks up, startled, then huffs a laugh. “Worth a shot.”
Mingyu leans back, folding his arms behind his head. “First Monza with Williams. How’s it feel? Culture shock?”
Joshua considers it, then shrugs. “It’s… different,” he settles. “Ferrari had twenty people fussing over every button I touched. Here, I feel like I’m supposed to make my own coffee.”
“You are supposed to make your own coffee,” Mingyu says, grinning. “It’s character building.”
That earns him a real laugh. Joshua shakes his head. “I’m still adjusting, I guess,” he confides. “The car handles fine, but it’s not what I’m used to. You’ve been here longer, and you make it look easier than it is.”
Mingyu tries not to preen at that. Instead, he tips forward, conspiratorial. “Here’s the trick. Don’t fight the car too much. It’s stubborn. Think of it like… a cat. If you force it, it’ll scratch. If you coax it, it’ll cooperate just enough to get the job done.”
“So you’re saying I should… seduce the car?”
“Maybe buy it dinner first.”
They both laugh, and the tension in Joshua’s shoulders loosens by a fraction. He taps a note into the tablet, still smiling. “Honestly, thanks. It’s not easy, but at least I’ve got you.”
Mingyu blinks, surprised by the sincerity tucked under the joke. He clears his throat, pretending to study the ceiling. “Well, don’t make it sound like we’re married. You’ll give the engineers ideas.”
“Relax,” huffs Joshua. “You’re not my type.”
“Rude,” Mingyu says, clutching his chest in mock offense.
But inside, he’s relieved. Relieved that Joshua isn’t bitter, isn’t distant, that the shadow of Ferrari hasn’t made him impossible to reach. Joshua’d made a pretty good case for himself in Maranello red, but then seven-time World Champion Yoon Jeonghan wanted to make a move from Mercedes. It’s the kind of thing you can’t even be mad about, the type of demotion you take with a clenched jaw and a prayer for redemption.
Williams isn’t Ferrari. It never will be. But maybe, with Mingyu and Joshua, it can still be something worth building.
“Come on,” Mingyu says, pushing to his feet. “I’ll show you where they hide the good snacks.”
Joshua follows, grinning now, and for the first time all weekend Mingyu feels like they’re not just two drivers shoved together by circumstance. They’re teammates. Maybe even friends. And at Williams, that might just be the secret weapon.
Unfortunately, their snack run is cut short. Williams has decided it’s ‘content time.’ Which, in practice, means Mingyu and Joshua are herded into a corner of the motorhome that’s been dressed up with two folding chairs, a blue backdrop, and more ring lights than anyone needs outside a K-pop audition.
Joshua takes it in stride. Professional smile, easy banter with the social media coordinator. Mingyu, on the other hand, is already zoning out. He knows the routine: intro clip, thumbs up, some scripted lines about teamwork and strategy, maybe a ‘who’s taller’ joke if the intern behind the camera is feeling spicy. His brain is already skipping ahead to tomorrow. The race. Monza at full tilt, the slipstreams, the strategies, the chaos waiting to happen.
He half-listens as the briefing drones on. Celebrities expected in the paddock tomorrow. So-and-so, actor. Someone else, pop star. And then.
Your name.
It snags his attention for half a second, the way an unexpected chord does in the middle of a song. Vague recognition thrums at the back of his mind. You’re an influencer, he thinks. He follows you, though he doesn’t remember when he clicked the button. Late-night scroll, probably. He remembers flashes: a vlog with neon signs in Tokyo, a clip of you spilling iced coffee and laughing at yourself, a carousel post full of designer clothing.
The memory is fuzzy but oddly warm, like a light left on in another room. Mingyu almost lingers on it. Almost.
Then the coordinator claps their hands and announces, “Okay, Joshua first, then Mingyu. Quickfire questions, then predictions for quali and race.”
And just like that, the thought is shelved. Mingyu sits up, shakes the static from his head, and focuses back on what matters: data, pace, tire strategy. Tomorrow is Monza, and Monza doesn’t leave space for distractions—even ones with familiar names and half-remembered smiles on a glowing phone screen.
Come Sunday, the excitement is at a fever pitch. Race day at Monza is a circus, and Mingyu is one of the trained performers.
The morning starts with the usual noise: fans pressed against barriers, chanting names, waving flags. Reporters circle like seagulls over fries, microphones shoved forward in case anyone slips and says something headline-worthy. The Williams garage is a hive. Mechanics shouting tire pressures, engineers glued to monitors, Joshua humming nervously as he tapes up his gloves. Somewhere in the paddock, Seokmin is almost certainly mugging for a camera. Somewhere else, Minghao is almost certainly pretending the cameras don’t exist.
Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic.
Sips water. Sways side to side on his feet like he’s already negotiating Ascari. He jokes when someone asks if he’s nervous. “Nervous? I only panic recreationally.” The laughter helps.
Then comes the walk to the grid. The roar grows louder, a wall of sound built from engines and announcers and tifosi who’d probably sell their souls for a Ferrari win. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. His mind is already moving faster than his feet, lap one unfolding in his head like a storyboard.
The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The chaos of Monza mutes, as if someone turned the volume knob down to zero. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel somewhere in the garage. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence.
He slides into the cockpit, straps pulled tight across his chest, the car cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.
Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P7, nose angled toward possibility. The lights blink on, one by one.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat.
Then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for this one second, and Monza opens wide in front of him.
Monza doesn’t give you time to breathe. Not really. Not when you’re thundering into Turn 1 at 300 km/h with six other cars fighting for the same square of asphalt. Mingyu knows this, braces for it, and still winces as two cars brush wheels in front of him. He darts left, gains one position, loses another. Net zero. Typical Williams arithmetic.
The first laps are pure survival. The car is twitchy in the chicanes, eager to understeer as if it has personal beef with his front tires. “Front end’s gone, it’s like driving a shopping cart,” he snaps into the radio.
There’s a pause, then his engineer’s calm voice: “Copy, Mingyu. Balance noted.”
He knows they’re used to it by now. He’s affable in the paddock. Always smiling, quick with a joke, the guy who helps rookies find the good coffee machine. But in the car? On the radio? He’s a menace. His friends tease him about it constantly. Gentle giant until you put him in a helmet, then he’s Gordon Ramsay with downforce.
“Why did we pit that early?!” he barks twenty laps later when he’s spat out into traffic. “I’m boxed in by two Alpines who think this is a fu—damn carpool lane!”
“Understood, Mingyu. Let’s keep pushing.”
He groans, but there’s no time to sulk. Ahead, Seokmin is dancing in clean air at the front, Minghao lurking just behind. Mingyu feels the gap between them and himself like a physical ache. They’re fighting for podiums. He’s fighting his steering wheel just to keep the car pointing straight.
He keeps going. He wrestles the Williams through Ascari, feathering the throttle. He throws it into Parabolica with more hope than grip, muttering prayers to the racing gods and a few curses for good measure. Every lap is a scrap, every sector a negotiation.
The radio crackles. “Good work, Mingyu. Lap time’s improving. Keep this pace.”
He exhales, a humorless laugh catching in his throat. “Tell the car that.”
It’s not glamorous. It’s not heroic. But it’s racing. And when the laps tick down and the flag finally waves, Mingyu drags the car across the line. Bruised ego, tired arms, and all. Not a podium, not a headline. Points, still. Points for Williams after spending years hoping for the bare minimum of a finish.
The checkered flag waves, and Mingyu exhales so hard it fogs the inside of his visor. His arms ache, his neck feels like it’s been wrung out, and the Williams under him is radiating the heat of a dying sun. But the timing screen doesn’t lie: P5. 10 points for Williams. Practically a love letter written in neon.
The radio crackles alive with static. “Mega job, Gyu! That’s P5!”
Mingyu decides he’ll take it. Helmet bobbing against the headrest, he radios back, “Alrighttt, baby!”
“Way to make your girlfriend proud, mate.”
“…Thanks, gu—my what?”
The radio goes suspiciously quiet. No laughter, no explanation, only the faint hiss of white noise. He waits. One beat. Two. Nothing. Mingyu narrows his eyes inside the helmet, muttering, “Yeah, real funny, guys.”
He imagines the garage choking back laughter, everyone pretending to busy themselves with tire blankets and telemetry screens while actually waiting for the inevitable post-race interrogation.
Still, as he slows the car on the cooldown lap, weaving to wave at the fans, he can’t shake the question. Girlfriend? He’d remember if he had one. He thinks. Probably.
Classic Williams. Work him to the bone, then leave him with a riddle to chew on all night. He can already hear Seokmin and Minghao cackling about it over dinner.
But for now, he allows himself the satisfaction: P5 at Monza. A win in its own way.
Mingyu, sweat-streaked but still buzzing from the race, tugs his fireproof top straighter as he slides into the mixed zone. but P5 has him smiling like he’s just won the whole championship, as he walks into the pen. Fluorescent lights, elbowing journalists, and the faint whiff of rubber baked into the asphalt.
“Great drive today, Mingyu,” someone from Sky Sports barks out. “How did it feel out there?”
He leans closer to the mic, conspiratorial. “Like wrestling a bull on roller skates. But hey, we stayed on track, didn’t explode, and crossed the line in one piece. That’s what we call progress.”
A few chuckles ripple out. He answers questions easily: strategy calls, tire management, how much water he thinks he sweated out. (“About three liters, minimum. I’m basically jerky now.”)
Then a reporter tilts her head, squinting at her notes. “And Mingyu, about the broadcast—?”
“What about it?”
“Well, it was one hell of a hard launch, wasn’t it?”
Mingyu’s face contorts into polite confusion, like someone who’s been told the ending of a movie he hasn’t seen yet. He opens his mouth to explain—though what exactly, he’s not sure—but before he can string together a defense, his PR handler materializes at his elbow, all professional smiles and efficient steering. “Thanks so much, we have to move on. Next interview, sorry!”
Mingyu is herded away mid-protest, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Wait, broadcast? What broadcast? I didn’t even—” His words are swallowed by the crowd as another mic is shoved in front of him.
It takes hours for Mingyu to finally piece it together. By the time he’s showered, debriefed, and shoved into fresh Williams merch, the adrenaline has faded to something heavy in his bones. Only when he’s slouched in the back of the team van, scrolling his phone, does the mystery crack open.
His notifications are a war zone: Seokmin’s texts in all caps (“LMAOOOOO BRO UR FINISHED”), Minghao’s in his trademark straightforwardness (“bold of you not to hide from us”), and about a dozen unread group chat messages with the kind of creative memes that can only be weaponized by friends who know your weaknesses.
Mingyu squints, thumb hovering over the link Seokmin has sent. A screen recording, clipped from the F1 TV broadcast. He taps it open.
The screen cuts to the Williams garage, right after his near-spin-save, the crowd roaring like it’s a goal at the World Cup. Then the camera finds… you.
Mingyu, against his better judgment, has to admit the broadcast director has taste. The lens loves you. He privately does, too, for about half a second. The easy way you smile, the spark of expression that makes the whole shot hum.
But then his gaze slides to the graphic at the bottom of the screen, and his soul leaves his body. There’s your name, and then the designation.
Social Media Influencer, Partner of Kim Mingyu.
Partner. As in…?
He doesn’t even know you.
He stares at the tag so hard he’s convinced he’ll find a typo hidden inside. Nothing. Just his name, clean as day, tethered to yours. His stomach does a neat little nosedive. He scrolls back, replays it once, twice, three times, like maybe on the fourth it’ll magically change to something less career-ruining. No luck.
Another message pings in from Seokmin: a string of wedding emojis. Minghao simply adds: “congrats.”
Mingyu slumps further into the seat, phone pressed to his forehead.
The video conference feels less like a meeting and more like a trial. Mingyu sits in his apartment with hair still damp from the shower, clutching a mug of coffee like it’s a legal defense. On his screen: Williams PR, looking like they haven’t smiled since the V6 era, and you. An innocent bystander dragged into the mess, appearing far too composed for someone accused of having a secret relationship with him.
God, Mingyu thinks, unfair.
Even pixelated through mediocre Wi-Fi, you look good. Distractingly good. How is it possible to look camera-ready in a Zoom call? He looks like a raccoon caught stealing snacks, and you look like a magazine spread.
“Let’s run this again,” one of the PR managers says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you or are you not in a relationship with Kim Mingyu?”
You sigh, hands raised in a calm denial. “We’re not,” you say, and your voice is pitched just a touch differently from whatever tone you use for filming content. It fascinates Mingyu. “We’ve never even spoken before this.”
Mingyu nods enthusiastically. “True. I’d remember if we had.” Then, realizing how that sounds, he backpedals. “Not because you’re forgettable. You’re, uh—very memorable. Obviously. Just—” He clears his throat. “Point is, this is our first conversation.”
Your brows lift, amused despite the situation. “Thanks, I think?”
PR is unamused. “This isn’t a joke,” they insist. “The broadcast explicitly tagged you as Mingyu’s partner. The narrative is running wild. We need clarity.”
Mingyu leans toward the webcam, adopting his most trustworthy expression. Unfortunately, makes him look like he’s about to confess on a reality dating show. “We’re telling the truth,” he retorts. “No secret relationship. No scandal. Just a very confused driver and a very unlucky influencer.”
“And you’re certain?” PR presses.
“Yes,” you say firmly. “Absolutely.”
“Yes,” Mingyu echoes. Then, almost reflexively, “Although—I mean, hypothetically, if there were ever a relationship, we’d probably be, you know, supportive of each other’s careers. That’d be nice. Not that this is that. Because it isn’t.”
PR stares. You try not to laugh. Mingyu wants to sink through the floor but can’t help sneaking another glance at you, wondering if the meeting could possibly end with something besides his professional funeral.
The Zoom call sputters to an end not long after. PR smiling too tight, lawyers muttering about statements, and Mingyu signing off with a half-wave. The second his laptop screen goes black, his brain decides to betray him. Naturally, the first thing he does is type your name into Instagram.
He tells himself it’s just curiosity. Research. Due diligence. Absolutely not stalking. Except, two scrolls in, he’s already leaning back in his chair, eyebrows climbing as your follower count glares at him: 512,000. Half a million, he thinks to himself. That’s… several Monzas full of people. Great.
He knew you did commentary on motorsport—he’s seen your posts, the ones that float onto his Explore page between dog memes and teammate thirst edits—but it turns out you have a whole empire attached. There’s a makeup brand. Campaign shots. Tutorials with numbers in the six digits. Mingyu taps one absentmindedly and is immediately greeted with perfect lighting, perfect editing, and perfect you.
What really makes him grin is when he stumbles across a clip with a familiar face: James Vowles, the Williams team principal, standing awkwardly in front of a camera while you shove a mic toward him. “James, be honest,” you say, “what’s harder, running an F1 team or trying to blend liquid eyeliner in under three minutes?”
James blinks like a deer in headlights. “…The eyeliner?”
“Correct,” you chirp, before turning back to the camera. “That’s why he runs the cars and I run the tutorials.”
The video cuts with James chuckling, clearly defeated, and Mingyu can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes him.
Mingyu doesn’t mean to fall down the rabbit hole, but that’s exactly what happens. One video turns into five, five turns into twenty, and suddenly he’s a full-blown archeologist digging through the ruins of your Instagram.
There you are with F2 drivers, teasing them mid-interview until they’re blushing like schoolboys. There you are at an IndyCar paddock, chatting with a team principal as if he’s your next-door neighbor borrowing sugar. Mingyu leans closer to the screen with every swipe, eyes darting between your captions and the way you laugh, quick and clever, always a beat faster than whoever’s in front of you. He finds himself grinning at his phone like an idiot.
The hours slip away without him noticing, the digital equivalent of quicksand. His thumb keeps scrolling even though his brain is half-asleep, his body heavy in his bed. Then—there it is. A photo buried deep in your feed, posted more than three years ago. Younger you, hair a little messy, no glam team in sight, standing high in the Monza nosebleeds with a grin that threatens to split your face in two. The caption is nothing but a string of exclamation points and a blurry shot of cars in the distance.
Looks like he isn’t the only one who’d dreamt of Monza.
Mingyu stares at it, soft amusement tugging at his mouth. He barely registers the way his thumb hovers, then double taps. A small heart flashes red before his phone slips in his hand, the screen dimming. The last thing he knows before sleep drags him under is your wide smile from the grandstands. Bright, unpolished, impossible not to look at.
Somewhere in the background, the quiet horror of having just liked a three-year-old photo waits for him in the morning.
The thing is, Mingyu doesn’t notice right away. Why would he? He sleeps like a log, wakes up like one too, and the only thing on his mind is coffee and cardio. So there he is, dutifully jogging on the treadmill, earbuds in, pretending this is about fitness and not an excuse to outrun his anxiety, when TikTok does what TikTok does best: ruin his life.
The video pops up innocently enough. Caption in neon text: “Did Mingyu just soft-launch a girlfriend???” A voiceover kicks in, suspiciously gleeful. “So, Mingyu liked this three-year-old photo of our favorite influencer—yes, three years old, folks—and here’s the proof.”
Cue screenshot. Cue zoom. Cue circle around his username.
Mingyu’s foot falters. His treadmill betrays him. One mistimed step, and suddenly he’s half-tripping, half-flailing, clutching for balance. His earbuds yank out with the violence of divine punishment.
A man of precision on track, publicly defeated by a treadmill and a phantom like. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Mingyu swears they’re multiplying—these PR meetings. Same conference room, same slideshow clicker, same headache. This week it’s Baku, and instead of tire strategy or track notes, the PowerPoint behind the comms team might as well be titled How to Manage Your Totally Real, Definitely Not Imaginary Girlfriend.
He sits there, arms crossed, pouting like someone stole his dessert. He’s already said it a hundred times: you’re not dating. Apparently, the Internet has spoken, and the Internet doesn’t exactly care about facts.
“We just need to be clear in messaging,” one PR manager says, pointing at a bullet point that reads Keep It Vague.
“Vague?” Mingyu repeats, voice pitching with incredulity. “What’s vague about ‘I don’t know her’?”
Someone else sighs, like he’s the problem child. “It’s not about accuracy, Mingyu. It’s about optics. If you push too hard, it looks defensive. Defensive looks guilty.”
“So now I’m guilty of… not dating someone?” He leans forward, gesturing wildly. “You hear how that sounds, right?”
The silence that follows suggests yes, they hear it. No, they don’t care.
Mingyu slumps back in his chair. He’s all out of exasperated arguments. The PR team drones on about narratives and fan sentiment graphs, but it washes over him. Water on a duck’s back. Finally, he just sighs, mutters something noncommittal, and waves a hand. Fine. Believe what you want.
By the end of the hour, his pout has calcified into resignation. If the whole world wants him in a relationship he doesn’t have, he’s not going to win the argument today. He gathers his things, ducks out before someone can hand him another bullet-pointed nightmare, and calls it a draw. For now.
Mingyu swears he’s not thinking about you. Not at all. Not when he’s reviewing track notes, not when he’s staring down the tight castle section in Baku. He’s perfectly disciplined, focused, and absolutely not distracted by someone with sharp wit and a suspiciously radiant Zoom camera presence. Nope. Not him.
Until the morning of qualifying, that is.
Instagram stories. A quick scroll, nothing serious, until there you are, framed in blurry orange and papaya. A McLaren paddock pass swinging around your neck like a guillotine blade pointed at Mingyu’s sanity. He stares, brows furrowing with something suspiciously close to betrayal.
Of course it’s McLaren. Of course they’d play the long game. If Williams accidentally branded you his partner, McLaren’s apparently out here auditioning you for the role.
He tells himself to let it go. To focus on the race. To be a professional. Instead, he’s suddenly opening his DMs, staring at your name in the chat box. His thumbs hover. He types. Hi.
Deletes.
Types again. Wow!!!
Deletes harder.
What does one even say? ‘Hey, didn’t know you were in town, hope papaya orange brings out your eyes’? ‘Cool pass, traitor’? ‘Please stop looking this good while I’m trying to not die in a street circuit’? Every attempt looks ridiculous the second it leaves his brain.
With the resignation of a man already defeated, he sets the phone down. He’s done. He’s above this. He’s a professional athlete, not some lovesick fanboy—
He picks the phone back up. One more try. Just one. He thumbs in the lamest reply in human history, something so bare-bones he can feel his ancestors shaking their heads at him: Nice lanyard lol.
He means to delete it. He means to backspace, to retreat into silence, to salvage dignity.
But his thumb betrays him a second time.
Sent.
A beat.
Delivered changes to Seen.
Every vein in Mingyu’s body goes cold-hot-cold. You’ve seen it. The lamest message in the known universe. No time to unsend, no room for excuses. It’s done. He’s doomed.
Baku may be a monster, but nothing terrifies him more than waiting for your reply.
Mingyu stares at his phone like it’s a bomb he accidentally armed. He’s mentally drafting an apology tour when the notification banner pops up.
| yourusername: thanks. it’s from mclaren, though.
Okay. Professional. Polite. Mingyu exhales, shoulders sagging, and immediately thumbs out a reply.
| min6yu_k: Knew that. Was just testing you.
There’s a pause, long enough that he wonders if you’ve muted him forever, but then another bubble appears.
| yourusername: u’re terrible at tests, kim.
He grins despite himself, typing fast.
| min6yu_k: That’s fair. In my defense, I don’t usually text mid–Grand Prix scandal.
| yourusername: a scandal you created by liking a post from 2021?? 🤨
Mingyu winces, caught red-handed. He considers doubling down, then decides self-deprecation is safer.
| min6yu_k: Guilty
| min6yu_k: Sorry about all of it, by the way. I didn’t mean to drag you into weird rumor mill territory.
This time, your response comes quicker. The words are still measured, but there’s a softening he can almost hear.
| yourusername: it’s fine lol. not like you paid f1tv to do it or anything
| yourusername: just wasn’t expecting to wake up with people tagging me as ‘f1 wag of the year’
Mingyu laughs out loud, loud enough that his trainer shoots him a look. He taps back:
| min6yu_k: Honestly, you deserve the award just for surviving that Zoom call.
Your reply takes longer this time, but it’s worth the wait.
| yourusername: don’t get used to it. m not doing another emergency pr summit with u
| min6yu_k: Noted. One PR trauma bonding session only 👍
The typing dots linger for a moment, then vanish. Finally:
| yourusername: anw no promises about seeing u around the paddock
| yourusername: but good luck in quali 🍀
The words land softer than he expects. A pat on the back he didn’t know he needed. Mingyu reads them three times before tucking his phone away.
He qualifies P4. He’s not saying it’s because of you, but he’s also not saying it isn’t.
Qualifying P4 feels like the kind of small miracle that makes you think maybe all the treadmill trips, the PR scoldings, and the humiliating Instagram accidents were worth it. But Sunday has teeth. By lap twenty, Mingyu’s strapped into a seat that might as well be a bull ride with branding. The car is twitchy, the balance gone, and his voice is chewing through radio static.
“Why am I losing power out of turn two?!” he barks.
Pit wall comes back too calm for his liking. “Telemetry shows everything is stable, Mingyu. Keep managing.”
“Stable? Stable?! I’m wrestling a washing machine on rollerblades, how is that stable?”
He gets silence. The kind of silence that says we don’t know either, please don’t crash. By lap forty, his jaw is locked, shoulders aching, and he’s screaming again. “This thing is undriveable! Brakes are gone, rear won’t hold! Do you want me to park it or what?”
“Negative, keep pushing.”
He pushes. All the way down the order until the flag waves and the numbers slap him in the face: P16. From the high of P4 to this. A freefall with no parachute. He sits in the cockpit longer than he should, helmet pressed against the wheel, before finally peeling himself out.
The paddock microphones descend like vultures. One of them doesn’t even start with a question about the car. “Mingyu, fans noticed your girlfriend was seen wearing McLaren colors today. Any comments on that?”
His jaw ticks so hard it could crack. Sweat’s still streaking down his temple when he levels them with a stare sharp enough to cut wire. “Next question.”
Another tries again, reshuffling words but not intent. Mingyu’s answer doesn’t change. This time, colder: “Ask about the race or don’t ask at all.”
There’s always background noise in the paddock. Engines, chatter, cameras clicking. Right now all he hears is the roar of blood in his ears, louder than any crowd. P16, and apparently, he still can’t shake you from the headlines.
Mingyu does what he always does after a race gone sideways: he disappears. Not Houdini-level, but close. Sunglasses, cap pulled low, hoodie large enough to smuggle an entire pit crew under. He walks through the Old City, trying very hard not to look like someone who just drove an F1 car into the ground and then got roasted on live television.
The Old City is perfect for this. Stone walls, narrow alleys, that golden glow of lamplight softening even the sharpest edges of his mood. He likes it here. Always has. There’s something about Baku at night that feels like the world is willing to forgive him, at least for a few blocks.
Which is exactly when he rounds a corner and nearly collides with you.
Of course. Of course.
You blink, step back, and immediately clock the situation. “Right,” you say lightly, hands going up in mock surrender. “I’m guessing you don’t want company right now.”
Mingyu could laugh if it didn’t sting a little. You’re not pitying, and that almost makes it worse. Pity, he can swat away. This gentle assumption that he needs space? That’s harder to argue against. His throat goes tight, but he manages a faint grin from under the brim of his cap.
“Depends,” he says. “Do you count as company or cosmic punishment?”
Your smile tilts, not unkind, and you shake your head. “I’ll take that as my cue. Good night, Mingyu.”
You step past him, and he lets you, every nerve screaming to ask you to stay. To hang around. To just talk about anything that isn’t tire degradation or whether P16 is a character flaw. He swallows it down, watching your figure fade into the lamplight until he’s left alone with his disguise, his hoodie, and the city that always seems to know when he needs to hide.
Mingyu tells himself it’s fine. People bump into each other in crowded old towns all the time. One awkward encounter doesn’t mean anything.
Then he sees you again twenty minutes later, bent over a display of silver bangles at a stall, the shopkeeper coaxing you into trying one on. He’s half tempted to call it a simulation glitch.
By the third run-in—this time at a clothes shop where you’re holding up a linen shirt to the light—Mingyu is actively bargaining with the universe. Once is a coincidence. Twice is… funny. Three times? That’s fate with a capital F. Someone’s writing this, and Mingyu is the unwilling protagonist.
He ducks into a little restaurant tucked against the curve of the city wall, hoping for anonymity, peace, maybe a plate of kebab big enough to eat his feelings. Instead, the hostess leads him straight to a table—and there you are again.
Not at his table, mercifully, but at the one directly across, angled perfectly so the two of you sit like some deranged parody of a date. Mingyu covers his mouth with a hand like he’s trying not to laugh at the world’s dumbest punchline. You catch his eye just long enough to arch a brow, equal parts really? and don’t even start.
Dinner becomes an Olympic-level charade. He stares at the menu too hard. You sip your drink with the exaggerated grace of someone being watched, which, to be fair, you are. Whenever your gazes almost meet, you both snap your attention back to your plates like guilty schoolkids.
Some small joke you must have thought of on your own occurs to you, because you duck your head, shoulders shaking, and laugh into your meal. The sound is warm, unguarded, nothing to do with him. For the first time since the race, Mingyu feels something slip in his chest. His mouth tugs up, almost against his will, into a smile.
Three days. That’s how long Mingyu gets to breathe before the next firestorm.
Barely seventy-two hours of pretending the Internet has moved on, and then PR summons him as if he’s a schoolboy headed for detention. Mingyu slumps into the conference room chair, hood still up from the drive over, and immediately they spin a laptop toward him.
The photo in question: Baku’s Old City, the kind of shot that belongs on a travel brochure. A jewelry stall gleams with silver chains and glassy trinkets. There’s Mingyu—hood pulled up, cap tugged so low it shadows half his face, but his height and frame basically scream yes, it’s him. His posture is a dead giveaway; he has never in his life managed to look inconspicuous. A few steps away, there you are. Not talking. Not even facing each other. Just existing in the same atmospheric frame. The Internet, of course, has already branded it confirmation. Hashtags piling up by the second. Think pieces forming. Fans congratulating themselves on being right all along.
“Really?” Mingyu squints at the screen. “This is the smoking gun? My back?”
“Your recognizable back,” one of the managers corrects, pinching the bridge of their nose like they’re suppressing a migraine. “Do you have any idea how quickly this is spreading?”
“Quicker than my car on Sunday,” Mingyu mutters, because sarcasm is the only weapon left in his arsenal. He’s barely armed, but it’s all he’s got.
The room doesn’t laugh. Of course it doesn’t. He’s talking to people who categorize memes as communication risks. They don’t have the range.
Mingyu tries, weakly, to defend himself. He explains you weren’t together, that you hadn’t even exchanged words, that coincidence is not the same thing as a relationship. He gestures with his hands, sprawling explanations across the table, hoping volume and dramatics might soften the edges of disbelief. It’s pointless. His PR team waves him off. They’re already drafting statements, debating whether to ignore or confront, arguing over hashtags that will inevitably backfire. One of them says ‘brand synergy’ with a straight face.
Mingyu sinks lower in his chair, jaw tight, cap brim nearly touching the table. He knows the drill by now. No matter what he says, the narrative’s already running laps without him. On the outside, he’s exasperated. On the inside, though, he’s quietly grateful.
Because if the vultures had gotten photos of those dinner tables, side by side in the Old City, chairs angled just so, him biting back laughter as you laughed into your meal—then that would’ve been ruined, dissected, cheapened into content. He can already imagine the captions: soft launch confirmed, same restaurant, same night, what more proof do you need?
But they don’t have that. All they have is his back in front of a jewelry stall, a sliver of coincidence blown into mythology. Which means he gets to keep the dinner. He gets to keep the sound of your laugh tugging his mouth into a smile. He gets to keep it as his, that moment. Untouched, unpolished.
Mingyu resolves to keep his head down. Or at least he tries to, though it’s hard to look subtle when you’re six-foot-something and wearing a fireproof suit. The only thing louder than the Internet whispering about him is the uncooperative Williams underneath him.
Singapore: he retires, engine coughing out before he can even call it a night. America: he crosses the line dead last, gritting his teeth while the checkered flag waves like mock applause. PR tells him to keep smiling, but even he can’t fake cheer through the smell of burning rubber and disappointment.
It’s not all bad. Mexico: pit lane start, every commentator politely predicting doom. Mingyu claws his way up, lap after lap, until the scoreboard flashes him into the points. Las Vegas: the lights, the noise, the neon chaos, and the Williams wrestled to P6. For a moment, it almost feels like proof. Proof that he belongs here, proof that the fight is worth it.
He races, races, races. The weeks blur together: flights, hotels, meetings, helmets, grids. Always noise, always expectation.
In the gaps between, when the adrenaline fades and the world is still, he tries not to think of you. Not your giggle across a dinner table in Baku. Not the idea of you lingering at the edges of his story like some subplot he isn’t brave enough to read aloud.
He tells himself it’s better this way. That racing is enough. That winning—even scraps of it—is enough. But sometimes, when the garage finally empties and he’s the last one there, he catches himself staring at the shadows, half-expecting them to laugh the way you did.
The next time he actually sees you, it’s not in an ancient city or the dawn of the paddock. Instead, it’s a charity gala. One that’s not supposed to be a battlefield, but unspools like one anyway. The moment Mingyu spots you across the ballroom, every carefully rehearsed sponsor smile crash lands into nothingness. The chandelier above gleams, champagne flutes clink, and Mingyu’s standing there with a bow tie that suddenly feels three sizes too tight.
“Don’t look now,” Minghao murmurs, which is, of course, the universal sign to definitely look now. Seokmin cranes his neck shamelessly.
“Oh, she’s here,” hums Seokmin. “No wonder he looks like he just saw the light of God.”
“I do not look like that,” Mingyu mutters, but his ears betray him, turning a shade redder than the Ferrari livery he’s sworn to loathe.
Minghao raises his glass. “You’re short-circuiting.”
“Am not.”
Seokmin grins, cruel and delighted. “You’re buffering.”
Mingyu glares at both of them as if sheer willpower can keep his dignity from combusting. He risks one glance back, and there you are, catching his eye. For a beat, the whole room fades. The music, the chatter, the endless speeches. Just you, framed in soft golden light.
On instinct, Mingyu lifts a hand in a wave that feels ridiculously small for someone his size. It’s awkward, a little sheepish, but honest. When you acknowledge him with the faintest smile, a nod in return, it’s enough to reset his entire internal system. He’s still Mingyu—Williams’ exasperated problem child, PR’s recurring nightmare—but in that moment, he’s also just a boy shyly waving across the room.
For the rest of the night, Mingyu tells himself he’s not hovering. He’s not orbiting. He’s not casually re-aligning his path through the gala ballroom so that every champagne refill, every polite handshake, somehow puts him within fifteen meters of you.
No. He’s just… navigating. Strategically. Like he does on track. Except instead of overtaking Boo Seungkwan, he’s dodging billionaires in tuxedos and trying to stay within your view.
Minghao notices first. “You’re circling,” he muses. “Very predator-and-prey of you, Kim.”
Seokmin grins. “More like a golden retriever lost in a sea of penguins.”
Heat creeps up Mingyu’s neck. He ignores his friends, throwing a suppositious glance towards where you are, laughing at something someone’s just said, light catching the edge of your glass. He short circuits all over again.
By the time he finally intercepts your orbit, you beat him to the punch. “You know,” you say, eyebrow raised, “for someone the Internet keeps calling my boyfriend, you’re surprisingly bad at just coming over to talk.”
Mingyu groans, half-burying his face in his hand, but laughter spills through his fingers. “Unbelievable. Even you?”
“Even me,” you confirm, smile tilting into smirk territory.
“Great. Fantastic. Love that my fake relationship is just as good at roasting me as my real friends.”
“Maybe you should work on your approach,” you suggest, tilting your head.
“Oh, because sneaking up on you at a gala is already peak suave?” he shoots back, earning the smallest laugh from you—a sound he pockets instantly.
The two of you slip into small talk, the easy, low-stakes kind. Complaints about the too-fizzy champagne, mutual side-eyes at the overzealous photographers, gentle mockery of the violinist who’s going a little too hard on Vivaldi. Mingyu lets himself just stand there, conversation flowing between you, thinking maybe he doesn’t mind the world’s favorite rumor if it means he gets to hear you laugh again.
One of the photographers is relentless. Mingyu swears the guy has been circling like a shark all night, lens gleaming, waiting for the perfect strike. He and you have already dodged him twice. Once by pretending to be fascinated by the dessert table, another by Mingyu faking a very urgent bathroom trip. Now, cornered by the bar, there’s no escape route except straight through.
“Just one picture,” the man insists, camera half-raised. “For the fans. For the story.”
Mingyu shoots him a look that hopefully communicates: if you say ‘story’ one more time, I’ll actually combust. Out loud, he goes with: “We’re good, thanks.”
You’re already shaking your head, polite but firm. Still, the photographer doesn’t budge. He leans in, coaxing, pressing, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu as if you’re a headline just waiting to be printed. Mingyu sees it. That flicker of unease in your shoulders, the way your hand tightens around your clutch. You’re not pitying him, not annoyed—just uncomfortable. Which, for Mingyu, is more than enough incentive to do something.
He doesn’t think. He just acts. One hand lifts, finds the small of your back, rests there with enough certainty to draw a line in the sand. “We’re trying to stay lowkey tonight,” Mingyu says, tone calm but edged with finality. It’s the kind of voice that isn’t loud but leaves no room for argument.
The photographer hesitates, caught off-guard, before lowering his camera. Mingyu doesn’t wait for him to regroup. With a gentle but decisive pressure of his palm, he steers you away, guiding you back into the flow of the gala crowd.
Only once you’re safely out of range does Mingyu let out a breath and mutter, half-groan, half-laugh, “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank god for the world’s slowest string quartet.” He tilts his head toward the musicians in the corner, whose dirge-like tempo is the perfect cover for his quick exit.
You glance up at him, eyebrows raised, lips pursed into a thin line. He shrugs, hand hovering at your back for a beat longer before he reluctantly pulls it away, conspiratorial grin slipping in. “What?” Mingyu says. “Every fake boyfriend has to earn his keep somehow.”
You don’t even need to speak before he feels the lecture coming. “You know you basically poured gasoline on the rumor mill just now, right? You could’ve left it alone, but no. You had to…” You gesture vaguely toward the part of your back where his hand had been seconds earlier. “That.”
Mingyu runs a hand down his face like he can physically wipe away the accusation. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there? Watch you squirm while some guy shoved a camera in your face?” His voice pitches, equal parts exasperation and self-defense. “Come on, you looked uncomfortable.”
“I would’ve managed,” you say, chin tilting stubbornly.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to ‘manage’,” Mingyu shoots back, his words clumsy but earnest. “I wanted you out of it. So I got you out of it.”
The two of you stand there, simmering in a disagreement that’s half bickering, half something else. Mingyu crosses his arms, jaw tight, but his mind races—conspiratorial, frustrated, and maybe just a little guilty because you’re not entirely wrong. He did fuel the rumors, didn’t he?
You sigh, breaking the stalemate.
“Still.” Your voice softens, reluctant but sincere. “Thank you, I guess.”
That’s all it takes for Mingyu’s defenses to flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. “You’re welcome,” he says, low. Then, because he can’t resist, he adds, “Next time, I’ll let the paparazzi have you. Just to balance the damn rumors.”
The Qatar desert sun leans heavy against the track, and Mingyu is sweating before he’s even in the car. The second-to-last race of the year, and he’s wound tight as suspension springs, desperate for a podium that keeps dangling out of. He doesn’t know why he feels this bone-deep need to prove himself—maybe to the team, maybe to the sport, maybe to himself. Maybe all three.
He tries to focus. He really does. Helmet on, mind narrowing to the thousand moving parts of a race. Brake points. Tire temps. Strategy calls. Don’t think. Don’t drift. Just lock in.
But there’s whispers in the garage, the kind of background chatter he’s learned to ignore. Except this one snags his ear like a hook. Something about you. About you being here. About Williams, of all teams, deciding they’d much rather have you floating in their hospitality suite than pretending they’ve still got control of their season. He’s not even sure it’s true, but the rumor curls through the air, and suddenly it’s in his bloodstream.
Mingyu pretends not to care.
He pretends really, really hard. The flutter in his chest betrays him, tapping against his ribs like it’s got its own engine. He clamps down on it, tells himself it doesn’t matter, tells himself he’s got work to do. He’s here for the car, the laps, the fight. Nothing else.
Except—if you are here, somewhere in the paddock, he can’t help but wonder.
Would you be watching him? Would you be laughing at Williams’ gallows humor, or would you be looking for him on track? He’s not sure which answer makes his heart race faster.
Helmet visor down, lights above flickering red. Mingyu tells himself he’s chasing a podium. Somewhere in the mess of adrenaline and nerves, he knows he’s chasing something else, too.
Mingyu qualifies P7, which is not bad considering the Williams spends half its time threatening to explode. He tells himself a podium is still in reach—if strategy plays nice, if the car behaves, if the gods of motorsport are in a generous mood. He’s clinging to optimism like it’s oxygen, and it almost feels convincing.
Joshua, later, is leaning against the pit wall with arms crossed. The two of them are trading notes on tire wear when Joshua tilts his chin toward the paddock and says, casual as ever, “Your girlfriend’s here.”
Mingyu blinks. “Excuse me?”
Joshua doesn’t even look up from the tablet. “Your girlfriend. Over there. By the garage.”
For a beat, Mingyu thinks it’s a joke, the usual ribbing. But then Joshua’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t even twitch with irony. He’s dead serious. Which means Joshua doesn’t think he’s teasing. Joshua actually believes it.
Mingyu groans, head tilting back. “Oh my God. Not you too.”
“I—Joshua.” Mingyu levels him with the most exhausted look he can muster. “We’ve talked, like… three times.”
Joshua shrugs, unbothered. “Looks like more than that.”
Mingyu mutters something unprintable under his breath, already feeling the weight of inevitable defeat. If even his own teammate has crossed over into the conspiracy camp, then resistance is futile.
Sighing in the tone of a man trudging toward his own execution, Mingyu straightens his cap and makes his way toward the garage. He catches sight of you just where Joshua said, sunlight catching against your profile. Despite himself—despite the sheer ridiculousness of it all—he feels that stupid flutter in his chest again.
He clears his throat. “Hey.” Pause. “Apparently I’m obligated to greet my… uh, girlfriend.”
The word hangs there, dry as dust, but his goofy grin betrays him.
You’re leaning against the garage railing when he arrives, Williams blue catching the lights just right. It makes your skin look luminous, your eyes brighter, your whole presence impossible to ignore. Your shirt hangs loose but sharp, tucked just so, sleeves rolled like you know exactly what you’re doing. Hair pulled back neat, a few strands escaping like they’re in on some private joke. To Mingyu, you look like the team’s best-kept secret and a fashion campaign rolled into one.
“P7,” you say in greeting. “Impressive. I heard your radio, though—are you sure half of that wasn’t just dramatic improv?”
Mingyu puts a hand to his chest, scandalized. “That was high-quality communication. Shakespearean, almost. I was painting a picture of the car’s suffering.”
“Mm. Sounded like a soap opera,” you reply, amused. “Very moving, though.”
He narrows his eyes at you, but his grin gives him away. “You know what’s really moving? How much better you look in Williams blue. It’s offensive, actually. You’re making the rest of us look underdressed.”
You laugh, batting him away, but the flush in your cheeks is there. Mingyu, pleased with himself, settles beside you. You’re mid-sentence about the car’s performance when the joke in your tone suddenly sharpens into conviction.
“It’s not hopeless, you know,” you say, leaning forward a little, eyes alight. You’re not even looking at him; you’re eyeing the FW47 car. “Williams has the aero figured out in theory. They just need to optimize the mechanical grip and manage tire degradation better. If they get that balance right, you could be fighting solid midfield every weekend. Maybe higher.”
Mingyu stares.
You’re animated, passionate, talking with your hands like you’re sketching blueprints out of air. He catches the curve of your mouth, the fire in your words, the way your voice lingers on possibility. He’s so caught up in the sight that it takes you arching a brow for him to realize his mouth is hanging open.
“What?” you ask. “You’re gaping.”
“Uh—” Mingyu’s brain short-circuits, and before he can stop himself: “You’re hot.”
Silence. His eyes go wide. “Wait, no, I mean—you’re smart. And hot. But also smart. Like, terrifyingly smart—”
Your cheeks are crimson now, but you’re laughing through it, hiding your face in your hand. Mingyu groans into his palms, wanting to melt into the garage floor. Somehow, though, when he risks a glance, you’re still smiling at him.
That evening, his hotel room is blessedly quiet. No engineers running simulations, no PR managers breathing down his neck, no Joshua pestering him with unsolicited advice about hydration. Just him, the glow of his phone, and the exhaustion settling deep in his bones.
He’s halfway through convincing himself to sleep when his screen lights up with a message from Minghao. One link, no explanation. The cryptic efficiency of someone who knows exactly how to ruin his peace.
Mingyu taps it. Regrets it immediately.
A post from paddock photographer Kym Illman. A candid, crisp shot from the garage earlier: you in Williams blue, laughing so hard you’ve gone pink-cheeked. Mingyu is right beside you, caught mid-smile, teeth on full display. The picture is practically weaponized charm, the kind of thing PR dreams of and Mingyu personally dreads.
The caption reads, Mingyu and his partner sharing a light moment in the garage. Williams bringing more than just fresh energy this weekend.
Mingyu groans into his pillow. Partner. Partner! He’s losing the war, one pixel at a time. The entire Internet is now a scrapbook of moments he can’t explain, strung together into a narrative he never signed off on.
He should be annoyed. He should be typing some half-hearted denial to Minghao right now. Instead, his thumb hovers over the image, holding it just long enough for the save option to appear. Because the photo—well. It’s good. And he likes the way you look with laughter spilling out of you, the way he looks like someone worth laughing with.
A part of him hopes it’ll double as a good luck charm. Spoiler alert: Sundays care very little about luck.
Starting at P7 isn’t bad, Mingyu tells himself. In fact, P7 is great. P7 is ‘you can claw your way to the podium if you don’t blink’ territory. He repeats this as he straps in, as he flicks through his steering wheel settings, as he forces his breath steady. Williams isn’t exactly giving him Excalibur here, but he can still fight with a butter knife if he swings hard enough.
For a while, it even looks possible. He’s hanging on, toe-to-toe in the midfield, saving his tires like he’s babysitting toddlers hopped up on sugar. He’s patient, disciplined, calculating. The radio crackles with encouragement: “Nice work, Gyu. Keep this pace, we’ll have options.”
Mingyu believes him—until strategy decides to do the Macarena in traffic.
“Box, box, box,” comes the call, too late for an undercut, too early for an overcut. He emerges behind a train of cars that are slower than dial-up internet, and his entire plan unravels. “
Why did we pit there?” Mingyu demands. “Whose idea was this?! Are we trying to set a Guinness World Record for Most Time Wasted?”
The pit wall gives the vague, corporate answer. Mingyu groans. Fine. Reset. He can still recover.
And then it rains.
Not much, at first. A drizzle, the kind that makes you question your windshield wipers. But here, on slicks, it’s Russian roulette. “Rain on Sector 2,” his engineer says. “Copy?”
“Copy,” Mingyu mutters, then immediately fishtails. “Never mind, un-copy.”
His rear steps out in a slow, cinematic spin. Tokyo Drift but with zero style points. He pirouettes once, twice, kisses the runoff. Somehow, he avoids the wall. “Car’s fine, car’s fine,” he says quickly, like he can ward off damage with words alone.
The problem is, he’s lost chunks of time. The car won’t grip. He’s skidding through corners like a toddler on rollerblades. The radio comes in: “Box for inters?”
Mingyu sighs. “Sure,” he grits out. “Let’s just throw darts at a board at this point.”
The inters don’t save him. The track dries faster than his patience. He’s hemorrhaging positions. Every lap is another cut. “We’re losing pace,” his engineer says wryly.
“Thank you for the breaking news,” Mingyu shoots back. “Next you’ll tell me water is wet.”
The final straw comes when he spins again. This time, a lazy half-turn that stalls him dead. He tries to rejoin, but the gearbox protests, the engine coughs, and the car gives up. A stubborn mule in carbon fiber. Yellow flag. Out.
He rips off his wheel, slams it down. The radio captures the wreckage of his mood, the flare of his temper: “Unbelievable. I swear, this car fucking hates me. Every weekend, it’s like, ‘How do we ruin Mingyu’s life today?’ Well, congrats! You nailed it! Ten out of fucking ten!”
Silence on the other end. Even PR can’t spin this one.
When the marshals push his car away, Mingyu leans back in his seat, helmet hiding his expression. He should be furious. He is furious. But underneath it all, he’s just tired. Tired of chasing podiums that slip like soap through his fingers. Tired of trying to wrestle miracles out of machinery that won’t cooperate.
The post-race gauntlet is merciless. Mingyu peels himself out of the car like a man molting out of regret, and it only gets worse from there. Cameras swarm. Microphones appear. The interviewers all carry the same tone—pity dipped in professionalism—as they circle around the elephant in the paddock.
“Unfortunate race today, Mingyu. Talk us through the spin?”
Talk us through the spin. As if he doesn’t replay it on loop every time he blinks. He pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes and offers up the same canned lines: “Yeah, tough one. Strategy didn’t play out, rain caught us off-guard, car was tricky to handle. Happens in racing.”
He knows he sounds like a Wikipedia page of excuses, but it’s either that or full meltdown live on Sky Sports.
By the time he’s herded into the Williams garage for the debrief, his nerves are frayed down to threads. The engineers argue over telemetry, strategists snipe over rain calls, and Mingyu sits there, nodding, calculating how many laps it would’ve taken to at least limp into points.
The salt in the wound? Minghao and Seokmin, beaming on the podium screens. Another champagne spray. Another trophy kiss. Mingyu tells himself he’s happy for them. He tells himself a lot of things. Deep down, jealousy coils tight, acidic, like he’s been made to clap for someone else’s birthday party when it was supposed to be his.
When the meeting finally dissolves, he slips out, jaw tight, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. That’s when someone steps in his path. He doesn’t even clock who it is before snapping, sharp and venomous: “What now?”
And then he sees.
It’s you.
You blink at him, startled but not retreating, your brows quirking. Mingyu’s stomach plummets. Fantastic. Just brilliant. He’s spent weeks trying to convince you he’s not a complete disaster of a human being, and here he is, barking at you like a cornered dog.
His voice comes out too fast, too eager to undo the damage: “Wait, sorry—God, I didn’t know it was you. I thought—you know what, doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have snapped at all.”
You don’t make it easy for him. You don’t make it hard, either. You just… take a seat. Mingyu follows suit. Against the garage wall, it’s just you and him on two ancient, folding chairs. There’s no pity in your eyes, no lecture in your tone. He’s so grateful it nearly undoes him.
Silence stretches, the kind that crackles like static. He braces for something clinical—strategy notes, soft condolences. Instead, you tilt your head and ask, entirely out of nowhere: “What’s your favorite color?”
Mingyu blinks. Of all the questions—“My… favorite color?”
He sounds like you just asked for his PIN number. “Uh. Red. No—blue. No—wait, not like Williams blue, more like… the sky when it’s just about to storm. That kind of blue.” He hears himself ramble, and it horrifies him for a beat. You’ve gone and messed it up, boy.
You only hum, thoughtful. And then you don’t say anything else. The silence settles again, which is somehow worse. After about a full minute of silence, you smirk. “You know, customarily,” you say, “when someone asks you a question like that, you’re supposed to return the favor.”
He jolts, eyes widening. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Uh—what’s your favorite…” His brain does a lottery spin of topics—movie? food? pet names?—and somehow lands on, “Circuit. Yeah. What’s your favorite circuit?”
That gets you to light up, as if you’ve been waiting all day for someone to ask. You launch into a passionate spiel about technical corners and elevation changes, about how Suzuka is poetry in geometry. Mingyu listens, trying not to gape like a tourist at the Louvre, but he’s certain his mouth does fall open somewhere between ‘cornering’ and ‘apex.’
He stares at you for a second longer than he should, caught between admiration and amusement. Then he almost-smiles. “See, I was expecting like… Monaco. Because pretty. But no, you’re out here giving me a TED Talk.”
“Sorry for having taste,” you say, mock-prim. “Alright, your turn again. Favorite meal?”
“Easy. Ramen. Any kind. Preferably the kind I don’t cook myself.”
You laugh. “Convenient. Okay—favorite childhood cartoon?”
He groans like this is torture. “Do you realize this could define how you see me forever? Fine. Pokémon. Basic, I know, but Growlithe was my guy.”
“Predictable. I would’ve pegged you for a Dragon Ball kid.”
“Oh, I was,” he says, pointing at you. “But you only said one. See? I have integrity.”
The back-and-forth continues, questions traded like contraband in a classroom: least favorite subject in school, dream vacation spot, worst haircut. With each answer, the weight on Mingyu’s shoulders eases. Somewhere between your exaggerated gasp at his confession of once owning frosted tips and his genuine interest in your love of late-night beach walks, he realizes he’s smiling without forcing it.
For once, post-race, he isn’t counting what he’s lost. He’s cataloguing these tiny answers instead, tucking them away for when they might someday matter. If that day were to ever come at all.
Eventually, the night winds down, and reality starts tugging you back toward your own obligations. Mingyu catches the shift in your body language before you even say it. You stand, brushing invisible lint off your outfit, and tell him you should go.
“Already?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like this doesn’t gut him just a little. “No dramatic farewell speech?”
You laugh and lean down to give him a quick hug, perfunctory at best. It barely counts. It’s more like a polite tap of shoulders than anything else. Mingyu blinks. Stares. Then, with a blooming grin that’s both incredulous and shameless, he says, “You know, for someone who’s supposedly my girlfriend, you’re really underselling it.”
Your eyes sparkle, the corner of your mouth quirking upward. “Oh? You want a better one?”
Mingyu opens his mouth to reply, but it doesn’t matter. Suddenly, you’re wrapping your arms around him properly. Fully. No half-measures, no polite shoulder-tap. Warmth, pressed close enough to fry every neuron in his brain. He goes statue-still, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. For a terrifying second, he thinks he might actually forget how to function.
Instinct finally kicks in, and he hugs you back. Tentative at first, then firmer, anchoring himself like you’re the only stable point in a world that keeps tilting sideways. He could get used to this. Too easily.
You shift, about to pull away, but his voice escapes before he can stop it. Softer than he means to, vulnerable in a way he almost never allows himself: “Five more minutes.”
You freeze, then settle. He feels you smile against his shoulder.
“Five minutes,” you echo, teasing but warm, and Mingyu prays for time to go slower.
For once, everything actually goes Mingyu’s way.
It’s not perfect—he doesn’t leap onto the podium in a blaze of champagne glory—but it’s close. Close enough that he can taste it. Strategy is sharp. The car holds steady. He dices through midfield battles with a mix of sharp elbows and prayer, and when the checkered flag falls in Abu Dhabi, he’s crossing the line in P4. Four. Just shy of the podium. The kind of finish that makes your stomach twist with both pride and irritation, because how dare happiness arrive dressed as almost?
The radio crackles to life before he’s even cooled the car down. “P4, Mingyu! Amazing job. That’s points secured and top eight in the championship. What a season.” The voice from Williams is beaming, practically hugging him through the static.
He leans back in the cockpit, sweat stinging his eyes, and laughs. Half in disbelief, half in exhaustion. Top nine. He’s in the top ten of the driver standings. Something he wouldn’t have dared to scribble in the corner of his notebook a few years ago. Something that felt galaxies away when he first climbed into a car that could barely finish races without a prayer and duct tape.
“Thanks, guys,” he says into the mic, voice a little rough. “Really. Couldn’t have done it without you. Let’s keep building. I’ll be back next season stronger than ever.”
There’s a cheer on the other end of the radio. He closes his eyes for a second, the lights of Yas Marina still blazing around him, and lets himself feel it. Not a podium. Not yet. But damn close. Close enough to know he’s not dreaming anymore.
Mingyu is still humming with adrenaline, his race suit damp with sweat, when the microphones swarm again. Only this time, the air feels different—lighter, buoyed by the fact he’s just hauled a Williams across the line in P4.
The first interviewer grins. “Mingyu, incredible finish today. You must be thrilled.”
Thrilled doesn’t even cover it. He rattles off something about the car being strong, the team executing perfectly, about how every pit stop felt like choreography, and the words actually sound like him, not a hostage video. He can feel himself grinning in a way that won’t peel off his face for days.
Then, inevitably, the pivot: “And we have to ask… there’s been a lot of talk about the support you’ve had this season, especially from someone seen often by your side. Care to comment?”
The universe clearly has a sense of humor. Mingyu knows who they mean. Of course he knows. He’d be blind not to. When he scans the garage edge, you’re not there. No quick eye roll, no sly smile, no subtle cue to help him dodge or play along. Just an empty space where you should be, and suddenly his chest aches more than his arms did wrestling the car through Turn 9.
He could dodge, like always. Crack a joke, laugh it off, turn the question into smoke. That’s the script. But he’s loose with joy, too full of something he can’t swallow back down. So, instead, he leans into the mic and says, “Honestly? I couldn’t have done it without her support. Through the highs, the lows, the complete disasters—she’s been there. So… yeah. I’m grateful. More than I can say.”
The crowd of reporters buzzes, hungry for more, but Mingyu only smiles, sharp and secretive. It feels good to give a bit, to let the truth slip through the cracks. It feels good to say your name and have it be associated with his.
His PR team gives up for the season. After a week of frantic emails, ‘damage control’ meetings, and increasingly desperate drafts of public statements, they stop chasing him down hallways with their iPads. Mingyu stops pretending he’s going to answer them, too. At some point, it just isn’t worth the effort. The world seems to have decided what it wants to believe, and honestly? He’s too tired, too giddy from Abu Dhabi, to keep trying to redirect the narrative.
It’ll blow over, he tells himself. You’ll ignore it. Ghost the rumors into silence the way you do everything else you don’t want to dignify. He’s almost convinced himself when, the next day, he scrolls through Instagram and sees it.
Your story.
It’s grainy phone footage, taken by someone else in some sports bar miles and miles away from where he is. The audio is terrible, bass thumping, people yelling over each other. But there you are, unmistakably you, at the center of the chaos. Jumping up from your barstool when Mingyu’s Williams crosses the line P4, screaming like you’ve just witnessed a miracle. You clap your hands to your mouth, eyes bright, and laugh into your drink, glowing with secondhand victory.
Mingyu stares at his phone. Then he laughs. Loud, ridiculous, unguarded laughter that startles the poor Williams junior engineer walking past his hotel room door.
Without even thinking, he hits the reshare button. Adds a caption that’s half joke, half confession: Best cheerleader I could ask for. Even from across the world. 🩵
Two doors down, his PR person heaves out an exhausted sigh when she gets the Story notification.
The break kicks off the way all bad ideas start: with Minghao declaring, “What’s the point of being young, rich, and stupid if we don’t at least borrow Toto’s yacht?” and Seokmin immediately agreeing. Mingyu, who’s usually the voice of reason, somehow becomes the designated captain within the hour.
Now here they are, bobbing off the Sardinian coast like three very expensive criminals. The sun is ridiculous, the sea too blue to be taken seriously, and Mingyu is already rehearsing how he’ll explain this in court. (“Your honor, it was peer pressure. Also, Minghao had the keys.”)
They sprawl on deck chairs with sunglasses and cocktails that Minghao insists are ‘balanced,’ though Mingyu suspects they’re about 80% rum. Seokmin kicks his feet up and points his glass at Mingyu. “So. You and her.”
Mingyu groans. “No. Not this again.”
“Yes, this again,” Minghao says, far too pleased. “You’ve been dodging since Singapore. It’s getting embarrassing.”
“It’s not like that,” Mingyu insists, though even he doesn’t buy the dryness in his own tone. He sips his drink to hide it, though the concoction mostly just makes him cough.
Seokmin grins like a man who’s spotted blood in the water. “Bro, you reshared her Instagram story with a caption. A caption! That’s couple behavior.”
“Friends can write captions,” Mingyu says weakly.
“Not sweet ones,” Minghao counters, leaning back with all the serenity of a Bond villain on vacation. “You basically confessed.”
Mingyu tries to wave them off, to redirect, to point out the literal stolen yacht situation that seems way more pressing than his alleged love life. But they don’t budge. The teasing circles him like seagulls, relentless, pecking at every excuse.
Finally, he just throws his hands up. “Believe what you want. I’m not explaining myself anymore.”
Seokmin and Minghao exchange a look that says everything. The case is closed, the verdict unanimous. Mingyu is dating you. Mingyu does not get a say.
He stretches out on the deck, lets the sun burn his cheeks, and tells himself it’s easier this way. Besides, he thinks, half-smiling into his glass, there are worse people to be your alleged significant other.
The yacht feels different once Minghao and Seokmin’s girlfriends arrive. Before, it was three idiots pretending they knew how to work a boat. Now, it’s candlelit dinners, more bottles of wine, laughter that rings across the water. It’s picturesque. Romantic. A setting from a movie poster.
Which is fine, really. Good for them. Great, even. But somewhere between the second glass of wine and Seokmin serenading his girlfriend with a Bruno Mars impression, Mingyu realizes he has become… the fifth wheel. The extra chair at a table for four. The stray sock in a neatly folded pair.
He tries to roll with it. He raises toasts, he laughs too loudly at Minghao’s jokes, he even helps refill glasses with all the grace of a man auditioning for ‘world’s most eligible bachelor.’ The longer the night goes, the clearer it becomes—this is Couple Island, and he’s accidentally booked himself a ticket.
Sometime after midnight, drunk and fed up, he makes his escape. Slips away from the warm glow of fairy lights and clinking cutlery, out onto the quieter deck where the sea hushes against the hull. His phone feels heavy in his pocket, reckless and inevitable. He doesn’t think twice. He just hits call.
The screen lights up, and after a few rings, your face appears. Half lit, eyes squinting, hair mussed from sleep. “Mingyu?” you murmur, voice low and scratchy. “Do you know what time it is here?”
“It’s morning, right? Perfect timing,” Mingyu grins, though it’s crooked and hazy. “You’re my breakfast call.”
You blink at him, unimpressed but too tired to argue. “You drunk?”
“Drunk on friendship,” he says, then groans, flopping onto a deck chair. “Okay, maybe also wine. But mostly on friendship. Terrible, terrible friendship.”
Your brows lift. “What happened?”
Mingyu presses the heel of his hand to his forehead as if he’s the world’s most tragic hero. “They brought their girlfriends. Minghao and Seokmin. Both of them,” he whines. “I’m the fifth wheel. Do you know what that’s like? To be the odd one out on a yacht? It’s humiliating. I’m like a decorative throw pillow. Nobody needs me, but I’m here.”
You laugh softly, trying to smother it in your sleeve, but he catches it. He narrows his eyes at the screen. “You’re laughing at me.”
“I’m not,” you say, still smiling. “I’m sympathizing.”
“You’re doing it very poorly.”
“Go back inside, Gyu. You’ll forget all about this in the morning.”
He sighs, dramatic as ever, tipping his head back to look at the stars. “Maybe. But right now, it feels like the saddest movie in the world. Mingyu: The Fifth Wheel. Nobody would buy a ticket.”
“I’d buy a ticket,” you say quietly, already slipping back toward sleep.
Mingyu is three drinks past good judgment. Sardinia is wasted on him; the stars are blurred, the sea hums like a lullaby, and yet the only thing he cares about is the faint glow of his phone screen. Specifically, the sleepy face blinking back at him from thousands of miles away.
“Do you know,” he keeps on going, slurring through it, “future scholars are going to study this moment.”
You voice is muffled by your pillow. “Scholars?”
“Yeah. Exhibit A: Minghao and Seokmin being disgustingly in love. Exhibit B: me. Alone. Tragic. Very Greek mythology of me.”
You huff something like a laugh, eyes already drooping again. He should stop. He should absolutely stop. But Mingyu’s mouth keeps going like it has its own steering wheel. “Also,” he says suddenly, as if it’s just occurred to him, “you look so pretty right now.”
There’s a pause. A beat too long. Then you’re fully burying half your face into the pillow, muffling something incoherent. Mingyu’s heart is tap-dancing in his chest. Smooth, genius. Real smooth.
He panics forward, babbling, “No, I mean, not just now. Like—always. But right now too. Like, imagine—imagine waking up next to you. First thing in the morning. And you’d be all—” He waves a hand, searching for words, “—soft and annoyed because I’m talking too much, and I’d bring you coffee, but probably spill it, and you’d forgive me because I’d look very apologetic while shirtless—”
“Stoppp,” you groan, but your voice is soft, too soft. He can see the pink creeping over your cheeks even with your phone’s dim light.
Mingyu hides his own face in his elbow, groaning like he can rewind the last thirty seconds of existence. “Oh my God, kill me. Forget I said any of that. I’m—this is—illegal content.”
You don’t answer. You’ve gone quiet, your breathing evening out, the screen wobbling as you sink deeper into your pillow. A small smile tugs at his mouth. He wants to keep going, to ramble until the sun comes up, but the night air is cool, the deck is comfortable, and his words finally slow into nonsense.
At some point, the phone slips to his chest. His eyes close. On your end, you’re already gone, dreaming. Two time zones apart, you fall asleep on the same call, the line still open, the quiet static of connection buzzing like a heartbeat.
Like an actual couple.
The day after, Mingyu wakes to the kind of heat that makes him wonder if he accidentally slept in the mouth of a volcano. His face is tight, his arms stinging, and when he tries to move, every muscle protests. He sits up on the yacht’s deck with a groan, phone dead beside him like a corpse at the scene of his bad decisions.
It takes a few hours—painkillers, aloe, two bottles of water, and locating a charger that isn’t claimed by Seokmin’s girlfriend—before his phone finally buzzes back to life. Mingyu stares at the black screen reflecting his fried expression, trying to remember how many regrettable things he said last night. He’s about 70% sure he called you pretty. He’s 100% sure he meant it.
His thumbs hover over the keyboard. He starts and deletes three drafts before settling on cowardly honesty:
| min6yu_k: Hey
| min6yu_k: Sorry about last night. And this morning. Also sorry in advance for every other time I’ve ever been alive.
| min6yu_k: I know we’re not really friends. So I won’t bother you anymore
| min6yu_k: 🥺🥺🥺
It’s dramatic. It’s pitiful. It’s very him. He sighs, hits send, and tosses the phone aside, prepared to spend the rest of summer nursing his wounds, physical and otherwise.
Except three dots appear. Then a reply.
| yourusername: you can bother me whenever you want :)
Mingyu blinks. Reads it twice. Three times. He grins so wide his sunburn protests, but he doesn’t care. Maybe he lost a layer of skin to the Sardinian sun, but he’s gained something else. Something a little reckless, a little ridiculous, and very possibly the best part of his summer.
At first, Mingyu hovers over the message bar like it’s a detonator. He’s sober this time, which makes everything worse. No wine haze to blame, no excuses. Just him, his phone, and the awareness that if he presses send, there’s no rewinding.
When he finally does send a message, it’s a selfie of his sunburnt face. The caption:
| min6yu_k: Survived Sardinia. Barely. RIP skin.
You take three hours to reply—plenty of time for him to spiral, convince himself he’s made a career-ending mistake, and contemplate moving to the wilderness. Then your response lands: a blurry photo of your breakfast, and a jab at his own suffering.
| yourusername: sardinia? how original
| yourusername: fork found in kitchen 🍽️
He laughs—out loud, alone in his kitchen—and that’s all it takes. The door cracks open. From then on, the rhythm builds. At first, hesitation lingers. Messages sent with too much caution, replies delayed on purpose so he doesn’t look overeager.
Somewhere along the way, the choreography slips. He responds within minutes now, sometimes seconds, shamelessly glued to his phone like a teenager. He sends you photos: his ridiculous tan lines, the monstrosity of a protein shake he attempts, a cat he sees on the street that looks like it’s plotting global domination. You send back TikToks that make no sense at 3 a.m. but have him howling with laughter under his covers.
And then come the barbs, sharp but playful. You roast his selfies (“Your arm looks like it belongs to another species”), and he retaliates by mocking your taste in music. It should be embarrassing, how quickly it becomes a habit. This thread of chatter threading through his days, as constant as hydration reminders and training sessions.
But Mingyu’s not embarrassed. Not anymore. He just thinks, conspiratorially, that if this is what bothering each other looks like, he’s never been happier to be a nuisance.
This is where it gets him:
Mingyu has known many flavors of doom in his life. Punctured tires, last-lap lock-ups, missed braking points. All of them humbling in their own way. None compare to this: two photos flashing across his phone, your face out of view, your body framed in mirror selfies, each dress daring him to choose.
| yourusername: help me pick?
It’s harmless, obviously. Mingyu stares for so long he forgets how to blink. His brain stutters, sputters, tries to buffer like a bad WiFi signal. He considers tossing the phone into the sea. Monaco’s harbor is right there. It’d be so easy.
Instead, he does the next worst thing: he runs. Actually runs. Down the promenade, past tourists with gelato and locals pretending not to be tourists. He jogs the length of Monaco like cardiovascular exercise will sweat the problem out of him, like he can outpace the way his pulse goes haywire at the thought of choosing which dress you’ll wear.
By the time he circles back to his apartment, lungs on fire, shirt damp, he forces himself to type something vaguely neutral: Red. Classic. Can’t go wrong. He even throws in an emoji, something safe, a thumbs up. Detached. Cool. The digital equivalent of sunglasses indoors.
Your reply comes minutes later.
| yourusername: perfect
| yourusername: that’s what i was leaning towards. thanks, gyu ♥️
Casual. Effortless. Like you’ve just asked him for help carrying a grocery bag, not ripped open his ribcage and left his heart in the chat. And you’ve started calling him Gyu now, too?
That’s the moment. The horrifying, crystalline moment where Mingyu realizes with the clarity of a man struck by lightning that he wants you. Not in the abstract, not as a punchline to his friends’ teasing, but in the messy, all-consuming, terrifying way that has him jogging laps around Monaco to keep from combusting.
But how is Mingyu supposed to want somebody he already supposedly has?
He doesn’t even notice it happening at first—days swallowed by preseason meetings, simulator hours, sponsor shoots where he smiles so hard his cheeks twitch. He figures if he stays busy enough, the static in his chest will quiet down. If he puts a little space between himself and you, maybe the wanting will dull into something manageable. He tells himself it’s strategic distance.
Except it isn’t, and it doesn’t help. He finds himself unlocking his phone mid-briefing, half-expecting a message that isn’t there. He laughs too loudly at jokes that aren’t funny, just to prove to himself he’s fine. He convinces himself that this is what focus looks like.
Then one day, it happens. A ping. A message. You. Mingyu doesn’t brace himself, doesn’t think. He opens it on instinct and immediately gets sucker punched in the gut.
| yourusername: hi! you’re probably busy with training haha i hope u’re doing well
| yourusername: (kinda miss u tbh 😮💨 is that stupid?)
His brain bluescreens. Full system failure. He actually forgets how to breathe, like someone’s yanked the air out of the room. He’s not even sure what expression he’s making until he hears the sound of a door creak. Joshua, who had been mid-sentence about something sponsor-related, freezes in the doorway. His eyes widen, then narrow, then flick to the glowing phone in Mingyu’s hand.
“Uh-huh,” Joshua says slowly. Then—mercifully, wisely—he backs out of the room without another word.
Mingyu sinks into his chair, phone clutched to his chest. Strategic distance, he realizes, doesn’t stand a chance. He types out the fastest response he’s sent in days.
| min6yu_k: Hiii yes sorry training’s been a bitch but i’m doing ok how are you???????
| min6yu_k: We’d have to be stupid together then
| min6yu_k: Because I miss you too
The first race of the new season should not feel like this. Mingyu knows nerves—he’s lived on them since he was old enough to lace his own karting gloves—but this is different. This is not a pre-race tremor, not the usual itch of adrenaline waiting to be unspooled down a straight. This is worse. This is him, phone in hand, thumb hovering, debating whether calling you is the bravest or dumbest decision of his week.
He calls anyway.
The line rings once, twice, and then you pick up. “Hey, Gyu. What’s up?”
“Hey.” He clears his throat, already regretting everything. “So, uh… Albert Park.” Brilliant start. Shakespearean. “First race of the season.”
“Right,” you say slowly. “I’m aware. It’s in all the headlines.”
“Exactly.” He paces his hotel room, wearing a groove into the carpet. “And, um. I was thinking… maybe you could come. Not, like, as a Williams guest or whatever, because, y’know, branding and politics and boring stuff. I mean as my guest.” He emphasizes it in case you missed it. “Like—my guest. We could… go into the paddock together. Maybe grab a bite. Walk around.”
There’s a silence on your end, the kind that feels longer than it actually is. Mingyu stares at his reflection in the blackout window, mouthing the word idiot at himself just in case.
Finally, you say, skeptical, “You’re inviting me to the Australian Grand Prix as your date?”
He chokes. “Not—date! I mean—it could—if you—no. Just, y’know. Companionship. Human interaction. Totally platonic. Unless—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “You know what, I’ll stop talking now.”
You laugh softly, and he feels his chest loosen a fraction. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, letting the pause twist the knife for half a second before conceding, “I’ll come.”
Mingyu exhales so hard he nearly drops the phone. “Cool. Great. No pressure, obviously. Uhm, remember to wear sunscreen, okay? Albert Park sun is brutal. I’d know. I’m practically a walking cautionary tale.”
Another laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind, Gyu,” you say, almost shy, and Mingyu soundlessly fist pumps to himself.
The nerves don’t go away, but they shift. No longer sharp and skittish; instead electric, buzzing. The kind that says he’s about to race for something more than points.
Mingyu tries to tell himself it’s just another Saturday. Just another quali. Just another morning of stretching out his nerves and trying not to combust before getting into the car. Except this time, he’s driving a very different kind of car. A rented SUV with tinted windows and three passengers, one of whom happens to be you.
He picks you up from your hotel, the street still teeming with Grand Prix weekend energy. You slip into the backseat, wedging yourself between his trainer and manager without complaint, like being sandwiched between two six-foot blocks of professionalism is the most natural thing in the world. Mingyu swears the interior shrinks the second you get in.
Your outfit. God help him, your outfit. Casual but sharp, put-together in a way that makes the Melbourne sun look underdressed. He risks a glance in the mirror and nearly rear-ends a taxi. Smooth.
A pause. The kind of pause that echoes. His trainer coughs into his fist. His manager looks out the window a little too intently.
You blink, mercifully amused, lips quirking. “Event appropriate, huh?”
“Yeah,” Mingyu insists, doubling down like a fucking idiot. “Like, if there was a… podium for outfits, you’d be P1. Easily. Dominant performance.”
That earns a snort from the trainer, barely smothered, and a muffled laugh from his manager. Mingyu resists the urge to eject himself from the driver’s seat mid-traffic. He grips the wheel tighter, muttering, “Ignore them. They’re not funny.”
You, gracious as ever, lean back against the seat, still smiling. “Thanks, Gyu. That’s sweet.”
Sweet. He’ll take sweet. Sweet is a win. Sweet is a miracle. Sweet is better than event appropriate.
Albert Park looks different when you’re seeing it through tinted windows and the flash of camera lenses bouncing off the glass. Mingyu knows the drill—he’s been doing this for years—but today the sight of the waiting crowd makes his pulse spike harder than any formation lap. Fans, media, the blur of microphones and glossy posters, all of it pressing in like a tide.
He tries to give you a heads-up, fumbling for some kind of warning. “Hey, so, outside’s gonna be… intense. Cameras. People yelling. Think, like, a K-pop concert but everyone’s taller.”
You just slide your sunglasses on with an ease that makes him question who’s supposed to be protecting whom. “Relax, Gyu. I’m an influencer,” you remind him delicately. “I’ve had strangers yell my username at me across a mall. I’ll survive.”
The car doors open, and it’s go time. His trainer gets out first, then his manager, then him. The noise surges instantly, like someone unmuted the world. Phones thrust forward, lenses clicking, fans screaming his name. He pastes on the practiced smile, the one that says approachable but not available, and starts the slow walk forward.
He’s half-hoping, half-dreading that you’ll be swallowed by the chaos. But no—you emerge behind him, cool as anything, taking two polite steps of distance. Sunglasses hiding your eyes, shoulders relaxed, expression unbothered. To the outside world, you look like any other VIP guest tagging along, but Mingyu knows better. He knows you’re choosing to walk in the slipstream, close enough to follow, distant enough not to feed the wolves.
He can’t help himself. Every few strides, he glances back over his shoulder. Quick checks, like he’s making sure his phone hasn’t fallen out of his pocket. Just to confirm you’re there. That you haven’t peeled away, decided it’s too much, vanished back into the car.
He slows down just enough to let you catch up, then gestures vaguely at your sunglasses. “Good choice,” he says, just low enough so that no one else can overhear. “Sun’s brutal.”
“I figured.” You tilt your head toward the clear Australian sky, unimpressed. “It’s literally daylight. Revolutionary concept.”
“Yeah, but Melbourne daylight is different,” Mingyu insists, as if he’s the leading authority on weather patterns. “Sneaky UV levels. They don’t warn you about it in the travel brochures.”
You give him a look over your shades. “Are you actually worried about me getting sunburnt at a racetrack?”
“Someone has to be,” he mutters, tugging you a half-step closer to the shade of a Williams banner. “Trust me, the cameras will make a whole slideshow if you’re peeling tomorrow.”
You laugh under your breath, which he pretends not to notice. Instead, he points toward the accreditation zone. “Security will scan your pass. Don’t let go of it, or they’ll treat you like you’re trying to break into Fort Knox.”
“Gyu,” you say patiently, “I’ll be fine. Really.” You gesture to the phone already in your hand, camera app open. “Worst case, I film content and go viral for being denied entry. Great engagement.”
“Please don’t make my paddock debut about you getting tackled by security.”
“Relax,” you say again, softer this time. “I’ve survived worse than this. Go focus on your actual job.”
The reminder lands sharper than it should. His job. Right. Quali, telemetry, strategy. He’s supposed to be thinking about apexes and braking zones, not sunscreen and lanyards.
At the edge of the hospitality suite, he hesitates. You’ve already slipped into your influencer default. Phone angled, voice lilting into that effortless rhythm of someone who knows exactly how many seconds of banter an audience will tolerate. He should leave. He should. Instead, he hovers, trying to decide whether fussing one last time will make him look protective or pathetic.
You solve it for him by lowering your phone and arching a brow. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, superstar?”
Caught. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I just… wanted to say, uh. I’ll see you later.”
And then he’s hugging you. Sort of. An awkward, halfway squeeze that’s more bump than embrace—one arm slung around you before he thinks better of it. It’s brief, barely long enough to register, but when he pulls back his ears are hot, and he hopes nobody got that on camera.
You don’t tease him for it. You smile like you’re in on the joke. “Good luck, Gyu,” you say.
He nods, turns, walks away before he can second-guess the whole thing. He qualifies P12, and rolls up on Sunday with a note to himself that you’re somewhere, out there, watching.
The thing about starting P12 is that expectations are mercifully low. You don’t need to be a miracle worker; you just need to keep the car in one piece, dodge midfield chaos, and maybe luck into a points finish if the racing gods are feeling charitable.
Mingyu knows this. He tells himself this as he rolls up to the grid, helmet heavy on his head, the whole world buzzing around him. P12. Respectable, manageable. Just stay out of trouble.
Naturally, trouble finds him by Turn 3.
There’s a tangle of cars ahead, two midfielders locking wheels like stubborn toddlers, and suddenly he’s threading through carbon fiber confetti, heart in his throat. One car spins, another skates across the runoff, and Mingyu darts left, then right, then somehow pops out the other side like a magician’s rabbit. P9.
“Nice job, Gyu,” his engineer crackles in his ear. “Keep it steady.”
Steady, sure. Except the field ahead is snarled in its own mess. Dirty air stacking cars like rush-hour traffic, everyone fighting over the same square foot of asphalt. Mingyu bides his time, lurking, waiting. He knows Williams didn’t give him a rocket ship, but it gave him something better today: clean air, if he can just grab it.
And then it happens. A bold dive here, a DRS overtake there, another spin he manages to skirt by a hair’s breadth. Suddenly, impossibly, he’s free.
No traffic. No turbulence. No rear wing to stare at.
Just open track.
Mingyu blinks at the empty stretch ahead like he’s hallucinating. “Uh,” he says into the radio, voice cracking in a way he prays the broadcast doesn’t catch, “is anyone gonna tell me why I’m… leading?”
“Confirmed,” his engineer replies, calm as if they haven’t just witnessed an exorcism of Williams’ last decade of pain. “You’re P1. Repeat, P1. Head down, focus.”
P1. He’s never heard those syllables in that order attached to his name. Not in Formula One. Not in a Williams. The last time this team led a lap, he was still in high school, scrolling highlights on a cracked phone screen. 2015.
Now it’s him. Now it’s real.
The crowd’s roar swells as he flies past a grandstand, a wall of sound rattling his chest even through layers of fireproof and carbon fiber. He doesn’t dare glance, doesn’t dare blink, but he feels it. The weight of history, the disbelief in the air, the cameras that will replay this moment a thousand times over. Kim Mingyu, leading a lap in a fucking Williams.
“P1, Gyu,” his engineer repeats, and this time it sounds a little less clinical, a little more awed. “You’re leading the race.”
Mingyu exhales through a laugh he can’t contain, giddy and sharp. “Yeah,” he says, conspiratorial even with the whole world listening, “no pressure or anything.”
He keeps driving.
For ten glorious laps, Mingyu lives in a universe where the Williams is the fastest thing on track. Ten laps of clean air, ten laps of watching the timing screens update with his number at the very top, ten laps of telling himself not to think about the fact that he’s leading a Formula One race.
Of course, reality has mirrors. And in those mirrors, Minghao and Seokmin are getting larger. Orange and silver machines, jaws open, hungry. Friends off track, rivals on it.
“Maintain pace, Gyu,” his engineer says evenly, which is code for: try not to get eaten alive.
“I’d love to,” Mingyu replies, voice dry, “but I think they skipped breakfast.”
Still, he holds them. A lap, then another, then another. He can practically feel the disbelief radiating through the paddock. Williams leading. Him leading. A miracle stretched into double digits.
But miracles are greedy with fuel and merciless with tires. On lap 11, the call comes. “Box, Gyu. Box this lap.”
He doesn’t argue. He peels into the pitlane, heart pounding, knowing exactly what it means. The stop is slick. Sub-three seconds, one of Williams’ best in years. For a heartbeat, hope flares. Maybe, just maybe.
And then he’s back out, slotted into traffic, mirrors full, lead gone.
The world resumes its natural order.
By the time the checkered flag waves, Mingyu’s in P6. Respectable. Points on the board. Nothing headline-shattering. It feels like champagne anyway.
He unclips his belts, chest still buzzing. P6, and he’s grinning inside his helmet like a maniac. He knows what just happened. He knows what it felt like, ten laps in the sun after a decade of drought.
When the radio crackles with the engineer’s closing words—“P6, Gyu. Great job out there.”—he answers without thinking, giddy and conspiratorial, “Yeah. But did you see those ten laps?”
Because he did. And he’s not forgetting them anytime soon.
Helmet off, sweat dripping, heart still sprinting laps long after the checkered flag, Mingyu climbs out of the car in a haze of adrenaline. He waves at the crew, at the fans, at the blur of Williams blue around him, but none of it sticks. His gaze finds you instantly, like his eyes have been preprogrammed for it.
And before he can think, before he can second-guess, he’s moving.
You barely have time to set your phone aside before he’s got you in his arms. An adrenaline-fueled, lift-you-clear-off-the-ground hug. The world tilts with it, the paddock noise muffling under the rush of his heartbeat in his ears. You laugh into his shoulder, muffled, protesting just enough to save face, “Gyu, people are watching—”
As if the snap of cameras doesn’t remind him. As if the universe doesn’t immediately hand him a reality check in the form of fifty lenses clicking at once.
Right. His place. His job. His image. He puts you back down quickly, ears burning hot, and attempts a recovery maneuver as subtle as a spin into gravel. He offers his hand, plastering on a grin. “High five?”
You just stare at him for a beat, long enough for him to realize how stupid it sounds. Then you roll your eyes, the fond kind of exasperation that says you know exactly what he’s doing. One hand comes up, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that cuts through all the noise. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, right there, in full view of the paddock, the cameras, the world.
“Congratulations, Gyu,” you say softly, like it’s just the two of you anyway. “That was incredible.”
Mingyu’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again, but nothing remotely human comes out. Just static. Just overload. He can drive 300 kilometers an hour, but this? This he has no defense for.
Somewhere in the back of his scrambled thoughts, he realizes the headlines are already writing themselves. But, for once, he can’t bring himself to care.
“You have to break up with her.”
That’s how his PR opens the meeting. No good morning, no coffee, no gentle preamble. Nothing but a straight shot to the chest.
Mingyu blinks across the glossy conference table, helmet hair still damp from simulator practice. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You and her.” His PR gestures vaguely, like waving at a rumor in the air. “The influencer. It’s time to end it.”
“End… what?” Mingyu asks, baffled. “We’re not even—” He cuts himself off, because he knows exactly how this sounds. “I’ve said a hundred times we’re not dating.”
“Exactly.” His PR leans forward, earnest in that professional, bloodless way only PR managers can be. “Which makes this easy. If you’re not really together, then breaking up shouldn’t be a problem.”
Mingyu stares, slack-jawed. “You’re asking me to fake break up with someone I’m not dating. Just so what—people stop shipping us?”
“Not just shipping. Headlines. Trends. The narrative has shifted too far. You leading laps, finishing P6—that should’ve been the story of Melbourne. Instead, every outlet ran photos of her kissing your cheek. Four races in, and people are still asking about your ‘girlfriend’ instead of your cornering speed. We need the spotlight back on Williams.”
He drags a hand down his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”
“Triple-header is coming,” PR presses on, relentless. “Europe is brutal with media. If we don’t redirect focus now, you’ll spend half your pressers answering personal questions. So we end it. Clean break. A short statement, mutual respect, wishing her well, etcetera. It’ll die down in a week.”
Mingyu tries—really tries—to keep his expression neutral. But the twitch in his jaw, the way his knee won’t stop bouncing, betrays him. He’s frustrated. No, worse than frustrated. Cornered. Like they’ve told him to DNF a race he hasn’t even started.
Finally, he exhales, sharp and disbelieving. “You make it sound so simple. Just—press release, problem solved. But you ever consider maybe it’s not that simple for me?”
His PR fixes him with that calm, unblinking stare. “Mingyu. This is Formula One. Nothing is ever simple. That’s why we manage the story before it manages you.”
Mingyu doesn’t have a quick, witty comeback to that. All he has is a knot in his chest, tightening as the word breakup echoes in his head. Something he was never in, something he doesn’t want, and yet somehow, they’re asking him to make it real.
The race around the corner is Suzuka. It’s a world away from the neon chaos of Melbourne or the glamour circus of Monaco. Perfect, Mingyu had thought. Lowkey. Easy. So, of course, it feels anything but.
He spots you, weaving through a cluster of tables on the restaurant’s outdoor patio. Even in the soft light, you stand out, easy and composed, the kind of presence that makes him sit up straighter without realizing. He tells himself to be cool, casual—no overthinking.
“You look…” He pauses, searching for a word that doesn’t sound like it was fed to him by a PR intern. “… phenomenal.”
Your lips curve into a smile, faintly amused. “Phenomenal, huh? Big word for a race car driver.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Mingyu shoots back, grin in place. “I usually stick to things like ‘fast’ and ‘turn left here.’”
The banter lands, but there’s a hitch in his chest that doesn’t ease. He pulls out your chair like a gentleman, sits across from you, and tries to remind himself this is supposed to be simple. Two friends, two meals, no cameras, no press statements hovering like storm clouds. You were here to watch a different series, and he was a couple of days early to his own race weekend. A convenient meet up.
You glance at the menu, easy, unbothered, while Mingyu pretends not to study the way the lantern light catches in your hair. He wants to lean into it. The warmth, the normalcy, the way your presence steadies him more than any simulator lap ever could. But the conversation with his PR sits in the back of his mind like a weight he can’t shake.
He laughs at your joke about jet lag, compliments your choice of ramen, even teases you for documenting the steam curling off the bowls for your followers. Outwardly, he’s himself. Playful, a bit awkward, just enough charm to keep things light. Underneath, he’s split in two. Half of him is here, in this moment, soaking you in. The other half is already calculating headlines, imagining the fallout, wondering when the other shoe will drop.
You catch him zoning out once, chopsticks paused midair, and tilt your head. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” he says too quickly, pasting on a grin. “Just… carbs. Love carbs.”
You laugh, though it’s edged with a bit of certainty. Mingyu laughs too, because that’s easier than saying the truth. He wants to be fully here, fully with you, but there’s a part of him that can’t stop holding back. And it kills him a little, because if any place should’ve been easy, it should’ve been Suzuka.
It turns out the city has a dessert shop tucked into every side street. Crêpe stands with paper cones, ice cream parlors with flavors no European circuit would dare attempt. Mingyu follows your lead, ducking into the more secluded ones, the two of you slipping past fans like conspirators avoiding capture. Sunglasses, hoodies, baseball caps—it’s practically a spy movie, if spies cared this much about mochi.
He ends up with matcha soft serve, you with strawberry. You both settle into a park bench that looks like it was made for dates, not debriefs. For once, the air feels still.
It’s you who brings up Qatar. “Remember that weekend?” you ask, twirling your spoon in the air. “When you DNF’d and looked like you were ready to quit motorsport entirely?”
“Vividly,” Mingyu deadpans, licking a drip of ice cream before it melts down his hand. “Truly one of my career highlights.”
“You were sulking,” you continue, grin tugging at your lips, “so I asked you all those ridiculous scrapbook questions. Favorite color, dream vacation, bucket list stuff. You looked at me like I’d lost my mind.”
“You had lost your mind,” Mingyu insists, playful. “I’d just cooked my tires in Q1 and you wanted to know my favorite animal.”
“Still worked though,” you say lightly, biting into your cone. “You smiled. And I told you all about how Suzuka is my favorite circuit.”
Mingyu pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”
You glance at him, eyes reflecting the lantern glow. Your answer is simple, almost offhand, but it lands like a punch straight to his ribs. “Because I wanted you to just think of good things.”
He stares for a beat, throat suddenly tight. There’s a dozen clever replies he could make, a hundred quips to dodge the weight of it. None of them feel right. Not here, not now.
Instead, he does something braver. Wordlessly, he reaches out, fingers brushing against yours in the small space between. His pulse hammers as he waits, half-expecting you to pull away. You don’t. You blush, glance down, then shyly curl your hand into his. Soft, certain.
Neither of you says anything after that. You just sit there, eating ice cream in companionable silence, hands entwined under the lantern glow, letting Suzuka hold the words you’re not ready to say out loud.
The park is quiet, the lantern-lit street behind you fading into soft shadows. Mingyu leans back, still holding the ghost of your hand in his own, when it happens: the both of you speak at the same time. “I—” “We—”
“You first,” Mingyu says, quick, because he’s a gentleman—or because he’s stalling.
You hesitate. Then you take a breath and drop it like a guillotine. “We should… break up.”
For a second, Mingyu thinks he’s misheard. The cicadas are loud, the buzz in his ears louder. “Sorry,” he stutters, “what?”
“You know.” You look down at your lap, twisting the edge of your sleeve between your fingers. “Just… say we split. Make it official, so people stop talking about it.”
Mingyu heart skids. “Let me guess. My PR gremlins reached out to you.”
You shrug without meeting his eyes. “Something like that.”
That shrug shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it does. You look small when you say it, like the words don’t belong in your mouth. And Mingyu hates it. Hates that this thing, whatever it is between you two, makes you sad instead of light.
He sits there, silent for a beat, staring out at the faint glow of the vending machines across the park. There’s a hundred arguments to make, loopholes to wriggle through. But none of them are what he wants to say.
So he settles on the simplest answer, voice steady even though his chest feels anything but: “No.”
The word hangs between you, clean and sharp, like a flag he’s just planted. No disclaimers, no half measures. Just no.
Your brows knit. “No?”
Mingyu sits up straighter, realizes he’s just lobbed a single syllable grenade into your lap, and now you’re staring at him like he owes you the full manual. Which, unfortunately, he does.
“Right. No,” he repeats, nodding too much. “As in, no, I’m not doing that. The fake breakup thing. Because—because—” His voice trips over itself. He groans, face tilting skyward for a moment. “God, why is this so hard to say?”
You wait. Patient, kind, which only makes it worse.
“Look.” He exhales, and forces his eyes to meet yours. “I don’t want to lose you. Not like this. Not before I even get the chance to—” He falters. Then, softer: “—to have you properly.”
The last words tumble out in a rush, embarrassingly earnest. His ears burn, and he wants to bury himself under the park bench. Instead, he braces for impact. You’re staring at him, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between startled and touched. And then—unfairly, devastatingly—you blush. A soft pink spreading up your cheeks, visible even in the dismal park light.
Mingyu swallows, throat dry. “So, uh,” he adds, voice cracking around the edges, “your move.”
It feels a lot like waiting for a race to start, for that iconic lights out, and away we go to ring through the circuit. There’s a countdown in Mingyu’s head. Five, four, three, two—
“So…” you start, “how did your matcha ice cream taste?”
Mingyu balks. He’s halfway through processing the confession he just dumped on you, and now—ice cream reviews? “Uh. It was… cold? Sweet? A little bitter? Like, earthy?” He gestures vaguely, as if the right adjectives are hiding in the bushes behind you. “Honestly, it just tasted like… matcha.”
You press, lips twitching. “I mean, I want to try it for myself.”
He looks at the empty cup in his hand, then back at you, utterly lost. “But I, uh… finished it? Like… five minutes ago?” He lifts the cup to show it off, because clearly the evidence helps.
You laugh, the sound bubbling up like you can’t hold it in any longer. “Mingyu. I’m trying to ask if I can kiss you.”
Oh.
Oh.
His entire brain hits the emergency brakes. Eyes wide, ears hot, neurons firing off fireworks. And then he sputters, grinning so wide it almost hurts. “You should’ve just asked that in the first place!”
Before you can roll your eyes again, he’s already leaning in, all eagerness and barely-contained giddiness, heart hammering so loud he swears you can hear it as his lips find yours.
His hands find your face almost instinctively, palms cupping your cheeks. You, ever contrary, slip your hands up to wrap around his wrists instead, grounding him. The contact sends a jolt straight through him, but he doesn’t dare move away.
You’re both terrible at this. Smiling too much, giggling in the middle of it, teeth and noses bumping just enough to make it ridiculous. And yet, Mingyu thinks it’s the best kiss of his life. He tastes sugar and laughter and the kind of lightness that makes the world spin softer. Something sweet, faintly tart, clings to your lips. It ruins him all over again.
When you finally pull back for air, he immediately chases after you, lips brushing clumsily, desperate. You catch your breath and tease, “Still not enough matcha flavor?”
Mingyu, breathless and pink-eared, blurts, “I’ll get you all the ice cream in the world if you just—” and cuts himself off by pulling you right back in, kissing you like it’s the only thing on the calendar that matters.
Monza smells like gasoline, nostalgia, and the kind of pressure Mingyu pretends doesn’t get to him.
He tells the camera it’s just another race weekend, but in his head he knows Monza is still sacred. Straight lines, roaring history, the sort of track that makes or breaks legends. Which is why, naturally, he’s been paired for media duties with Minghao and Seokmin. Because fate likes to test him.
Minghao is being his usual infuriating self, answering a journalist’s question about tire management with a perfectly calm, perfectly vague “It depends,” while Seokmin leans into his mic and announces, “I plan on not crashing.”
The room laughs. Mingyu groans. This is his life: carrying the weight of Monza while babysitting two men who find chaos funny.
They bounce off each other like badly behaved electrons, the press delighted, and Mingyu, despite himself, plays the straight man. “I’m surrounded by clowns,” he says, and sure enough the clowns grin.
But then—then—he sees you.
You’re not supposed to be here yet, but there you are, slipping into the paddock. Mingyu goes still, mic halfway to his mouth. His brain is gone, his mouth is gone, and he’s halfway out of his chair before he realizes he’s moving.
“Where are you going?” Seokmin calls after him, eyes wide with mischief. “Hey, it’s just a media session, not a wedding march!”
Minghao, not even looking up from his phone, adds, “Don’t trip over your feelings, Mingyu.”
Mingyu ignores both of them. He’s already weaving through cables and crew, long legs making embarrassingly quick work of the distance. He tells himself he’s walking, but the truth is closer to a jog. Maybe even a run. He doesn’t care. He’s got Monza waiting, he’s got pressure pressing down on him, but right now, he’s got you, and that eclipses everything else.
He doesn’t even pretend to slow down. He barrels straight into you with the kind of single‑minded determination he usually saves for turn one, sweeping you into a hug so tight it makes your feet leave the ground. The cameras click like machine gun fire, but for once, he doesn’t care. It’s you. Everything else can queue up and wait.
You melt into him, laughter bubbling as he rocks you side to side. When he finally loosens his hold, his gaze snags on your outfit—and that’s it, Mingyu’s gone.
“Wait—hold on—” He leans back just far enough to take you in properly. “Is that… is that a custom jersey?” His voice pitches up like he’s seeing fireworks. “Oh my God, it’s my number. And Williams. And cropped? Do you want me to die?”
You grin, tilting your chin so the light hits the printed ‘06’ stitched across you. “Figured I should dress for the occasion.”
Mingyu is instantly generous with his compliments, layering them one after the other like he’s stacking pit stop tires: “You look insane. Gorgeous. Unfair. Like—do you know how much trouble you’re about to get me in? People are going to riot.”
Before you can roll your eyes, he’s already attacking with kisses. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, quick pecks everywhere like he’s determined to leave no part of your face unclaimed. You try to push him off, laughing protests muffled between smacks of affection.
“Mingyu—stop—people are staring—”
“Let them stare,” he breathes between kisses, words warm against your skin. “They should know I’ve already won today.”
Eventually, you surrender, slumping into his arms with a sigh that’s equal parts exasperation and fondness. Somewhere off screen, his PR person is already probably having a heart attack.
Mingyu has never been prouder of three hours spent sitting in a too-cold conference room surrounded by too many suits. Usually, PR meetings drag on with endless discussions about sponsor activations and social media angles, but that one? That one, he’ll happily put in his memoir someday.
For three hours, he sat tall in his chair, chin lifted, repeating the same thing until the walls practically echoed with it: he was not breaking up with you. Not in private, not in public, not in any alternate universe.
The team tried everything—statistics about audience focus, graphs showing the attention curve, polite suggestions that Williams deserved the spotlight. He listened, nodded, smiled even, then shrugged and repeated it again: “I’m not doing it.”
His PR lead had rubbed their temples. His manager threatened to ‘circle back.’ Mingyu just folded his arms and thought about Suzuka, about you laughing into his mouth with strawberry ice cream still sweet on your lips, and wondered how they ever thought he’d say yes.
He promised you he’d figure it out. That meeting was him fulfilling his promise.
The climax came when James walked in, coffee in hand, eyebrow already raised at the tension in the room. Mingyu didn’t even wait. “I’m not breaking up with her,” he said, like a kid daring his parent to say no.
James stared, sipped, then sighed like a man who has seen too much. “Fine,” James said, and just like that, the case was closed.
Victory, thy name is Kim Mingyu.
And now, here he is in Monza, with you in his arms, reveling in the world’s biggest plot twist. The cameras might think they’re witnessing a PR disaster. Mingyu knows better. He thinks it’s a love story. He squeezes you tighter, grins against your hair, and calls you the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug.
He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. Sips water. The same old checklist, muscle memory dressed up as superstition. This time, there’s a new addition.
He glances down at his phone, the lockscreen glowing back at him. A screenshot from that very first broadcast. Your name, your tag, bold and impossible to ignore: Partner of Kim Mingyu. Wrong back then. Right now. Better than right—deserved. He grins like an idiot every time he sees it, and now is no exception. The sight of it steadies him better than any pep talk could.
Then comes the walk to the grid. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. But his mind isn’t only running laps this time. It flickers back to you, standing somewhere in the paddock with that jersey on, cheering him with a grin that’ll outshine the entire weekend. His girl, his girl, his girl.
The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel two rows ahead. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence. You’ve already done your part, even if you’re not sitting in the cockpit beside him.
He slides into the car, straps pulled tight across his chest, the cockpit cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.
Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P10. The lights blink on, one by one.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat—and a faint image of his lockscreen still burned into his vision.
And then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward, and Monza welcomes him home.
Mingyu drives like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. In a way, he has. Not just for Monza. For you, too. For love and speed and calling wins as they come.
He’s precise. Every turn-in is sharp, every exit clean, every lap a mirror of the last. The car finally behaves, the balance perfect, as if it’s decided, for once, to stop fighting him and join in on the dream. The pit stops click like choreography, mechanics flawless, seconds shaved so cleanly it’s synonymous to fate. He glides back out without losing rhythm, and somewhere in the corner of his mind, he’s grinning at the absurdity: Williams, of all teams, putting on a masterclass.
He tells himself not to get ahead. Don’t count the laps, don’t think about the what-ifs. Except it’s impossible. Ten to go and he’s still there, clinging to the back of the train. Minghao up front, Seokmin directly in front of him, and then him—Williams blue streaking against the sea of silver and papaya.
Eight laps.
Six.
His engineer’s voice is smooth, coaxing, but Mingyu can hear the edge in it, the tremor beneath the calm. “Keep it steady, Gyu. You’re right there. Bring it home.”
Bring it home. As if it’s that easy. As if he hasn’t been haunted by years of DNFs, slow cars, pit wall gambles that never paid off. As if this isn’t Monza, cathedral of speed, the place he’d sworn as a rookie he’d give anything just to finish well in.
The tifosi are a blur of scarlet in the grandstands, flags whipping like fire, but somewhere among them, he imagines you. Hands clasped tight, heart pounding as hard as his.
Four laps.
He can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears fogging up his visor, but the corners blur for a second, heart jackhammering against his ribs. He laughs breathlessly, half a sob, as if the sound will keep him steady.
Three laps. Two.
Every instinct in his body screams to push harder, to gamble everything on one reckless dive. He could try and snap past Minghao, could maybe overtake Seokmin. For once, Mingyu doesn’t chase. He holds. He trusts. He feels the car answer him in kind, as though it knows, finally, what’s at stake.
Final lap.
The world condenses into white lines and asphalt. Every braking point feels sacred, every throttle press an oath. Ascari rushes by like a memory he’ll never lose. Then Parabolica. Endless, swallowing him whole and spitting him back onto the straight.
The checkered flag waves.
Kim Mingyu, Williams’ pride and joy, roars across the line in P3.
The radio explodes. Crying, shouting, voices tripping over each other in disbelief. Five years without a podium, and Williams finally has one. Mingyu finally has one. His engineer is yelling his name. Someone else is screaming numbers, lap times, statistics. He can’t speak, throat too tight, helmet pressing against his tears. The noise is unbearable, overwhelming, until something cuts through all of it.
Your voice. Trembling, wrecked, crying and laughing all at once: “Mingyu—”
Just his name, but it knocks the breath out of him harder than Eau Rouge ever did.
That’s it. That’s when the dam breaks. He’s laughing and crying at the same time, shoulders shaking in the cockpit, breath fogging his visor. He squeezes the wheel, Monza unfolding around him like a film reel he never thought he’d get to star in. The podium ceremony, the champagne, the photos—he’ll get to them eventually. But right now, all he can think about is you, you, you.
“Did you see, baby?” Mingyu chokes, voice cracked and breaking. “Are you proud of me?”
The apartment was too quiet when Mingyu woke up at six in the morning on Seungcheol’s guest bed, which should have been his first warning sign. He’d moved in yesterday afternoon after Seungcheol got the emergency call about the Tokyo project falling apart—twenty minutes of panicked packing, a printed itinerary left on the kitchen counter with sections highlighted in three different colors, and approximately forty-seven text messages sent from the airport ranging from “her lunch is in the blue container NOT the green one” to “if she says her stomach hurts before school she’s lying” to “Kkuma needs exactly half a cup of food don’t let her fool you with those eyes.”
Mingyu had responded to exactly one of these messages with a thumbs up emoji, which in retrospect, may have been insufficient.
He stumbled out of the guest room, still half-asleep, to find Eunji already awake and sitting at the kitchen table with Kkuma on her lap, both of them staring at him with identical expressions of judgment. The white fluffy dog looked like a cloud that had gained sentience and chosen violence, while the eight-year-old looked like she’d been waiting for this moment her entire life.
“You’re late,” Eunji announced.
Mingyu checked his phone groggily. “It’s 6:02. I literally just woke up.”
“Dad’s always in the kitchen at 6:00.”
“Your dad also irons his socks, so maybe we shouldn’t use him as the baseline for normal human behavior.” Mingyu dropped his overnight bag by the door and surveyed the kitchen. “Have you eaten?”
“No, because you’re late.”
“Again, two minutes.”
“Dad says punctuality is a sign of respect.”
“Dad also once color-coded his bookshelf by emotional resonance, so again, questionable authority.” Mingyu opened the fridge, confronted by Seungcheol’s meticulous organization system where even the condiments were arranged by height and frequency of use. “What do you want for breakfast?”
Eunji slid off her chair, placing Kkuma gently on the floor. The dog immediately trotted over to Mingyu and sat on his foot. “Dad makes me vegetable pancakes with egg on Mondays.”
“Of course he does.” Mingyu stared at the rows of labeled containers. “How about cereal?”
“We don’t have cereal.”
“Toast?”
“Dad says refined carbs are empty calories.”
“Your dad’s going to come home to a very hungry child if he keeps this up.” Mingyu pulled out eggs, vegetables, and what appeared to be seventeen different types of flour. “Pancakes it is, then.”
Eunji climbed onto the counter stool, Kkuma somehow managing to jump up and settle beside her despite her tiny legs and questionable athleticism. “You know how to make them?”
“I’m literally a chef.”
“Dad says you’re a chef like he’s a relaxed person.”
Mingyu pointed the spatula at her. “Your dad’s hilarious. Also, get off the counter before you break your neck and I have to explain to your dad why his perfectly healthy child is now in a cast.”
“I’m not on the counter, I’m on the stool.”
“Your foot’s on the counter.”
Eunji looked down at her foot, which was indeed pressed against the granite countertop, then back at Mingyu. “It’s barely touching.”
“Physics doesn’t care about barely.”
“Uncle Mingyu, are you always this dramatic before coffee?”
He paused mid-whisk. “How do you know I haven’t had coffee?”
“You get this little wrinkle right here—” she pointed at the space between her eyebrows, “—when you’re caffeine-deprived. Dad told me.”
“Great, so your dad’s discussed my facial expressions. That’s not weird at all.” Mingyu poured the batter onto the heated pan, the sizzle satisfying in the quiet morning. “What else has your dad told you about me?”
“That you once tried to julienne carrots with a butter knife.”
“That was one time, and the good knife was dirty.”
“And that you have the attention span of Kkuma when she sees a squirrel.”
As if summoned by her name, Kkuma barked once, sharp and declarative, making both of them jump. She was staring intently at the window where absolutely nothing was happening.
“See?” Eunji said, vindicated.
Mingyu flipped the pancake with more force than necessary. “Your dad’s lucky he’s in Tokyo right now dealing with whatever emergency project drama, or I’d have words for him.”
“What kind of words?”
“The kind adults use when they’re pretending not to argue in front of children.”
Eunji grinned, gap-toothed and delighted. “You mean like when Dad tells Uncle Jeonghan that his ‘interior design choices are certainly bold’ but his eye is twitching?”
“Exactly like that.” Mingyu plated the pancake, added the fried egg on top, and presented it with a flourish. “Breakfast, my lady.”
She picked up her fork, examined the pancake from multiple angles, then cut a precise piece and chewed thoughtfully. Mingyu realized he was holding his breath, which was ridiculous because he’d cooked for restaurant critics and food bloggers and that one celebrity who sent back three dishes before accepting the fourth, but somehow an eight-year-old’s approval felt more important.
“It’s good,” Eunji finally declared. “The egg’s a little runny though.”
“That’s how eggs are supposed to be.”
“Dad makes them fully cooked.”
“Dad’s wrong.”
Her eyes went wide. “You can’t say that.”
“I just did. Revolutionary, I know.” Mingyu started making his own pancake, larger and with more vegetables because he could feel Seungcheol’s judgmental spirit hovering over his shoulder. “What time do you need to be at school?”
“8:15, but Dad drops me off at 8:00 because he says rushing causes stress.”
“It’s 6:30. We have plenty of time.”
“Dad also says that’s what people say right before they’re late.”
Mingyu pointed the spatula at her again. “How do you remember all these ‘Dad says’ things? Do you have them written down somewhere? Is there a handbook I should know about?”
“I have a good memory.” She took another bite, swinging her legs against the stool. Kkuma had fallen asleep beside her plate, little white body rising and falling with each breath. “Dad says it’s because I eat fish three times a week for omega-3s.”
“Of course he does.”
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the morning light starting to filter through the kitchen windows in golden strips. Mingyu had to admit, despite his complaining, there was something peaceful about this—the quiet apartment, the soft sound of Kkuma’s sleep-breathing, Eunji’s concentrated expression as she cut her pancake into increasingly smaller pieces.
“Uncle Mingyu?”
“Yeah?”
“Why didn’t you bring your girlfriend?”
He nearly choked on his coffee. “What girlfriend?”
“The one Dad said you were seeing. The teacher.”
“That—” Mingyu set down his mug carefully. “That ended three months ago.”
“Oh.” Eunji absorbed this information while drowning her pancake in an truly alarming amount of syrup. “Dad didn’t tell me.”
“Probably because it wasn’t a big deal.”
“Was she mean?”
“No, she was nice.”
“Then why’d you break up?”
Mingyu considered his answer, aware that eight-year-olds had a way of repeating things at the most inconvenient moments. “Sometimes people are nice but not right for each other.”
“Like how broccoli is healthy but I still don’t like it?”
“Sure, exactly like that.” He stood, collecting their plates. “Go brush your teeth. We need to leave in thirty minutes.”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“I’m building in buffer time for whatever chaos is about to happen, because with your dad gone, something will definitely go wrong.”
He was more right than he knew.
⭐️
The chaos started small, as chaos often does, with Kkuma deciding that the leash was a personal attack on her freedom. She planted her tiny paws and refused to move, white fluffy body becoming a surprisingly immovable object on the apartment floor.
“Kkuma, we’ve done this every day for three years,” Eunji said, hands on her hips in a perfect imitation of her father. “Stop being dramatic.”
The dog stared at her, black button eyes unblinking.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to go?” Mingyu suggested.
“She has to go. Dad drops her at doggy daycare every Monday.”
“Doggy daycare.” Mingyu looked at the dog, who looked back with what could only be described as aristocratic disdain. “Seungcheol pays for doggy daycare.”
“It’s socialization. Dad says it’s important for her development.”
“She’s a dog, not a toddler.”
“Dogs need friends too, Uncle Mingyu.”
Eventually, they compromised by Mingyu carrying Kkuma down to the car, where she immediately perked up and stuck her entire head out the window the moment they started moving, ears flapping in the wind like small white flags.
The doggy daycare was in a converted storefront with hand-painted paw prints on the windows and the kind of aggressively cheerful decor that suggested someone had let a Pinterest board gain consciousness and open a business. A young woman with a name tag reading “Sunny” greeted them at the door.
“You’re not Mr. Choi,” she observed.
“Nothing gets past you,” Mingyu said, then caught Eunji’s warning look. “Sorry. I’m Mingyu, Seungcheol’s friend. He’s out of town, I’m on uncle duty.”
“Oh!” Sunny’s entire face transformed into delight. “You’re the chef! Mr. Choi talks about you all the time.”
“Does he now.”
“He says you once made a seven-course meal using only ingredients from a convenience store.”
“That was for a dare and I don’t want to talk about it.” Mingyu handed over Kkuma’s bag, which Seungcheol had packed with the kind of precision usually reserved for military operations. “She’s all yours.”
“Bye, Kkuma!” Eunji crouched down, receiving several enthusiastic licks to her face. “Be good. Don’t bite anyone unless they deserve it.”
“She bites people?” Mingyu asked as they walked back to the car.
“Only when they try to touch her without asking first. Dad says consent is important even for dogs.”
“Your dad would say that.”
They made it to Eunji’s school with fifteen minutes to spare, which Mingyu felt deserved some kind of award. The parking lot was already chaos, a choreographed dance of SUVs and minivans and stressed parents that made rush hour traffic look peaceful.
“Okay,” Mingyu said, pulling into a spot. “What’s the protocol here?”
“Dad usually walks me to the gate.”
“The gate’s right there. You can see it from here.”
“But Dad walks me.”
“Eunji, you’re eight, not three.”
She crossed her arms, and the resemblance to Seungcheol was so strong that Mingyu actually laughed. “Fine. I’ll walk you. But tomorrow you’re going by yourself because I’m not dealing with this parking lot again.”
They joined the stream of parents and children heading toward the entrance. Mingyu noticed several mothers doing double-takes, whispered conversations starting up in their wake. He was used to this—the attention that came with being tall and reasonably attractive and wearing a leather jacket at 7:45 AM like he was in some kind of music video.
“Uncle Mingyu, why is Mrs. Park staring at you?”
“Because people are nosy.”
“Dad says that’s judgmental.”
“Dad’s not here.”
At the gate, Eunji turned to face him, backpack nearly as big as her torso. “Pick me up at 3:15.”
“I know.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I won’t be late.”
“Dad says—”
“If you finish that sentence with ‘Dad says,’ I’m going to lose it.” He reached out, ruffled her hair despite her protests. “Go learn things. Try not to correct your teacher more than five times.”
“I don’t correct her that much.”
“Eunji.”
“Maybe six times.”
She grinned at him, then turned and ran toward her classroom, backpack bouncing against her back. Mingyu watched until she disappeared inside, feeling an unfamiliar tightness in his chest that might have been worry or responsibility or the realization that he had to keep a tiny human alive for four more days.
His phone buzzed. Seungcheol, texting from Tokyo because apparently international time zones meant nothing when it came to micromanaging.
Seungcheol: Did she get to school okay?
Mingyu: No, I lost her in a poker game on the way. We’re now living in an underground bunker.
Seungcheol: Mingyu.
Mingyu: She’s fine. Made it with 15 minutes to spare. Your daughter’s already inherited your judgmental stare, by the way. I’ve been awake for two hours and I’ve received it at least five times.
Seungcheol: Did you remember to pack her lunch?
Mingyu looked at the passenger seat, where Eunji’s lunchbox sat in its insulated bag, forgotten.
Mingyu: Of course I remembered.
Seungcheol: Photo proof.
Mingyu: I’m not sending you photo proof. I’m a grown man, not your employee. Also aren’t you supposed to be in a meeting?
Seungcheol: Mingyu.
Mingyu: Fine.
He took a photo of the lunchbox, sent it, then started the car and drove back to the school, where he had to sign in at the office, explain the situation to a skeptical secretary, and walk the lunchbox to Eunji’s classroom like he was completing some kind of quest in a video game.
When he finally made it back to his car, he had three more messages from Seungcheol asking about Kkuma’s drop-off, Eunji’s breakfast, and whether he’d remembered to lock the apartment door.
Mingyu: I’m blocking your number.
Seungcheol: You won’t.
Mingyu: Watch me.
Seungcheol: Who will you call when you inevitably set something on fire?
Mingyu: I’m a professional chef. I don’t set things on fire.
Seungcheol: The Christmas incident of 2019.
Mingyu: That was ONE TIME and the curtains were too close to the stove. Also that was YOUR apartment.
Seungcheol:My point exactly. Now stop texting and go do whatever it is you do during the day.
Mingyu: Run a successful restaurant?
Seungcheol: Sure, let’s call it that.
Mingyu tossed his phone into the passenger seat and drove to his restaurant, where he had approximately six hours to prep for dinner service, manage his staff, and pretend he wasn’t already counting down the minutes until school pickup.
⭐️
The afternoon pickup line was somehow worse than the morning drop-off, a serpentine nightmare of cars that moved with the urgency of continental drift. Mingyu arrived at 3:00, thinking he’d be early, only to find he was approximately thirtieth in line.
By the time he reached the pickup zone, Eunji was one of only four kids left, standing with a teacher and looking distinctly unimpressed. She climbed into the car with theatrical slowness.
“You’re late.”
“I’m literally ten minutes early from when school ends.”
“You’re supposed to be in line at 2:45.”
“Why would I be in line before school ends?”
“Because that’s what Dad does!”
“Dad’s insane!”
They stared at each other, and then Eunji’s face crumpled in a way that made Mingyu’s heart drop into his stomach.
“Hey, no, I didn’t mean—” He twisted in his seat, trying to figure out the appropriate response. “Your dad’s not insane. He’s just… very punctual. Which is good! Punctuality is great. I love punctuality.”
“You just called it insane.”
“I call a lot of things insane. I called my sous chef insane yesterday because he tried to make a foam out of soy sauce. It’s just a word.”
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I want Dad.”
“I know.” Mingyu reached back, awkwardly patted her knee. “But he’ll be back Friday. And until then, you’re stuck with me, which I admit is probably not ideal, but I promise I’m trying.”
“You forgot my lunch.”
“I brought it back!”
“After I already told everyone my uncle the chef packed it and then I had to eat cafeteria food.”
“Cafeteria food isn’t that bad.”
She gave him a look that suggested she’d reevaluate their entire relationship based on his answer.
“Okay, it’s terrible,” he amended. “What if I make you an extra special dinner tonight? Anything you want.”
“Anything?”
“Within reason. I’m not making a unicorn.”
“Can you make tteokbokki?”
“I’m a chef. I can make anything.”
Her face brightened considerably. “With extra fish cakes?”
“With so many fish cakes you’ll be sick of them.”
“And can Kkuma have some?”
“Kkuma can have a bite.”
“Dad never lets her have people food.”
“What Dad doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”
This earned him a conspirator’s grin, gap-toothed and delighted, and just like that they were okay again. Mingyu started the car, joining the glacial exodus from the school parking lot.
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
“That’s it? Just fine?”
“We learned about fractions.”
“Exciting stuff.”
“Not really. I already knew how to do it because Dad taught me last year.”
“Of course he did.”
“And then Minseo said her uncle could beat up my uncle, so I said my uncle’s taller.”
Mingyu felt unreasonably pleased by this. “What’d she say to that?”
“That height doesn’t matter in a fight, it’s about technique.”
“She’s not wrong.”
“But you could still win, right?”
He glanced in the rearview mirror at her hopeful face. “Absolutely. I’d destroy Minseo’s uncle.”
“Even though you don’t know technique?”
“I know enough technique. I watched a YouTube video once.”
This made her laugh, bright and sudden, and Mingyu decided that keeping an eight-year-old happy wasn’t actually that different from managing a restaurant kitchen—you just had to know when to be serious and when to be ridiculous, and always, always deliver on your promises.
“Uncle Mingyu?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we get hot chocolate?”
He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She was doing that thing where she tried to look casual while clearly wanting something very badly, eyes fixed on the window like the question had just occurred to her randomly.
“Does your dad let you have hot chocolate on school days?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“He lets me have it when I’ve had a good day.”
“And today was a good day?”
“I got an A on my spelling test.” She pulled a paper from her backpack, waving it like evidence. “See? Twenty out of twenty.”
Mingyu took the next right turn instead of continuing straight home. “One hot chocolate. But if your dad asks, you forced me.”
“Deal.”
They ended up at a coffee shop three blocks from the doggy daycare, the kind of place with mismatched furniture and baristas who looked like they wrote poetry in their spare time. Mingyu ordered an americano for himself and started to order a kids’ hot chocolate for Eunji when she tugged on his jacket.
“Can I get the regular one? With whipped cream?”
“The regular one has espresso in it.”
“Just a little bit.”
“Eunji—”
“Dad lets me have a little bit of his coffee sometimes. It’s basically the same thing.”
Mingyu looked down at her hopeful face and thought about Seungcheol’s inevitable reaction. Then he thought about how Seungcheol was currently in Tokyo and therefore couldn’t actually stop him.
“Fine. But when you’re bouncing off the walls at bedtime, that’s your problem, not mine.”
Her smile could have powered the entire coffee shop.
They found a table by the window, Eunji claiming the armchair that was definitely too big for her, legs swinging a foot off the ground. She held her mug with both hands, blowing on the surface with intense concentration.
“Uncle Mingyu?”
“You’re going to say my name a lot this week, aren’t you?”
“Probably.” She took a careful sip, getting whipped cream on her nose. “Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
“A different something.”
“Sure.”
“Why don’t you have kids?”
Mingyu nearly choked on his americano. “That’s—wow, okay, going straight for the deep questions.”
“Dad says I’m precocious.”
“That’s one word for it.” He set down his mug, trying to figure out how to answer. “I guess I’ve never really thought about it. I’m busy with the restaurant, and kids are a lot of work—”
“Am I a lot of work?”
“You’re different. You’re—” He paused, searching for the right words. “You’re my best friend’s kid. That makes you special.”
“Special how?”
“Special like, I already know you. I’ve known you since you were born, actually. Your dad called me from the hospital at like three in the morning, completely losing his mind about how small your fingers were.”
This made her giggle. “Really?”
“Really. He was terrified he was going to break you.” Mingyu smiled at the memory. “He made me come over the next day to show him how to hold you properly, like I had any idea what I was doing.”
“But you figured it out.”
“We both did. That’s kind of how it works—you just figure it out as you go.”
Eunji absorbed this, taking another sip of her hot chocolate. She’d managed to get whipped cream on her chin now too. Mingyu handed her a napkin without comment.
“Do you think Dad’s okay?” she asked quietly.
“In Tokyo? Yeah, I’m sure he’s fine. Probably driving his coworkers crazy with color-coded spreadsheets.”
“But he’s alone there. He doesn’t like being alone.”
Mingyu felt something tighten in his chest. Eight years old and already too perceptive. “He’s not alone. He’s with his team. And he’s got us back here, right? That’s kind of like not being alone.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No,” Mingyu admitted. “It’s not. But sometimes we do things that are hard because they’re important. Your dad’s helping fix something at work. That’s important.”
“More important than me?”
“Nothing’s more important than you. That’s why he asked me to stay. Because he trusts me to take care of the most important person in his life.” He reached over, wiped away a spot of whipped cream she’d missed. “Pretty big responsibility, actually. I’m kind of terrified I’m going to screw it up.”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you made it to school on time. Mostly. And you’re buying me hot chocolate. And you let Kkuma have people food even though Dad says not to.”
“You’re not supposed to tell him about that last part.”
“I know.” She grinned, gap-toothed and conspiratorial. “That’s what makes it fun.”
They finished their drinks slowly, Eunji telling him about her friend Minseo who could do a cartwheel and her teacher who had a cat named Chairman Meow and how she was definitely going to be a veterinarian when she grew up, no, wait, a chef like him, no, actually maybe both.
“You can’t be both,” Mingyu said.
“Why not?”
“Because that’s two completely different jobs.”
“So? You’re a chef and Dad’s friend. That’s two jobs.”
“That’s—that’s not how jobs work.”
“Says you.”
By the time they left, Eunji had whipped cream in her hair and a chocolate mustache, and Mingyu had somehow agreed to teach her how to make pasta from scratch over the weekend. They walked the three blocks to the doggy daycare, Eunji chattering the entire way about how Kkuma was probably the smartest dog there and definitely the prettiest.
Kkuma launched herself at Eunji the moment they walked in, all four legs leaving the ground in her excitement. Sunny laughed from behind the counter.
“Someone missed you.”
“Did she behave?” Eunji asked, already on the floor receiving enthusiastic face licks.
“She tried to steal another dog’s toy, but other than that, perfect angel.”
“That’s my girl,” Mingyu said, earning a look from Sunny that suggested she wasn’t sure if he was joking.
The drive home was filled with Eunji’s continued chatter, now with Kkuma’s occasional barks as punctuation. She talked about school and friends and the injustice of having to learn cursive when “nobody even uses it anymore except Dad when he writes his grocery lists,” and Mingyu found himself actually listening, asking questions, engaged in a way he hadn’t expected to be.
When they finally pulled into the apartment complex parking lot, the sun was starting to set, painting everything in orange and pink.
Back at the apartment, Mingyu set Eunji up with homework at the kitchen table while he started dinner prep. Kkuma stationed herself directly under his feet, apparently believing that her presence would increase the likelihood of food falling from the sky. At least he didn’t have to navigate his own smaller kitchen—Seungcheol’s space was perfectly organized, every tool exactly where it should be.
“Uncle Mingyu, what’s seven-eighths minus two-eighths?”
“Five-eighths.”
“How’d you know that so fast?”
“Cooking is basically applied mathematics.” He set a pot of water to boil, started slicing fish cakes with the kind of precision that came from fifteen years in professional kitchens. “You’re constantly measuring, adjusting ratios, calculating cooking times.”
“Dad says math is the universal language.”
“Your dad says a lot of things.”
“He’s usually right though.”
“Don’t tell him I said this, but yeah, he usually is.”
Eunji bent back over her homework, pencil scratching against paper. Kkuma had migrated to her position under the table, white fluffy body curled against Eunji’s feet. The late afternoon light was starting to turn golden, painting everything in warm tones that made the apartment feel different than it had when Mingyu first arrived yesterday with his hastily packed duffel bag and Seungcheol’s frantic instructions still ringing in his ears.
His phone buzzed. Seungcheol again, because the man apparently had some kind of sixth sense for when Mingyu was having a moment.
Seungcheol: How’s pickup?
Mingyu: Flawless. I was the earliest parent there.
Seungcheol: Liar.
Mingyu: How do you know?
Seungcheol: Because I know you.
Mingyu: Creepy.
Seungcheol: Accurate. Did she cry?
Mingyu: …No?
Seungcheol: Mingyu.
Mingyu: Maybe a little. But I fixed it! We’re making tteokbokki.
Seungcheol: Not too spicy.
Mingyu: I know how to cook for children.
Seungcheol: Do you though.
Mingyu: I’m blocking you again.
Seungcheol: Sure you are.
Mingyu did not, in fact, block him. Instead, he pocketed his phone and focused on the food, building the sauce with the muscle memory that came from making it a thousand times. Eunji finished her homework and migrated to the living room, where she turned on some cartoon that involved talking animals and life lessons about friendship.
By the time dinner was ready, the apartment smelled like gochugaru and sesame oil and comfort. Mingyu plated everything with more care than necessary, adding garnishes and arranging the fish cakes in a way that would photograph well, because some habits died hard.
“Dinner’s ready!”
Eunji appeared instantly, Kkuma trotting behind her like a small white shadow. They settled at the table, and Mingyu watched as she took her first bite, the same breath-holding anxiety from breakfast returning.
“Well?”
“It’s really good,” she said, and the relief was disproportionate to the situation. “Better than the restaurant by our house.”
“Yeah?”
“Way better.” She took another bite, then another, eating with the single-minded focus of the truly hungry. “Uncle Mingyu?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for not being Dad.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I mean, I love Dad. But he would’ve made me eat vegetables first and then given me a smaller portion because of balanced meals or whatever. This is just… nice.”
Mingyu felt something warm expand in his chest, dangerous and unfamiliar. “You’re welcome, kid.”
They ate in comfortable silence, Kkuma receiving small pieces of fish cake that she accepted with regal dignity. After dinner, Eunji insisted on helping with dishes, which mostly meant she splashed water everywhere while Mingyu did the actual cleaning, but it felt important to let her participate.
“What time’s bedtime?”
“8:30.”
“What do you normally do until then?”
She shrugged, suddenly shy. “Dad usually reads to me. But I’m too old for that now.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“That’s dumb. You’re never too old for stories.” Mingyu dried his hands, surveyed the living room. “What if we watched a movie instead?”
“What kind of movie?”
“Your choice. As long as it’s not too scary, because I have a delicate constitution.”
This made her giggle. “You’re afraid of scary movies?”
“Terrified. I once screamed during a toothpaste commercial because the dentist looked menacing.”
“That didn’t happen.”
“It absolutely did. Your dad was there. Ask him.”
They settled on an animated movie about a girl who befriended a forest spirit, Kkuma squeezed between them on the couch like a small, warm bolster. Halfway through, Eunji’s head dropped onto Mingyu’s shoulder, her breathing evening out into sleep.
He should wake her, make her brush her teeth, follow the routine Seungcheol had outlined in painstaking detail. Instead, he stayed very still, afraid to disturb her, one hand unconsciously settling on Kkuma’s head while the movie played on.
His phone buzzed quietly. Seungcheol, texting during what had to be the middle of the night in Tokyo.
Seungcheol: She asleep?
Mingyu: How do you DO that? It’s like 3 AM there.
Seungcheol: It’s 8:45. She’s always asleep by 8:45. And I can’t sleep because I’m worried.
Mingyu: About your daughter or about me burning down your apartment?
Seungcheol: Both. Make sure she brushed her teeth.
Mingyu: I’m not waking her up. She’s comfortable.
Seungcheol: Mingyu. Dental hygiene.
Mingyu: I’ll make her brush twice tomorrow.
Seungcheol: That’s not how teeth work.
Mingyu: Then I guess she’s getting cavities. This is on you for having an international emergency and leaving me in charge.
Seungcheol: It wasn’t exactly planned. I hate you.
Mingyu: No you don’t.
Seungcheol: No, I don’t. Go to sleep. You’ve got two more days of this.
Mingyu looked down at Eunji’s sleeping face, peaceful in a way she never was awake, all the Seungcheol-inherited intensity smoothed away. Kkuma had fallen asleep too, little body radiating warmth against his leg.
He’d give them five more minutes, he decided. Then he’d wake Eunji, enforce the teeth brushing, get her to bed properly. Five more minutes of this quiet moment wouldn’t hurt anyone.
Five minutes turned into twenty, and by the time he finally carried Eunji to her room, she barely stirred, mumbling something about fish cakes before burrowing into her pillow. Kkuma followed, claiming her spot at the foot of the bed with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where they belonged.
Mingyu stood in the doorway for a moment, watching them both sleep, and thought about calling Seungcheol to tell him… what? That he was doing okay? That the day had been chaotic but good? That he understood now why Seungcheol talked about Eunji the way people talked about miracles?
Instead, he sent a single photo—Eunji and Kkuma asleep, the nightlight casting everything in soft blue.
Seungcheol: You let her sleep in her school clothes.
Mingyu: And yet, she’s alive. I call that a win.
Seungcheol: You’re impossible.
Mingyu: And yet, you keep calling me.
Seungcheol: Because someone has to make sure you don’t burn down my apartment.
Mingyu: Goodnight, Seungcheol.
Seungcheol: Goodnight, Mingyu. And thank you. Really.
Mingyu: You’re going soft in your old age.
Seungcheol: I’m literally 2 years older than you.
Mingyu: Ancient. Go sleep. Your meeting’s in like four hours.
Mingyu looked at the exchange for a long time before heading back to the guest room, where he lay awake thinking about responsibility and trust and how Seungcheol had somehow conned him into caring about bedtimes and dental hygiene with one panicked phone call and a plane ticket to Tokyo.
Tomorrow, he thought, he’d do better. He’d be on time for pickup, remember the lunch, follow the routine more closely.
Tomorrow, he’d figure out how to be the uncle that Eunji deserved, the friend that Seungcheol trusted.
But for tonight, everyone was fed and safe and sleeping, and that would have to be enough.
Outside, the city hummed with its usual chaos, but inside the apartment, everything was finally, blessedly quiet.
The alarm clock’s shrill cry pierced through the morning quiet at 6:30 AM, but Choi Seungcheol was already awake, staring at the ceiling with the kind of exhaustion that had become his constant companion since becoming a single father three years ago. He rolled over to silence the alarm before it could wake Eunji, his five-year-old daughter sleeping soundly in the bed next to his. Their small two-bedroom apartment had become a one-bedroom out of necessity—not financial, but emotional. Eunji had nightmares, and sleeping close to her appa made both of them rest easier.
Seungcheol padded to the kitchen, his bare feet making soft sounds against the cold linoleum floor. The coffee maker—a gift from Jeonghan who claimed he couldn’t function around an uncaffeinated Seungcheol—gurgled to life. While it brewed, he opened the refrigerator and stared at its contents with the blank expression of someone who had been making the same breakfast decisions for months.
“Appa?” Eunji’s sleepy voice drifted from the bedroom. “Is it morning already?”
“Not yet, princess. Go back to sleep,” he called softly, but he could already hear the rustling of blankets and the soft thud of small feet hitting the floor. Eunji appeared in the kitchen doorway, her hair sticking up at impossible angles, clutching the stuffed tiger Soonyoung had won for her at a carnival last month.
“I can’t sleep anymore. My brain is too awake,” she announced, climbing onto the kitchen stool that Wonwoo had bought specifically for her height. “Can I have the cereal with the marshmallows?”
“You had that yesterday. How about eggs?” Seungcheol suggested, pulling out a carton and shaking it gently to check if any remained.
“Eggs are boring. Uncle Mingyu says variety is the spice of life.”
“Uncle Mingyu says a lot of things,” Seungcheol muttered, cracking an egg into a bowl. “He also said that wearing socks with sandals was fashionable, and look how that turned out.”
Eunji giggled, swinging her legs from the stool. “He looked like a tourist!”
“Exactly. So maybe we don’t take all of Uncle Mingyu’s advice.” Seungcheol whisked the eggs with more force than necessary. “Besides, eggs have protein. They’ll help your brain work better in school.”
“Will they make me smarter than Jaehyun? He said his daddy reads him three books every night, and that’s why he knows all the dinosaur names.”
Seungcheol paused mid-whisk. These moments always caught him off guard—the innocent comparisons that reminded him of everything Eunji didn’t have. “Intelligence isn’t about how many books you read in one night, sweetheart. It’s about being curious and asking questions. And you ask more questions than anyone I know.”
“Even more than Uncle Seokmin? He asks if you’re eating enough every time he sees you.”
“Even more than Uncle Seokmin.” Seungcheol poured the eggs into the heated pan, watching them sizzle. “Speaking of questions, what do you want to do for our Saturday adventure this weekend?”
“Can we go to the place with the ducks? And maybe Uncle Jihoon can come? He promised to teach me that song on his guitar.”
“The park with the pond, and I’ll ask Uncle Jihoon. But you know he’s not great with early mornings.”
“That’s okay. I’ll call him and wake him up. He can’t be grumpy at me because I’m cute.”
Seungcheol nearly choked on his coffee. “Where did you learn that?”
“Uncle Jeonghan. He says being cute is a superpower, and I should use it responsibly.”
“Of course he did.” Seungcheol plated the scrambled eggs alongside a piece of toast cut into the shape of a star—a skill he’d developed out of pure necessity when Eunji went through her “food has to be fun” phase. “Eat up, princess. We need to leave in thirty minutes.”
The morning routine was a well-choreographed dance they’d perfected over months of trial and error. While Eunji ate, Seungcheol packed her lunch—a sandwich with the crusts cut off, apple slices with a little container of caramel dip (another Jeonghan suggestion that actually worked), and a juice box. He’d learned to pack an extra juice box after the Great Sharing Incident, where Eunji gave hers to a classmate whose mother had forgotten to pack a drink.
“Appa, can I wear the dress with the flowers today?” Eunji asked, scraping the last bit of egg onto her toast.
“It’s supposed to rain later. How about the purple sweater Uncle Vernon got you?”
“But it’s so soft I want to sleep in it, not wear it to school.”
“That’s… actually a fair point.” Seungcheol rinsed her plate in the sink. “Okay, flower dress, but we’re bringing a jacket.”
Getting Eunji ready for school was an exercise in patience that had taught Seungcheol more about negotiation than his business degree ever had. She insisted on brushing her own teeth (“I’m a big girl, Appa”), which resulted in more toothpaste on the bathroom counter than in her mouth. She wanted to pick out her own socks, which somehow never matched but always reflected her personality—today’s choice was one striped sock and one with tiny cats on it.
“My hair feels angry today,” Eunji announced, standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a brush in her hand.
“Hair can’t be angry, princess.”
“Yes it can. Look.” She pulled at a particularly stubborn tangle. “It’s mad because it doesn’t want to be neat.”
Seungcheol took the brush from her hands, gently working through the knots. “Maybe it just needs some encouragement. Hair, we’re going to school today to learn new things and see friends. Don’t you want to look nice?”
“Are you talking to my hair, Appa?”
“Is it working?”
Eunji considered this seriously. “A little bit. But maybe sing to it too? Uncle Seokmin says singing makes everything better.”
So Seungcheol found himself humming a random melody while braiding his daughter’s hair, feeling ridiculous and completely content at the same time. These were the moments that made the sleepless nights and constant worry worth it—when Eunji’s laughter filled their small apartment and the weight of single parenthood felt less like a burden and more like a privilege.
“There. Your hair is happy now.” He tied off the braid with a small elastic decorated with a tiny butterfly.
“Thanks, Appa. You’re getting better at braids. Remember when you made my hair look like a pretzel?”
“We don’t talk about the pretzel incident.”
The drive to kindergarten was fifteen minutes of Eunji’s commentary on everything they passed. Today’s topic was the construction site they drove by every morning.
“I think they’re building a house for giants,” she announced, pressing her nose to the window. “Look how big those machines are.”
“Those are excavators. They’re digging the foundation for a new building.”
“What’s a foundation?”
“It’s like the roots of a tree, but for buildings. It goes deep underground and keeps everything stable.”
“Like how you’re my foundation?” she asked innocently, and Seungcheol had to blink hard to keep his vision clear.
“Yeah, princess. Like that.”
They pulled into the kindergarten parking lot, joining the morning parade of parents and children. Seungcheol grabbed Eunji’s backpack—bright pink with a unicorn that changed colors in the sunlight, chosen after extensive deliberation at the store—and walked her to the classroom door.
“Have a good day, sweetheart. Learn something new to tell me about later.”
“I will. Maybe today we’ll learn about space. Did you know that Jupiter has a storm that’s been going on for hundreds of years?” She hugged his legs tightly. “Love you, Appa.”
“Love you too, princess.”
Seungcheol watched through the classroom window as Eunji settled into her seat next to her best friend Soyoung, already chattering excitedly about something. Mrs. Kim, her teacher, waved at him through the glass—a kind woman in her fifties who had quickly learned to navigate Eunji’s endless questions and boundless energy.
The drive to work was the quietest part of Seungcheol’s day, twenty-five minutes of peace before the chaos of managing a team of twelve at the marketing firm where he worked as a creative director. His phone rang through the car’s Bluetooth system just as he was parking.
“Please tell me you fed your child something other than cereal this morning,” Jeonghan’s voice filled the car, annoyingly cheerful for 8:30 AM.
“Scrambled eggs and toast. Cut into a star shape, if you must know.”
“Look at you, being all domestic. I’m proud. What time are we picking up the princess today?”
“We?”
“You, me, maybe Mingyu if he’s not busy with his kitchen again. I promised Eunji I’d show her how to make that friendship bracelet pattern she saw online.”
Seungcheol locked his car and headed toward the office building. “Since when do you know how to make friendship bracelets?”
“YouTube University, my friend. You’d be amazed what you can learn when you’re trying to be the favorite uncle.”
“You’re not the favorite uncle.”
“Denial is not just a river in Egypt, Cheol.”
Despite himself, Seungcheol smiled. Having twelve self-appointed uncles for Eunji had been overwhelming at first, but now he couldn’t imagine raising her without their chaotic support system. “Pick-up is at 3:30. Don’t be late.”
“When am I ever late?”
“Do you want me to list specific incidents, or should I just send you the screenshot of my texts asking where you are?”
“Point taken. See you later, daddy.”
The workday passed in a blur of meetings, client presentations, and the kind of creative problem-solving that made Seungcheol good at his job. His desk was decorated with Eunji’s artwork—currently featuring a drawing of their family that included all thirteen of them, with Eunji in the center and everyone else arranged around her like planets orbiting the sun. His coworkers had long since stopped commenting on the fact that he left exactly at 3:15 every weekday, understanding that some things were more important than overtime.
Jeonghan was already waiting in the kindergarten parking lot when Seungcheol arrived, leaning against his car and scrolling through his phone with the kind of casual elegance that had made him popular in college and successful in his consulting career.
“You’re early,” Seungcheol observed, checking the time on his dashboard.
“Shocking, I know. I finished my last call and figured I’d rather wait here than sit in traffic.”
They walked into the school together, joining the cluster of parents waiting for dismissal. Eunji spotted them immediately, her face lighting up as she ran toward them with a paper in her hand.
“Appa! Uncle Jeonghan! Look what I made!” She thrust the paper toward Seungcheol—a drawing of what appeared to be a house with thirteen stick figures standing in front of it.
“Tell me about it,” Seungcheol said, crouching down to her level.
“It’s our family house! See, there’s you and me, and all my uncles. And there’s a big backyard where Uncle Mingyu can practice cooking outside, and Uncle Jihoon has a music room, and Uncle Vernon has a place for his books…”
“This is very detailed,” Jeonghan observed, pointing to a small structure in the corner. “What’s that?”
“That’s Uncle Seokmin’s stage for when he wants to perform for us. And this,” she pointed to another section, “is Uncle Joshua’s garden. He said he wants to grow vegetables.”
Seungcheol felt that familiar tightness in his chest, the overwhelming love mixed with guilt that came with moments like these. Eunji’s fantasy family house included everyone except the one person who should have been there—her mother. But she seemed content with their unconventional setup, and maybe that was enough.
“Should we go see Uncle Mingyu?” Jeonghan suggested, sensing Seungcheol’s shift in mood with the intuition that came from years of friendship. “I heard he’s attempting to make dinner for everyone tonight.”
⭐️
The drive to Mingyu’s apartment was filled with Eunji’s recap of her day. She’d learned about butterflies (“Did you know they taste with their feet, Appa?”), played blocks with Soyoung (“We built a castle for dragons, but nice dragons, not scary ones”), and had apparently convinced her art teacher to let the class spend extra time on their projects.
“Mrs. Park says I’m very persuasive,” Eunji announced proudly from her car seat.
“That’s a diplomatic way of saying you wore her down with questions,” Jeonghan observed from the passenger seat.
“Uncle Jeonghan, what does diplomatic mean?”
“It means being nice when you tell someone the truth.”
“Oh. Then you’re very diplomatic when you tell Daddy his cooking needs work.”
Seungcheol shot Jeonghan a look in the rearview mirror. “Have you been talking to my five-year-old about my cooking?”
“She asked why I always suggest ordering takeout when you offer to make dinner. I was being honest.”
“Diplomatically honest,” Eunji added helpfully.
Mingyu’s apartment was in chaos when they arrived, which was unfortunately normal. The kitchen looked like a small explosion had occurred, with ingredients scattered across every available surface and Mingyu standing in the middle of it all with flour in his hair and a look of determined concentration.
“Don’t say anything,” he warned as they entered, not looking up from whatever he was stirring in a large pot. “I’m trying to prove something.”
“Uncle Mingyu, why do you have flour on your forehead?” Eunji asked, climbing onto one of the kitchen stools that had mysteriously appeared in every apartment the moment Seungcheol’s friends learned about her existence.
“Because cooking is an adventure, princess, and adventures get messy.”
“Appa says adventures should be fun, not dangerous.”
“Your appa is very wise.”
The rest of the group arrived in stages over the next hour. Wonwoo appeared with his laptop bag and immediately claimed the quietest corner of the living room, though Seungcheol noticed he kept one eye on Eunji at all times. Joshua came with flowers from his weekly farmer’s market trip, presenting Eunji with a small sunflower “just because.” Vernon arrived with a stack of children’s books he’d found at a used bookstore, claiming he’d bought them for research but fooling no one.
Jihoon was the last to arrive, carrying his guitar case and wearing the slightly overwhelmed expression he always had when entering a room full of noise and people. Eunji immediately ran to him, wrapping her arms around his legs in greeting.
“Uncle Jihoon! You came! Can we practice the song now?”
“After dinner, maybe. If your appa says it’s okay.”
Dinner was great—Mingyu had made a simple pasta with vegetables that Eunji approved of, though she carefully picked around the mushrooms. The conversation flowed around the table, a mix of work stories, random observations, and Eunji’s increasingly elaborate plans for her upcoming birthday party.
“I want a theme,” she announced, twirling pasta around her fork with the serious concentration of someone performing surgery. “But not princesses. Everyone does princesses.”
“What kind of theme?” Seokmin asked, always eager to encourage her creative ideas.
“Space! But not scary space. Happy space. With friendly aliens and colorful planets.”
“That sounds amazing,” Wonwoo said quietly. “I could help you design invitations.”
“Really? With computers?”
“If you want.”
Eunji beamed at him, and Seungcheol watched Wonwoo’s usually reserved expression soften. It still amazed him how completely his friends had embraced their roles as Eunji’s uncles, each finding their own way to connect with her.
After dinner, while the others cleaned up (a process that involved more talking than actual cleaning), Jihoon set up his guitar in the living room. Eunji sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, watching intently as he tuned the strings.
“What song do you want to learn today?” he asked.
“The one about stars. The one you hummed last time.”
Jihoon’s fingers found the chords easily, and he began to play a soft melody that Seungcheol didn’t recognize. It was gentle and meandering, the kind of song that sounded like it had always existed.
“I made this one up,” Jihoon admitted quietly. “It doesn’t have words yet.”
“Can I help write words?” Eunji asked, leaning forward with interest.
“If you want to.”
“It sounds like flying. Like if stars could sing to each other across the sky.”
Seungcheol felt that tightness in his chest again, but this time it was pure wonder. His five-year-old daughter was writing songs with his friend, surrounded by people who loved her unconditionally, creating art in a living room that smelled like Mingyu’s pasta sauce.
“Stars singing to each other,” Jihoon repeated thoughtfully. “I like that.”
The evening continued with its easy rhythm—Jeonghan teaching Eunji to braid friendship bracelets at the kitchen table while Seokmin provided commentary that was more entertaining than helpful, Vernon reading quietly in the corner with Eunji occasionally running over to ask him about words she didn’t understand, Joshua doing dishes while humming along to whatever song was stuck in his head.
At eight o’clock, Seungcheol noticed Eunji rubbing her eyes and made the executive decision that it was time to head home. The protests were immediate and extensive.
“But I haven’t finished my bracelet for Uncle Wonwoo!”
“You can work on it this weekend.”
“But Uncle Vernon was going to read me the story about the dragon!”
“Tomorrow, princess. It’s a school night.”
The goodbyes took another fifteen minutes, as Eunji made the rounds to hug each of her uncles and extract promises for various future activities. Seungcheol accepted containers of leftover pasta from Mingyu (“For lunch tomorrow, and don’t even think about arguing”) and endured Jeonghan’s reminder about Saturday’s park adventure (“Don’t forget to bring the kite we bought her. The weather’s supposed to be perfect”).
In the car, Eunji was uncharacteristically quiet, staring out the window at the streetlights passing by.
“Did you have a good day?” Seungcheol asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.
“The best day,” she said softly. “Appa?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think Mommy would like our family?”
The question hit him like a physical blow, unexpected and breathtaking in its simplicity. Eunji rarely mentioned her mother—not because it was forbidden, but because her mother had left when Eunji was barely two, and memories from that age were fuzzy at best.
“I think,” Seungcheol said carefully, “that anyone would be lucky to be part of our family. We’re pretty special.”
“Even though we’re not normal?”
“Especially because we’re not normal. Normal is boring.”
“That’s what Uncle Seokmin says.”
“Uncle Seokmin is right about some things.”
At home, the bedtime routine was mercifully quick. Eunji was tired enough not to argue about brushing teeth or changing into pajamas, and she only asked for two bedtime stories instead of her usual four. Seungcheol read her favorites—a book about a bear who collected dreams, and another about a little girl who befriended the moon.
“Appa?” Eunji mumbled against his shoulder as he carried her to bed. “Will you sing the song Uncle Jihoon was playing? The one about stars?”
Seungcheol didn’t know the melody well enough to sing it properly, but he hummed what he remembered while rubbing circles on Eunji’s back. Her breathing evened out quickly, the exhaustion of a five-year-old’s full day finally catching up with her.
He stayed for a few minutes after she fell asleep, watching her face in the dim light from the hallway. She looked impossibly small in her twin bed, surrounded by stuffed animals and the art projects she insisted on keeping nearby. The friendship bracelet she’d been making was on her nightstand, half-finished but carefully arranged so it wouldn’t get tangled.
In the kitchen, Seungcheol made himself a cup of tea and sat at the small table where they ate breakfast every morning. The apartment was quiet except for the distant sound of traffic and the hum of the refrigerator. These late-evening moments were when the weight of single parenthood felt heaviest—not because he regretted his choices, but because the responsibility was so enormous that sometimes it took his breath away.
His phone buzzed with a text from Jeonghan: “Princess get to bed okay?”
“Out like a light,” he typed back. “Thanks for today.”
“Thanks for sharing her with us. Same time next week?”
Seungcheol smiled despite his exhaustion. “Same time next week.”
Another text, this one from Mingyu: “Leftovers are in containers labeled with heating instructions. Don’t mess this up.”
Then Vernon: “Found three more books she might like. Will drop them off tomorrow.”
Jihoon: “Started working on words for that song. She’s got good instincts for melody.”
Joshua: “Sunflowers are supposed to bring happiness. Seemed like she needed one today.”
Wonwoo: “Birthday invitation designs attached. Tell me which one she likes.”
Seokmin: “Best audience I’ve ever had for my terrible jokes. Same time next week?”
Seungcheol stared at his phone, overwhelmed by the simple kindness of these messages. When Eunji’s mother had left, he’d been terrified that he wouldn’t be enough for her—that a five-year-old needed more than one overwhelmed father could provide. But somehow, without planning or asking, he’d found himself surrounded by people who loved his daughter almost as much as he did.
He finished his tea, checked that the doors were locked, and made his way to the bedroom where Eunji was sprawled across both sides of the bed, arms flung wide like she was hugging the world in her sleep. Seungcheol carefully moved her over, trying not to wake her as he settled in beside her.
Tomorrow would bring another morning routine, another day of kindergarten and work and evening chaos with his friends. There would be more questions he didn’t know how to answer, more moments of panic when he realized how much he still had to learn about raising a daughter, more late nights wondering if he was doing any of this right.
But tonight, listening to Eunji’s steady breathing and thinking about her laughter echoing through Mingyu’s apartment, Seungcheol felt something he hadn’t experienced in a long time: contentment. Not happiness—that was too simple, too small a word—but the deep satisfaction of knowing that despite everything they’d lost, he and Eunji had built something beautiful together.
“Love you, princess,” he whispered into the darkness, and settled in to sleep, knowing tomorrow would bring another day of their perfectly imperfect life.
The coffee shop on Fifth Street had terrible lighting and even worse Wi-Fi, but it was exactly three blocks from her apartment and two from Seungcheol’s office building. She’d been coming here for six months now, always ordering the same medium latte with an extra shot, always sitting at the corner table by the window that looked out onto the street where nothing particularly interesting ever happened.
Today was different, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Maybe it was the way the barista—a college kid with green hair and tired eyes—had looked at her when she ordered, like he recognized something in her expression. Or maybe it was the text message still glowing on her phone screen, three simple words that had been sitting there unanswered for forty-seven minutes: Can we talk?
She took another sip of her latte and watched a woman across the street struggle with an umbrella that refused to cooperate with the October wind. The weather had turned unpredictable lately, sunny one moment and threatening rain the next, as if the sky couldn’t make up its mind about what it wanted to be.
Her phone buzzed again. This time it was Jeonghan.
He’s pacing around the office like a caged animal. Just text him back.
She turned her phone face down on the table and focused on the woman with the umbrella, who had finally given up and was now hurrying down the sidewalk with her hair whipping around her face. There was something almost liberating about watching someone else’s small defeat, something that made her own inability to respond to a simple question feel less pathetic.
The bell above the door chimed, and she didn’t need to look up to know who had walked in. She’d memorized the sound of his footsteps months ago—quick and purposeful, with just a hint of hesitation before he reached wherever he was going. Today, those footsteps stopped right beside her table.
“You’re really just going to ignore me?”
Seungcheol’s voice carried that particular blend of frustration and hurt that she’d become an expert at identifying. She looked up to find him standing there in his work clothes—navy slacks and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows—looking like he’d run his hands through his hair more than once.
“I wasn’t ignoring you,” she said, which was technically true. She’d been staring at his message for nearly an hour, which was the opposite of ignoring. “I was thinking.”
“For forty-seven minutes?”
So he’d been counting too. She gestured to the chair across from her, and he sat down heavily, his eyes never leaving her face. Up close, she could see the dark circles under his eyes, the way his mouth was set in that particular line that meant he’d been arguing with himself about something.
“You look tired,” she said.
“I am tired.” He leaned back in his chair, and for a moment, the anger seemed to drain out of him, leaving behind something that looked almost vulnerable. “I’m tired of pretending this isn’t happening.”
The barista was cleaning the espresso machine with the kind of aggressive thoroughness that suggested he was trying very hard not to eavesdrop on the couple in the corner who were clearly about to have some kind of significant conversation. She found herself envying his ability to focus on something so mundane and concrete.
“What do you want me to say, Seungcheol?”
“I want you to say something. Anything. We’ve been dancing around this for months, and I’m starting to feel like I’m losing my mind.”
She knew exactly what he was talking about, had been feeling the weight of it herself every time they were in the same room. It was in the way their conversations would pause at strange moments, in the careful distance they maintained when they were alone together, in the way their friends had started looking at them with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
“Maybe some things are better left unsaid,” she said quietly.
“Are they?” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Because I keep thinking about all the things we don’t say to each other, and it’s driving me crazy. Like last week, when we were at Joshua’s party, and you were talking to that guy—what was his name?”
“Marcus.”
“Right, Marcus. And I wanted to walk over there and interrupt, wanted to make some stupid joke just so you’d look at me instead of him. But I didn’t, because we don’t do that. We don’t… we’re not…”
He trailed off, and she could see him struggling with the words, with the space between what they were and what they might be.
“We’re friends,” she finished for him.
“Are we?” The question hung in the air between them like smoke. “Because I’ve never had a friend who makes me feel like this.”
Outside, it had started to rain—not the dramatic downpour that would match the intensity of the moment, but a steady, unremarkable drizzle that made the window streaky and gray. She watched the drops slide down the glass and thought about all the conversations they’d never had, all the moments when one of them had almost said something important and then pulled back at the last second.
“How do I make you feel?” she asked, because she was apparently a masochist.
Seungcheol was quiet for so long that she started to think he wasn’t going to answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than usual, careful in a way that suggested he’d been practicing these words.
“Like I’m standing at the edge of something, and I can’t tell if it’s a cliff or just a step down. Like every time you smile at me, really smile, not just the polite one you give everyone else, I forget what I was thinking about. Like I’m eighteen again and stupid about girls, except I’m twenty-six and should know better.”
She felt something twist in her chest, a combination of warmth and panic that she’d become familiar with over the past few months. This was dangerous territory, the kind of conversation that changed things irreversibly.
“Seungcheol…”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know all the reasons why this is complicated. We work in the same building, we have the same friends, you’re going to law school next year—”
“That’s not until September.”
“But you’re going. You’re leaving.” The words came out flat, matter-of-fact, but she could hear the hurt underneath them. “And I’m going to be here, doing the same job, living in the same apartment, probably still coming to this terrible coffee shop hoping I might run into you.”
The barista had moved on to wiping down tables with the same aggressive efficiency, and she realized they were probably the only customers left in the place. The rain was coming down harder now, turning the world outside into something blurred and indistinct.
“It’s not that simple,” she said.
“Isn’t it?” He reached across the table, his fingers stopping just short of touching hers. “I keep thinking about that night last month, when we walked home from Mingyu’s birthday party. Do you remember?”
Of course she remembered. They’d all had too much to drink, and somehow she and Seungcheol had ended up walking together while the others took cabs or paired off in different directions. It was one of those perfect October nights when the air was crisp but not cold, when the streets were quiet enough that you could hear your own footsteps echoing off the buildings.
“You were wearing that green dress,” he continued, his eyes fixed on some point past her shoulder. “And you kept stumbling because of your heels, so I offered you my arm. And when we got to your building, we just… stood there. For like ten minutes. Just talking about nothing, really. About how Seokmin had tried to DJ and nearly blew out Mingyu’s speakers, about whether the new Thai place on Seventh Street was as good as everyone said it was.”
She remembered the weight of his arm under her hand, the way the streetlight had cast shadows across his face, making him look older and more serious than usual. She remembered thinking that if she were braver, or maybe just drunker, she might have kissed him right there on the sidewalk in front of her building.
“And then you said you should probably go inside,” he continued. “And I said yeah, probably. But neither of us moved. And I kept thinking, this is it, this is the moment when something happens. When we stop pretending we don’t feel whatever this is.”
“But nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened,” he agreed. “You went inside, and I walked home, and the next morning we both acted like it was just another night. Like those ten minutes didn’t mean anything.”
The problem was that those ten minutes had meant something. They’d meant everything, actually, which was precisely why she’d spent the following weeks being extra careful around him, extra normal, as if she could somehow undo the weight of that moment through sheer force of will.
“Maybe it was just the alcohol,” she said weakly.
Seungcheol’s laugh was bitter. “You had two glasses of wine over the course of four hours. I had three beers. We weren’t drunk.”
“Then what do you want me to say? That I felt it too? That I’ve been thinking about that night, and a dozen other nights like it, for weeks? That sometimes I catch myself staring at you during our group dinners and wondering what would happen if I just reached over and took your hand?”
The words came out harsher than she’d intended, fueled by months of frustration and careful distance. Seungcheol’s eyes widened slightly, and she realized she’d just given him exactly the answer he’d been looking for.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s exactly what I want you to say.”
The silence that followed was different from the careful, loaded silences they’d been navigating for months. This one felt heavier, more final, like something had shifted between them that couldn’t be shifted back.
“But saying it doesn’t change anything,” she continued. “I’m still leaving in ten months. You’re still… you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She gestured vaguely, taking in his pressed shirt and his carefully styled hair, the expensive watch on his wrist that his parents had given him for his college graduation. “You have a five-year plan, Seungcheol. You have career goals and a retirement fund and probably a mental timeline for when you want to get married and buy a house and have kids.”
“So?”
“So I don’t even know what I want to do after law school. I don’t know if I want to do corporate law or public interest or just drop out and become a freelance photographer. I don’t know if I want to stay in this city or move somewhere completely new. I don’t know anything.”
“You know how you feel about me.”
The simple certainty in his voice made her chest ache. “Feelings aren’t enough, and you know it. We could try this, whatever this is, and it could be amazing for a few months, and then what? I leave, and we do the long-distance thing until we both realize it’s not working? Or we break up before I go, and then we can’t even be friends anymore?”
“Or,” Seungcheol said quietly, “it could be worth it. All of it. The uncertainty, the complications, the possibility that it might not work out exactly the way we plan.”
She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to believe him so badly that it felt like a physical pain in her chest. But she’d watched too many of her friends fall into relationships that seemed perfect at the beginning, only to watch them crumble under the weight of real life and conflicting goals and the simple, brutal fact that love wasn’t always enough.
“I can’t,” she said finally. “I can’t be the reason you compromise everything you’ve worked for.”
“You wouldn’t be. That’s not…” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Do you think so little of me? That I’d throw away everything I care about for some girl?”
“I’m not some girl.”
“No, you’re not. You’re the girl. The one who makes me want to rewrite all those careful plans, who makes me think that maybe having everything figured out isn’t as important as I thought it was.”
The rain was starting to let up outside, but the damage was done—the windows were still streaked and gray, the world outside still looked uncertain and blurred. She found herself thinking about the woman with the umbrella, wondering if she’d made it to wherever she was going, wondering if she’d given up on trying to stay dry and just embraced getting soaked.
“Jeonghan thinks I’m an idiot,” Seungcheol said suddenly.
“What?”
“For not saying anything sooner. He’s been telling me for weeks that I should just ask you out, see what happens. Says life’s too short to spend it wondering what if.”
“Jeonghan’s a romantic.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he just sees things more clearly than we do.” Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, and something in his posture suggested he was preparing to surrender. “Look, I know you’re scared. Hell, I’m terrified. But I keep thinking about what this could be, if we actually gave it a chance.”
“What if it ruins everything?”
“What if it doesn’t?”
The question hung between them, and she realized they’d reached the heart of it—the fundamental difference in how they approached risk, in how they weighed potential loss against potential gain. Seungcheol was the kind of person who jumped first and figured out how to land later. She was the kind of person who calculated all the possible trajectories before she even considered taking a step.
“I should go,” she said, reaching for her bag.
“That’s it? That’s your answer?”
She looked at him sitting there, still handsome in his work clothes, still looking at her like she held the answer to some question he’d been asking himself for months. She thought about that night outside her building, about all the moments when they’d almost touched, almost kissed, almost admitted what they were both feeling.
“Some things are too important to risk,” she said.
“And some things are too important not to.”
She stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. The barista had stopped pretending not to watch them, and she could feel his curious gaze following her as she moved toward the door.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it. Sorry for the timing, sorry for the distance, sorry for being too afraid to take the leap that might have changed everything.
Seungcheol didn’t say anything, just watched her walk away with an expression that she knew would haunt her for months. The bell above the door chimed as she left, and she stepped out into the damp October afternoon feeling like she’d just made the biggest mistake of her life.
But mistakes were familiar. Mistakes she could handle. It was the possibility of something beautiful and terrifying and completely outside her control that she couldn’t bear to risk.
⭐️
Three months later
The acceptance letter came on a Tuesday, delivered to her office in a thin envelope that somehow managed to contain her entire future. She read it three times before the words really sank in: early admission, full scholarship, a chance to start the next phase of her life six months sooner than she’d planned.
She was still staring at the letter when her phone rang. Joshua’s name flashed on the screen, and she answered without thinking.
“Hey, are you free for lunch? Seungcheol just got some news and—oh, wait, hold on. He wants to talk to you.”
Before she could protest, the phone was changing hands, and then Seungcheol’s voice was in her ear, warm and familiar and slightly out of breath.
“I got the promotion,” he said without preamble. “The one in Singapore. I’m leaving next month.”
She felt the letter crinkle in her hand as her grip tightened. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks. It’s… it’s everything I’ve been working toward, you know? The regional director position, the international experience, the salary bump. Everything.”
“That’s amazing, Seungcheol. Really.”
There was a pause, and she could hear voices in the background, probably the rest of their friends celebrating his news.
“What about you?” he asked. “How are things with the law school applications?”
She looked down at the letter in her hand, at the words that would take her three thousand miles away from everything she’d known.
“I got into Columbia,” she said. “Full ride. They want me to start in January instead of September.”
They were both quiet for a moment, and she found herself thinking about timing, about how the universe seemed determined to keep pulling them in different directions just when they might have found a way to move in the same one.
“So we’re both leaving,” Seungcheol said finally.
“Looks like it.”
“Different continents.”
“Different continents.”
She could hear Joshua’s voice in the background, asking if everything was okay, if they were still on for lunch. Real life intruding on their strange little moment of parallel revelation.
“I should go,” Seungcheol said. “The guys want to celebrate, and I have about a million things to figure out before I leave.”
“Of course. Enjoy your lunch.”
“Hey,” he said, just as she was about to hang up. “For what it’s worth, I think you made the right choice. Back in October, I mean. We would have just been delaying the inevitable.”
She pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to tell him that it didn’t feel like the right choice, that it felt like the safe choice, which wasn’t the same thing at all.
“Take care of yourself in Singapore,” she said instead.
“You too. In New York.”
The call ended, and she sat there in her office holding the acceptance letter and feeling like she’d just watched the final credits roll on a movie that had never really had a proper ending. Just a gradual fade to black, a slow dissolution of possibility into the practical realities of separate lives and separate dreams.
She thought about calling him back, about suggesting one last coffee at the terrible place on Fifth Street, one final conversation before they both disappeared into their respective futures. But what would be the point? They’d already said everything that mattered, and everything they hadn’t said was probably better left unspoken.
Instead, she folded the letter carefully and slipped it into her desk drawer, next to the business card from the photography workshop she’d signed up for but never attended, and the ticket stub from the concert where she’d first realized she was falling for someone who would always be just out of reach.
⭐️
Two years later
The coffee shop on Fifth Street had new management and better lighting, but the corner table by the window was exactly where she remembered it. She sat there on a rainy Thursday afternoon, jet-lagged and displaced, watching the familiar street through glass that no longer seemed quite so streaky.
She was only back in town for a week, visiting her parents and tying up loose ends before making a decision that had been weighing on her for months. Her life had acquired a momentum of its own over the past two years—law school, internships, a relationship with a fellow student named David that had lasted eight months before they’d realized they were better as study partners than romantic partners.
The internship offer in Seattle was still sitting in her email, marked as unread. The job offer from a public interest law firm here in town had arrived yesterday, along with a handwritten note from the senior partner saying they’d been impressed by her portfolio of pro bono work. Two paths, two different futures, and she found herself back in the place where she’d first learned that some decisions were too important to make based on fear alone.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Jeonghan: Heard you were back in town. Also heard someone else is back too. Coffee tomorrow?
She was typing a response when the bell above the door chimed, and she looked up out of habit more than anything else. The man walking in was taller than she remembered, his hair shorter, his clothes more expensive. But she would have recognized those footsteps anywhere, even after two years and half a world of distance.
Seungcheol stopped short when he saw her, his expression cycling through surprise, recognition, and something that looked like relief. He was alone, and when he smiled—really smiled, not the polite version—she felt something in her chest uncurl for the first time in months.
“Hi,” he said, the word carrying the weight of two years and all the conversations they’d never had.
“Hi.”
He gestured to the chair across from her, eyebrows raised in question, and she nodded. He sat down, and for a moment they just looked at each other, taking inventory of all the ways they’d changed and all the ways they’d stayed exactly the same.
“You look good,” he said quietly. “Different, but good.”
“So do you. Singapore treated you well.”
“Singapore was…” He paused, running a hand through his hair in the gesture she remembered. “Singapore was everything I thought I wanted. Great job, great apartment, great opportunities. Everything according to plan.”
“But?”
“But I spent most of my time there thinking about a conversation in a terrible coffee shop, wondering if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.”
She felt her breath catch. “Seungcheol…”
“I know what you’re thinking. That it’s been two years, that we both moved on, that this is just nostalgia talking. But I need you to know something.” He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on hers. “I tried dating other people. I tried convincing myself that what I felt for you was just some kind of quarter-life crisis, that I was romanticizing something that was never really there.”
“And?”
“And it didn’t work. Nothing worked. Because every time I met someone new, every time I thought maybe this could be something, I kept comparing them to you. To the way you made me feel like maybe having all the answers wasn’t as important as asking the right questions.”
The rain was picking up outside, turning the window into a watercolor of blurred lights and movement. She watched a woman hurry past with a bright red umbrella, and thought about how much she’d learned about weathering storms in the past two years.
“Why are you back?” she asked.
“I got offered a position here. Regional development director for the nonprofit sector. It’s a completely different track from what I was doing in Singapore, less money, less prestige, but…” He shrugged. “Turns out I care more about the work than the title. Funny how being away from everything you know makes you realize what actually matters to you.”
“And what matters to you?”
“You,” he said simply. “You matter to me. This city matters to me, even though I spent years trying to escape it. The friends who’ve been texting me for weeks asking when I’m going to stop being an idiot and tell you how I feel—they matter to me.”
“Jeonghan?”
“Jeonghan, Joshua, Mingyu, all of them. They’ve been running interference for two years, you know. Making sure I knew how you were doing, making sure you knew I was thinking about you. I think they got tired of watching us both be miserable about something that didn’t have to be permanent.”
She felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite herself. “They never said anything to me.”
“Because you’re terrifying when you’ve made up your mind about something. Their words, not mine.” His own smile was soft, familiar. “But I’m hoping maybe you haven’t completely made up your mind. About us, I mean.”
“I don’t know what us even looks like anymore,” she said honestly. “We’re different people than we were two years ago.”
“Are we? Because sitting here, talking to you, I feel exactly the same as I did that night outside your building. Like I’m standing at the edge of something important, and the only thing I’m afraid of is not being brave enough to find out what happens next.”
She thought about the job offer in Seattle, about the carefully constructed life she’d built around the assumption that some risks were too dangerous to take. She thought about David, sweet and stable and completely wrong for her, and about all the nights she’d lain awake wondering what Seungcheol was doing on the other side of the world.
“I have a job offer,” she said. “In Seattle. It’s a good opportunity, exactly the kind of thing I thought I wanted.”
“Thought?”
“I also have an offer here. Public interest law, working with immigrants and refugees. It pays half what the Seattle job pays, but…”
“But it means something to you.”
“It means everything to me. The work, the city, the idea of being close to the people who’ve become family over the years.” She paused, looking at him across the table that had witnessed so many almosts. “The possibility of finding out what this could be, if we’re both finally brave enough to try.”
Seungcheol’s smile was brilliant, transformative. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“I’m saying I spent two years trying to convince myself that the safe choice was the right choice, and I was miserable. I’m saying maybe it’s time to stop being afraid of wanting something just because it might not work out perfectly.”
“It might not,” he agreed. “It might be messy and complicated and nothing like what either of us planned.”
“But it might be worth it.”
“It might be everything.”
He reached across the table, his fingers finally bridging the gap that had existed between them for so long. His hand was warm, solid, real in a way that made all her careful defenses seem suddenly ridiculous.
“So what happens now?” she asked.
“Now we figure it out as we go. No five-year plans, no careful calculations of risk versus reward. Just… us, seeing what this could be.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“The best things usually are.”
Outside, the rain was turning into something lighter, more hopeful. The woman with the red umbrella had stopped running and was walking at a normal pace, like she’d decided that getting a little wet wasn’t the end of the world after all.
“I should probably mention,” Seungcheol said, his thumb tracing across her knuckles, “that I already told my new boss I had someone I was hoping to convince to stay in town. She said the organization is always looking for good lawyers, especially ones with experience in public interest work.”
“You told your boss about me before you even knew if I’d want to see you again?”
“I’ve spent two years regretting not taking a chance. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.”
She laughed, the sound surprising her with how natural it felt. “That’s either very confident or completely insane.”
“Maybe both. Probably both.” He grinned. “But it worked, didn’t it?”
“We’ll see,” she said, but she was smiling too, and they both knew the answer.
They sat there as the afternoon faded into evening, talking about everything that had happened in the past two years and everything that might happen in the years to come. The coffee shop filled and emptied around them, other people’s small dramas and quiet moments playing out while they figured out how to transform two years of wondering into the beginning of something real.
When they finally left, walking together into the soft spring rain, Seungcheol took her hand without asking, and she didn’t pull away. They walked slowly, making no effort to avoid the puddles, talking and laughing like they had all the time in the world to figure out where they were going.
“So,” he said as they reached her building, the same building where they’d stood two years ago wondering what would happen if one of them was brave enough to find out. “What happens now?”
She looked up at him, this man who had traveled halfway around the world only to realize that what he was looking for had been here all along, and felt something settle into place in her chest. Something that felt like coming home.
“Now,” she said, rising up on her toes to kiss him in the middle of the sidewalk in the soft rain, “we find out what this could be.”
And when they broke apart, both of them smiling and slightly breathless, she knew that some questions were worth waiting two years to answer, and some possibilities were worth every moment of uncertainty that led to them.
The rain kept falling, but neither of them minded getting soaked. They had learned, finally, that some things were meant to be experienced rather than avoided, felt rather than analyzed, embraced rather than feared. And as they stood there on the sidewalk where their story had almost ended before it began, they knew that sometimes the most profound connections were the ones you were brave enough to fight for.
Later, much later, Seungcheol would tell people that the best decisions he’d ever made were the ones that scared him the most. And she would agree, thinking about job offers turned down and risks taken and the particular courage required to choose love over safety, possibility over certainty.
But that was later. For now, they just stood in the rain and kissed like they had all the time in the world, finally ready to find out what this could be.
Hi! I’ve been pretty inactive here lately since work has been keeping me busy (I’m also aiming for a promotion 👀). To keep myself sane, I started treating myself to a cup of coffee at the end of each week—my little escape from reality. Most of the time I’d just journal, listen to music, or people-watch (and gush over cute dogs with café regulars). Somewhere in between, I found myself writing again.
So, here’s a little masterlist of the short stories I ended up creating during my coffee shop stays ☕✨📖 kinda missed doing this.
The coffee shop buzzed with its usual afternoon energy, but she sat in the corner booth, staring at her untouched latte as foam art slowly dissolved into meaningless swirls. Her phone lay face-down on the scratched wooden table, vibrating intermittently with messages she couldn’t bring herself to read.
“You look like someone stole your last will to live,” Mingyu said, sliding into the seat across from her. His oversized sweater made him look younger than his twenty-seven years, but his eyes held the kind of concern that came from watching a friend slowly unravel.
She glanced up, attempting a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s dramatic, even for you.”
“Is it though?” He flagged down a barista, ordering his usual americano before turning his attention back to her. “When’s the last time you actually smiled? And I mean really smiled, not this thing you’re doing with your face right now.”
The question hung between them like smoke. She couldn’t remember. Maybe three weeks ago? A month? Time had become elastic lately, stretching and compressing in ways that made her dizzy.
“He’s pulling away again, isn’t he?” Mingyu’s voice was gentle, but she could hear the frustration underneath. They’d had this conversation before.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, she flipped it over.
Seungcheol: Working late again tonight. Don’t wait up.
The message was clinical, devoid of the warmth that used to characterize even his most mundane texts. No heart emoji. No ‘I love you.’ Just information, delivered like a weather report.
“He used to send me pictures of his lunch,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Stupid things. His coffee cup. The view from his office window. Now I’m lucky if I get a full sentence.”
Mingyu leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “You know what I think?”
“That I should leave him?” She let out a bitter laugh. “You’ve been thinking that for months.”
“I think,” he said carefully, “that you’re both drowning, and instead of swimming to shore together, you’re pulling each other deeper underwater.”
The barista brought Mingyu’s americano, and he wrapped his large hands around the cup, steam rising between them like a barrier. She studied his face – the sharp jawline, the concerned furrow of his brow, the way he always looked at her like she was worth saving.
“Remember when we were in college,” she said suddenly, “and you told me that some people are meant to love each other but not meant to be together?”
“I was drunk and pretentious. I’d just read too much Murakami.”
“But you weren’t wrong.” She picked up her latte, finally taking a sip. It had gone lukewarm. “Seungcheol and I… we love each other so much it’s destroying us.”
Her phone buzzed again.
Seungcheol: Might crash at Wonwoo’s tonight. Long project meeting tomorrow.
She stared at the message until the words blurred. Wonwoo lived fifteen minutes from Seungcheol’s office. Their shared apartment was forty-five minutes away, depending on traffic.
“When did I become the inconvenience?” she asked, showing Mingyu the screen.
His jaw tightened. “You’re not an inconvenience. You’re just… you’re not fighting for this anymore.”
“What’s the point of fighting when you’re the only one in the ring?”
⭐️
The apartment felt cavernous when she returned that evening. Their shared space had gradually become a collection of parallel lives – his work papers on one end of the dining table, her laptop on the other. His coffee mug in the sink, her wine glass on the counter. Two people existing in the same space without truly occupying it together.
She found herself standing in their bedroom doorway, looking at the unmade bed. Seungcheol’s pillow still held the impression of his head from two nights ago – the last time he’d actually slept at home. She reached out to touch it, then pulled her hand back.
Her phone rang. For a moment, her heart leaped, thinking it might be Seungcheol calling to explain, to fight, to do something that indicated he still cared enough to try. Instead, Mingyu’s name flashed on the screen.
“Are you okay?” he asked without preamble.
“Define okay.”
“Are you going to do something stupid?”
She walked to the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and staring at its contents without really seeing them. “Like what?”
“Like call him. Or show up at Wonwoo’s. Or write a long emotional text that you’ll regret in the morning.”
The accuracy of his predictions was unsettling. She had, in fact, been composing a message in her head – something about how they used to talk about everything, how silence had become their primary language, how she missed the person he used to be when he was with her.
“I wasn’t going to do any of those things,” she lied.
“Uh-huh.” She could hear him moving around, probably pacing his apartment the way he did when he was worried. “Want to come over? I have that terrible reality show queued up.”
“The one where people get married without seeing each other?”
“That’s the one. Perfect for reminding ourselves that our relationship problems could be worse.”
Despite everything, she almost smiled. “I don’t have relationship problems, Mingyu. I have relationship endings.”
The silence on his end stretched long enough that she wondered if the call had dropped.
“Maybe that’s not the worst thing,” he said finally.
⭐️
She didn’t go to Mingyu’s that night. Instead, she sat on the couch with a glass of wine, surrounded by the ghosts of better times. The throw pillow Seungcheol always held when he watched movies. The book he’d been reading, bookmark still marking his place from three weeks ago. The photograph on the side table – the two of them at last year’s company picnic, his arm around her waist, both of them laughing at something Mingyu had said behind the camera.
They looked happy in the photo. More than happy – they looked like they belonged together.
When had that changed?
She tried to pinpoint the exact moment when loving Seungcheol had started to feel like bleeding slowly. There was no dramatic fight, no betrayal, no moment of crystalline clarity. Instead, there had been a gradual erosion – conversations that became shorter, touches that became less frequent, silences that stretched longer.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her mother: Haven’t seen Seungcheol in a while. Is he working hard?
How do you tell your mother that your boyfriend isn’t working hard so much as he’s working away from you? That success had become his escape route, and every promotion, every important project, every late night meeting was another step away from the life they’d built together?
She typed and deleted several responses before settling on: Yes, very busy with work.
It wasn’t technically a lie.
The wine made her maudlin, and she found herself scrolling through their old messages – hundreds of them, dating back two years. The evolution of their communication was stark when viewed in sequence. The early messages were novels, full of inside jokes and random observations and declarations of affection. Recent messages were telegram-sparse, functional exchanges about schedules and groceries and who would handle which bill.
Her finger hovered over his contact information. What would happen if she called? Would he answer? Would he be annoyed, or relieved, or completely indifferent?
The uncertainty was more terrifying than any definitive answer could be.
⭐️
Seungcheol came home the next evening, and the sound of his key in the lock made her heart race in ways that felt both familiar and foreign. She was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup she’d made more for the ritual than from any real hunger.
“Smells good,” he said, hanging his coat on the chair instead of the hook by the door.
“It’s the recipe your mom gave me,” she replied, not turning around. “Remember? You said it reminded you of being a kid.”
She heard him pause, and in her peripheral vision, she saw him run a hand through his hair – the gesture he always made when he was thinking too hard about something.
“I’m not really hungry,” he said finally.
She turned then, wooden spoon still in her hand. “When’s the last time you ate a real meal?”
He shrugged, already moving toward the hallway. “I grabbed something earlier.”
“Seungcheol.” Her voice stopped him. “We need to talk.”
The look he gave her was tired in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion. “Do we have to do this tonight? I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow, and I should really review the presentation materials.”
“When then? Next week? Next month? When you decide you can pencil me into your schedule?”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Don’t be dismissive.” The words came out sharper than she intended, and she saw him flinch slightly. “I’m not being dramatic. I’m being honest. When’s the last time we had a real conversation? When’s the last time you asked me how my day was and actually listened to the answer?”
He leaned against the doorframe, suddenly looking older than his twenty-five years. “I’m working toward something. This promotion could change everything for us.”
“Could change everything for you,” she corrected. “I don’t remember being consulted about whether I wanted everything to change.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” She set the spoon down, turning to face him fully. “You decided unilaterally that work was more important than this relationship. You decided that being successful was worth more than being present. You decided all of that without asking me what I thought.”
“I’m doing this for us,” he said, but the conviction in his voice was wavering.
“No, you’re doing this instead of us.”
The silence that followed was deafening. She could hear the soup bubbling on the stove, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of traffic outside their window. Normal sounds of a normal evening that felt anything but normal.
“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” Seungcheol said finally, his voice small.
“Do what?”
“Be the person you need me to be.”
Her chest tightened. “I never asked you to be anyone other than who you are.”
“Didn’t you though?” He looked at her directly for the first time in weeks. “Every disappointed look, every sigh when I say I’m working late, every time you get quiet when I’m on a work call – it all says the same thing. That who I am isn’t enough.”
She stared at him, recognizing the truth in his words even as they cut through her. “And every time you choose work over dinner, every cancelled date, every night you sleep somewhere else – that tells me that what we have isn’t enough.”
“Maybe it’s not,” he whispered.
The words hung in the air like a death sentence. She had known, on some level, that this moment was coming. Had felt it approaching like a storm on the horizon. But hearing it spoken aloud still felt like a physical blow.
“Maybe it’s not,” she agreed, her voice steady despite the way her hands were shaking.
⭐️
Mingyu found her at the coffee shop again the next day, this time with red-rimmed eyes and the hollow look of someone who hadn’t slept.
“How bad?” he asked, settling into his usual seat.
“Bad.” She wrapped her hands around her mug, seeking warmth. “He didn’t come home last night.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“He didn’t say anything. Just grabbed some clothes and left.” She took a shaky breath. “I think we broke up. Or maybe we’ve been broken up for months and just finally admitted it.”
Mingyu signaled for his americano, then reached across the table to cover her hand with his. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you though?” The question came out more bitter than she intended. “You’ve been telling me for months that this wasn’t working.”
“Being right doesn’t make me happy,” he said quietly. “Especially when being right means watching you hurt like this.”
She looked down at their joined hands. Mingyu’s fingers were warm, steady, real in a way that everything else felt uncertain.
“I keep thinking about all the things I should have said differently,” she admitted. “All the times I could have tried harder, been more understanding, been less needy.”
“Stop.” His voice was firm. “This isn’t your fault. Relationships take two people, and he checked out months ago.”
“But maybe if I had—”
“No.” Mingyu’s grip on her hand tightened. “You cannot love someone into loving you back. You cannot care enough for two people. You cannot fix a relationship that the other person has already left.”
Tears spilled over then, hot and fast and unstoppable. Mingyu moved around to her side of the booth, pulling her against his side as she cried into his sweater.
“I loved him so much,” she sobbed. “I still love him so much.”
“I know,” he murmured into her hair. “I know you do.”
“How do you stop loving someone? How do you just… turn it off?”
“You don’t,” he said simply. “You learn to love them from a distance. You learn to want their happiness even when it doesn’t include you.”
⭐️
Three days passed without contact. She threw herself into work, staying late at the office, taking on extra projects, anything to avoid returning to an apartment that felt like a mausoleum of their relationship.
On Thursday evening, she finally came home to find Seungcheol’s key on the kitchen counter.
No note. No explanation. Just the key, silver and final, catching the light from the overhead fixture.
She picked it up, the metal cold against her palm. Such a small thing to represent the end of two years. Such an insignificant object to carry the weight of all their shared dreams and inside jokes and quiet morning moments.
Her phone buzzed.
Mingyu: Are you eating actual food or just surviving on coffee and spite?
Despite everything, she almost smiled.
Her: Spite is surprisingly nutritious.
Mingyu: I’m bringing dinner. Don’t argue.
She didn’t argue. Twenty minutes later, Mingyu appeared at her door with bags of Thai food and a determined expression.
“You look terrible,” he said by way of greeting.
“Thank you. That’s exactly what every heartbroken woman wants to hear.”
He set the food on the counter, unpacking containers with efficient movements. “When’s the last time you showered?”
“I showered this morning.” She paused. “Or yesterday morning. Time is relative.”
“Shower now. I’ll heat this up.”
“Mingyu—”
“Shower. Now.” His tone brooked no argument. “You’ll feel more human, and then we can have a proper breakdown about this whole situation.”
She wanted to protest, but the thought of hot water and soap held an undeniable appeal. “Fine. But I’m not having a breakdown.”
“Sure you’re not,” he called as she headed toward the bathroom. “That’s why you’ve been wearing the same shirt for three days.”
The shower did help, washing away the accumulated weight of sleepless nights and stress-sweats. When she emerged, she could smell lemongrass and basil, and found Mingyu had set up a proper dinner on the coffee table, complete with napkins and actual plates instead of eating from the containers.
“This is fancy,” she said, settling beside him on the couch.
“You deserve fancy.” He handed her a plate of pad thai, extra peanuts the way she liked it. “Even when you’re falling apart.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the familiar ritual of sharing a meal grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected. Mingyu had always been good at this – knowing when to talk and when to simply exist beside her.
“I found his key when I got home,” she said eventually.
Mingyu paused mid-bite. “How do you feel about that?”
“Empty. Relieved. Devastated. All at once.” She twirled noodles around her fork absently. “Is that normal?”
“Probably. I wouldn’t know – I’ve never loved someone the way you loved him.”
There was something in his tone that made her look at him more closely. “What do you mean?”
He set his plate down, suddenly focused on the grain of the coffee table. “Nothing. Just… you love with your whole heart. It’s intimidating.”
“Intimidating?”
“For the person on the receiving end.” He glanced at her, then away again. “All that intensity, all that devotion – it would be terrifying to know someone loved you that much. Especially if you weren’t sure you could match it.”
She considered this. “Do you think that’s what happened? That I scared him away by loving him too much?”
“I think,” Mingyu said carefully, “that Seungcheol got overwhelmed by his own life and took the easy way out. I think he used work as an excuse to avoid dealing with real emotions. And I think he’s too much of a coward to admit that he gave up something precious because it required too much of him.”
The analysis was harsh but felt accurate. “So what does that make me? An idiot for staying as long as I did?”
“It makes you someone who fights for what she cares about. Someone who doesn’t give up easily.” He looked at her directly then. “Someone worth fighting for.”
⭐️
The next week passed in a blur of mundane activities that felt surreal in their normalcy. She went to work, came home, watched Netflix, responded to concerned texts from friends who had heard through the mutual acquaintance grapevine that she and Seungcheol were over.
Jeonghan: Are you okay? Heard about you and Cheol.
Her: I will be.
Seokmin: Let me know if you need anything. Seriously.
Her: Thanks. I’m fine.
Joshua: Want to grab dinner this weekend? No pressure.
Her: Maybe next week.
She wasn’t fine, but she was functioning, which felt like progress.
Mingyu checked on her daily, sometimes with texts, sometimes by showing up with food or terrible movies or simply his presence. He never pushed her to talk about Seungcheol, never offered unsolicited advice, never tried to speed up her healing process.
“You’re a good friend,” she told him one evening as they walked through the park near her apartment.
“I try to be.”
“No, I mean it. You’ve been… I don’t know what I would have done without you these past few weeks.”
He stopped walking, turning to face her under a streetlight. “You would have been fine. Maybe not immediately, maybe not easily, but eventually. You’re stronger than you think.”
“I don’t feel strong. I feel like I’m held together with tape and stubbornness.”
“Sometimes that’s what strength looks like.”
They resumed walking, their footsteps echoing in the quiet evening. She found herself studying Mingyu’s profile in the intermittent glow of streetlights – the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his forehead, the careful way he seemed to choose his words around her lately.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Always.”
“Why haven’t you ever dated anyone seriously? And don’t say you’re too busy or haven’t met the right person, because I know that’s not true.”
He was quiet for so long that she wondered if he was going to answer at all.
“Because,” he said finally, “I’ve been in love with someone who was in love with someone else.”
The words hit her like cold air, sharp and unexpected. She stopped walking.
“Mingyu.”
“Don’t.” He kept walking, not looking back. “Please don’t make this into a thing. I’m not telling you this to complicate your life or because I think this is my moment or anything like that. You asked, and I’m tired of lying.”
She hurried to catch up with him. “How long?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
He stopped then, finally looking at her. “Since college. Since the first time you talked to me about some guy you were crushing on and asked me to help you figure out what to wear on your date.”
“That was four years ago.”
“I know.”
“Mingyu…” She reached for his arm, but he stepped back.
“I know what you’re thinking, and don’t. Don’t feel guilty, don’t feel sorry for me, don’t feel like you owe me anything. I made my choice to stay your friend even knowing it would never be more than that. I don’t regret it.”
“But all those times I talked to you about Seungcheol, all those times you helped me through problems with him—”
“I would do it again,” he said firmly. “Every time. Because your happiness mattered more to me than my feelings. It still does.”
They stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, the weight of four years of unspoken truth settling between them.
“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to say anything. Nothing has to change. I just… I couldn’t keep pretending anymore. Not after watching you tear yourself apart over someone who couldn’t see what he had.”
⭐️
The conversation replayed in her mind for days. Every interaction she’d ever had with Mingyu took on new meaning, viewed through the lens of unrequited love. The way he always remembered her coffee order. The way he showed up without being asked whenever she needed someone. The way he looked at her sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.
How had she been so blind?
She found herself studying their text conversations, looking for signs she’d missed. They were there, subtle but present – the way he always prioritized her messages, the careful attention he paid to her moods, the way he never seemed to date anyone seriously despite being objectively attractive and kind and funny.
Her: Can we talk?
She stared at the message for ten minutes before sending it.
Mingyu: Of course. Everything okay?
Her: Can you come over?
Mingyu: On my way.
He arrived twenty minutes later with coffee and a cautious expression.
“Are you going to tell me this was a mistake?” he asked, settling into the chair across from her. “That it changes everything and we can’t be friends anymore?”
“Is that what you think?”
“I think you’re processing, and processing can go in a lot of different directions.”
She studied his face, this person who had been a constant in her life for four years, who had seen her through breakups and job changes and family drama and every minor crisis in between.
“I keep thinking about all the times you could have said something,” she said. “All the opportunities you had to tell me how you felt.”
“Would it have mattered?”
The question was direct, unflinching, and it deserved an honest answer.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. “Maybe not then. I was so focused on Seungcheol, so convinced he was what I wanted.”
“And now?”
“Now I don’t know what I want. I don’t know how to want anything beyond just… not hurting.”
Mingyu nodded, unsurprised. “That’s fair. Heartbreak isn’t really conducive to making major life decisions.”
“Is that what this would be? A major life decision?”
“Isn’t it?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We’ve been friends for four years. Whatever happens next changes that dynamic forever.”
She knew he was right. There was no going back to the easy simplicity of their friendship now that she knew how he felt. Every gesture, every conversation, every moment of casual intimacy would carry different weight.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she said quietly.
“You won’t lose me. But things will be different.”
“Different how?”
He was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands. “I’ll probably need some space. Not forever, but… I need to figure out how to be your friend without being in love with you. And I can’t do that if nothing changes.”
The idea of Mingyu needing space from her felt like another loss stacked on top of an already overwhelming pile of grief.
“How much space?”
“I don’t know yet. Maybe a few weeks, maybe longer. Until I can look at you without wondering ‘what if’ every time.”
She wanted to argue, to insist they could figure it out together, to promise that nothing had to change. But she could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight of years of careful friendship built around feelings he could never express.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay?”
“If that’s what you need, then okay.”
⭐️
Mingyu left that night with a hug that lasted too long and felt too much like goodbye. She watched him walk away from her building, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and felt the ground shift beneath her feet once again.
First Seungcheol, now Mingyu. Different kinds of loss, but loss nonetheless.
She called in sick the next day, unable to face the cheerful normalcy of office life when everything felt fractured and uncertain. Instead, she wandered through her apartment, touching objects that suddenly felt foreign. The couch where she and Mingyu had spent countless evenings. The kitchen table where they’d studied together in college. The bookshelf filled with novels he’d recommended and books they’d discussed over coffee.
How do you miss someone who isn’t gone yet? How do you grieve a friendship that isn’t ending, just changing into something unrecognizable?
Her phone stayed silent. No good morning text from Mingyu, no random meme in the middle of the afternoon, no check-in about dinner plans. The absence of communication that had once felt oppressive with Seungcheol now felt intentional with Mingyu, and somehow that was worse.
Days blended together. She went to work, came home, ordered takeout, watched television, slept poorly, and repeated the cycle. Friends invited her out, but she declined, not ready to explain why both her boyfriend and her best friend had vanished from her life in the span of two weeks.
A month passed. Then two.
She learned to fill the silence with podcasts and music. She learned to eat dinner without texting Mingyu about her day. She learned to watch movies without automatically thinking about which ones he would enjoy.
But she didn’t learn to stop missing him.
⭐️
Spring arrived early that year, bringing with it the kind of bright, optimistic weather that felt almost mocking given her internal landscape. She was walking through downtown after a client meeting when she saw him.
Seungcheol stood outside a restaurant she’d never been to, laughing at something the woman beside him had said. She was pretty in a polished way, with straight hair and perfect posture and the kind of smile that suggested she’d never had her heart broken by a man who chose work over love.
He looked happy. Lighter somehow, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
She should have felt angry. Should have felt betrayed or jealous or vindicated. Instead, she felt nothing but a dull ache of recognition. This was who he was meant to be – someone who could compartmentalize his feelings, who could move on cleanly from one chapter to the next, who could love without the messy complications of devotion.
She turned away before he could see her, walking quickly in the opposite direction. But the image stayed with her for days: Seungcheol, laughing and free, unencumbered by the weight of a love that had asked too much of him.
Maybe Mingyu had been right. Maybe she did love with an intensity that was intimidating. Maybe that wasn’t a flaw to be corrected but simply who she was – someone who felt deeply and loved completely and couldn’t do anything halfway.
That evening, she found herself typing a message to Mingyu.
Her: I saw Seungcheol today. With someone new. I think he’s happy.
She stared at the message for a long time before deleting it unsent. Mingyu had asked for space, and she owed him that. Even if she desperately wanted to share this moment with the one person who would understand exactly what it meant.
⭐️
Summer came and went. She developed new routines, made new acquaintances, learned to navigate life without her two most important relationships. It wasn’t happiness, exactly, but it was something approaching contentment.
She was at the same coffee shop where she’d spent so many afternoons with Mingyu, working on her laptop and trying to ignore the familiar ache of missing him, when he walked in.
He looked different. Thinner maybe, or just tired. His hair was longer, and he was wearing a shirt she’d never seen before. But his eyes found hers immediately, as if he’d known she would be there.
“Hi,” he said, approaching her table with careful steps.
“Hi.”
“Is this seat taken?”
She gestured to the empty chair across from her, the same seat he’d occupied countless times before. He sat down, and for a moment they just looked at each other, cataloguing the changes that four months of separation had wrought.
“How have you been?” he asked finally.
“Learning to be alone,” she said honestly. “You?”
“The same.”
They sat in silence, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on them. She wanted to ask if he’d missed her, if the space had helped, if he was ready to be friends again. But she could see in his eyes that nothing had fundamentally changed. He was still in love with her, and she was still not in love with him.
“I should go,” he said after a few minutes.
“Should you?”
“Being near you… it’s still hard.”
She nodded, understanding even as it broke her heart all over again. “Will it always be like this?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Maybe. Probably.”
He stood up, and she realized this was goodbye in a way their previous conversation hadn’t been. This was the end of their friendship, the acknowledgment that some kinds of love are too complicated to coexist with casual intimacy.
“Mingyu,” she called as he reached the door.
He turned back.
“Thank you. For everything. For four years of being the best friend I could have asked for.”
His smile was sad but genuine. “Thank you for letting me love you, even if you couldn’t love me back.”
And then he was gone, walking away from her for the second and final time.
⭐️
She sat in the coffee shop for another hour, staring at her laptop screen without seeing the words. Two relationships, two different kinds of love, two different kinds of endings. Seungcheol had left because love wasn’t enough to overcome incompatibility. Mingyu had left because love was too much to overcome.
And she was left to piece together a life from the remains of both.
Her phone buzzed with a work email, something mundane about a deadline extension. She closed her laptop and walked outside into the late afternoon sunshine, joining the stream of people moving through the city with purpose and direction.
Somewhere across town, Seungcheol was probably having dinner with his new girlfriend, building a relationship based on realistic expectations and manageable feelings. Somewhere else, Mingyu was probably trying to forget the way she looked when she laughed, learning to redirect four years of devotion toward someone who could return it.
And she was walking alone through a city full of people, carrying the weight of having been loved completely by two different men in two different ways, and having lost them both.
The sun was setting, painting the buildings gold and orange, and she realized that this was her life now. Not the beginning of something new, not the end of something old, but the middle of something undefined. A story without a clear resolution, a song that faded out instead of ending with a decisive chord.
She pulled out her phone and, for the first time in months, took a picture of the sunset. Not to send to anyone, not to share or document or preserve for future nostalgia. Just to capture this moment of solitary beauty, this recognition that heartbreak doesn’t always lead to healing, that love doesn’t always lead to happiness, that sometimes the most honest ending is no ending at all.
Just the slow fade of light across an empty sky, and the quiet understanding that some stories are meant to remain unfinished.
The city moved around her, full of other people’s love stories and heartbreaks and second chances. But hers was done now, not with resolution but with acceptance. The acceptance that she had loved deeply and been loved deeply in return, and that sometimes that’s enough.
The apartment feels too big now, even though it’s the same cramped two-bedroom they’d shared for the past three years. She sits on the edge of their bed—her bed now—staring at the indent on the other side of the mattress where Mingyu used to sleep. His pillow still smells faintly of his cologne, that woody scent that used to make her feel safe when she’d bury her face in his neck during lazy Sunday mornings.
Five years. One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-six days of shared breakfasts, inside jokes, fights that ended in tearful apologies, and dreams built together like a house of cards that finally collapsed under the weight of reality.
She picks up her phone, thumb hovering over his contact. Kim Mingyu. The photo is from last summer—him at the beach, sandy hair catching the golden hour light, that brilliant smile that could make her forget every worry in the world. His laugh lines are prominent in the picture, the same ones she used to trace with her fingertips when he’d fall asleep first, sprawled across the bed like he owned it, arms reaching for her even in unconsciousness.
The cursor blinks next to his name. She’s typed and deleted twelve different messages in the past week. How are you? Too casual. I miss you. Too desperate. Can we talk? Too hopeful.
Instead, she sets the phone aside and walks to the kitchen, where the coffee maker still has settings for two cups. Mingyu always complained that she made it too weak, but he’d drink it anyway, adding extra sugar and giving her that fond, exasperated look that said you’re lucky I love you without words.
The silence in the apartment is deafening. No more of his off-key humming while he cooked, no more random dance breaks in the living room when his favorite songs came on, no more gentle teasing about her habit of leaving books open on every surface. The quiet stretches and warps until it feels like a living thing, pressing against her chest.
࣪ ִֶָ☾.
Mingyu stares at the ceiling of his new studio apartment, counting the cracks in the paint. Sixteen. He’d started counting them three weeks ago when he moved in, the same day the movers came to split their life into neat, labeled boxes. His things. Her things. The painful negotiations over shared purchases—who gets the coffee table they’d spent hours assembling together, cursing at the incomprehensible instructions while she held the pieces steady and he struggled with the screws?
He’d let her keep most of it. Not out of generosity, but because looking at those objects felt like staring directly into the sun. Every lamp, every throw pillow, every picture frame held too many memories, and he was already drowning in them.
His phone buzzes against his chest. For a split second, his heart races with the impossible hope that it’s her, but it’s just his group chat with the boys. Seungcheol asking if he wants to grab drinks, Soonyoung sending random memes, the usual chaos that used to make him smile. Now it feels distant, like watching life through frosted glass.
He scrolls up through months of messages, finding the ones where he’d complained about being busy with her, canceling plans because she needed him, choosing quiet nights in over loud nights out. The guys had teased him mercilessly about being whipped, and he’d taken it with good humor because it was true. He was completely, utterly gone for her, and everyone knew it.
“You’re different when you’re with her,” Jeonghan had told him once, and Mingyu had taken it as a compliment. He was softer with her, more thoughtful, more careful with his words. She’d taught him patience without trying, shown him that love could be gentle instead of the chaotic whirlwind he’d always imagined.
Now he wonders if different meant losing himself entirely.
࣪ ִֶָ☾.
The grocery store is a minefield of memories. She stands in the cereal aisle, staring at the brand Mingyu always bought—some sugary monstrosity that she’d constantly nagged him about. “You’re going to get diabetes,” she’d say, and he’d grin and add it to the cart anyway, sometimes grabbing two boxes just to make her roll her eyes.
A couple rounds the corner, the woman laughing at something her boyfriend said as he tosses items into their cart with theatrical flair. They’re young, probably college students, and they have that glow of early love, when everything is discovery and promise and endless possibility. She remembers being them, remembers grocery shopping with Mingyu being an adventure instead of a chore, turning mundane errands into opportunities for stolen kisses between the frozen foods and impromptu dance parties in empty aisles.
“Excuse me,” someone says, and she realizes she’s been standing frozen in front of the Froot Loops for five minutes. She mumbles an apology and pushes her cart forward, but everything feels surreal, like she’s moving through water.
At the checkout, the cashier makes small talk about the weather, and she nods along while screaming internally. How is everyone just going about their lives when hers has been completely reorganized? How is the world still spinning when five years of her life have just vanished like smoke?
In her car, she sits with her hands gripping the steering wheel, breathing carefully measured breaths the way her therapist taught her. The engagement ring tan line on her finger has finally faded, but she still finds herself twisting the phantom ring when she’s nervous. Mingyu had been so proud when he proposed, so certain and bright-eyed, like he’d solved some cosmic puzzle. “I want forever with you,” he’d said, voice shaking with emotion, and she’d believed him completely.
Forever turned out to be five years and three months.
࣪ ִֶָ☾.
Mingyu’s sister calls while he’s attempting to cook dinner in his shoebox kitchen. He considers letting it go to voicemail, but Minseo has been worried about him, calling every few days with increasingly transparent excuses to check on him.
“How are you eating?” she asks without preamble.
“Hello to you too,” he says, stirring instant ramen and feeling pathetic about it. She used to cook for him, elaborate meals that filled their apartment with warmth and the sounds of oil sizzling, her humming contentedly while she worked. She’d wear his oversized t-shirts and nothing else, and he’d wrap his arms around her waist from behind, chin hooked over her shoulder, stealing tastes and making her laugh when his stubble tickled her neck.
“Don’t deflect. Are you eating actual food or just surviving on convenience store meals?”
“I’m making ramen,” he admits, and her sigh is audible.
“Mingyu…”
“I’m fine, Minseo. Really.”
“No, you’re not. You’re miserable, and you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
He wants to argue, but what’s the point? His sister has known him his whole life, watched him fall in love so completely that he’d rearranged his entire existence around another person. She’d liked her too, had welcomed her into the family with open arms, treated her like the sister she’d never had. The breakup had devastated everyone, not just him.
“Have you talked to her?” Minseo asks gently.
“No.” The word comes out harsher than he intends. “There’s nothing to say.”
“There’s five years worth of things to say.”
“And we said them. All of them. That’s why we’re not together anymore.”
The silence stretches between them. Minseo doesn’t understand, can’t understand, because she wasn’t there for the slow, painful dissolution of everything they’d built. She didn’t see the way they’d started speaking to each other like polite strangers, didn’t witness the careful distance that crept between them like frost, didn’t hear the fights that devolved into exhausted silence because they’d stopped believing they could fix what was breaking.
“I just think—”
“I have to go,” Mingyu interrupts. “Thanks for calling.”
He hangs up and stares at his sad dinner, appetite completely gone. Outside his window, Seoul buzzes with Friday night energy, but he feels disconnected from all of it, like he’s watching life happen from behind a wall of glass.
࣪ ִֶָ☾.
She finds the box by accident while looking for her winter clothes. It’s shoved in the back of their shared closet—her closet now—behind old coats and forgotten shoes. Her heart stops when she realizes what it is.
Their memory box. They’d started it as a joke during their first year together, saving ticket stubs and photo booth strips and little notes they’d written each other. Over time, it had become sacred, a physical collection of their love story that they’d add to on anniversaries and special occasions.
With trembling fingers, she lifts the lid. The smell hits her first—his cologne mingled with the vanilla candles she used to burn, creating a scent that’s purely them, purely home. Inside, five years of memories lie carefully preserved like pressed flowers.
Movie tickets from their first official date, when Mingyu had been so nervous he’d bought popcorn with extra butter even though she’d mentioned being lactose intolerant. She’d eaten it anyway, not wanting to make him feel bad, and spent the entire movie in mild digestive distress while trying to focus on his running commentary whispered in her ear.
A napkin from the café where they’d had their first fight, a stupid argument about punctuality that had escalated until they were both near tears. They’d talked it out over lukewarm coffee and stale pastries, learning how to disagree without destroying each other. “We’re going to have to figure this out,” she’d said, “if we want this to work.” And they had, for a while. They’d gotten so good at compromise, at bending without breaking, at choosing love over pride.
Polaroids from their friends’ wedding, where they’d danced until their feet hurt and made drunken promises about their own future ceremony. Mingyu had spun her around the dance floor like they were the only two people in the world, dipping her dramatically while she laughed until her stomach hurt. “You’re going to marry me someday,” he’d whispered against her ear, and it hadn’t been a question. It had been certainty, solid as gravity.
A USB drive labeled “Our Songs” in Mingyu’s messy handwriting. Playlists he’d made for road trips, for quiet mornings, for when she was stressed about work. Hours of music that had soundtracked their relationship, songs that would probably make her cry for the rest of her life.
At the bottom of the box, wrapped in tissue paper, is the promise ring he’d given her for their second anniversary. Not an engagement ring, but a placeholder, a symbol of intention. “Someday,” he’d said, slipping it onto her finger, “when we’re ready for forever.” She’d worn it faithfully until he’d replaced it with the real thing, and even then, she’d kept it close, a reminder of when their love was still growing instead of slowly dying.
She holds the ring up to the light, remembering the girl who’d worn it, who’d believed so completely in their future together. That girl feels like a stranger now, naive and hopeful in a way that seems almost reckless. How do you mourn a version of yourself that no longer exists?
࣪ ִֶָ☾.
Mingyu’s mother invites him for Sunday dinner, and he goes because he doesn’t have the energy to make excuses anymore. The family meal feels strange without her there, like a song missing its harmony. His parents had loved her, had already started treating her like a daughter, asking about her work and her family and fussing over her the way they fussed over their own children.
“How is she?” his mother asks carefully, setting down a plate of his favorite kimchi jjigae.
“I don’t know, Mom. We don’t talk anymore.”
His father looks up from his rice. “Maybe you should.”
“What would be the point?”
“Closure,” his mother suggests. “Or… maybe you’d realize you made a mistake.”
Mingyu sets down his spoon, suddenly angry. “It wasn’t a mistake. We tried everything. Counseling, space, compromise—nothing worked. We just… we grew apart. It happens.”
“Five years doesn’t just disappear overnight,” his father says quietly.
“It doesn’t disappear at all. That’s the problem.”
The weight of those five years sits on his chest like a stone. Five years of birthday celebrations and holiday traditions, of learning each other’s languages of love and comfort. Five years of building a life together, making plans, dreaming about children and houses and growing old together. All of it still exists, but in the past tense now, preserved like artifacts from a civilization that no longer exists.
He remembers their last real conversation, the one where they’d finally admitted what they’d both been avoiding. They’d been sitting on opposite ends of their couch, the space between them feeling like an ocean.
“I don’t think we’re making each other happy anymore,” she’d said, voice barely above a whisper.
And he’d wanted to argue, to fight for them the way he always had, but the truth was crushing and undeniable. They’d become ghosts of themselves, going through the motions of love without feeling it, staying together out of habit instead of desire.
“I know,” he’d replied, and those two words had contained the end of everything.
࣪ ִֶָ☾.
The coffee shop where they’d met is exactly the same. Same mismatched chairs, same chalkboard menu, same indie music playing just a little too loud. She orders her usual—medium coffee, oat milk, no sugar—and sits at a table by the window, watching people hurry past on the sidewalk.
She’d been a graduate student then, stressed about her thesis and surviving on caffeine and determination. Mingyu had been at the next table over, phone pressed to his ear, having what sounded like a heated discussion with someone about modeling schedules and photo shoots. When he’d hung up, he’d caught her looking and had given her an apologetic smile.
“Sorry,” he’d said. “Work drama.”
“No problem. I’m just jealous that your work drama sounds more interesting than my academic drama.”
They’d started talking, and one conversation had turned into two hours of effortless connection. He’d been funnier than she’d expected, self-deprecating and warm, asking genuine questions about her research and listening to her answers like they mattered. When her laptop had died mid-conversation, he’d offered to buy her coffee while she figured out her next move.
“I’m Mingyu,” he’d said, extending his hand with that smile that had made her stomach flip.
“Nice to meet you, Mingyu.”
She’d given him her number before she’d fully processed what was happening, saying yes to dinner before her rational brain could interfere. It had felt like destiny, like the universe aligning to put them in the same place at the same time.
Now she sits in the same spot, drinking the same coffee, and wonders if she’d made a different choice that day—left when her laptop died, been too shy to maintain eye contact, said no to dinner—would she be sitting here feeling like half of herself had been surgically removed?
A young couple at the counter catches her attention. The girl is laughing at something the guy said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek while he orders for both of them. They look so young, so sure of themselves, so completely unaware that love isn’t always enough.
She pays for her coffee and leaves quickly, unable to watch their beginning when she’s still processing her ending.
࣪ ִֶָ☾.
Mingyu runs into Seungcheol at the gym, and his friend immediately starts hovering like a concerned mother hen.
“You look like shit,” Seungcheol says with characteristic bluntness.
“Thanks. Really needed to hear that today.”
“I’m serious. When’s the last time you went out? Had fun? Talked to another human being who wasn’t forced to interact with you for work?”
Mingyu increases the speed on his treadmill, hoping the physical exertion will shut down this conversation. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re a hermit. A sad, lonely hermit who’s wasting away in his depression cave.”
“It’s been three months, Cheol. I’m allowed to be sad.”
“You’re allowed to grieve. You’re not allowed to disappear.”
Seungcheol hops on the treadmill next to him, matching his pace. “The guys are worried about you. Hell, I’m worried about you. This isn’t healthy.”
“What’s healthy? Moving on like five years meant nothing? Dating someone new before I’ve even processed what happened?”
“I’m not saying date someone new. I’m saying rejoin the world. Remember that you exist outside of that relationship.”
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Mingyu isn’t sure he does exist outside of that relationship. For five years, he’d been half of a whole, and now he’s trying to figure out how to be complete on his own. Everything he’d enjoyed, everywhere he’d gone, everyone he’d been—it was all connected to her, woven together so tightly that separating them feels impossible.
“She was my best friend,” he says quietly, and Seungcheol’s expression softens.
“I know.”
“I told her everything. She knew me better than I know myself. And now she’s just… gone. Like she never existed.”
“She did exist. That relationship happened, and it mattered, and it’s okay to miss it. But you can’t live in the past forever.”
Mingyu knows Seungcheol is right, logically. But logic and emotion are speaking different languages right now, and his heart is fluent only in loss.
࣪ ִֶָ☾.
She’s sorting through old photos on her laptop when she finds the folder labeled “Us.” Five years of documentation, from awkward early selfies to professional couple photos, chronicling their evolution from strangers to lovers to strangers again.
There’s the picture from their first vacation together, a weekend trip to Busan where they’d argued about directions and laughed until they cried and fallen asleep on the beach. Mingyu’s hair was shorter then, and he looked younger, less serious. She was tanner, more carefree, wearing his oversized hoodie and grinning at the camera like she’d discovered the secret to happiness.
A photo from her graduation, Mingyu beaming with pride as she holds her diploma. He’d been more excited about her achievement than she was, taking pictures from every angle and insisting on celebrating with an expensive dinner they couldn’t really afford. “My girlfriend, the PhD,” he’d kept saying, like her success was his own.
Their first New Year’s Eve together, both of them slightly drunk and completely besotted, kissing at midnight while fireworks exploded over the Han River. They’d made resolutions they’d forgotten by February, promised each other forever in the reckless way that only new love allows.
Halloween photos where they’d dressed as couples costumes that seemed hilarious at the time but look ridiculous now. Christmas mornings in their pajamas, exchanging gifts and drinking hot chocolate. Birthday celebrations, anniversary dinners, lazy Sunday afternoons where they’d documented their contentment without realizing how precious it was.
And then, somewhere around year four, the photos change. Their smiles become more performative, their poses more staged. They’re still beautiful together, still look like a couple that should work, but something essential is missing. The light in their eyes, the natural gravitation toward each other—it’s fading, imperceptible to everyone else but obvious now with the cruel clarity of hindsight.
The last photo in the folder is from their final anniversary dinner. They’d gone to the restaurant where he’d proposed, trying to recapture something that was already gone. They look elegant and mature, but distant, like actors playing roles they no longer believed in.
She closes the laptop and pushes it away, suddenly exhausted. How do you delete five years of memories? How do you decide which moments to keep and which ones to let go? Every photo tells a story of people who loved each other completely, who built a life together with such care and intention, who believed they were writing a love story for the ages.
Instead, they’d written a tragedy.
࣪ ִֶָ☾.
Mingyu’s phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number, and his heart stops when he realizes it’s her. She’s changed her number, probably trying to start fresh, but she’s texting him from it.
I found our memory box. I think you should have some of these things.
He stares at the message for ten minutes, typing and deleting responses. What do you say to the person who used to be your whole world? How do you respond to an olive branch when you’re not sure you’re ready for contact?
Finally, he types: Keep them. They’re yours.
Her response comes quickly: They’re ours.
Were ours. Past tense.
The dots appear and disappear several times, like she’s writing and rewriting her response. When it finally comes, it’s simple: Can we meet? Just to talk?
Every rational part of his brain screams no. Seeing her will only reopen wounds that are barely beginning to scab over. But his heart, traitorous and hopeful, is already saying yes.
When?
Tomorrow? The café on Hongik Street?
The café where they’d had their first date. Of course. Even in ending, they’re drawn to their beginnings.
Okay.
After he sends it, he sits in his empty apartment and wonders if he’s making a mistake. But maybe mistakes are better than the nothing he’s been living with.
࣪ ִֶָ☾.
She arrives early and chooses a table in the back corner, somewhere private where they can fall apart without an audience. Her hands shake as she orders coffee she doesn’t want, and she checks her reflection in her phone screen obsessively, like her appearance matters when her insides are completely destroyed.
When Mingyu walks in, her breath catches. He looks different—thinner, more tired, like he’s been carrying the same weight she has. His hair is longer than she’s ever seen it, and he’s wearing the black jacket she’d bought him for his birthday last year. The one that made his shoulders look impossibly broad and his eyes impossibly warm.
He spots her and hesitates for just a moment before walking over. The familiarity of his gait, the way he moves through space with unconscious grace, hits her like a physical blow. This is the person who used to crawl into bed beside her every night, who knew exactly how she liked her coffee and which side of the bed she preferred and how to make her laugh when she was crying.
Now he’s a stranger wearing a familiar face.
“Hi,” he says, settling into the chair across from her.
“Hi.”
They stare at each other across the small table, and the silence is deafening. What do you say to someone who used to be your everything? How do you make small talk with the person who knows your every secret?
“You look good,” she lies, because he looks heartbroken and exhausted and like he’s been running on empty for months.
“You too,” he lies back, even though she knows she looks exactly as destroyed as she feels.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“I wasn’t sure either.”
More silence. She fidgets with her coffee cup, and he drums his fingers against the table—the same nervous habit he’s had since she’s known him. Some things never change, even when everything else has been obliterated.
“I’ve been thinking about us a lot,” she finally says. “About what happened. What went wrong.”
“And?”
“I don’t think anything went wrong. I think we just… grew in different directions.”
Mingyu nods slowly. “We became different people.”
“We became the people we were always going to become. We just couldn’t become them together.”
It’s the most honest thing either of them has said about their breakup, and it hangs in the air between them like a bridge they’re afraid to cross.
“I keep waiting to stop missing you,” she admits. “But it’s been months, and I still reach for you in the morning. I still save funny memes to send to you. I still think about calling you when something good happens.”
“I know. I do the same thing.”
“Do you think it’ll ever stop?”
Mingyu considers this, really considers it, and she loves him for taking her question seriously instead of offering empty platitudes.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s not supposed to stop. Maybe missing someone you loved that much is just… part of loving them.”
The tears she’s been holding back finally spill over, and he automatically reaches across the table before catching himself, hand freezing halfway between them. The aborted gesture hurts more than the tears.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry we couldn’t make it work. I’m sorry we lost each other. I’m sorry for everything.”
“I’m sorry too. For all of it.”
They sit in their shared sorrow, mourning not just their relationship but their friendship, their partnership, their planned future that will never exist. They’re grieving the children they’ll never have together, the house they’ll never buy, the old age they’ll never share. They’re saying goodbye to a thousand small dreams and the comfortable certainty of forever.
“I should go,” Mingyu says eventually, and she nods even though she wants to beg him to stay.
He stands, then hesitates. “For what it’s worth, loving you was the best thing I ever did. Even if I couldn’t do it right in the end.”
And then he’s gone, walking out of her life as quietly as he’d walked into it five years ago, leaving her alone with her coffee and her memories and the weight of everything they’d been together.
࣪ ִֶָ☾.
She doesn’t text him again, and he doesn’t text her. They don’t run into each other around the city, don’t accidentally end up at the same parties or restaurants or coffee shops. It’s like they’ve developed a sixth sense for avoiding each other, moving through Seoul like opposing magnets.
Months pass. She gets a promotion at work, starts dating someone new—a kind man who makes her laugh and doesn’t try to replace what she had with Mingyu, just offers something different. Mingyu, she hears through mutual friends, is doing well too. Focusing on his career, traveling more, seeing someone casually though nothing serious.
They’re both moving forward, building new lives on the foundation of who they became during their five years together. The love they shared didn’t disappear; it transformed them, taught them how to love and be loved, showed them what they wanted and needed in a partner. In some ways, their breakup was the final gift they gave each other—the freedom to find happiness in new places.
But sometimes, late at night when the world is quiet and she’s alone with her thoughts, she still reaches for her phone. Still finds his contact, still stares at that photo from the beach where he’s laughing at something she said off-camera. Still wonders if he thinks about her too, if he misses what they had, if he ever regrets letting go.
She never calls. Never texts. Never disrupts the careful distance they’ve constructed between their old life and their new ones.
But she keeps his number. Keeps the photos. Keeps the memory box with all its treasures from a love that was real and deep and ultimately finite.
Because some loves aren’t meant to last forever. Some loves are meant to teach you how to love better the next time. Some loves are meant to break your heart so completely that when you put it back together, you’re stronger, wiser, more capable of recognizing real happiness when it finds you.
Five years of loving Kim Mingyu taught her all of these things.
The neon lights of Dylan’s Candy Bar reflected off Mingyu’s panicked face as he frantically scanned the crowded store, his tall frame weaving between displays of rainbow-colored confections. His heart hammered against his ribcage as he called out for the third time, “Minhee! Princess, where are you?”
Beside him, Seokmin was equally frazzled, his usually cheerful demeanor replaced by wide-eyed concern. “I swear she was right here looking at the gummy bears,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “I turned around for literally two seconds to pay for the chocolate-covered strawberries, and—”
“And my daughter vanished into thin air,” Mingyu finished, his voice tight with worry. He pulled out his phone with shaking fingers. “I have to call—”
“Daddy! Uncle Seokmin!”
A tiny voice piped up from somewhere near their knees, and both men looked down to see Minhee emerging from behind a towering display of lollipops, her small hands clutching a bag of Swedish fish and her eyes sparkling with excitement.
“There you are!” Mingyu dropped to his knees instantly, gathering his five-year-old daughter into his arms. The relief that flooded through him was so intense he felt dizzy. “Baby, you scared Daddy so much. Where were you?”
“I was getting these fishies for Mommy,” Minhee said matter-of-factly, holding up the candy bag. “She said yesterday that she missed the red fishies from when she was little, so I wanted to surprise her. But then I got lost behind all the big candy mountains.”
Seokmin let out a shaky laugh, placing a hand over his heart. “Minhee, you just took ten years off my life. And probably twenty off your dad’s.”
Mingyu was still holding his daughter close, breathing in the scent of her strawberry shampoo mixed with the overwhelming sweetness of the candy store. “Next time, you have to tell Daddy or Uncle Seokmin before you go anywhere, okay? Even if it’s a surprise for Mommy.”
“Okay, Daddy,” Minhee nodded solemnly, then brightened. “But look! I also found these for Uncle Wonwoo because they’re shaped like books!” She pulled out a small bag of chocolate books from her jacket pocket.
Mingyu couldn’t help but smile despite the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. Even at five years old, Minhee was always thinking of others. “Those are perfect for Uncle Wonwoo. He’ll love them.”
“And I got mint chocolates for Uncle Vernon because he likes mint tea,” she continued, producing another small bag. “And rainbow sour strips for Uncle Soonyoung because he’s colorful like a rainbow, and—”
“Whoa there, little lady,” Seokmin chuckled, kneeling down beside them. “Did you buy out the entire store?”
Minhee giggled, a sound that never failed to make Mingyu’s heart feel full. “No, silly Uncle Seokmin! I only got a little bit for everyone. Oh! And I got you chocolate-covered pretzels because you said they were your favorite yesterday.”
“You remembered that?” Seokmin’s voice softened with genuine surprise and affection.
“Uh-huh! I remember everything,” Minhee said proudly. “Daddy says I have an elephant emory.”
“Elephant memory, princess,” Mingyu corrected gently, standing up and taking her small hand in his much larger one.
“That’s what I said,” Minhee replied with the kind of confidence only a five-year-old could possess.
After paying for all of Minhee’s carefully selected treats (and trying not to wince at the total), the trio made their way out of the candy store and onto the bustling streets of Manhattan. The October air was crisp, carrying the scent of roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor and the faint aroma of pizza from the restaurant across the street.
“Daddy, can we go see the big green lady again?” Minhee asked, skipping between Mingyu and Seokmin, her small hands in theirs.
“The Statue of Liberty?” Mingyu asked, though he already knew the answer. They’d visited Liberty Island the day before, and Minhee had been fascinated by everything from the ferry ride to the crown.
“Yes! I want to draw her for Mommy when we get back to the hotel,” Minhee said. “Uncle Vernon taught me how to draw big buildings yesterday.”
Seokmin grinned. “Vernon’s been having a blast being the cool architecture uncle, hasn’t he?”
“He showed me how shadows work on buildings,” Minhee said seriously. “He’s really smart. But not as smart as Daddy.”
Mingyu felt his chest swell with pride and affection. Being an architect himself, he loved seeing Minhee’s interest in buildings and design. “Uncle Vernon is very smart too, baby. Different people are smart in different ways.”
“Like how Uncle Wonwoo is smart with books, and Uncle Hoshi is smart with dancing, and Uncle Chan is smart with music?” Minhee asked.
“Exactly like that,” Mingyu confirmed, squeezing her hand gently.
They walked a few more blocks before Seokmin checked his phone. “We should head back to the hotel. Your mom is probably wondering where we disappeared to with the little candy thief here.”
“I’m not a thief!” Minhee protested with mock indignation. “I paid for everything with my vacation money!”
“Your vacation money?” Mingyu raised an eyebrow.
“Grandma gave me twenty dollars before we left Korea,” Minhee explained proudly. “She said it was for buying something special in New York.”
Mingyu made a mental note to call his mother later and thank her. His mom had always been wonderfully thoughtful with Minhee, treating her granddaughter like absolute royalty whenever they visited.
The walk back to their hotel took them through Times Square, where Minhee insisted on stopping to watch a street performer juggling flaming torches. She clapped enthusiastically when he finished his act, and Mingyu dropped a few dollars into the man’s hat while Seokmin lifted Minhee onto his shoulders so she could see better over the crowd.
“Daddy, look!” Minhee pointed excitedly from her perch. “It’s the big screens like on TV!”
Mingyu followed her gaze to the massive digital billboards surrounding them, their colorful advertisements creating a kaleidoscope of moving light and color. He’d grown somewhat used to the sensory overload of Times Square over the past few days, but seeing it through Minhee’s eyes made it feel magical again.
“It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?” he said, taking out his phone to snap a picture of her on Seokmin’s shoulders, her face lit up with wonder.
“Uncle Seokmin, are you tired?” Minhee asked, patting the top of his head. “I can walk if your shoulders hurt.”
“I’m good, princess,” Seokmin assured her. “You’re light as a feather.”
“Daddy says I’m growing like a weed though,” Minhee said thoughtfully. “But I don’t look like a weed. Weeds are green and I’m wearing my pink dress.”
Mingyu laughed, the sound warm and full of affection. “It’s just an expression, baby. It means you’re growing fast.”
“Oh,” Minhee considered this. “Then I guess I am growing like a weed. Last week I could only reach the middle shelf in the kitchen, but now I can reach the cookies on the top shelf.”
“That’s why we moved the cookies,” Mingyu said with mock sternness, though his eyes were twinkling.
“I know,” Minhee said with a giggle. “But I’m very good at climbing.”
By the time they reached their hotel, a place in Midtown that Wonwoo had recommended, Minhee was getting drowsy despite her excitement about the candy and the sights. She’d transferred from Seokmin’s shoulders to Mingyu’s arms, her head resting against his shoulder as he carried her through the elegant lobby.
“Room 2847,” Seokmin said to the elevator, pressing the button for their floor. “Your mom texted that she’s in the room getting ready for brunch.”
“Is she wearing her pretty blue dress?” Minhee asked sleepily.
“I don’t know, baby. Why don’t you ask her when we get there?” Mingyu said softly, adjusting his hold on her.
When they reached their suite, Mingyu used his key card while trying not to jostle Minhee too much. The door swung open to reveal his wife standing by the window, and Mingyu felt the familiar flutter in his chest that he’d been experiencing for the past seven years whenever he saw her.
She was indeed wearing the blue dress—a soft, flowing midi dress that brought out her eyes—and she turned with a smile when she heard them enter.
“There are my favorite people,” she said warmly, crossing to them. “How was the candy store run?”
“Eventful,” Seokmin said dryly, though he was smiling.
“Mommy!” Minhee perked up instantly, reaching for her mother. “I got you Swedish fishies!”
“You did?” His wife’s face lit up as she took Minhee from Mingyu’s arms. “You remembered that I mentioned them?”
“Uh-huh! And I got presents for all the uncles too,” Minhee said proudly, then leaned in conspiratorially. “But I got lost for a little bit and Daddy and Uncle Seokmin got scared.”
“Oh no,” his wife said, glancing at Mingyu with concern. “What happened?”
“She wandered off behind a display while I was paying,” Seokmin explained sheepishly. “Nearly gave us both heart attacks.”
“But I was being very responsible,” Minhee added quickly. “I was getting presents for everyone and I had my vacation money and everything.”
“Well, as long as everyone’s safe now,” his wife said, pressing a kiss to Minhee’s forehead. “And I can’t wait to try those Swedish fish. They were my absolute favorite when I was your age.”
“Really? Like, really really?” Minhee’s eyes went wide.
“Really really,” her mother confirmed. “Grandma used to buy them for me as a special treat.”
Mingyu watched this exchange with a soft smile, feeling that familiar warmth spread through his chest. These were the moments he treasured most—the simple, everyday magic of his little family.
“Speaking of treats,” Seokmin said, checking his phone again, “we should probably head down soon. The others are already at the restaurant.”
“Where are we brunching again?” Mingyu asked, though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.
“That place in SoHo that Vernon found,” his wife replied. “Apparently they have the best pancakes in Manhattan, according to the reviews he read.”
“Uncle Vernon reads reviews about food?” Minhee asked with fascination.
“Uncle Vernon reads reviews about everything,” Seokmin laughed. “He probably researched that restaurant for three hours before suggesting it.”
“That’s very smart,” Minhee said approvingly. “I like when Uncle Vernon explains things. Yesterday he showed me how to draw the Empire State Building and he knew all about how tall it is and when it was built and everything.”
“Vernon does love his facts,” Mingyu agreed, gathering their jackets from the closet. “Ready to go see the uncles?”
“Yes!” Minhee clapped her hands excitedly. “I want to give them their presents!”
The restaurant Vernon had chosen was a charming bistro with exposed brick walls and large windows that let in streams of golden autumn sunlight. They found their party already seated at a large round table near the back, and Mingyu couldn’t help but grin at the sight of his friends—his brothers, really—all gathered together.
Chan was wearing a casual button-down and jeans, looking relaxed in a way he rarely did during his busy schedule as a music producer. Wonwoo had his reading glasses perched on his nose as he studied the menu, probably analyzing every ingredient listed. Soonyoung was animatedly telling Vernon something that involved a lot of hand gestures, while Vernon listened with an amused smile, occasionally nodding and adding his own observations.
“Uncle Chan! Uncle Wonwoo! Uncle Vernon! Uncle Soonyoung!” Minhee called out as they approached, waving enthusiastically.
The table erupted in greetings and Minhee was immediately passed around for hugs, starting with Chan who lifted her up and spun her around, making her giggle uncontrollably.
“There’s our New York princess,” Chan said, settling her on his lap. “How’s the big city treating you?”
“It’s really big,” Minhee said seriously. “And there are so many people. But I like it. And I got presents for everyone!”
“Presents?” Soonyoung perked up immediately. “I love presents!”
“Patience, Soonyoung,” Wonwoo said with mild amusement, but Mingyu could see the curious smile tugging at his lips.
Mingyu helped his wife into her seat before taking his own, and Seokmin filled the others in on their morning adventure while Minhee distributed her carefully chosen candy gifts.
“These are for you, Uncle Wonwoo, because they look like your books,” she said solemnly, presenting him with the chocolate books.
Wonwoo’s face softened as he accepted the gift. “These are perfect, Minhee. Thank you so much.”
“And these are for Uncle Vernon because you like mint tea,” she continued, handing over the mint chocolates.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Vernon said, looking genuinely touched. “How did you remember that?”
“I remember everything,” Minhee declared proudly. “Daddy says I have an elephant emory.”
“She means an elephant’s memory,” Mingyu corrected gently, earning a round of chuckles from the table.
“Rainbow sour strips for Uncle Soonyoung because you’re colorful,” Minhee announced, practically bouncing as she handed over the bright candy.
“Colorful!” Soonyoung laughed delightedly. “I love being colorful. These look amazing.”
“And chocolate pretzels for Uncle Seokmin because they’re your favorite,” she finished, though Seokmin had already received his gift back at the hotel.
“And Swedish fish for Mommy because she missed them,” Minhee added, settling back into Chan’s lap with satisfaction.
“What about Uncle Chan?” Chan asked with mock hurt. “Doesn’t Uncle Chan get anything?”
Minhee’s eyes went wide with panic for a moment before she grinned mischievously. “Uncle Chan gets the biggest present of all—me!”
“Well, that’s definitely the best present,” Chan agreed, hugging her close. “Though I have to admit, I’m a little jealous of these chocolate books. They look delicious.”
“Uncle Wonwoo will share,” Minhee said confidently. “He’s nice like that.”
“I suppose I could spare one,” Wonwoo said with feigned reluctance, earning a laugh from the group.
The server approached their table—a young woman with bright purple hair and multiple piercings who immediately smiled when she saw Minhee.
“Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing,” she said warmly. “Are you visiting New York?”
“Yes! We’re on vacation,” Minhee replied proudly. “We saw the big green lady yesterday and today we went to the candy store.”
“That sounds like an amazing vacation,” the server said. “I’m Emma, and I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I start you off with some drinks?”
They ordered a round of coffees for the adults, orange juice for Minhee, and Emma promised to bring extra whipped cream for whatever pancakes they decided on.
“So how’s everyone enjoying the city?” Vernon asked once Emma had left.
“It’s incredible,” Mingyu’s wife said, leaning back in her chair. “I forgot how much energy this place has. It’s completely different from Seoul, but in the best way.”
“The architecture is fascinating,” Vernon added, his curator instincts kicking in. “I’ve been taking photos of buildings all morning for a potential exhibition we’re planning. There’s so much Art Deco influence in Midtown—it would make for an incredible architectural history display.”
“Uncle Vernon knows everything about buildings,” Minhee chimed in. “He taught me about shadows yesterday.”
“Did he now?” Wonwoo asked with interest. “What did you learn about shadows?”
“That they change during the day because the sun moves,” Minhee explained seriously. “And that’s how you can tell what time it is if you know how to read them. Right, Uncle Vernon?”
“That’s exactly right,” Vernon confirmed, looking pleased. “You’re a very good student.”
“I want to learn about music next,” Minhee announced, turning to Chan. “Can you teach me about music, Uncle Chan?”
“Of course,” Chan said enthusiastically. “What kind of music do you want to learn about?”
“The kind that makes people happy,” Minhee said without hesitation.
“Ah, that’s the best kind,” Chan agreed solemnly.
Emma returned with their drinks and took their food orders. Minhee requested the chocolate chip pancakes with extra whipped cream and strawberries, while the adults opted for various combinations of eggs Benedict, French toast, and avocado toast.
“How’s Seungcheol doing?” Wonwoo asked as they waited for their food. “I feel like we haven’t seen him in weeks.”
“He’s good,” Mingyu replied. “He and his wife took their kids to visit his parents in Daegu for a few days. His mom has been begging to spend more time with her grandchildren.”
“Cheol’s kids are so cute,” Mingyu’s wife said dreamily. “His daughter always wears the prettiest dresses and his wife is amazing at braiding hair. I want to learn how to do different hair styles for my baby too.”
“I’m sure she can teach you when we get back,” Mingyu said
“Can we have a playdate when we get home?” Minhee asked hopefully.
“I’m sure we can arrange that,” Mingyu said, making a mental note to text Seungcheol later.
“What about you, Soonyoung?” Seokmin asked. “How’s the dance studio going?”
“Really well,” Soonyoung beamed. “We just started a new kids’ program and it’s been amazing. The energy these little ones have is incredible. Reminds me of someone I know.” He ruffled Minhee’s hair affectionately.
“I want to try dancing,” Minhee said suddenly. “Can I take classes at Uncle Soon’s studio?”
“We’ll see, baby,” Mingyu said, though he was already imagining his daughter in tiny dance shoes, following along with Soonyoung’s choreography.
“I would love to teach you,” Soonyoung said earnestly. “You’ve got natural rhythm. I can tell.”
“Really?” Minhee’s eyes lit up.
“Really,” Soonyoung confirmed. “You should see how you move when music is playing. Very natural, very fluid.”
Their food arrived in a parade of delicious-smelling plates, and conversation paused as everyone dug in. Minhee’s pancakes were nearly as big as her head, topped with a mountain of whipped cream and fresh strawberries that she immediately began arranging into patterns.
“Are you going to eat those or just play with them?” Vernon asked with amusement.
“I’m making a flower,” Minhee said seriously, concentrating on her strawberry arrangement. “See? The whipped cream is the center and the strawberries are the petals.”
“That’s beautiful, sweetheart,” her mother said. “Very artistic.”
“Uncle Vernon taught me about patterns in buildings,” Minhee explained. “So now I’m making patterns with food.”
“Everything is connected,” Vernon said philosophically, earning a round of good-natured eye rolls from the others.
“Don’t get him started on the philosophy of museum curation,” Chan warned. “We’ll be here all day.”
“Curation is an art form,” Vernon protested. “The way we present history and culture to help people understand the world—”
“See?” Chan said to Minhee. “This is why we don’t let Uncle Vernon talk about museums too much. He gets very excited.”
Minhee giggled, finally taking a bite of her artistic pancakes. “I like when Uncle Vernon gets excited. His eyes get all sparkly when he talks about old things and history.”
“His eyes do get sparkly,” Seokmin agreed thoughtfully. “I never noticed that before.”
“Children notice everything,” Wonwoo observed. “They see details adults miss.”
“Like how Uncle Wonwoo’s voice gets softer when he reads books,” Minhee added between bites. “And how Uncle Seokmin laughs with his whole body, not just his mouth.”
“Wow,” Seokmin said, looking genuinely surprised. “That’s… very observant.”
“And Daddy knows how to make buildings beautiful,” Minhee continued proudly. “He draws them on big papers and then they become real. It’s like magic.”
Mingyu’s cheeks warmed at his daughter’s description of his work. “It’s not quite magic, baby, but I do love designing spaces where people can be happy.”
“That sounds like magic to me,” his wife said softly, giving him an adoring look.
“And Daddy also makes this little humming sound when he’s really happy,” Minhee added. “Like when Mommy laughs or when we’re all together like this.”
Mingyu felt his cheeks warm even more. “I do?”
“Uh-huh,” Minhee nodded seriously. “It’s like a happy song. I like it.”
His wife reached over and squeezed his hand under the table, giving him a look that made his heart skip the way it had when they were first dating.
“What about me?” Soonyoung asked curiously. “What do I do?”
Minhee studied him seriously for a moment. “You bounce when you walk, like you’re dancing even when there’s no music. And you clap your hands when you laugh.”
“I do bounce,” Soonyoung realized with delight. “I never thought about that.”
“And Uncle Chan conducts invisible orchestras when he talks about music,” Minhee added. “His hands move like he’s making the music in the air.”
Chan looked down at his hands with amazement. “I had no idea I did that.”
“You all do special things,” Minhee said matter-of-factly. “That’s what makes you special uncles and my special daddy.”
“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest thing,” Emma said, appearing at their table to refill coffee cups. “Are you having a good time in New York?”
“The best time,” Minhee said enthusiastically. “Tomorrow we’re going to see the park with all the trees, and then we’re going to Uncle Vernon’s favorite museum with the dinosaurs,” Minhee corrected herself importantly.
“The Natural History Museum,” Vernon said with obvious pride. “I’ve been wanting to show you the new planetarium exhibit too. And the minerals and gems hall—there are some specimens there that are absolutely incredible.”
“Central Park and the Natural History Museum,” Mingyu translated with a smile. “Vernon’s been planning our museum route for weeks.”
“That sounds like an amazing day,” Emma said. “The dinosaurs are really cool. My nephew loves them.”
“I love dinosaurs too,” Minhee said. “Uncle Wonwoo has a book about them and Uncle Vernon knows where to find the best ones in the museum. He showed me pictures of the really big ones.”
“The biggest dinosaur ever discovered was the Argentinosaurus,” Wonwoo said, slipping naturally into teacher mode. “It was over 100 feet long.”
“As long as three school buses!” Minhee added proudly, clearly remembering this fact from their previous conversation.
“You two are quite the team,” Vernon observed with amusement.
After brunch, they decided to walk off their food with a stroll through the nearby streets of SoHo. The October afternoon was perfect for walking—sunny but crisp, with just enough of a breeze to make the falling leaves dance around their feet.
Minhee insisted on holding both Mingyu’s and her mother’s hands as they walked, occasionally letting go to run ahead and collect particularly pretty leaves, which she then presented to various uncles with great ceremony.
“This one’s for Uncle Seokmin because it’s the same color as his sweater,” she announced, handing over a golden maple leaf.
“This one’s for Uncle Soonyoung because it’s red like his energy,” she continued, giving him a brilliant crimson leaf.
“What color is my energy?” Chan asked curiously.
Minhee considered this seriously. “Orange,” she decided. “Warm orange, like a sunset.”
“I love that,” Chan said, accepting his orange leaf with a bow. “Thank you, princess.”
They wandered through boutiques and art galleries, with Minhee providing running commentary on everything she saw. In one gallery featuring abstract paintings, she stood in front of a large canvas covered in swirls of blue and green.
“It looks like the ocean during a storm,” she said thoughtfully. “But not a scary storm. A magical storm.”
“That’s a beautiful way to describe it,” the gallery owner said, having overheard. “You have quite an artistic eye, young lady.”
“My daddy is very artistic too,” Minhee said proudly. “He draws me pictures every morning on my lunch napkins for school.”
Mingyu felt his cheeks warm again as the others turned to him with interested expressions.
“Lunch napkin drawings?” Soonyoung asked with a grin. “That’s adorable.”
“It’s just little doodles,” Mingyu said modestly. “Flowers, animals, silly faces. Nothing fancy.”
“It’s not nothing fancy,” Minhee protested. “They’re beautiful and they make me happy all day. And all my friends at school want their daddies to draw on their napkins too.”
“You’re starting a trend,” Vernon said with amusement.
“The other moms probably love that,” Mingyu’s wife added with a laugh.
They continued their leisurely exploration of the neighborhood, stopping at a small park where Minhee immediately gravitated toward the playground. She climbed and swung and slid with the kind of fearless joy that made Mingyu simultaneously proud and terrified.
“Higher, Daddy! Push me higher!” she called from the swing set.
“Any higher and you’ll end up in orbit,” Mingyu called back, but he gave her another gentle push anyway.
“I want to touch the clouds,” Minhee declared, pumping her legs to maintain her momentum.
“What would clouds feel like, do you think?” Wonwoo asked, settling on the bench beside Mingyu.
“Soft like cotton candy,” Minhee said without hesitation. “But cooler. And they probably taste like vanilla ice cream.”
“That sounds perfect,” Seokmin said. “I would definitely eat a cloud if it tasted like vanilla ice cream.”
“Me too,” Soonyoung agreed. “But what if some clouds taste like different flavors? Like, what if that one tastes like strawberry?” He pointed to a particularly pink-tinged cloud drifting overhead.
“Ooh, or that one could be chocolate,” Chan added, pointing to a darker cloud.
“Now I’m hungry for cloud ice cream,” Vernon said with mock seriousness.
“There’s no such thing as cloud ice cream, Uncle Vernon,” Minhee said with five-year-old exasperation, though she was grinning.
“How do you know?” Vernon challenged playfully. “Have you checked every ice cream store in New York?”
Minhee considered this. “Well… no. But that would be a lot of ice cream stores.”
“Exactly,” Vernon said triumphantly. “So we can’t rule it out completely.”
“Can we look for cloud ice cream after we see the dinosaurs tomorrow?” Minhee asked hopefully.
“We can definitely keep an eye out,” Mingyu promised, knowing full well they’d probably end up searching for the most interesting ice cream flavors they could find, just to see Minhee’s delighted reactions.
As the afternoon wore on and the sun began to sink lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the park, they gradually made their way back toward the hotel. Minhee had collected an impressive bouquet of autumn leaves, which she clutched protectively against her chest.
“I’m going to press these in a book when we get home,” she announced. “Uncle Wonwoo taught me how.”
“That’s a great way to preserve memories,” Mingyu’s wife said approvingly.
“I want to remember everything about this trip,” Minhee said seriously. “The candy store and the big green lady and brunch with all my uncles and the leaves and the clouds that taste like ice cream.”
“Those are good things to remember,” Chan agreed. “What’s been your favorite part so far?”
Minhee thought about this for a long moment as they walked. “All of it,” she finally decided. “But mostly being with everyone I love all at the same time. That doesn’t happen very much.”
Mingyu felt his throat tighten with emotion. Sometimes his daughter’s wisdom caught him completely off guard.
“That’s my favorite part too,” he said softly, squeezing her hand.
“Mine too,” his wife agreed, linking her free arm through his.
“Group hug!” Soonyoung declared suddenly, and before anyone could protest, they were all wrapped up in a chaotic, laughing embrace in the middle of the sidewalk.
“This is definitely going in my memory book,” Minhee announced from the center of the huddle, her voice slightly muffled but filled with joy.
“Memory book?” Seokmin asked.
“The book in my brain where I keep all the best things,” Minhee explained matter-of-factly, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.
“I want to start a memory book too,” Vernon said thoughtfully.
“You just have to pay attention to the good things,” Minhee advised sagely. “And remember how they make you feel, not just how they look.”
“When did you get so wise?” Wonwoo asked with genuine curiosity.
“I’ve always been wise,” Minhee replied with complete confidence. “Mommy says I have an old soul. But I don’t know what that means because my soul feels very young and bouncy.”
“Bouncy souls are the best kind,” Soonyoung said approvingly.
Back at the hotel, they gathered in Mingyu’s family’s suite for a while, not quite ready to end the perfect day. Minhee arranged her leaves on the coffee table while the adults shared stories and planned the next day’s schedule.
“So tomorrow we’re thinking Central Park in the morning, then lunch, then the Natural History Museum?” Mingyu’s wife confirmed.
“Never,” Chan promised solemnly. “Ice cream hunting is a crucial part of any New York adventure.”
As evening approached and everyone began to make noises about heading to their respective rooms, Minhee suddenly jumped up from her leaf-arranging project.
“Wait!” she said urgently. “We have to take a picture. For my memory book and for everyone else’s memory books too.”
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Mingyu’s wife said, reaching for her phone.
They arranged themselves on and around the couch, with Minhee in the center of course, still clutching a few of her favorite leaves. Just as Mingyu’s wife was about to take the photo, Minhee held up her hand.
“Wait,” she said again. “Everyone has to make their happy face. Not their picture face. Your real happy face.”
“What’s the difference?” Vernon asked, though he was already smiling.
“Your picture face is for other people,” Minhee explained. “Your happy face is for you. Like this.” She demonstrated with a grin so genuine and full of joy that it was impossible not to smile back.
“Okay,” Mingyu’s wife said, raising the phone again. “Everyone ready with your happy faces?”
“Ready,” they chorused.
The camera clicked several times, capturing their little family—biological and chosen—in all their messy, loving, joyful glory.
Later, after the uncles had gone to their own rooms and Minhee had been tucked into bed with her favorite stuffed elephant (which had been carefully packed despite limited luggage space), Mingyu and his wife sat together on the small balcony overlooking the city.
“This was a good day,” she said softly, leaning against his shoulder.
“The best,” Mingyu agreed, wrapping his arm around her. “Though I thought I was going to have a heart attack when we couldn’t find her in the candy store.”
“But you did find her,” his wife pointed out. “And she was being completely thoughtful and responsible in her own five-year-old way.”
“She was,” Mingyu said, still amazed by their daughter’s capacity for kindness. “Did you hear what she said about remembering how things make you feel, not just how they look?”
“She’s going to break hearts and change the world,” his wife said with certainty.
“Definitely,” Mingyu agreed. “I just hope we’re raising her right. Sometimes I worry that—”
“Mingyu,” his wife interrupted gently. “Look at how she treats people. Look at how thoughtful she is, how kind, how curious about everything. Look at how much love she has to give. We’re doing fine.”
From inside, they could hear Minhee talking softly to her stuffed elephant, probably telling it about all the day’s adventures.
“And tomorrow we’re going to see real dinosaurs, Mr. Peanuts,” she was saying. “Well, not real real dinosaurs because those are all asleep forever. But their bones, which are almost as good. Uncle Wonwoo says some of them were bigger than our house. Can you imagine?”
Mingyu smiled, feeling that familiar warmth spread through his chest—the feeling that came from being exactly where he belonged, with exactly the people he belonged with.
“She’s going to remember this forever,” his wife said quietly.
“So will I,” Mingyu replied, pulling her closer and watching the lights of New York twinkle below them like earthbound stars.
In the morning, there would be more adventures. There would be dinosaur bones and ice cream hunting and probably at least one minor crisis involving something sticky or lost or both. There would be piggyback rides through Central Park and educational lectures from Uncle Wonwoo and dance lessons from Uncle Soonyoung and architectural observations from Uncle Vernon and musical discoveries with Uncle Chan and countless laughs with Uncle Seokmin.
But right now, in this moment, with his wife in his arms and his daughter safe and happy just a few feet away, Mingyu felt like the luckiest man in the world. He thought about Minhee’s memory book—the book in her brain where she kept all the best things—and realized he had one too. And this moment, this perfect night suspended between yesterday and tomorrow, would live there forever. The sound of Minhee’s sleepy giggle drifting from her makeshift pillow fort, the way his wife’s head fit just right against his shoulder, the warmth of her hand in his—these were the kind of memories that didn’t fade. They etched themselves in quiet permanence.
He tilted his head back to take in the sky, barely visible between the silhouettes of skyscrapers, and thought of how small they all were in the grand scheme of things. Yet somehow, this tiny bubble of love and light they had created—him, his girls, their makeshift village of honorary uncles and chaotic weekend visits—felt bigger than the city sprawling around them.
“Let’s stay like this a little longer,” he whispered.
His wife didn’t answer with words. She only nodded, eyes closed, smiling against his chest.
The familiar hum of Wonwoo’s gaming setup filled his bedroom-turned-streaming-studio as he leaned back in his chair, stretching his fingers after an intense raid session. His chat was buzzing with the usual post-game excitement, viewers dissecting every play and asking about his next stream schedule.
“Okay, okay, I know you guys want to see me attempt that boss fight again, but I need a quick break,” Wonwoo said into his headset, his calm voice carrying a hint of amusement as he watched the chat flood with protests. “My wrists are crying for mercy, and I promised myself I’d stay hydrated today.”
He reached for his water bottle, scanning the rapidly moving messages on his secondary monitor. Just five more minutes!, You were so close to beating it!, Wonwoo fighting!, What’s for dinner?
“You guys are more concerned about my meals than my own father,” he chuckled, taking a long sip of water. “Speaking of which, I should probably figure out what to make later. I’ve got a very important guest staying with me this week.”
The chat immediately perked up with curiosity. Guest?, Girlfriend?, Is Wonwoo finally introducing someone?
“Not that kind of guest, you troublemakers,” Wonwoo rolled his eyes playfully. “My bestfriend Mingyu is on some architecture conference abroad, and his wife is on a business trip, so their daughter is staying with me for the week. She’s—”
“UNCLE WONWOO!”
The enthusiastic shout from down the hallway made Wonwoo pause mid-sentence, a fond smile immediately spreading across his face. The sound of tiny feet running on hardwood floors grew closer, accompanied by what sounded like a stuffed animal being dragged along the ground.
“And that would be her now,” he said to his chat, quickly muting his microphone as a small tornado of energy burst through his door.
Five-year-old Minhee stood in the doorway, her hair sticking up in at least three different directions from her afternoon nap, clutching a well-loved stuffed bunny by one ear. She was wearing a pink unicorn t-shirt that was definitely not the same outfit she’d been napping in, and mismatched socks—one with strawberries, one with dinosaurs.
“Uncle Wonwoo! I changed my clothes all by myself!” she announced proudly, doing a little twirl to show off her ensemble.
“I can see that,” Wonwoo said, trying not to laugh at the backwards shirt and the fact that she was apparently wearing two different shoes as well. “Very… creative fashion choices.”
Minhee beamed at what she clearly took as a compliment and skipped over to his chair, immediately fascinated by all the colorful lights on his gaming setup. “Wow! It’s like a rainbow computer!”
Wonwoo glanced at his chat, which had noticed his extended muting and was getting restless with curiosity. He unmuted briefly. “Sorry everyone, my niece just woke up from her nap and wanted to show me her new outfit. Give me just a moment.”
“Uncle, who are you talking to?” Minhee asked, finally noticing the headset and microphone setup.
“I’m talking to people who watch me play games on the computer,” Wonwoo explained patiently. “It’s my job. People like watching me play and we talk about the games together.”
Minhee’s eyes went wide. “People are watching you right now? Like, real people?”
“Yep, real people. See that little camera up there?” He pointed to the webcam mounted on his monitor. “They can see me through that.”
“Can they see me too?” she whispered, suddenly looking both excited and shy.
“They can if you want them to. Would you like to say hello?”
Minhee nodded eagerly but then hid halfway behind his chair, peeking out at the camera. Wonwoo couldn’t help but grin at her adorable shyness.
“Chat, I’d like you to meet my niece, Minhee,” he said, gently coaxing her to come closer. “She’s staying with me this week while her parents are away.”
The chat exploded with hearts and welcoming messages. OMG SO CUTE, Hello princess!, Uncle Wonwoo is so soft, She’s adorable!, Best guest ever!
“They’re all saying hello to you,” Wonwoo told her, pointing to the chat window where messages were flying by.
Minhee’s shyness evaporated instantly as she climbed onto his lap to get a better look at the screen. “There are so many words! What do they all say?”
“Well, this one says ‘hello princess,’ and this one says you’re cute, and this one…” Wonwoo paused as he read the next message, Adorable! “…this one is asking if you like games.”
“I LOVE games!” Minhee announced to the camera, suddenly animated. “Uncle Wonwoo, can I play the rainbow computer game?”
The chat went wild. Let her play!, Gaming prodigy incoming, Uncle-niece gaming stream when?
“Maybe we can play something together later,” Wonwoo said diplomatically. “But first, I think we should fix your shirt—it’s on backwards.”
Minhee looked down at herself and giggled. “I know! I did it on purpose because the unicorn was looking the wrong way, and now she can see where we’re going!”
Wonwoo blinked, then burst out laughing. “That’s… actually pretty logical.”
“Uncle Wonwoo, are you famous?” Minhee asked suddenly, waving at the camera as she watched more messages flood in.
“Sort of, I guess. People know me from my gaming streams.”
“Like Daddy! Daddy builds a lot of buildings!”
“That’s right, your dad is an architect. And your mom helps companies with their business, right?”
“Uh-huh! She wears pretty suits and talks to important people on her computer,” Minhee said, then leaned closer to the camera. “Hi important people! Uncle Wonwoo is the best uncle ever!”
The chat melted. PROTECT HER AT ALL COSTS, Wonwoo best uncle confirmed, This is the cutest thing ever, Can she be a regular guest?
“They all think you’re very sweet,” Wonwoo told her, reading through the messages. “And they agree that I’m a pretty good uncle.”
“You ARE the best uncle! You let me have ice cream for breakfast yesterday!”
Wonwoo’s eyes widened as he quickly looked at the camera. “That was supposed to be our secret, remember?”
Minhee clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oops!”
The chat was having a field day. Ice cream for breakfast GOALS, Uncle Wonwoo living his best life, Breaking all the rules I see, We won’t tell her parents
“Okay, okay, let’s not give away all my terrible babysitting secrets,” Wonwoo said, gently lifting Minhee off his lap. “How about we end the stream here for today? I think someone needs proper food that isn’t ice cream.”
“Aww, but I’m not hungry yet! Can’t we play the rainbow computer first?”
“Tell you what,” Wonwoo said, addressing both Minhee and his chat, “how about we make this interesting? Chat, should I teach Minhee how to play a simple game on stream tomorrow?”
The response was immediate and overwhelming. YES!, Do it!, Gaming niece-uncle duo!, We need this content!, Make it a series!
“Uncle Wonwoo,” Minhee whispered loudly, “what’s a ‘series’?”
“It means they want to see us play games together more than once,” he explained.
“Oh! Like how I watch the same cartoons over and over?”
“Exactly like that.”
Minhee turned to the camera with a huge grin. “Okay, bye-bye computer friends! Tomorrow Uncle Wonwoo will teach me how to beat the monsters!”
As Wonwoo ended the stream amid a flurry of hearts and goodbyes, Minhee was already bouncing excitedly around his chair.
“This is the best vacation ever! Can we call Daddy and tell him about the rainbow computer people?”
“Sure, but first let’s get you some actual food,” Wonwoo said, standing up and stretching. “What sounds good?”
“Hmm…” Minhee tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Can we make pancakes? But not regular pancakes—purple pancakes!”
“Purple pancakes aren’t really a thing, Minhee.”
“They could be! We could use… um…” she scrunched up her face in concentration. “Grape juice!”
Wonwoo stared at her for a moment, then shook his head with a laugh. “You know what? Let’s see if we can make purple pancakes work. But if they taste terrible, we’re ordering pizza.”
“Deal!” Minhee grabbed his hand and started pulling him toward the kitchen. “This is gonna be so cool! Wait until I tell Uncle Soonyoung and Uncle Chan about the purple pancakes!”
“Speaking of your other uncles, they’re coming over later to help me babysit—I mean, to hang out with us.”
“Really?! Uncle Soonyoung is gonna teach me more dance moves, and Uncle Chan promised to show me how to do a backflip!”
“A backflip?” Wonwoo stopped walking. “Minhee, you’re five years old.”
“Uncle Chan says I’m very ‘athletic’ and ‘coordinated,’” she said, clearly proud of the big words.
“Uncle Chan is going to give me a heart attack,” Wonwoo muttered under his breath.
In the kitchen, Wonwoo stared at his relatively bare cupboards, realizing he was woefully unprepared for feeding a creative five-year-old who wanted purple pancakes.
“Okay, so we have regular pancake mix, and we have…” he opened the fridge, “…absolutely no grape juice.”
“What about blueberries?” Minhee suggested, pointing to a container in the fridge.
“Blueberries could work,” Wonwoo agreed, pulling them out. “They might make the pancakes more blue-purple than pure purple, but close enough.”
“Perfect! And can we make them shaped like hearts?”
“Hearts?” Wonwoo looked at his regular round pan. “I don’t have a heart-shaped pan.”
Minhee looked thoughtful for a moment, then brightened. “We can make circles and then I’ll eat them in a heart shape!”
“That’s… actually not how eating works, but sure, we’ll go with that.”
As Wonwoo started mixing the pancake batter, Minhee climbed onto a chair to watch, providing running commentary on his technique.
“Uncle Wonwoo, you’re mixing it wrong. Mommy says you have to mix pancakes very gently or they get tough.”
“Oh really?” Wonwoo paused his vigorous whisking.
“Uh-huh. Like this,” Minhee demonstrated a gentle folding motion. “Soft like you’re petting a bunny.”
“Petting a bunny. Got it.” Wonwoo adjusted his mixing style, bemused by his niece’s culinary wisdom.
“And Daddy always makes them into funny shapes. One time he made one that looked like Uncle Soonyoung’s face!”
“How did he manage that?”
“The pancake had really big cheeks,” Minhee said seriously, which made Wonwoo snort with laughter.
They added the blueberries to the batter, which did indeed turn it a lovely purple color. Minhee clapped her hands in delight.
“It worked! We’re like kitchen scientists!”
“Kitchen scientists,” Wonwoo repeated, filing that phrase away for future use. “I like that.”
As the first pancake cooked, Minhee kept up a steady stream of chatter about everything from her favorite cartoons to her plans for teaching her stuffed bunny how to play video games.
“Uncle Wonwoo, do you think Mr. Hopscotch would be good at the rainbow computer games?” she asked, holding up her stuffed rabbit.
“Mr. Hopscotch, huh? Well, he’s got good reflexes—I’ve seen how fast he hops around your room.”
“That’s what I thought too! Maybe tomorrow he can help us play.”
The sound of the front door opening interrupted their cooking session, followed by familiar voices.
“Wonwoo! We brought reinforcements!” That was definitely Soonyoung’s voice.
“And by reinforcements, he means an unnecessary amount of junk food,” came Chan’s reply.
“UNCLE SOONYOUNG! UNCLE CHAN!” Minhee shrieked, abandoning her post at the stove to run toward the voices.
Wonwoo quickly flipped the pancake and followed her out to the living room, where she had already launched herself at Soonyoung, who caught her in a dramatic spinning hug.
“There’s my favorite dance partner!” Soonyoung said, setting her down. “Did you practice the moves I taught you last week?”
“Yes! Watch!” Minhee immediately launched into what could generously be called dance moves, but looked more like an enthusiastic interpretation of various gymnastics poses.
“Wow, you’ve really improved,” Chan said with a perfectly straight face, while Wonwoo tried not to laugh at what was clearly the same routine she’d been doing for months.
“We’re making purple pancakes!” Minhee announced. “Uncle Wonwoo let me be the kitchen scientist!”
“Purple pancakes?” Soonyoung raised an eyebrow at Wonwoo. “How very… creative.”
“Don’t ask,” Wonwoo said, heading back to the kitchen to prevent their experimental breakfast from burning.
The other two followed, with Minhee skipping ahead to show off the purple batter.
“This is actually pretty impressive,” Chan said, examining the mixture. “How’d you get it this color?”
“Blueberries,” Wonwoo said proudly, as if he’d invented the concept himself.
“Uncle Chan, guess what! Tomorrow Uncle Wonwoo is gonna teach me how to play games on the rainbow computer, and all his computer friends are gonna watch!”
“Computer friends?” Chan looked confused.
“She means my stream viewers,” Wonwoo explained. “They want to see her learn to play games.”
“Oh, this I have to see,” Soonyoung grinned. “Our little Minhee becoming a gaming sensation.”
“Speaking of which,” Wonwoo said, flipping another pancake, “you two are welcome to stick around for moral support. Something tells me I’m going to need all the help I can get.”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Chan said. “Besides, someone needs to document Minhee’s first gaming stream for Mingyu.”
“Daddy’s gonna be so excited!” Minhee said. “He loves games too, but he’s not as good as Uncle Wonwoo.”
“Did you hear that?” Wonwoo said smugly to the other two. “I’m officially the gaming uncle.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Soonyoung laughed. “You’re also the uncle who gave her ice cream for breakfast.”
Minhee gasped and looked at Wonwoo with wide eyes. “You told!”
“I didn’t tell! You told my stream viewers, remember?”
“Oh yeah,” she giggled. “Oops!”
As they sat down to eat their purple pancakes (which were surprisingly delicious), Minhee regaled her uncles with stories about her week at Uncle Wonwoo’s house—from their late-night movie marathons to their attempts to teach Mr. Hopscotch various tricks.
“And then Uncle Wonwoo tried to make me take a nap yesterday, but I convinced him that quiet time with video games was basically the same thing,” Minhee said between bites.
“Minhee,” Wonwoo said in a warning tone.
“What? It worked! I was very quiet.”
Chan and Soonyoung exchanged amused looks. It was clear that five-year-old Minhee had completely wrapped her gaming uncle around her little finger.
“So what’s the plan for today?” Soonyoung asked. “More ‘quiet time’ video games?”
“Actually,” Wonwoo said, “I was thinking we could take her to that new arcade that opened downtown. Give her some hands-on gaming experience before tomorrow’s stream.”
“ARCADE?!” Minhee practically bounced out of her chair. “What’s an arcade?”
“It’s like a whole building full of different games you can play,” Chan explained.
“With prizes?”
“Some of them have prizes,” Wonwoo confirmed.
Minhee’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. “Can Mr. Hopscotch come too?”
“Of course Mr. Hopscotch can come. He might need to help you win prizes.”
An hour later, they were walking through the brightly lit arcade, Minhee holding Wonwoo’s hand and clutching Mr. Hopscotch with the other, her head swiveling in every direction trying to take in all the sights and sounds.
“Uncle Wonwoo, this place is AMAZING!” she breathed, staring at a particularly colorful racing game.
“Which game do you want to try first?” Soonyoung asked.
Minhee walked around slowly, examining each game with the serious concentration of a seasoned gamer. Finally, she stopped in front of a whack-a-mole game.
“This one! The little moles are so cute!”
“Whack-a-mole it is,” Wonwoo said, feeding tokens into the machine.
What followed was perhaps the most enthusiastic round of whack-a-mole in arcade history. Instead of trying to hit the moles with the padded mallets, Minhee spent most of the time greeting each one as it popped up.
“Hi little mole! Oh, there’s another one! Hello there!”
“Minhee, you’re supposed to hit them,” Chan said gently.
“But they’re so cute! I don’t want to hit them!”
Wonwoo watched her happily chatting with the mechanical moles and realized this was going to be a very different kind of arcade experience than he’d expected.
“You know what?” he said, “I think you’re playing it exactly right.”
They moved from game to game, with Minhee providing her own unique interpretation of how each one should be played. The basketball game became “let’s see how many different ways we can throw the ball,” and the dance game became “let’s make up our own dance moves that have nothing to do with the arrows on the screen.”
“She’s got her own gaming philosophy,” Soonyoung observed as they watched Minhee attempt to high-five every character that appeared on a fighting game screen.
“I respect that,” Wonwoo said. “She’s not wrong—games should be fun first.”
At the prize counter, Minhee spent a full ten minutes examining every possible prize before finally settling on a small stuffed elephant.
“For Mr. Hopscotch,” she explained seriously. “He needs a friend for when I’m not around.”
“Very thoughtful,” Chan said, helping her carry her prizes.
On the drive home, Minhee fell asleep in her car seat, clutching both Mr. Hopscotch and the new elephant, a satisfied smile on her face.
“She’s going to sleep well tonight,” Soonyoung said quietly.
“Good,” Wonwoo replied. “Because tomorrow is going to be interesting. I have no idea how to teach gaming to someone who thinks whack-a-mole is a conversation starter.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what your viewers need to see,” Chan suggested. “Someone who approaches games with pure joy instead of competitiveness.”
“You might be right,” Wonwoo said, glancing in the rearview mirror at his peacefully sleeping niece. “She definitely has her own way of looking at things.”
That evening, after Minhee had been tucked into bed with both Mr. Hopscotch and her new elephant friend, the three uncles sat in Wonwoo’s living room planning the next day’s stream.
“What game are you thinking of starting her with?” Soonyoung asked.
“Something simple and colorful,” Wonwoo said. “Maybe that farming game where you just plant crops and collect cute animals.”
“Perfect for her,” Chan agreed. “No pressure, just fun.”
“That’s the goal,” Wonwoo said. “Though knowing Minhee, she’ll probably find a way to make it completely unexpected.”
They were interrupted by the sound of small feet padding down the hallway.
“Uncle Wonwoo?” Minhee appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “I can’t sleep. I’m too excited about tomorrow.”
“Come here, kiddo,” Wonwoo said, patting the couch beside him.
Minhee climbed up and immediately curled against his side. “What if I’m not good at the rainbow computer games?”
“Hey,” Wonwoo said gently, “remember what happened at the arcade today? You played every game exactly the way you wanted to, and you had fun, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s all that matters. Games are supposed to be fun. It doesn’t matter if you’re ‘good’ at them or not.”
“Really?”
“Really. Besides,” he added with a grin, “I have a feeling you’re going to surprise everyone tomorrow.”
Minhee smiled sleepily. “Can I stay here for a few more minutes?”
“Of course.”
As she dozed against his shoulder, Chan and Soonyoung exchanged knowing looks. It was clear that Wonwoo had completely embraced his role as the favorite uncle, and Minhee had found herself the perfect gaming mentor—someone who understood that the best part of playing games wasn’t winning or losing, but simply having fun.
“You know,” Soonyoung said quietly, “Mingyu is going to be so jealous when he sees how much fun she’s having here.”
“Good,” Wonwoo said with a small smile, carefully adjusting his position so Minhee could sleep more comfortably. “He can suffer a little bit for leaving me in charge of this adorable chaos.”
“Famous last words,” Chan laughed softly.
But as Wonwoo looked down at his sleeping niece, her face peaceful and content, he realized he wouldn’t trade this week for anything. Tomorrow’s stream was going to be completely unpredictable, probably a little chaotic, and absolutely perfect—just like Minhee herself.
“Best uncle ever,” she had called him. And sitting there with his niece asleep in his arms, surrounded by his closest friends, Wonwoo thought she might just be right.
uncle! kim mingyu ll uncle! kwon soonyoung ll dad! choi seungcheol ll 6k words
: the art of being a girl dad
The morning sun filtered through the kitchen windows as Seungcheol double-checked his overnight bag for the third time. His wife stood beside him, smoothing down their five-year-old daughter’s unruly hair while Naeun sat cross-legged on the counter, swinging her legs and observing her parents with the keen eyes of someone who knew something exciting was about to happen.
“Are you sure Mingyu and Soonyoung can handle her?” his wife asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer would be entertaining rather than reassuring.
Seungcheol paused his bag-checking ritual. “Define ‘handle.’”
“Daddy,” Naeun interjected with the patience of someone far older than her five years, “you’re being dramatic again. Uncle Mingyu makes the best pancakes, and Uncle Soonyoung lets me win at video games.”
“He doesn’t let you win,” Seungcheol corrected, zipping up his bag. “You actually beat him. There’s a difference.”
Naeun grinned, revealing a gap where her front tooth used to be. “I know.”
The doorbell rang, followed immediately by enthusiastic knocking that could only belong to one person. Kkuma, Seungcheol’s fluffy white dog, launched into a series of excited barks and spun in circles near the door.
“That’s Uncle Soonyoung’s knock,” Naeun announced, sliding off the counter with practiced ease. “Uncle Mingyu knocks like this—” She demonstrated three polite, evenly-spaced knocks. “But Uncle Soonyoung knocks like he’s trying to break down the door.”
“Accurate,” Seungcheol’s wife laughed, heading toward the front door.
The door opened to reveal Mingyu and Soonyoung, both carrying suspiciously large bags and wearing expressions that immediately made Seungcheol nervous.
“Uncle Mingyu! Uncle Soonyoung!” Naeun launched herself at the two men, who caught her in a practiced sandwich hug.
“Princess Naeun!” Soonyoung declared, lifting her up and spinning her around. “Ready for the most epic day ever?”
“What’s in the bags?” she asked, eyeing their supplies with interest.
Mingyu and Soonyoung exchanged a look that parents everywhere would recognize as trouble.
“Supplies,” Mingyu said diplomatically.
“What kind of supplies?” Seungcheol asked, his instincts kicking in.
“Fun supplies,” Soonyoung answered, which was somehow both completely honest and utterly unhelpful.
Naeun wiggled out of Soonyoung’s arms and immediately began investigating their bags. “Is this art stuff? And… is that a tent?”
“It’s a small tent,” Mingyu said quickly. “For indoor camping. Very safe. Very contained.”
Seungcheol’s wife placed a calming hand on his arm. “They’ll be fine. Naeun’s smart, and despite appearances, Mingyu and Soonyoung are responsible adults.”
“You’re wearing a tiger-print hoodie and light-up sneakers,” Naeun pointed out. “And it’s not even Halloween.”
“These are my Saturday shoes,” Soonyoung defended. “They have excellent arch support.”
After final hugs, promises to send updates, and a comprehensive list of emergency contacts, Seungcheol and his wife finally left for their weekend getaway. The house fell quiet for exactly three seconds before Naeun clapped her hands together.
“Okay! First order of business: what’s actually in those bags?”
Twenty minutes later, the living room looked like a craft store had exploded. Mingyu had indeed brought art supplies, but his definition of “art supplies” was apparently quite broad. There were paints, markers, glue sticks, construction paper, pipe cleaners, googly eyes, and what appeared to be enough stickers to decorate a small building.
Soonyoung’s contribution was equally impressive: the promised indoor tent, several board games, a container of homemade slime, fairy lights, and a bluetooth speaker currently playing what he called “adventure music.”
“This is like Christmas,” Naeun said, sitting in the middle of the chaos with Kkuma curled up beside her. “But with more potential for glitter.”
“We haven’t even opened the glitter yet,” Mingyu pointed out.
“The glitter stays closed,” Soonyoung said firmly. “I made that mistake exactly once. Found glitter in my hair for three months.”
They settled on the floor to make friendship bracelets, with Naeun patiently explaining proper technique while Mingyu approached the task with methodical precision and Soonyoung treated it like a competitive sport.
“It’s not about speed, Uncle Soonyoung,” Naeun said as he fumbled with the strings for the fourth time. “It’s about the friendship.”
“But what if I could make friendship bracelets really, really fast?”
“Would you want a friendship bracelet that someone made really fast, or one that someone made with love?” she asked, channeling wisdom beyond her years.
Soonyoung paused his frantic braiding. “That’s… actually a really good point.”
“Naeun’s full of good points,” Mingyu said, working on what was shaping up to be a tiny masterpiece. “She gets it from both her parents.”
“Team effort,” Naeun added. “Mom says Dad’s good at making decisions, but she’s good at making sure they’re the right decisions.”
As if summoned by the mention of teamwork, Kkuma padded over to investigate their progress, sniffing delicately at each bracelet before gently taking one of Soonyoung’s loose strings in her mouth.
“Hey!” Soonyoung protested. “That’s my bracelet!”
“I think she wants to help,” Naeun giggled. “Or she’s trying to save us from your terrible braiding.”
“It’s abstract,” Soonyoung declared, holding up his creation that looked more like a colorful bird’s nest. “Very avant-garde.”
“It’s very you,” Naeun said diplomatically. “Oh! We should make something for Kkuma too! She feels left out when I make things for everyone else.”
They spent the next hour creating a small red bandana decorated with tiny paw prints, which Kkuma accepted with dignified resignation, shaking herself until it sat at a jaunty angle that somehow made her look even more adorable.
“She looks very fashionable,” Naeun declared. “Don’t you think so, Kkuma?”
Kkuma’s response was to trot over to her water bowl, the bandana fluttering behind her like a tiny flag.
“I think that’s her way of saying she loves it,” Soonyoung interpreted.
“Or her way of saying she’s tolerating it because she loves us,” Mingyu added.
“Same thing,” Naeun said cheerfully. “Can we go to the park now? Kkuma needs to show off her new bandana.”
The park was bustling with Saturday afternoon activity. Naeun immediately gravitated toward the swings while Kkuma settled in a shady spot to supervise, her new bandana attracting admiring glances from passersby.
“Push me high enough to see the whole park, but not so high that Kkuma gets worried,” Naeun instructed as Soonyoung took position behind her swing.
“That’s very specific criteria,” he said, beginning to push.
“Kkuma has anxiety about heights,” she explained seriously. “I can tell by her face.”
They moved through the playground equipment with Naeun providing running commentary on her technique and progress. “I made it one more monkey bar than last time,” she announced after dropping down from the bars. “Mom says it’s okay to try new things and change your mind about what you like.”
“Your mom’s very wise,” Mingyu said, taking pictures to send to her parents later.
“She is. She told me that Uncle Soonyoung used to want to be a professional soccer player before he became a dance teacher.”
Soonyoung looked surprised. “She told you that?”
“She said it’s a good example of how people can be good at lots of different things, and sometimes what makes you happy changes.” Naeun bounced on her toes. “Can we play frisbee now?”
What followed was less a game of frisbee and more a demonstration of various incorrect throwing techniques, with Kkuma providing enthusiastic but unhelpful assistance.
“The trick,” Naeun explained after watching Soonyoung’s throw sail into a tree, “is to aim for where you want it to go, not where you think it’s going to go.”
“That’s very philosophical,” Mingyu said, managing a perfect throw.
“I learned it from Uncle Joshua” she said, catching the frisbee. “He’s very philosophical about everything.”
“Both deep thoughts and enthusiastic thoughts are important,” she continued seriously. “You need deep thoughts for important stuff, and enthusiastic thoughts for fun stuff.”
“What kind of thoughts do you have?” Soonyoung asked, genuinely curious.
“Mixed thoughts. Like, I think deeply about fun stuff and enthusiastically about important stuff. I get it from both my parents.”
After working up an appetite, they headed to a dog-friendly café with outdoor seating. Naeun ordered hot chocolate despite the warm weather (“Hot chocolate is good at any temperature”), while the uncles opted for iced drinks and what Soonyoung called “dangerous pastries.”
“Do you ever get scared when you’re teaching dance classes?” Naeun asked Soonyoung as they settled at their table.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Especially with new students or when we’re performing.”
“What do you do when you get scared?”
“I remember that I’m not alone. I have good friends like Uncle Mingyu, and I remember that people want me to succeed.” He paused thoughtfully. “What scares you?”
“Big kids at school, mostly. And sometimes when Mommy and Daddy go out.” She brightened. “But not when I stay with you two. You’re not scary at all.”
“If you ever get scared when we’re not around, you can think about us being there with you,” Soonyoung suggested. “Like imagining Uncle Mingyu giving you one of his perfect hugs.”
“Your hugs are different but still really good,” she told Mingyu, leaning against his arm. “Daddy’s hugs are safe and strong, like everything’s going to be okay. Your hugs are warm and gentle, like you’re really happy to see me.”
“I am really happy to see you,” Mingyu said softly. “Always.”
Kkuma had become something of a local celebrity, accepting pets and compliments on her bandana with regal grace. “She gets it from Daddy,” Naeun observed. “He’s good with people too.”
“Your dad’s an excellent manager at his company,” Mingyu agreed. “He makes everyone feel valued.”
“That’s why he’s a good leader. You can’t lead people who don’t trust you, and people won’t trust you if you don’t care about them.”
Both uncles stared at her in amazement.
“Did your dad tell you that?” Soonyoung asked.
“No, I figured it out myself from watching him with everyone at work parties.”
By the time they returned home, they were ready for their indoor camping adventure. Setting up the tent proved more challenging than expected, with Naeun serving as official instruction reader.
“Uncle Soonyoung, that pole goes the other way,” she said patiently. “And Uncle Mingyu, I think you’re holding it upside down.”
“How can a tent pole be upside down?” Mingyu asked.
“Everything can be upside down if you try hard enough,” she replied wisely.
Eventually they erected something recognizably tent-shaped, complete with fairy lights and a cozy interior of pillows and blankets. Kkuma assessed the situation from her spot on the couch and apparently decided luxury was preferable to adventure.
“Not everyone’s cut out for the adventurous life,” Naeun said generously when Kkuma declined to join them.
They spent the evening telling stories inside their tent. Naeun shared “The Great Playground Mystery” about helping a shy kindergartener share her secret artwork, while Mingyu recounted his disastrous attempt at gourmet pizza that resulted in what he called “edible garden center cuisine.”
“Uncle Seokmin tried a bite,” Soonyoung added. “He was very polite, but his face gave him away.”
“Uncle Seokmin’s terrible at hiding his feelings,” Naeun giggled. “His face shows everything he’s thinking.”
The next morning brought pancakes (Mingyu’s specialty) and plans for grocery shopping to restock supplies for their final evening together.
“We need ingredients for dinner,” Mingyu explained as they prepared to leave. “What sounds good?”
“Something we can all make together,” Naeun suggested. “Like tacos! Everyone can choose their own toppings.”
The grocery store was busier than expected for a Sunday morning. They made it through produce and dairy without incident, with Naeun riding in the cart and providing commentary on their selections.
“We should get the fancy cheese,” she declared. “It’s a special occasion.”
“What makes it special?” Soonyoung asked, comparing prices.
“I’m spending the whole weekend with my two favorite uncles. That’s pretty special.”
“Only two favorites?” Mingyu teased. “What about Uncle Jeonghan?”
“Uncle Jeonghan’s in a different category,” she said seriously. “He’s my favorite troublemaker uncle. You two are my favorite adventure uncles.”
They were debating taco shell options when Soonyoung’s phone rang. “It’s your parents,” he told Naeun. “Want to say hi?”
“Daddy!” Naeun’s face lit up when Soonyoung put the call on speaker. “Are you having fun on your trip?”
“We are, sweetheart. Are you being good for Uncle Mingyu and Uncle Soonyoung?”
“I’m being excellent,” she said proudly. “We made friendship bracelets and went to the park and had a café adventure and did indoor camping and now we’re getting taco supplies!”
“Wow, that sounds like quite an adventure,” her mother’s voice came through the phone. “What was your favorite part?”
“All of it! Oh, and I made a new friend at the park yesterday. His name is Sian and he’s six and he has a really cool bike with streamers on the handlebars.”
Soonyoung, who had been nodding along cheerfully, suddenly realized what was happening. Through the phone, they could hear Seungcheol’s voice sharpen with interest.
“A new friend?” he asked, and Mingyu shot Soonyoung a warning look. “A boy?”
“Yeah! He was at the playground and his mom was there too,” Naeun continued innocently. “Sian taught me how to do this cool trick on the monkey bars, and I taught him how to braid friendship bracelets. His mom said maybe we could have a playdate sometime!”
There was a telling pause on the other end of the line. “What kind of trick on the monkey bars?” Seungcheol’s voice had taken on what Mingyu recognized as his interrogation tone.
“Just swinging and stuff, Daddy. Nothing dangerous,” Naeun said, slightly confused by his serious tone. “Sian’s really nice. He shared his animal crackers with me and he didn’t even laugh when I fell off the swings.”
“He didn’t help you up when you fell, did he?” Seungcheol asked, and his wife could be heard quietly sighing in the background.
“Well, yeah, he helped me brush the dirt off my dress and everything. He’s a good friend, Daddy.”
“Seungcheol,” his wife’s voice came through more clearly now, obviously closer to the phone.
“I’m just asking questions,” Seungcheol defended. “So this Sian boy, how tall is he? Does he seem… I don’t know, mature for his age?”
“Daddy, he’s six,” Naeun said with the exasperated tone of someone much older. “He still thinks girls have cooties except for me because I’m cool.”
Soonyoung tried to lighten the mood. “See? Nothing to worry about. Just innocent playground friendship—”
“And his mom wants to set up playdates,” Seungcheol continued, completely ignoring Soonyoung. “Did she ask a lot of questions about our family? About where we live?”
“Seungcheol, she’s five,” his wife said firmly, clearly having taken the phone. “And he’s six. They’re children.”
“I know, but—”
“Hi boys,” Naeun’s mom continued, her voice warm but with an edge that suggested she was handling her husband. “Sounds like you’re having wonderful adventures. We’ll let you get back to your evening.”
“But I want to know more about this Sian kid,” Seungcheol could be heard protesting in the background. “What if he’s one of those kids who’s a bad influence? What if he teaches her to climb too high or—”
“We’ll see you tonight, sweetheart,” Naeun’s mom said pointedly. “Be good for your uncles.”
The call ended, leaving the three of them staring at the phone.
“Is Daddy mad about Sian?” Naeun asked, her voice small.
“He’s not mad, sweetheart,” Mingyu said gently. “He just… worries about you. A lot.”
“But Sian’s nice! He even said I was the smartest girl in the whole playground,” Naeun said, getting upset. “And he promised to teach me how to ride his bike with the streamers.”
Soonyoung and Mingyu exchanged looks.
“Oh no,” Soonyoung muttered. “Wait until he hears about the bike riding lessons.”
“Why does Daddy get so weird when I have friends?” Naeun asked, genuinely confused.
“Because he loves you very much,” Mingyu explained carefully. “And sometimes when daddies love their little girls a lot, they get a little… protective. Even about friends.”
“That’s silly,” Naeun declared. “Sian’s just a kid like me.”
“We know that,” Soonyoung said. “Your dad will figure it out too. Eventually.”
“Mommy will explain it to him,” Naeun said confidently. “She’s good at making Daddy be normal again.”
They continued shopping, with Soonyoung looking increasingly nervous about the inevitable confrontation when her parents returned. It was in the cereal aisle that disaster struck.
“Can we get the colorful cereal?” Naeun asked, pointing to a display of sugar-laden breakfast options.
“Your parents said no sugar cereal,” Mingyu said apologetically.
“What about the one with the toy inside?”
“Still sugar cereal.”
“The one with the cartoon character?”
“Definitely sugar cereal.”
Naeun sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I’m going to look at all the options so I can dream about them.”
Mingyu and Soonyoung were debating the merits of various healthy cereals when they realized the commentary from the peanut gallery had stopped. They turned to find the spot where Naeun had been standing completely empty.
“Naeun?” Mingyu called, looking around the immediate area.
“She was just here,” Soonyoung said, panic creeping into his voice. “Naeun!”
They split up, checking the adjoining aisles. The grocery store suddenly seemed enormous, full of places a small person could wander off to or get lost in.
“Excuse me,” Mingyu approached a store employee. “We’re looking for a little girl, five years old, dark hair, pink shirt. Have you seen her?”
“I’ll call security,” the employee said immediately. “What’s her name?”
“Naeun. Choi Naeun.”
Within minutes, they had a small team helping search, and an announcement went out over the store’s PA system. Soonyoung was practically hyperventilating.
“Seungcheol is going to kill me,” he kept repeating. “We lost his daughter. We lost Naeun. He’s going to actually murder me.”
“We’re going to find her,” Mingyu said firmly, though his own voice was tight with worry. “She’s smart. She knows not to leave the store.”
It was a security guard who found her fifteen minutes later in the pet supply aisle, sitting cross-legged on the floor and having what appeared to be a serious conversation with a display of dog toys.
“Naeun!” Both uncles rushed over, and she looked up in surprise.
“Oh, hi! I was just explaining to these toys that Kkuma would probably like the squeaky hamburger, but she might be too dignified for the rubber chicken.”
“You can’t just wander off like that!” Soonyoung said, his relief making him sound sharper than he intended. “We were terrified!”
Naeun’s face fell. “I’m sorry. I saw the pet stuff and wanted to find something special for Kkuma, and I thought you’d find me right away.”
Mingyu knelt down to her level. “We know you didn’t mean to scare us, but when we couldn’t find you, we got really worried. Your parents trust us to keep you safe.”
“I didn’t think about that,” she said quietly. “I just wanted to surprise Kkuma.”
“Next time, tell us where you’re going, okay?” Soonyoung said, his voice back to its normal gentle tone. “We can look at pet toys together.”
“Okay,” she agreed. “Can we still get something for Kkuma?”
They spent another ten minutes in the pet aisle, with Naeun carefully considering each toy option before settling on a plush bone that squeaked when squeezed. “It’s dignified but still fun,” she explained.
The rest of the shopping trip passed without incident, though both uncles kept her within arm’s reach. It wasn’t until they were back home, unpacking groceries and preparing for taco night, that Soonyoung’s phone buzzed with a text.
“It’s your dad,” he told Naeun, reading the message. “He says, and I quote, ‘We need to talk about playground friends when I get home.’”
“He’s not actually mad,” Naeun said confidently. “If he was really mad, he would have called. Texts mean he’s just being dramatic.”
“I hope you’re right,” Soonyoung said fervently.
“Daddy will understand once Mommy explains it to him,” Naeun said with the confidence of someone who understood family dynamics. “Now, can we start making tacos? I’m starving.”
The evening passed peacefully with taco assembly, more indoor camping, and a movie night featuring animated films and a very content Kkuma chewing on her new squeaky bone. Naeun fell asleep during the second movie, curled up between her uncles in their makeshift tent fort.
“She’s amazing,” Mingyu said quietly, adjusting a blanket around her small form.
“She really is,” Soonyoung agreed. “Smart, funny, kind… Seungcheol and his wife did something right.”
“They did. And so did we, I think. Despite the grocery store incident.”
“And the accidental matchmaking revelation.”
“That too.”
When Seungcheol and his wife returned that evening, they found their daughter fast asleep in a pillow fort, flanked by two exhausted but happy uncles. Kkuma was curled up nearby, her new toy within easy reach and her bandana still stylishly askew.
“How did it go?” Naeun’s mother asked quietly.
“She’s incredible,” Mingyu said. “Smart, funny, wise beyond her years.”
“We only lost her once,” Soonyoung added, then immediately looked like he regretted saying anything.
“Five minutes in the grocery store,” Mingyu said quickly. “She wandered to the pet aisle to find a toy for Kkuma. Security helped us find her, and she was completely safe.”
“These things happen,” Naeun’s mother said diplomatically, shooting her husband a look. “And clearly everything worked out fine.”
Seungcheol looked like he wanted to say more, but his sleeping daughter chose that moment to stir and mumble something about friendship bracelets in her sleep.
“Now,” he said instead, his voice taking on that dangerous parental tone again, “about this playground friend situation…”
“His name is Sian,” Soonyoung said quickly. “He’s six, very polite, good at monkey bars. He seemed nice.”
“Nice,” Seungcheol repeated.
Naeun’s mother laughed quietly. “Seungcheol, leave the poor men alone. It sounds like they had a wonderful weekend.”
“We did,” Naeun’s sleepy voice piped up from the tent. “The best weekend ever. Can Uncle Mingyu and Uncle Soonyoung babysit again soon?”
“We’ll see,” Seungcheol said, but his expression had softened considerably at seeing his daughter’s happy face.
“And can I have another playdate with Sian? He promised to teach me how to ride a bike with no training wheels.”
“We’ll… discuss it,” Seungcheol said carefully.
“That means yes,” Naeun informed her uncles confidently. “Daddy just needs time to get used to the idea that I’m growing up.”
“I’m not ready for you to grow up,” Seungcheol said, settling down next to the tent to give his daughter a proper hug.
“That’s okay, Daddy. Growing up is scary for parents too. But you’ll figure it out. You’re really good at taking care of people.”
“When did you get so wise?” he asked, smoothing her hair.
“I learned from the best,” she said, snuggling into his arms. “I have the most amazing family.”
Later, after Naeun had been transferred to her own bed and the living room had been restored to its normal state, the adults sat around the kitchen table sharing stories from the weekend.
“She really is something special,” Soonyoung said. “The way she thinks about things, how kind she is to everyone…”
“She gets that from both of you,” Mingyu told the parents. “But she’s definitely her own person too.”
“About this Sian situation,” Seungcheol began, and his wife immediately put a hand on his arm.
“Let it go,” she said gently. “She’s five. She made a friend. This is normal childhood stuff.”
“But—”
“No buts. Our daughter is growing up, and that means making friends and having social interactions. Would you rather she be shy and isolated?”
“No,” Seungcheol admitted reluctantly.
“Then trust her judgment. And trust your friends’ judgment. They took excellent care of her.”
“We really did,” Soonyoung said. “Even with the grocery store thing. She’s smart and careful and knows how to handle herself.”
“The grocery store thing?” Naeun’s mother asked.
“Nothing major,” Mingyu said quickly. “She just wandered off to look at dog toys for about five minutes. Security helped us find her.”
“And she wasn’t scared or upset?”
“No, she was completely calm. Just focused on finding the perfect toy for Kkuma.”
“That sounds like our daughter,” she laughed. “Single-minded determination.”
“She gets that from her father,” Soonyoung said, grinning at Seungcheol.
“Hey!”
“It’s a compliment,” Mingyu assured him. “Determination is a good trait. She’s going to do amazing things when she grows up.”
“Speaking of which,” Naeun’s mother said, “she wants to know if you’d both be willing to babysit again sometime. This weekend was apparently ‘the best adventure ever.’”
“Absolutely,” both uncles said simultaneously.
“But maybe next time we’ll stick to activities that don’t involve grocery stores,” Soonyoung added.
“Or playground meet-cutes,” Seungcheol said pointedly.
“That wasn’t planned!” Soonyoung protested. “It just happened! Kids make friends!”
“I know,” Seungcheol sighed. “I’m just not ready for her to start growing up so fast. Soon she’ll be asking about boys and sleepovers, and then what?”
“She’s five,” his wife reminded him gently. “Right now she still thinks the highlight of her day is sharing animal crackers and making perfect braids. That’s five-year-old priorities.”
“For now,” Seungcheol muttered
“For now is all we can handle,” she said wisely. “And for now, we have two wonderful friends who love our daughter and gave her an amazing weekend full of adventures and memories.”
“Thank you,” Seungcheol said, looking at Mingyu and Soonyoung seriously. “Really. I know I get protective, but… she means everything to us.”
“She means everything to us too,” Mingyu said simply. “She’s special, and we’re honored you trust us with her.”
“Plus,” Soonyoung added with a grin, “she’s way more fun than most of our adult friends. Did you know she has a theory about ant society that’s actually quite sophisticated?”
“She told you the ant theory too?” Naeun’s mother laughed. “She’s been working on that one for weeks.”
“It’s actually really insightful,” Mingyu said. “She has a whole philosophy about teamwork and community organization.”
“That’s our girl,” Seungcheol said proudly. “Always thinking.”
As the evening wound down and the uncles prepared to leave, Naeun appeared in the kitchen doorway in her pajamas, rubbing sleepy eyes.
“Are Uncle Mingyu and Uncle Soonyoung leaving?” she asked.
“We are, sweetheart,” Mingyu said, crouching down for a hug. “But we’ll see you again soon.”
“And next time maybe we can have that playdate with Sian,” she said hopefully, looking at her father.
“Maybe,” Seungcheol said, and everyone could tell he was genuinely considering it.
“Definitely maybe, or just maybe maybe?” she pressed.
“Definitely maybe,” he conceded, and she beamed.
“I love you, Uncle Mingyu and Uncle Soonyoung,” she said, giving them both fierce hugs. “Thank you for the best weekend ever.”
“We love you too, Princess,” Soonyoung said, his voice slightly rough with emotion. “Sweet dreams.”
As they drove home, both uncles were quiet for a while, processing the weekend’s adventures.
“Think Seungcheol will actually let her have that playdate?” Soonyoung finally asked.
“Eventually,” Mingyu said. “He’s protective, but he’s not unreasonable. And his wife will talk sense into him.”
“Good. Naeun deserves to have friends her own age.”
“She does. Though I have to say, hanging out with a five-year-old for a weekend was more fun than I expected.”
“Right? She’s like this perfect combination of innocent and wise. And hilarious.”
“Think they’ll ask us to babysit again?”
“Definitely. Despite the grocery store incident and the accidental matchmaking revelation.”
“We should probably plan better next time.”
“Probably. But you know what? Even with the chaos, it was pretty perfect.”
“Yeah,” Mingyu agreed, smiling as he thought about Naeun’s gap-toothed grin and her theories about friendship bracelets and ant societies. “It really was.”
The next morning, Seungcheol woke up to find a carefully folded piece of paper slipped under his bedroom door. On it, in Naeun’s careful five-year-old handwriting, was a short note: “Dear Daddy, Thank you for letting me have the best weekend with Uncle Mingyu and Uncle Soonyoung. They took very good care of me and Kkuma.”
Attached to the note was a friendship bracelet made from pink and blue strings, slightly crooked but clearly made with love.
Seungcheol smiled despite himself. His daughter was growing up, making friends, and forming her own opinions about the world. It was terrifying and wonderful and exactly what he wanted for her.
He slipped the bracelet onto his wrist, right next to his watch, and made his way to the kitchen where the sound of gentle laughter already filled the morning air.
dad! choi seungcheol ll uncle! kim mingyu ll uncle! joshua hong
“STRIKE HIM OUT! STRIKE HIM OUT!”
Naeun’s tiny fists pumped in the air as she bounced on her father’s lap, her voice somehow carrying over the roar of fifty thousand baseball fans at Dodger Stadium. Choi Seungcheol winced as her elbow connected with his ribs for the third time, but his smile never wavered as he watched his daughter’s passionate display of team loyalty.
“Naeun-ah, maybe use your inside voice?” he suggested gently, though he knew it was futile. His daughter had inherited his competitive spirit in spades.
“But Daddy, they can’t hear me from up here!” she protested, turning to face him with wide, indignant eyes. “How will they know I believe in them?”
To Seungcheol’s left, Joshua Hong sat looking like he’d been through a war zone. His once-pristine white Lakers jersey was now decorated with sticky blue streaks, and he held a completely melted blue raspberry slurpee that dripped steadily onto his sneakers. His other hand clutched Naeun’s tiny pink princess backpack.
“Josh, you look like you lost a fight with a smurf,” Mingyu snickered from Seungcheol’s right, completely ignoring the fact that his own situation wasn’t much better. The tall man was attempting to balance a nacho tray, two hot dogs, a pretzel, and Naeun’s stuffed unicorn.
“At least I’m not the one who bought her a slurpee the size of her head,” Joshua shot back, glaring at his friend. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking she’s six and it’s vacation,” Mingyu defended himself. “Plus, Uncle Mingyu gives the best treats.”
“Uncle Mingyu gives the worst judgment,” Joshua muttered.
Naeun whipped around with lightning-fast reflexes. “Uncle Josh, Uncle Gyu, why are you fighting?”
“We’re not fighting, princess,” Seungcheol intervened quickly. “They’re just… discussing.”
“Loudly,” Naeun observed with brutal honesty. “Mommy says when people discuss loudly, they’re usually being silly.”
Both uncles had the grace to look sheepish.
“Your mommy is very smart,” Joshua said, finally giving up on the slurpee and setting it under his seat.
“The smartest,” Mingyu agreed. “Just like you.”
Naeun beamed, then immediately refocused on the game as the pitcher wound up. “COME ON, DODGERS!” she screamed, causing several nearby fans to chuckle.
“She’s got good lungs,” an elderly woman behind them commented with a kind smile.
“She gets that from her mom,” Seungcheol replied with a fond smile. “Who’s probably enjoying the quiet at her spa day right about now.”
“Smart woman,” the elderly fan laughed. “Leave dad with the loud one.”
Joshua turned to Naeun, eager to change the subject. “Remember when I told you I used to live here in LA?”
“When you were little like me!” Naeun nodded enthusiastically. “Before you moved to Korea and met Daddy and Uncle Gyu.”
“That’s right. I lived about twenty minutes from here until I was thirteen.”
“Can we see it?” Naeun asked immediately. “Like a field trip!”
The three men exchanged glances.
“I don’t know if the people who live there now would appreciate random visitors,” Seungcheol said diplomatically.
“We don’t have to go inside,” Naeun reasoned. “We can just drive by and you can tell me stories about little Uncle Josh.”
“Little Uncle Josh was very boring,” Joshua warned.
“No way,” Naeun replied confidently. “Nobody who becomes my uncle could ever be boring.”
“She’s got a point,” Mingyu grinned. “Plus, I’d love to hear some embarrassing childhood stories.”
“Please, Uncle Josh?” Naeun deployed her secret weapon - puppy dog eyes.
Joshua lasted approximately three seconds. “Fine. But we’re just driving by.”
“YES!” Naeun cheered. “This is the best vacation ever!”
The game ended with the Dodgers winning by six runs. Naeun was so excited she charmed a team photo from a nearby family before they made their way to the parking lot.
“Piggyback?” she asked hopefully.
“You’ve got two perfectly good uncles right here,” Seungcheol pointed out, though he was already bending down.
“Uncle piggyback is different from Daddy piggyback,” Naeun explained as she climbed onto his shoulders. “Daddy piggyback is for special times.”
“What makes this special?” Mingyu asked.
“The Dodgers won, I didn’t spill anything, and you two didn’t fight too much,” she listed. “Plus, we’re in Uncle Josh’s old home.”
Twenty minutes later, they were parked outside a modest two-story house in a quiet neighborhood, with Naeun pressed against the window.
“It looks normal,” she announced after inspection.
“What were you expecting?” Joshua asked, amused.
“Something more… Uncle Josh-y?”
“What’s Uncle Josh-y?” Mingyu wanted to know.
“Neat. And organized. And probably with really good snacks.”
“The snacks were good,” Joshua admitted. “My mom kept these chocolate cookies in red packages. I used to hide them so I wouldn’t have to share with my cousin.”
“That’s mean, Uncle Josh,” Naeun scolded gently.
“I was eight! Eight-year-olds aren’t good at sharing.”
“I’m six and I’m good at sharing.”
“That’s because you’re better than I was,” Joshua said sincerely.
“Speaking of sharing,” Mingyu interjected, “are we sharing dinner? I’m starving and I know a great Korean BBQ place.”
“Can we get ice cream after?” Naeun asked hopefully.
“You just had a giant slurpee,” Seungcheol reminded her.
“That was baseball food,” she explained patiently. “Ice cream is dinner dessert food. Completely different.”
“The logic is flawless,” Mingyu declared.
“Ice cream sounds perfect,” Joshua agreed. “I know a place with twenty-seven flavors.”
“Twenty-seven?” Naeun’s eyes went wide. “How do I choose?”
“Very carefully,” Mingyu said seriously. “It’s one of life’s most important decisions.”
“More important than choosing your favorite uncle?” Naeun asked innocently.
Both men immediately perked up, and Seungcheol groaned internally.
“Well,” Mingyu said carefully, “what are the criteria for favorite uncle?”
“I did buy her the giant slurpee,” Mingyu pointed out.
“And I carried her backpack all day,” Joshua added.
Naeun clearly enjoyed the attention. “I think you’re both tied for second place.”
“Second place?” they said in unison.
“Who’s first?” Joshua asked, though he suspected the answer.
“Daddy, obviously,” Naeun replied like it was ridiculous to ask. “He’s not just my uncle, he’s my daddy. That’s like being a super uncle.”
Both men deflated slightly but nodded in acceptance.
“Super uncle is definitely higher rank,” they agreed grudgingly.
“But you’re both really good regular uncles,” Naeun assured them kindly.
Dinner was chaotic - Naeun trying to cook her own meat under supervision, the uncles arguing over who got to sit next to her (she made them both sit on either side), and endless questions about everything from table grills to kimchi.
“It’s fermented cabbage,” Joshua explained patiently when she asked about kimchi.
“So it’s pickled?”
“Sort of.”
“I like pickles, therefore I like kimchi,” she decided, then took a big bite and immediately reached for water.
“Too spicy?” Mingyu asked sympathetically.
“Perfect spicy,” Naeun declared through watery eyes. “I’m just not used to perfect spicy yet.”
At the ice cream shop, Naeun approached the twenty-seven flavors with military precision.
“I need to try at least six,” she announced. “This is research.”
“She gets that from you,” Joshua told Seungcheol with amusement.
After careful sampling, she chose unicorn dreams and cookies and cream in a pink cone, providing running commentary on the day while eating.
“The best part was the super far baseball hit,” she decided. “But Uncle Josh’s old house was cool too.”
“What about the ice cream?” Mingyu asked.
“Ice cream doesn’t count,” Naeun said seriously. “Ice cream is just expected when you’re with the best uncles.”
“Expected?” Joshua repeated, amused.
“Daddy says you always make sure I have the best time, so ice cream is just part of that.”
Back at the hotel, Naeun fell asleep in the car. As Seungcheol carried her up, both uncles were already planning tomorrow’s activities.
“Beach?” Joshua suggested quietly.
“Uncle Josh wants to build sandcastles,” Mingyu whispered knowingly.
“Uncle Mingyu wants to teach her to surf.”
“She’s five!”
“They make tiny surfboards!”
“Let’s see what she wants,” Seungcheol interrupted gently. “Though she’ll probably want to hang with her mom first and tell her about today.”
After tucking Naeun in, Seungcheol settled by the window, looking out at LA’s lights. His wife was probably just finishing her spa day, completely relaxed. Tomorrow would bring new adventures and more uncle competitions, but tonight felt perfect.
“Sweet dreams, baby,” he whispered. “Tomorrow we’ll tell Mommy all about Uncle Josh and Uncle Gyu’s bickering.”
From next door, he could already hear muffled voices debating pancakes versus waffles for breakfast.
Some things never changed. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Seungcheol fits the loyal but brooding first love archetype, with three S-lines: a serious relationship, a no-label almost-relationship with a childhood friend, and a rebound after a tough breakup.
2. YoonJeonghan – 5 S-lines
With five S-lines, Jeonghan is the charming, manipulative angel everyone falls for — though he never technically starts anything; people always fall first while he just smiles.
3. Joshua Hong – 2 S-lines
Joshua gives off gentleman heartbreaker vibes, having had two S-lines: one romantic international summer fling and a close friend-turned-lover who left for grad school, making his quiet romantic history meaningful.
4. Moon Junhui – 4 S-lines
Jun, the mysterious artistic type, has four S-lines — his flirtatious nature and poetic gaze often lead to accidental seduction, including one rumored older lover who might still receive 2AM voice notes.
5. Kwon Soonyoung – 2 S-lines
Soonyoung, the energetic sunshine of the group, has two unexpected S-lines: a former backup dancer and a drunk kiss that turned into an impromptu weekend getaway — both of which still confuse him.
6.Jeon Wonwoo – 1 S-line
Wonwoo, the unreadable guy, had one deep relationship that ended when she moved to Paris; he hasn’t dated since and still thinks of her when it rains.
7. Lee Jihoon – 1 S-line (maybe)
Emotionally married to his studio, Jihoon may have had one situationship with someone in the music industry, which quietly ended via email.
8. Lee Seokmin – 2 S-lines
Seokmi , the emotional boyfriend who falls fast, had two whirlwind relationships that both ended amicably — he even still sends them birthday greetings.
9. Kim Mingyu – 4 S-lines
Mingyu, with heartthrob and rom-com male lead energy, has four S-lines: the popular idol, a quiet assistant director, a noona from his fave café, and a friend he kissed at a Christmas party.
10. Xu Minghao– 2 S-lines
Minghao, the aesthetic and philosophical type, had two art-world lovers, with each breakup ending in mutual tears and the exchange of poetry.
11. Boo Seungkwan – 3 S-lines
Seungkwan, an emotional overthinker with zero chill, had three intense and chaotic flings — all ending dramatically with custom playlists and blocked numbers.
12. Chwe Hansol – 2 S-lines
Hansol, the detached cool guy, somehow ended up with two S-lines: a high school ex who now writes indie songs about him and an accidental situationship with a librarian.
13. Lee Chan – 1 S-line
Chan, the youngest and serious about commitment, had his first real relationship in college; though they eventually grew apart due to his hectic schedule.
