EARTH ANGEL ౨ৎ 𝐄𝐎𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐇𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐍
SYNOPSIS : Your boyfriend takes you on a date to a drive-in movie, but you can hardly focus when he’s sat right next to you, watching you the entire time.
CONTAINS : 80s!seonghyeon, lots of back to the future references (the best movie oat), established relationship, overprotective father, flirting, clichés, physical affection, confessions, pouting, kissing, fluff
PLAYLIST : Earth angel (will you be mine?) - Marvin Berry, The Starlighters; Waiting for a girl like you - Foreigner; Human nature - Michael Jackson; Take my breath away - Berlin; Don't you (forget about me) - Simple Minds; Every breath you take - The Police; Take on me - a-ha;
"I want you back by 10:30 sharp!" Your father's voice booms from the doorway, his finger pointed up at the sky like he's making a decree. You have your back to him, one foot already on the porch step, but you can feel the weight of his stare. "Not a minute later!"
"I know, I know." You mumble, turning briefly to kiss him goodbye on the cheek before heading down your porch steps, your sneakers soft on the concrete, the night air cool against your face.
"And you!" Your father's sharp voice follows you down the drive and you watch your boyfriend immediately straighten up under his pointed gaze. He's standing at the end of the path with a small bunch of flowers in his hand, trying very hard to look like he's never broken a rule in his life—like he didn’t once sneak you out in the middle of the night to go ‘God knows’ where for ‘God knows’ how long, as your father had described. “No funny business! You’re lucky after that stunt you pulled last time.”
Your face goes red hot, the heat creeping up your neck and settling in your cheeks. "That was ages ago, Dad."
”Yes, sir.” Seonghyeon gave a small nod, and your dad held his gaze for a beat longer before grunting and stepping back inside. The door closes with a solid click. The porch light stays on, casting a pale yellow glow across the front steps, a reminder that someone is watching.
You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding and walk the rest of the way down the drive.
Seonghyeon was holding the flowers out before you even reached him. Store bought roses, you noticed, mixed with something white. You'd told him to stop stealing the cornflowers from Mrs. Park's garden after she'd gone on a neighbourhood-wide threatening spree, standing on her front porch with her hands on her hips, announcing to anyone within earshot that she would find out who kept stealing her flowers and she would 'deal with them'. You'd laughed about it at the time, but Seonghyeon had gone pale. He hadn't stolen anything since.
“Hi.” You say, taking the flowers, your finger’s briefly touching his.
"Hi, baby." He smiles, and his head tilts slightly as his eyes scan your face. You'd dressed up tonight, just a little: a nice dress from the back of your wardrobe that you never wear, and a cardigan that isn’t your mother’s for once. A small layer of make-up, too, just enough to cover the tiredness under your eyes. You didn't realise any of it made his heart beat faster, but you can see it now, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the way his gaze lingers on your mouth for a second too long.
"You know you don't have to bring me flowers every time," you say, looking down at the roses. They're nice. Proper. The kind of flowers a girl's father might approve of. But something about them feels less like him, less like the boy who flicked your forehead daily and threw rocks at windows and handed you bent stems tied with kitchen string like they were made of gold.
He shrugs, easy, but there's something underneath it. "What kind of boyfriend wouldn't get his girlfriend flowers?"
You look up at him, at the way the porch light catches the edge of his jaw, at the small smile playing at his lips, and you realise he's nervous. Actually nervous. Like he's still trying to impress you, like nine months together hasn't made him any less scared of messing this up.
"They're nice," you say quietly. "Thank you."
His smile widens, just a little, and some of the tension in his shoulders eases. "Yeah?"
He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek. "You're welcome."
He lingers there for a moment longer than necessary, warm against your skin, and then he drops his hand, shoving it into his jacket pocket like he's trying to play it cool. Like you can't see the way his ears have gone pink at the tips.
"You look really nice," he says, quieter this time, as though he's not sure he should say it out loud.
You feel your face warm and look down at the flowers, turning them in your hands. The paper crinkles softly. "We should go. Before my dad changes his mind and comes back out here."
Seonghyeon glances toward the front door, and the memory of the last time your dad caught you trying to sneak back in flickers through his mind.
"Good point," he says, and moves to open the passenger door. "After you."
You climb in, settling onto the worn vinyl seat, and he closes the door behind you. You set the flowers carefully on your lap, arranging them so they won't get crushed, and watch him walk around the front of the car through the windshield.
He moves easy, one hand trailing along the hood as he passes. The streetlight catches his profile, the slope of his nose, the curve of his mouth, and you catch yourself staring, looking away before he catches you.
He slides into the driver's seat, and the car dips slightly under his weight. The door closes, and suddenly the world shrinks to just the two of you, the dark, and the low rumble of the engine.
"Can't believe your dad let you use his car again," you comment, watching him reach for the radio dial.
"Used my charm." He doesn't look at you, just clicks his seatbelt into place with a quiet snap after finding the station he wanted. "Seems to work. It won you over too, didn't it?"
"You're so annoying." You roll your eyes, but you're already pulling your own seatbelt across your chest, the metal latch clicking into place. He watches you do it; his eyes tracking your hands, your shoulders, the way your hair falls across your face. You feel the weight of his gaze like a touch.
"Nothing." He turns back to the wheel, starts to pull away from the curb. "Just looking."
You shove his arm. He laughs, low and warm, and the car rolls forward into the night.
The radio crackles through the speakers, searching for a signal before it lands on one of the local stations, the one you know Seonghyeon adores because it plays nothing but love songs from dusk until dawn. The instrumental of 'Waiting for a Girl Like You' by Foreigner fills the silence, the song familiar and soft, the same one he'd put on a mixtape for you months ago. The one you'd played so many times the tape started to wear thin.
He reaches over and turns it down, just enough that it sits underneath everything else: a quiet heartbeat beneath the sound of the engine and the rush of air through the cracked windows.
Streetlights pass overhead in rhythm, painting the inside of the car in orange and shadow, orange and shadow. You watch his profile for a while: the way his jaw moves when he swallows, the way his thumb taps against the steering wheel in time with the song, the way his hair falls across his forehead and he doesn't push it back because he knows you'll do it for him later.
"You're staring," he says, his eyes still on the road.
"I'm looking out the window."
"My face is not a window."
You laugh, soft, and turn to face forward, watching the neighbourhood slip by. Houses become fewer, trees become thicker, and the lights of the city grow smaller in the rearview mirror until they're nothing but a warm glow on the horizon.
The car pulls into the drive-in just as the sky finishes its fade from blue to black. Rows of cars are already scattered across the lot, facing the massive screen that looms at the far end, pale and blank and waiting. Headlights cut through the dark as people find their spots, and somewhere in the distance, someone's radio is playing something you can't quite make out.
Seonghyeon finds a spot near the back, far enough from the other cars that you have your own space, close enough that you can still see the screen clearly. He backs in smoothly, one hand on the wheel, the other hooked over the back of your seat as he looks over his shoulder. The car settles into place, and he kills the engine.
The silence that follows is sudden. Heavy. The radio hums quietly, still tuned to the right frequency, the movie's audio not quite started yet. Just static, soft and waiting.
He doesn't move. Just sits there, one hand still on the wheel, the other moving to rest on the console between you. His thumb traces slow circles on the vinyl.
You look at him. His face is half-lit from the dashboard, half in shadow, and his eyes are on the screen, but he's not really watching it. You can tell by the way his jaw is set, the way his breathing is slow and deliberate.
He turns to look at you. "Nothing."
"You're doing that thing."
"The thing where you pretend you're not thinking about something."
He smiles, just slightly, and reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
"Maybe I'm just thinking about you," he says.
Before you can respond, the movie crackles to life, Seonghyeon quickly reaching over to switch off the radio entirely as you adjust into your seat. The speakers on the post beside the car hum with static for a moment, then clear, the familiar Universal logo appearing on the massive screen in front of you.
You've seen it before—twice, maybe three times—but you don't mind. You settle back into the seat, tucking your legs up beneath you, the flowers now resting on the dashboard between you.
Seonghyeon shifts beside you, one arm draping against the headrest of your seat, his fingers brushing your shoulder. He's not looking at the screen. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady.
"Marty's late again," you say, nodding toward the screen.
"I'm watching you watch it."
You turn to look at him. His face is soft in the glow from the screen, the light shifting with each scene, painting him in blues and whites and the occasional flash of colour. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip.
"You're so weird," you say.
You laugh, quiet, and reach into the bag of snacks you brought: crisps, chocolate, two bottles of Coke that are already going warm. You pull out the chocolate, break off a piece, and hold it up to his mouth.
He looks at it. Then at you. Then opens his mouth just enough for you to feed it to him, his lips brushing your fingers as he takes it.
He chews slowly, watching you the whole time. The chocolate melts on his tongue, and you watch his throat move when he swallows. "Yeah."
You break off another piece for yourself, trying to ignore the way your heart is beating. On the screen, Marty McFly is skateboarding, weaving through traffic, late for school. You've seen this part before. You know what happens next. But somehow, with his arm around your shoulder and his thumb tracing slow circles on your sleeve, it feels different.
"You're staring," you say.
He doesn't deny it. Doesn't look away. You can feel his gaze on the side of your face, warm and steady, like a hand cupping your cheek. He shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against yours and his breath warm on your cheek.
You turn to face him properly, ready with a retort, and find him closer than you expected. His face is inches from yours, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his lashes cast small shadows on his cheeks. His lips are slightly parted, and you can see the moment his gaze drops to your mouth.
He kisses you. His hand slides from your shoulder to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and you feel it everywhere: the warmth of his palm, the gentle pressure of his fingertips against your scalp, the way he tilts your head just slightly to deepen the kiss.
You forget what you were going to say. You forget the movie. You forget the other cars, the other people, the whole world outside this small space. There's just him. His mouth on yours. The quiet sound he makes when your fingers curl into the front of his jacket to pull him closer. The way his thumb traces the curve of your jaw like he's memorising the shape of you.
His lips are warm, familiar, and they move against yours with an ease that comes from months of practice. But despite all of that, it still feels new. Still feels like the first time, a little. Still makes your chest ache in the best way.
He tastes like chocolate and something else, something that's just him, and it's the taste of someone you know better than anyone. You want to stay here forever, wrapped up in this moment, in the dark of the car with the movie playing forgotten and the whole world reduced to the space between his lips and yours
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow. The movie plays on, forgotten: someone on screen is shouting about plutonium, about the future, about something that doesn't matter. Someone laughs somewhere in the distance, and a car door closes, and the speakers crackle with static, but none of it matters. None of it exists.
He smiles. That smile. The one that won you over from the very beginning.
"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Was that distracting you from the movie?"
You shove his chest, but there's no force behind it. Your hand lingers there for a moment, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm. "You're impossible."
"You say that." He kisses the corner of your mouth, quick and soft, and you feel the shape of his smile against your skin. "But you still haven’t gotten rid of me."
You settle back against him, your head finding its usual spot against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you like it belongs there, his thumb tracing slow patterns through the fabric of your dress. On the screen, Marty plays guitar, too loud, too fast, and Doc Brown's lab fills with smoke and light.
You watch it, but you're not really watching it. You're watching the way Seonghyeon’s chest rises and falls. You're watching the way the light from the screen catches his profile. You're watching the way his thumb moves, slow and steady, like it's keeping time with something only he can hear.
You turn your head, press a kiss to his jaw. His skin is warm and you feel the muscle twitch under your lips when you do it, before turning back to continue watching, his arm tightening around you.
The movie eventually reaches one of your favourite scenes, of which you have many: the one where Marty's dad is trying to ask out Marty’s mother, stumbling over every word, face flushed, hands trembling.
‘Lorraine. My density has popped me to you.’
You feel Seonghyeon shift beside you, the leather of his jacket creaking softly as he adjusts his position. His arm, which had been draped loosely around your shoulders, tightens just slightly, pulling you closer. His thumb, which had been tracing idle patterns on your sleeve, stills.
You glance at him. He's not watching the screen. He's watching you.
"What?" You whisper, not wanting to break the quiet of the moment.
"Nothing." His voice is low, almost lost beneath the dialogue from the movie. "Just... you like this scene? You’re smiling."
You nod, turning back to the screen. "It's sweet. He's so nervous, but he tries anyway. Even though he thinks he's going to mess it up."
‘I’m George, George McFly. You’re density. I mean, your destiny.’
You don't even realise it, but your lips form a small pout when listening to him speak on screen: the way he stumbles over the words, the way his voice cracks just slightly and he can barely even get a word out.
Seonghyeon makes a quiet sound beside you and you feel his thumb start moving again, tracing slow circles on your shoulder.
"You look cute pulling that face," you hear him say.
You turn to look at him. His hand reaches up, cupping your cheek, and his thumb gently touches the corner of your mouth. The pad of his finger is warm, slightly rough, and it lingers there for a moment, tracing the curve of your lip where it's still pressed into that small pout.
"What face?" you ask, but your voice comes out softer than you meant it to, muffled slightly by his thumb.
"This one." He presses his finger against your bottom lip, just barely, and you feel the corner of your mouth twitch, wanting to smile. "The one where you're all soft and focused and you don't even know I'm looking at you."
You don’t know what to say, the feeling of his thumb on your lip ridding you of any logical thought.
“You used to do it before we started dating too.” You watch him smile softly, the memories of the two of you sitting next to each other in class flashing through his mind.
“I always knew you were looking at me.” You finally say.
His thumb stills from its tiny movements, and his eyes bore into yours, like he was trying to read if you were bluffing or not. “So why didn’t you do anything?”
“Because,” you shrug, turning back to face the screen, the movie flashing through. “I wanted to see if you were brave enough to ask me out yourself. Even if you stumbled over every word like George McFly, I still would have given you a chance.”
He's quiet for a long moment. The movie plays on.
Then he laughs, a breath of a sound that you feel more than hear.
“I was so nervous.” He finally says, glancing down at his lap briefly. "I was so scared I was going to mess it up. That I'd say the wrong thing, or freeze, or—" He stops, swallows. "That you would say no. But not saying anything would have been worse. Not knowing would have been worse."
You turn to him, blinking in surprise. "Seonghyeon," you say slowly. "You asked me out behind the bleachers."
"You kissed me before I could even finish saying 'yes'."
"I know that too." He's smiling now, small and almost shy, like he's remembering it the same way you are. The way he'd been standing there when you rounded the corner, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hair messy from practice. The way he'd looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe.
"You were so confident," you say.
He laughs and shakes his head, "I was terrified." His voice is quieter now, almost a whisper. "I just didn't want you to know."
The pout quickly returns to your face as you watch him, your heart sinking at the thought of you making your confident boyfriend so nervous. All this time, you'd thought he was calm, collected, completely sure of himself. But he'd been scared. He'd been terrified. And he'd done it anyway.
You lean forward, pressing a soft kiss onto his cheek. His skin is warm, slightly rough from the faintest hint of stubble, and you feel the small exhale he lets out: a breath he didn't know he was holding. Then you settle back onto his shoulder, the curve of his neck fitting perfectly against your temple.
His arm tightens around you immediately, like he was waiting for you to come back, like the few seconds you were gone were seconds too long. His hand moves to settle on your waist, fingers spread wide, and you feel the warmth of him seep through your dress.
"Hey," he says quietly, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath your ear.
"You're not allowed to feel bad about that."
You press your lips together, trying to stop. It doesn't work. "I'm not."
"You are." He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there for a moment. "I can feel it."
You're quiet for a moment, watching the movie without really seeing it. All you can think about is him. About the boy who stood behind the bleachers with his heart in his throat and asked you out anyway.
"I would have said yes," you say softly. "Even if you'd stumbled. Even if you'd forgotten every word. Even if you'd just stood there looking at me like an idiot. I still would have said yes."
His arm tightens around you, pulling you closer, and you feel his cheek press against the top of your head.
"I know," he says, and his voice is thick, barely above a whisper. "I know that now."
The movie plays on. The night settles around you, dark and warm. And you stay there, tucked against his side, his heart beating under your ear, steady and real.
"You were worth the nerves," he says after a while.
You tilt your head up, looking at him. His face is soft in the dim light, his eyes steady on yours.
"Yeah." He leans down, kisses the tip of your nose. "You always have been."
You smile, and he smiles back, and then you both turn back to the screen, the lights flickering against both your faces.
The scene changes, the clock tower fades, and suddenly the screen is filled with the soft glow of the dance. Streamers hang from the ceiling in shades of blue and silver, and the band is playing something slow.
‘Earth Angel, Earth Angel, will you be mine?’
"My favourite part," you murmur, not even realising you've said it out loud.
"Yeah?" His voice is low, close to your ear.
"Mm. When George finally kisses her. When he stops being scared and just... does it."
On screen, George is dancing with Lorraine on the dance floor, his face set with determination, his hands trembling whilst the music swells.
‘My darling dear, love you all the time’
You feel Seonghyeon's hand slide from your waist to your chin, tilting your face up toward his and this thumb starts brushing your cheek. His eyes are dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you.
He glances at the screen, where George is leaning in, where Lorraine is waiting, where everything is about to change. Then he looks back at you.
“I was terrified of our first kiss too…” He whispers, barely audible over the movie, “but not enough to stop me from trying.”
On screen, George kisses Lorraine. The music swells. The audience cheers. And in the darkness of the car, with the glow of the movie painting everything in soft blues and silver, Seonghyeon leans in and kisses you.
It's soft. Slow. His hand moves to cup the back of your head, sifting through the strands of your hair. You tilt your head slightly and feel his breath catch against your lips, a small sound that he swallows before it can escape.
His fingers tighten in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he's anchoring himself to you. His thumb traces the curve of your skull, slow and absent, and you shiver despite the warmth of the car, despite the heat of his body pressed against yours. The leather of his jacket is cool under your hands where you've gripped the collar, and you feel the steady beat of his heart through the fabric, through his shirt, through the space where your chest presses against his.
The song drifts through the speakers, soft and distant, barely heard over the sound of your own heartbeat, over the quiet exhale of his breath, over the soft slide of his lips against yours. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world—like there's nowhere else he'd rather be, nothing else he'd rather be doing. Like this moment, right here, is exactly where he's supposed to be.
His hand on your waist shifts, fingers spreading wide against your hip, and he pulls you closer until there's no space left between you, until your ribs are aligned with his despite the gearshift’s attempts to separate you, until you can feel every breath he takes.
When he finally pulls back, it's slow, reluctant, like he's having to remind himself to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing soft and slow, your breath mingling with his in the small space between you.
‘A fool in love with you’
"See?" he whispers, his voice low and rough, barely audible over the fading song. "Not so scary after all."
You laugh, soft and breathless, the sound strange and bright in the darkness of the car and he just watches you with that look. The one that makes your stomach flip, the one that makes everything else fall away. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something in them that makes your breath catch, something that looks like awe and wonder, like he can't quite believe you're real.
You lean in and kiss him again.
This time, it's slower. Sweeter. His lips part under yours like it's the most natural thing in the world, like your mouth was made to fit against his. His hand slides from the back of your neck to your jaw, cradling your face like something precious and it makes your stomach flutter.
The movie continues. George wins the girl, and Marty makes it back to the future… or present, or was it—it doesn't really matter. Not when his thumb is tracing the curve of your cheekbone like he's memorising the shape of you. Not when his breath is warm against your lips, slow and steady, matching yours without either of you trying. Not when the world outside this car has shrunk to nothing, faded to static, disappeared entirely.
On screen, the DeLorean disappears in a flash of light and fire, the movie ending in a cliff hanger. Someone shouts. Someone cheers. The credits begin to roll, music swelling, names scrolling up the screen in white text.
His forehead presses against yours again, and his eyes are closed, and his hand is still cupping your face like you're something worth holding onto. You watch him for a moment: how his lips are still slightly parted whilst his chest rises and falls beneath your palm where your hand rests against his heart.
"Seonghyeon," you whisper.
He opens his eyes. They're dark in the dim light, soft, focused entirely on you. "Yeah?"
He glances at the screen, then back at you. Doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. "So?"
"So..." You smile, and you feel his thumb brush the corner of your mouth, catching the curve of it. "Aren't you going to take me home?"
He's quiet for a moment. The credits keep rolling, the music keeps playing, and somewhere behind you, car engines are starting up, headlights flickering on, people beginning to leave.
"No." He leans in, presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Not yet."
"Seonghyeon, I have a curfew."
"I know that too." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's that smile again—the one that's gotten him into trouble more times than you can count, the one that makes you want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure. "But I'm not ready to take you home yet."
Your heart does something complicated in your chest. You should argue. You should remind him of the last time you were late, of the way your dad had stood on the porch with his arms crossed, of the five weeks Seonghyeon hadn't been allowed within thirty feet of your house.
But he's looking at you like that, and his hand is warm on your face, and the night is dark and soft and full of something that feels like possibility.
"Five more minutes," you say.
He pulls you closer, and you go willingly, settling against his chest. His arm wraps around you, his hand resting on your hip, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head.
The credits finish. The screen goes dark. The car is quiet except for the soft hum of the radio he had turned on after the credits finished and the steady beat of his heart under your ear.
You tilt your head up, look at him. His face is soft in the darkness, his eyes steady on yours like he’s never been so sure of something in his life.
"And you’re mine," you say.
And you stay there, tangled up together, watching the empty screen, not watching anything at all. The night stretches on around you, dark and endless, and the world feels very far away.
Seven minutes, you think. But you know, even as you think it, that you're not going to remind him when the time's up.
Some things are worth being late for.
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