DESPERATELY IN NEED OF JEONGHAN. GIRL!DAD JEONGHAN. (I've already requested sm from nini, it's time for you.)
HOW ABT A MISCHIEVOUS DAD JEONGHAN WHO, ALONG WITH HIS LITTLE BABYGIRL, LOVES TO DO SILLY PRANKS ON READER?!!?!??! OH MY GOOODDDDD. (pls make him down bad pls llsplsplsplslpslspsl)
silly little pranks - yjh
—☆ your husband and his carbon copy collectively make you want to pull your hair but you love them too much so you let it pass ~
warnings/genre - fluff, slice of life, comfort, est. relationship, married life, dad! jeonghan, menace jeonghan and menace daughter, extremely cute stuff ig, not proofread
word count - 1K
@kissbyoon i hope you enjoy your girl dad jeonghan feast even though it didn't entirely turn out like i expected 🫶🏻
“Daddy, can I draw a cat on you?”
Jeonghan stares dumbly at his five year old daughter who's gazing up curiously and innocently at him. She looks like she's had the best idea ever, and she will collapse if she doesn't turn her dad’s face into a cat's.
He purses his lips, before smiling softly. His fingers thread in her hair as he keeps his phone aside. “Yuwonie, my baby, how will you draw a cat on me?”
Yuwon huffs, as if he's asked the most obvious question. For a while, she seems like she doesn't want to answer, but then she climbs up on the couch, and reaches up to his face. She touches his nose with her index finger, “I'm going to draw the nose here,” then she moves to his cheek. “And whiskers here.”
Oh.
Jeonghan giggles, holding her closer to himself. Honestly, he would let his baby do anything to him, and doodling a cat on his face is very mild. He doesn’t mind the idea of going out with cat features if it means he can tell people that he has the most adorable daughter who did this to him.
But he's Jeonghan, and his love language happens to be silly little pranks. His daughter is a tiny baby, so he doesn't tease her as much. He just spoils her, and compliments her, and never says no to her. But he does tease the mother of his baby. His bigger baby.
His brain autopilots in any situation, thinking of how he can turn it into a harmless prank towards his wife.
There have been instances where Jeonghan hid your phone and watched as you frantically searched the entire house for it, only to reveal it was in a ridiculously obvious location. He's also set your alarm clock to go off an hour earlier than usual, just to see your reaction when you realize you've been fooled.
And ever since Yuwon has grown up, he's made her his accomplice.
On many occasions, they have joined forces to play pranks on their favorite target. They often hide together behind the couch, waiting for the perfect moment to jump out and startle you. He's also been caught teaching his daughter how to make silly faces and noises behind her mother's back, only to burst into a fit of giggles together when they're caught. And then there was the time they conspired to cover the kitchen floor in a sea of cereal, just to see the look of horror on your face.
He can't wait to turn this idea of his precious little one against you. “Okay baby, I get that, but I have a better idea.”
Yuwon’s eyes widen in fascination. She doesn't even have to ask before he speaks up again.
“How about we draw a cat on mommy’s face instead?” His voice is a conspiratorial whisper, and he knows he's succeeded in convincing her if her excited face is anything to go by. “Yes! She'll be surprised when she wakes up, right?”
“Right!” He remarks, confirming her assumption and earns a louder giggle from her. It makes his heart warm and he instinctively presses a kiss on her cheek. “Let's go, then!”
You are a heavy sleeper, unlike Jeonghan. There could be a loud concert in your room and you would still be dead asleep.
Hence, it's easy for Jeonghan and Yuwon to execute their plan. The bed dips beside you when they both get in, still making sure to be discreet and silent in case you wake up.
Jeonghan urges Yuwon to start with it, and for a second she looks scared of waking you up. But then she reaches out, and carefully draws a triangle on your nose, making sure to not let her hands touch you too much.
Jeonghan watches with a proud grin on his face, trying not to laugh aloud as Yuwon adorns your beautiful face.
She sits back, holding her laughter back once she's done. Jeonghan pulls her closer to himself, giving her a deliberate, silent hi-fi.
Now he just has to wait till you're up. He's ready to hear a Yoon Jeonghan get here right now from the bathroom once you see your face in the mirror.
But that's not what happens. It has barely been twenty minutes since he came out with Yuwon and is now building Lego sets with her. You storm out of the room, fixing your hair and rubbing your eyes.
He is surprised to see you like that, but more amused. You look so cute, barely woken up and looking like a cat. He nudges Yuwon to see, and she can't help the giggle that leaves her. “Good morning, mommy!”
You spare your two sunshines a glance, giving them a heartfelt smile while still walking towards the main door. “Good morning, baby. Hannie, did the bell not ring? There's a parcel at the door.”
Jeonghan’s eyes widen a little as you swing the door open, but it's too late. You're already in front of the deliveryman — a stranger who sputters a little at the sight of your doodled face.
You have no idea why your husband and your daughter are suddenly beside you, their faces threatening to burst into laughters. And you are super confused because why is the deliveryman suppressing his smile too?
Once you've closed the door and kept the parcel on the table, you face both Jeonghan and Yuwon, who look at each other and burst out laughing.
“What's so funny?” You inquire through an even tone despite your heart warming at the sight.
“Mommy, it was daddy’s idea!” Yuwon points at her dad, who widens his eyes. “Hey baby! You can't just blame me! You said you wanted to draw a cat!”
You stand there, watching the exchange between them before you frown, annoyed at being left out like that. You turn on your heels, and make your way to the bathroom to freshen up — huffing aloud to show that you were mad.
Jeonghan can't help chuckling more at the pout that Yuwon sends his way. "She's mad now."
He scoots a little closer to her, and as if on cue, she joins him in his counting, both of them opening their fingers one by one.
"3..."
"2..."
"1..."
"Yoon Jeonghan, get here right now!"
Your voice echoes through the house and Jeonghan sighs knowingly, his mischievous smile intact as he holds Yuwon's tiny hand in his large one before standing up. "Guess we're gonna have to make it up to her."
You are beyond baffled by the time your husband and his carbon copy come to the bathroom. You point at your face in exasperation. "You're telling me that the deliveryman literally saw me like this?"
Yuwon uses her best technique instantly — affection. Her tiny arms wrap around your legs as she stares up at you with big, innocent eyes. Exactly like her father's. "Mommy. You look so cute like this!"
Jeonghan senses the flicker of ease on your face as he leans against the doorframe, smiling fondly at you. "I'm sure the deliveryman found you cute as well."
You glare at him, except you're threatened by your own emotions. You struggle to not smile. "This isn't funny, dear husband. What if I went out like this? What if I attended my scheduled zoom meeting like this?"
Jeonghan chuckles, shaking his head like he knows you're talking nonsense. "Come on dear wifey, do you usually go out without using the bathroom first? Do you attend meetings directly after waking up? Of course Yuwon knew you were gonna see yourself in the bathroom mirror. Are you saying our baby isn't smart enough to limit the prank?"
You open your mouth to say something but Yuwon detaches herself from you, pouting. "Mommy, am I not smart enough?"
Jeonghan snickers, knowing well enough that his daughter is putting up an act. He gets baffled at how good she's at using her charms to get out of situations. Just like him.
You stare at Jeonghan in astonishment, before looking back down at the precious creature who almost convinces you that she's indeed upset. Almost.
You pick her up, sitting her on the counter. "No, baby. You're very smart. Extra smart. You can fool anyone. And you're lucky that I love you."
She giggles aloud, making you smile. "What if this doesn't come off now? Do you expect mommy to stay like this all day?"
Yuwon instantly shakes her head mid-laugh, watching as Jeonghan comes behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist. "Daddy will help you wash it. He has solutions for everything!"
You feel Jeonghan's lips on the side of your head, and your smile only widens. "That's right. I'll wash it off for you."
You twist your neck to look at his gorgeous face, and sigh defeatedly. "You're also lucky I love you."
✮ REPETITION / RARE LOVE - @nnight-dances (it's simple enough: you and mingyu are perfect for each other. you've told him as much but after years of him avoiding the topic, you leave him alone. but when your long-time infatuation with jeonghan gets rejected, you have nothing to distract you from your desire to be with mingyu. all it takes is you making out with the wrong person and a can of beer for mingyu to come to his senses. OR: maybe you don't hate repetition as much as you claim to.)
✮ stuff to talk about | kmg - @kkaetnipjeon (angst. fluff. drunk confessions. mutual pining. idiots to lovers. minors do not interact or i will set off a decades-long revenge plot against you and enlist minghao's help to do it)
✮ the very first night - @fxstpace (the search for a new place to live takes a turn for the worse when the only person willing to split rent with you is your ex-boyfriend.)
✮ perv!mingyu ⟡ kmg - @suhsweet (when your roommate mingyu is a filthy, dirty pervert obsessed with you)
✮ 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗷𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗼𝘂𝘀 | k.mg - @gyubakeries (angst-fluff scenario of mingyu getting jealousy and also a bit insecure with another guy talking with the reader)
✮ second servings - @diamonddaze01 (And what better way to show you how…grateful I am than to kneel in front of you?)
✮ - 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐥 - @sunniques (mingyu will do anything to make sure no man takes his place in his stepsister’s life.)
✮ — debauched | ft. stepbro! mingyu - @monamipencil
✮ lost in the west | kmg -@starlightkyeom (where your best friend pretends to be your boyfriend for the holidays so you can avoid more nagging from your mother. except your whole family thought you were already dating)
✮ no more wine for you - @seungcheorry
✮ what do i call you? 🕹️ k.mg [m] - @haologram (your best friend is a man of many facets - a creative architecture student, a skilled football player, a wonderful friend and a sought-after lover. not that he'd ever truly glance anyone's way, especially not when his heart has always been set on you.)
✮ better late than never — kmg - @seungkw1 (smut, best friends to lovers, non-idol au)
✮ BIRTHDAY BOY - @odxrilove (It’s Mingyu’s birthday party, and Hoshi lets something out under the influence of alcohol. Apparently, you have two gifts prepared for him– completely throwing out the one-gift tradition your friend group strictly follows. However, Hoshi’s a liar — and a bad one at that — but it’s already too late. Even though Mingyu knows he’s supposed to be excited about all the gifts he’s receiving tonight, he’s (not so surprisingly) only interested in everything you’re giving him.)
✮ good behavior .ᐟ.ᐟ - @ddeonghwa-s (you're riding kim mingyu and find him absolutely beautiful and perfect. and so it's so easy for good boy to slip from your lips. little do you know that's all he needs to take full control so he can truly show you how much of a good boy he really is.)
Synopsis: You're supposed to be mad at Mingyu, but how can you when he's looking so delicious working out…wearing only his boxers?
Pairing: Mingyu x afab!reader
Genre: smut, one shot, established relationship
Rating: mature
Word count: 2.3k
Warnings: pet names (baby, puppy), unprotected sex (don't do this!), penetrative sex, overstimulation, sub!Gyu, thigh riding, creampie, jealous reader, biting, Mingyu in Calvin Klein boxers (yes, that needs a warning), jealous reader, kinda mean dom!reader, big dick!Gyu, lemme know if I missed anything!
Note: This was inspired by a dream I had. Guess which part I dreamt of.
Big love to @tomodachiii and @tusswrites for helping me with the plot and beta reading!
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Read on ao3
Reblogs are appreciated ♡
.ᐟMinors/blank/no age indicator blogs will be blocked.ᐟ
"Baby, I said I was sorry."
You could hear the desperation in his voice as he apologised for the umpteenth time today. He stands before you, placing your hands against his chest, whipping out the puppy eyes. You'd fall for it in any other instance, but today, when you're this annoyed, nothing works.
"Baby, I told you what I did was just fan service. They don't mean anything. You're the only one I have feelings for," you hear him almost whine as he pouts at you.
Yes, that's what you're pissed about: him giving fan service. You may seem petty, but you have valid reasons for getting upset. You don't mind him giving fan service; it's part of the job. But lately, it seems as if he's giving a bit too much fan service.
Several moments of his fan service have gone viral, littering your feed with constant comments from fans stating how he's the perfect man. And he is, but just not at the moment. Not even when he looks down at you with his precious big eyes blinking at you, resembling a puppy. If you stared hard enough, you could swear his ears had drooped a bit, lips pursued in a pout that seemed to dissolve your anger.
Stay strong; you have to prove your point.
Huffing, you snatch your hands back from his, afraid you'll cave in if you stare for even a second longer. He lets out a defeated sigh, walking away, leaving you to brood alone.
Several minutes pass, with you wallowing in your self-pity before you are interrupted by the sound of grunting. Straining your ears, you catch on to the louder grunts and huffs from the other room. Shifting your eyes to the nearby clock, you stare at the time and widen in realisation.
It's 6 pm.
6 pm is Mingyu's usual workout time, infamously known as Thot Hour. Why, you ask? Well, it's the time of day when you sit back, relax, and shamelessly ogle at your beefy boyfriend working out. If you're lucky enough, he might end his workout with cardio, which involves you between his legs.
Losing the silent debate in your head, you make the right decision to go and watch him work out; just cause you're mad at him doesn't mean you're not allowed to appreciate eye candy. You will not let the fangirls take this away from you.
You enter the home gym that Mingyu has slowly built over the years, jaw-dropping at the sight. There he is, your boyfriend, Kim Mingyu, working out in nothing but his Calvin Klein boxers.
"What are you doing?" You ask, clearly not expecting the sight in front of you.
He sets down his weights with a grunt and then looks at you with a straight face.
"Working out," he deadpans as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"In just your boxers?" you ask, waving hands around his body to emphasise your point.
"It's a hot day today," he shrugs casually, but you can see him fighting off a smirk.
Cocky, arrogant son of a bitch.
You scoff and turn around to take your prime seat to watch him work out; you will not let him win. You pull out your phone, purposefully ignoring him (or trying to, at least). Upon noticing this, Mingyu grunts and moans even louder, trying to win your attention. And while you try your best to ignore his obnoxious sounds, you can't help but get a peek at him from your peripheral vision.
Ooh, you're drooling on sight. His muscles contract and relax every time he moves. His head's thrown back; his eyes scrunched up in concentration while his already big muscles visibly get even bigger due to the pump. Your eyes are drawn to the sweat dripping down his almost naked sculpted body and the prominent bulge straining against his boxers.
Fuck, he looks so juicy.
Your boyfriend was big everywhere, and he prides himself on it whenever he splits you open. His bulge looks so big, and he's not even fully hard yet. Gulping hard, when you notice a small wet patch on his boxers. Too bad he notices you staring and smirks.
"Like what you see, baby?" He asks with a cocky cadence to his voice.
You quickly snap out of it and scoff, remembering you're supposed to be angry at him. You go back to staring at your phone, making him chuckle. God, you wanted to wipe that smirk off his face so bad.
Then it hits you: the perfect revenge plan. You smirk to yourself as you put away your phone and start stripping down to your underwear as well.
Two can play that game, Kim Mingyu.
He's halfway through his set when he notices you. He drops the weights and turns to look at you, visibly confused.
"What're you doing, baby?"
"Like you said, it's a hot day," you shrug, mirroring his actions from earlier.
He looks with intensity as you move to unroll a yoga mat. You smirk to yourself when you hear him groan when you begin stretching and purposely manoeuvring your body into tempting yoga poses. From the corner of your eye, you can see Mingyu get more and more riled up as the poses get more and more provocative. You hear him whine by the time you’re doing the 'Cat-Cow' pose, your ass facing him. You shift to face him with a cocky smirk on your face.
"Why're you whining, Gyu?"
"I can't focus if you act like this baby," he whines.
"Like what?"
"You know what," he huffs and pouts like a child.
You shrug, then go back to doing more poses. You see him approach you with a permanent pout plastered on his face. He crouches down to your level and tries to touch you, but you quickly swat his hand away.
"Thought you were working out?"
"Baby, please," he whines, and you can almost taste the desperation in his words. This is fuelling your ego a bit too much.
"I need your help; it's becoming too painful," he strains, and you look down at his now fully hard bulge. It was huge and had you salivating, but you can't give in, not yet, at least. Not when your pettiness from earlier sets in.
"Go ask your fangirls for help," you huff and scoot away from him, sitting down on the mat.
He shifts to kneel in front of you. "Please, baby. I'm sorry. I'm yours and only yours. I promise I won't act out of line ever again. Please, please, please just touch me. It hurts so bad, baby, please," he's full-on begging at this point, and you're sure you can see tears pricking the corner of his eyes.
Something about a 6-foot-something man kneeling in front of you and begging for you to touch him makes you feel powerful. You smirk, knowing you have Mingyu exactly where you want him, desperate and needy in front of you. If he's going to act out of line, then you'll just have to put him in his place.
"You want me to touch you, Gyu?" You tilt your head and pout in faux sympathy.
"Please," he whispers, voice straining as he tries his best not to cry.
"Sit down."
You stand up, giving Mingyu room to sit on the yoga mat. He sits down with his legs outstretched on the mat. Shifting above him, you move to sit on one of his thick thighs, almost moaning at the contact.
"You're gonna sit here and take whatever I give you like a good puppy; if I catch you touching me, I won't let you finish. Okay?"
He nods frantically, desperate for anything at this point. Slowly, you start grinding against his thigh, moaning his name and holding onto his shoulders for support. He moans at the feeling of his thigh slowly getting more and more coated in your arousal. He throws his head back and grips onto the yoga mat below to prevent himself from touching you.
You lean forward and start leaving bite marks on his neck and shoulders. You make sure to bite down extra hard in places that would be visible even if he was wearing a shirt. He whimpers and groans at the feeling of your teeth digging into his skin.
"Mine," you mumble against his skin.
"Yours, only yours," he whimpers, body straining to keep still.
You start grinding on his thigh faster, determined to reach your high; Mingyu notices this and flexes his thigh, giving you more stimulation. You pant and whine out his name, getting close to the edge.
"Fuck, please cum. Cum all over my thigh, please," Mingyu whines out desperately, tipping you over the edge.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, making him hiss as you cum all over his thigh, your arousal drenching the bare skin. Resting your head against his shoulder, you take a minute to catch your breath.
"Baby, please, need you so bad. It hurts too much," he whimpers.
You look down and notice the wet patch on his boxers got bigger. You snake your hands down and cup his bulge, making him hiss.
"Yeah? It hurts?" You whisper whilst grinding your hand against his bulge, making him moan out and nod frantically.
"Please, I can't take it anymore," he whines, tears escaping his eyes.
"I don't know, Gyu; I don't think you earned it," you hum in faux pity, jutting your lips in consideration.
"No, no! Please, I'm begging you. I can't take it anymore," he cries out, desperately bucking into your hand.
"Why don't you ask your fangirls, huh? Since you seem to be more desperate to please them than me," you mock, squeezing him hard, causing him to let out a desperate sob.
"No! No, please! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! It's only you that I want. I'll be good. I promise!" He cries out, distraught clear in his eyes, with tears now streaming down his face. You can see him try so hard to restrain himself from touching you.
You smirk with satisfaction as you watch your big, beefy boyfriend break under you. You remove your hand from his bulge and move it to wipe his tears from his face.
"Oh, you poor thing," you coo, "How badly does it hurt baby?"
"It hurts so bad," he sniffs, "I need you so badly, please."
"I don't know," you hum and move to get off his lap, "You've been a bad puppy lately, and you know bad puppies get punished, right?"
His eyes widen, and his hands fly to grab your hips to prevent you from moving away from him.
"No, no, no!" He begs, "Please, don't leave! Please!" Tugging you back onto his thigh, he pleads, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'll be good! I'll be a good puppy! I swear!"
"What did I say about touching me?" You tch, and his mouth falls open in realisation, and he quickly retracts his hands as if he's burned you.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, please. Forgive me, please," he whimpers.
You shake your head and sigh. "I did warn you, Gyu," you sigh and stand up.
In an act of desperation, he manhandles you back onto the mat, making you lie on it. You let out a squeak as your back hits the mat.
"Fuck, I can't take it anymore," he murmurs before smashing his lips onto yours into a messy and desperate kiss. You kiss back with equal fervour, tangling your fingers in his permed hair. He starts grinding against you like a bitch in heat, letting out small whimpers and pants between the kisses.
He separates from you and quickly discards whatever remaining clothing the both of you have, throwing it to god knows where. You look down at his cock; it's thick and angry, with beads of precum dripping down it. Spreading your thighs, he aligns his tip against your entrance and starts slowly pushing in. You gasp and grab onto his shoulders; no matter how many times he fucks you, you can never get used to his huge size.
"I don't think I can go slow," he rasps. He's not even halfway in, and you already feel so full. Without warning, he slams the rest of him into you, causing you to scream out his name so loud you're sure the neighbours heard you. Your eyes roll to the back when you feel his tip kiss your cervix.
His thrusts are sloppy and erratic. Neither of you are thinking straight anymore. Your thoughts are only filled with how big he is and how good it feels being split open on his cock whilst his own thoughts are only filled with how warm you feel and how you're perfectly wrapped around him.
"S-Shit, I'm cumming," he pants out. He cums whilst moaning out your name, filling you up to the brim with his seeds. He chokes back a whine, but he doesn't stop thrusting. He snakes his hand down to your clit and starts rubbing it in circles, desperate to make you cum as well.
"Please, cum. Please cum all over me," he whines out, body shaking from overstimulation. After a few more thrusts, you cum, hard, convulsing around him. He pants and whines as you squeeze around him. After a few more clumsy thrusts, he collapses onto you.
"Gyu! You're heavy!" You whine.
"But you're so cuddly and warm," he says breathlessly as he wraps his arms around you and squeezes you, making you grumble.
"Are you still mad at me?" He looks at you with a pout.
You grin an easy smile, wrapping your legs around his waist and squeezing him, causing him to groan reflexively.
"I don't know. Maybe you should fuck me again just to be sure."
(where your best friend pretends to be your boyfriend for the holidays so you can avoid more nagging from your mother. except your whole family thought you were already dating)
pairing: mingyu x f!reader
genre: fake dating (kind of), friends to lovers, holiday!au | fluff, smut, romance
rating: explicit, minors do not interact
word count: 18.1k
warnings: eating, drinking, mentions of christmas and holiday celebrations, reference to mingyu being afraid of heights, some minor family dynamic issues, so much kissing, fingering, big dick!mingyu, sex (just plain old missionary), i think that's it
author's note: thank you to the amazing @camandemstudios studios for hosting the winter with you collab! it's been so fun to be part of (even if i forgot for a second that i had to include sunrise sledding, but we're ignoring that). i'm sorry this is a little late as a holiday fic but sometimes life happens and inspiration just doesn't want to strike. i'm not even going to say it's longer than i intended because that's just my brand atp. this is largely unedited.
author's note 2: i think there's going to be an epilogue but idk when that will be possible
“You’re bringing your boyfriend back with you, aren’t you?” your mom asks, which makes you look sharply toward the phone. It’s on speaker because you’re in the middle of folding laundry. Your best friend also looks over towards your phone with a grimace, which makes you wish it wasn’t on speaker.
The thing is…you haven’t told your mom that your ex and you broke up about two months ago. Didn’t want to deal with all the sighing and interrogation while you’re rushing to finish end of the year deadlines at work. Somehow, you know it’ll be your fault. Never mind the fact that he cheated on you in your own apartment. But, that’s another story. Your mother will say something about how you shouldn’t be so picky and everyone makes mistakes. Say that sometimes it’s not your most attractive trait that you’re dedicated to your job. Say that you’re not getting any younger and remind you how many of your friends from school are already married or even having kids of their own. That’s one reminder you don’t really need. You see it every time you aimlessly scroll through your feed. Or when you open the mail and see another wedding invitation.
You sigh. “Well, actually…”
“Oh, don’t tell me,” your mother says with her own sigh. “You broke it off with this one, too?”
“I’m not going to get into it with you,” you say, gentle but firm.
“I don’t understand what could have made you break it off. You said he was like your best friend,” she reminds you.
This earns an eye roll from one of your actual best friends, Mingyu. He takes over folding your clothes for you as something to do and as a way to speed up the whole process.
“Well, he’s not and I don’t see any reality where I will forgive him for what he did to me. So, let’s move on,” you say.
“Maybe that’s okay. You know, one of my friends has a son who’s single and I could just…” she starts.
“No, absolutely not,” you say. This causes Mingyu to stifle his laughter with a hand.
“I don’t understand what the harm in meeting him is. He seems very nice and you’re not exactly getting any younger,” she says.
There it is. The conversation always somehow ends up at the same point. You’re not getting any younger. All your parents’ friends have been planning weddings and getting grandchildren. They all seem to understand the importance of building a family. Why do you have to be so focused on what’s wrong with every person you date? Why are you too wrapped up in work? Your parents constantly remind you how you seem too wrapped up in the city life to realize what you’re missing.
“I just don’t think…” you start but then trail off when Mingyu starts waving at you to get your attention. He’s pointing at himself and mouthing something you can’t understand.
“I know you don’t think, but just…” your mom starts and you mute yourself so you can figure out what your best friend wants.
“What, Mingyu?” you ask, sharper than you intend.
“Take me back with you for the holidays,” he says.
“What?” you ask.
“Take me…” he starts.
“No, I heard you. What are you on about?” you ask.
“You can just feed your mom some line. Tell her you and I just started dating. It doesn’t matter. Anything to just get her off your case,” he says.
“I’m not…what is wrong with you? I’m not going to just fake date you like some weird holiday movie,” you argue.
“Okay, first of all, rude. Those movies aren’t weird, they’re great. And second of all, what do you have to lose? Your mom loves me and she’ll be thrilled to see me. I already know everyone that’ll be at the parties and dinners. My parents are out of the country visiting my sister and her new boyfriend for the holidays, so I was only going to my cousin’s as kind of a pity invite. It can’t possibly fail,” he says.
“There are a lot of ways it could fail, actually,” you point out.
“Wow, are you going to leave me stranded for the holidays? I’m already rethinking this relationship,” Mingyu says through a pout. “My own partner doesn’t even want to spend the holidays with me. Are you embarrassed to bring me around your family?”
“So what do you say?” comes your mom’s voice. You had been blocking it out while talking to Mingyu, yet it still catches your attention.
You quickly unmute yourself and look away from Mingyu. “I…actually can’t, Mom. I’m sort of seeing someone different, but it’s new so I wasn’t going to mention…”
“Oh, you already found someone new, that’s wonderful!” she exclaims.
You don’t have to look at Mingyu to know that he’s wearing a grin that’s entirely too satisfied. Even if he’s mostly kidding about being abandoned for Christmas, you know that it’s been bugging him that his parents decided to go abroad. You also know that he wouldn’t ever dream of inviting himself to tag long even if that’s what he wanted to do. He actually likes your family, sometimes more than you do.
“I’ll have to ask him if he’s willing to come with me, but…” you try to say before your mother cuts you off again.
“Tell him it simply wouldn’t be the holidays without him. I can’t wait to meet him. Oh, I’m going to tell your father. We may manage to get you married after all,” she says in seemingly one breath.
“I still haven’t…” you try again without any luck.
“I can’t wait to see you both! Love you!” she says.
“Love y-...” you say, but she’s already ended the call.
“I guess I have holiday plans after all,” Mingyu says and you fight the urge to throw a pillow at him.
“This is a terrible idea. I can’t pretend we’re dating,” you say and crinkle your nose.
“Oh, wow, have I offended your high standards?” he asks. “Should I remind you of your last two relationships?”
You do throw the pillow at him this time.
Despite all the questions from your parents about just who is coming home with you for the holidays, you insist that it needs to be a surprise. You definitely think that your parents will be surprised when they see Mingyu on their doorstep. Even though you only met Mingyu in college, the two of you have been nearly inseparable since then. He’s come with you to countless family events to keep you company, especially between other relationships. Your parents buy him Christmas presents every year and insist on video chatting with both of you on his birthdays. Your younger cousins ask when he’s going to be coming around again because they look up to him, both literally and figuratively. It’s kind of annoying sometimes because you wonder if they like him more than their own family member. But, you reason it away with them liking him for the same reasons that you do. He’s just so easy to be around, though they get more of his polite company attitude than you do. Around you, he’s much more relaxed and somehow more prone to pouting to get his way.
More unfortunately, the pout always seems to work on you. You pretend to be annoyed with it (well, it’s not always pretending, actually), but you give in every time. Which is fine when it’s just the two of you. It’s less fine when other friends are around because they all have smug looks. Convinced that you and him are end game and neither of you realizes yet. The worst, though, is when he slips into the pout mode around your family and you have to deal with the looks from your family members. It’s all worth it to have someone to act as a buffer, even if you’ll never tell him as much.
Before you get to that point of seeing your parents, you figure that you should stop by to see your childhood best friend first. Of course, he already knows the whole story with Mingyu and doesn’t seem entirely surprised. After all, he’s also known your mom nearly his whole life. Somehow you went from kids forced together when the parents hung out to adults that actually still genuinely love each other, which means he knows Mingyu well too. In his role as best friend, your current situation will not spare you from his teasing. That’s a role he’s happily embraced all your lives.
The smirk on his face is present as soon as he sees you and Mingyu walk into the coffee shop. Mingyu hasn’t even spotted him while he unwinds his scarf and heads to the counter to order drinks. You say you’re going over to sit with your friend and only then does Mingyu notice you’re not the first ones here.
“Hey Kwan, you good on your drink?” he calls.
“Yeah, thanks,” he calls back before his eyes turn on you like he’s got a secret.
You make your way over to his table and try not to react to the look he’s giving you. Typical Seungkwan looking like he’s about to burst with the latest gossip. Even when he knows exactly why you have Mingyu with you and even said, over text, he gets why you agreed. Ugh. You know better than to think he’ll let you live for even a second. Sometimes you think you need better friends.
“Has he gotten taller?” Seungkwan asks, casting his eyes over at your other friend.
“No, but for real,” you say with a laugh. “I swear, I see him constantly and I still feel like he’s getting taller.”
“Constantly, huh?” Seungkwan asks, raising an eyebrow.
“We’re best friends,” you say with a sigh.
“And what am I?” he asks.
“Also my best friend. There’s no rule on having only one,” you repeat for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Are you nervous to head back to your parents’ house?” he asks, entirely switching approaches.
It’s not your first rodeo, though. “Why should I be? They like Mingyu, at least, so there won’t be any of the awkwardness beyond explaining that we’re dating now.”
“Which probably isn’t going to come as a surprise to them,” Seungkwan says.
“I mean, why wouldn’t it be a surprise?” you ask before you clock the look on his face. “Oh, don’t tell me this is more of that bullshit about how often I bring him around. You know my family is insufferable if I have to deal with them alone.”
“No, I just know for a fact that they’ve wondered if you were dating him before,” Seungkwan says as Mingyu finally joins you with two coffees in hand.
“That would mean she would need to have good enough taste to date someone as great as me,” he says when he sets your coffee in front of you.
“I’m so torn,” Seungkwan admits. “I could insult her taste in relationships, which, love you babe, but really? Or I could insult you as not really being any better than anyone she’s dated.”
“That one gets us both, though?” you point out, only a little offended.
“Option two it is,” Seungkwan agrees.
“Okay, enough of that. Fill me in on everything before I have to walk into the lion’s den,” you say.
It’s always the same when you catch up with Seungkwan. He’s thriving even though he chose not to leave the area where you grew up. It’s not that big of an area, but he’s found opportunities. You just found those opportunities a little further away. Just far enough away that your mother can’t easily pop by unannounced. That lead time before she shows up is usually enough that you can mentally prepare.
Seungkwan, for his part, really does brighten up the entire space, when he’s not being a demon. He’s got that kind of shine that can’t even be dulled by staying in the same general area as his family. He’s also better at setting boundaries, which he gently reminds you again. He doesn’t need the space and preparation time of his family showing up at his place unannounced because they all know that’s not allowed. It’s not that you’re a pushover, it’s just that it feels different. Even your parents seem to respect Seungkwan more than you at times. You try not to let the cynicism of being a woman seep into those feelings. But, it’s hard. Harder still when Seungkwan gives you the sympathetic look like he wants to agree and knows it won’t really help anything. He’s always been that special brand of ally. The one that actually does want to help and understands the inherent privilege.
Unfortunately, Seungkwan and his family won’t be coming to the events that your parents have planned for the next week, though they’re always invited. They wanted to do something more focused on their family instead. It probably seems like something over the top to anyone on the outside. To you, it just seems normal. This is how your parents always handle the holidays and most events seem to take place at their house.
All too soon, Seungkwan says that he needs to get back to something and reminds you that you can’t put off going home any longer. You’re already getting dangerously close to what your mother considers late. It’s probably not the best idea to test her patience before the week even starts.
Mingyu takes care of getting you over to your parents house. Maybe fake dating him for a week won’t be so bad when he takes care of driving without asking and doesn’t even need an address. Since he also already knows your entire family, he doesn’t need help with getting gifts to bring with him. That includes both something to give them when you get there as well as actual Christmas gifts. You remember telling him that wasn’t necessary and remember the look of horror on his face when he asked what kind of fake boyfriend he would be if he forgot. Despite the weirdness of the situation, you also find yourself far more at peace than the last time you brought an actual partner home like this. Mingyu has seen you through a lot of ups and downs. Knows when to be serious and when to crack a little joke to break the tension, even if it’s something only for your ears.
That all disappears as soon as your mother greets you at the door with a look of genuine surprise on her face.
“Surprise,” you say. It seems a little redundant because she seems shocked. “You, uh, you remember Mingyu, right?”
“Of course, of course, come in out of the cold,” she says, recovering quickly as she steps out of the way. “Let me get your coats.”
“I know this is probably a bit of a surprise,” you start.
“It definitely is,” she agrees as she takes Mingyu’s and your coats. “Your father is just in the family room.”
“I figured it would be a good surprise,” you offer as you start to follow her into the house.
“No, of course it is. We adore Mingyu, you know that,” she says with a soft smile for Mingyu. She’s always loved him. “We just, well, we thought you and him had broken up…”
“Broken…what?” you ask, your own shock now matching your mother’s as you come to a complete halt.
Mingyu seems to just stay quiet through this entire exchange. You’re wondering why until you look over at him to see that he’s barely containing his laughter. Of course he would find this whole thing funny. Maybe he believes Seungkwan that your parents have wondered if you were dating him. Or maybe he’s just quicker on the uptake. Whatever it, it would be annoying if your brain wasn’t working overtime to try and catch up.
“Yes, you said you’d broken up with a boyfriend. Your father and I realized we hadn’t actually met the last person you dated and we just assumed, since you only mention Mingyu. Well, you said he was like your best friend and we knew it wasn’t Seungkwan. Mingyu only made sense,,” your mother says with a shrug.
“Mingyu! What are you doing here?” your father asks, rising from his seat to shake your best friend’s hand.
“Dating our daughter, apparently,” your mother says with a skeptical look.
“Oh, good! I’m glad you kids worked it out,” he says.
“Did…everyone just think I was dating…?” you start to ask, looking confusedly between your parents. “Mom, Dad, I was not dating Mingyu. We were only…”
“Friends?” your mother supplies through her heavy tone of disbelief.
“Yes,” you say, eyes wide and desperate looking to Mingyu for support.
“We really were just friends,” Mingyu says. “I mean, I guess not just friends. But, seeing her go through another heartbreak just made me realize that I didn’t want to see her go through something like that again. I guess it just made me realize how much I do care about her. So, I finally said something.”
There’s a lot that you can count on Mingyu for. Driving, having an endless supply of oversized hoodies to steal, a stocked kitchen, the best meals of your life, 2 am chats, support through break ups, hating the same people, being scared of his own shadow, a perpetual golden retriever energy, endless loyalty, and the list goes on. Something you never expect to count on Mingyu for, though? The lie that spills so easily from his lips to try and get your parents off your case. Sure, he knows just how much you struggle with your relationship with them. This is different, though. The lie sounds so sincere and his face looks so soft when he glances over at you.
“You know, it’s okay if you just got back together,” your mother says, looking between the two of you.
“Oh my god, that’s not what happened!” you say, throwing your hands up.
“Of course, dear, of course,” your father says.
“I should go take our suitcases upstairs. Am I just in the normal guest room?” he asks.
It’s both a deflection from the conversation and a valid question all rolled into one. Whatever the case, it does work for long enough to have your mother refocus her attention on Mingyu to answer. That gives you at least a second to catch your breath. Bringing Mingyu was supposed to give you a break from your parents. And it will, you think, but it’s also bringing up a lot that you hadn’t planned on. You wonder what Seungkwan will say when you tell him about the reception. Probably that he told you so.
“Oh, no dear. We planned to have you stay in our daughter’s old room with her,” your mother says.
Great. Now you’re in an entirely new spiral because, what? She has you and Mingyu staying in the same room where there is only one bed? You can’t remember the last time she was this relaxed with a partner you brought home, which brings up even more questions. Has this really been the plan? Or is only the plan now because of how much they like him? Is this just another way for them to try and nudge you into marriage?
“But, mom…” you start to protest.
“We’ve got a full house with family, dear,” she says as an explanation.
“I know where it is, I’ll just take the stuff up,” Mingyu offers.
“I can help,” you say as a way to get out of this whole thing and to talk to your friend.
“Pretty sure I’m strong enough to get some luggage upstairs,” he jokes and you roll your eyes.
“Why don’t you go up with him anyway? Then you can freshen up before dinner,” your mother says with a poorly disguised look at your slightly wrinkled clothing.
Mingyu insists on carrying the bigger suitcases upstairs on his own, but you grab the smaller bags you had in the car with you. Well, except for his backpack that he also stubbornly carries. You don’t need a personal demonstration, you already know that he’s strong. You also don’t need to hear your mother talking about how nice it is to have such a polite young man around like he hasn’t been around a million times before. Once you’re inside the room and behind a closed door, you round on your friend.
“What the hell was that?” you ask.
“Your mom actually letting you and a boyfriend stay in the same room? I don’t know. It’s crazy, right?” he asks.
“Not that, what was with you?” you ask.
“What do you mean?” he returns, looking up from his suitcase where he had been getting ready to unpack.
“That whole answer you gave my mom,” you say and he looks almost pitying.
“I have to make it believable, don’t I?” he asks like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Otherwise, she won’t buy it and she’s going to try to set you up.”
“I guess that makes sense,” you concede.
“Kind of wild that they thought we’d been dating, though,” he adds on.
“Yeah, what was that?” you ask with more force than you mean.
He only shrugs. “I don’t know, they’re your parents.”
“Seungkwan said the same thing,” you remind him.
“About people thinking we’re dating?” he asks, eyes back on his suitcase.
“Yeah,” you say.
He only chuckles before he looks up. “Come on, that’s not the first time either. How many of our friends have thought the same thing?”
“They’re just fucking with us,” you disagree.
“And my ex?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Okay, well in my defense, she was insane. The whole idea that people of the opposite sex can’t be friends is an insane take,” you say.
“Yeah, I’m not exactly upset to be rid of her,” he agrees.
“Come on. We better hurry up and get back downstairs,” you say.
The rest of the day is somehow just as weird, but also comforting. As the rest of the family starts arriving, either to stay or just for dinner, you find out that most of your family thinks you’ve been dating Mingyu. Or that it was him that you broke up with and are now back together with. It’s hard to tell if it’s something coming from your parents or just a general vibe that the two of you give off. You can at least acknowledge that you didn’t talk about your last relationship much with your family. Hindsight is always clearer, but you still think you knew something was off in that relationship the whole time. Knew that he wasn’t destined to go the distance. Maybe that’s why the break up didn’t hurt that bad. Honestly, the worst part was thinking of facing your family alone for Christmas.
Mingyu saves you from that as he’s saved you countless times before.
That brings you to the more comforting part of the evening. You can’t tell if any of your family members actually buy that this is a new relationship. At least, none of them seem to think it’s fake. You can probably put up with it if they just think you’re lying about when you actually got together. That makes it all feel much easier. Then, there’s the fact that your entire family loves Mingyu. It’s the first time you can remember joining the dinner to kick off the family Christmas festivities in years. Your family takes the holidays very seriously and it’s Mingyu’s first time experiencing it like this. Yet, he slots right in with everything.
It also feels like he’s thought through this whole fake relationship in ways you didn’t. Sure, you talked about some of the ins and outs since this isn’t just a quick overnight trip. But, mostly, you just decide it’s easiest to keep it as close to the truth as possible. The friendship is so deep that there’s genuine love there. You don’t have to fake that. What you did not consider is physical affection. You’re not the kind of person that drapes yourself all over a partner, never have been. There’s a moment where you worry, as you watch your cousin and her fiancé, that you and Mingyu could be found out for not showing enough affection.
A few minutes later, you’re wishing he would be less affectionate. And you’re not even sure why you worried. The first thing you really learned about Mingyu was that he was incredibly physically affectionate. Tight hugs, random hand holding, an arm around your shoulder, a hand on your arm or leg. It’s all just par for the course with him. It’s gotten even more obvious now that he’s pretending to date you. It seems so innocuous, too. He’s got his hand on your thigh, giving the occasional squeeze, while he’s talking to someone else. He randomly plants a kiss on your temple. He leans over to whisper something to you on the pretense of being close and usually it’s nothing. You don’t even realize that it has most of your family giving each other knowing looks. Like they’re still not convinced you hadn’t been dating before.
By the time it’s late enough to go upstairs, you’re more than ready to have time away from your family. Every time you think that you’re social, your family is there to humble you. Or maybe it’s just that being around them is too draining. In any case, you and Mingyu head upstairs together. Thankfully, your parents house is big enough that it feels like there’s a little bit of privacy in your old bedroom.
“So, how’s this going to work?” Mingyu asks, glancing at the bed and then into the attached bathroom.
Okay, so maybe, even with how big the house is, you haven’t fully considered everything. You’re not really sure what to do. It shouldn’t be weird. You and Mingyu have shared a bed before. This just somehow feels intimate when your entire family thinks you’re sharing because you’re in a relationship and don’t know this is all pretend so you can have a little bit of peace for the holidays. Your gift to yourself. Shaking it all off, you turn to Mingyu.
“I mean, we’ve shared before. It’ll be fine,” you say.
“So are we not gonna talk about the last time we shared?” he asks with an eyebrow raised.
Racking your brain, you can’t really think of anything that would make him say that. Had something awkward happened? Did one of you do something that you should really remember? Just as you’re about to go into a full blown spiral, you feel Mingyu appear before you. He reaches out to smooth out the line between your eyebrows.
“Don’t hurt yourself there,” he says with a laugh. “You whined about me taking up too much space.”
“Oh my god,” you say and swat at him. “It was a tiny bed and you took up the entire thing! You can’t do this to me when I’m already wound tight over my family.”
“Sorry,” he says and throws up his hands. The sparkle in his eyes says that he’s anything but.
“I’m going to change and then start my skincare routine,” you say as you move to grab something to wear to bed.
Without even asking if you’re dressed, Mingyu comes into the bathroom to start doing his own skincare routine while you’re in there. He’s already changed into a t-shirt and shorts, which you know is more than he normally wears to bed. It’s somehow peaceful to go through your routines in silence like this. You consider that it might be in part because it forces him to be quiet. Not that you usually mind his chatter, it’s just that your brain is already tired from one night dealing with your family. You can’t imagine how the rest of the days are going to go and are thankful for the downtime when you’ll be able to get out of the house to do things.
Once you’re back in the bedroom, you both finish off all the little things you need to do. You plug in your phone after checking for any important notifications, grab the TV remote to fling it over to Mingyu, and slide under the covers. Usually you just kind of scroll before going to sleep or sometimes you’ll read. But, you think it might be weird to do those things when you’re sharing a bed with someone else.
“Do I need to make a pillow wall or something?” he asks as he’s flipping through to find something to watch.
Your head whips to the side to look at him. Even though it’s only his profile, you can see that he’s smirking. Purposefully not looking at you because he knows it’ll break the little composure he has. To deal with that, you whack him with a pillow.
“Just don’t drape your entire body over me,” you say.
“Why?” he asks and does turn to look at you now, wiggling his eyebrows. “Afraid it’ll be too close?”
“No, you fucking goober, you’re just heavy,” you say through a genuine laugh.
“How is this relationship ever going to work if we’re calling each other names?” he says, pretending to be heartbroken.
“Same way it has for like 8 years,” you joke back with a soft smile.
“Are you saying you love me?” he asks, hand on his heart. This is one of your favorite things about your friendship with Mingyu because he’s so dramatic that it takes your mind off everything else.
“I don’t know, I’m rethinking it,” you say and turn back to the TV.
“I love you too, you know,” he says, voice soft enough to make you turn back to him.
“I know, Gyu. I don’t think anyone else would put themselves through this for me, so thank you,” you say honestly.
He just shrugs and goes back to a lighter place. “Well, I didn’t have good holiday plans and who can say no to this level of entertainment?”
The next day actually gives you time to catch up with some of your family members more personally instead of everything being such big conversations. That’s especially true for your cousin, Mimi, who’s only two years younger than you and has always been your favorite of your cousins. Even if you go months without seeing each other, it always feels like no time passes. There’s just a level of closeness and understanding between the two of you. You can complain about your mothers since they’re sisters and honestly the same person, just in a different font. It’s easy to be on the same page about things as well.
You’re actually a little surprised to see that she’s here alone, even though you know she recently got out of a bad relationship. Somehow, it seems her mom is more understanding than your own. She was also much more honest about how the relationship fell apart after 3 years and her mom is sympathetic about it. When she says it like that, you understand. Your last few relationships have all been measured in months rather than years.
“You’re not, like, actually dating Mingyu though, are you?” she asks quietly when it’s just the two of you.
“Mimi,” you hiss and look around.
“We’re alone,” she assures you with a wave of her hand. “So, spill.”
“No,” you say hesitantly. “Why?”
“I’m just curious,” she says unconvincingly.
“He was with me when my mom was bugging me about the holidays and bringing someone with me. Then she was going to set me up, so he just offered…” you start.
“He was the one who suggested it?” she asks, far more curious than she should be.
“Yeah,” you say simply. “Again, why?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve just always thought he was cute and I was wondering if he’s actually single.”
“You cannot hit on Mingyu,” you whisper through gritted teeth. She gives you a look you can’t place before brushing it off.
“Oh, I’m not saying I would. It’s just good to know I could,” she says.
“You can’t,” you remind her. “Everyone thinks we’re dating.”
“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t do it anywhere anyone else could see,” she teases.
Of course, another of our cousins picks that moment to join you, so you can’t further chastise Mimi. It irritates you all the same though. How does she think it’s just fine to do something like that when you’re supposed to be in a fake relationship? Could she not just wait to hit on him until the rest of your family wasn’t watching with too much attention?
Normally, Mimi is a respite from the rest of your family. She’s one of the few people that you’re always completely honest with. Now, she’s taken that away. You try to go about the rest of the day with her knowing that the relationship is fake and she seems like she’s trying her best to get under your skin. Every part of you wants to stop her from chatting so much to Mingyu and you can’t. It would seem weird when everyone knows that you and your cousin are close. Weirder still when she always knows Mingyu relatively well from every other time he’s been to some family event.
When you excuse yourself up to your bedroom for a second away from your parents and their incessant hint dropping, Mingyu slips into the room just after you. Which is odd, considering you had not even seen him also slip away. The second odd thing comes when you look at his face. He looks more serious than usual, more tired. It doesn’t fully make sense because he’s incredibly social. Loves to be around people in the way all true extroverts do. Something must be wrong.
“Can I talk to you?” he asks after closing the door.
“You don’t ever have to ask,” you say with clear apprehension.
“Did you tell Mimi we weren’t actually dating?” he asks, still looking at you in a way you can’t place.
You exhale, thinking it’ll be nothing. “Oh, that, yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it to you, I just…”
“Did you also tell her that I’m very single and she should go ahead and shoot her shot?” he asks and you stop short hearing that.
“I - what?” you ask.
“She just kind of cornered me and was laying it on super thick, but she said it was fine because she knows we’re not really dating and that you’d encouraged her to…” he starts and you immediately cut him off.
“What the actual fuck, Mimi?” you say in frustration.
“I mean, if you want me to…” he tries to start again, looking a little like a lost or kicked puppy. It makes you immediately close the space between you and him.
“Gyu, no. I did tell her that we weren’t actually dating, but I absolutely did not tell her it was okay to do any of that, let alone encourage it,” you say.
“So you don’t want me to flirt back?” he asks. He’s still looking Too Serious when he says it and you’re not really sure how to feel.
“Since we’re supposed to be dating, I’d prefer you didn’t. But, if you think she’s pretty it’s not like I can stop you,” you say noncommittally.
“Of course I think she’s pretty. You and your whole family are pretty. It’s like something in a TV show or some shit,” he says and this is a Mingyu you recognize because he’s rolling his eyes.
“Oh yeah, says the guy who looks like that,” you say and vaguely gesture at him.
“I…did you just compliment me?” he asks, totally off track from wherever he was going.
“That depends, did you compliment me first?” you deflect.
“You’re such a shithead,” he grumbles and you tsk at him.
“Now, now sweetheart, should we really be name calling?” you tease.
He fixes you with his attempt at an unimpressed stare, but he’s nowhere near as good at it as you are. Like every other time, he relents first. “I’ve probably told you how beautiful you are hundreds of times in our friendship.”
“Which I’ve always returned,” you lie.
“Be so for real. I have to pull most compliments out of you,” he says through a snort. When you open your mouth to protest, he cuts you off. “Most compliments that are not about my cooking, I should say.”
“People fall all over you,” you say with a good natured eye roll of your own. “Do you really need to hear me also say you could easily be a model?”
“Doesn’t hurt,” he mumbles through a pout.
“Oh, beautiful Mingyu,” you start, taking on the silliest voice you can muster. “You’re so pretty that I could cry. Your face breaks hearts every day, your smile lights up the room, your hair…”
“Okay, okay, enough,” he says even though he looks pleased.
“I cannot believe Mimi, though,” you say.
“I’m glad you’re not trying to push us together,” he admits.
“Why? Not interested?” you tease.
He answers seriously, though. “No. She’s pretty, sure, but no, I’m definitely not interested, even if I wasn’t pretending to date you.”
That honest answer strikes something in you. Not that honesty is unusual between the two of you. It just feels like there’s also an element of vulnerability in the response as well. Like he’s saying something that you just can’t quite decipher. You just brush aside for now, though, since there’s nothing else you really can do.
Mingyu, as it turns out, has one winter time tradition that he’s always wanted to try and never had the chance to do: sledding. He’s never lived in any place where it’s snowy enough or there’s enough free space. But, up here in the relative mountains where your parents live, sledding is a way of life. It’s something you’ve done countless times growing up with friends or family. Part of you is even a little thankful that he wants to do it, too. It’s been years since you’ve gone sledding and getting to see his face when you go for the first time feels special. Feels like something that’s just for you.
Which is why you’re up before the sun.
Last night, when you talked about sledding and getting an early start, Mingyu was on board. Now that it’s time to actually get up, you can see it written all over his face that he’s regretting every decision that’s ever led him to this moment. Like the true best friend that he is, though, he’s keeping the actual grumbling to a minimum. You’re not sure why you’re not also grumbling. You’re not a morning person. But, you’ve never gone sledding at sunrise either and something about it just seems like it’ll be magical. Like it really will make it an entirely new experience for you and him to share.
The house is quiet as you grab the bag of snow pants and winter jackets that you packed the night before from the closet in the entryway. Everything feels so peaceful in the house and just as still when you leave. Like even the soft sound of the door is too much while the whole world sleeps. You can hear the slight crunch under your feet as you trudge over to Mingyu’s car and take care not to be too loud getting in. Thank him again for driving when you know it’s way earlier than he wants to be awake. All he does is smile like there’s nowhere else in the world he would rather be.
The drive to the hill where you’re going to sled is quick and also tranquil. Even the music is soft like Mingyu is afraid of disrupting the peace. Or maybe you’re both just appreciating something different than the normal bustle of life in a city. It’s never this kind of quiet there and there’s something kind of beautiful about it. Even the parking lot is empty when you get to the small hill that you used to sled down as a kid. You’ve never seen it empty before. Then again, you’ve never been before the sun rose, either. Mingyu takes care to unload the sleds before you both bundle up. It’s not terribly cold, but you make him put on the waterproof gear anyway.
He stops at the bottom of the hill and looks towards the top. “We’re going all the way up there?”
You can hear a little bit of nerves in his voice. Mingyu has never been a fan of heights. This isn’t that high, though, and you nudge him playfully. Well, it doesn’t seem high to you. “I think you can manage. Come on.”
Climbing up to the top is always your least favorite part because it uses the most energy. Not that you mind the activity, it’s just a lot of work for a relatively short ride back down the hill on the sled. At least this hill has stairs built into the slope off to the side to help you. Once you’re at the top, you plop down with Mingyu right beside you. It’s less about catching your breath and more about appreciating the view. It seems like you can see for miles even though you’re not that high up. The sun starts to rise and you know it’s all worth it. All the shades of orange and pink stretch across the horizon as the sun makes its way over the distant mountains. There aren’t any words that come to mind to really capture how beautiful it is. The colors are more vibrant against the white of the snow all around you. Everything feels magnified in the quiet space. All either of you can do is utter out a soft wow to express your awe.
And then the quiet really is broken.
“Okay you expect me to slide down that on a piece of plastic?” he asks with a hint of panic in his voice.
You follow his gaze and look down the hill, because it really is only a hill. Not anything crazy. It always looks a little more intimidating from the top, but it isn’t anything all that high.
“Oh come on you giant baby,” you tease and nudge him. “We got all the way up here, how else are you going to get down?”
“Walk back down the stairs they so nicely provided?” he offers.
“That’s crazy,” you say.
“I’m afraid of heights!” he shouts, more panic in his voice.
“I know, Gyu,” you say, instantly softening as you approach him to put your hand on his arm.
“I didn’t really think this through,” he admits.
“Why did you agree to sledding down a hill?” you ask, genuinely curious.
He’s quiet for a moment as he looks out over vista before him. You watch as a calm comes back over him. The kind of calm that can only come from a setting as pretty as this one. Watch him take a couple steadying breaths. Even though you’ve been friends with Mingyu for years, you’ve never really seen his fear of heights firsthand. Couldn’t have imagined it would kick in for something as seemingly innocuous as a small sledding hill. Though, admittedly, it is a pretty decent size. It’s definitely not just the kind of hill people sled down in their backyards or local parks.
“Because I wanted to try sledding and do something new. And this hill seemed important to you,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m not going to say no to something you ask me to do when you get that look in your eyes.”
“What look?” you ask to avoid considering a deeper meaning to his words.
“I don’t know. You get all starry eyed,” he says with a shrug.
“How about this? We can go down together and check it off the list. You don’t have to sled again,” you offer.
“We came all the way out here,” he says, unsure.
“And I got to see the prettiest sunrise of my life with my best friend beside me,” you say easily.
“Okay, okay. I can at least try,” he says.
You get up and send the smaller of the sleds down the hill without anyone on it in case you really only take the one ride. It would be a hassle to have to come back up and get it. Then, you position yourself on the bigger sled that’s meant for two people (or three kids sometimes when you were younger). Once you’re in place, you motion for Mingyu to settle in behind you. Point out where he can put his legs on either side of you, which already feels closer than normal even with how affectionate Mingyu can be. You adjust so that your back is pressed against his chest. It’s about the right balance to the sled so that you’re less likely to topple over on the way down. Mingyu has to crowd into your space to wrap his arms around your middle because he’s bigger than you are, something you hadn’t considered when suggesting this. You can almost tell that he’s considering burying his face in your hair, but stops short.
At least, until you push over the edge with a combination of wiggling and using your hands to push your forward. That’s when he buries his face. Then, you’re slowly picking up speed as you slide down the completely untouched snow. It’s always best like this, in your opinion. Before there are lanes carved into the snow. Yes, those lanes pack the snow down and can make you go faster, but you can also catch an edge and topple over more easily.
None of that is really on your mind once you start descending though. All you can think of is the way Mingyu’s body feels pressed against yours. How it’s very foreign but also very comforting. How you can understand why your whole family so easily believes that you’re together. The comfort is effortless, something you don’t ever think about. It just exists. You focus on how funny it is to have this giant of a man wrapped around you like a koala with his head buried in your hair now because he’s nervous. You don’t even consider any other way that it might make you feel. When you let out a squeal of delight as the sled picks up more speed, you feel, rather than hear, him grumble by the tickle of his breath in your hair. It only makes him cling more tightly to you.
It’s almost disappointing when you feel the sled level out at the bottom of the hill and slow down. It’s been the perfect way to relive one of the parts of your childhood that you loved the most. Getting to do silly little things like this really was one of the best parts of winter. You’re fully stopped before you realize that Mingyu is still clinging to you with everything he has. So, you carefully place a hand over his and feel him untense the tiniest bit.
“It’s okay, we made it to the bottom in one piece.”
Slowly, he loosens his grip on you and actually looks up. Again, you feel this rather than seeing it. You feel the absence of his body heat and only then realize just how tightly he was clinging to you. Mingyu pulls his face out of your hair and seems to look around, as if testing that you’re really at the bottom of the hill. Like he’s not sure it’s over that quickly.
“That wasn’t so bad.”
“No, it was a lot of fun.”
“Do you think…could we maybe go again?”
Both of you are standing up again now and it makes you whip your head around to look at him because you can’t believe this scaredy cat actually wants to go down again after how much it took to get him down the first time. His face is hopeful, though, and you’re not about to start saying no to that face now. Not when you never have before. So you match his smile.
“On one condition,” you finally say. Mingyu only looks at you like he’s waiting for you to continue. “You have to actually keep your eyes open this time.”
“You don’t know I had my eyes closed,” he insists with a pout.
“Gyu, your face was in my hair,” you say through a laugh.
“Okay, fine. Eyes open. But, I have my own condition, too,” he fires back, still kind of pouting.
“Yes?”
“I want to ride together again.”
It’s easy to agree to that. Even though you don’t say it out loud, it’s kind of fun riding with him, especially when the hill is so untouched. He’s tall and muscular, very helpful when it comes to carving a path and also picking up speed. He adds to the momentum and you like going faster. You don’t consider telling him that he wouldn’t go quite as fast without you because you would be losing on as well. It’s not a bad deal for either of you, really. Mingyu gets to work a little on a fear of heights on something much more manageable and you get to live out your best sled dreams.
Each run gets a little bit easier. Mingyu holds up his end of the bargain and actually opens his eyes, which is more entertaining to you than it probably should be as he curses all the way down that first run. But, he keeps wanting to go and you’re not going to stop him. Don’t realize that maybe he also keeps going because he loves to see the way your face lights up each run. Neither of you makes an effort to get the other sled again either.
By the time the sun is fully risen, yours and Mingyu’s cheeks are rosy from the cold. And also from the way you’ve taken to running back up the steps to the top like kids. You have to admit, even if it means he’ll get a big head, this is the most fun you’ve had in your hometown during the holidays in a long time. Honestly, it might actually be the most fun you’ve had anywhere in a while. It’s nice to get back to something simpler without worrying about anything else. Life can get busy back in the city between work and chores and endless responsibility. Sometimes it’s nice to just take a break from it all. Remember that there are more important things than just working all the time or being stressed about things you can’t really control. Maybe there’s something to simplifying life a bit.
Now that the sun is rising, it’s a more acceptable time for people to be out and about themselves. Kids can convince their parents to take them sledding as well. At the first sign of people approaching, you and Mingyu agree that it should be your last run. You’re starting to get a little tired and you know it’ll get loud. You don’t mind having the kids around, you just know it gets harder to avoid everyone and you have to wait longer between each run. Besides, you planned something post sledding as well. It catches you off guard that he actually seems a little sad to be leaving.
That is, until you take him to this little hole in the wall of a breakfast place. It’s something new because you’re not usually in this area when he comes with you to family events. Not that it’s far, it’s just a few towns over and there are closer places. Until winter comes around again and the elderly couple that runs the place roll out their secret recipe for hot cocoa. Honestly, you could probably just drink that without even ordering anything to eat and be the happiest person in the world. The food is amazing too, though, and you didn’t eat before leaving to go sledding. You and Mingyu order a few things to share and laugh all the way through it, talking about sledding and the trip so far.
“Thanks for this,” he says as breakfast is winding up.
You’re a little surprised at both his words and the gentleness of his tone. “For what?”
“Taking me sledding like this. That sunrise was amazing and I, well, I guess I didn’t think I’d have as much fun as I did,” he admits, a little more shy than you’re used to.
“I’m glad you trusted me,” you say and can’t quite place the look he gives you.
“I think I’d trust you with just about anything.”
The day before Christmas is always the same. By then, you’re in desperate need of a break from your family and you think they may be in need of a break from you as well. So, each year you get together with Seungkwan and some of your other friends that still live in the area. Anyone with a partner brings them along and you have a nice, boozy brunch. This year, Seungkwan is hosting because his place is spacious and the group seems a little bigger. It’s also nice to get to really spend some time at his place since he’s only been there a few months.
Typically, a few people in the friend group will bring over some pre-made things to warm up the next day as well as everyone bringing whatever they want to drink and share. That’s the same for this year with a slight change. Mingyu, once he sees the kitchen, says that he just has to make some food as well. After taking an inventory, he heads back out to buy more things that he needs, ignoring any of your protests and only agreeing to take your card so you can sort out the cost with your friends. (You’re not going to do that because you don’t mind just covering it, but you don’t want him to cover it either.)
When he gets back, he immediately goes into the kitchen and your friend Vernon’s girlfriend offers to help. She drags Seungkwan’s sister, who doesn’t usually come around, with her as well. Mingyu only leaves the kitchen long enough to bring you one of the mimosas that he made, insisting there’s a special ingredient. Then, it’s back to fully focusing on the food. Not that you really mind. It’s nice to just be in a low stress environment with your friends to catch up, have some drinks, and laugh a lot.
Vernon, after looking around to make sure nobody else is listening, shows you and Seungkwan the ring he’s been walking around with for the past few weeks. Apparently, he’s finally settled that he’s going to propose to his girlfriend tomorrow on Christmas Day. You’re thrilled because they’ve been together forever and she already feels like family. Seungkwan nearly bursts into tears, which you have to quickly cover so nobody realizes what’s happening. You love that your best friend is like that. It’s just not the time if you want to keep it a secret that Vernon wants to propose.
It also feels nice to be in a group where you don’t have to pretend. Nothing changes all that much for how you and Mingyu are together because he’s always affectionate with you. But, you get to trade any of the not-so-subtle comments about when you’re going to get married to the relentless teasing about how he passes as your boyfriend so easily. It’s nice to have someone joking about it and you find you don’t even mind. Especially when Mingyu chimes in with his own little comments from the kitchen. There seems like there’s a lot of laughter in there as well.
“You’re going to have to dress him better if he’s going to keep posing as your boyfriend,” Seungkwan jokes and you look over at the kitchen.
Mingyu is wearing this kind of awful green zip up sweater. It’s not even that nice, soft material. But, he insisted on wearing it because he wanted to wear something with Christmas colors and it was the only thing he had apart from his outfit for tomorrow. It makes you roll your eyes again remembering it.
“I know,” you sigh. “Usually he dresses so well and then there’s that.”
Your eyes drift back over to him in the kitchen again and you kind of wish you hadn’t looked back. You catch him as something falls off a spoon he’s using to taste test and onto his skin. And, without seeming to think about it, he sucks it off his hand. Then, licks along his finger for good measure. It makes your heart stutter a little in a way that’s completely foreign to you. Why are you so entirely transfixed by someone who’s supposed to be your best friend and fake boyfriend doing that?
“Hey, you good?” Seungkwan asks, snapping in front of your eyes.
You shake your head to clear it before turning back to him. “Yeah, sorry, zoned out for a second.”
“Uh huh,” he says skeptically, but you catch his eyes darting over to Mingyu.
“Don’t,” you warn him, causing him to throw his hands up in defense.
“I won’t,” he says. “But, if you decide you want to talk about it…”
“Talk about what?” Mingyu asks. You hadn’t even seen him leave the kitchen.
“The issue she’s having with Mimi,” Seungkwan lies quickly.
Mingyu rolls his eyes. “She won’t leave me alone.”
“And that seems to be driving both of you crazy,” Seungkwan observes.
“Well, yeah, our bestie is just being a good friend and she knows I’m uncomfortable,” Mingyu says before you can answer. Is that all it is? For the first time, you’re not sure.
“I’m not sure how I feel about sharing a best friend,” Seungkwan says with feigned distaste.
Mingyu tries to give The Look again, but fails even worse than with you. Nobody can outdo Seungkwan and so he gives up. “Food is ready.”
“Oh good, I’m starving,” Vernon interrupts.
The rest of brunch goes by without Seungkwan making any other comments. To you, at least. You don’t see him sit down next to Mingyu after the food is done like it’s casual and unplanned. Nothing that man ever does is either of those things, though. What you do notice is how easily he fits into this group of friends. Sure, he knows Seungkwan pretty well and he’s met nearly everyone there. But, he doesn’t get to spend much time around them. Not really, in the grand scheme of things. It isn’t really surprising, if you think about it, because they’re all close friends of yours and he tends to think you have good taste where friends are concerned.
It is a little weird, you think as Mingyu sits on the other side of the room, that he seems to be a little glued to his phone now that things are getting closer to wrapping up. He checks it mid conversation and furrows his brow at whatever he sees. Both seem unusual. Mingyu is always one of those people that gives his full attention to a conversation. Unless it’s an emergency, he likes to be present in a moment. It’s one of your favorite things about him. It’s also unlike him to be so upset by something on his phone. You can’t think of any person that would be creating that reaction from him. Or anyone that he wouldn’t just ignore until later. You try to put it out of your mind as best you can. If it’s something serious, he’ll talk to you about it. At least, you hope.
Any other time, you would be thrilled to have your favorite cousin staying at your parents’ house for the holidays. She’s always been your confidant and one of your safe spaces. Now? You can’t stand it. You really wish she would be literally anywhere else. Just the sight of her is getting to be enough to set you off. It seems like she’s really taking it to heart that Mingyu is single. You’re not sure what her game is and you hate it.
Of course, she manages to corner you the second you’re back to your parents’ house. You’re not exactly paying all that much attention, though. The end of brunch with your friends had been a little weird, even if nobody else noticed it. Mingyu accepted all the praise for the things he made, but was distracted by his phone. Someone, you’re not really sure who, kept sending him messages. Whatever it was didn’t seem to be making him happy. Not that you really have any right to ask him who’s blowing up his phone. It’s just a little weird. Usually he’s so present in events like brunch. It’s odd to see him constantly checking his phone. Odder still that he had headed off to the bedroom as soon as you got back. You’re a little buzzed from the mimosas. Mingyu, on the other hand, is very sober.
“There you are,” Mimi says, appearing as if out of thin air. It makes you jump back, hand on your heart.
“Jesus,” you gasp out.
“No, Mimi,” she jokes. Any other time, it would make you laugh. You’re not so entertained with her now.
“What are you sneaking up on me for?” you ask instead.
She rolls her eyes and looks around. “I’m not sneaking up on you. I was just trying to catch you away from the others.”
“Why?”
“Why do you have that fake boyfriend of yours on such a tight leash?”
Out of habit, you look around to make sure nobody is listening. Everyone seems too busy, though. “I don’t have Mingyu on a leash.”
“Then explain why he’s basically refusing to answer any of my texts,” she says, arms crossed.
“I don’t know why…wait a minute. Was it you texting him while we were at brunch?” you ask.
This, somehow, seems to satisfy her. “Oh, so he’s not telling you who’s texting him.”
“I didn’t ask, honestly.”
“Well, I don’t see why he’d be ignoring - “
Your brain catches up then. “Hang on. How the fuck did you get his number?”
Mimi rolls her eyes again with a huff. “Please. You’ve had the same passcode on your phone for ages. I just grabbed it when you left your phone out.”
“That’s so fucked, Mimi. You can’t just go through my phone or take his number,” you say.
“You’re no fun anymore,” she says with a whine.
You’re not interested in hearing anything else she has to say because you just want to talk to Mingyu. This is getting insane that she’s going to this amount of trouble just to try to get to him. Yet, it’s also weird he kept it to himself that she was texting him. The two of you have talked a lot about the shit Mimi pulls in order to get close to him. Why is it different now that she’s texting him while he’s out with your friends? Is he starting to get worn out from dealing with the insanity of your family? Every other time he’s been around, it’s been really chill. This time, not so much.
Up in your room, you don’t initially see Mingyu. You’re not sure what you’re expecting. Maybe him on his phone texting or else complaining to another friend about how this whole trip is going. Or even talking to his sister about getting out to see her instead of staying here. None of that happens, though. Instead, you find him in the bathroom applying a face mask. It’s a little ridiculous and definitely the last thing you expect. But, you also know that it’s a sign he’s carrying some amount of stress.
That’s the thing about being as close to someone as you are to Mingyu. To most people, he’s got this unfailing streak of energy and kindness. He’s the kind of person that lets himself be bullied by all his friends even though he could definitely take them. It’s all part of making sure everyone is enjoying themselves and most things just roll off his broad shoulders. There are hidden depths to him, too. Sometimes he gets a little worn out because he’ll keep things to himself instead of burdening someone else. He takes so much onto his own plate and you wish he wouldn’t. At least, not always. He’ll go until it feels a little unbearable and then finally speak up. He’ll force a smile even when he doesn’t feel like it just to make sure nobody else realizes anything is wrong. In a way, he folds in on himself a little. But, you’ve been friends for years so you know his tells. Know how to spot the signs. It takes you a little longer this time surrounded by family and some friends. This is one of those signs, though. Taking the time to do a face mask, even if it’s in the middle of the day, to just give him an excuse to be quiet.
You’re not usually the one to initiate physical contact with him. Not because you don’t want to, he just never really gives you the chance. He’s like a human koala most of the time. With his back to the door and his eyes closed to enjoy the feeling of the mask, he doesn’t even hear you approach. Your hands wind around his waist, hugging him tightly from the back and your head rests between his shoulder blades. For the briefest moment, he tenses and you worry that he’s using this as a break from you. Then, he realizes it’s just you and his entire body relaxes. He puts his hands over yours and sighs softly. After a moment, it doesn’t seem like it’s enough because he turns in your arms and pulls you tight against his chest, wrapping you so tightly in his own arms that you would complain in any other situation. Not now, though. Not when he’s putting himself through all of this just so you don’t have to have a stressful holiday experience.
When it’s like this, you don’t dream of pulling away from Mingyu. There’s so much that he does for you and it’s so rare that you can do anything for him in return. So, you’ll stay tightly pressed against him as long as he wants. You won’t be the one to break the hug first. If you can take even a little bit of whatever he’s feeling onto your own shoulders, you will. This trip has been so much better than you could have expected in most ways and you’re determined to be more conscious of his needs. Eventually, he does pull away and let you look up into his face. He looks much more at peace than you expect. Maybe your hugs do have healing powers like he always says. Mingyu turns to remove the face mask and wipe his face before turning back to you.
“I’m sorry,” you say softly into the space between you.
“For what?” he asks.
“For the whole drama that is my family,” you start. “Mostly, for Mimi, though.”
“Ah,” he says and his face falls a little.
“Gyu, I would never have put you in this position if I had known she would be like this,” you say earnestly.
“I don’t think anyone could have guessed she’d pull all this,” he says with a humorless laugh.
“You should’ve told me that she was texting you and bugging you like that,” you say without any accusation. You just want to be able to share in his burden.
He only shrugs. “We were with your friends and you looked so happy. I didn’t want to bring it down. How did you even find out she was texting me?”
“She told me,” you say with an eye roll.
“Really?”
“Well, she cornered me and asked why I had you on such a tight leash…”
“Kinky,” he interrupts and it nearly makes you choke.
“And then, when I asked how she even got your number, she told me she’d gone into my phone and taken it,” you say to avoid thinking too deeply about Mingyu and any kinks he might have.
“Bold,” he observes.
“Do you like that?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
The second the question comes out of your mouth, you wish you could take it back. What is going on with your brain today? First you’re losing your train of thought watching Mingyu lick something off his finger. Then, you’re wondering about his kinks. Now, you’re wondering if he likes someone that’s a little bit bold. It’s got to just be the atmosphere that you’re in. Or that you’re pretending to date him. It’s messing with your mind and you’re not responsible for the way you act.
The worst part is that Mingyu’s entire face changes. He gets that knowing look on his face when he meets your eyes. A little cocky. The look that says he knows just how attractive he can be. It’s not usually directed at you and you’re not really sure what to do now that it is.
“Sometimes,” he says. “Not necessarily from someone I’m not actually interested in, though.”
“Good to know.”
Mingyu arches an eyebrow and okay, that’s devastating. Maybe you’re still a little under the influence of the mimosas. There’s no other explanation for the way your knees go a little weak at such a simple movement. “Is it?”
“Huh?” you ask, shaking your head to clear it.
“You said it was good to know and I asked if it was,” he repeats, smirk only deepening.
“Oh, sure,” you say and he seems momentarily surprised. “You know, so I can tell Mimi.”
You’re actually not entirely sure what makes you say it. It’s not like you would ever want him to consider Mimi. It might actually drive you crazy if he went for her. He gets that look on his face that you’re all too familiar with. Affection mixed with exasperation. Nobody seems to get it more than you.
“Too bad for her that I’m very much not interested,” he says.
“Shame. I don’t know how I would get over the loss.”
“Luckily you don’t have to because you’re stuck with me.”
“Until you actually have a crush on someone again.”
Even though you say it, you want to take it back as soon as it comes out of your mouth. Images come rushing into your mind of Mingyu falling in love with someone that actually lasts. Someone that could take your best friend away from you. Which should be what you want, right? You should want him to be happy. And you do. You just can’t really stand the thought of a life where he’s happy without you being right there by his side. This trip makes you think about a lot more than you bargained for.
“I do have a crush,” he says softly.
“Oh, of course,” you say and look away from him. That’s fine. This is all fine.
His finger is under your chin the next second to pull your face back around to his. It’s the look of patience that you also see a lot. Especially when he’s trying to teach you something in the kitchen. Or explain something from work. Or really just talk about anything he’s passionate about.
“The crush is on you, dummy,” he says softly.
“What?” you ask, not sure you heard him correctly.
With a shake of his head, he steps back to lean against the bathroom. “Of all the times I pictured telling you this, I never considered telling you in the bathroom attached to your old bedroom at your parents’ house.”
“We don’t…” you start and he shakes his head again.
“No, this probably fits,” he says with a light laugh. The kind when he’s just a little caught off guard himself. “I thought I wanted to tell you after brunch with your friends and, I don’t know, I could be misreading the whole thing, but I think you’re ready to hear it now too. I like you. I’ve been more than happy just to be your friend because I didn’t want to say something before we were both ready. I’m happy to be here as your friend that’s only pretending to date you because I’d do anything to make life easier for you.”
“Mingyu,” you say, so low it’s barely above a whisper. Like you’re afraid to break the quiet in the limited space between you.
“You don’t have to say…” he starts, only to be interrupted by a loud knock at your bedroom door.
Your senses are entirely overwhelmed and you wonder what he sees as you look up at him, eyes wide in wonder. Before this, you would say that your brain could process too many things all at the same time. That it always had a million things going on. Now, you can’t seem to do any of that. Can’t focus on anything other than your beautiful best friend before you and the fact that apparently he has feelings for you. You see his mouth move, assume it’s to answer the knock, and have to shake yourself back to reality. Need to come out of this day dream so that you can react to whoever is at the door.
“Too bad, lovebirds, you have to come downstairs. Attendance for games and cookie decorating is mandatory on Christmas Eve,” your cousin calls back.
“Mimi, just…” you start to call out to her and Mingyu shakes his head.
“We’ll be right down!” he cuts across you. He waits, seeming like he’s listening for the sound of Mimi walking away from the door. How he can hear anything over the pounding of your heart seems unthinkable. Somehow, he must hear something because he turns back to you with soft eyes and speaks in an even softer voice. “It’s okay, we can talk tonight after dinner or when we come to bed. There’s no pressure for you to even say anything. Our friendship is the most important thing in the world to me.”
With that, he gives you a quick peck on the top of the head. Something that’s immediately gentler than anything you’ve experienced with him during the entire course of your friendship. The smile he gives you as he steps around you to lead the way down to interact with your family has you go weak in the knees. Has he ever smiled at you like that before? Or is it a new smile? Once upon a time, you would have said that you had every facial expression of his memorized from years spent in each other’s company. Years spent sharing private jokes, going on adventures, complaining about work and family and everything in between. But maybe, you think, there are still things that you can learn about Mingyu. Maybe there are still things that you can learn from him as well.
When you don’t immediately follow after him, Mingyu turns around to grab your hand and pull you along with him. There’s something about the way he threads his fingers through yours and squeezes that makes your heart pound again before settling down. His touch is gentle, like it always is, and filled with complete care. You don’t notice the way he glances back at you every few steps. Not with concern, but with curiosity. He would have bet he knew your every facial expression and can’t fully place the way you look now. Somehow, even though he can’t completely tell what you’re thinking, he knows that he made the right decision. Knows it was time to tell you what’s been on his mind. Knows that, no matter what, he’s still going to have his best friend on the other side of this trip.
It’s chaos once you and Mingyu get downstairs, like it always is at your parents’ house on Christmas Eve. Though, this definitely seems a little busier than years past. You’re not sure why that is either, but everyone seems to want to join in on the traditions that your parents cling to. In any case, it’s a good thing for you because it lets you just blend into the group of people without your parents paying entirely too much attention to you. Mingyu uses your hand intertwined with his to pull you into him, the way he has countless other times on this trip, and presses a kiss to your temple. Then, he’s off into the kitchen, throwing a joke at your mom about how he’s here now and she doesn’t need to worry. He looks over his shoulder and winks at you as your mother puts him to work mixing ingredients. You honestly don’t even know how you react in response. It must be okay, though, because he smiles back at you.
You love to decorate the cookies and will happily help make them in other situations, but there are already too many cooks in the kitchen. Instead, you help to set up some of the card tables that your parents keep for times like these. It gives people the chance to figure out what they might want to play and who they want to join them. It really is a nice tradition, no matter how you feel about your parents. And since your mother usually spends more time on baking and decorating the cookies, she doesn’t notice if things get a little too competitive between you and the cousins. Or if your father eggs the rest of you on while he watches. She has her favorite parts and lets everyone else do whatever it is they want to do. As long as everyone takes a break to help with decorating the cookies. Not that it’s ever a concern, that’s most people’s favorite part.
Once the tables are all set up, you settle into a board game with some of your cousins. Usually, you’re one of the more competitive ones. Board games come pretty easily to you and you pick up on the strategy quickly. If your cousins notice that you’re not nearly as invested this time, they let you have it. And they do notice it, pretty quickly, but let you have it. It’s easy to see you’re distracted and to see that you keep glancing into the kitchen at Mingyu. They just let you have it. It’s in their best interest, anyway. It’s nice to get the chance to win without you being fully committed to beating everyone around you.
This kind of setting really gives you a chance to think without shutting yourself away in your bedroom. That’s too obvious. You can’t just say that your best friend confessed feelings for you and now you need to figure out what your own feelings are. Not when he’s pretending to be your boyfriend already. Not when your whole family already thinks you’re lying about having just gotten together with him. And not when your mother would probably kill you if you missed out on traditions that may be older than you are.
All the spiralling in your brain is just cover, you realize, for the bigger picture. Mingyu likes you and he thinks this is the right time to have a conversation about it. He also knows that your friendship is the most important. You agree. He’s one of the most important people in your life, but is he more than that to you too? Is it possible that it’s more than friendship? That’s not something you ever considered. When you and Mingyu met in university it was through someone you were dating at the time. The relationship was, fortunately, very short lived. But the friendship with Mingyu, that was the stuff of stories. That instant connection that survived the breakup. The two of you always joke that your friendship was meant to be and that’s why it lasted when the relationship didn’t. Why others could come and go from your lives but you two are forever. Especially when either of you has dated someone that had an issue with the friendship. It’s insane to think that men and women can’t be friends. A completely archaic way of thinking.
That makes you think about your friendship with Seungkwan, though. Someone in your life who has also always been a constant. Someone who supports all your rights and your wrongs, even if he gives you a hard time too. And that’s when something else clicks. Your past partners haven’t objected to your friendship with Seungkwan nearly as often as your friendship with Mingyu. It’s not that he’s not attractive, because he definitely is. It can’t be that you’re not as close. Seungkwan has been with you through a lot. It could be that there's been more distance between you and him since you moved away, but you’re not sure that’s it either. He’s a constant in your life even from a distance. When you can’t see him, you regularly FaceTime him. So, no, he’s still present even if he’s not in the same city.
And then it hits you. You don’t watch Seungkwan lick something off his finger while he’s cooking. You don’t get jealous of your cousin hitting on him, regardless of what else is going on. You don’t seek out physical affection in the same way. Don’t find yourself looking over at Seungkwan for his reaction to everything going on around you. Don’t want to know his thoughts on something before you make each big decision. Seungkwan is your best friend and he means the world to you, but the thought of him constantly kissing you on the cheek or the temple or forehead or even the back of your hand doesn’t unleash butterflies in your stomach.
Holy shit. You’re in love with Mingyu. Definitely in way over your head with feelings that should have been obvious to you. It’s impossible to pinpoint when it might have happened or how. Maybe there isn’t a specific time. Maybe it’s something that happens slowly over time. You know that when you first became friends it was only that, a friendship. Someone that you could be yourself around and feel at home with in a very foreign environment. Somewhere along the way, it’s morphed into more. He really is the person you want to share all your news with, the person that you look to for support first. It’s so clear to you that your feelings are there now that he’s confessed and gotten you thinking about it. When you meet his eyes across the room, you wonder if he can see the realization on your face.
Now that you realize that you also have feelings for Mingyu, you’re not sure how you missed it before. If you consider the traits you’re looking for in a partner, he ticks off every box. And if you’re being completely honest, he’s been the reason for adding some traits to your list. So, not that you’ll admit this to any of your most recent exes, but maybe they had a point when they questioned your relationship with Mingyu. Not a big point. They still had shitty reasons for disliking Mingyu, but a small point nonetheless.
The rest of the evening seems to go by entirely too slowly, even if you do enjoy yourself. Much to the dismay of your cousins, you’re no longer distracted and you proceed to kick their asses at any game they suggest. You do go a little easier on them than normal, though, and avoid any of the trash talk. Thankfully Seungkwan isn’t there to point out that being in a good mood makes you soft. Even decorating the cookies is more fun than you can remember. You try not to think about whether that’s because Mingyu sits right next to you the whole time, trying to sabotage your cookie designs or make you laugh with his own. Spoiler alert: it absolutely is and you’re already down horrendous. It’s even easier to act like a cute couple in love now than it was before. And you also ignore the realization that it being so easy to pretend to be in a relationship with your best friend should have also been an indicator. Nobody ever said you were the most observant when it came to your own feelings.
Finally, you get a free moment to go upstairs. It’s time to get changed for Christmas Eve dinner and that gives you both the chance to excuse yourselves. The only person who seems to be tracking the movement with some amount of interest is Mimi. You’re too caught up in reaching out for Mingyu’s hand to notice, though. His smile at the action is immediately familiar and new. Familiar because you know his face better than your own and new because you didn’t expect to see him looking at you like that.
“I didn’t expect your mom to have me working so hard in the kitchen helping with the cookie dough,” he says once you close the door.
“Oh, I did,” you say through a snort.
“How was the - “
“You were right.”
You both go to speak at the same time and Mingyu’s mouth closes the second he realizes what you said. Whatever he wants to ask dies on his tongue over three words from your mouth. They might just be the second best three words you could say to him right then.
“About?” he prompts.
“It was the right time to tell me,” you confirm for him. It’s clear that he’s biting his tongue to let you say whatever you need to. Even if he knows by the look on your face. “I like you too.”
“Thank fucking god,” he says with an exhale. “When Seungkwan told me that I should tell you because he caught you watching me, I thought he was being a shit and…”
“Wait, what?” you ask. Fucking Seungkwan. Of course.
“Oh, yeah, at brunch earlier he said that he noticed you watching me while I was cooking and that if I liked you like he thought I did, that I should probably tell you,” he says a little sheepishly.
“You know what? Forget Seungkwan. I need to see something,” you say and close the space between you.
Before Mingyu can ask anything, you’re on your tiptoes, hands cupping his face and lips pressed to his. He wraps his arms around your lower back to pull you tighter against his body without missing a beat. And that really is all you need to know. Everything is in that first real kiss. Any lingering hesitations slip away. You can feel his promises and the answers to the questions you know you’ll have to actually ask in that kiss. For now, it just feels like coming home. Like you found the person that can get through all the bullshit and remind you about what’s actually important in life.
“Wow,” you say when you pull away.
“Yeah,” he agrees.
“Is that what I’ve been missing out on?” you wonder.
“Just how long have you liked me?” he says with an all too knowing smirk.
“I only realized today so I’ve got some catch up to do,” you joke.
“We both do, I think,” he says.
Without having to say a word, both of you get ready for Christmas dinner since your mother insists that you get dressed up. Every few seconds one of you seems to catch the other looking. It feels exciting, but you’re also a little shy. There’s a lot to talk about and a lot to navigate. You know you can’t put it aside. It just doesn’t feel as time sensitive now. This is one of the most important people in your life and it’s going to work out. At least, if you can get through the whole drawn out affair that is dinner first.
Which you do. Through all your mother’s courses and all the formality that she insists on following, you have Mingyu by your side. You’re not even distracted by Mimi on the other side of the table. She can’t seem to take her eyes off you while you and Mingyu can’t take your eyes off each other. More than once, you entirely miss a question and Mingyu has to nudge you to prompt you. It’s not your fault, you reason. He’s just so insanely attractive and made all the more so because you know that he’s a genuinely wonderful person.
Every part of you wants to skip the after dinner drinks and go back upstairs with Mingyu, but he quietly insists that you should stay. Even laughs when you turn his signature pout back around on him. If he makes a good point that you have nothing but time, you still want to take advantage of some of that time right now. Instead, you sip on your rumchata and curl into Mingyu on the oversized armchair by the fire. Despite trying to leave a little bit of space, you’re basically sitting on his lap at his own insistence.
Once the first people start to call it a night, you look at Mingyu with nearly pleading eyes. That gets a light laugh out of him as he nods to agree that you can go upstairs to your bedroom. You say your goodnights to everyone in the room, wish people a Happy Christmas Eve, and lead the way back up to your room even though he doesn’t need the directions
It’s nice to have uninterrupted time to figure everything out with Mingyu now that your feelings are out in the open. And once you’re both changed and through your skincare routines, you get into bed just to talk. It’s remarkable how much can fall into place so easily. It’s obvious that he figured out his feelings first. You insist that yours are already just as strong. The two of you depend on each other in everything without realizing it. Turn to each other for support. Share in all the best news. Suffer through any heartbreak together. In the years of friendship, there’s something deeper than either of you ever expected.
Honestly, it’s not even something either of you just held onto or harbored for years. The feelings really came suddenly. Mingyu shares that he wasn’t just waiting around to tell you that he had feelings for you. He also shares, though you already know, that no part of him felt entitled to your returned feelings. Had Seungkwan not said something, he’s not even sure if or when he would have said something. The last thing he would ever want was to make you uncomfortable. As much as he cares about you and wants to explore the relationship, you’re also the best friend he’s ever had. You feel the same. It’s a little scary and exciting at the same time. You trust Mingyu with your heart in a way that you’ve never trusted anyone else.
It’s entirely too late into the night by the time you and Mingyu fall asleep. How the two of you have so much to say at this point in the friendship is something to be studied. But, eventually you drift off, completely intertwined with Mingyu. He’s been a cuddler this whole trip and you’re not sure how he’s gotten himself even more attached to you. Yet, he does. It’s like any space between you would be too much. It’s too much satisfaction to give him that he’s right. He can tell anyway.
When you wake up, it feels too early. A fact only confirmed when you check your phone. None of the little cousins or your cousins with kids are staying at your parents’ house. So, you know that it doesn’t have to be an early start to the morning. You consider if you can drift off back to sleep. In the night, you ended up with Mingyu spooning you. His arm is loosely draped over you and your back is pressed somewhat lightly into his chest. When you go to adjust to think about drifting back off, your ass brushes against his hips, you feel something press into you. That stops you for a moment. Obviously, you and Mingyu talked about sex the night before. About how you wanted to try to take it a little slower since this means so much to both of you. And obviously you know that it’s relatively common for a guy to wake up a little hard. Your brain knows all those things. Knows what you should do. You should just reposition and go back to sleep.
That’s not what you actually do though.
So carefully that it could be an accident, you wiggle against him, a little harder this time. You yawn like you’re actually just adjusting to get comfortable and fall back asleep. He might let you get away with it, too, if you didn’t do it more than once, pressing further back into him each time. You know he’s awake by the sharp intake of breath and then the way he moves his hand to grip your thigh. The way his fingertips dig into your skin there makes you grind back harder without pretending it’s anything else.
Mingyu puts his lips to your ear. “Are you trying to drive me crazy?”
“No,” you whisper.
“I thought we said we were going to take it slow,” he says with incredible difficulty.
“I can move slower,” you answer immediately. It feels gratifying when he snaps his hips into your ass.
“You’re teasing me,” he whines.
“Not if I follow through,” you say. “I want you, Mingyu. I don’t want to wait.”
“Fuck,” he hisses as you continue to grind into him. “I want you to.”
“Then…” you start and immediately cut off as his hand winds back around to your front. He grabs your pussy through your shorts that suddenly feel too flimsy. Runs his long middle finger up your core and you immediately know you started something that he’s going to finish.
But his hand is gone entirely too quickly. Worse still, he pulls back. It’s only long enough for him to turn you towards him and then pull you on top of him. Your brain catches back up once you’re straddle over him and he pulls your face towards him. You kiss him like you haven’t yet. Full of desire and desperation. Nothing like the first few kisses you share. Those kisses were to make sure this was right. This kiss is to ruin him. Maybe to ruin yourself as well. His hands are on your hips, anchoring you to him, not that there’s anywhere else you could possibly be.
It’s never been like this with anyone. Just some heavy kissing and you’re already getting turned on. Already wondering what’s next. What it’s going to feel like. If Mingyu is the type of person that will take his time with you. It’s hard to imagine when he seems just as desperate as you are. At least, he tries to anchor you in a certain position so that you can’t grind too much. Maybe he does want to savor it. You really are down horrendous for this man because you think you could just kiss him like this forever and never quite get enough.
All too soon, Mingyu rolls the pair of you over again. Now he’s hovering over you and nobody has any business being that hot. And then he pulls back, somewhat straddling your legs without putting too much weight on you. In one movement, he pulls his shirt over his head and casts it aside. Okay, now you really think that nobody has any business being that hot. And sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. This is just different. You don’t even realize as he’s reaching for your shirt until you feel his fingers brush the skin of your stomach. He’s looking for permission, but you’re a little impatient and pull the shirt off yourself. You’re not sure that anyone has ever looked at your body with so much love. Like he’s just as amazed as you are. He peppers your chest and your chest and your stomach with kisses. Showing you just how much he loves every bit of you. It’s the safest feeling in the world and you’re not really sure how you got this lucky.
Mingyu is so gentle when he pulls your shorts off. Trails kisses along your thighs as well and makes you shiver. Chuckles when he pulls his own off and you swallow at the sight of him. He’s a big guy and somehow you’re still not expecting his dick to be big like it is. Haven’t ever really thought about it in all the time you’ve been friends. You expect him to be all confident seeing your reaction. There’s something else there too, though. Like he’s a little nervous about this. You’re not really sure what to say to reassure him, so you just pull him back to you to kiss him again. He adjusts into you almost immediately, half laying on top of you while still making sure that he’s not crushing you.
This time kissing him is very different, though. He moves one hand between your legs. It’s gentle at first. He only runs his finger up your center a few times. Catches each moan with his kisses. Slowly works a finger inside you and pumps at a languid pace. It turns you into a whiny, squirming mess entirely too quickly. Empties any thoughts or worries out of your head. You know you can’t be too loud and you hate it. Nobody should be able to kiss this well while also hitting the perfect spot with each pass of his fingers. He adds a second finger and you’re sure that you’re done for. Sure that nothing else will ever feel as perfect as him again. You reach to stroke him and he pulls back.
“What’s wrong?” you ask, unable to hide the concern in your voice.
“No, nothing,” he assures you quickly. “I just, um, well I really want to fuck you and I’m not sure I could handle it if…”
“Do you have a condom?” you ask, already ready to say it doesn’t matter if you have to.
“I might?” he says more like a question and gets off the bed to cross to his bag with too much speed. In any other situation you might laugh. Now, you just want to feel him. A moment later, after rifling through his bag, he comes back up with one.
He’s moving back to you, unwrapping the condom, and then he looks up at you. There’s a question in his eyes.
“Yes, Mingyu, I want this. And yes, I want it here,” you assure him.
Thankfully, that’s the only confirmation he needs. In the next second, he’s pumping himself a few times and rolling the rubber onto himself. You move to reposition, but he doesn’t let you. He gently presses you back and gets between your legs. Carefully, he lines himself up and presses in.
“Oh fuck,” you hiss out, trying to stay quiet.
“Too much?” he asks and stills.
“No, Gyu, just move, please,” you whine out, pulling him into you.
He does exactly what you ask and snaps his hips so he’s fully buried inside you. It’s a stretch in the best way. Like this is exactly how it’s supposed to be. You can’t help it, you moan out the first time he thrusts and he catches the second moan with another bruising kiss. Probably better to have bruised lips than to have your family hear the screams you let out as he fucks you. Probably better than having them hear his moans as well. They vibrate through his chest and it gives you a sense of pride. Mingyu is a taker in every sense of his life. You know that it must be killing him to keep quiet now.
The two of you fall into a perfect rhythm without even trying. There’s nothing awkward about it being your first time. Knowing each other as well as you do as friends seems to translate here. Or maybe Mingyu just pays much closer attention to you than you realize. You run your nails down his back and his thrusts stutter so you do it again. That seems to get to him. He picks up the paces of his thrusts. Pulls his dick almost all the way out of you before quickly snapping his hips to bury himself in your pussy again. Never in your life has sex as simple as this position felt so good. Never has anyone you’ve dated felt this perfect.
When Mingyu’s thrusts start to stutter, you reach down between your bodies to rub your clit. Seconds later, your pussy clenches around Mingyu and your vision whites out. You can feel Mingyu release and try to pick up the pace to work him through his own orgasm. He half collapses on you, breathing heavy. Both of you have to catch your breath from all the kisses to muffle the noises as well. He tries to roll over so that he’s not on top of you and you cling to him, not ready to lose contact just yet.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he assures you.
“I know.”
“That was…”
“Better than I was expecting.”
You can feel his eyes on you even without looking and it makes you smile. Can imagine what he’s about to say before he even opens his mouth.
“Oh, you didn’t think I’d be any good?”
You laugh at that as you turn to face him. “No, I thought you’d be good. I just didn’t expect our first time where we had to be quiet because we’re in my parents house to be that good.”
He considers your words for a second.
“I guess I can take that,” he concedes.
“Come on. We have to clean up and get downstairs,” you say and he sighs dramatically. But, then he gets up and helps you up with him.
Half an hour later, you’re downstairs at the kitchen table sipping on a peppermint mocha latte and picking out your favorite pastries from the spread your mother has out. Mingyu has his chair pulled close to you and his arm along the back of your chair. Your cousin is sitting on your other side, cheerily humming under her breath. In a strange move, she isn’t even trying to speak to Mingyu. Just as you’re trying to figure out what’s going on with her, she turns to you.
“Have a good morning?” she asks knowingly.
“We’ll talk about it later,” you hiss back, casting your eyes around.
“No need,” she waves off and shoots a smirk at you. “I got exactly what I wanted.”
“I don’t…”
“Seungkwan and I have been talking a lot. Plotting, I guess you could say. Seems like it finally paid off,” she says and your jaw hangs open.
“Are you…did you just…” you stutter out.
“As long as it’s real now,” she says and doesn’t wait for confirmation. Doesn’t need it, when it’s written all over your face. “We can talk about it later but I am sorry.”
“You and fucking Seungkwan,” you grumble.
It is a weight off your chest, though. Mimi has always been your favorite. A safe space in all the insanity of your family. It’s good to know that she’s still that for you. The two of you can argue about her methods, or her alliance with Seungkwan, later. It’s hard to ignore that it did actually help. You’re in this place because some of your favorite people meddled to help you and Mingyu see sense. Maybe you can say all is well that ends well.
In between all the chaos of breakfast and making sure the presents are under the tree, you manage to tell Mingyu about what Mimi had really been up to. He seems relieved. Not even annoyed, just happy that things can settle into whatever the new normal looks like for you and him. You also find time to whisper all the things you want to do to him when there aren’t prying eyes around. It may be cruel, but you delight in the way the blush rises up his cheeks and the way he shifts in his seat. You’re going to have a lot of fun playing with him, you already know. He’s so easy to rile up. Now you have brand new material to use on him.
Your mother works to corral everyone into the living room where the Christmas tree is so that people can start opening presents. You always hold back and watch at first. Don’t even make an effort to find anything that might be for you. It’s more fun to see people’s reactions. Does your mother like what your father picked out? Are your cousins humoring their parents? Did someone manage to get something that’s genuinely a surprise? There’s never a dull moment. In fact, you’re so lost in thought watching that you don't notice wasn’t beside you until he plops back down and nudges you. Hands a small, beautifully wrapped box over to you.
“Go on, open it,” he urges you softly. It’s clear he’s trying not to draw too much attention.
Exchanging gifts with Mingyu isn’t new. It’s something you do every year. This is unexpected though. Usually you exchange gifts away from other people because they can be a little silly. Nothing about this feels silly, though. With a final questioning glance at him, you pull the ribbon off and carefully ripping the paper. It’s immediately clear that it’s a jewelry box. That makes your heart hammer. You can’t even look over at him. Surely this is something he had already. It’s not like there’s been any time to go out and get something in the midst of all your confessions.
There’s a necklace inside the box. Something that looks old, important. The kind of thing you can tell has been well worn and loved without looking cheap. There’s a pendant hanging from the chain with your favorite stone in a setting that you instantly love. It’s the most perfect gift that anyone has ever given you and it makes you a little emotional. You turn to Mingyu, tears welling in your eyes, and want to have the moment just for the two of you. Unfortunately, your mother and several other family members watch your reaction.
“It’s beautiful,” you say softly.
“Do you like it?” he asks, still unsure.
“I love it,” you say earnestly.
“It was my grandmother’s that she got from her grandmother before her. She told me to hold onto it and that I would just know when I should give it to someone,” he says and that does you in. Any last resolve disappears.
The only response you can think of is to just kiss him. A real kiss pressed to his lips full of all the words you can’t say about how much a present like this means to you. How sure you are that you two are making the right decision. It’s so meaningful.
“I love you,” he says quietly, trying to keep it just for the two of you. Which doesn’t happen. Not that it matters. Your parents have heard you saying you loved each other this whole trip. It means something different now, though.
“I love you, too,” you say back. “So much.”
“It’s a beautiful necklace,” your mother offers as Mingyu helps you to put it on.
“I thought it would look good on her,” he adds to your mother.
“Almost as good as a ring,” your mother says. It’s the least subtle comment in the entire world.
Mingyu doesn’t miss a beat. Just smiles and nods a little. “Well, maybe you’ll have to invite me back next year and see what the gift is.”
“You have a deal.”
For the first time, you’re not upset with your mother for bringing up marriage and the idea of settling down. You’re just basking in the affection coming from Mingyu and appreciating your new necklace. Soon, you’ll have to leave this little bubble. Trade the idyllic snow covered scenery where everything moves a little slower for your life back in the city. But, you’ll be taking a different relationship with Mingyu back. You think that maybe he’ll be the key to you finally figuring out how to balance it all. Maybe he’s been the answer all along.
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wc: 30.8k in total; part 1: 15.4k, part 2: 15.4k
summary: between remembering last night’s party and pleasing your unrelenting family, you think being a princess is hard enough. then you’re thrust into an arranged marriage to royal darling joshua hong—straight-laced, infuriatingly obedient, and everything you’re not. pretending to be the perfect couple? impossible.
notes: romcom + smut (part 2), modern royalty!au in which yn is the princess of cotria/joshua the prince of acros (both fictional), enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, quarterlife crisis/coming of age, very very slow burn. lots of swearing, lots of alcohol, lots of feelings.
very special thanks to @meiozis for all their help with worldbuilding and @wuahae for bearing with me through the endless drafts, scene changes, second guessing, horrible word choices, etc. you are the only reason this got done, and i love you to the moon and back <3
[read part 2 here!]
Here, in the dark, there is just you.
The strobe lights press into your skin with all the brilliance of the sun, there's half a Modelo running down your leg, and you think you kissed the stranger behind you last week, but if you close your eyes, it's just you. No rules, no five second curtseys, no talk about the throne or whoever's ass happens to be keeping it warm at the moment.
Here, you're nobody, and it's perfect.
"I'm getting more champagne," Somi says, her voice careening over the music. "You sure Jihoon doesn't want any?"
You glance back at him. He's flattened up against the back wall, holding your purse, like a raccoon caught going through the trash. This is one of the many trials he's forced to endure for your entertainment, but it's his job–not as your closest friend, but as your legally employed bodyguard.
"No, he's on duty."
"Right," she slurs. "Sometimes I forget you're a literal princess."
If only it were that easy. Five drinks in and you think you can still feel your mother's vice grip on your arm and all the little white crescents of her french manicure.
You love this song–at least, you think you do. You're too drunk to tell, but it doesn't matter. The dance floor is muggy, sardine-packed with one warm body after another, and it's heaven. The crowd moves, and you move with them. Shakira waits for no one.
Somi must have secured another bottle of Cristal already. Soonyoung, your other partner-in-crime, hands you a flute and you take it, the glittery foam already bubbling over the lip.
"Cheers." Out of his too-drunk mouth, it sounds like a new word altogether, but you bring your glass to his anyway.
Tomorrow, you have a meeting with your parents. This, unlike all of your other involvements, is actually important, they said, and their voices had wound around you like a snare.
When it gets late, Jihoon will sling your arm over his shoulders and haul you back to the palace, still tipsy and holding your stilettos to your chest like a shield. Tomorrow will come, and it's then when you'll have to try to be good. It's a useless, stupid affair, but you'll go through the motions anyway.
But tonight, there is you and the music and the wonderful laughter of your friends, and you don't have to be anything at all.
"Cheers," you tell Soonyoung, and you drink.
--
There are four large topiaries in the palace garden: all lions. They stand tall in their planters, majestic and hairy with French lavender. Today you notice that the rightmost one's nose has been pruned off by accident, and he stands, snoutless, staring at his green brothers and sisters.
You know this because this is the view from the study, and it has never changed. There is only one study in the east wing, and it is small and useless and the perfect room for your parents to sit you down and remind you that you do not, in fact, own a single thing about your own life.
There is nothing new about this ritual. Even as a child, when you were more desperate to please, you could never be the right kind of daughter to your parents or princess to your country. Again and again, you landed yourself here, in trouble once more.
So you stopped trying–you would find these four walls anyway, no matter what you did. Why not enjoy your Fridays instead?
By now, you’ve memorized the carvings on the armrest of the chair you’re in (a knobby column, then underneath, the whorl of a seashell). There are thirty-four terracotta stones on the way to the fountain, all spaced perfectly apart, sanded down to the millimeter.
The scene remains unchanged. Your mother now stares down at you over the bridge of her nose, with that tight-lipped frown you've gotten so used to. Your father paces near the window, either wondering why you can't be softer, more pliable, like your older brother Jeonghan, or, alternatively, why one of the lions is missing a nose. Maybe both.
"Enjoy yourself yesterday?" your mother asks.
"Yes," you reply, out of other answers.
"Wonderful. Then our early morning briefing with PR was good for something. You should be grateful last night's pictures won't make it out of the darkroom."
Her voice, bitter and incisive, makes the hangover bubble up in your stomach. You and the tabloids weren't exactly on good terms, but it wasn't your fault so many people seemed to care about what you were wearing or who you were out with.
"What did you want to meet about?" you ask, hoping to change the subject.
You can't put your finger on it, but there's a cloying, heavy energy hanging on you. You feel as though you're on the precipice of something, although that could just be the consequences of all that Cristal ready to reintroduce themselves to your digestive system.
Your mother clears her throat.
"We have arranged for you to marry someone."
And all at once, it seems as though all the air has been sucked out of the room. There's a sharp pain lodged somewhere between your chest, your stomach, and your unhappy liver. The larks sing emptily in the garden.
"What?" Your voice sounds like it's unraveling somewhere in your throat. Quickly, frantically, you grasp at the faraway possibility that it can't possibly mean what you think it does. Marry? You can’t even remember the last time you thought of going on a second date with someone. Now you might actually throw up.
"Prince Joshua, of the Hong family. The crown prince of–"
"Acros. I know," you interrupt, the words jumping out of you in shock and anger.
Of course you know who Joshua Hong is–Acros is a tiny, unremarkable country nestled into the border of your much bigger one, and Joshua their crown jewel. If you were the nation's problem, he was their darling. A bland thing to coo at when life got boring, the walking embodiment of a media training session. Smile and nod, smile and nod. He might as well be AI generated.
You wouldn't last a day with him. Not with your impatience, your opinions, or that loud mouth your parents always scold you for. Your mind swims with the mental image of the two of you on a gaudy parade float, doing that stupidly slow wave everyone seemed to insist on.
"Wonderful. So you'll pack a bag? The Hong family will be thrilled to meet you tomorrow," says your father.
"Why?" you ask. Your voice wobbles, treading over that childlike waver you never learned to control. "Is this to punish me?"
"My dear, your brother will be ascending to the throne soon," your mother answers, looking you dead in the eyes. "It’s his face that needs to be on the front page, not you in another abomination of a swimsuit. The Hongs will keep enough of an eye on you.”
She's right. She's always been right. Maybe not about the swimsuit, but you haven’t exactly been the PR princess your family needed you to be. If anything, you would think it made Jeonghan look better by comparison, but you know that your parents would prefer you to make appearances in something other than Deuxmoi’s Sunday Spotted. But the royal charade never fit you well either; it clings and sticks and bunches up at the seams like a cheap Halloween costume.
"The Hongs thought their country would benefit from our money. It was an easy decision, really," your mother finishes, as if that makes you feel any less like a silly, bikini-clad pawn in a game of chess you never asked to play.
"Does Jeonghan know?"
"He sees its purpose,” your father says simply, like that was all that mattered. “You will too, in due time.”
He nods solemnly, which is how he closes every conversation–just another turn of the silent knife. As your parents turn to leave, their silken garbs trail behind them like ink in still water. Business as always, especially with you.
"Your brother will be coming home from his press tour this week," your mother says on her way out. "You mustn't ruin this for him. The car leaves for Acros in the morning."
There's a mean, barbed feeling in your heart. You don't know whether to scream or to cry, so you do what your mother taught you to do. You sit, stilled by a feeling of hopelessness, and let yourself be emptied.
--
When you were thirteen, you learned how to ride a horse.
Not the impractical, side-saddle way drilled into you when you were a little girl, with your skirt billowing over the fender and catching in the stirrups, but how to really ride a horse.
It was on a night much like tonight–indigo and starless. Your brother had climbed up the marble trellis, his teenage, noodle body a perfect fit for scaling the lattice, and threw a stone at your window, just like you had seen in the movies. Jeonghan was still young, then, rebellious and unchanged by the throne.
It was him who laced up your riding boots, hoisted you on your first horse, and pressed the reins into your palms. You remember the unforgiving hold of the leather saddle, not yet broken in. You were so sore the next day, you were bed-bound–truly a punishment worse than death, if not for another reminder that everything you do ends up hurting you a little.
"It's great," Jeonghan had told you, breathless and haloed by the moonlight. "You can just ride. nowhere to go and no one to answer to."
You had spent the summer this way. Every night, you learned the sound of the forest at twilight, chasing Jeonghan's mud-splattered palomino. In the mornings, breakfast consisted of rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and whispering about whatever misadventure you had found yourselves tangled in the night before.
That was before he had come of age. Before your father gave him the Throne Talk, and before he was whisked away into endless meetings and etiquette lessons and parliaments. Your inside jokes became foul, overripe in his newly coached mouth. He even learned to play golf, and he hated golf.
Past August, you don't think you ever got your brother back.
You slide the oaken doors of the stables open, feeling your arms squeeze underneath your riding shirt. Here, it’s always quiet after sundown.
It hasn't changed since the day you first snuck in with Jeonghan. You let the green scent of the hay fill your lungs, the sleep-stir of the horses like music to your ears. Dokyeom has left the tack room open by "accident" once more, likely to avoid catching you picking the lock with a bobby pin like he had a few months ago.
"Hey, you," you whisper, coming to the stall of your own horse. Astrid, a bay thoroughbred, was Jeonghan's gift to you on your 18th birthday, a wistful reminder of a summer now past its prime. "No surprise here, but I had a really, really bad day."
Astrid, oblivious, noses at your palm in search of a nonexistent sugar cube. Somehow, this brings the anxious chatter of your mind to a crescendo—would Astrid come with you to Acros? When would that happen? More importantly, when were you moving? You think of a too-warm summer morning, the ridiculous, oversized brim of one of your mother's sunhats, and a moving truck. That, and a country ready to delete you from its ranks.
It's now, with the bridle in your fists, that you hear the wheedling groan of the stable door as it slides open. Without thinking, you quickly push out the first excuse you have. "I apologize, I was—"
"It's me."
Jihoon.
You would tease him about his fear of ponies—perhaps it's because he is quite literally the same size as them—but you think hearing another person tell you off would officially push you over the edge. You don't want to be dramatic, but you don't even know if Acros even had horses.
That, and somehow he's both the first and the last person you want to see. The guilt feels a bit heavier when you know his life is about to change too, in no small part due to your own failings.
"Jihoon, I…" you start. There’s an apology that’s been sitting on your tongue, one you haven’t quite learned to spit up yet. You don’t know who it’s for—yourself, or everyone else—but Jihoon interrupts you before you can finish your thought.
"You forgot your jacket," Jihoon replies.
For once, you can't read him. You wonder if he's thinking about if he'd get along with the other bodyguards, but, more likely, he's probably pitying you. You're the last person in the world that should be in an arranged marriage, and even someone who kills people for a living could tell.
"I'll be in the foyer."
You don't exchange any more words. Jihoon knows that there is nothing he can say that will erase what's about to happen, and like always, he is right.
After you saddle up, Astrid takes you to the forest like usual. Honestly, you've lost count of the times you've come out here to cry, usually about a boy you don’t even like, or, worse, Jeonghan declining your weekly Facetime session again. But now, you think you both know this time is very different.
"Astrid," you groan. "Joshua looks like a Ken doll from hell. He probably pronounces tomato like tomahto and has a closet dedicated to his tweed collection. I can't marry him."
Astrid is none the wiser. You wish she was human for a moment so you could show her the crater-sized hole that "prince joshua google images" left in your browser history.
"Do you think he only listens to classical music? I think a Kim Petras song would kill him instantaneously."
The mental image of Joshua Hong being struck down by the first ten seconds of Throat Goat makes you laugh, but you still don't feel far away enough from the truth.
You remember your 21st birthday, a balmy spring Friday. Jeonghan had been helping out at the local youth theater, and the opening night of their production was coincidentally the same day. Jeonghan had never been one for theater (last time, he had fallen asleep during Mamma Mia, of all musicals). You knew the press turnout was expected to be huge, but the whole thing felt like one big charade to you.
So you had planned your big birthday bash—you only get one 21st, after all—that day. The paparazzi fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. Unsurprisingly, drunk, hot girls made for a better story than Greek theater.
You remember the raw, stinging look Jeonghan had in his eyes the next morning. He didn't even have to say anything, but you knew. The memory carves out an abyss in your chest. You knew you should have done better for your brother, but he didn’t even feel like your brother anymore.
Still, actions have consequences, and this was a hell of a consequence. Even out here, the inconvenient reality of it seems closer than ever. but you're out of time. The night fades fast, especially ones like these.
So you press your heart to Astrid's mane, the pale moon high over the both of you, and you ride.
--
Late spring is kind to Acros.
The tulips push their bright heads out of the dirt, winking and blazing in the daylight, and the green fields stretch so far they look like water.
You had spent the car ride with your nose pressed to the window, watching all the sun-bleached buildings zip by. You mustn't ruin this for Jeonghan. It spins around in your head like an old pair of shoes in a washing machine.
Now you stand in the grand foyer, your parents on either side of you. Jihoon hovers behind, holding the overstuffed duffel bag you had rushed to pack this morning.
A hushed arrival such as this was unbecoming of your family, but it was necessary. your parents had stressed that the arranged part of the deal was not meant to be public knowledge because it was bad for optics. To you, the arrangement was actually the entire deal. That, and you and optics never exactly got along.
Waiting for Joshua and his parents gives you a moment to observe what could be your new home, although you’re still waiting for the miraculous plot twist that will save you from your fate.
That being said: you’ve set foot in plenty of nice places, but if HGTV ran segments for castles, this would certainly be the blueprint. It’s smaller than the palace in Cotria, but you like that—it’s cozier, less cold-seeming.
The filigreed ceilings vault dizzyingly high, and the chandelier above the muraled walls is set afire with the noontime sun. the blushing azaleas cascade from their pots, and they line the hallways with joyous pops of white and pink. breaking the spell is the distant staccato of several sets of footsteps on marble, and you straighten your back, as if by divine command.
Three figures approach you: Joshua and his parents. Even from a distance, you can see the trained walk of royalty, their shoulders straight enough to hold water. You’ll give credit where credit is due—they look even less thrilled to meet you than you are to meet them.
Unfortunately, up close, Joshua is more handsome than the cameras would betray. He's taller than you had imagined, too. without trying, it looks like he jumped out of a shitty Disney movie, one where the prince says two words and still gets the girl. More than that, you notice how his face is like glass—unwavering, cruelly still. One wrong move, and you'd break him.
"Your highnesses," you say, lowering your head in a pronounced curtesy.
Joshua bows in response, like clockwork. He reaches for your hand, then brings it to his lips to kiss the back of it.
At once, you feel your hackles jump up, even though many a man has done far nastier to you. You can’t tell what pisses you off more: a, the fact that he smells like a hotel lobby, or b, that he managed to get his mouth on you in less than five seconds.
"I'm elated we have the privilege of welcoming your daughter into our home," Joshua's mother says. Like him, she is staggeringly elegant and even harder to read. "She's beautiful."
Fortunately, she has picked the one compliment that your parents can agree on without lying through their teeth. You watch them laugh and titter amongst themselves, and it's now that you notice Joshua has been looking at you this whole time.
You think look is too kind of a word, though. It's something colder than that, more clinical, and you really don't like it. Your stylist had spent upwards of two hours today in front of your vanity this morning, mostly in a losing battle with a pair of fake lashes, and you wonder if one of them is crooked. That, or Joshua is similarly wondering just how he will endure a life wedded to you.
"Joshua, please," his mother chides, and you watch him almost immediately pivot towards her, like he’s on wheels. "Where are your manners? You should show the princess around. Get to know each other a bit before press tomorrow."
Press. Of course. Your least favorite word. You vaguely remember your parents mentioning it in the car this morning, but it must have gotten lost among all the other terrible things they'd told you.
Your head starts to hurt. Joshua keeps smiling at you, empty, doll-like.
"Yes, I'd love that," you say, feeling like a deflating balloon. You were hoping his company will be better than watching four grown adults fall all over each other, but you're starting to doubt that.
Joshua offers you his arm, and you take it anyway.
"We'll be off then," he chirps before bowing once more. His freakishly shiny shoe nudges yours to remind you to do the same. Begrudgingly, you listen, watching your shellacked, angry expression in the patina of his loafers.
Not a good start, but what did you expect?
You tamp down your irritation and let him lead you into the Great Hall. It's a shiny, golden tunnel, studded with glossy oil paintings of his parents, his grandparents, then the next set of old people before them. Their eyes stare at you, pools of hazy paint in their moon faces. You briefly imagine your painting up there, with Joshua's hand hovering meekly over your waist, unused to being more than two feet away from a woman his age.
"It's nice to finally meet you," Joshua says. "I think I've only seen you in pictures."
He's referencing the one of many “encounters” you've had with the paparazzi, a la yesterday night. They take trashy photos, overexposed and grainy from the camera flash, with your ass most likely in the frame.
You choose to let it slide—you have no choice, really. At least you have an ass.
"The pleasure is mine," you reply. "I believe you were at the cricket championships a few months ago, right?"
"Correct. Do you watch? I don't believe I saw you."
"No, but my brother was there." Your footsteps echo against the marbled walls. "Just trying to think of your last public appearance," you offer unhelpfully, since you and he both know those are few and far between.
"That's right. He mentioned you were busy," Joshua replies. "Glastonbury was that weekend, was it not?"
He's right. It was, but you don't like the insinuation he's making. You weren't at Glastonbury anyway—your parents wouldn't let you attend, and Jihoon was unwilling to come up with a cover story for you. Because you would rather watch paint dry than attend another cricket game, you instead spent it with takeout and reruns of Rupaul's Drag Race.
"Can't recall," you answer. "Doesn't matter. I'm not one for cricket, anyway."
"Didn't know you had a choice."
You watch Joshua halfheartedly gesture to the Great Hall. The seemingly mile-long dinner table is empty now, save for a gratuitously piled fruit bowl.
Your country frequently hosts guests, but the Hongs are notoriously insular. You imagine the four of you, crammed together at one end of the table, making horrendous small talk every morning over wilted danishes and raspberry preserves. Somehow, your mood worsens even more than you thought possible.
"Can I see the library?" you ask in an attempt to pivot.
"Of course. Do you enjoy reading?"
"A normal amount." You pass by another set of windows and take note of the rose garden outside, verdant with the May sunshine. Astrid has a bit of a penchant for eating roses, which would definitely complicate your plan to smuggle her in. No matter—you’ve done worse. "I studied political science at university, so I got a healthy dose of it."
"Didn't we all?" Joshua chuckles.
He pushes the door open to the library, which is just as lavish as the rest of the palace. You wonder how well-worn it is, how many spines have creases in them, how many dedications were speckled with a funny annotation or two. But judging by first impressions, you wouldn't be surprised if all the books still had their dust jacket on.
"I mean, I read an insane amount of Dan Brown," you reply. "Not many of us can say we've solved the Davinci code, you know."
You hoped this would crack a laugh out of him, but his grin is thinner than an eyebrow from the 2000s. Truthfully, you would compare this conversation to a death by a thousand papercuts, but somehow that feels preferable to the guillotine of discussing the terms and conditions of your rapidly impending marriage. You feel as though that would be violating some rule you aren't yet aware of, and you're unwilling to endure the patent leather consequences of another faux pas.
"I've heard of it," says Joshua after much thought. "My parents were shuttling me between meetings and private lessons, so, unlike some, I was quite busy during university."
You're not about to explain that you were equally as busy as him. Something tells you that he'd be too prideful to believe you anyway.
"How difficult. Surely you were able to have some fun," you say, your voice betraying your distaste. "Or were you too good for that?"
Too far.
"I did what my position allowed," is Joshua's terse reply, and you know you've crossed a line. Still, it dazes you that the man standing next to you may have never done anything for himself in his life. Even Jeonghan did, before your parents really tightened the reins.
The air buzzes with a silence sharp enough to make you bleed. You wish literally anyone else was standing next to you, but you realize there are no more horses or emergency cabs or Jihoons to rescue you from this one.
"How about I take you to our room? I hope you'll find it comfortable."
You glance to your right to catch a glimpse of Joshua. He smiles, a dutiful press of the lips, and you watch it ripple.
--
"Jihoon, it is so much worse than I thought."
You sit on the plush carpeting of your bedroom floor, amongst your small disaster of things. Jihoon examines you, one eyebrow raised, as he leans against the bedroom door.
"He's not around, right?"
Jihoon shakes his head.
"I don't get it," you sigh. "I go out. I get drunk. I have a little fun on the weekends. I don't see how any of this makes me a bad person."
"You know how traditional your families are." Jihoon bends down to pick up a hair bow that jumped ship from the vanity. "It's just how it is."
"He treats me like some high school delinquent. I tried, but he has no sense of humor. No joi de vivre. I think he would actually explode if he knew I went out two days ago."
"Give it time," Jihoon supplies unhelpfully. "I don't know French, but he can't be that bad. You just met him."
“Yeah. Usually that’s a good thing. I’ve fucked people i know less about.”
Jihoon shakes his head and laughs, one of those little cackly ones he reserves for your company.
"Well, you have been with worse," he tuts. "Definitely worse."
"Jihoon, be serious. This is the rest of my life we're talking about."
“I know." He draws his lips into a line, likely searching for the right thing to say. "This sucks. I wouldn't be good at this either."
"You're talking to me. I don't think there's a single royal thing I can do right."
He's out of words, so he bends down to awkwardly pat you on the head, which, in all your years of knowing him, is the most affection he can muster. This is why you prefer horses to Jihoon for therapy, although you appreciate the effort.
"I'd stay, but they want me to go to some meeting," he says, jerking his thumb towards the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."
So he leaves you, desolate and linen-covered. Back to square one.
The room seems to echo with how empty it feels. The bare walls are painted champagne, a rich, indifferent color. They soar to an arched ceiling lined with baroque crown moulding. There's a large window facing the garden, framed by deep green velvet. Atop the vanity cradled to the wall, the ivy of the wrought mirror curls at the edges, as if escaping. The chandelier hangs low, fat and pear-shaped, and its crystals douse the room in gauzy lamplight.
At least the canopy bed looks comfortable. It's the one thing keeping you from calling this place a veritable jail cell, which still seems like an understatement. For once, you miss your own bedroom. Granted, it didn’t look much different on the surface. but despite all the paneling and the heavy velvet, you still like to think it had some personality. You still keep your pillow pet on your bed (a horse named Robert). The back wall is chipped from a Gossip Girl poster your mom made you take down.
Before you’re able to get too sentimental, the unwelcome sight of your future husband steals you from your thoughts.
"Evening," Joshua says, stepping into the room. He's so quiet, it takes you aback. "Still unpacking?"
"Sorry." You gesture around you. "I underestimated my ability to overpack."
"You should have told the staff," he says, surveying the damage. "Do you need help?"
"No," you insist. Somehow the prospect of him getting on the ground to sort out all of your things upsets you, even more than him touching all of your unmentionables. "No. Please. Just ignore me."
"Alright."
Joshua seems to take no issue with that, gratefully. He takes a seat on the chaise at the foot of the bed. He's got a copy of Anna Karenina under his arm, probably to weigh the pros and cons of cheating on you. You don't blame him—in fact, maybe it would make your doomed marriage exciting enough to be tolerable.
"PR event tomorrow," you start, folding up a nightdress. "Bet you're excited for that."
“As excited as one can be before announcing their arranged marriage," he replies dryly. "But surely you have enough experience with the press for the both of us."
So that’s how he wanted to play. Fine. You wouldn’t let him walk all over you a second time.
"Well, I'd hope all those classes you took would be good for something."
"That's rich, coming from the case study on bad media training."
"Oh, please," you snap. "At least I know how to have a good time."
"I was having a great time before I was informed this was happening."
"Forgive me. I had no idea you were so invested in my personal life." You huff as you heave an oversized armful of clothes to the closet. “Think TMZ has any job openings?”
"Very funny," he retorts. Joshua holds up a skimpy black dress that's fallen from your pile, one well acquainted with the midnight grease of one too many nightclubs. "You dropped this, by the way. I don't really think the nightlife here will be quite to your taste, though."
"Oh right, because this is where happiness goes to die, huh?" You snatch it back from him, feeling the knot of anger in your gut flare.
The room seems to pulse with an uncomfortable silence, red-hot with unsaid words. You recognize the all too familiar way Joshua sets his jaw back, and you're transported all the way to the study in the east wing, snoutless lion, terracotta steps, and all. He’s not any different from anyone else, so you’re not sure why you expected anything else.
You do the only thing you can do—bite your tongue.
"Look," you finally say, gathering the wherewithal to call for a truce. "I know that we didn't ask for this."
Joshua laughs. Actually, it's the first time you've heard it since you've met, and it would be an otherwise tolerable, even nice, sound if it wasn't directed right at you.
"Right, because who doesn't want to have to babysit someone for the rest of their life?"
You take a hard swallow. You've both done enough damage for tonight, although you'd love to see his expression when you call him the live-action version of Frollo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Maybe another time.
Instead you think of Jeonghan, stuck in his meetings and sunk into this new, starched form of himself that you find difficult to recognize. Still, he's your brother, and you'd hate to see him suffer for it.
"Stop. I'll be good," you say. "I promise. I know there's a lot at stake for the both of us."
You can hear Joshua's long, drawn exhale. The furrow dug between his brows flattens out, and he seems to be reminded of everything they taught you both in Conflict Resolution 101.
"I apologize. I got out of line," he says. You watch the cogs turn on that unfortunately pretty face of his. You hope he finally reveals that he has a much better, kinder personality that he was waiting to debut, but he doesn't. Instead he picks up yet another fallen item from your stash and hands it to you (this time, a much more presentable blouse).
"I know we don't like each other—" You hold up a hand to interrupt him from lying to you. “—but we can do our best for the cameras. Because that matters. Hate me all you want in private."
"Okay." He gives you a defeated look, which is all you suppose you'll get out of him today. "Deal."
That night, there are no more backhanded compliments, quips, or mean-spirited attempts at sarcasm.
You sink into your side of the bed, a damask-woven vat of quicksand, and watch the spears of light dance on the ceiling. If you had known your last outing was the one a few days ago, maybe you would have drank a little more, stayed out later. Maybe you wouldn't have even gone home.
Joshua has been reading on the other side of the bed, which seems like oceans apart. The metronomic turn of his pages would have put you to sleep if it wasn't for this new fear, a black, trembling one, that's now taken residence in your chest. It feels like you are further from yourself than you've ever been, and you don't know how to get back.
"Is it too bright for you?" Joshua's voice, now tempered by the stillness of the evening, pulls you out of your thoughts. "I can turn the lamp off."
"It's ok," you groan. "Can't really sleep. Don't worry about it."
He doesn't say anything. Instead you hear the oiled pull of the bedside nightstand before he places something on the bed beside you.
It's a book. Specifically, one of those trashy romances that they only sell at the airport because no one would be brave enough to read them anywhere else.
"It's no Dan Brown," he says. "Hopefully still to your liking."
You sit up against the headboard and flip through the pages. The prince of Acros owning a book with the words "juicy", "mewling", and "best friend's brother" in the first fifty pages are enough to tide you over for the night. Probably the next week, to be honest.
"Yes, indeed, your highness. Of the raunchy summer fling."
Joshua smiles, and this time, you think it's a real one.
--
You hate mornings.
You thought this one would be different, probably due to the fact that you would soon be standing in front of a few too many cameras to announce your tragic fate to the entire world. Unfortunately, it's like all your other mornings—rushed, nauseous, and now with all the added anxiety of a semi-non consensual public appearance.
"Five minutes!" you holler as best you can, a hair pin wiggling in the corner of your mouth. Rule number one of a hard launch: don't be caught looking complacent. Even if the other half of the launch would rather be with anyone other than you.
Joshua's in the attached bathroom doing his hair. Like everything else he does, it is painfully calculated. He might be the only person in the world who takes "pea-sized" seriously as a measurement tool.
But even as he so carefully measures his pomade, pump by pump, you don't miss the way his eyes skim over your figure as you lean over the vanity chair to apply your lipstick. Maybe it's because your ass is practically vacuum sealed into your sundress, or maybe he's just looking for another fight to pick. Either way, there's a small part of you that takes pride in this, even if just a little.
"Ready?" Joshua asks, switching off the bathroom light. You hate to admit it, but he looks good in a sports jacket. You remind yourself that you had to literally rock-paper-scissors this morning to use the vanity mirror because you fogged the bathroom up after your shower. "It's not a pageant."
"Shush. You are so rude. Never interrupt a girl when she's getting ready."
In the mirror, you watch Joshua huff behind you. Then he procures a little black box from his pocket, and a crazy sort of feeling washes over you before you remind yourself to be normal. Ten-year-old you would have cried and threatened arson if she knew this is how you would eventually be proposed to, but you have no choice.
You're sure Joshua feels the same. He was probably hoping for something classic with all the works, and instead he's got a pissed-off Jihoon and you, internationally renowned harlot. Funny how things turn out.
"Any minute now," bitches Jihoon from the other side of the door.
You close your compact and turn around to face Joshua, who's still fumbling with the box.
"I'm sure this is not what you anticipated," he says, finally cracking it open. “But—"
"No speech. Just put it on." You stick your left hand out, still glittery from last week’s manicure. "Not like it means much anyway."
"Yeah."
And just like that, it is done. You feel the shock of Joshua's huge hands over yours, then the unceremonious bite of the cold band. He doesn't linger.
You hold your newly engaged hand in front of you. The ring must have looked better in the box—on you, it seems out of place, gaudy, yet another thing you can't quite fit into. It squeezes your finger a bit, but it'll do.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Let's get this over with."
If romance wasn’t already dead, then it died here, today, in your prison cell bedroom.
You have no time to lament this, as Joshua’s already half out the door. Quickly, he seems to shed his foul, argumentative inside personality and slip into a second-skin, one that is more poised, gracious, and luminous.
Today's objective is supposed to be simple: friendly, premarital pictures to accompany a written statement to the public announcing your engagement. No paparazzi, no journalists. Still, you're starting to see why your parents decided it was a good idea to stick you with this guy.
In the foyer, your families await you. It's as if their gaze can slow time—at least four people approved your outfit, and still, the weight of their eyes on you, ever appraising, is crushing. Immediately, your mother starts rearranging the strands of hair on the top of your head and fiddling with the sleeves of your dress, like you're some sort of doll.
"Come, come," a member of the PR team urges. "Everything is set up. We'll be quick."
There's a frenetic, tense energy over the palace. It's clear that this marriage is a gambit no one is happy with, and today would make it very, very real.
Outside, there is a lone photographer. The sun, morning-ripe, reflects off his camera lens like a third eye. The lawn, freakishly green, sprawls out around you, and the blue spruce frames the scene, perfect by design.
"I just need you to stand next to each other and smile," he says. "That's all, right?" he directs this towards your PR team, about seven too many for a task like this. One of them whispers something in his ear. Your parents watch from the shaded doorstep like wax figures in a museum.
You and Joshua stand shoulder to shoulder, yearbook photo style.
"Bit closer," the photographer calls out, and you smush yourself against his arm, close enough that you can appreciate he's got some muscle on him. "Alright. Hold still."
Click. You've always hated the flash, but you root yourself obediently to the concrete. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Click.
Your mother interrupts her conversation with a staff member—likely haggling over the minutia of the statement—and says, "Look happier," as if you're in some dystopian advertisement for a new car.
"She's talking to you," Joshua says through the grit of his fake, pink smile.
"Right, because you're such a peach."
You just want to go back inside and have breakfast.
You place a tentative hand on Joshua's bicep and turn to him, beaming like you would at a hot bartender when there are five other people waiting for a drink.
There's a glimmer of surprise in his expression before he matches you. You can see why people dote on him so much—his cheeks get round, and his eyes magically gain the sparkles that people pay for on Facetune. God really seems to have wasted a perfect face on him.
"Move your hand up so we can see the ring." You obey, feeling the firm cord of his arm underneath you, and you wonder where the gym is in the palace. Joshua was certainly gatekeeping it from you. "Perfect."
You stand there, living your America's Next Top Model nightmare, before the photographer hits you with, "A kiss for the camera, yeah?"
All the blood drains from your face. You think you actually say Huh? aloud. Joshua opts to turn to his parents to intervene, which would be funny in literally any other scenario except this one.
"You heard him," his father replies. "Act like you're actually engaged."
Honestly, it was a fair request. No one wanted to take any chances. Plausible rumors of an arranged marriage would backfire spectacularly. Jeonghan wouldn't see the front cover of anything ever again, and the entirety of Acros would wonder just how deep in the shitter they were that Joshua was forced to marry you.
Your parents were already so far into the conspiracy, you overheard them talking about using unpublished paparazzi pictures and rebranding them as times you snuck off to see your unfortunate lover. Point taken.
"Okay, okay," you laugh nervously. "Of course."
You face Joshua, steeling yourself, and lean in. The world seems to fall away, but not how you like—it feels as though you've been sucked out of your own body and dropped into a new one that doesn't know what a kiss is or how to do it.
He's just like anyone else, you tell yourself. You're at the club. They're playing Everytime We Touch by Cascada.
Soon all you know is the heat of your cheeks, the shaking flat of your palm over Joshua's shoulder, and the wet pressure of what feels like a pair of lips, soft but also very unwilling.
Click. Click. Then it's over. Everyone huddles around the camera, like animals to a watering hole. Shame, hot and heavy, seems to drape itself over you.
"Can we get one more?" the photographer asks.
Fuck. Your stomach drops. You can't even glare at Joshua.
"Sure thing," Joshua says easily, unaware he was the reason it went so badly in the first place.
You take a deep breath. You imagine a good Kylie Minogue song and a tall stranger with pecs that could fit into a bra, and your eyes flutter shut.
You decide to go for it this time. Unfortunately, you and your inept partner are on entirely opposite pages again, and you almost miss each other by a mile. When you do get it right, it's messy, two teenagers fumbling in a closet with the lights off.
Once everyone sees this massacre, it seems they resign themselves to the same conclusion you had long ago. Someone throws a thumbs up above their head, and everyone clears out so fast, it's like nothing ever happened.
Soon, it's just you, Joshua, and your mother with a red pen and the manuscript. Your heart is still buzzing in your chest, even though you and Joshua are now standing at a distance that makes you believe in the cheese touch again.
"Now that wasn’t so bad," she says, before escorting the two of you back inside. Perhaps lying cushions the blow of a bad decision, but you're already in too deep. The script, the cameras, even your mother's glossy words—your life is starting to feel like a permanent movie set, and you don't know how to clock out.
The first thing you do is take off the ring. It's starting to look more and more like costume jewelry on your untrained, bumbling hand. Even still, you can still feel its ghost on your finger, see the glare of the camera flash in the laser-cut facets.
Worse, you watch Joshua shrug off his sport jacket, likely wondering how exactly that went so wrong, and you can feel that same sensation, still warm, right over your lips.
--
"Save me, red wine, save me."
Home, sweet home. You're back in Cotria for the rest of the week. This morning's stint was the only thing you had on the schedule, and you told Joshua you had some business to attend to at home.
Said business was a Niçoise salad and half a bottle of wine, but no one had to know that part. Your struggle meals were your own business, and you think you will actually disintegrate on the spot if you have to sit through another conversation about World War II with Joshua's dad. The one you had at dinner last night was plenty.
The restaurant you’re at is a familiar haunt, but not too familiar. The ass-kissers and the groupies have gotten good at keeping their heads on a swivel, and you’re not exactly planning on another encounter with a camera. But here, the crowd is quiet enough, the food good enough, the service fast enough. It’s enough, which you’ve come to prefer.
That's the other thing about Cotria—there’s an overabundance of everything. Department stores, parlors, dog cafes, polished bars with overpriced cocktails. It’s almost a rarity to find a place like this, quiet enough to actually talk.
"You must be in the fucking trenches," Somi says, shaking her head. "When's the press release getting published?"
"Next week," you groan. "The good news is that they want us to go to the derby afterward."
"Okay, miss horse girl," Somi says, clinking her wine glass against yours. "You betting this year?"
"No, I shouldn't." You shovel another forkful of leaves into your mouth. "But I really hope I get to watch it instead of pretending to like a guy the whole time."
"I didn't see you pretending in uni," Somi says, cocking an eyebrow up at you. "And those guys are ugly. This guy isn't."
"Okay, wait," you protest. "Ugly cute. Don't get it twisted. And they don't act like sentient wet paint. This guy sucks."
You're reminded of the moment before you left the palace this morning. Joshua saw that same black dress that he used against you make its way into your bag, and he gave you the dirtiest stink eye you'd ever seen.
I'm not above tattling. They were the first words he'd said to you after The Incident.
Good thing you won't have to, you replied. He didn't even see you out because no one was standing around to clap him on the back for being a good fake fiancé.
"Whatever." Somi picks a tomato off your plate in exchange for some of her fries. "I wouldn't mind it, is what I'm saying."
"You slept with the bouncer to get into Annabel’s."
"Fuck off. He was actually really good. Club entry was just a bonus," she laughs. "That reminds me—you're coming to my birthday, right? Or do you have wifely duties now?"
"Of course I'm coming!" you insist, feeling the word duty hit like an actual bullet to your chest. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Just making sure! You know I gotta have my people around."
You had known Somi since you were in diapers. She's the cousin twice removed of a baron, or a count, or maybe even a viscount–you never were good at keeping track of those kinds of things. Even though you had seen her at countless brunches, coronations, and garden parties, you don't think you actually became friends until you ran into her at a college party in Mykonos. She sidled up to you, smelling like strawberries and the bleachy sting of hair dye, and handed you a cucumber margarita.
The beer here sucks, she had whisper-shouted to you, right over the shell of your ear. Wanna dance? You were inseparable ever since.
"It's going to be huge. There are, like, 200 people on the guest list right now. Soonyoung rented a villa, There's gonna be a champagne tower, and the music won't suck. Guaranteed."
"That sounds perfect," you sigh. "Please tell me there's gonna be a pool. I need to show off my new swimsuit."
"Duh." Somi rolls her eyes, glittery under her extensions. "The perfect opportunity to show the world that their hottest bachelorette is a bachelorette no longer. Also, we invited Pitbull.”
“Shut the fuck up. Wait, is he actually coming?”
”Dunno. Wouldn’t be very Mr. Worldwide of him to flake, though.”
Pitbull or not, you think of the heat of the strobe lights, the electric trill of the too-loud speakers. You're dancing in a dress that looks like a chunk of the moon, with the little neon ties of your bikini top peeking out the sides. There's a peach highball in your hands and no one is telling you what to do, how to do it, or that you're doing it wrong.
Then you think of Joshua. Maybe he'd loosen up after a few drinks. Maybe he'd dance with you, put those hands to use on your hips and kiss you like he should have earlier today. Maybe he'd even be good at it. The thought makes your cheeks sting.
“Should I invite Joshua?” Somi says, wrinkling her nose at how you immediately grimace. “What if he’s actually a blast?”
"No! No. Absolutely not."
“What if he’s—” Then she drops her singsong voice to a whisper. “Hung? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen those pictures of him in the Galapagos.”
Unfortunately, you have. A lurid, glassy image of your soon-to-be-husband in a sleazy pair of swim trunks comes into vision. You push past the smile, the unfair pecs, and remind yourself of that horrible, self-righteous twist of the lips that he always has.
Yes, that’s right. That’s the Joshua you know.
You grab the wine from her and drink it right from the bottle.
–
Of course it had to be the one time you’re not late to an event that you forget you had swapped everything in all your purses around. You double check your bag—empty.
You’re already down by half of your worldly possessions (still at home, your real home), and you probably left the other half on Joshua’s bathroom counter. Yesterday, you got derailed mid-task by Joshua lighting the grossest candle ever. You never thought you’d ever fight over candles of all things, but you couldn’t let him walk away from that conversation thinking wet dirt was a normal, socially acceptable, scent for a bedroom. (—It said moss on the label! —So, dirt. —Moss is not dirt. Maybe you need to go back to school.)
You fling open the bathroom door, still checking the pockets of your handbag, before you collide into a big, sopping wet wall.
“What the—?” You look up. The wall is not a wall. No, in fact, it is your fiancé, bare fucking naked.
Your heart jumps up to your throat. It feels like you walked right into a porno, and you can hear Somi’s self-satisfied, witch cackle right in your ear. His dark hair seems to fall into his eyes just right, a nice change from how he normally gels it up, and you watch the beads of water from the shower, torturously glittery, run down his jaw, the hollow of his neck, right onto his chest.
Men should not be allowed to have bigger boobs than you, at least, not dowdy Joshua Hong, who normally has the sex appeal of an eraser. And God forbid your eyes travel downward and confirm Somi’s sick and twisted hypothesis, past the washboard abs, the v-line, the trail down his—
“Sorry, did you need something?” You blink again and Joshua suddenly has a towel wrapped around his waist. And he’s eyeing you like you ate a million cloves of garlic and then proceeded to spit on him. “Or are you just going to stand here and ogle me?”
“I wasn't—no!” You start snatching things off the counter, anything really, and throwing them into your bag. “I just needed to grab stuff for my… my thing. You’re in the way.”
“Right, because you need four q-tips and my razor to read a children’s book,” Joshua replies, plucking the offending items out of your purse. “It's almost 12:30, by the way.”
“Shit. Fuck,” you stammer. You can’t glare at him anymore because you know where your eyes will end up and it is not on his face. “Stop distracting me. Whatever.”
“Have fun,” is the last thing Joshua tells you before you close the bathroom door, that portal to hell, right back up.
What you can’t do is return the image of what you saw back to where it came from, the wicked, glistening form of Joshua and his B cup tits. He looked so good, it makes you angry.
Later, on the walk to the library, you reach for your lip gloss. Instead, you pull out q-tip number five and get mad all over again.
–
The car ride to the derby feels like your own personal Saw trap, if Jigsaw wore a ridiculous hat and was actually your mother.
Your engagement was announced to the public just a few days ago. It came with no fanfare, no warning. You were sitting on your bed, making your way through the smut Joshua called a novel, when the news app on your phone kindly notified you that you were now a taken woman.
To some degree, the media uproar fascinated you. The idea that people with actual journalism degrees were writing headcanons about your honeymoon when you hadn’t even seen Joshua since The Bathroom Incident was surely entertaining, to say the least. But, like everything, the unsaid pressure of being a perfect princess, now part of an even more perfect couple, hangs heavy over you.
You remind yourself this is supposed to be fun. A real couple would be pawing at each other in the backseat, perhaps pregaming with champagne or fan-casting their pick for Spirit the horse. Instead, you’re stuck rehearsing your pitch to the reporters when they inevitably ask you about how the hell this happened. You wish you could tell them you’re not quite sure either.
Silently, you look at Joshua. Joshua looks out the window. The world rumbles under you.
[10:15 am, race 1]
The air seizes, swirls with clay-colored dust in the morning sun. The clubhouse is already heady with the low buzz of conversation—you watch the freckled sunhats and oily toupees bob up and down in the swell of the crowd, deep in the morning’s small talk. You wonder how many of them are talking about you, given how recently the news hit. You’re used to people ignoring your media appearances, not celebrating them.
Someone, tipping their head down to greet you, hands you a program. Joshua elects to tuck his in his back pocket. People don’t come to the derby to watch the races. Instead, it’s an excuse to gossip, day drink, and gamble, which would ordinarily be a good time for you if you weren’t overly invested in the racing circuit.
All the way from the entrance to your seats, you were met with a tidal wave of camera flashes, all hungry for a glimpse of your first public appearance as a couple. Alongside this, a decidedly worse flurry of congratulations paired with an overly familiar touch to the shoulder or a limp handshake. Joshua is quick to respond with either a smile or some trite platitude. Your least favorite: We couldn’t be happier. Now he’s just lying for sport.
“We should find the reporters doing interviews,” Joshua says the second his ass touches the chair, unfazed by the onslaught of perhaps a million different people. “The Sun probably wants to talk to us.”
You’re not listening—you can’t let on that this whole ordeal is mildly terrifying for you. He has enough reasons to dislike you, and stage fright wouldn’t exactly be a good addition to the list.
The racehorses have lined up at the track, their manes catching the daylight like holy fire. You like the one on the end. He looks like Peanut, Jeonghan’s stubborn palomino.
Joshua says your name insistently, curdled with the annoyance that you’ve now become acquainted with, and you catch a stray camera flash from the stands. You have an audience, and the audience demands a show, even if they’re second-rate journalists like the scum from The Sun.
“Darling,” you reply flatly. “Relax. Let's enjoy the races.”
The horses stretch their long legs, anxious for the thunderclap of the starter’s pistol. Joshua raises a tired eyebrow before the same realization dawns on him.
“Absolutely.” He clears his throat. “Darling.”
You wrap a hand around his arm—somehow he makes hand-holding seem like third base—and watch his shoulders sink with a sigh, like you just popped him.
Likewise, your highness. Likewise.
A shot crackles through the air, and you’re off to the races.
[12:43 pm, race 2.]
"I just have to know—how did you guys meet?"
You know the duchess of Pemarlia to be beautiful and unashamedly nosy, and she has yet to prove you wrong on either account.
The last time you saw her was on the beach at Lake Como last year, where she spent the entirety of your conversation asking if Jeonghan was single (and peeking into your bag to see what brand of lipstick you were wearing). Like everyone, she always seems to have a look of appraisal on her face. What makes her different is that she never really bothers to hide it; instead, she wears it like an en-vogue accessory.
She eyes you with an intensity, sizing up your dress, your tawdry sunhat, your ring. You wonder if she’d agree that marriage didn’t look good on you, but any shorter of a dress, your mother would call you a stripper. And God forbid you leave the house hat-less.
Now she’s no minotaur. This shouldn’t be much of a problem, save for one very small issue: you actually hadn’t planned your answer to this. You had quibbled over it briefly in the car, but you were too focused on your interview pitch to worry about minor gossip.
"Well," Joshua starts. Through his smile, you can hear the warning edge of his voice. “It was quite ordinary.”
"Actually," you cut him off. Not only would his version of this story be boring, it would also be horribly out-of-character for you. You did not come this far for your cover to be blown by Joshua’s lack of imagination. "Josh's parents hosted a—"
"Brunch," Joshua finishes. Whether his teeth are gritted because he's grinning or frustrated is none of your business. “It was Easter brunch, wasn’t it, sweet pea? Four years ago?”
The pet name makes you want to puke. Now he’s just trying to piss you off, but you know this is his attempt to play along. He's annoying, not dumb.
"Yes, we sat across from each other.” You playfully dig your elbow into Joshua’s rock-hard side. “He was giving me the eyes the whole time.”
You watch your hapless victim giggle, her spidery lashes wide with intrigue. Joshua is a little less pleased.
“If you could call it that,” he replies. “I think you had chocolate on your nose.”
“Which you so kindly wiped off for me, dear.” You try to peek around the flaxen billows of the duchess’s blowout to watch the horses behind her, but to no avail. “After a morning of staring, we had to do an Easter egg hunt, planned by Joshie himself. I had no idea he loved silly little games like that.”
“It's because people like the princess get so competitive,” Joshua says, with his laser beam grin boring into your eye sockets. “I believe I found you rummaging through the trash for eggs, like some kind of animal.”
“Oh my goodness,” the duchess laughs. “How...charming.”
You feel your eyebrow twitch. Only you’re allowed to ruin your own reputation, but you suppose that’s just another thing your horrible fake fiance gets to take from you.
“Not as embarrassing as seeing Joshua leer at me from behind the corner,” you retort. “He was so enamored that when I invited him to join me, he got right down on his knees to look through the trash together.”
“Well, did you find anything?”
“Yes—”
“No—”
“Well—”
Fuck. Luckily, the duchess is either stupid or wildly entertained by the clown show playing out before her. Maybe both.
“Cute,” she coos. “You must have been too smitten to notice.”
“Absolutely,” Joshua says, as if there is a gun held to his pretty head. “Among all the garbage and the girl next to me, I suppose nothing else really mattered.”
“If that isn’t love, what is?” she asks blithely.
If only she knew.
[3:45 pm, race 3]
The sun descends on the stadium, swollen and yellow with the afternoon.
Last year, you and your friends had a betting ring set up during the racing circuit. Obviously, you had won—not too hard when your competition included Soonyoung, who only bet on horses named after food (sadly, it was not Tater Tot’s year). Somi was no better, and your brother thought every horse deserved a participation award.
This time around, things aren’t so simple. But you’d hate to say that you spent a whole day at the track and didn’t bet on a single race. Life could afford you at least one win for today.
Again, the horses take their positions at the starting line, wound up like a line of rubber bands. The air heaves with bated breath.
“Joshua,” you say, folding your hands in your lap as you find your target. “I'd like to propose a bet.”
“You must be a glutton for punishment.”
You bite back a laugh as you watch your favorite horse, the palomino, ripple in place. Fans would call her a charity case, but you know better.
“Pick a horse. Mine is number Three, in the blue.”
“And if mine wins? What’s in it for me?” he asks. Still, he leans forward, corded forearms on his thighs. You watch him squint as he surveys the field with renewed interest.
“You pick,” you reply. “Choose wisely. I personally cannot wait to call in a favor from you.”
“The chestnut one. Number Nine.” So he is competitive. “And likewise. Perhaps I'll hold it over your head until the wedding.”
Before you can reply, you hear the starting pistol rip clean into the air. The racehorses surge forward, as if a silken ribbon through air.
“Nine makes sense for you,” you say, eyes fixed before you. “He's flashy, the crowd favorite. Spotless pedigree.”
“I'm picking your punishment already.”
“I didn't say he would win.” You feel the lilt of your voice rocking upward, the tremulous beat of your heart against your ribs. “You see, Three’s had a rough season. There she is, passing Four right now.”
“Nine is still first, though.”
“It’s not about that,” you reply. “She does this, she starts all the way out back and then flies up. No one suspects anything—it’s like she likes proving people wrong. The first couple races of the season, she was just stretching her legs; they were small, small fry. It’s this one that matters.”
The saddles are just blurs on the track now. To the march of the hoofbeats, Three lunges past Five, Six. The crowd roars.
“This will be her first win. I'm counting on it. She’s come really close before.”
Joshua doesn’t reply. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his gaze has shifted. You feel it land somewhere near you, but you’re too engrossed in the race to investigate further. Perhaps he’s admitted defeat preemptively, wisely so.
“You know your stuff,” he murmurs, the clamor of the audience almost burying him.
“How can I not?” Three coasts past One and Ten like she’s flying, until it’s just her and unlucky number Nine. “Oh my god. Go, go, go!”
You and Joshua rise to your feet, as if drawn by a string, now wholly invested in the race.
“Still beating you, you know.”
“Not for long! Come on!”
You watch your darling number Three, against all odds, pull past Joshua’s number Nine, burning a trail past the inevitable finish line.
From somewhere inside you emerges a joy that you hadn’t felt since this whole ordeal started. You turn to Joshua and clasp his hands between yours, somehow less wooden now, and so, so human. The crowd cheers; they come alive.
[4:50 pm, races 4 and 5. mainly, the reporter from the sun.]
The smaller races take place shortly after the headliner, for better or for worse. This forces you to finally face the music—the music being a dull-eyed, greasy journalist ready to sink his teeth into the public’s new favorite topic.
Joshua is a good sport about it, or at least, he’s good at pretending to be one.
“It was great,” is his answer to a question you didn’t hear. You’re busy going over the parts of the script that you remember. Your media team spent the better part of the morning repeating it back to you, which was helpful until it wasn’t. You weren’t sure how to tell them you’ve actually never been good at speaking to the press, since you had spent the better half of your life doing the exact opposite.
“And what did the princess think? It’s not often we catch you for an interview, you know.”
The eye of the camera seems to pierce through you. You can see your shellacked figure, long and distorted, in the reflection.
“I—um,” you swallow hard. God. Pull it together. You can already hear the lecture you’re going to get on the way home today. “Yeah, big day today.”
“She’s had to really rein in her excitement, you know,” Joshua adds, chuckling.
Briefly, you feel his hand brush against yours. Ordinarily, you’d pass it off as a fluke, but you feel the steady, insistent warmth of his palm again, first, to the inside of your wrist, then lower still. Before you’re able to really process what’s happening, he then takes your hand in his all at once, as if to say, I’ve got this. I’ve got you.
You figure he’s cashing in his favor early–he’d much rather leave you out to dry, let you flounder a bit so you learn to read the PR memorandums the night before. I told you so, he’d say. That’s what everyone else would say, anyway.
“The races are sure exciting, but I'm sure you’re even more excited about your upcoming wedding.” The reporter grins at you, as if he smells your fear. His hair looks like it’s glued to the top of his shiny head. “If I'm going to be honest, you were one of the last people we’d expect to tie the knot this year. We are all dying to hear more.”
What? You force yourself to breathe, feel the air fill your lungs, to avoid making an expression you’ll regret.
“Well, yeah, I'm sure it looks like it all happened quickly,” you answer, feeling your tongue trip over the words. Mostly because it did, in fact, happen quickly, but you can’t let them know that. “But Josh and I feel strongly about, uh, this whole thing, and—”
“Please, don’t spare us the details.”
Telepathically, Joshua squeezes your hand. This, you understand. He’s telling you to lean on him, and you trust that.
“Hold your horses,” he cuts in, almost too quickly, which makes the corners of your mouth twitch upward. He was definitely looking for an opening, but you, bizarrely, don’t mind at all. He turns to you and smiles. “What's the fun without a little mystery? It's been a wild ride, but I'm loving every second of it.”
It’s this one, the lamest and most embarrassing dad joke of them all, that gets you.
You laugh: a real one, big, loud, and unafraid. It's here, caught in the glare of the camera flash, where you find yourself hoping, even just a little, that this wasn’t just a favor, that this was a sign you could actually survive this arrangement.
You’re not asking for love—just a little bit of like. and, right now, you think you like Joshua Hong.
—
In the evening, you find yourself in the oaken parlor nestled away in the back halls of the Acrosian palace.
There's a piano there, gathering dust. It's a Steinway, spindly and chestnut, almost identical to the one you have at the palace in Cotria.
You and Jihoon had been unpacking your hodgepodge of things (unsorted, since the act of sorting would have forced you to stomach the fact that you were actually moving), when he had found your old lesson books.
You should break in that piano, he had said. Either that, or wait for your fiance to find you. He seemed ok at the derby today.
I guess.
What Jihoon hadn’t seen was all the photographs you had to take after your interview with The Sun, where Joshua decided to remind you that you were supposed to hate him. By that, you mean that he managed to make every single one unbearable. (A tap of the foot: Stand up straight. A careful brush of the elbow: Let’s link arms. A discerning, tactful glance at your chest: Pull up your dress. That, or he was no better than the average man.)
You and he hadn’t talked much after that. Hopefully, he’s fled to your cold, dark dungeon of a room to read, so he can finally leave you alone.
“Remember when your parents invited all their friends over and asked you to play?” Jihoon says, perched on the loveseat while he sorts through an old jewelry box.
“Yeah, and I literally forgot everything?” you laugh. “Freaking Jeonghan had to check on me because I locked myself in my room for 24 hours straight. And then he had the nerve to laugh at me.”
You thumb through the fattest book of the pile. The binding is soft; the pages now yellow and fuzzed over by time.
On page 5, Chopin's Waltz in A-flat major. three four time or whatever, you had scrawled in defiant red ink. Page 37, a thick black line through Debussy's name on Arabesque No. 1. This is because you would always laugh at it during lessons, and you wanted to save yourself the trouble.
“Do you want to keep this?” Jihoon holds up a choker that resembles a jock strap. “When did you even wear this? It looks like a cat toy.”
You ignore him and start to play. You were never excellent—competent would be a better word. Still, it was enough for you. Soonyoung would ask you to play during drunk karaoke, and you could still keep up with Jeonghan when he played one of his overcomplicated duets.
Your hands remember the velvet thud of the keys, the glide of the pedal. When you turn the page, there’s a scrawled in BITCH! next to a heavily circled allegro. Piano was one of the only things that your parents forced you to do that you actually liked. The kicker was that it didn’t even do you any good. You weren’t as talented as your parents would like you to be, meaning that, to them, you weren’t talented at all.
It’s then that your fingers slip, and you miss a chord. In your defense, you have a fresh manicure. Always blame the nails. Your mom hated when you kept them long, even more than your hardass tutor.
“The prince is helping with the theater production this year, right?” Jihoon holds a single earring up to the light. You think you lost the other one in Ibiza last year. “You gonna help out again?”
“Maybe.” Another wrong note. You’re losing steam trying to read all the ledger lines and your smeared, illegible writing next to them. “I don't know. He probably won’t even want me to. I'm choosing a different piece, by the way. Bored of this one.”
The truth about your 21st birthday was that you did actually intend to spend it at the youth theater. It was your idea before it was Jeonghan’s idea, but, at the time, you both still were a package deal.
You were on piano; Jeonghan was on whatever else he pleased. He'd always been indecisive like that. At the bench, you’d hoist the little ones on your knee and regale them with the classical version of the opening song from paw patrol. Jeonghan stole prop masks from the back, mostly to hide behind the curtains and scare people, you included. You’d both stay up late, paint spackled on your palms, trying to Michelangelo a backdrop with the combined artistic talent of a TI-84.
The production became your thing, just you and him, no cameras, no press releases, no parents. But like everything else, neither you, Jeonghan, nor anyone else was able to keep those inevitable truths apart. The set pieces were repainted in Italy, the finger-painted fields turned luminescent with varnish; the pins and needles in the costumes swapped with mother-of-pearl; and, finally, you, replaced by a classically trained pianist from Juilliard. At least he was hot.
Everyone knows the rest of the story—the red carpet, the empty seats, and the puffy pink balloons outside the mansion in Saint Tropez.
“Oh please,” Jihoon wheedles. “You and I both know he wanted you there.”
“Then maybe he should have fought harder.” You flip to a random page, this one marked up in pink gel pen. You remember it bled through all the pages behind it, making it a pain to read but awfully funny during lessons. “It doesn't matter. There’s probably wedding stuff i gotta deal with.”
Jihoon lets you play this next piece uninterrupted. It’s not that it’s a sensitive subject for you—there were plenty of other things that filled the wedge between you and your brother—but it certainly didn’t help.
You let your fingers wander over the stubborn keys. It feels good to play, even if you’re almost unforgivably rusty. You reach for the page, when you hear Jihoon again: “You know, you’re allowed to come in, your highness.”
Immediately, your hands freeze. Like a scolded child, you become aware of how your fingers teeter over the keys, the stumbling, awkward clacking of your nails, the one or two missed quarter notes from the last measure.
You turn to face the door, where Joshua stands, leaning against the frame like a sleazy model from an Abercrombie catalog. He probably came from the gym. Seeing him dressed down is still very weird, mostly because you can’t decide if it’s because he looks good or if it’s because it reminds of seeing your teacher at the grocery store.
“Anyone teach you manners?” you ask, unsure if your hackles should be raised.
“No, I was raised in a barn, just like those horses you like so much,” he laughs. “I didn’t want to interrupt. You’re not bad, you know.”
“Thanks.” You eye him skeptically. “Thought you were gonna comment on the nails.”
“Do you want me to?”
“Preferably not, but it’s not like you‘d listen to me anyway.” You look for Jihoon’s reaction, but he seems to have conveniently disappeared. “Let’s play a duet. I’m cashing in my favor.”
“Sure,” Joshua replies. “I'm no good, though. Might be more of a punishment for you.”
You slide over on the bench, and he sidles up next to you. He smells like Le Labo and sweat, the sting citrusy and bright, close enough to linger.
“No good?” You pick up another fat book from the stack atop the lid: The Joy of Duets. “Me neither.”
“You have no idea,” he chuckles. “And trust me, I tried.”
“I’ll do top?” you announce.
Joshua snickers, and you kick him under the bench (really, just a tap of your foot).
You spend the next two minutes tripping over a Schubert piece. Terribly, this is endearing to you. You make somewhat of a couple—you, with your horrible form, and Joshua, now squinting at the key signature like it’ll make it easier to read.
“Buddy,” you exclaim. “Left hand goes here.” Laughing, you reposition his hand mid-chord to an octave below. You feel it tense beneath you before yielding to proper technique.
“Aw, what?” he whines. “See, I told you I was no good. Give me a second.”
You watch him puzzle over the next few lines, pretty brow furrowed. You conclude that Pajama Joshua is decidedly better than Prince Joshua. He’s funnier, kinder, warmer. Even his hands feel softer.
“Also, about earlier today,” you start. The words are starting to dry up on your tongue, but you figure Pajama Joshua is an easier target than usual. “I didn't know they trained you in stand-up comedy.”
“We laugh in this country too, you know.” When Joshua says this, he grins, bumping into your shoulder like you’d been friends for a long time. For once, it feels easy, natural.
“Well, thanks anyway.”
“I couldn't leave my fiancée out to dry.” The word must sound ridiculous even to him, because he laughs just the same as he did when he unloaded his ridiculous puns onto the unassuming world. “No really. We’re in this together, unfortunately. It’s my duty.”
Duty, both the knife and the wound. You can’t say you’re surprised he’s only nice to you out of obligation. So is everyone else, and you don’t know why you thought it’d be any different, especially coming from him. It’s not like you’re wearing your ring now either; you suppose you’re just as guilty.
“You cross over here,” you tell him, changing the topic. You slide your hand over his, and it bends to you. “Thumb under. Sorry, I couldn't help but notice.”
“It's ok,” Joshua replies. “I only learned piano because I had to. When I stopped going to lessons, I forgot everything. Now I feel like I put this piano to shame.”
“Really? Not to stroke your ego, but you strike me as the type to be good at everything.”
“No,” he chuckles. “Only when I have to be. I actually wanted to learn how to play guitar.”
“No way.”
“Yes way. I wanted to have one of those woven guitar straps, get a little pick collection going, be able to play any song from the Beatles discography. All the cliche stuff.”
“Well, why can’t you?” you ask. “Minus the Beatles thing. Pick better music.”
“Back then, it never occurred to me. We all learn piano.”
“That's silly,” you blurt out. “Who cares?”
“That's a little rich coming from you.”
You frown, feeling all the usual unpleasantries bubble up through your skin.
“That's not really fair.” You absentmindedly play a few keys, all disjointed. “Taking guitar lessons doesn’t make you a problem child.”
“It's not about that, though,” Joshua says. He's avoiding your eyes. “It's everything, together. I couldn't just pick up a guitar and be someone else.”
“Someone else? You mean you? The real you?”
“Yes,” Joshua presses. “That's the point. I can't just do whatever I want. Sometimes the real you is more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Someone’s dramatic. If you do everything the same, nothing will change. Maybe getting into a little trouble isn’t such a bad thing.”
“Forgive me,” he says, mid-chuckle. “You wouldn’t call this trouble?”
He’s got you there. Childishly, all your pride hardens to a lump in your throat, one you’ve never learned to swallow.
“Your family needed our help too, remember?”
“Yeah, and you think I don’t think about that every day? How, maybe, if I had done something different, then we wouldn’t be here?”
You feel stung. You don’t know how to tell him that you’ve been trying to figure out the same thing your whole life. If you were a better daughter, you’d have spared everyone the trouble. Unfortunately, you’d gotten it wrong so many times, you stopped trying.
What's worse is that he doesn’t even sound mad—you watch his fingertips ghost over the keys of a C-scale, rhythmically, methodically. Piano scales, this marriage, everything: just things to do on his never-ending list.
A hesitant knock at the door interrupts any possibility of you coming up with anywhere close to the right thing to say.
“Prince Joshua, the king and queen need to speak to you.” It’s an aide, probably sweating bullets deciding when and how they should intrude on this wonderful conversation of yours.
“Right,” says Joshua, and when he gets up from the bench, he doesn’t look back.
—
“You ready to get stuffed?”
Good fucking morning to you—Somi’s voice, fluorescent through your phone speakers, seems to be enough of an alarm clock for you. Joshua, in the doorway dual wielding a coffee cup and the morning paper, raises a tired eyebrow.
After the events of last night, you’d wondered if he would somehow disappear at nighttime in an effort to avoid his eventual fate (you). Instead, you found him on his usual side of the bed, drinking his usual mug of chamomile tea, in his usual silence.
You've heard that couples shouldn’t go to bed angry, but no one said anything about indifferent. Then again, you and Joshua are hardly a couple.
“Ew,” you laugh. “No. Maybe? Should I be scared?”
“Absolutely. You’re eating your weight in food today because I need your opinion on catering.”
Smushing your phone between your cheek and your shoulder, you watch the mirror as your wavering reflection puts on a layer of mascara.
“For your party?”
“Yeah, although on second thought, maybe it’s a bad idea to bring the girl who’s gonna puke everything up anyway.”
“My IBS is none of your business. Besides, the real food critic is Jihoon,” you reply. “Sometimes I feel like that’s the only reason he still works here.”
“You’re coming in an hour, right?”
You check the clock. No, you are not. You’re only halfway through a full beat and if you don’t get any caffeine inside you within the hour, you will commit a crime.
“Nope.” You pop open your compact. “I have to change, and I desperately need to locate a coffee. I will suck a fucking bean off if i need to.”
“I'm hanging up on you,” Somi whines. “It's too early for you to be gross and late.”
“As if you weren’t talking about getting stuffed.”
“Whatever.” Click.
At this point, you feel like Somi’s party is both the proverbial and literal light at the end of the tunnel. No expectations, no rules, and no semi-arguments between you and your doomed fiance.
Then you notice that Joshua’s disappeared from the room—he probably couldn’t stand listening to your end of the conversation. Briefly, you wonder where he is. Off running an errand for his dear parents, perhaps, or maybe at the gym you still haven’t discovered yet. Even from the hefty distance he keeps you at, you can still appreciate a man who looks like he’s touched a dumbbell.
It's only when you’re halfway out the door, almost an hour later, juggling your purse and your phone and the distinct absence of a caffeinated beverage, that you find him.
“Come to ruin my day?” you ask, maybe three-fourths joking.
“Don’t give me any ideas,” he replies. Under the bluebird sky of late morning, lips upturned and eyes bright, Joshua may be a sight you could get used to. Someday. “Brought you a coffee. I can’t have you sucking off a bean—the reporters would go crazy.”
Jihoon, hovering by the car, chokes on his water.
“Oh!” The surprise knocks the sound out of you. “Thank you. Really.”
“Gladly,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.
He holds all your stuff as you clamber into the car, before handing it back to close the door for you. You’ll admit it’s nice, but as Jihoon starts to drive, you feel a familiar twist in your chest.
“Interesting,” he remarks. “Didn’t know you were on a coffee order basis.”
“We’re not,” you answer. You pop the lid open. It's a cappuccino, made the classic way, milk foam bubbling out the top. Not your favorite, but it’ll do.
More than that, it’s an olive branch. Yesterday did get weird, but you’re getting the impression that it’ll always get weird. Undoubtedly, there is someone out there who’ll get Joshua. His schedules, his straight-backed obligation, the polished photo ops and the cappuccinos made to a perfect one to one to one ratio. You know this because this is the world you came from, one that should be home to you.
Instead, you circle each other in an unsure, clumsy dance. You can’t quite get it right. It's all the same now. The bite of a horse saddle not made for your body, the glow of your heirloom ring, now cheapened by your graceless hand, Joshua’s lonely, reaching palm as he disappears in the rearview mirror.
—
On your arrival home in the evening, you return with two things: a few extra kilos and an absolutely horrendous copy of the Daily Mail, courtesy of Somi, who saw it at the grocery.
"Great showing from the couple of the year," you say, shucking your copy at Joshua. "It looks like we're in Shark Tale."
Even from a distance, the cheap ink-spackled cover shows more than enough. LIP LOCK FLOP!, it reads, although you wouldn’t really call it a lip lock.
It was at the derby—Quick, they’re looking at us, you had said. Then what you would call a nun’s version of a kiss: you, already halfway out the door, and him, lips hesitant and pursed, as if he was asked to smooch his withering, dusty great-grandmother.
"I'm not even going to ask what you mean by that," Joshua answers, voice level. "It's not that bad."
He puts his book down to pick the magazine up, holding it at a distance like the image will jump out of the page and bite him. You see his expression flicker, and that's all you need to confirm your suspicions.
"Ok, it's a little bad." He places it on the nightstand next to him face-down. "It'll be alright. It's not like the wedding will be called off over one bad picture."
"You know that's not the issue." You sit on your side of the bed, about a full meter away from him. You kind of want to look again just to see how bad it is, but you're sure it'll be inescapable by the morning.
"Since when did you care what the press thought of you?"
"Since it mattered." You stare at your lap, eyes fixed on the too-new, wiggly hem of your pajamas instead of him. You can tell he's still looking at you, though–you think those big, watery eyes have some sort of flashlights in them, and you don't like it. "It seems wrong if our mistakes take up space."
You hear him make a small noise of agreement. Joshua still won't admit that you're right, but you suppose you like that a little. At least he'll be stubborn about something, even if it's about clearly not liking you.
"What do you suggest?" he asks, putting his book down. “We didn't choose each other, so I'm not surprised there's no attraction."
"Ouch." He's right, but you'd rather be the one saying it. "I'm a good kisser. You aren't."
"I'm just not good at kissing you," he retorts.
"Evidently." You shimmy towards his side of the bed, where the sheets are cooler under your thighs, the pillows still neatly arranged on the headboard. "What I'm saying is that we should at least try to look more realistic. Like–"
"Are you saying we should practice?" Joshua looks at you over the frames of his glasses, incredulous.
"Yeah," you say, now too far in it to back out. "Like exposure therapy. For unwilling couples."
The room gets quiet, as if it wasn't unbearably so before. You watch Joshua pick up his book again. He puts the bookmark in, two-thirds from the spine of the book so as to not ruin the binding, and places it over the doomed tabloid.
"Okay." To your surprise, he turns to face you. The lamplight catches the lens of his glasses and makes his eyes look warmer than they truly are. "How should we do this?"
The way Joshua's gaze settles on you makes you feel like you're being evaluated. An exam in Kissing 101, except the test would rather not have anything to do with you at all. For the first time in your life, you let your eyes wander to his lips, rosy and full, and you feel the pit of anxiety in your belly grow wider. Somehow he's managed to take all the fun out of one of your favorite activities, but you'll be damned if he walks away from this thinking it's you who's the problem.
"Just...let me lead," you say quietly, now leaning closer to him. You have to ease yourself into it. You let your body respond, feel the skip of your heart, a heady flush wash over your cheeks. He smells like spearmint and clover.
You've kissed a lot of people. None of this should feel new to you. His eyelashes skim against your cheek, and you can hear the breath he takes, quivering, gentle.
Despite all this, the first kiss is no better than any of the other ones. his lips meet yours, hesitant before they start moving. He's shy, and it would almost endear him to you if he wasn't so annoying. But then the charade is over. His nose clocks yours and it startles you both enough to draw away, ever so slightly.
"Not my fault," you murmur. You're so close, you can see your reflection in his pupils, glassy and dark.
"Thought this was practice," responds Joshua, unfazed.
So you lean in again, giving it another go. Two is better—sweet and succinct. a first date type of kiss. You can taste the berry of your lip balm on him.
Then again, except this time it's him who goes in, chases your lips.
The scary thing is that you thought this would be much harder. You had stood in the bathroom, looked yourself in the mirror, and psyched yourself up to do the impossible.
But the moment you meet him, now so close there's no room to breathe, you feel an impenetrable, unshakable desire crawling up your bones. Your palm finds the flat of his chest. Even under the silk of his ridiculous pajama top, you feel the heat of his skin, the restless quick of his heartbeat, and your stomach flips.
Four, five. You're losing count. Joshua's hand trails up your arm to cup your cheek, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel your breath catch in your chest.
He's warm, so warm. When your other hand finds the back of his neck, he makes a small sound in his throat and you like it.
It's at this point you realize there is no point in pretending. Maybe you don't want to kiss Joshua at any other moment during any other day, but you do now. You really do.
When your tongue meets the seam of his lips, it feels all too natural. At first, predictably, he buffers a bit. For a split second, you envision him pulling away and saying you've gotten more than a lifetime's worth of practice in.
But he doesn't. Instead, an arm winds around your waist and that's all it takes for your body to stop listening to you altogether. Lips still connected, you lift yourself to straddle his lap, right over the folded up covers, and his hands, devastatingly strong, find your hips to keep you rooted there.
You're starting to think he isn't such a bad kisser after all—maybe he really was holding out on you, but there's something weirdly rewarding about him waiting until he liked you just a little more. Whatever that means.
You learn that his hair is soft, really soft, at the base of his neck. You learn that he likes when you bite his lips and you learn that his spearmint mouthwash does, in fact, taste as good as it smells.
You also learn that you, paradoxically, might not know how to love Joshua Hong, but you sure do know how to kiss him.
genre fluff , established marriage , husband!wonwoo x wife!reader cw food mention (cake) , teasing , they're in love and make me feel single , not proofread wc 490 request @k1eev for wonwoo + arms clasped around one's waist for the 3k event note man i haven't written for svt in a while but this reminded me how insane i am for wonwoo ever since i wrote fire lord wonwoo. that fic truly changed me and my bias line. i hope you enjoy kie!!! net @kstrucknet
“Stop trying to run away. Come here.” Wonwoo’s voice was gentle and steady as always, but there was a subtle hint of amusement in his tone that only you would pick up. His words made your body relax almost immediately and a small smile crept on your lips.
“Why should I? You ate the last piece of cake,” you reminded him yet again, as if there was any possibility he would forget the fact with you reminding him every ten minutes the past hour.
“I’d buy you fifty cakes if that’s what you wanted. Just come here,” he told you, holding out his arms, waiting for you to consider the offer. You were only dawdling to tease him. He looked awfully cute with his glasses perched on his nose and his slightly messy hair from his gaming headphones. He hadn’t known you wanted the last piece of cake and had already apologized for it. He knew you were teasing him too, for just last week you had stolen food he had his eyes on as well.
So you relented, and padded over to him, allowing his arms to find their home on your waist. His touch was firm, portraying his clear intentions. He wasn’t going to let you go until he had his fill. He hugged you close, lips right by your ear.
“Do you want me to buy you another cake?” he asked, and you giggled. He treated you too well.
“No, love. It’s okay. I don’t want another cake— just want you to keep holding me.”
“Keep holding you? I think I can do that,” he said, smiling wider now. His grip on your tightened ever so slightly, the comforting hug welcome. Feeling Wonwoo so close to you was everything you could ever want, and infinitely better than a slice of cake.
You snaked your arms around his waist as well to mirror the gesture, looking up at him with pure love in your eyes. He looked back down at you with nothing but the same feeling, and another gentle squeeze to your waist told you everything.
Your husband was a simple man, and it seemed like his only priority in life was to make sure you were happy. He did an excellent job at it, and you reminded him every day just how lucky you felt to have met him, fallen in love, and now be able to spend the rest of your life together. There was no better man you could have found, nor a better match for you than Wonwoo. Your perfect equal, even if he ate the last slice of cake sometimes.
“How long do you want me to hold you?” he asked after a while. You looked like the last thing you wanted to do is make any moves to remove yourself from his arms.
“Forever.”
“I’m afraid I’m not so confident I can do that. But I can certainly try. Whatever my wife desires.”
svt taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @ddeonudepressions,, @hannahsophie0103,, @cham3li,,
Kim Mingyu was the first friend your brother had brought home for dinner. Fast forward a couple years, his toothy smile and pierced ears would wedge their way into a permanent place in your heart. Nail to a coffin, never to escape. Or; in which you get rejected by the only boy you've ever loved; a rejection you can't quite shake off. | 40k [a, f]
❖ creep — by @smileysuh
“If the roles were reversed - if you were a ghost bound to this apartment forever - you’re saying you wouldn’t watch me get naked every day?” He’s definitely got a point. As your eyes skim Mingyu's perfect form again, that tingle returns between your legs. There’s no reason for him to be as sexy as he is- murders aren’t the only shocking thing this man has under his belt and you can see that now. | 9.1k [s]
❖ untitled — by @tonicandjins
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❖ one last time — by @tonicandjins
you receive an invitation for the worst day of your life. | 10.9k [a]
❖ right time — by @thedensworld
you both were too young when you get together, right person-wrong time. Two years after break up, destiny brought you two again. | ? [a]
❖ did you hear what the rumor said? — by @97linelover
Dating as Idols means, keeping it a secret. Rumors will spread, people will get hurt. What if this one Rumor brings you over the edge and you no longer can handle this Secret? | 1.4k [a, f]
❖ beautiful liar — by @onlymingyus
Kim Mingyu's life has always been complicated, but you just add another layer. At least he is a beautiful liar. | 25.6k [a, f]
❖ thirsty — by @cheolism
joshua sends you a photo of your boyfriend wearing a tank top while working out and you just can't help but thirst. | 5.2k [s]
❖ goodbye — by @tonicandjins
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❖ evening glow — by @cheolhub
you're having a horrible, no good, very bad day and mingyu wants to do everything he can to make it better. | 4.5k [s, a, f]
❖ statistically speaking — by @gyuswhore
In all your years of academic endurance, you've never failed. A 100% success rate, despite you cutting it close at times. However, the line graph that is your life starts tanking somewhere around the time you began taking this hellsent Statistics in Psychological Research class. With a professor that wouldn't know his ass from his head, and an overworked, overenthusiastic, and overcaptivating TA, it couldn't possibly get any worse than this. However, statistically speaking,...it could. | 21k [s, a, f]
❖ mingyu is so mean when he’s horny — by @gyuspell
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❖ backburner — by @saythenametotheworld
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❖ still yours — by @number1mingyustan
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❖ i can do it for you — by @hoshifighting
After years dealing with everything alone, you stumble upon an old wishbook from your past. And you jokingly writes down your ideal boyfriend, Mingyu. To your surprise, Mingyu magically appears in your couch. | 8k [s, f]
tags: non-idol au, fluff, food mention, yn is a Mess, shua blushes very easily, absolutely cheesy romcom-style trope in this fic, basically shua pretends someone bought yn a drink but surprise!! it was him!!
warnings: 1 swear word
notes: silly soft flustered joshua who rarely consciously flirts but makes an exception for you :((( my beloved. happy shua day <3
“Here, this is a hot chocolate for you from the guy across the cafe.”
It's been a particularly horrible day, that day. Not because of anything specific, but just because sometimes days are like that. Days where the weather is terrible, your mood is terrible, work is terrible, and overall everything is just kind of… shit.
Seven o'clock in the evening finds you in a cafe: the same cafe you've been in for four hours, clocking in some unwanted overtime because some idiot on your team managed to permanently delete half the spreadsheet you've been updating for weeks and now you have to scramble to fix it in two days before the annual overview meeting is conducted to all of your bosses.
You’re exhausted, on the verge of a meltdown, and almost about to burst into tears when the gentle, male voice had spoken, and you look up just as a hand slides a steaming mug onto your table.
This man—he’s absolutely gorgeous, actually, but you don’t get to register it fully because the moment you look up, he suddenly dashes away to the other end of the cafe, bumping into empty tables before sitting down nonchalantly in one of the booths all the way on the other side, crossing his legs and waving, like nothing had happened.
“Hi,” he says, all cool and suave, even as he’s still waving. “I’m the guy from across the cafe.”
You blink, and then the pieces of his charade fall into place and you laugh, flattered.
“Well, thank you very much,” you say, and then close your laptop, looking down at the hot chocolate on your table. The whipped cream is piled high, and the mini marshmallows are the pink kind. It’s very cute. “That’s very kind of you.” You smile, taking a sip. “I’ll also be sure to thank the handsome server who brought me my drink.”
The man’s smile widens, pleased. “I hope you don’t think the server was more handsome than me, though.”
You hum, tilting your head. “I’m not sure. Maybe if you come over here, I’ll be able to see you properly and make a real judgement.”
The man’s eyes light up, and he makes his way over to you, and—it’s like the whole world stops spinning. You’d already known he was handsome, and he’s been sitting on the other side of the cafe while talking to you, but it’s a whole other thing to be seeing him up close.
You’re now face-to-face with the prettiest person you’ve ever seen, with pretty brown eyes and a pretty lips that are pulled into a devastatingly pretty smile, and you have to fight a blush as he claims the seat opposite you at the table.
“Hi,” he says again, and laughs softly when you can’t quite meet his gaze, shy.
“Hello,” you say, looking up briefly and feeling your face instantly heat up. What earlier confidence you’d had when calling him over has mysteriously disappeared, flustered in the face of this man’s handsomeness.
He laughs again, obviously finding you endearing as you look away, avoiding his gaze. And then he ducks his head down until he finds your eyes again before slowly straightening up, smiling when your gaze stays on him. “There we go,” he says softly. “Your eyes are so pretty. Please don’t look away.”
You blink rapidly, still very pink in the face. “Thank you.”
The man smiles. “My name’s Joshua,” he says, inclining his head in greeting. “May I have your name?”
Somehow, the oddly formal nature of Joshua’s question helps you shake some of your shyness, and you smile back at him, taking a sip from your hot chocolate. It’s sweet.
“I suppose you may,” you say, lightly teasing. “It’s Y/N.”
And then you hold out your hand for him to shake, playing up the formal greeting, and Joshua laughs, taking it in his own, his touch warm and grounding. You kind of want to hold his hand forever.
“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N,” Joshua says. Disappointingly, his fingers fall away from your own almost instantly, and he gestures to the mug in front of you. “I hope you like the hot chocolate. I was actually, um, watching you from across the cafe, and you looked quite stressed, and so I wanted to give you the drink.”
“Oh.” His words have you melting a little, and he looks so adorable with his shining eyes and that shy smile on his face, as if nervous about this whole exchange. “Thank you. I was having a bit of a bad day, so this really helps.” You look down at the hot chocolate in mild wonder. “I thought this kind of thing only happened to main characters in rom coms.”
Joshua rubs the back of his neck, looking a little embarrassed even as he laughs slightly, eyes crinkling.
“I don’t really do things like this, normally,” he admits. “I’m kind of out of my depth here with this whole… flirting thing. But I thought you were cute, and you were working so hard, and I wanted to just give you something sweet to cheer you on.”
He thought you were cute. Despite his admission that he’s “out of his depth” here, you think he’s actually doing very well in this flirting. Devastatingly so.
Things like this just don’t happen to you. You’re not the type to have handsome men giving you hot chocolate at seven in the evening because they think you’re cute, but here you are, and Joshua’s smiling shyly even as his eyes glow, and he’s so pretty and this entire thing feels like something out of a dream.
“Your presence is sweeter than any drink could be,” you blurt out, and then promptly turn the shade of a beetroot, burying your face onto the top of your laptop lid.
You can practically hear Joshua’s stunned silence, and then he laughs.
“Oh, please look up,” he says, when you still keep your face firmly buried in the laptop. “That’s the most adorable compliment I’ve ever gotten, seriously. You’re really—you’re really lovely, Y/N.”
“I’m also really embarrassed,” you say, muffled. “That was—I’m so sorry. I’m really bad at flirting. That was so weird.”
Joshua laughs again, and then there’s a light tap on the top of your head, and you lift your head slightly. Joshua takes the opportunity to reach over and lift your chin up with the tips of his fingers, smiling when you finally make eye contact with him again.
He’s blushing, you realise faintly. His fingers are warm on your face, and his cheeks are dusted pink. You did that to him.
“It wasn’t weird,” he assures. “I told you, I’m really bad at this whole thing too. But I came over here because I liked you, so it would be strange for me to dislike the idea of you liking me too.”
Your eyes widen. “You like me?”
Joshua scrunches his nose slightly, looking embarrassed again. He retracts his hand, and again, you miss the warmth of his touch. “This isn’t my first time seeing you,” he confesses. “You come here every Wednesday after work, don’t you? I’m always here around that time as well, and you’re always so bright and bubbly with your friends, and I just—well, like I said, I found you really cute.”
“Oh.” Joshua really is so, so sweet. “I’m sorry I haven’t ever talked to you before, then. Wow.” And then you smile. “But if it’s any consolation, I really do think you’re cute, too.”
Joshua’s whole face seems to glow as his eyes crinkle into crescents and he smiles widely. He’s still blushing prettily, and that makes you smile too, mesmerised by how someone who looks like him actually exists.
“Okay, lovebirds, wrap it up,” a voice suddenly says, and you jump, tearing your gaze away from Joshua, flustered. At the front of the cafe, there’s a barista wiping down the coffee machines. He stops what he's doing, leaning against the counter, watching you both amusedly. His name tag, Yoon Jeonghan, glints in the lights. “We’re closing up soon. You guys have to go.”
“Oh, right. Sorry,” you call back, and quickly drink the last of the hot chocolate that Joshua gave you, before beginning to put your things back in your back. The spreadsheet isn’t fully finished, but oh well. You can get someone else to do it.
“Sorry, I probably distracted you,” Joshua says apologetically, as you put on your coat and shoulder your bag. He picks up your empty mug for you, ready to walk to the counter and give it back to the barista. “Did you manage to finish your work?”
You shake your head, and the two of you make your way out of the cafe. “No, but it’s okay,” you assure him. “I’ve been working on it for hours. I’ll get someone else to finish it off.”
Joshua nods and hands the mug back to the barista, who accepts it with a mischievous grin.
“Have a nice night, lovebugs,” the barista, Jeonghan, says, eyes twinkling. It makes Joshua roll his eyes, exasperated and benevolent at the same time, like he was used to such teasing. He bids Jeonghan goodnight and then leads you out of the cafe, opening the door for you and then following you out afterwards, until you’re both standing out on the empty street.
“A friend of mine, unfortunately,” Joshua says, as a way of explaining Jeonghan’s familiarity. “I may have, um, mentioned you to him, before. Once or twice.”
He’s being bashful again, awkward and shy in revealing his liking for you, and goodness, you’re finding him more and more endearing with each passing second you spend in his presence.
“Cute,” you say, the word slipping out before you can stop it. Joshua’s eyes widen, surprised, but like hell are you taking it back, because it’s true. “You’re really cute,” you laugh. “I… wow. Yeah. I think you’re really cute and just. Thank you, for spending time with me. This was really nice.”
Joshua’s eyes are still wide, and he swallows.
“Okay,” he says, “I really, really don’t normally do this, but could I have your number? You’re just so nice and so pretty and I want to get to know you more, if that’s okay. You can say no, of course, and that’s totally fine, but if you’d like to, then—”
“Yes,” you cut off his rambling with a smile, and hold out a hand for his phone. “I’d like to. Of course I’ll give you my number.”
Your day did not start well at all. It’s been miserable, and exhausting, and frankly the worst day you’ve had in a while—but then a mug of hot chocolate had slid onto your table in a coffee shop, and you’d started to make conversation with the prettiest guy in the world, and now, now, now…
Now, Joshua beams at you, soft as marshmallow and sweet as chocolate, and well. You have to admit that your day has ended in the best possible way.
All works are nsfw unless stated otherwise. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!
𝗖𝗛𝗢𝗜 𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗢𝗟
🇴 🇳 🇪 🇸 🇭 🇴 🇹 🇸
ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʙᴇsᴛɪᴇs ᴅᴏ
— f2l au | s, f (kinda) | 1.9k
you always tease your best friend, but maybe this time you’ve pushed him too far.
ᴄʀᴏssɪɴɢ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅᴀʀɪᴇs
— single dad au, nanny au | s, f | 8.6k
seungcheol has always demanded that all of his employees keep professional boundaries, but it frustrates him that his son’s nanny is a little too good at keeping things professional.
── ・ ──
𝗬𝗢𝗢𝗡 𝗝𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗛𝗔𝗡
🇴 🇳 🇪 🇸 🇭 🇴 🇹 🇸
ɪ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴜ, ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴜ
— e2l au, model au, college au, fake dating au | a, s, f | 20.8k
after finally managing to escape the lifelong rivalry you once had with yoon jeonghan, you’re unexpectedly thrown back into the undesirable feud after receiving a scholarship to the most prestigious private school in the city. despite your attempts to leave the past in the past, you discover too late that you’re the only one interested in letting the vendetta go. years later, there’s a switch in dynamic when you’re the one unwilling to let it go.
── ・ ──
𝗝𝗢𝗦𝗛𝗨𝗔 𝗛𝗢𝗡𝗚
🇸 🇪 🇷 🇮 🇪 🇸
ᴠɪʀɢɪɴ ᴋɪʟʟᴇʀ
ғᴏᴏʟ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ (P2)
— college au, virgin au, | s, f (kinda) | 7.2k
you can’t stand the clear line the cute nerd in your calculus class always draws between you two. however, you’re determined to show him that there’s a fine line between love and hate. and if you happen to get him to cross that line, even better.
ғᴏᴏʟ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ
ᴠɪʀɢɪɴ ᴋɪʟʟᴇʀ (P1)
— college au, fwb au | s, f | 5.1k
we’re all fools when it comes to love, and the cute nerd in your calculus class has to learn this the hard way. luckily, you’re there to help him through it.
🇴 🇳 🇪 🇸 🇭 🇴 🇹 🇸
sᴡᴇᴇᴛ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍs
— reincarnation au, vampire au | a, s | 10.1k
you dream about a beautiful man nearly every time you fall asleep. after getting to know him and everything about him, you see him outside of your dreams—in a museum painting.
🇹 🇮 🇲 🇪 🇸 🇹 🇦 🇲 🇵 🇸
[11:11 ᴘᴍ]
— soulmate au | f, s | 0.6k
in which your soulmate loves you more than anything on this earth.
── ・ ──
𝗪𝗘𝗡 𝗝𝗨𝗡𝗛𝗨𝗜
── ・ ──
𝗞𝗪𝗢𝗡 𝗦𝗢𝗢𝗡𝗬𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗚
── ・ ──
𝗝𝗘𝗢𝗡 𝗪𝗢𝗡𝗪𝗢𝗢
🇴 🇳 🇪 🇸 🇭 🇴 🇹 🇸
ғᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ
— teacher au, cam girl au, college au | s | 9.3k
when professor jeon realizes his most earnest student is no longer paying him the attention he craves, he goes to great lengths to make sure he’s the only one holding her attention.
ʟɪᴄᴇɴᴛɪᴏᴜs
— babysitter au, cheating au | s | 7.1k
wonwoo has always been a scrupulous man, but he’s quick to abandon all his morals after his wife hires a cute babysitter to look after their daughter.
ᴄᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏᴜsᴇ
— bad boy au | s | 5.6k
wonwoo doesn’t understand why you’re so adamant in avoiding him after the amazing night you two spent together, but he’s not going to let you get away from him so easily.
🇹 🇮 🇲 🇪 🇸 🇹 🇦 🇲 🇵 🇸
[9:47 ᴘᴍ]
— bad boy au | s | 0.5k
in which bad boy!wonwoo is absolutely smitten with you.
── ・ ──
𝗟𝗘𝗘 𝗝𝗜𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗡
── ・ ──
𝗟𝗘𝗘 𝗦𝗘𝗢𝗞𝗠𝗜𝗡
🇴 🇳 🇪 🇸 🇭 🇴 🇹 🇸
(ɴᴏᴛ) ᴀ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇᴍᴀɴ
— established relationship au | s | 4.2k
your boyfriend is the sweetest man alive—a perfect gentleman. however, you’re determined to show him that he doesn’t always have to be a gentleman
ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ (ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ)
— enemies to lovers au, coworkers au, | s, f | 3k
the only thing worse than spending valentine’s day alone is spending it with someone you hate.
── ・ ──
𝗞𝗜𝗠 𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗬𝗨
🇸 🇪 🇷 🇮 🇪 🇸
sᴘᴏɪʟᴇᴅ
ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ (P2) ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛᴇᴅ (P3) ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ (P4)
— cheating au | s, f (kinda) | 2.6k
you have never been spoiled, but that changes after you meet the man your mother is going to marry.
ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ
sᴘᴏɪʟᴇᴅ (P1) ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛᴇᴅ (P3) ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ (P4)
— cheating au | s, f (kinda) | 6.6k
there’s only one woman mingyu worships, and it’s not his fiancé.
ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛᴇᴅ
sᴘᴏɪʟᴇᴅ (P1) ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ (P2) ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ (P4)
— cheating au | s, f, a (just a tiny bit) | 8.9k
mingyu is too addicted to the love he has for you to let you go.
ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ
sᴘᴏɪʟᴇᴅ (P1) ᴡᴏʀsʜɪᴘ (P2) ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛᴇᴅ (P3)
— cheating au | s | 6.6k
mingyu knows it’s wrong to lust after his fiancé’s daughter, but when he finds out you feel the same way, he no longer feels the need to hold himself back.
🇴 🇳 🇪 🇸 🇭 🇴 🇹 🇸
ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴇxᴄᴇᴘᴛɪᴏɴ
— college au, jock au | f, s | 6.4k
your university’s star football player doesn’t understand why you don’t want anything to do with him. several humiliating rejections later, mingyu is more determined than ever to change your mind about him. chaos and confusing feelings ensue.
ᴇɴᴅʟᴇss ᴀᴅᴏʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ
— best friend’s brother au, fwb au | f, s | 7.2k
mingyu has been irrevocably in love with you since he was in high school. he decides to keep this a secret until he can move on since you’ve only ever seen him as your best friend’s brother. however, his plan goes awry when you ask him to take your virginity and teach you about sex—as a friend, of course.
🇹 🇮 🇲 🇪 🇸 🇹 🇦 🇲 🇵 🇸
[7:51 ᴘᴍ]
— fwb au (ft. jungkook) | s | 0.6k
best friends jungkook and mingyu show you that they’re the only men for you.
── ・ ──
𝗫𝗨 𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗛𝗔𝗢
🇴 🇳 🇪 🇸 🇭 🇴 🇹 🇸
ɢʟᴀᴄɪᴀʟ ᴘᴀᴄᴇ
— fake dating au, f2l au | f, s | 5.3k
you’ve been in love with xu minghao from the moment he put a bandage on your cut at the age of six. when he asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend to get his prying family off his back, you quickly realize that keeping your feelings hidden from him will be next to impossible. especially since your meddling friends are determined to have you admit your feelings before the holiday season is over.
❝ Seungcheol has always demanded that all of his employees keep professional boundaries, but it frustrates him that his son’s nanny is a little too good at keeping things professional. ❞
pairing: choi seungcheol x female reader
genre: single dad au, nanny au, fluff, smut
word count: 8.6k
warnings: dilf!cheol, ceo!cheol, nanny!reader, imbalance of power, a brief mention of death, mutual pining (a copious amount of it), jealousy, seungcheol is down horrendous, daddy kink, breeding kink, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, squirting, multiple creampies, overstimulation, cockwarming
a/n: will never get over this concept. huge shout out to dilf cheol nonny for fueling my muse and helping make this happen. based off this request. minors dni!
There were three basic rules when it came to working for Choi Seungcheol:
1. Be on time.
2. Be efficient.
3. Maintain professional boundaries.
The rules were simple enough, but you quickly learned that there was nothing simple about them. Seungcheol was nothing if not a strict man. He demanded excellence, and anyone who didn’t live up to his rigorous standards ended up fired. Any person who managed to keep their job for a month could keep a job anywhere. At least, that’s what his entire staff seemed to think.
They weren’t exactly wrong. His standards were impossibly high, and he left little to no room for any error. It’s the very reason why Seungcheol had gone through five nannies before you, each worse than the last, according to him.
Because of this daunting fact, you’ve been very careful to never fall bellow his expectations. All the meticulous routines you made for yourself became like second nature within the first month, and it’s what kept your job secure for the last four years.
In all that time you had managed to follow the rules, but that didn’t mean it was easy. Especially since you came to absolutely adore the six-year-old boy that you were hired to take care of. Choi Taehyun was the cutest and most endearing kid you’d ever met. As soon as you met him, he had wedged his way into your heart and secured a permanent place for himself there.
The overt fondness you felt proved to be dangerous because from the very beginning, Seungcheol was adamant that you never overstep your duties as a nanny. It was his way of saying you’re not his mother so never try to act like you are. According to Josh (his assistant and the person who helped you get the job), your boss only acted this way because he still hadn't fully overcame his wife’s death. You could understand his pain which is why you were always careful not to do anything that could be seen as crossing the line.
But now, as you’re looking at Taehyun’s tear-filled eyes, all the professionalism you’ve had so far just seems to evaporate from your body. His bottom lip is trembling as he tries his hardest to muffle the whimpers and sobs at the edge of his throat. A concerned frown tugs your lips down when you go to gently wipe his fallen tears.
“Tae, what’s wrong?” You ask, feeling like someone is squeezing your heart painfully.
“Daddy’s not going to watch my play.”
The aforementioned play was something Taehyun and his entire class had been working on for about a month. He was extremely excited about it because he was assigned one of the main roles.
“It’s not fair.” Taehyun cries softly, clinging to your hands that were gently wiping his cheeks. “All my friends’ mommies and daddies are gonna watch.”
The discomfort in your chest grows as tears continue to spill from his eyes. All you can do is hug the little boy close to you in an effort to comfort him. He buries his wet face into your shoulder, clinging on to you like he never wants to let you go.
“I’m sorry, baby. You know your daddy would watch you if he could. I know he’s just as sad as you are that he can’t be there.” You rub gentles circles on his back, desperate to stop his tears from flowing.
Then, you say something you know your boss would definitely not approve of. “I know it’s not the same, but if you want, I can come watch you instead.”
Taehyun’s whimpers turn into soft sniffles as he pulls back to look at you. His eyes are still filled with tears, but now a hopeful look has taken over his gaze. “Really? You’ll come watch me?”
You realize that what you’re doing is literally bulldozing through the boundaries you’ve stayed within so far, but you would do just about anything for Choi Taehyun. There was no way you could let him be sad for another moment. So, you disregard the foreboding feeling in your gut and smile at the young boy.
“Of course I will.”
“Promise?” He’s looking at you with his huge doe eyes, pinky stuck out at you, wearing the most hopeful expression you’ve ever seen.
As Taehyun wraps his arms around you in joy, you contemplate whether or not it’s smart of you to let your emotions dictate your actions this way.
Meanwhile, your boss feels like he’s losing his mind.
As the CEO of a major conglomerate, he’s always been a level-headed, professional man. There isn’t a single thing that could make him lose his composure or make him get out of character.
This, however, doesn’t seem to apply whenever it involves his sweet, caring nanny.
Ever since you came into his life, things had changed drastically for him. You had unknowingly brightened his life in a way that he never thought was possible after his wife’s passing. Years hadn’t healed the pain, but for some reason your presence and actions had done what time couldn’t.
Seungcheol doesn’t realize the extent of his feelings until his personal assistant casually mentions that he was in the midst of arranging a date between you and the head of marketing, Jeon Wonwoo. A feeling that could only be described as rabid jealousy lights up in the pit of his stomach and expands up into his chest as Josh unwittingly goes on about how his subordinate is exactly your type.
“I don’t think that would be appropriate.” Seungcheol cuts in when Joshua says you agreed to go on this date after seeing a picture of Wonwoo. “When things don’t work out between them, it’ll bring tension into the office. The last thing I want is for either of them to feel uncomfortable.”
The way his boss said when and not if doesn’t go unnoticed.
Also, Seungcheol’s logic is seriously flawed. They both know it. In all the time you’ve worked as the CEO’s nanny, never once had you came to see him while he was working. You were annoyingly good at keeping boundaries and never overstepping. It never bothered him before, but now that he keeps thinking about it, it’s starting to.
Josh doesn’t comment on what’s blatantly obvious, mostly because he feels stupid for not realizing it sooner. It’s also clear that his boss is only barely coming to terms with his own feelings. Instead of rubbing salt in the wound, Josh is quick to assure Seungcheol that he won’t go forward with the setup before bringing his attention to his next schedule.
If only that would’ve helped him get his mind off of you.
Seungcheol is distracted during his meetings. These very large feelings are at the forefront of his mind, and they don’t fade in the slightest even as the day goes on. He starts to go over every time you’ve smiled at him in that sweet way you do. His heart jumps whenever he thinks back to those memories.
He can’t help but feel like an idiot for being so blind to his own feelings.
Things don’t feel the same when he goes home. When he finds you helping his son with his homework, all these feelings hit him at once. It’s almost funny how he never noticed the burning feeling in his chest. You’re so sweet and attentive and entirely focused on Taehyun that you don’t notice his presence. A tender smile takes over his face.
Briefly, Seungcheol thinks he wouldn’t mind coming home and seeing this lovely sight every day.
He only snaps out of his daydreams when you raise your head and stand up to greet him with a kind smile. “Mr. Choi. You’re back early.”
Seungcheol, he wants to say. Call me Seungcheol.
“Dad!”
He’s quickly distracted when he feels a small body collide with his legs. Seungcheol’s heart swells with affection as he bends down to pick up his son. Taehyun giggles happily as he wraps his small arms around his father’s neck.
Being so endeared by the sight of your boss hugging his son and peppering his little face with kisses isn’t anything new. It’s so cute that you can feel a goofy smile slowly form on your face. In the back of your mind, you know exactly why this overt fondness is clinging to your heart. But in this moment in time, you’re not willing to unpack the inappropriate feelings you have for your boss
Seungcheol doesn’t make it easy, though. For some reason he insists on helping you prepare dinner. He’s strangely eager, and you can’t really reject his offer to help. It’s both exciting and nerve-wracking to spend time with your sexy boss like this since he usually only talks to you about Taehyun.
You can’t take your eyes off Seungcheol as he rolls up his sleeves and puts on a spare apron. It’s unfair that he looks as good as he does, and you can barely keep your calm when he starts to wash the vegetables you bought in the morning. His actions feel so domestic and so sweet that you have to try your hardest to act like you’re not enjoying it as much as you are.
“I hope Taehyun didn’t wear you out too much.” Your boss says as you start to chop the freshly washed vegetables. “He’s had a lot of energy lately.”
“That’s normal for boys his age.” You say kindly. “And Taehyun’s very well-behaved, especially compared to kids his own age. You’ve raised him well, Mr. Choi.”
Seungcheol beams at the compliment, embracing the fluttering he feels in his torso and chest. Briefly, he thinks that you don’t give yourself enough credit. After all, you’ve helped raise his son more than anyone.
“In that case, I hope you can join us for dinner.”
His invitation shouldn’t make you feel the way it does. You swallow thickly, chopping movements slowing as you contemplate your answer. It’s not like you’ve never had dinner with the a father-son duo, but it was always on the insistence of Taehyun. But now that Seungcheol was the one asking, you didn’t know what to do.
Up until now, you had been very careful to not overstep the boundaries your boss had set in place by your boss, and you couldn’t understand why the same man who hated when people didn’t remain professional and respect his boundaries was asking you to do just that. Given that your big fat crush is extremely hard to hide, you’re sure that putting some distance between you two is the right thing to do.
But with the way Seungcheol’s shining eyes are imploringly staring at you, it’s hard to think of a reason to reject his invitation.
“Mr. Choi.” You say nervously as you two begin to set up the dinner table. “I... I have something to tell you.”
His gaze is intent, and you try to remain as calm as possible. “Since you won’t be able to attend Taehyun’s play, I’m going to watch him instead.”
“You?”
Your boss’s expression is unreadable, and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. Still, you soldier on and try to pretend you’re not as intimidated as you are.
“Yes. It’s something that’s important to me, and I hope you don’t mind me being there for him.”
If Seungcheol had any doubts about his feelings, he definitely didn’t now. To think that you would care so much about his son warms his heart and further cements what he already knew about you. He gives you a smile, heart bursting with affection. “I don’t mind at all. I’m glad you’ll be able to be there to watch my son.”
Honestly, Josh had managed to rework his schedule so he could see the play and surprise Taehyun, but surprising the both of you was good too.
Somehow, you manage to conceal the shock you feel. You didn’t think he would agree so easily, let alone be pleased with the idea. Instead of questioning it any further, you only thank the skies that he didn’t react angrily.
It’s hard to pretend that eating together doesn’t fill you with a copious amount of joy. Listening to Taehyun tell you all about how he can count higher than his best friend while you and Seungcheol praise him makes you feel like you’re part of their family. Maybe it’s wrong or even delusional, but you can’t help wanting to have this dynamic with them indefinitely.
“You’re leaving already?”
Taehyun is looking up at you with his large doe eyes, and you can’t help but break down a little on the inside at the disappointment they hold.
“I’ll be back tom—”
“Stay.” Seungcheol says, walking towards you. “I could really use your help putting this little monster to sleep.”
Ignoring the blatant domesticity of reading Taehyun a bedtime story together is near impossible. It gets even worse when your boss insists you stay until his son falls asleep. You almost feel like you’ve been dropped in an alternate universe when you’re ready to leave and your boss stops you again.
“Let me take you home.” Seungcheol says as you’re gathering your things. “Please.”
It’s not fair that he can seem so cute while saying this to you, and despite your better judgement, you say yes all while knowing that it’s not going to help you squash the onslaught of emotions in your chest.
Something was up with your boss.
You’re not sure why he was acting like he had gotten body snatched, but truthfully, you can’t say that you hate it. Having breakfast and dinner with him and Taehyun was something you loved more than you let show. This warm, mushy feeling always wrapped itself around you and clung on to you every time it happened despite it having become part of your routine.
The change is significant, and you can tell you’re not the only one who’s noticed. Josh had made a few teasing remarks, but never blatantly said what you knew he was thinking. (He was the first to know about your not-so-little crush on your boss so it wasn’t really surprising.) Of course, Taehyun had also noticed, although he was much more vocal about it.
“Dad, you always smile so big when all us eat together.”
The blush that dusts your boss’s cheeks is absolutely adorable, and you can barely keep a straight face when Seungcheol clears his throat to answer his son. “That’s because it makes me happy.”
It’s not fair that he can say something like that so casually and like it doesn’t literally make your entire heart pulse with affection. Somehow, you manage to keep all your feelings tampered down so they don’t show.
And for the most part it works. Until the day of Taehyun’s play, that is.
Seungcheol had assured you that supporting his son in his stead was definitely not crossing the line, but it was near impossible from feeling like that’s exactly what you were doing. It doesn’t help that you feel so out of place among the parents, either. To be fair, none of them were paying you any attention. You were just too in your head.
After fighting with your inexplicable anxiousness, you decided to just silently go to the auditorium without being noticed. This plan would’ve gone well if an unfamiliar voice hadn’t loudly called out your full government name, drawing the attention of many of the gathered parents. A woman who you recognized to be the principal’s wife approaches you with a tight-lipped smile.
Mrs. Ren looks you up and down, the condescending smile on her face widening impossibly. “I didn’t realize you were going to be here.”
Her attitude didn’t surprise you since many of the other moms had commented about her being very attracted to your boss. Apparently she had staked this weird claim on him despite being married, and no one dared to go against her because of who she was. Clearly, she didn’t like that you were overstepping the duties of a typical nanny.
Not that you cared, but having so many eyes on you was unsettling.
“Why wouldn’t I be here?” You challenged, not daring to back down. “Taehyun is family, after all.”
You don’t miss the quiet gasps or the angry widening of Mrs. Ren’s eyes. Honestly, you had no idea why you blurted that out even though that’s how you really felt about the cute little boy you took care of.
“So, it’s true?” The woman behind her exclaimed in shock. “You’re really going to marry Seungcheol?”
Woah. Wait. What?
You can feel your eyes get big as this unknown woman goes on about how she knew her husband hadn’t lied to her. There was no time to fully process her words because Mrs. Ren practically had steam coming out of her ears as she sneered at you.
“You?” The principal's wife screeched. “You’re engaged to Choi Seungcheol?”
It’s almost funny how unreasonably angry you know she’s gotten, but you’re too thrown off by the entire situation to laugh. You decide to clear up this absurd claim before it can go any further.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”
You cut yourself off when a strong hand is gently placed on your waist. The warmth of a muscular body pressed against your side has you looking over to see none other than your hot boss, and you have to stop yourself from flinching because he looks absolutely livid. His presence makes you feel relieved and mortified all at the same time which leaves you feeling confused. But damn, does that mean glare look attractive on him.
“I didn’t expect this reaction from you, Mrs. Ren.” His cold tone sends shivers down your spine. “Are you not happy that I’ve finally decided to settle down again?”
The entire situation feels like a bizarre dream, and you can only be sure it’s not because of the very real heat coming from Seungcheol’s hand (which is still firmly on your waist). You can barely fathom the fact that Choi Seungcheol is actually lying about being engaged to you to help you save face, and you don’t know if you’re more embarrassed or charmed at this point.
“Tha-That’s not it!” She splutters, red in the face. “I was just surprised because I didn’t know you were dating again in the first place!”
It’s a lame excuse, one that doesn’t seem to satisfy your boss. “I’m sure that was it. There’s no way you would bear any ill will toward my family, right?”
You feel like you might actually swoon at his words. To hear him refer to you as his family makes an unmistakable warmth spread through your body. Sure, he was only doing it to help you, but still. The intention alone was enough to make your heart race.
The face Mrs. Ren makes looks like she’s seconds away from bursting with anger and mortification. How she manages to answer Seungcheol calmly is beyond you. “Of course not.”
“Good.”
His hand falls from your waist and grabs your own. It takes all your willpower to not melt into a puddle of mush as he starts to guide you away from the prying eyes. You let him drag you along, mind too full of rampant thoughts to really process what just happened.
“Seungcheol!” A voice calls. “Wait!”
You both stop, turning to see the woman from before. She gives your boss a devious smirk as she stops in front of you two, seemingly pleased.
“Aren’t you two a match made in heaven.” She says, grin getting bigger with every word. “Keeping this little affair a secret. When Jeonghan told me about it, I didn’t believe it since I haven’t seen you two together, but with the way you looked swooped in like Prince Charming—”
As she trails off with a swoon, you realize that she’s Yoon Minji, wife of your boss’s lifelong friend and business associate. Your mind is so muddled that you barely catch her invite you both to dinner before leaving to go find a seat.
After she leaves, Seungcheol keeps guiding you to the auditorium without saying a word. The silence is painful, but you’re forced to endure it since you don’t know what to say. Thanking him for helping you would be a good start, but then you don’t know if you’d be able to hold yourself back from asking why the wife of his best friend thought you two were engaged to be married.
“Y/N.” Seungcheol says your name softly as you two stop just outside the doors that lead to the auditorium. “Once again, I want to thank you for coming. I know it’s going to mean a lot to Taehyun that you came to watch him.”
The way you look at him with your pretty eyes makes Seungcheol want to kiss you senseless. His heart is beating fiercely in his chest, and he wonders how he could’ve never noticed these intense feelings before. The smile you give him is blinding, and he wishes that look would remain on your face forever.
“I’m happy to be here, and I know that it’s going to mean the world to Tae that you were able to make it.”
Seungcheol swallows thickly. “Also, I’m sorry about what happened back there. I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable with what I said.”
His gaze is so tender that you feel your breath hitch. You’re heart is beating like it’s about to jump out and jump right into Seungcheol’s hands. Unsurprisingly, that’s where it feels like it’s been for the past year. You’re snapped out of your intrusive thoughts when you realize that you’re still holding hands. Neither of you make a move to let go.
“You didn’t.” You’re quick to assure him. “I’m actually really grateful that you helped me. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”
“Never.”
His smile is so pretty it makes you want to do unspeakable things to him, and you have to remind yourself of where you’re at and who you are. That reminder does little to squash the fire burning fiercely in your chest, though. Especially when Seungcheol guides you inside the auditorium, hand still wrapped around yours.
Seungcheol didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but when he was about to enter the kitchen, your phone was on the counter and on speaker. It was inevitable that he heard his assistant’s voice as he spoke to you. He might’ve given you the privacy you deserved had he not caught what you two were talking about.
“How have you still not found something?” Josh’s concerned voice booms through the phone. “Your lease literally ends in two weeks.”
Originally, you had planned to move into a nice apartment building not too far from your job, but that fell through when you found out the prices had gone up significantly in the last month. It’s not like you were underpaid or anything (Seungcheol was very generous and the benefits were nothing short of impressive), but living there would mean spending more than half of your check on just rent alone. And as generous as your boss was, you know you could never bring yourself to ask for a raise.
“Everything I’ve looked at is either in a sketchy neighborhood or looks like it’ll need serious repairs.” You sigh as you start wiping down the stove. “I’m starting to think I should’ve never rejected Mr. Choi’s offer of being a live-in nanny.”
“Just tell him you changed your mind.” Josh says like it wouldn’t be a big deal. “He might give you the best room in the employee house. You know the one with the balcony!”
You disregard his teasing tone and scowl. “There’s no way I’m going to backtrack now. Do you know how humiliated I’ll be when he tells me no? I’ll have to quit right then and there!”
Even though you can’t see your friend, you can easily picture him rolling his eyes. “What do you plan on doing then?”
You pout at the phone. “Can’t I just live with you and Junhui? Your place is so nice.”
“You’ll have to stay in the living room, and you won’t have anywhere to put your things.”
Seungcheol sees your shoulders slump, and he has to stop himself from walking into the kitchen and taking you into his arms. He can only watch helplessly as you sigh quietly before responding in a voice that sounds too dejected for his liking.
“Maybe I’ll just move back in with my parents.”
This might’ve made Seungcheol feel better had his assistant not cut in with the obvious flaws in your plan. “Won’t the commute be too much, though? You can’t do that every day. Not with how early and late you have to work.”
There’s a pause, and then the next words that come out of Josh’s mouth make Seungcheol feel like someone punched him in the stomach.
“Unless you’re planning on resigning.”
Your silence makes the feeling in his stomach worsen, and your response doesn’t make him feel all that better. “Well, no, but... I don’t know. Maybe I’ll have to.”
Seungcheol slowly backs away, heart thumping irregularly in his chest. The thought of you quitting and no longer being in his life is more devastating than he could’ve imagined. It torments him and leaves him feeling cold.
For the rest of the evening, he can’t get his mind off the conversation he heard or how it leaves him feeling.
Even as he lays in his bed in the middle of the night, he can’t stop thinking about it. He goes over the situation over and over in his head until he finally decides that he can’t give you up, selfish as his reasons may be. All Seungcheol has to do is make sure his son won’t have an issue with what he’s planning to do.
“Taehyun.” He says softly as he’s tucks his son into bed alone for the first time in months. “You like Y/N, don’t you?”
The way the little boy vigorously nods his head makes his heart warm. “Yeah! She’s nice and pretty and I like when she calls me Tae!”
Seungcheol swallows, feeling more nervous than ever. “Then... how would you feel about her being around more often?”
Taehyun blinks slowly, weary eyes looking at his dad questioningly. As always, his son is silently asking to explain and get to the point. It’s hard to suppress a smile when he does things that remind Seungcheol how similar they are.
“What I mean is... would you like it if Y/N came to live here with us?”
It’s a relief when his son springs up, eyes shining with unadulterated excitement. “Y/N is going to live with us?” His happiness is evident. “Really?”
Seungcheol smiles tenderly, reaching over to ruffle his hair.
“I have to ask her first, but if she says yes, then she’ll come stay with us—as long as that’s something you want.”
“I do want it!” Taehyun says, bouncing on his knees. “Then we can all live together like a family!”
Yes, Seungcheol thinks as he affectionately caresses his son’s face. Like a family.
The next morning, you’re surprised to see your boss still hasn’t left for work even when you’re ready to take Taehyun to school. It’s even more surprising when he suggests you all go together. You can’t deny the request since Taehyun is all too happy to have you both take him to school.
It’s hard to ignore the stares you’re getting as you and Seungcheol walk Taehyun into the school. He’s holding both your hands, happily swinging them and talking animatedly. Funnily enough, the young boy manages to make the nerves you feel disappear with his infectious smile. You can easily disregard the gawking and whispers after seeing how happy your boss’s son is.
Seungcheol also doesn’t seem to mind the attention you two are attracting. He acts like his impassive self even as he’s driving you back to the mansion. The entire time he’s really just thinking of the best way to ask you to live with him and his son. Even though he knows you most likely won't say no, he still feels nervous.
“Y/N.” He says as he pulls into his long driveway. “Before you go, I have a request.”
You feel nervous, but manage to plaster a smile on your face. “Yes, sir?”
Seungcheol feels as if his heart jumped up into his throat. “Well, you see... my schedule is going to change drastically these next few months. I’m going to be working earlier and coming home much later. There are also be times where I’ll have to leave the city for business for extended periods of time.”
You’re not saying anything, and he knows he has to get to the point quickly.
“I was going to request that you come live with Taehyun and I during this time. It’ll be more convenient for everyone this way. I hope you’ll consider it.”
At this moment, your boss looks so earnest that you aren’t sure how to adequately express the influx of emotions you’re suddenly feeling. It all feels like a dream to you that you begin to wonder if his words are actually real. Either way, the warmth seeping into your bones pushes you to give the handsome man in front of you an answer.
“Yes, of course I will.”
Every time you wake up and find yourself in a luxurious room, you feel like you’ve been dropped in the middle of a blissful dream. Weeks have gone by, but it still feels unreal. Unlike your expectations, your boss moved you into the main house and gave you the room right across from his. It was hard to not let your fantasizing mind wander despite knowing he had done it out of convenience and nothing else.
Your life continues to be stuck in a routine until Taehyun goes to visit his grandparents. It’s strange without him around, and unsurprisingly, you begin to miss him after the first day. Your boss insists that you can take the week off and have it for yourself, but you still have no desire to actually do anything.
Seungcheol notices your listless attitude and feels determined to change it.
“Tonight?”
“You don’t want to?”
The way Seungcheol is looking like a pouty puppy is not good for your heart. Although you really don’t feel like going to dinner with Minji and Jeonghan, you can’t say no to the adorably hot man in front of you.
“No, it’s not that, I just—” You’re flustered, but don’t want him to think you don’t want to go with him. “They still think we’re engaged, right?”
You almost regret asking because Seungcheol’s hopeful look slowly fades away and is replaced by poorly concealed dejection. “Yeah. Sorry. I still haven’t cleared things up. We don’t have to go if that makes you feel uncomfortable.”
“I don’t mind.” You tell him truthfully. “I just didn’t want it to seem like I was crossing the line.”
Seungcheol has to physically restrain himself from falling to his knees and telling you that you’re the only person who’s allowed to cross the line with him. Instead he manages to smile at you like he’s not physically dying inside. “You’re not.”
As you’re walking in to what seems to be like one of the most expensive restaurants in the city, you’re glad you spend a good fifteen minutes deciding on the perfect thing to wear. Seungcheol had seemed to like it, at least. His eyes were practically sparkling when he’d seen you.
It’s hard to ignore this intense pressure you feel when you sit down at the table. Minji and Jeonghan greet you amicably like you’re one of their old friends, but you know it’s only because they think you’re engaged to Seungcheol which you most definitely are not.
Luckily, the conversation flows naturally and smoothly until Jeonghan asks a question that leaves you without a single thing to say.
“I need to know the story of how you two fell in love because this man is not one who crosses the line with his employees.”
You’d like to know the same thing yourself. Not that Seungcheol was actually in love with you or had actually done that much to push past these rules he had set, but he’d done more than you ever believed him capable of doing.
“I can’t really remember how it happened.” Seungcheol says honestly. “After a while, I found myself excited to go home and see her. Every time she smiled at me, I felt like my heart was going to explode. When she went home, I missed her even though I knew she was coming back. Eventually, I realized that I couldn’t picture my life without her in it.”
You’re staring. You know you are, but you can’t help it. He sounds so sincere with those shimmering eyes of his, and you feel like your own heart is on the verge of exploding. Even though it’s all an act, you start to feel those familiar butterflies invade your stomach and chest.
“Oh my god!” Minji squeals, slapping her husband’s arm repeatedly. “How cute is that? I swear you guys make me want a love like yours.”
As Jeonghan lets out an offended noise and starts to list off all the romantic and extravagant things he’s done in order to show Minji his love, you can only laugh along and pretend like your boss’s words didn’t affect you as much as they did.
When you get back home, your heart is still unable to let go of those sweet words. Even as you walk up to your room with Seungcheol still by your side, you can’t let them go despite knowing he didn’t mean them.
Now that it’s time to say goodnight, you feel strange parting ways even though he’ll literally be in the room across from yours. “I had a really good time tonight. Thanks for inviting me.”
“I’m glad you had a good time. I was kind of worried you weren’t going to.”
You always had a good time when you were with him, not that you would dare to say that out loud.
“You really surprised me, Mr Choi. I had no idea you were such a good actor.”
You had expected him to laugh, but instead he only looks at you with a somber gaze. “I told you to call me Seungcheol.”
His voice comes out so authoritative that it makes your insides clench, and his lidded gaze makes your heart leap up into your throat. You manage to find your voice even though it comes out a bit weak. “But we’re not pretending anymore...”
His gaze sharpens. “I’ve never pretended to love you.”
His words hang in the air, and they shock you so much that they make you unconsciously give into his request from before. “Seungcheol.” You say breathlessly.
The way his name rolls off your tongue makes his heart stutter, and he briefly thinks he could listen to you say his name forever. Both your eyes are burning fiercely with this emotion that has been blatant to all those around you. Except this time you can both see it.
You’re not sure who makes the first move, but suddenly his mouth is covering yours, tongue licking along your bottom lip. The feeling is electric, and you throw all your inhibitions to the wind as you pull Seungcheol closer.
Your heart is pounding fiercely as you two stumble into his room, pulling off the the clothes you’re wearing, touching each other desperately as if you think this moment might end at any moment. It won’t though, and you become conscious of that fact as you’re laying on the softest sheets you’ve ever felt, completely naked.
Seungcheol is gazing at you with so much affection and want that it makes you feel like he plans to eat you up. He kisses along your inner thighs, gently licking and biting at your soft skin. His warm hands caress the outside of your thighs, gently digging his fingers into the soft skin.
“So pretty.”
You can feel your breath hitch in anticipation as his hands smooth down your inner thighs until he’s pressing two fingers against your aching clit. It’s dizzying the way Seungcheol rubs it in gentle circles that have you squirming and gasping in pleasure. His heated gaze flickers between your face and your dripping cunt, not wanting to miss the sight of you falling apart under him.
“Look at how wet you are, sweetheart. All for me.”
His voice has a possessive edge to it as he grinds down on the bed, hard cock rubbing uselessly against the sheets. The pleasure is minimal, and Seungcheol has to hold back a whine at the lack of relief.
“Please.” You mewl, shifting your hips up slightly.
Seungcheol keeps his dark eyes on you to make sure you’re watching him. He presses a soft kiss to your pulsing clit, and he has to groan when he sees you clench around nothing. The featherlight touch has you feeling so desperate and lightheaded that you’re unable to stop the wanton mewl that tumbles past your lips. “Seungcheol.”
Your voice is so needy and sweet that Seungcheol lets out a moan of his own before he dips his head between your thighs. The moan you let out is loud as he starts to suck and lick at your aching bud. His movements are smooth and gentle somehow, and it’s not long before you feel the coil in your stomach start to tighten.
Seungcheol is groaning and panting into your cunt as he laps up every bit of your juices. He’s eating you out like a starved man, and you love every second of it. The way he grabs your thighs and pulls your wet cunt closer to his mouth makes your head swim. One of your hands finds his hair while the other trails up your body to cup your tit. You pull and pinch at the taut nipple with a loud moan of Seungcheol’s name.
The sweet moans you’re letting out as Seungcheol spreads your slick all over your cunt makes his cock throb in anticipation. He wonders what you’ll sound like when he finally has his dick inside you. Your grip on his hair tightens when he circles his tongue on your puffy bud. The cute whines falling from your lips become louder as his he continues to fuck you with his tongue.
“So sweet.” Seungcheol groans against your dripping cunt. “Sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Your pussy clenches around his tongue so tightly that it almost feels like it could be pulled off his mouth. But your moans and mewls coax him to keep going, loving the way you’re starting to blubber incoherently. “Fuh-Fuck! Feels so good...”
The way you take an awkward pause makes Seungcheol lift his head questioningly. Your whine of protest has his leaking cock throbbing almost painfully. “What is it?”
Your face feels hot, and you’re so lost in your pleasure that it pushes you to tell him the truth. “Can... Can I call you daddy?”
Seungcheol smashes his hot face back into your cunt, cock aching painfully. “Call me whatever you want, sweetheart. I’m all yours.”
His tongue and lips are massaging your swollen clit, and all you can do is throw your head back and arch your back to grind your hot cunt harder onto his mouth. It almost feels like too much, but strangely also like not enough at the same time.
“O-Oh, fuck! Daddy!”
The loud cry you let out as you squirt all over Seungcheol’s face makes him let out a guttural moan of his own. His entire chin and mouth is covered with your sweet juices, and he continues to lap it up like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted—which you are.
Seungcheol sits up, licking his lips until he can’t taste you anymore. His grin is devious but also so hot. He’s gently caressing your still-quivering thighs, and you feel like you can faint from how much you’re enjoying it.
Then, your eyes drift down to his huge cock. It’s possibly the biggest one you've ever seen, and also the prettiest. You lick your own lips before looking back up at at his face. The way he’s looking at you with his dark eyes has you clenching around nothing.
“You’re okay to keep going?”
God, he’s so fucking sweet that you just want to fuck him until he can’t talk. You nod desperately, opening your legs wider.
“Fuck me, daddy.”
Your mouth drops open in a quiet moan when you feel Seungcheol’s thick cock push into your cunt with a lewd, wet sound. His large hands smooth down your thighs, squeezing and caressing so tenderly that it has your pussy clenching down on his throbbing dick. He swoops down to swallow your moan, lips messily colliding with yours.
His thrusts are so deep and slow that all you can do is gasp into his mouth. The fat tip of his cock is hitting your sweet spot so sharply that you have to buck your hips up to meet his movements. Seungcheol starts to trail his lips along your jaw and neck, gently nipping and kissing at the soft skin. The lewd squelch coming from your pussy is driving him insane. His entire cock is coated with your juices, and he’s never feel better than he does now.
“Fuck, angel. Look at you, taking daddy’s cock so well.” His voice is dizzying, and all you can do is cry out in pleasure.
Seungcheol leans back, just watching you writhe under him. You’re so pretty as you fuck yourself on his cock, squeezing him until it feels almost hard to move. His hand slowly trails down between your bodies, and you let out a loud moan of his name when he starts to roll your puffy clit with his long fingers.
White cream coats his entire length, leaving a milky ring at the base of his cock. You wetly gasp out his name, your nails digging into his forearms, but Seungcheol is relentless. He’s like a hungry beast as he pounds into your gushing hole and all you can do is desperately try to meet his thrusts.
“Fuck, look how you’re soaking daddy’s cock, baby. Making such a mess.” He groans, feeling your slick dripping down to his heavy balls.
You can only moan loudly for him to keep fucking you, already drunk on the feeling of his thick cock splitting you open. Seungcheol spits on your throbbing cunt, mixing in with your juices that are coating his dick. His bulbous tip is slamming against the spongy spot that has you seeing stars, forcing more slick out of you with every harsh thrust.
The coil in the pit of your stomach is close to snapping, and your mouth drops open as your thighs begin to tremble again.
“Fuh-Fuck, daddy! Love your big dick!”
His tantalizing smirk is so hot to you, and it makes you clench down on his cock and release another stream of slick. Seungcheol moans, eager to feel you cream on his cock like he’s dreamed of countless times. It just takes him angling his hips just right for his wish to come true.
Your toes curl in pleasure, a loud moan of his name tearing from your throats as a rush of wetness escapes you. Of course, Seungcheol keeps pounding you, roughly fucking you through one of the most intense orgasms you’ve ever had.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Cream all over my cock.” His voice rasps, thick with lust and adoration.
A thick white ring is at the base of his cock, slowly smearing down to his heavy sack. The sight is driving Seungcheol wild, almost as wild as the sight of your glistening folds stretching around him. “Give me another one, baby. I know you can.”
“Fuck, please.” Your cry. “Fill me up with your cum, daddy!”
It’s like something inside Seungcheol snaps when he hears your pleas. In an abrupt movement, he presses your legs to your chest and starts to pound into your hot cunt. Your tight walls are sucking him in like they’re also begging to be painted with his seed.
“You want my cum, angel?” Seungcheol coos, gently caressing your soft legs as he slams his cock into your sweet spot, balls slapping against your ass with every thrust. “Want me to fill you up until you’re carrying my baby, give Taehyun a little sibling?”
“Please!” You mewl when you feel his cock throb inside you. “Want to make you a daddy again. Stuff me full of your cum!”
Your voice is breathless and a little whiny, and Seungcheol feels like you’re making him lose his mind. “Fuck, baby. I’ll give it to you then. I’ll fill you up until I’m all you can feel.”
You continue to beg him for his cum, telling him how much you need it in your cunt. The more he fucks you, the less you can form actual words. Every fantasy you’ve had feels so dull compared to the real thing. All the times you’ve gotten off to the image of him fucking you or had wet dreams about him were absolutely obscene and filthy. Somehow, the reality was much better.
A rush of euphoria overwhelms you when you feel Seungcheol spills his cum directly against your cervix. You wrap your legs around him to make sure his cum goes as deep as possible. His hot load fills you up, painting every inch of your sensitive walls as he slowly rolls his hips into you.
You yank him down for a messy kiss, so desperate and needy for him that you don’t care about anything else. “Don’t stop, daddy.”
Seungcheol fucks his cum into you, wanting to mark you from the inside out now that he has you. He can feel your mixed releases slowly seep out of you, and he carnally thinks he’s going have to fill you up again so he can be sure he’s bred you properly.
Your hot cunt is throbbing almost painfully, bordering on that delicious burn of being overstimulated. But you’re still hungry for more. So when he releases you from the press he had you in, you roll over and stick your ass out at him. You look back, satisfied when you see his dark eyes are on your sloppy pussy that’s dripping with his cum.
“Keep fucking me, daddy. Want more of your cum.”
That’s all it takes for Seungcheol to plunge back into your tight cunt, pounding into you like a savage beast. His leaking tip slams into your spongy spot repeatedly, making you cry out in absolute ecstasy. His big balls are slapping against your sensitive nub, adding to the mind-blurring pleasure you’re feeling.
“Fuck, Y/N. Your little cunt is still so fucking tight after being stretched open and bred.” Seungcheol growls, hands squeezing and slapping your ass as it bounces against his pelvis. “Creaming and dripping all over this cock, making a mess again.”
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as he keeps fucking you with feral precision. “Fuck, daddy! So good!”
Seungcheol can feel your hot cunt clamping down on him again, and he lets out a deep moan. “Come for me again, baby. Show daddy just how good he’s making you feel.”
You can only mewl and whine, too list in the pleasure his big cock is providing you. Seungcheol’s thrusts become impossibly rougher and sharper. It feels like he’s rearranging your guts with how he’s pulling your pliant body to meet the snapping of his hips.
“Daddy!” You squeal in shock when he flips you on your side before hooking one of your legs over his shoulder and continues to fuck you mercilessly.
This new angle stretches your sore cunt more while exposing it to the cool air. You can only imagine how filthy you look down there, but Seungcheol seems to love it. All the pleasure your feelings is driving you insane, and you can only feel an insane amount of pleasure taking over your mind.
“Come inside me, daddy!” You moan wantonly, desperate to feel his hot cum fill you up again.
His soaked cock throbs inside you, eager to release inside your tight pussy. “Want me to? You that desperate to be a mommy, baby?”
When you nod desperately, he focuses on making you come again so he can give you what you both want. Seungcheol gives you one sharp thrust before he leans back slightly to watch you squirt and cover his lower half in your release. Your body gently convulses as quiet mewls pour from your mouth.
“You’re so fucking hot, sweetheart.” Seungcheol groans as he keeps fucking into your hot cunt. “Can’t get enough of you.”
He keeps slamming in and out of your wet pussy desperately, eager for his own release. Seungcheol comes with a yell of your name, spilling his hot cum deep inside you and pumping you full. His cum spurts along your sore walls until it feels like there’s no room for more of it. It seeps out around his cock, leaking down to your ass and his heavy balls.
Seungcheol doesn’t slow down. The oversensitivity you’re both feeling makes him more ravenous. He obsessed with the sight of you trembling on his cock, caught between begging for a break and pleading for more. He fucks his cum into you, desperate to make it go as deep as possible.
Wet noises seep into your foggy mind, playing dully in the background to your muddles thoughts of sex and Seungcheol. He’s successfully fucked you stupid, and you’ve never felt better than you did now. Your cunt is filled to the brim, his seed coating your every inch of your core. At some point, his thrusts slowed into thorough grinds, sticky strings of arousal and cum connecting your most intimate parts.
Seungcheol doesn’t pull out. Instead he collapses next to you and tugs you closer. He shoves his face in your collarbone, inhaling your scent as he feels raw cock throb inside you.
You hug him closer to you, gently caressing his hair. It’s a peaceful silence that fills the room, and you were close to drifting off to sleep until a thought occurs to you.
“Can I ask you something?”
Seungcheol nuzzles deeper into you, pressing a wet kiss on your soft skin. “Anything.”
“Why did Jeonghan think we were engaged in the first place?” You wonder, thinking it would be fine to ask this much since you have his cock and cum inside you.
There’s a pregnant pause until Seungcheol pulls back and looks at you with a slight pout. “That idiot wanted to set you up with his cousin. I had no other choice but to tell him you were already mine.”
You actually laugh, not believing this was the same man who told you to never overstep the boundaries he had. His pout is still there, and you lean in to kiss it right off his face. It’s languid and gentle, and leaves you feeling dizzy.
“Fine, but I still expect an actual ring.”
Seungcheol hugs you tighter, wondering if it’s too soon to show you the little black box he has in his nightstand.
🫢synopsis: when laundry day takes a turn for the worse—fast
🫢genre: fluff, crack; rating: 16+
🫢word count: 1.7k+ (supposed drabble whoops)
🫢warnings: mentions of death, but it's not that serious (sorry to whoever died in the fic, you were there just for the plot) T.W: self-harm mentions, but reader misread the situation okay? nothin happened fr.
🫢a.n. : I was upset I didn't have a Joshua fic, but apparently a small dig into my trove and I had an old fic I never thought would see the light of the day, because it was a private fic to shu @welcometomyoasis . Anyway it does see the light on his birthday so HAPPY BIRTHDAY Joshua. See you down south for more notes.
check out the masterlist here!
Pedal to the metal, your mind whirs out the last few days of conversation, pulling out each molecule of the word that you’ve exchanged with him, trying to come up with some memory to nail his soon-to-be fatal. action. What could drive him to the ledge on this starry night you think?
A leviathan of worry has blossomed from deep within, your mind cannot rest till you reach him right this instant.
“Pick up. Pick up. Why are you not picking up, Hong Joshua?” It’s unlike him to avoid your calls. You were his priority; there’s never been a moment you’ve doubted that. His phone could only be unlocked with your face—much like parts of him were hidden away, only you were able to fathom what he truly felt. When his hums turned noncommittal, when the nods lost fervor, and when the smile ceased to reach his eyes, you knew it was time for lockdowns in the apartment. You and he, paired out in couple pajamas, matching each other's quirks in absurd face masks and cucumbers, binging reruns of The Real Housewives.
“I wish that this all would end”
What would end? Is this what it’ll trickle down to? Were your movie nights pointless? Did prancing around in matching oversized tees and going pantless, holding concerts in the kitchen with spatulas as microphones mean nothing to him at all? Where did this even start for it to end like this?
“I could use some friends for a change”
Is that what this is? Has he gotten into a kerfuffle with his bandmates? Did the recent rumors and blatant lies spread by the press cause rifts between his friends? And what about you? Did his random middle-of-the-night calls from a foreign country because he couldn’t fall asleep without hearing your sweet voice, (never mind the fact that you were time zones away) mean nothing to him?
“I'm scared you'll forget me again”
For that, you wanna smack right across his face hopefully slapping the stupid away in a blatant show of violence. How could anyone ever forget him? How could he ever think you would forget him? Doesn’t he know he’s etched in your heart forever? No man’s ever plowed this deep within the minefield of your heart, bringing to light parts of you that you feared would be a bother. Time and time again, he’s made you understand that you were never a bother to him, that he truly loves you, why else would he entertain your silly dissections at the ass crack of dawn?
“I still see your ghost”
Now this is the part at which you had rattled, thinking no further to read more of the darned note, instead choosing to grab your keys and run to Pledis this very second, Hybe’s tight security be damned.
The past few weeks were not easy on your boyfriend. A crazed fan had started a fabricated lie about Joshua and his ‘alleged’ girlfriend, and in no time he was under the scrutiny of the public eye. Protest trucks were sent to Hybe, stalkers greeted him at every corner during the late-night walks he took to cool off from the craziness he had to encounter in the day, the press was merciless and his fans betrayed his trust with malicious posts. You watch as the man you love becomes a shell of himself, doubting his every move, not even able to withstand making a silly joke or sparing some couple-times. You were every bit the understanding girlfriend
To top it all off with the scandal, he had lost his childhood best friend too. A tragic death that could have been avoided. Joshua blamed himself and his aloofness for his best friend's untimely decease even though you had reassured him that was not the case. Odd hours during the night he’d wake up crying, consoled only by you.He needed intimate proximity and tight hugs, you could get by that. When the outside world was tumultuous and the mind offered no peace to his turmoil, you’d crawl under his sweatshirt, greedily hogging up his body heat, comforting him, your head over his heart- another soul to listen to the racing beats reverberating the ones in his crazed mind.
“I still see him and feel him, you know? It’s like he never left. His ghost follows me around wherever I go.” He’d confessed one night after waking up in a cold sweat jerking you violently awake. No amount of soothing words could dulcify him that night. You’d listened to him sob the night away gasping for deep breaths, curled up around your stomach.
But that was a month back. You had forced him to go for grief counseling and slowly he was opening up, and getting better. The mirth in his eyes was slowly returning and you had hope that your boyfriend was feeling more of himself.
Except for today. You had caught onto a piece of paper that had flown out when you were whisking through his pant pockets while doing laundry. Words that had frozen you in place before kickstarting your flight response.
Which is why you were here, pulled up in front of his dorms after a quick call with Jeonghan, owing to which you didn’t have to show up to Hybe. Without any words you barged into his room, thanking Hannie silently for the foresight to clear out the dorms letting you have your moment with Joshie. You are a little surprised to see him snoring on his bed as if he hadn’t just caused you a cardiac arrest.
Unsure how to express your feelings—let alone with love instead of violence—you leap onto the bed and land on his stomach, knocking the breath right out of him.
“Umph-”
His eyes have widened into huge boba balls staring into your brown orbs as if you were a lunatic. Which, in hindsight you were. You did attack a sleeping person but you can explain yourself okay?
With punches probably.
“Y/N can you please- What is happe- Why am I- Is this a-”
His words were slurred, sleep still hanging onto his droopy eyes but all the more befuddled at your crazy actions. Slowly you see his brain catching up to him trying to thwart your steady influx of punches.
“What the hell is going on”
“I’ll tell you what the hell is going on Joshua Hong. It’s you and my poor heart. What am I going to do when you leave me to take care of my shattered heart. Didn’t you promise me forever? And now you choose to leave me?
“When did I-?”
“You think this is funny. Writing a suicide note and shocking-”
“Suicide note?”
“Don’t try to act like you didn’t, making me look like a fool here.-”
“Literally what the fu-”
‘You said to be ready for an engagement ring soon, we mapped the stars and painted out our children-”
“Y/N love, would you please calm down?”
His hand was placed over your palm effectively shutting you up and forcing you to stop yourself mid-rant. But your eyes worked just fine and so you sent out beams of anger waves at him
“Alright let’s go one by one."
“What note?”
You thrust the creased-up tidbit to his awaiting hands, indignance written all over your face. You gaze inquisitively at your boyfriend of five years poring over his handwriting, reading whatever the hell he had written. Way too quick for you to catch up, you see his wrinkled brow straightening, only to furrow and deepen as he escaped into a cacophony of laughter. Was he laughing? At your misery? After what he had just done? Does he think this is a joke?
“Hong Joshua you better have an explanation for this or help me go-”
“Baby, these are song lyrics”
WHAT??
“Seriously, do these words not ring a bell to you?”
Snatching back the paper from his hand you read over the words one more time except this time from some part of your brain, music played and you held your breath as the lyrics of ‘Some Nights’ by Fun began to play in your head.
Well, some nights, I wish that this all would end
'Cause I could use some friends for a change
And some nights, I'm scared you'll forget me again
Some nights, I always win (I always win)
But I still wake up, I still see your ghost
Oh Lord, I'm still not sure what I stand for, oh-ohYou peer back up at your boyfriend who was trying his hardest to hide his grin. But he wasn’t the stronger soldier today because very quickly he began to guffaw, head thrown back- an arm around his chest clutching his pecs. You hate this cocky bastard.
“Aww baby, were you worried about me? “
“Asshole”
“Come on now, why are you lying? You came into this man cave you had sworn to never step foot into just because you were worried about me. Oh my God wait till Hannie finds out about this.”
“Please don’t tell him. He’s never gonna stop teasing me.” You grumbled.
“Wow please? Means you are that mortified.” You say nothing. He is true. Once Jeonghan finds out the whole reason you had bribed him and the rest of the band with free dinner to hold an intervention was over a song lyric, you are never going to hear the end of it.
“No baby, don’t look embarrassed. It’s cute that you care about me. I am truly touched. Come, we have some time to ourselves, what do you propose we do?”
“Movie Night?” you ask softly.
‘Is that all you want?”
“I am okay with anything as long as it’s with you.” You supply back to him.
“Aww I worried you quite a lot huh? You are never this nice.”
“You seem to be unsatisfied with the movie night proposition. Do you have any plans in mind?”
“Oh wow, she remembers her manners. Thank you for asking, baby. I was thinking, let’s do our skin care. I got some sample masks. And while our eyes are closed, let’s, I don’t know, listen to some music by Fun- Ahh I was kidding please stop attacking me. l take that back.”
Too late for that. He’s dying in your hands tonight.
-*-*-*-*-*-finished-*-*-*-*-*
A.N: Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Based on an irl story. Hehehe.
Comment below/ Send an ask to be added to the taglist.
@skzbangchanniee @ariananotgrandeee
Also, please listen to 'Some Nights' by Fun! Aju nice song it is 🫢!
A/N: Guys idk what was going through my head when I made this. (Not proofread sorryyyy)
Genre: Fluff + Crack
Word count: 16.1k
Synopsis: Mingyu's dressed as a pretty princess? who knew you teasing him would lead to the tables turning later?
It was a Saturday afternoon, and you were in the kitchen making dinner while Mingyu played with your daughter, Eunseo, in her room.
Their giggles and laughter echoed throughout the house, piquing your curiosity about what was happening. As their laughter grew louder, a smile crept onto your face; it was one of your favorite sounds.
While you continued cooking, you could hear their feet tapping on the floor, the sound increasing in volume until they both appeared in the kitchen.
“Mommy, Mommy! Look, Daddy's a princess!” Eunseo giggled as she pointed at Mingyu.
He wore several pink hair clips and bows, complemented by glittery eye makeup. He looked adorable, even in the tight princess dress that he had somehow managed to pull just above his forearms.
You laughed along with Eunseo. “He does look like a princess! Wait, let me take a picture!” You took out your phone and focused on Mingyu, whose cheeks were tinted pink.
He rolled his eyes, crossed his muscular arms, and unintentionally tore the dress. Seeing Eunseo's expression, you quickly stifled your grin.
“Daddy…you’re too strong for my dress,” she sighed, causing you to chuckle.
“I’m sorry, Princess. I’ll buy you ten more tomorrow, okay?” Mingyu held up ten fingers, causing Eunseo to smile happily and nod her head.
“Deal! Now Mommy, take a picture!” Eunseo jumped around excitedly.
You pointed your camera at Mingyu. “Gyu, strike a pose!” you smiled.
Mingyu obliged and struck a dramatic pose, putting one hand on his hip while blowing a kiss to the camera as if he were on a runway.
The kitchen lights made his glittery eyes shimmer. “You’re a natural!” you laughed hysterically, and Eunseo agreed.
Mingyu’s smirk grew into a smile as he heard you both laughing. He loved making both you and Eunseo laugh, especially at the same time. He knew he looked ridiculous, but he didn’t care if it meant bringing joy to his two girls.
Eunseo continued to bounce around him, giggling loudly as she watched her dad make silly faces. She was having the time of her life.
You put your phone down and walked closer to him to admire the makeup. “This makeup is so pretty, Eunseo! You did an amazing job!” you praised, giggling as you wiped a bit of smeared lipstick from his face.
Eunseo puffed out her chest with pride, clearly happy with your compliments about her makeup skills. “I know! I used my favorite colors for Daddy!”
Mingyu sighed, feeling a bit embarrassed.
“Oh, I see! But can you both make sure you’re cleaned up before dinner is finished?” you asked Eunseo.
Eunseo pouted a little, not wanting the fun to end just yet, but she nodded and grabbed Mingyu's hand, tugging him toward the bathroom.
“Okay, Mommy! Come on, Daddy, let’s go clean up!” Mingyu chuckled and followed her into the bathroom.
You smiled softly at the sight of your little daughter bossing around your tall husband. You took one last photo of him, wanting to capture the back of the dress that was torn, before returning to your cooking.
A few minutes later, they emerged with Mingyu's hair all messy from taking out the hair clips and most of his makeup gone. His face was still very glittery, though.
You walked up to him with a smile, standing on your tiptoes to reach his hair and try to fix it. "Aww, Gyu. Your hair's all messy and cute."
Mingyu chuckled softly as you attempted to tame his wild hair. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him and helping you maintain your balance.
"Well, Eunseo is a mini you, so I'm not surprised," he teased. He then leaned down to give you a quick kiss on the cheek, still grinning at you.
"I guess you're right," you replied with a grin, caressing his cheek with your thumb in an attempt to rub off the glitter. "I see that not everything came off…"
Mingyu closed his eyes for a moment as he hummed softly. "You know how stubborn glitter is. It’s going to take more than just a bit of rubbing to get it off," he teased again.
Eunseo had been watching the two of you, giggling to herself as she observed the playful banter. Suddenly, she tapped your leg.
"Hmm? Yes, Eunseo?" you turned to face her adorable little self.
She looked up at you with her big, innocent eyes, a mischievous glint sparking in her gaze.
"Can I do your hair next, Mommy?" Eunseo asked sweetly, batting her eyelashes at you.
"Oh, um…" You glanced at Mingyu, nervously seeking his support, before turning back to Eunseo. "Sure… of course you can do my hair, baby."
Mingyu chuckled at your reaction, clearly amused by how the tables had turned. He was eager to see what hairstyle she would choose for you.
"This should be interesting," he whispered so only you could hear.
"Don't remind me," you replied, just as Eunseo happily tugged you away.
Mingyu laughed again, as he could already imagine what Eunseo would do to you. He couldn't wait to finally have something to tease you about.
Mingyu's jaw dropped as he saw you, completely taken aback by your new appearance.
You looked adorable with your messy hair adorned with a princess tiara and glittery makeup.
He had to bite his lip to hold back his laughter, his eyes widening as he looked you up and down. You were now wearing a purple dress that matched the tiara.
“Oh my God…” Mingyu muttered, a smirk returning to his face as he tried to suppress his chuckle.
“She looks so pretty! Right, Daddy?” Eunseo asked excitedly.
Mingyu nodded quickly, unable to deny that you indeed looked pretty. He was just struggling to keep a straight face, his lips twitching.
“Y-yeah…” he managed to say, his voice slightly shaky as he tried to maintain his composure.
“Laugh all you want now… I still have the photo of you,” you mouthed to him with a glare.
Mingyu’s eyes widened slightly as he read your lips, and he stood there in silence.
“Daddy, take a picture of Mommy now! Mommy looks more like a pretty princess than you did.” Eunseo smiled as your eyes widened in surprise.
Mingyu grinned, slightly taken aback by Eunseo’s comment, but taking a photo of you, knowing you wouldn’t appreciate it—he could never pass up an opportunity like this.
“That’s a great idea, sweetheart!” he said mischievously as he reached for his phone.
"Maybe Daddy can take the photos later, Eunseo?" You try your best to avoid having Mingyu take a picture of you.
Eunseo looked up at you with a pout. "But Mommy…" she whined.
You sighed in defeat, giving in once again. "Fine, just one photo…"
Eunseo's face lit up with excitement as she jumped up and down. "Yay! One photo, Mommy!"
Mingyu laughed, watching the two of you with a smug smile on his face. He knew he had won this round.
Mingyu met your glare with an innocent smile, pretending to be oblivious to your annoyance. He was enjoying this way too much.
"What? You agreed to it, love," he teased, holding out his phone and preparing to take the picture.
"Smile, Mommy!" Eunseo requests. Mingyu loved how excited Eunseo was to have this photo taken, he was looking forward to seeing your forced smile.
"Yeah, smile for the camera, Princess." He playfully used your new nickname against you.
You sighed once more, giving a strained smile.
Mingyu snapped the picture, clearly pleased with the expression on your face. He looked down at the photo on his phone, admiring your strained smile and messy hair.
"Oh, that's perfect," he said with a smirk, showing the photo to Eunseo.
"I'm going to check on dinner," you said, walking away toward the kitchen.
Mingyu watched as you walked away, then put his phone away and followed you into the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind as you began to check on the food.
"You look adorable when you're mad, Princess," he teased, resting his chin on your shoulder while holding you close.
Mingyu knew you weren't in the mood to respond to his teasing, but he didn't mind. He thought it was cute when you pouted and didn’t talk to him.
He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, planting soft kisses against your skin.
"This cute act you're putting on isn’t going to work," you finally replied.
He pulled away from your neck and rested his chin on your shoulder again. "Who said I was trying to work anything? I'm just giving my lovely wife some affection."
“Mhm.” You scoffed before turning to face him. “Could you watch the food while I take this off?”
Mingyu pouted playfully as you turned to him, reluctantly releasing his hold on your waist. He wanted to keep holding you, but he knew he had to follow your request.
“Fine, fine. I’ll watch the food,” he said with a sigh.
“Thank you~,” you replied sweetly, hugging him as you discreetly pulled his phone out of his pocket.
Mingyu was caught off guard as you suddenly hugged him. he wasn’t expecting you to be so affectionate after your previous annoyance.
He wrapped his arms around you returning a hug and pulling you closer to him. He didn’t notice as you slipped his phone out of his pocket, too distracted by the feeling of having you in his arms.
You take the phone and walk away to the room to "change," leaving him oblivious.
Eunseo walks into the kitchen and tugs on Mingyu's pants. "Daddy, can I play a game on your phone?"
Mingyu looks down at Eunseo, a smile forming on his face at her request. "Sure, sweetheart, but let me unlock it first," he replies, reaching into his pocket to grab his phone.
He frowns when he realizes it isn't there, patting his pockets in confusion.
You quickly walk away into the bedroom, giggling.
Mingyu looks up as he hears you giggle, a puzzled expression crossing his face. He looks down at Eunseo again, raising an eyebrow at her.
"Where is Mommy, sweetheart?" he asks.
"Mommy is in the room," she replies, pointing toward the bedroom door.
Mingyu follows Eunseo's gaze toward the bedroom. "I see…" he mutters, gently ruffling Eunseo's hair before making his way toward the bedroom.
You quickly put his phone under your lap as you hear him open the door.
Mingyu enters the bedroom and his eyes immediately fall on you. He notices how you quickly put something down under your lap, and his suspicions grow.
"What are you hiding, love?" he asks.
"Nothing! I was just taking these clips and my tiara out of my hair," you say, feigning innocence.
Mingyu looks at you skeptically, clearly not buying your excuse. He sits down on the bed next to you, his eyes fixed on the lump under your thigh.
“Oh really? Then why are you so defensive?” he asks, leaning closer and placing a hand on your thigh.
“Me? Defensive? Never,” you reply, crossing your arms.
He smiles, amused by your stubbornness. He knew you were trying to hide something, and he found it endearing how hard you were working to deny it.
He reaches over, grabbing your hips and pulling you onto his lap, so you are straddling him. He wraps his arms around your waist, trapping you against him and preventing you from getting away.
“Hey!” you yelp, giggling as you stretch your arms out, holding the unlocked phone above your head.
Mingyu looks at you in disbelief as he notices the photo he took of you earlier displayed on the screen.
“Give it back,” he pleads.
“Not until I delete this photo!” you laugh, stretching your arm out as far as possible, just out of his reach.
“And why do you want to delete it so badly, hm? I thought you looked cute in it,” he teased, his hands slowly moving up your body in an attempt to distract you.
“Cute? Don’t lie to me,” you retorted, unaware of his true intentions.
Mingyu laughed, clearly amused by your sassy response. He knew you were getting defensive, and he was enjoying it.
“I’m not lying, love. I genuinely think you look cute in that photo, even with that strained smile on your face.”
“Nope! I need to delete it!” You held the phone above your head, fully aware that one wrong move would allow him to take it from you.
He knew that you were serious about deleting the photo, but he wasn’t going to give up that easily. He suddenly shifted his grip on your hips, flipping you over so that you were underneath him on the bed.
"You think you can hide it from me? We both know I'm stronger than you."
Your eyes widen in shock as everything happens so fast. You quickly squirm, trying to grab the phone before it falls onto the bed. You do your best to reach it before he does.
Mingyu holds both of your wrists with one hand as his free one gets ahold of the phone.
"Hey! That's not fair! Give me that!" You reach for his phone.
"No can do, love. You had your chance but you failed." He grins cheekily.
"But the photo…" You sigh, giving up hope that he will let his guard down. "Fine…"
Mingyu raises an eyebrow, surprised by your change in attitude. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"
He loosens his grip on your wrist but keeps hold of his phone to ensure you don't delete the photo.
You sit up on the bed quietly, and he watches you, his gaze locked on your face as he tries to figure out what you're planning.
"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice low and curious.
"Nothing…" you respond dismissively.
Mingyu tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. "I know you're up to something…" He squints at you, skeptical.
"Nope, not at all…" You glance at his phone.
Noticing the direction of your gaze, he smiles and waves the phone in front of you. "Ah, so you're still thinking about the photo. I thought you said you were done trying to get it back?"
"Did I say that?" you ask, tapping your chin as if contemplating.
He looks at you, confused. "Yes, you just did—"
Without warning, you quickly tackle him to the floor.
Mingyu lets out a surprised grunt as his back hits the ground with a thud. He hadn't expected you to be so quick.
"How did you—" He looks at you with pure confusion.
"Let me get that phone!" You finally manage to grab it.
Mingyu laughs as you take hold of the phone, his grip slipping. A playful glint shines in his eyes as he looks up at you from his position on the floor.
"I can't believe you tackled me for a phone…" he pouts.
"I had to! I can't let you keep this horrible photo," you reply.
He tries to grab the phone back, so you react quickly by tossing it toward the front door.
"Now that was dirty," he shakes his head at your tactics.
You quickly jump off Mingyu to retrieve the phone, but he grabs your legs, making you fall to the floor. "Hey!" you whine.
As you’re inches away from the phone, you hear the door unlock. Both of you look up to see Eunseo standing there.
She tilts her head at the sight of you two on the floor, with Mingyu holding onto your ankles.
"Daddy? Mommy? What are you doing?" she asks, obviously confused.
"Eunseo! Give Mommy the phone, okay?" you plead, stretching your hand to grab it.
Mingyu quickly responds, "No, Eunseo, pass it to me, please?"
Eunseo looks between you and Mingyu, her eyes darting from the phone to your face. She looks unsure, not wanting to get involved in whatever was happening between you two.
She thinks for a moment, then says, "But Mommy, I asked Daddy to play on his phone first. You can get it after, okay? I promise." She grabs the phone, walks out of the room, and leaves you both in disbelief.
Mingyu is completely stunned by Eunseo's betrayal. "She's supposed to be on my side…"
You let out a tired laugh, realizing how childish this all was. "I can't believe we did all that just for her to end up with the phone…"
Mingyu also chuckles wearily, letting go of your ankles. "I know… she won the fight without even trying, huh?" He catches his breath.
You nod, "She didn't even have to do anything. She just stood there and looked cute." You shake your head.
He looks back at you, grinning, "Well, on the bright side, at least I still have that photo of you."
"Don't forget, I also have the photo of you, pretty princess," you laugh.
"Damn it, I can't believe I let you take a picture of me like that," he mutters.
You get closer to him, crawling onto his lap. "You did it because you love me too much."
"Yeah, yeah. I'm not so sure now after that tackle stunt you pulled," he says playfully.
"Hey!" You hit his chest playfully, laughing along with him.
pairing: husband&dad!joshua, wife&mom!reader, established relationship
genre: smut 18+ MINORS DNI!!!!!!!!! fluff, parent au, non-idol au
synopsis: reader is literally just feral for joshua
warnings: pwp, p in v, oral (m receiving), riding, praise, dirty talk, soft!dom!josh, breeding, josh calls reader a ‘slut’ (lovingly) once, reader & josh are parents, reader losing her mind over josh mainly. JOSHUA ARMS. unedited ;)))
a/n: i’ve experienced extreme joshua brainrot lately then did an extreme deep dive of jarms (joshua arms) until 2 in the morning. i am unwell and need him like a fish needs water
joshua pushes the shopping cart that holds groceries, and your daughter in the front of the basket, down the aisle. you trail a step or two behind them, mind a bit foggy and… distracted. you don’t know what it is, he’s just wearing a plain, white tshirt and blue jeans—he’s worn it before—and you’re running errands together like you always do. but today is different, and you can’t seem to comprehend a single thing going on around you, or really look at your husband without feeling mild insanity.
first, you’d wandered into the store in a daze, forgetting that joshua was grabbing the shopping cart with your daughter, after having sat in the front seat watching him drive for twenty minutes. his hand sat steady at ten and two, ever the safe driver when your daughter was present, though at stop lights he would sometimes grab your hand or settle his palm on your leg. you felt lost since the morning, woke up with your mind cloudy and your brain foggy just at the mere sight of him.
then, you couldn’t remember a single thing on your grocery list. in your clouded state, you must’ve forgotten the list in the kitchen; it wasn’t a big deal, except for the fact that you literally couldn’t think about a single thing that you needed to buy, and you are usually the one leading the pack around the store. so the three of you have been wandering around the grocery store for longer than you want to be, circling back to the same aisles you’ve already been on because you can’t remember what it is you need to buy.
now you’re back in the dairy aisle, unsure of why you’re back because youve already grabbed milk and cream cheese, so you’re just standing in front of the cold, double doors without a single thought in your head. “yogurt, maybe?” joshua tries, pausing his conversation with your child to help you out. you blink once, twice before mumbling out a ‘right’ and pulling the doors open and grabbing a container.
“mommy, that’s not the right one!” your daughter whines when you drop it in the basket. she’s frowning at you, eyebrows crinkled the same way joshua’s do. god. you make the mistake of looking up at him, and your entire body flushes you meet his gaze. his eyes are soft but questioning, asking if you if you’re alright without actually saying it. no, i’m not, you think to yourself, discreetly sweeping your hand up your neck to check your pulse. it’s fast, and you’re definitely still alive.
joshua watches you with mild concern; he’s noticed your strange, avoidant behavior since this morning when he got back from the gym. you had looked almost surprised when he walked into your bedroom, like you weren’t expecting him back. your eyes widened, and your lips parted like you were going to say something but nothing came out. he beat you to words, anyway, giving you a soft ‘good morning’ that made you blush—he’d ignored it because you seemed… off—and kissed you on the lips. he thought he really smelled with the way you rushed your lips off of his and rolled out of bed, nearly tripping over your own feet. joshua grabbed you so you wouldn’t fall, and he felt you tense in his hold, a frown etching on his features. he brushed it off and asked if you wanted to shower with him, expecting a ‘yes’ from the look that flashed through your eyes, but you instead mumbled something about having to make breakfast before hurrying out of the bedroom all together. you basically avoided him all day since then, never really looking at him or talking to him directly—none of which you do on a constant basis.
the yogurt was, in fact, incorrect down to the brand and flavor. “i’m sorry, baby,” you say to your daughter, running a hand over her hair before grabbing the yogurt to swap it out for the correct one, this time taking a few seconds to scan everything in the fridge. you appreciate the cold air from the refrigerator, as it cools you down from the rush of heat you feel along your face and neck. you take a breath and tell yourself to get a fucking grip before dropping the correct item into the cart.
“daddy, can i get ice cream?” your daughter asks joshua as you start ambling through the grocery store. you cut your eyes at your daughter for not asking you, but you know it’s because joshua never says no to her.
“of course, princess,” and you watch with pure adoration as he places a kiss on her forehead and she just giggles, scrunching her shoulders up to her ears. joshua is a good husband, but he’s an even better father, and you love watching him interact with your daughter. they have a special connection that you love to witness, a secret language just between the two of them. it’s moment like this where you want another kid—or maybe it’s part of the hazy mess you’re in because of his sheer existence.
you follow behind joshua towards the ice cream aisle. the shirt he wears is tight on him, straining against his biceps and shoulders. you can make out his back muscles depending on how the light hits the fabric, and you feel even crazier than before. his muscles have been the source of your you distracted state today. joshua has always been muscular, and he’s always worked out, but something about him recently has flipped a switch in your brain that has made you feel absolutely feral every time you catch a mere glimpse of his arms—which is quite literally every day. this morning it was too overwhelming, him coming home and shedding his jacket to reveal himself in a simple black tank top that looked a size too small, and gray sweats that made you feel like you needed to go to confessional.
another rush of cold air pulls you out of your lustful daze and you stand at the back of the shopping cart as joshua shuffles through the cartons of ice cream, asking your daughter her input. you try to keep your eyes focused on your daughter, anything else, but cant help when they drift over to your husband, his arms flexing each time he grabs a pint and displays it to your daughter. joshua casts a glance at you, a smile that says can you believe this? when you daughter shakes her head for the fourth time, despite not asking to look for herself. you blush under his gaze, heat spreading down your neck and chest before settling in your stomach.
"i thought you liked the oreo one?" you say to your daughter, voice slightly hoarse. you smooth a hand over her hair to give yourself something to do, hands a little clammy from all of your nerves working overtime.
"i do..." she trails off, turning to look at you with a tiny pout on her lips.
"tell daddy before he freezes," you say, placing a soft kiss on her cheek. just the mere reference to joshua feels heavy in your mouth, makes your stomach flutter for reasons you can't really explain.
joshua places the pint of oreo ice cream into the cart, circling around to the front and playfully ticking your daughter under her chin. she giggles loudly and you smile as you watch her become a spitting image of her father. arms cage you between the carts handlebar and a firm chest, and suddenly your eyes are no longer on your kid but on the strong, veiny forearms that belong to your husband. “excuse me,” he murmurs, a teasing lilt to his voice like he knows that you’re losing your mind at the simple sight of him.
wordlessly, you gently grab his right arm to remove yourself from his entrapment. “hey,” joshua says softly, reaching out for your wrist as you move swiftly to get away from him. turning, goosebumps arise on your skin, and you tell yourself that it’s because his hands are ice cold. “you okay, honey?” your stomach flips and you press your lips into a small smile, nodding.
joshua stares at you for a beat before leaning down a few inches, silently begging for a kiss. you nearly combust at the thought, not trustworthy of yourself to behave normally in public. but his eyes are fond, and you love him so much and want him so bad that you raise up on your toes and brace yourself on his shoulders before delivering a soft, quick peck to his lips. you’re proud of yourself for holding back, but joshua isn’t satisfied because he stays leaned over in the spot you kissed him in for a few seconds after the fact that you’ve pulled away. if you were at home, he’d yank you back to him but because you’re in public he files that grievance away and straightens up.
“i want a kiss,” your daughter pouts, cutely crossing her arms over her chest. since she doesn’t specify from whom, both of you lean in and press kisses to her cheeks. her giggle ripples through you, filling your stomach with butterflies and your chest with a type of love reserved only for her. you’re momentarily pulled away from your joshua shaped daze, until his hand is settling on your lower back. it chilling, his touch, and it’s not because his hands are ice cold from standing in the grocery store freezer for two minutes.
a shiver runs up your spine and you slip out of his grasp, not paying attention to where or what you’re walking into until joshua is pulling you back into him, his hand splayed across your stomach and your back colliding with his chest. “babe, watch out,” a woman pushing a cart stops short, a look of remorse on her face.
“oh my god, did i hit you?” she asks, and you figure you must look injured or something, because she looks genuinely concerned for your wellbeing. the flush on your face is not due to the fact that you were almost ran over, but because joshua hasn’t moved his hand from your stomach and hasn’t put any distance between your back and his front. he stays pressed against you, holding you firmly in front of him, his hold tightening ever so slightly.
“n-no, i’m alright,” you manage, lips tingling. “i swear.” you add when her eyebrows don’t drop from her hairline. at that, she seems to believe you enough snd offers you a smile and a curt nod before hurrying down the aisle.
“are you alright, honey? you’re trembling,” joshua says, his deep voice like melted wax running down your back. you make the mistake of looking up and over your shoulder at him, his palm pressing into your lower belly.
he peers down at you with soft eyes, ready to question you again until your tongue darts out to wet your lips before you tuck your bottom lip under your top one and nod. he knows the look in your eyes all too well—hunger, but not for food—and heat pools in his chest. joshua is much better at hiding his desire for you, especially in public and in front of your child, and he’s able to keep his expression the same, pretending he never saw that look in your eye. “i’m fine,” you’re shuffling away from him again, this time checking to make sure you’re not seconds away from being ran over with a shopping cart.
somehow, you three mange to finish your shopping trip without anymore mishaps. it requires circling back to the same aisles more than once because neither you nor josh can remember what you wanted to buy, but at least you can say you’re done. joshua loads the groceries into the trunk while you buckle your daughter into the backseat. she yawns, stretching her little arms up and out. “sleepy?” you ask her, a small smile on your face.
“no,” she says, vehemently shaking her head. you chuckle hum a sound of disbelief before dropping a kiss on her forehead and going to the front seat. the trunk closes and you suck in a breath as you watch him in the rearview mirror. he brushes his hand through his hair, and even through the mirror and the tint of the trunk window, you can make out his bicep muscle flexing with the motion.
it’s nearly pathetic how horny you feel just looking at him—like an overgrown teenager who just got into their first relationship. except you’re an adult, married to this man, and this behavior is no longer considered ‘cute’.
joshua gets into the front seat and smiles at you, leaning over the console to give you a kiss. his hand rests on the side of your neck, and you wonder if he’s trying to check your pulse, to mess with you. you keep your hands to yourself, because if you touch him, you might never stop.
pulling back from your mouth, he looks into your eyes before flicking them back down to your lips. joshua starts to lean in but seems to remember you’re not alone, and sits back in his seat, his hand lingering on your neck for a moment before he starts the car and asks your daughter if she’s ready to go.
the car ride is quiet, save for your daughters yawns and insistence that she is not tired. she makes most of the noise, talking about random things that you and joshua entertain with ease. he watches her in the review mirror with real, unconditional love in his eyes. it does nothing to help your situation, and just makes you want to give him another baby.
when you arrive back at your house, you quickly get out of the car, grateful to get out of the stuffy, suffocating feeling of being in the front seat. you walk around the back and help your daughter out, ready to carry her inside until she exclaims, “i want to help!”
you ser her down on the ground and she runs over to joshua. you watch him give her two of the lighter bags of groceries, and raises her arms to show you, a big smile on her face. you smile back and press in the garage code and tell her to go inside of the house, seemingly leaving you and joshua alone. you sidle up next to him, and joshua lightly bumps his hip into yours. “hmm?” you question without looking up from the numerous bags in the back of the car.
“why are you avoiding me?” he asks, and the directness makes your hands clam up.
“i’m not avoiding you,” you say, taking a few grocery bags and backing up from him.
“you quite literally are.”
you stare up at him, his eyebrows knitted together in slight irritation. “i still love you, if that’s what you’re asking,” you clarify. his features soften and his shoulders relax a bit. those shoulders. your eyes drifts down his figure, lingering on his flexed forearms, veins bulging out from the tension of carrying the grocery bags.
joshua watches you obviously ogle and check him out, his entire figure relaxing at his realization. “oh, i get it now,” he teases, a slow smirk sliding across his lips.
“get what?” you play dumb, taking a tentative step backwards before turning around and trying to keep your walk casual as you walk through the garage. it’s so obvious you’re trying to keep space between the two of you, putting anything in the way to keep you off of him.
“that you wan-“ joshua cuts himself off because you push open the door that leads you into the house. he clears his throat and closes the garage door before following behind you into the kitchen. your daughter is standing on her tippy toes trying to reach a cupboard that’s way to high for her, concentration etched on her face. “need help, bub?” he asks, setting his bags down on the counter.
“i can’t reach,” she whines, yawning immediately after. joshua lifts her up into his arms and opens the cupboard for her abd allows her to put the item away. “i’m tired, daddy.” she rests her head on his shoulder, tiny arms encircling around his neck.
you watch them and you feel your heart grow three times in size, like the grinch. joshua coos at her and pats her head before agreeing to put her down for a nap. you busy yourself with unloading the groceries, stomach flipping at the thought of having at least an hour alone with your husband. you can’t believe how depraved you feel.
joshua comes back downstairs a few minutes later, right when you’re putting the last thing into the fridge. “you finished?” he asks. you nod, heart hammering in your chest as he walks over to you. his hands drop onto your hips, pulling you flush against him. you keep your eyes straight ahead, leveled wirh his chest, and joshua dips his head down to meet your eyes. “see: you’re avoiding me.”
hear creeps up your neck and you shake your head. “i’m not.”
“don’t try to gaslight me,” he teases, making you roll your eyes and finally look up at him. “there she is.” he murmurs, leaning down a few centimeters to connect your lips. your hands flatten against his chest, and he walks your backwards into one of the kitchen counters. joshua leans over you, trying to press you flat against the surface despite the lack of space.
“shua,” you breathe once you pull away when he unbuttons your jeans.
“what, you’ve got somewhere better to be?” he asks, arching one of his eyebrows.
“i… i have to do laundry…” you say halfheartedly. joshua laughs at this, dropping his forehead against yours. “i’m serious!” you say, but you’re smiling too. “i want to go back to avoiding you.”
joshua pulls back to look down at you, making a face that says for what? “i thought you wanted me to fuck you?”
“yeah, i’m afraid nothing will keep me off of you if we start,” you say honestly. joshua blushes deeply, a boyish grin on his face. “i want you so bad—i think i might be ovulating? i don’t know. i just want you so. bad.” you punctuate the last part with the press of your knuckles into his chest.
“you’re ovulating?” it’s like bells went off in his head.
“maybe, i don’t know. i don’t keep track of that shit. i just need an explanation for how i feel,” you say, hands sliding along his chest absentmindedly.
joshua raises both of his eyebrows at you, fake shock on his face. “maybe because you have a super hot and sexy husband who is also a really good father? just a hunch.”
“no, i don’t think that’s it,” he rolls his eyes at you and you giggle, balling his shirt up into your fists and pulling him down to you. joshua grips onto the counter to steady himself, his hold tight enough to turn his knuckles white. he presses his pelvis into yours, his his erection pressing against your leg.
joshua wraps an arm around you and splays his hand across the small of your back. he presses you down onto the counter and you grip his shoulders tightly, craning your mouth away from his to breathe out, “not here.” he pulls you up from the counter and looks down at you, his chest moving up and down quickly. you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he thinks about a place to fuck you that won’t bring attention to the two of you. “laund-ah!” he swoops you up into his arms easily, already carrying you in the direction of your laundry room before you can even get the entire word out.
you wrap your legs around his waist as you buzz with need and anticipation. you let yourself revel at being carried by him after lusting over his arms all day. he carries you like you’re weightless, with his his hands resting under your ass for support. “god,” you whisper to yourself, pressing a kiss into his neck.
“i love you,” he rasps as he enters the laundry room. he shuts and locks the door behind him before dropping you onto the washing machine. his hands are flying to undo the buttons of your blouse and you pull him closer using your ankles that are still wrapped around him.
“love you more,” you murmur, helping him with removing your top. “your turn.” your urge, pulling the hem of his shirt.
“sure you can handle it?” he teases. you flush and lightly push at his abdomen. “don’t wanna make you pass out or anything.” he smirks at you, loving to watch you squirm.
“i can handle it,” you say, feeling so embarrassed to even be in this position. luckily, joshua is sweet to you above all and draws you in for a kiss. you skate your hands up underneath his shirt, nails lightly scratching against his torso. “take it off.” you mumble against his lips, hands pushing up the material of his shirt. you feel like you could rip him out of the fabric.
joshua pulls back and makes an entire show of getting undressed. he runs a hand through his hair and purposefully flexes his bicep as he does so. if this was any other time, you’d roll your eyes and call him annoying. but today, all you can do is watch and try not to drool.
he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it into an empty laundry basket nearby. you waste no time leaning forward and pulling him into a kiss, threading your fingers through his hair. you move to kiss his jaw and then his neck, your hands sliding down his body. you kiss across his chest, going lower until the position becomes uncomfortable. lightly shoving him, you hop off of the washing machine and drop to your knees in front of him.
joshua watches you with dark eyes, holding onto the edge of the machine. you fumble with his belt, hands shaking with anticipation of finally having him, and he makes no effort to help you out. your hands work too fast, and you mess up when you try to pull the buckle open for the second time. “i’ve got all day,” he say smugly. you ignore him, and finally pull his belt free. you work his pants down to his ankles, leaving. him in just his briefs. you let out a breath and look up at him with pure lust. “as pretty as you look right now, you’d look much better with my cock in your mouth.”
quickly, you pull his underwear down and let them pool together with his pants, hands flying to grab ahold of his member. you pump him a few times, flicking your eyes to look up at him. joshua gives you a slight nod, signaling you to start sucking, and you eagerly oblige. sticking your tongue out, you lick up the precum that dribbles out of the tip before you wrap your lips around the head and push him into your mouth, cheeks hollowing as you go. a groan escapes joshua’s mouth and he gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail.
you drag him into your mouth inch by inch, your eyes never once leaving his. his chest heaves up and down, moving faster and faster the closer you get to taking him all the way. tears prick in your eyes when he hits the back of your throat, but you keep going until your nose nearly presses into his hips. “shit,” he whispers, leaning more of his weight into the washing machine.
you bob your head up and down, pulling back and stroking what doesn’t fit. you swirl your tongue around the tip, cheeks hollowing to create more suction when you suck on the tip. joshua moans lowly above you and tells you how good you’re doing. his eyes flutter shut, squeezed shut in pleasure and his chin drops down to his mouth. you want his eyes on you, want him to watch you as you make him feel good, so you purposefully scrape your teach against his dick to get his attention.
his eyes fly open as he jerks back from you, glaring at you when you smile around him. “brat,” he spits and tightens his grip on your hair. you sigh through your nose and press your thighs together, cunt throbbing with need. you keep bobbing your head, speeding up slightly and taking more of him into your mouth. when joshua presses your head down, you relax your throat and let him take control, hands moving to hold onto his thighs. “good girl.” he grunts, holding your head down on his dick for a few seconds until you gag, and then he pulls you off of him.
he does this a few more times, his cock twitching against your tongue. tears gather in your eyes but you power through, determined to make him cum. he pulls you down onto him, cursing each time he hits the back of your throat. “fuck, you take me so well. i’m c-close,” tears slip down your cheeks and mix in with the spit and cum. your face is a mess, but neither of you care.
joshua fucks his cock into your mouth, holding your head steady in his hands. you dig your nails his thighs to combat the ache in your jaw. he thrusts into your mouth until he can’t take the feeling of your warm mouth around him anymore, his cum shooting into the back of your throat. you keep your mouth open to catch all of his seed, some of it gathering around the corner of your lips. “s-swallow,” he demands when he pulls his cock away from your mouth.
you obediently swallow, and he whines in the back of his throat. “goddamn, i love you,” he holds his hands out to you and helps you up onto his feet. he wipes the corners of you lips with his thumb and shoves it into your mouth, lips parting when you suck on his thumb like you just did his cock. “youre such a slut.” he murmurs, a loving gaze in his eyes.
a trail of saliva connects your lips to his thumb when you pull it out of your mouth. “promise?” you ask.
joshua smiles and pulls you into a kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth. his hands make use of unbuttoning your jeans and shoving his hands down your pants. your panties are damp, and he’s a bit shocked and honored that you’re this wet for him. “i need you,” you whine, peppering kisses down his neck. you don’t even want his fingers, just want him inside of you.
“i know,” he rasps, slipping a finger between your folds. you shudder when he touches you, his finger playing with your arousal and brushing over your clit, just to make you jump. you clench around nothing, and it’s nearly painful how turned on you are.
“joshua!” you whine, nipping at his neck. his hand immediately grabs onto your hair and yanks, a hiss emitting from your lips followed by a smirk.
“needy brat,” he grumbles, walking the two of you over to the work bench in the room. he drops onto it and spreads his legs invitingly. you quickly step out of your jeans and underwear, his eyes roaming over your body. “you’re a beautiful, y/n.”joshua says sincerely; at the end of the day, he is simply a lover boy.
you smile at him and quickly drop yourself onto his lap, straddling him and wrapping your arms around his neck. you reach between the two of you and position yourself over his cock. his hands grip onto your hips tightly and guide you down onto him, bottom lip drawing in between his teeth.
“ah-fuck!” you cry when you sink onto the tip, the initial stretch rippling through you.
“you’ve got it, baby,” he encourages, thumbs rubbing sift circles into your hips. you bite down on your bottom lip, hands gripping tightly onto his shoulders as you sink lower and lower onto him. “goddamn, girl.” he grunts, hips bucking when you clench around him.
when you manage to take all of him, you sit still and catch your breath, head resting on his shoulder. joshua unhooks your bra and you lean back to slide it off your arms. “you okay?” he asks, hands groping your chest.
“uh huh,” you rasp, taking it as a sign to start fuckign him, licking your lips and raising your hips before dropping onto his lap. “fuck, shua.” whimpers leave you lips as you fuck yourself onto him, using his shoulders as leverage to move yourself up and down. joshua relaxes into the wall, his grip on your hips loosening as you gain momentum and find a rhythm.
“you’re so tight,” he groans, one of his thumbs finding your clit and rubbing slow circles around the sensitive nub. “been thinking about fucking you all day.” joshua sighs and rubs your clit quicker, eyes peering up to watch your facial expressions. “you need me as bad as i needed you?” he mumbles, voice low and husky.
“more,” you pant, still bouncing up and down on him. your cunt clamps around him like it’s trying to keep him there. “shuaaa!” you whine, thighs burning. you sit on his lap, rolling your hips into his.
he chuckles breathlessly, rolling his other thumb over one of your nipples. “yeah? tell me,” he grins at you devilishly, this side of him only coming out in your intimate moments.
“so bad,” you cry, grinding down onto his lap. “w-wanna give you a-another baby.” you squeeze around him involuntarily, a knot forming in your stomach. joshua twitches inside of you at the mention of having another child.
“yeah? want me to fill you up?” you whimper and nod, legs starting to shake. “want me to fuck you full of my cum until you’re pregnant again?” he lets go of you breast to place both hands underneath your ass. he lifts you up and drops you down, a show of his strength as he fucks you up an down onto him.
joshua grumbles filthy things into your ear; tells you that he’s gonna fuck you until you can’t walk, that he’s gonna stuff you full, that’s he’s going to give you another baby tonight. “f-fuck! i-im gonna cum,” you cry, throwing your head back in pleasure. he bucks his hips up into you, hitting that spongy spot inside of you repeatedly.
spots blur your vision and your cunt spasms around him as you reach your climax. it hits you like a thousand bricks, and you’re shaking in his arm and crying out his name. you expect him to stop, but he keeps thrusting up into you, drawing out your orgasm further. you can hardly think through the waves of pleasure, which is why you hardly register that he’s lifted you up until you’re placed on a cold surface.
joshua drags you to the edge of the washing machine and slams his cock into you, nearly knocking the wind out of you. “o-oh my god,” you gasp, tears brimming in your eyes for the second time tonight. “you feel so good!”
he drives his hips into you brutally, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs. “f-fuck, i’m not gonna last,” he groans, dropping his head into your neck. he kisses your skin and lightly bites, though not hard enough to leave marks. you cling to him, arms secured around his shoulders like you may fall if you dont hold on.
his thrusts get sloppier by the second, indicative of his nearing climax. “i love you,” you breathe, nails clawing at his back. he grunts, whining out curses as he cums inside of you, his dick twitching between your walls. he stills, fingers applying bruising pressure to your hips.
after a few moments, he lifts his head from your shoulder and looks at you, a tender smile on his face. he presses his lips to your gently, sighing against you as he goes soft. “shit,” he pants, followed by a light chuckle.
you can’t help but giggle back, running a hand through his hair. he doesn’t want to pull out, not yet at least, wanting to make sure his cum stays inside of you as long as possible. he lets go of your thighs and wraps his arms around you, squeezing you into his chest. you kiss the column of his throat, right on his adam’s apple and rubs soft circles into your back.
“we should clean up,” he murmurs, starting to draw back from you. you make a sound of disagreement and squeeze around him on purpose. “b-brat.” he stammers, curling away from you.
he pulls out of you with a lewd squelch, both of you turning light shades of pink at the noise. he helps you off of the washer and you lean against it. he finds a random towel and comes back to wipe between your legs before cleaning himself off and tossing it in the same basket he threw his shirt in. “i guess i could start a load,” you say, looking at all of the discarded clothes, making joshua laugh.
he helps you gather them up and drop them into the washer. you add in the detergent and slam the top closed. except, when you go to start the washer, joshua places a hand on your back and presses you flat against the washer and slots his knee between your legs to spread them open. you don’t get a chance to prepare yourself because he’s pushing into you again, a strong arm wrapping around your middle to hold you steady as he fucks into you from behind, determined to get you pregnant tonight.
wc: 30.8k in total; part 1: 15.4k, part 2: 15.4k
summary: between remembering last night’s party and pleasing your unrelenting family, you think being a princess is hard enough. then you’re thrust into an arranged marriage to royal darling joshua hong—straight-laced, infuriatingly obedient, and everything you’re not. pretending to be the perfect couple? impossible.
notes: romcom + smut (part 2), modern royalty!au in which yn is the princess of cotria/joshua the prince of acros (both fictional), enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, quarterlife crisis/coming of age, very very slow burn. lots of swearing, lots of alcohol, lots of feelings.
[read part 1 here!] (please)
You decide June looks good on Acros. Unlike in Cotria, now sure to be perspiring with tourists, the downtown here is comfortable, inviting, even. At home, you’d be shoulder-to-shoulder with three other people right now.
This is one of the things you like about this country: it seems to be intentionally idyllic. It’s becoming more clear to you that Joshua’s parents weren’t actually in need of anything from you other than a status boost. You suppose they’re learning the hard way what exactly that comes with.
Jeonghan’s car, or rather, the car Jeonghan happens to be in (he couldn’t drive his way out of a paper bag, try as he might), pulls up to the curb. He’s fresh off a stint of good press, meaning months of speeches, ribbon cutting, and run-ins with parliament and journalists and business moguls all vying for a bite of a future king. You’d add yourself to that list, but you know you’re at the back of the line—you practically live there now, but you’re not sure if things could have happened any other way.
You watch him step out of the van, never windblown even though he likely just got off a flight. Always with a smile, too, one tired but recognizable, so different from the plasticky ones he wears on TV.
The first thing he does when he gets out is throw his arms open for a bear hug. “Hey, cricket,” he says, voice wrought with jet-lag. “Missed you.”
“Glad you had time for one more stop,” you murmur, squeezed into the million-thread count of his shirt.
“I always have time for you,” he replies, which is decidedly untrue, but you don’t have it in you to say that. All you do lately is get into arguments, and you’re not looking to add your brother to your hit list.
(He hugs Jihoon, too, since you all practically grew up together. Is that your gun, or are you just happy to see me? Jeonghan jokes. Jihoon’s reply: It’s my gun. It’s always my gun.)
The second thing he does is push the brim of your baseball cap down.
“The paps,” he warns, as if they were the boogeyman.
“If they can’t recognize us, they need to get better at their job.” Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “For God’s sake, Jeonghan, we’re all wearing matching hats.”
No, you are not kidding. Jeonghan, blue, you, red, and Jihoon, green, a la The Powerpuff Girls, which was a joke you made about six years ago and could not let go of.
“Whatever,” he laughs. “Aren’t you supposed to be showing me around? This is your domain now.”
“Don’t get excited. I just got here.”
“What do you need to go shopping for, anyway?” he asks, now walking side-by-side with you.
“I ask that question every day,” Jihoon replies, glancing at Jeonghan as if to say Women, right?, save for the fact that the both of them have exactly zero game.
“Somi’s birthday!” you exclaim, two ticks too loudly. “Stuff, I dunno. Just trying to get used to this place.”
“This isn’t exactly Rodeo Drive, you know.”
That, Jeonghan is right about. You’re sure there must be a shopping district somewhere in Acros, but definitely not here. Here, the streets are lined with dense cherry plum trees, wine-stained and fragrant. They frame driftwood-paneled shop windows housing kitschy art galleries, mom-and-pop bakeries, and patioed bistros with striped awnings.
An elderly couple passes you. They smile and wave, visible even under the shade of their parasol, either blissfully unaware of your status or too wise to care.
“I know,” you waver. “Whatever. I'll just get Yunjin to find me something for the party.”
Your eye wanders to the jaunty facade of a music store. The sign flaunts handmade, cursive letters with a curly treble clef in the lacquer of old paint. In Cotria, the same sign would be neon, Hollywood-esque, vain.
“Party?”
“Let's go there,” you interrupt, hoping to run your big mouth over with some more talking. Of course Jeonghan wouldn’t be cool with any party, nonetheless the one Somi was planning on throwing, but, either by habit or wishful thinking, the news just tumbled right out of you.
“Party?” Jeonghan repeats. He trails close after you, hoping to grab the door before you can. Such is what he had been taught, after all, which came more naturally than navigating big-brotherhood. “Jihoon?”
Jihoon shrugs, and opens the door before the both of you get there. You’ve trained him well.
“It’s a small thing,” you tell him. “Close friends only.” It’s not technically a lie—small is relative, and it’s not your fault Somi has two hundred-some close friends.
Inside, you notice the shop is bigger than it looks from the outside. In the front, their nicest pianos: the glossy Yamahas, the baby grands. a lone drum set, on sale, the hi-hat sparkling under the LED lights. And finally, guitars hung from the wall like posters, some lime green and child-sized, others sanded down so the mahogany glows.
“You already know what I’m going to say,” Jeonghan says, the lilt of his voice verging on not-so-casual.
“Then don’t say it,” you reply flatly. “You went to those parties too, by the way.”
“Used to, but—” Jeonghan sighs because he’s beat, and he knows it.
You absentmindedly flip through a book of sheet music—Alfred's Essentials of Music Theory. behind it, 40 Taylor Swift Songs for Piano.
“You’ve been good, I hope?” you cut in. “Not too tired?”
“No,” Jeonghan says. “I've been great. You?”
You can’t read his expression. Old Jeonghan would tell you that he’s ready for a nap, that he hates sleeping on airplanes, that his hands still get sweaty when he gets in front of a crowd and the camera flash hurts his eyes. New Jeonghan never complains, either because of some drastic change in his character or because he feels like he can no longer complain to you. Both hurt your feelings in equal measures.
“I called, you know.”
“I was busy, cricket.” He holds up a copy of Complete Advanced Piano Solos and wrinkles his nose. He's hoping you’d laugh with him about it, but you’ve already moved on, now fixated on the shining columns of electric guitars. “I wanted to ask about, you know, all the new stuff going on.”
“You mean my arranged marriage?” The words feel stiff in your mouth.
The arranged marriage I'm doing for you? I split my heart open for you, and that’s the thanks I get?
You avoid Jihoon’s tentative glare to look at your noodled reflection in the polish of a red Fender. You think of Joshua, of a corny rendition of Here Comes The Sun and a pick between his teeth, cradling a guitar held by a linty, ten dollar strap.
Then you think of what he said on that piano bench—that somehow he could have prevented this. Actually, this might have been all your fault. One too many shots, and you ended up setting feminism back five centuries.
“Y-yeah.” You watch Jeonghan’s silhouette appear behind yours. “Has it been okay, at least?”
Okay is a complicated word to use. It’s hard to say, even for you.
It would certainly be TMI to tell Jeonghan that you’ve been kissing a lot more often. First it was under the flimsy guise of practice—We have to be ready for our dinner tomorrow, Joshua had said, to which you readily agreed. You couldn’t be the unwilling victim of another headline like KISS OR MISS! It would be terrible for your ego, even more so than your public image.
Yesterday, though, as you were winding down for bed, Joshua had come out of the shower, damp white tee and all. A sorry, unspeakable part of you willed you to posit—Hey, maybe we need a refresher? You couldn’t even get halfway through your sentence. Hell, his glasses even came off.
You really only liked each other past 9 PM—you still couldn’t quite manage to get through a conversation like normal people. At this point, you had a 50/50 split in terms of who would cast the first terrible stone of petty disagreement. The only thing we have going for us is a dubious physical attraction, seemed like way more of a mouthful than okay, though.
“Yeah, it’s been okay.” You look around. There's a decent amount of mediocre acoustic guitars on the back wall, more than enough to scratch the itch of someone too afraid to defile something more honorable. “Hey, don’t wait up for me. I think i might buy something.”
—
[august 10, 2:57 pm; a dress fitting.
In the ten-foot mirror of the boutique dressing room, you watch Yunjin yank the ties of your corset into a punishing knot. Your mother watches behind you, perched on the chaise.
“Regal and radiant,” she reads aloud, the shiny cover of a magazine between her hands. “Finally, some good news.”
“About you and Joshua?” Yunjin asks.
“Ye–ow!” you wince. “Yeah. We went out to dinner yesterday.”
The dinner: an exhausting, stuffy affair at an Italian restaurant with two Michelin stars. You came in a nice dress, Joshua in slacks and his best button-up. Smile, wave, a kiss on the cheek. You fed him a spoonful of dessert, a stiff, too-sweet panna cotta. It was either raspberry or strawberry—you were too distracted to really notice. Instead, you’d been practicing the steps, the motions of a true love.
Should we hold hands over the table? Joshua had asked.
I don't think we have to. Your hand had curled over the napkin on your lap, as if the thought of his touch physically stung.
“This is a nice color,” your mother interrupts. She pinches the fabric of the skirt up at your waist, watching the way it bunches over your hips. “It's suitable.”
Suitable. Right. The dress for your engagement ball, suitable. Just like you, newly suited for the engagement.
You watch your image in the mirror. It’s taller, more regal, likely the product of Yunjin squeezing all the air out of you, Or worse, the penetrating gaze of your mother over the top of the tabloid.
You blink hard; you waver. ]
[august 20, 10:13 pm; a quiet return to acros after a day at the beach with somi and soonyoung.
The castle sleeps, warm under the soft glow of candlelight on marble. You pad through the halls, carefully, as to avoid waking the entire country with the thwacks of your still-wet sandals. Hopefully Joshua is sleeping. He'd certainly ask questions, either about if bikini tops really need all that padding or what the SPF of your sunscreen was.
You approach your room, where the lamplight from the cracked door oozes into the hallway. There's a determined rustling noise coming from the interior. Incriminating. Holding your breath, you cast a long glance into the thin slice of bedroom you can see from where you’re standing.
There sits Joshua, cross-legged on the bed. Between his legs, the guitar you bought him. It must have finally shipped. He’s tied the gift ribbon it came with to the guitar strap, a woven linen with an offensively bright jacquard pattern.
A hesitant A major chord, then G major, offkey. Hm, he hums aloud. Then you notice his phone propped on a pillow, a Youtube tutorial rumbling in the background. He tries the G major again. Better, he says, pumping a fist into the tired air.
God, what a dork, you think. But you don’t walk away.]
–
From the garden, the Acrosian moon renders the city blue, like ink from a spilled well.
It’s quiet out here, you notice. The forest spills into the sky, and the scent of roses lies heavy on your skin. You’re seated on the bench beneath the sculpted gazebo, a worthy centerpiece, and you revel in the coolness of the granite, the bated still of the air. You like this garden better than the one at home, although it’s entirely possible that you’ve been conditioned into hating all topiaries, no thanks to your parents.
It's only when you hear the quiet click of footsteps behind you that you realize you’ve lost track of how long you’ve been outside. You’re now able to tell them apart–these, Joshua’s, steady and purposeful, sound like they have a heartbeat.
You don’t turn around to greet him. “So you finally had enough, huh?” you ask instead, sliding to the left so he can sit beside you.
“How'd you know?” he chuckles.
“I'd like to think I know at least a little about you.”
“I appreciate it,” is his reply, surprisingly warm.
Just a few hours earlier, your parents had come to visit. They cooed and giggled and connived alongside Joshua’s parents before launching into a very long, very serious discussion about your engagement ball. You’ve learned not to sweat the small stuff, the small stuff being the color of the napkins, the members of the string quartet, the hors d'oeuvres. But then it got weird: the symbolism of the color of your nail polish, which journalists were allowed to watch you make out, when and how Jeonghan was supposed to announce his presence during all of this.
Then things got critical, which really sucked. No one was safe this time, not even Joshua. You lasted about an hour, Joshua about forty-five minutes more. You wonder what his breaking point was. Maybe it was his mother finally telling him off for having more than three buttons undone whenever he wore a dress shirt.
In the silence, you feel an inexplicable peace. Maybe this is the only time you can get along; underneath the same moon, the same stars, the divide doesn’t feel quite as wide. You let your mind clear, first, past the fog of Somi’s birthday bash, glittery and blinding in your mind’s eye, past Jeonghan’s tired shoulders in the music store, past all the magazine covers and photo ops. The heavy reality feels heavier in your stomach, but you’re no longer as scared, although resignation looks like acceptance when you whittle it close enough to the bone.
“Have you ever been in love before?”
Joshua’s voice is so low, it takes you by surprise. You look to your side and see his eyes, shaded by the long curl of his lashes, trained on the sky, his expression unreadable. There’s a piercing sincerity to it, one you haven’t seen before.
“No,” you reply, the answer coming to you faster than any regret ever could. “How could i?”
“So all the boyfriends before, just…?” he trails off. He's referencing the magazines, all the covers with full size photos of you and the model of the month holding hands by the riviera, sharing a martini, kissing outside a nightclub. There are too many to remember, but you’re surprised he’s aware of any at all.
“It was just stupid fun. I dunno. We hung out, had sex, whatever. It was never serious. I didn't tell them about anything at all; I was okay with them not really knowing me, at least, not as anything other than a party girl, the runaway princess, etcetera. We didn’t owe each other anything.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“Sometimes,” you answer. “But it was fun. I don't regret it. I just never saw room for them in all of this.”
Joshua hums, low and deep.
“And you?” you ask, incredulous. “In love?”
“In university,” he says after a brief pause. “There was a girl. I think I loved her more than I had ever loved anything else before.”
“What? Who?” you interrupt. “Do I know her?”
“No.” Then, a quiet chuckle. “No one did. She was a civilian, a normal girl. She wanted to be a biologist, I think. it was either that, or a nurse. We snuck around a lot. Probably more than you did.”
“Can I ask what happened?”
“I told her I'd marry her. I thought if I wanted it enough, it would happen. I'd go to my parents, profess my love, and all our rules would fall away somehow. Just like that.”
Suddenly, it feels like there is a gaping wound in your chest. Every new word seems to draw the bloody edges of your skin further apart.
“Well, they didn’t,” Joshua continues. “I broke her heart. and I learned that all of this would never go away. Not for love, not for anything.”
There is an impossible hollowness inside you. You imagine Joshua, twenty-one and bright-eyed at Cambridge, hiding beneath the arch of the cobblestone bridge, the long one behind the quad, to carve hearts into the limestone. There's a girl wrapped in his jacket, her laughter like bells. She draws him close, runs a delicate hand through his hair, a shorter cut, more sporty than it is now. The night is still just as kind, forgiving, as it is now, and the moon still round like a young pearl.
“And that’s why you’re…you know.” You pause. The words all feel stuck to the roof of your mouth. “You like the rules.”
“Because it would mean that it didn’t end in vain. That it wasn’t really my fault.”
“You don’t want to mess up again. I get it.”
“Yeah.”
You notice your arms are touching, that they have been touching. Somehow, you don’t want to move away.
“Why are you telling me this?” you ask.
“Not sure.” Joshua sighs, having fully abandoned the filter he normally speaks to you through. “I don't think we’re so different. I don't know. It feels good to tell someone.”
“Do you still love her?”
“No. I don't think I can.”
“I'm sorry,” you swallow, feeling the familiar lump in your throat.
“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault.”
It’s getting cold, the twilight breeze now coming in from the sea. A silence, now sticky, caustic, settles between the two of you. The thought of Joshua, hopelessly in love, a line you hadn’t even dared to cross, seems to wind itself deep into your neurons.
“No really,” you insist. “I'm sorry. I gave you a hard time—no, I've been giving you a hard time. I didn't know.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“What?”
“Be nice to me. No one’s watching.”
“I know,” you say, a foolish conviction rising in your stomach. You almost feel silly, juvenile, for never really baring your heart like how he had. You’re not sure which was worse.
You turn to look at him, really look at him. He's framed by the haze of the violets, the gentle curtain of the willows.
“Says the real you?” Joshua asks.
“Yup,” you laugh. “Usually is. You probably get the worst of it, to be honest.”
“She’s not so bad.” He returns your gaze; it’s honest, unsearching. “According to the real me, by the way.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
There are no words left. In fact, nothing quite says more than the way you now sit together, hands close enough to touch, without quarrel, complaint, or a yearning to prove yourself to some invisible standard. Instead, you enjoy the quiet calm, the way it drapes itself across the garden, the city, the quick of your heart. Now that you think about it, it’s the first time you’ve been able to do this without feeling like you were putting on a show.
This time, you think it’s real when you lean against his shoulder, and he leans back, chasing your warmth.
And it certainly seems to stay real when your hands find each other. You realize he does it the same way every time—the gentle skim of his fingertips down your hand before your palms meet, gently, forthright.
And it’s here, in the uncertain glow of the summer moon, where you think you’re the closest to ever knowing just what Joshua had been talking about earlier.
His hand curls around your cheek, holding you, wanting to see you clearer still, and he kisses you. It's not the practiced motion of an ill-conceived love, nor a hungry, blind stumble in your unlit bedroom. No, this time, it's as if you are being drawn back, wonderfully, slowly. Joshua kisses you as if it's the first time, as if to undo all the other times.
And somehow, almost by magic, the fountain song and the phantom photographers, the parents and the press, the world and everything in it, finally draw quiet.
–
“So,” Jihoon says, reloading his pistol. “You ok? Don’t you hate the range?”
You push your earmuffs aside to hear him better. “What?”
“I said, don’t you hate the range?”
“Well,” you balk. Jihoon puts the gun down and leans against the booth, looking at you from behind the glare of his safety glasses. Behind him is the paper target of a man with five bullet holes through his head. “I think I've gotten used to it.”
This is all true—you did hate the range, but it’s where you can always count on finding Jihoon on a Sunday afternoon. Better people went to church, but Jihoon preferred to terrorize the poor center circle of a bullseye.
“Hm.” He picks up the pistol again, stares down its iron sights. “Somi need anything for her birthday?”
“She needs a new man,” you reply, and Jihoon laughs.
Bang. Bang.
“But, no, I'm getting her that vintage Cartier watch she’s been wanting forever. They were auctioning it off in Paris.”
“Right, since it’s time for her to get a new boyfriend,” Jihoon deadpans, although he can’t quite get it out before he chuckles. “What about Soonyoung?”
“They cannot get together. You’re just being messy.”
“Sure, I'm the messy one. Didn’t they sleep together?”
“That was, like, two years ago. Drunk.”
Bang. Then a click–the clip’s empty. “By the way—you decided if you’re going to Cotria this weekend? Jeonghan will be back again, you know.”
You pause, watching Jihoon reload the magazine, shiny bullet by bullet. You definitely know Jeonghan’s coming home—minus all the time you spend on Find My Friends, you were always acutely aware of when he was in town. The real question is if you wanted to see him again. Usually, you’d count down the days, make plans at all your favorite restaurants, buy a bottle of cheap wine to split over a shitty Godzilla movie. That was when you still talked.
The last time you saw him was when he visited you in Acros. After the music store, you milled around a couple shops, walked through an art gallery. (Remember when you got lost at the Prado? he had asked. You were staring at that painting with all the butts.
Kinda, you had replied noncommittally. All Jeonghan did lately was start his sentences with remember, like he wanted you to forget who he was now.)
“I dunno,” is what you land on. “I'm busy.”
“Well, Jeonghan asked me.” Jihoon takes down his old target and sets up a fresh one, another formless, black silhouette.
“Asked you what?”
“If I could ask you to come.”
“Does Josh know?”
“He actually already helped with arrangements for you to go back,” Jihoon replies, palming the gun again. “He said only if you wanted to, though.”
The tightness in your chest seems to coil over itself once more. Joshua had asked you about Jeonghan over breakfast one morning, before handing you a coffee and a croissant to soften the blow. You had been talking a lot more lately, which, somehow, you didn’t mind. If he wasn’t making fun of you, he was actually a decent listener.
You watch Jihoon steady his arms.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
–
Like all of your great ideas, it began in the back of a car.
Surprising, maybe. Accidental? Never.
You’re getting ahead of yourself, though. It really started earlier tonight, at the charity event you attended with Joshua.
Lesser beings would blame the wine, a cheap chardonnay only fit for sorority girls on a Friday night. Naturally, you and Joshua were responsible for downing about half the bottle—a fun amount, you’d like to say, although you admit you were surprised at your date’s ability to hold his alcohol.
You, however, can peg the real culprit: a reasonably slutty dress, removed from the annals of Somi’s closet, back when she was less of a Paris Hilton and more of a Princess Diana.
The evidence: damning. As you were getting ready—Can you zip me up? you had asked Joshua, fiddling with the rollers in your hair, already a generous ten minutes late. Then the slow, lingering skim of his touch, molasses up the hollow of your spine. At dinner, a warm hand on your knee. You didn’t hang around much longer after that, but walking to the car was a wondrous excuse for the flat of his palm to find the small of your back, fondly, comfortably, as if you had known each other for years.
Since you had spoken in the garden, certainly you had acted like more of a couple. It came more naturally, likely due to the fact that you had no idea if you were actually a couple or not. You suppose it doesn’t matter at the end of the day. Well—sort of.
Now, you’re just being obtuse. What you’re really trying to do is explain how your hand found its way down Joshua’s pants in the back of your limousine. And still, found is too generous of a word. But you digress.
The short version: you kissed Joshua. Jihoon parked the car out back, you had gotten tired of Joshua glancing at you through the side of his eyes, and you kissed him. Regrettably, this hasn’t gotten boring yet. You enjoy the way he searches for your touch, the part of his soft lips.
Sometime between the third and the tenth time your tongue found its way into Joshua’s mouth, Jihoon removed himself from the situation—he was always good at that part. Two wandering hands later, your palm skimmed over the front of Joshua’s slacks. No big deal, except he was half-hard and he moaned in your mouth like he was doing the ad-libs in a Cupcakke song.
“Whoops,” you had babbled. This whole night, you’d been searching for the brakes on the clown car winding through the horny fog of your horrible, vexed mind.
“Fuck, sorry,” Joshua replied just as quickly, the words seeming to slip back down his throat.
Then you had stared at each other and blinked, hard, as if that would erase the fact that, one, the prince of Acros had just cursed approximately half an centimeter from your face, and two, you’d now crossed a bridge that could not be uncrossed.
You could no longer lie to yourself about the fact that you are hopelessly attracted to Joshua. You don’t even know if you want to lie anymore. You still thought of the time you ran into him, birthday suit and all, all those weeks ago in the bathroom. And, yes, you had wondered how big he was, although you blame Somi for planting that evil idea in you.
Hence, with God as your witness (since Jihoon was no longer there), you had said, “I can help, you know. If you want.”
You didn’t expect Joshua to nod so quickly. Then again, you now know yourself to be a poor judge of most things, especially ones relating to whatever this is.
“Do you want to?” he had asked, eyes fogged over.
“Yes. really.” Then you stopped. “Is this your first—”
“No. Does it really seem like it?”
Okay. You’ll have to unpack that later.
So, finally, here you are. Somewhere along the line, your shame had fallen to the wayside, and a new desire now rocks you.
“Could’ve just asked earlier,” you tease, thumbing the buckle of Joshua’s belt.
“Should’ve known you’re not one for subtlety,” he laughs softly, his eyes fixed on how you undo the clasp. It’s a silly comment, but all the blood still rushes to your cheeks at the idea of him wanting you not just now, but all night. “Next time.”
“Really now.” The button at his waistband proves difficult with your new nails, so you instead sit your hand on the tent in his pants, palm him over the fabric. “You’d let me do this in the washroom of a charity ball?”
Delightfully, you watch him squirm. He doesn’t fight you, instead, uses his hands to bring you closer so you can feel his voice on your skin. “You’d be surprised,” he replies.
“His highness,” you say before returning to the wretched button, “Fooling around at a formal event? Scandalous.”
“Says the walking scandal,” Joshua laughs again, nipping at your earlobe. Then a sigh, breathy and tortured, as you finally peel back his slacks.
“Isn’t this about the time where you be quiet and let me do my thing?”
“Is that an order?”
“Yeah, since you seem to like them so much.”
He opens his mouth to complain, but you’ve beaten him to the punch. Skin meets skin; you watch his eyes flutter shut, the slow fall of his shoulders as he exhales.
Fuck, you think to yourself. If that’s all it takes for him to get hard— you force the thought back to where it came from. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Already, you’re reveling in the lewd image before you: the nation’s darling prince, legs spread and slack-jawed in the back of a limo, dizzy at the thought of a pretty girl playing with his cock.
Your hand wraps around his length, pulls it out of his briefs. Feeling the weight, heavy and warm on your palm, makes your skin prickle. He is big, but even if he wasn’t, the way he gasps into your ear when you start pumping him is enough to satisfy.
You start slow, just to be a little mean. He's longer than you expected, you realize. A turn of the wrist at the base, a little more pressure, and you hear him groan, loudly, shamelessly, as he tips his head back.
“Feels good?” you ask, voice lower than a whisper. You know it does—you’re not inexperienced by any stretch of the imagination, but something about turning the prince into putty makes the months of horrible foreplay worth it.
“Yeah,” he says, part sigh. “Really good.”
“Good.” Then you hold out your palm in front of his mouth. You tell yourself it’s a litmus test for his freak-o-meter, but there’s a part of you that wants to make this the best handjob of his short, unexciting life.
First, he looks at you, wide eyes unblinking. There's already a flush, pretty and pink, across his cheeks, the column of his neck. Then, it clicks. He spits into your hand, and you watch it trail down the plush curve of his lips, his chin, the ridge of his adam’s apple. The color spreads to his ears; his mouth twists shyly. Oh, he looks perfect, maybe even more than perfect like this.
As if drawn by a magnet, you kiss him, and your hand finds his cock again. The friction alone draws out a low whine from Joshua’s chest, enough for you to feel the sound on your own tongue. Emboldened, you pump faster, harder, loving the way his hips kick up to meet your touch.
Still, he gives no indication that he’s close. Something tells you he has more stamina than you think, which surprises you. Thirty minutes ago, you thought he was a virgin.
“Josh?” you murmur, your lips brushing over his. “Wanna taste you.”
He meets your gaze, expression unreadable. You think maybe you’re moving too fast, that you’ve crossed some sort of boundary, until you feel the shadow of his hand move, first on your waist, then up the back of your neck. He gathers your hair in one hand, easily, as if he’s done this many a time before, and you get the message.
You wet your lips, swollen at this point, and bow your head. You’re running on something crazier than adrenaline at this point—even seeing the bead of precum at his tip is making your jaw feel heavy.
The first taste, always thrilling, sends sparks to your cunt. You seal your lips around his cockhead, feeling its weight on your greedy tongue, and he pulls your hair just enough to make you moan.
“Were you thinking about doing this all night?” Joshua asks, voice deceptively innocent.
You can’t answer. You don’t want to. He tastes good, he even fucking smells good, and you want him bad. Instead, you take him to the base, feel him bump against your palate as you try not to gag. You can’t fit him all the way, so your hands make up the slack. He's even bigger fully hard, and already, you feel the ache in your cheeks, your temples.
“Fuck, you must have been.” A groan, low and slutty. “Doing so good for me.”
You can’t tell if he’s being genuine or if this is his version of dirty talk, but it’s working. His hand is gentle, restrained behind you, letting you lead. The worse part of you wonders what it would take for him to break, but that’s a project for another time.
Honestly, he doesn’t need to do much—again and again, you chase the feeling of his cock deep in your throat, enough to bruise. You don’t even care if you gag around him; when you do, he pulls your hair back, just enough to make your scalp prickle wonderfully, seemingly oblivious to the fact that you like it.
You feel heady with arousal. You start to wonder how he is in bed, if he’d hold your hair like that, run his mouth like he is now. He's vocal, more than anyone else you’ve been with, and every little noise goes straight to your core, makes your thighs squeeze together pathetically. By now, you’re sure you’ve ruined this set of panties.
“ ‘m close,” he says between breaths. “You don’t have to—”
Stupid, stupid boy, you think. You don’t think you’ve wanted to do anything more. So instead of answering, you look up at him, eyes big and watery, and you suck hard. with your tongue nestled underneath his cockhead, right by the vein, it’s almost too easy.
He groans, loud, satisfied, and you feel his release fill your mouth. Even after swallowing, it’s enough to run down your chin, get your makeup all smudged, and you like it. If you weren’t in trouble already, you are now.
“Ah, I made you a mess,” Joshua says, gravelly and intimate. With one hand, he takes the handkerchief out of his suit jacket and cradles your jaw with the other. “Hold still.”
“You,” you manage after clearing your throat. “You don’t have to sacrifice your pocket square.”
“Yes, I do,” he chuckles. He wipes the corners of your mouth, your aching chin, and it almost makes you cry. “You literally gave me head in the back of a car. The pocket square can go.”
He draws you up to his chest so you can rest your head on him. There’s a warm, melty feeling between your ribs, minus what you had just swallowed. Inexplicably, even as the horny fog clears from your brain, you still want to be close, closer than close and then closer still.
“Head? I don’t like hearing you use normal people slang.” You pout, and you feel his laugh radiate from beneath his skin. “Good head, at least?”
“Oh, please. Better than good,” he answers. “You’re perfect. perfect.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you start. Then he shuts you up with his mouth over yours, and you forget to think about liking him, loving him, or marrying him—this, you think you can do.
—
“We’re in Barcelona!”
You’re greeted by a pocket sized Somi and Soonyoung as they grin at you from your phone screen. They look to be on the balcony of a hotel suite, both wearing their matching silk robes.
“Wow,” you reply. “And where was my invite?”
“We did invite you, bitch,” Somi says, pulling down her sunglasses to look at you. “You said you were busy.”
“Well, I mean…” you uncap a bottle of nail polish. “That's not untrue.”
“The ocean needs you,” Soonyoung whines, clutching his chest. “We need you.”
“I'm sorry! Josh and I have been doing engagement stuff.”
“Josh? Since when were you on a nickname basis?”
“Whatever,” you interrupt. “What are you guys gonna do today?”
“Beach,” Soonyoung responds brightly, with Somi’s Don’t let her change the subject! loud in the background.
To be honest, you don’t even know the answer to her question. It just sort of happened, which seems to be the new normal for you. You’re also trying to pull apart last night–the freak-o-meter test came back inconclusive, and, for some reason, Joshua fell asleep with his arm over your middle. (Actually, you can think of a few reasons why he did that, but you’re not really sure how to feel about any of them.)
“Ugh, I miss you guys.” You wipe at your pinkie toe, having smudged the polish beyond repair. “Drink a little extra sangria for me. And by little, I mean a lot.”
“You’re still coming to Somi’s birthday, right?” Soonyoung asks.
“Yes, of course she is,” Somi replies. “Unless you can’t. Which I totally understand.”
“I still can,” you lie. “It just has to be more low-key than usual.”
“No paparazzi,” Somi says. “And I'll tell everyone to keep you on the down low. Super duper down low.”
“No way.” Damn, you curse to yourself—you keep screwing up painting your big toe. “Seriously?”
“Anything for my queen,” she giggles. “Pitbull is also confirmed, by the way. Secret Pitbull now.”
“Good, because that’s the only reason I’m coming.”
“Boo, you whore.” Somi wrinkles her nose at you playfully. (Is she being serious? Soonyoung asks in the background.) “Also, I'm still waiting for my update on the whole prince thing. I've been very patient.”
“No updates. Nothing to report,” you insist. Frustratingly, your cheeks are hot, like you’re in secondary school all over again.
“You fucked him, huh?”
You bite the inside of your cheek.
“Halfway. Maybe.”
The combined sound of Somi and Soonyoung’s gasps rips apart your phone speakers, and you draw in a big breath. I did it for the plot doesn’t quite seem like the right justification, not like it used to be. The plot never used to involve the M word, love, or any sort of feelings at all. Now things are more confusing than late-stage Grey’s Anatomy, but good luck explaining that over the phone.
“So you do like him,” Soonyoung says, saucer eyes sparkly on-screen.
“I don't know,” you answer. It’s true, you don’t. To you, like was flirting over text and french kissing. Paradoxically, you had told Joshua all of that, and he still decided to do whatever he did to you on the ledge of the fountain all those days ago. It felt like he ate the heart right out of your chest. Then you had to go and suck his dick, which never made anything less complicated.
“Oh please. Look at you,” Somi laughs. “Yeah, you do.”
Fuck. You’ve smudged all the polish off your big toe again.
–
Not much surprises you these days, but you can’t say you were expecting to see your riding boots to be the first thing you see when you arrive home in Cotria.
The second thing you see is Jeonghan, smiling at you in his big, stupid riding helmet, camo-printed because he bought it when he was 15 and his head never grew much bigger since.
“For old times sake?” He then holds your own helmet up by the straps, and whatever twinge of annoyance you had felt earlier makes way for something softer, more forgiving. “Everything's set up outside.”
It doesn’t take you much time to take him up on the offer. If anything, a long ride usually solves all your problems, and you definitely have problems that need solving.
You saddle up in the stables, wordlessly, moved by habit. It seems to be the same for Jeonghan, too. Even Peanut acts like it hasn’t been years since he’s seen him, and he noses at the box of sugar cubes like he always does. Then again, horses don’t hold grudges, at least, not like you do. Even Joshua seemed more optimistic about this encounter than you did.
“So you're back back,” you say, hooking your feet in the stirrups. “Or do you have more jet-setting to do?”
“Back back,” Jeonghan replies. “Missed home too much.”
He cocks his head towards the old riding trail, the one that loops the long way through the woods. The gesture is but a formality—it’s the only path you ever take. Still, you follow behind his horse, watching the beige swoosh of Peanut’s tail the same way you did when you were a little girl and things were far simpler than they are now.
Under the cornflower sky of a near-autumn, the forest seems endless. A flock of geese split the sky in two; a warm breeze haunts the canopy, scattering the afternoon light. The dirt under you is soft, peaty from the morning rain. The hoofbeats are silent today.
Jeonghan’s horse slows so that you ride side-by-side.
“Hey, cricket?”
“Yeah?”
“I…” Jeonghan clears his throat and pauses, quite unlike him. “I wanted to come out here to talk.”
“Everything ok?”
“Yeah, I…” Another pause. “I know things haven’t felt normal between us. For me, at least.”
You almost drop the reins. A strange, floating feeling is set off in your body, like a flare.
“Yeah,” you reply. “I was kinda hoping you would say that.”
“I'm sorry.” A hard swallow. “I haven't really been the best brother, have I?”
“Well, not…not really.” Quickly, frenetically, words bob up in the back of your mouth like you’re playing whack-a-mole. You had been waiting for this conversation to happen for so long, you realized you hadn’t planned much further than that. “It felt like you’d changed. A lot.”
The wind feels like ribbons around you. You sway back and forth on Astrid, as if on a boat.
“Was it the birthday party thing?” you ask. “I didn’t mean for it to…you know.”
“Actually, that was my fault.” Jeonghan smiles bitterly. “I shouldn't have let Mom and Dad run me over like that. You should’ve been there. It was never really the same without you.”
“Well, I should've come,” you admit. “So we both fucked up.”
“Maybe,” he chuckles. “But the rest—definitely my fault. I made myself busy because I felt like I had to.”
You’re growing to really hate that word. Jeonghan had to grow up, Joshua had to break up with his first love, you had to learn to pick up all the pieces of both of these things and try to fit them back into your life.
“You didn’t even look back.”
“I was scared, cricket. That if I kept looking back, I wouldn't be able to go forward. And I didn’t want to leave you behind, but I did. I think there was a happy middle somewhere, I just couldn’t find it.”
“Jeonghan, you’re not really making sense right now,” you say, flattened, and he laughs.
“I don't even know what I'm saying. I think I'm trying to say that I just want you to be happy. And that I'm sorry.”
You bite your lip, as if to distract yourself from the strange pressure in your throat. You think you want to cry, but you’re not sure.
“But are you happy?” you ask. “With the coronation and everything? Did you even want this?”
“I am, believe it or not. I know you don’t, but I'm not lying. Somewhere along the line, I started liking all of the talking, the traveling, the interviews. I like that I can help people. Some of it sucks, but not all of it.” He laughs, finally one that sounds like something you can remember. “Not everything you have to do is bad.”
“Jeonghan, I'm getting married because of you. Because of this,” you say, trying to keep your voice from cracking. “I don't know how to do this. Any of this, not like you, not like Mom, or anyone.”
This, in fact, does make Jeonghan stop. He stills and falls silent. At once, it seems the forest goes quiet too.
“Don’t get married, then.” You don’t respond, so he says it again. “You don’t have to go through with it. Not for my sake, at least.”
“What?”
“I've been thinking about it ever since it happened. I can talk to everyone. You’d rather not be with the guy, right?”
Your tongue freezes in your mouth. You thought you had an answer, but it refuses to come out.
“I have a duty to protect you, too. I’ll be fine with or without the press.”
“Jeonghan,” you say quietly. Many moons ago, you would have laughed at the word duty, but instead, your stomach turns over and over and over. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” is his simple answer. “I want to because I care about you. We can figure out the rest.”
Something in your bones feels heavy. You’d also been waiting to hear those words, but it didn’t feel as freeing as you thought it would. You think about Joshua, his books and his perfectly placed bookmarks, his dumb dad jokes, the way he reaches for your hand, fingertips before palm.
“Can I think about it?”
“Of course. The engagement ball is probably happening either way, but it’s no big deal. Bigger engagements have been called off in far worse circumstances.”
You’re having trouble believing him, but you have no other choice. Your life would certainly get a lot easier if everything were to just end. No more press releases, scripts, or awkward pictures. And no more worrying about if you could go out on the weekends or just how much of yourself to give up to make things work.
“There's no rush.” He turns to look at you with the same wild shine in his eyes that you’d grown to miss so much. “Truce?”
That, somehow, you’re much happier to hear. You thought you’d be angrier than this, feel the usual metal-red of your gut, but all that’s left is a sobering feeling of relief, of home. At last, things feel close to normal.
“Truce.”
So you ride and ride, but a decision doesn’t come to you as easily as you thought. The sunset breaks; the word duty clings to you, unshakable, unrelenting.
—
Somehow, you have gone full circle: at the end of a long day, you find yourself back at the piano, much like you did when you were seven, and the only thing you could do right was play Hot Cross Buns.
Joshua had bought an unreasonable amount of music books, half guitar for him, half piano for you. You’d forgotten just how much you had liked playing until that night, many nights ago, when you and he had first muddled through that duet.
Yesterday, you and your parents had tea at the waterfront before you had left the country. You were still undecided on the engagement; frustratingly, the needle hadn’t moved much in either direction since Jeonghan had raised his proposal to you.
Congratulations, your mother had told you, right over her cup of oolong.
For what?
You’ve risen to the occasion. You’ve grown up.
To you, this was not a compliment. You didn’t know what it was. You had twisted the ring on your finger, back and forth, a habit you picked up after all the time you spent wearing it. You wondered if somewhere, you had become exactly like Jeonghan, molded and spun into someone unrecognizable. Maybe that was why Joshua finally seemed to like you.
Have you practiced for your first dance? your father asked, and you no longer had time to worry about the state of your personality—you had other fires to put out.
Really, that’s why you’re at the piano today. You thought you could play the damn tune and somehow remember all the ballroom dancing lessons you had taken when you were younger. Unsurprisingly, it hasn’t worked yet.
There’s a knock at the doorframe. “Come in,” you say, already knowing that it’s Joshua. No one else does that; Jihoon barges in and just starts talking, and you can hear Joshua’s parents from a mile away because of all the jewelry they have on.
“Just wanted to see what you were up to,” Joshua says. He leans against the frame of the piano, already dressed down for the night.
“Nothing,” you reply. “Just magically hoping that I remember how to ballroom dance.”
“Well, first things first, you can’t dance sitting down.” He chuckles, and you pull your lips tight.
“I'm serious, Josh,” you whine.
“You really don’t remember?” He gives you one of those looks, one that you’re quite used to now, with the judgmental wrinkle of the brow. “Didn’t you take lessons?”
“Yeah, like…fifty million years ago.”
“I couldn’t tell,” he says, grinning something foolish. “You don’t look a day over fifty.” Then he offers you his hand, which you take, and he easily pulls you from the bench.
“Flattered,” you say, unable to push down the corners of your smile. “You gonna teach this senior citizen a few moves?”
“Perhaps, as my good deed for the day.” He holds your hand, still firmly in his, and slides it up his arm to rest on his bicep. “Left hand here,” he tells you.
“Are you flirting with me?”
“Not yet,” Joshua laughs. “The ballroom hold ring a bell?” His other hand finds your free one, and you interlace fingers simply, easily. Then, the warmth of a hand between your shoulder blades, one that draws you to his chest.
“I think the only dancing I know how to do is half drunk in the dark. Can’t exactly throw it back on you in front of God and country.”
Joshua grins, a big one, and you, traitorously, feel your cheeks get prickly.
“I wouldn't want God looking at you like that,” he teases.
“And country’s already seen it all.”
“They should consider themselves very lucky, then.” His eyes meet yours, lit by the scattered light of the chandelier. “It's my turn to ask you to let me lead.”
“Fine,” you pout, noticing that familiar warmth in your stomach.
Joshua begins to count your steps off (one, two, three—ow, that’s my foot! —sorry!). He’s patient with you, more patient than you think you deserve. His hand seems to slot perfectly into the curve of your back; his gaze settles onto you in a way that makes your chest feel heavy, molten.
“For someone who goes out so much, you have a terrible sense of rhythm,” Joshua says, teasing.
“Hey,” you object. “Maybe I just have a bad teacher.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault now?”
“Well, I'm not about to blame Britney Spears.”
Joshua laughs, and the sound is so close to you, you can feel it on your skin.
“I still think it’s the student’s fault.”
“Me?!” Perfectly timed, your sock-clad feet collide (yours, striped and fuzzy, his, plain white). “Impossible.”
“Too distracting,” he murmurs, and you notice how unfairly pretty his eyes are. “You bump into me, criticize me, you look at me like that…”
You feel dizzy. You don’t know what Joshua’s doing to you, but it’s mean. Your face is warm, and normally you’d blame it all on the alcohol but you haven’t had any. Worst of all, the soft part of you, the lizard-brained, impulsive part, can’t stop thinking about his lips and how they would feel on yours.
It’s a thought you don’t let linger, much like all of the other half-thoughts you have, and you kiss him, as if it was a reprieve from the terrible, horrible way he’s making you feel. (It isn’t.)
“You talk too much,” you tell Joshua, right against his lips. “Not enough teaching.”
“I'm putting you in remediation.”
“Devastating.”
“And giving you homework.”
“Whatever shall I do?”
Joshua answers that question for you. He kisses you, once, twice, still not enough, and, somehow, things feel more simple than they ever had before.
—
Jihoon’s eyes are dark, dagger-sharp in the rearview mirror.
“We’re coming up,” he says. “A few minutes out.”
“I know,” you answer. Yunjin was successful, almost too successful, in her task of finding you an appropriately revealing dress for a newly engaged twenty-something at the party of the year. The filmy silk stretches around your thighs; the cowl neck flirts with the neckline of the bikini top you have on underneath.
You look good, probably better than how you’ve looked in months. And yet, for some reason, you don’t feel good, at least, not how you’d thought you’d feel on the way to the only event you’d been looking forward to this year.
Somi’s gift rattles in your lap. It’s covered in this loud, hot pink wrapping paper unbecoming of something you had spent years tracking down on the antiques circuit. Normally, you’d have a laugh with Jihoon about it, maybe take some selfies in the car, but instead, you find yourself spinning your ring around your finger like you always seem to do these days.
You think of Jeonghan, of Joshua. Of course, what you do or don’t do on your best friend’s birthday is none of their business (although, very inconveniently, Jeonghan did have some event this weekend, and Joshua was traveling). But still, you think of the boldface headlines, the whispering gossip forums, the washed-out image of you in your little dress on the cover of a cheap magazine. This wasn’t exactly a tame party, and things weren’t just about you anymore, not like they used to be.
Marking your arrival isn’t the GPS nor Jihoon, rather, it’s the firefly buzz of the cameras outside your limo as it’s forced to come to a stop. You squint, trying to see past the tint of your windows, and see Somi, radiant in her birthday tiara, as she pushes through the crowd. Behind her is the villa she rented, illuminated by pink and gold strobe lights.
You crack open the car door and are met with a stifling deluge of camera flashes. Music pulses through the air, enough to feel beneath your heels.
“Who's my favorite princess?” Somi exclaims, throwing her arms open. “You made it! you look hot.”
“Not as hot as the birthday girl,” you reply, and you let her squeeze the air out of you in a wonderful, bone-crushing hug. “What's with all the cameras?”
“Professional photographers. Just wanted something to remember the night by, because we are blacking out.” She giggles, already tipsy. “Come, come, we’re doing shots inside.”
“Without me?”
“We’ll catch you up.”
Somi drags you by the hand through the sea of people, and you watch the cameras follow as they always do. She leads you up the stairs, underneath the towering balloon display, and into the foyer, already darkened, lit only by a disco ball chandelier and the neon backlights.
You spot Soonyoung by a champagne tower that seems twice his size, as promised. He's in a leather jacket, no shirt under, and you watch his eyes light up as they meet yours.
“A shot for her highness,” he shouts over the music.
“I thought this was champagne.”
“Tequila's close enough.” He laughs, eyes upturned, bright like gemstones.
The first shot goes down easy. it always does. So does the second, unsurprisingly. Around the third is when Somi tells you that the strippers are coming in an hour. (—Strippers?! —Not everyone has a fiancé, you know.)
And, just like that, you’re back to the beginning. It’s hard to think over the ridiculously good Kesha mix the DJ is playing, but, terribly, you think you’re starting to understand what Jeonghan was talking about. You’re still not sure how you feel about duty, responsibility, sacrifice, those heavy words that feel impossibly heavier in your mouth, but all you know is that, as much fun as you’re having now, it comes at a fair price.
Somi told you nothing, no compromising pictures, no drama, would reach the press, but, as hard as she may try, you feel like enough people have laid eyes on you already that someone was bound to hear something. If not now, then definitely in a few hours when everyone’s on at least two and a half substances, and all bets are off.
Briefly, you recall your appearance at the derby, the memory like a shard of glass. You had stood guileless next to Joshua, tripping over your words because you hadn’t cared enough to read the damn briefing, and he had covered it up with a dad joke or two. Coming up with those abominations must have been hard enough for someone whose first book was the Oxford Dictionary, but you don’t even think God and all his angels could cover up this. More than that, the thought of everyone having to try anyway makes your gut twist.
Someone tells you to smile for a selfie. You recognize her, but you don’t remember her name (Amelia or Alicia, one of Somi’s friend of a friends. On second glance, there are definitely more than 200 people here). Let's dance! another voice shouts in your ear.
Your head hurts. You hate the idea that Jeonghan might be a little right, but you hate even more that you’re starting to agree with him. Maybe you need another shot.
“Your gift,” you say, fighting over the chorus of Your Love Is My Drug. “Somi!”
“Oh my god, you did not!” she squeals. She clasps her hands over yours, wrapped around the box, and draws them to her. “Let me take it to the table. I’ll meet you by the pool—oh, oh, there’s a hot dog stand out there too!”
“Actually,” you start. You’re not that drunk, not yet, but now you think you can feel the ground start to sway under you. it wouldn’t be too far a stretch to say that in half an hour, after a little time at the bar, you’d probably be spending the night, no question. “I think I have to run.”
“Aw, really?” Somi tilts her head and squints, as if trying to read your mind.
“I am so sorry,” you tell her, as sincerely as one can over a pop song from the 2000s. “Swear I'll make it up to you.”
“Life stuff, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It's ok,” she says. “Really really. Go home, figure your shit out, and we can have our own party.”
She holds your joined hands to her heart. Whatever look you gave her, she believed. That, or she knows you better than you think.
So you leave. The car ride home is silent. Jihoon doesn’t ask questions, and you can still hear the sound of the music ringing in your ears, on and on and on.
–
You think the worst thing you’ve ever woken up to was the Crazy Frog ringtone of one of the guys you had slept with during university.
The second worst has got to be five voice memos and three consecutive missed Facetime calls from Somi, which is the first thing you see upon opening your eyes.
“Oh fuck,” you murmur, still coming to. Your bed is empty, but you see Joshua's suitcase in the corner of the room. He must have come home early this morning, while you were still sleeping.
You crack open your text messages.
–OH MY GOD.
–I AM SO SO SORRY.
–someone must have gotten paid off for last night’s pictures…i had no idea i swear
Then a voice memo. Then another voice memo. then a PopCrave Twitter screenshot: YOU CAN TAKE THE PRINCESS OUT OF THE PARTY–OR CAN YOU? followed by the worst, most incriminating photo of you and Soonyoung, arms linked, throwing back a shot.
“No, no, no, no.” You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the stone-cold drop of your heart to your feet. “Fuck. Fuck.”
Shit. You have to find Joshua and make it right.
Somehow, you thought it wouldn’t matter, that you didn’t care what did or didn’t get out as long as you were able to have a good time—you desperately search for that same feeling, knowing that it’s long, long gone. You don’t even think you truly ever believed that.
You race down the palace hallways, ones that feel far more familiar than the rigid bastions they were when you first got here, but it’s Joshua who finds you before you find him. Or rather, it’s his voice you hear, trickling out from behind the library door.
Suddenly, you’re five again, and you’re spying on Jeonghan talking to your parents. You peek through the crack of the doorframe. As Somi would say, nightmare blunt rotation: there stands Joshua, surrounded by both sets of parents, and no one looks happy.
“We knew it,” another voice says—your mother. “We’re sorry, but we said this would happen.”
“It’s no matter. There’s nothing left to do but call the engagement off.”
The room goes quiet. You notice your hands are shaking. Your face feels numb.
“You’re right. I don't think anyone’s getting what they want out of this, anyway.”
“We’ll cancel the ball. There’s no way around it. Likely a relief, right, Joshua?”
The moment seems to squirm, suspended in time. This is what you were waiting for, right? Your parents were right—no one wanted this anyway. You certainly didn’t, and now you get your get out of jail free card. On top of that, you get to hear what you’d been expecting all along—that Joshua never liked you, that this was fun and all, but he’s ready to stop playing pretend.
“I…I disagree.” You freeze. “She's my fiancée. I made a commitment to her, and I'm not going to walk away.”
“Joshua, my dear, this arrangement was never going to work. You can be honest.”
This is the part where Joshua nods, does his perfectly symmetric smile, and agrees. This is what he does, what he’s been doing since forever. The story always ends the same way. That was the point.
Instead: “I am being honest. Since when was it illegal to go to your best friend’s birthday party? I don't care what the rest of the world has to say. She’s not who they, or you, think she is.” Through the door-gap, you watch the pursed, resolute draw of Joshua’s lips. “You didn’t even invite her here to talk about her own engagement. You never once gave her a chance.”
A stunned silence falls over the room.
“I’m sorry, but this is how I feel. I won't let you take another girl I love from me. Not again.”
Your hand flies over your mouth, and something twists deep in you, like you’re drowning from the inside out. You can’t, won’t, believe what you just heard. That somehow, beyond all the fighting, the quiet nights, the snide remarks and the fake smiles, that Joshua loved you? Loved? Enough to say all that to the people that ruled his life with an iron fist? None of this made sense, but nothing’s made sense since you got here.
The room erupts into noise, peals of voices all colliding into each other, and you do what you do best—you leave.
—
No one talks about that morning. You don’t even think anyone knows you were there—part of you wishes that you actually weren’t, so you didn’t have all this on your mind. (Joshua, later that day: I got you something from Seoul. From his suitcase, a bottle of soju. Just kidding. Then a jade bracelet, so vibrant it looked like the ocean.) No one talked about Somi, and no one talked about the party.
In fact, everyone had just rolled on as usual, all the way to the end of the week, the day of your engagement ball. Even you did. The word love felt so big, so burdensome, when Joshua had said it to his parents, but you didn't mind it on you.
The lingering touches, late night talks, tea made the way you like—nothing really had changed much since shit hit the fan, but now you knew that was the label. You guess that when you told Joshua you had never been in love before, you were really telling the truth. Either that, or he was just saying whatever the hell he needed to stop your engagement from imploding.
Still, you found yourself still reaching for him. There was an unfamiliar comfort about his nearness. You woke up this morning cradled to his side, and, for once, it wasn’t a scene you wanted to erase.
Now, your hairstylist hoses your blowout down with hairspray. You’d spent the better part of this morning sitting in different chairs, hair, makeup, nails. A part of you waits for the other shoe to drop: Joshua’s mother would waltz in and tell you, Surprise! You’re a single woman again, just as you should be.
It never happens. You’re wrapped in various mists and creams and powders, all the while fielding all the same questions about the ball (—Excited for tonight? Yeah, of course. —How does it feel being the surprise couple of the year? Surprising.)
It’s not until Yunjin comes in, wheeling in your giant, sparkly engagement gown, all Italian lace and satin brocade, that things feel real.
The dress itself is beautiful, a pale champagne number, gathered at the waist with a smattering of crystals down the train. Earlier, when you’d first tried it on, it looked like a costume fit for the girl playing wife. It was another smothering thing that hung on you, just like everything else in your life.
Today, you watch your form tall in the mirror. You meet her eyes, her uncertain mouth. It’s you, for sure, but there’s a stillness about you that you can’t quite put a finger on. Maybe Joshua’s demeanor was contagious.
Yunjin laces your bodice up, careful eyelet by eyelet—“You’re nervous, huh?”
“Is it really that obvious?”
She laughs. “Breathe. You’re not getting married. Not yet, at least.”
“Yunjin, isn’t it weird that no one has talked to me about Somi’s birthday? Everyone on the planet saw the leaks.”
“Maybe they finally learned to stop giving a shit. You looked hot, you had a good time, end of story. It’s not like anyone died.”
True. She grabs your shoulders and looks at you through the reflection of the mirror.
“Smile. Enjoy yourself. You look so, so beautiful.” You take a deep, soaking breath. You think about Joshua and all the sharp edges of his voice when he said he loved you. You had argued with him a lot, and you had never heard him like that. “You want this, right?”
Well, when she puts it like that? Yeah, you do. You think you really do.
—
The Great Hall is unrecognizable when you stand before it; the pink and white zinnias have been replaced by bouquets of calla lily and eucalyptus, the arched ceilings, once cold and imposing, now are bathed in the buttery, warm glow of candlelight. And the too-big space, usually empty, is now filled with partygoers, radiant in their best dress.
You stand at the top of the grand staircase. A thrill, anxious and skittering, runs up your bones. You’re reminded of your last big public showing at the derby, of the sea of microphones and the eye of the camera and the crowd, all staring you down.
You run through the cruel motions. First, a curtesy, so slow you think the audience can see you tremble. Then you take the first step down the stairs, and you watch them turn to you like the tanned halo-faces of sunflowers.
There, in the center of the crowd stands Joshua, unwavering. He's wearing a deep blue tuxedo, unfairly flattering (though, the lone curl of hair falling into his eyes is strong competition). Meeting his gaze, you watch the corners of his mouth fold up in a way that reminds you to breathe. In, out. You’ve got this.
Every step, you feel like you’re learning to walk for the first time, like you've lost your sea legs. Amongst the guests, you spot Jeonghan, next to him Jihoon. Then back to Joshua, like your eyes can’t stay away. He shoots you a covert thumbs up—you’d expect nothing less from the corniest man on Earth—but, nonetheless, it makes the long walk to the center of the room feel much shorter, despite the torture devices on your feet (Louboutins, not broken in).
One, two steps, and you’re face to face with your fiancé. Your heart is still racing, thrumming against the cage of your bodice like it's trying to escape. You’re sure the whole congregation could hear it if not for the quartet that’s come to life, now playing the opening notes of Blue Danube.
Yes, that’s right, you tell yourself. You still have to dance in front of the whole fucking country.
Before you crash out and make this a national emergency, you feel the warmth of Joshua’s touch. Fingertips before palm, always the same, he finds your hand, like he manages to do every single time.
“I’ve got you,” he says, low enough for only you to hear. And for the first time, you believe him.
—
Really, you could have gotten away with saying nothing. It would be much easier, to be honest.
The ball had gone off without a hitch so far. The music was good, the food even better, and your parents were somehow silenced, instead opting to dance among the crowd like they were young again. Still, you can’t seem to put your mind at ease. With everything that had happened this week, Jeonghan’s offer only seemed to weigh heavier, more urgently upon you. And of course, there was the matter of Joshua choosing to opt into your engagement, against all odds.
You realize you had gotten quite good at running away from things—your family, your responsibilities, the media, even Joshua—not knowing how to bear the weight of an impossible duty. Actually, you thought it was a royal failing until you had seen Joshua in the library that morning, jaw set, unbending.
“Hey, Josh?” you ask, with a few bats of the eyelashes to soften the blow.
He tilts his head in that way he does, and his gaze softens. Damn you, you think. Trying to distract me with those horrible, pretty eyes.
“Can we talk about Sunday?”
“What about Sunday?” He still looks confused, and you know the look well enough at this point to know he’s not faking it.
“Um…Sunday morning. After the party,” you say slowly, as if giving yourself time to back out, just in case. “I heard you talking with our parents.”
In an instant, his expression changes, and his eyebrows roll into their usual furrow. You feel his hand falter behind your shoulder blades.
“Oh,” Joshua’s voice drops. “That.”
“I’m sorry,” you say, realizing all you do is apologize. “It was supposed to be a small thing, no cameras, I barely even stayed—.”
“Hey, it’s ok,” Joshua interrupts. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
“I-I know,” you fib. The thing about pretending is that you’ve both become so good at it that you have trouble believing him. “It’s just that I also heard what…what you said.”
Somehow, the wrinkle between his brows grows deeper.
“I said a lot of things that morning.”
You press your lips thin, feeling what you’re about to say ball up on your tongue. Easily, you could change the subject; you didn’t have to know anything, really, you could stay silent and let the world work around you, just as you had been taught. But you watch the soft twist of Joshua’s gaze, how he studies your expression, and you know you can’t go back to how things used to be.
“You said you…” You take a hard swallow. All the blood in your body only wants to exist in the apples of your cheeks, away from your brain where you need it most. “You loved me.”
At once, the world spins off-axis. You feel the anxious flutter of Joshua’s heart under your palm, and your own stomach flips in its cage. The L word coming out of your mouth seems ten-thousand times more ridiculous than anything he could say, probably because you can’t remember the last time you actually said it and it came out all wrong.
He must feel the same way. For once, he can’t meet your eyes. His mouth opens and then closes, as if hoping to delete what you had just said. Maybe you would just keep dancing, beat by beat, and this would all go away.
Silly girl, you think, traitorously. Pick a damn side. Either he likes you or he doesn’t. The problem is that, somehow, both options hurt your feelings.
“I mean, I totally get it if you just said it to keep up the act,” you cut in. “There are a lot of reasons why this is a good idea.”
“The act?”
“Well, yeah,” you reply. “Isn’t that what this is? Haven’t we just been lying to everyone? To ourselves?”
Joshua’s hand at your waist stiffens before he draws you closer to him. You expect him to roll his eyes, do one of those exaggerated sighs that he does when you’re being difficult.
Instead he leans in, close enough for you to feel his voice against your skin.
“Do you think I was lying back there? Or now?”
Your heart lurches.
“I—no, but.” You pause. Every single coherent thought you’ve ever had scatters to the wind. “Well.”
“Because i’m not,” Joshua says, this time, more softly. “Not about this. Or us.”
“But how? Why?” You bite the inside of your cheek, feeling your chest swell in a way it never has before. “You’re perfect, and I'm…I’m me.”
“That’s why,” he answers, simply. “You’re smart, funny, honest—sometimes too honest, even. You reminded me there was a better version of me that I had left behind. One that wasn’t perfect, but was happy.”
He holds you in his gaze the same way he did in the garden, carved by moonlight. An impossible warmth fills your skin; at once, it feels like, in your vision, there is only him, like you're in a cartoon.
“At the same time, I understand if—” Joshua starts.
“I feel the same,” you blurt out. “I…I don’t know what this is, and I don’t think I ever really did, but I want to try.”
You watch the surprise write itself all over his doe eyes, his unfairly rounded cheeks. From by the hors d'oeuvres, nosy Jeonghan peeks over the shoulder of another guest, already familiar with your lack of volume control. You watch him grin something stupid, triumphant.
“You’re uptight, judgmental, and you make the worst jokes. But I…I think I might be falling for you too.”
Saying it is like getting peeled back, terrible layer by layer, like you wrapped a hand around your heart and ripped it out your chest. And yet you’re glowing, newly-bitten with something that feels like freedom.
“I thought you said I was perfect,” Joshua says, the pink of his lips already unraveling into a smile. This one, you think, finally reaches his eyes.
“Shush, you—” And amongst a chorus of Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! (which would be, quite frankly, humiliating in any other scenario), you finally give in to your adoring public, and kiss.
—
The walk back to your bedroom is a blur. All you remember are hands—hands on the small of your back, hands riding up the length of your thigh, hands in your hair, pulling at your roots. You remember hands, and the taste of Joshua’s mouth.
It’s a walk you are not proud of, one that you’re glad happened in the dark, with all the guests gone home.
“Did I tell you how beautiful you are?” Joshua says, pressed to the hollow of your neck as you fumble with the handle of the door to your room. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you. No one could.”
Then his lips on yours, before you finally remember how to open a door.
“Fuck, Josh,” you breathe between kisses, stumbling backwards until your back hits the vanity. “Need you, need you so bad.”
He bites your lip, lets you sigh into his mouth.
“Dress, off,” you tell him, and you lean forward on the table. Obediently, Joshua gets to work. His touch feels fiery, electric on your skin.
In the mirror, you’re able to see the damage: your lipstick, smudged beyond repair, your blown-out pupils under your heavy lashes. There’s a hickey on your collarbone.
“Now you have me wishing you'd wear one of those party dresses,” Joshua murmurs, still working at the lacing at your waist. “Far easier to take off.”
“Really. The same ones that got me in big trouble with you lot?"
"For what it's worth," he replies, before kissing the back of your neck, then the ticklish space under your ear to make you laugh. "I always liked you in those. Even before we met."
"No way." He’s finished with the lacing; your dress falls to your feet in a glorious heap of silk and lace, leaving you in your slip. Another kiss to your jaw, your cheek. "You hated them."
"I almost bought a copy of Insider, the one with the cover of you in the black dress with the long sleeves."
"Shut up," you laugh again, somewhere in between kisses. He’s talking about Soonyoung's new year's eve party, a few years back. You were getting out the back of a cab, alcohol-flushed and on a phone call with God knows who. "I still have it, you know. I could wear it for you one of these days."
"Don't tempt me." Joshua kneels, bending down to undo your heels. You feel him press his lips to the back of your knee, your thigh. “Friday. Dinner?”
“Done.”
Then he stands back to full height and leans into you, just so you can feel him. Like clockwork, your skin prickles wonderfully even just thinking about blowing him in the back of the limo, that night he had held you down on his cock.
Joshua must see how you squeeze your legs together. He pushes your slip up over the curve of your ass; you feel the rough of his hands over your skin, over the flimsy lace you have on for underwear. Then, before you can say a word, he pulls the waistband back, meanly, enough to tug on the hood of your clit, and lets it snap back against your skin.
“Oh, fuck,” you keen. You had no idea you were so sensitive, but Joshua’s foreplay game was way better than you thought. “Please, Shua.”
“Oh? So you like when I'm a little mean?”
You watch your face in the mirror flush pink, your bitten lips fall open in surprise. He pulls tight on your panties again, loving how your eyes squeeze shut.
“Maybe.” You pause, humiliated. Fuck it, the cat’s already out of the bag. “Yeah.”
Joshua’s hands are warm, so warm, when they peel the fabric down your trembling thighs.
“Legs apart, darling,” he tells you, mouth pressed to your shoulder. “So you like to boss me around the castle, but now you want me to tell you what to do? Is that so?”
Before you can answer, you feel a finger along the seam of your cunt. You can’t see Joshua’s face in the mirror, but you can sure see yours, and you hate how even the smallest of touches has you drooling. Then a touch to your swollen clit, just rough enough to draw a gasp from you.
“I-it’s different,” you protest. Two fingers now, both rolling your clit under them. A whimper tumbles out of your chest, and your hips seem to be moving on their own accord. “Didn’t know you had…experience.”
“Still not sure what made you think otherwise.” A quiet chuckle, then the slow, agonizing push of one of his fingers inside you. “Fuck, you love that, huh? Soaking my hand.”
“Yeah…” The vanity table suddenly feels too crowded to support the weight of your body, especially like this, as Joshua continues to work your clit with his other digit. Feeling your body surge again with heat, you push aside your makeup bag, all your stupid little bottles, so you can prop yourself up on your arms.
Another finger, and your legs are shaking. Quickly, he seems to have figured out how to hit your g-spot every time, every pump of his hand knocking into you just the way you like.
“I think it was how annoying you were that did you in,” you finally answer, trying your best to put up a fair fight. “Kinda detracts from your sex appeal.”
“Annoying?” Joshua asks, right up against the shell of your ear. like this, you can see him in the mirror, and it almost sends you over. the dark hair in his face, the insatiable look in his eyes. Then a third finger, and your eyes roll back. “Am I annoying you? Doesn’t really seem like it.”
Your body answers for you. You feel yourself tighten around his fingers, fuck, you’re so close, you feel your head start to spin. You watch your reflection shake her head, glassy-eyed and dumb.
He laughs cruelly. His free hand reaches up to find your tits, and, over the slip, he grabs one, rough like he’s a meaner man, like he’s slutting you out.
At once, you feel the lightning heat of your release. You cry out, airy and high-pitched, and feel your body rock against Joshua’s as he pins you between himself and the vanity.
“There you go,” he murmurs. His hand slows, letting you ride out your high, before he pulls out. “Wanted to do this ever since I kissed you that night.”
“Which night?” you ask, catching your breath. A kiss to your shoulder blade, the nape of your neck.
“The night you taught me to kiss. Or rather, tried to.”
Ah, yes. The night you told him what Shark Tale was, and the night you made out for so long, you felt it on your lips in the morning. Dumb fucking Joshua, stupid and in love. The affection that surges through your body makes you mad.
“You needed lessons.”
“Not really, don’t you think?”
“Bed. You’re talking too much,” you insist, turning around to see him. “Also, you’re wearing too much.”
“Back to arguing with me, I see. Can’t stay away.” Joshua’s shit-eating grin prompts you to yank his tie impatiently, shutting him up. It comes off easily, just as his belt and the waistband of his slacks. (You weren’t about to let them best you a second time).
“Maybe ‘cause you find a way to be difficult about everything.” You wrinkle your nose, and Joshua’s grin only grows wider. “Don’t make me give you another order,” you warn, fully aware that since you guys got here, it’d been him doing the orders.
You pull your slip over your head, now only in your bra, and lay back in the bed. You think of all the sleepless nights, then the ones spent talking, the ones in his arms. To think they would all culminate to this, to you now watching Joshua undo button by button with a desire unlike any other you’ve felt—it would almost be unbelievable if you weren’t doing it right now.
Like a striptease, you watch his chest peek out between the linen of his shirt. He's wearing a necklace today, one that settles meanly between his pecs. As he moves lower, you can’t help but notice the outline of his cock in his briefs, the spot of precum on the fabric.
Traitorously, you feel your mouth water. The shirt comes off, and your lungs fill with another shaky breath.
You know you’re both letting your freak flag fly (one of you more surprising than the other) but it’s in this moment, caught in the lamplight, that you realize how much things have really changed. Still, you’re not able to tell Joshua that this is the first time you’re sleeping with someone you might be in the L word with, but you think he sees it too, or at least, reads the look on your face.
You feel the dip of the bed underneath as he joins you.
“Are you ok? That wasn’t too much, right?”
“No, it was…it was good. really good,” you admit, feeling your face heat up again. “I just…I dunno. I like you a lot, that’s all.”
“Hm?”
“I—” you stutter, and your mouth freezes up again. “I said I like you a lot.”
“Sorry, I just wanted to hear you say it twice.” He sees the dismay on your face and smiles. “Hm…I like you an adequate amount. On a good day.”
Against your will, you crack the fattest smile you think your body is capable of. “You are the worst. The absolute worst, and I still want you to fuck me.”
Upon hearing this, Joshua does not waste time. That he does—it isn’t long before he has your knees hiked to your chest, cock between your pussy lips.
“Say you want it,” he whispers. You feel the cold kiss of his chain on your chest, the slick rock of his length between your legs. He's so hard, so big, your cunt already aches at the thought of it.
“Want it.” Your voice comes out small, breathy. You would fight back, but you’re realizing you quite like this side of him. “Please.”
When the head of his cock presses into you, there is no hiding. Already, you moan, sweet and loud, feeling the familiar pressure in your gut.
“K-keep going,” you babble. Fuck, he barely fit in your mouth and now he’s stuffing your cunt. You wrench your eyes shut, listening to him talk you through it (—Look at you taking me so well. Feels good, huh? You’re so beautiful. Honestly, it’s a miracle Joshua’s ex never had a royal baby with how much they must have fucked.)
Your second orgasm comes quickly, not long after Joshua bottoms out. He groans right in the space where your neck meets your shoulder, and it’s the best noise you think you’ve heard in your life.
The third comes slowly, more intensely. With your knees to your chest, you think you can feel Joshua all the way in your stomach. Every stroke fucks the sound out of you, his cockhead right up against your g-spot as he fills you again and again. Sometime between orgasm two and three, he’s pulled your tits out from your bra, left marks across your chest.
“Want you to touch yourself,” he tells you, voice low.
Mindlessly, you listen. One hand finds your nipple, the other your clit, and you let yourself get lost in the feeling.
“F-feels good, Shua.” He enters you again, all the way, and the pleasure is white-hot. “O-oh, fuck,” you warble.
“You’re so good at listening to me, you should do it all the time,” he murmurs. “There you go. Take it, take it, just like that. This must be what I have to do to get you to be nice, hm?”
All you can do is stare up at him, positively fucked dumb, and take it, just as he told you to. One, two strokes, and you feel yourself get impossibly tight; “Fill me, need it, need it,” you whine, delirious. Everything from the look in his eyes, the flushed sweat over his brow, his collarbones to the way his expression responds with every word you say, makes you wonder why you wasted time fucking anyone else.
When he comes, he bites your shoulder, hard, and it’s what you need to follow soon after. You feel so fucking full, so satisfied, you think you could die happy here.
Joshua flops down on the bed next to you, boneless. You think he’s about to say something akin to that you should have put a towel down, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls your body to him, lets you feel the warmth of his skin play against yours.
He’s murmuring wonderful things to you, which you would gladly reciprocate if words weren’t coming to you one letter a minute. It’s not your fault though—you need to recover physically, emotionally, spiritually after getting the soul fucked out of you.
Then, “Me or you shower first?”
You groan as a response.
“I’m serious.”
“Together?” you offer weakly.
“Fair chance we won’t just be showering then.”
“Oh nooo.”
That’s all Joshua needs to whisk you to the bathroom, where, indeed, he seems to be right yet again.
—
The spring morning washes over Acros like a second skin. The birdsong rouses you; through the curtains comes sunlight from the garden, spackled on the wall as if spots on a doe.
It’s been almost a year since your parents had told you that you were marrying Joshua Hong, prince of Acros. Six months since he had told you he had loved you. Two months since you and Jeonghan had pulled off your first joint production at the youth theater (a roaring success). One month since you were fully, fully moved in, Astrid and Jihoon included.
After your engagement ball, you and Joshua had agreed to take it slow, as slow as two people who had very publicly announced their wedding could. But still, somehow your parents, both sets, could tolerate the two of you wanting to do things the right way. Perhaps they were still shocked things worked out as well as they did.
“Morning,” you call out. The bed beside you is cold. “Josh?”
You’re surprised he’s up. Last night, he went out with you, Somi, and Soonyoung. Somehow, he had drunk enough to get up and solo karaoke a Whitney Houston song, although you’re suspecting the alcohol was just a cover for his true intentions.
Then you look out the window. You spot Joshua, seated on the bench overlooking the garden. This time of year, the roses are in full bloom, their bright heads reaching for the sky in brilliant red and gold.
When you go to join him outside, he’s no longer at the bench. You actually don’t know where the fuck he went, but it’s no matter. Here, you’re able to appreciate the beauty of the season, the rolling green of the country you’re now calling home.
It was also here where you had your first real conversation with Joshua without fighting, funnily enough. Now, you’d say the both of you were more agreeable, but that’d be a lie—somehow, you think you actually enjoy bickering with him, but that’s a conversation for another day.
Behind you, someone (Joshua) clears his throat.
“Now, what are you—” you say, spinning around. It was too damn early for games, but Joshua had no shortage of bad ideas.
It’s then that you see Joshua behind you, on one knee. His smile tells you everything you have to know, and every thought in your mind freezes in an instant.
“When I first saw you, I knew I would marry you,” he starts. That's a joke he’s probably been saving for months now, but instead of rolling your eyes, you can’t help but laugh, like you’re a broken soundboard. “No, really.”
You stand there, immovable. Of course you had to be in your pajamas (his shirt and boxers, really), no makeup, hair untouched. And yet, you can’t imagine anything more perfect.
“You drive me crazy,” Joshua continues. “In every way possible. I can't imagine life without your laugh, or your thinking face, or how you always need to have an answer for everything.”
He produces a small box. It’s different from the first one, the one he used all those months ago when nothing mattered. Inside it, a new ring, something far simpler and more beautiful.
Joshua says your name, wonderful and reverent in his mouth. “Darling princess of Cotria, I'm asking you to marry me. Again.”
pairing: ferrari driver!yoon jeonghan x journalist!reader
chapter wc: 20.6K (dont look at me)genre: humor, fluff, angst, smut (?)
au: f1 au (i am sorry i am a nerd abt this) rating: m (MINORS DNI)warnings: SLOOOOOW BURN. mentions of injuries, car crashes // eventual smut.
PREQUELS: would highly recommend reading On the Record and Off the Record to gain some context into the relationship! This fic starts directly after the end of Off the Record
summary: jeonghan's not used to someone who pushes his buttons as easily as you do, and you're not used to someone who challenges you as quickly as he does. maybe it's time to go full throttle, both on and off the track.
a/n: this one is gonna be long. buckle in. this is dedicated to kae
@ylangelegy , who was the one who pushed me to write this in the first place, and also graciously beta read this // this is also dedicated to alta @haologram , who watched me lose my mind over this for so long and gave me so much love and support as i wrote this. // huge thanks to lola @monamipencil and haneul @chanranghaeys for beta-reading and giving me their thoughts, especially about when things were too technical // and finally, an ENORMOUS thank you to jupiter @cheolism for the banner!
read part 2 here! <3
FORMULA 1 ROLEX AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2024
Track: Melbourne Grand Prix Circuit
The Australian Grand Prix had come to an end, but the buzz from the race still lingered in the air. The paddock had started to quiet down, though the echo of cheers and the scent of champagne were still fresh. Jeonghan stood at the edge of the pit lane, watching as the last of the mechanics began to clean up, the high of the win beginning to settle into a low hum of satisfaction.
His fingers absentmindedly brushed over his helmet, the familiar weight grounding him after the chaos of the race. But his mind wasn’t on the mechanics or the trophy waiting for him. No, it was on you.
You had walked away with that smug grin of yours, and even now, hours later, the image of you—cool, collected, and far too clever for your own good—lingered in his thoughts. The way you’d turned the tables on him, effortlessly making him feel like the one caught off guard. For once, it hadn’t been about the race or the rumors swirling around his personal life—it had been about you and the way you knew how to press all his buttons without breaking a sweat.
"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, a grin creeping onto his face despite himself. "I should’ve asked her to dinner."
But there was no time for that now. The press was waiting. The fans, too. He needed to play the role of the cool, collected champion for the cameras, the last thing he needed was another round of gossip, another round of teasing from the people who loved to stir the pot. And yet, the thought of you, the way you’d made him feel a mix of frustration and something else entirely, was almost too tempting to ignore.
The crew cheered as he finally made his way back to the motorhome, the world still swirling in a whirlwind of victory and flashing cameras. But inside, it was quieter. More personal.
"Jeonghan!" His manager greeted him with a smile, the kind of smile that signaled the end of a long race and the beginning of yet another whirlwind of interviews, photos, and meetings. But Jeonghan only half-listened as his manager spoke, his mind flickering back to the conversation earlier.
"You sure know how to keep things interesting, don't you?" His manager chuckled, noticing the distraction in his eyes. "The headlines are still buzzing. You planning on setting the record straight anytime soon?"
Jeonghan chuckled under his breath, running a hand through his messy hair. "Let them talk," he muttered, flashing a grin. "It’s part of the game."
But that wasn’t what was on his mind. It was you. The way you’d baited him, just enough to make him feel the heat of the moment. He had never been this distracted by anyone—or anything—before.
"You have a minute?" a voice interrupted his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. It was his publicist, holding a phone in one hand, the other gesturing toward the press conference set up for him in the next room.
Jeonghan looked at her, then glanced over his shoulder as if expecting to see you again. But you were gone, just like that. He gave a small sigh, almost imperceptible to anyone watching.
"Yeah, yeah. Let’s do this," he muttered, before stepping forward. Jeonghan’s footsteps echoed through the motorhome hallway, the thrum of victory still running through his veins, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn’t shake the way you’d looked at him—those piercing eyes, full of challenge. He'd seen that expression before, but this time felt different. You weren’t just some reporter stirring up a bit of drama—you were someone who knew exactly how to get under his skin.
His publicist was waiting outside the press room, ready to brief him on the upcoming interviews and meetings. "You’ve got a full schedule, Jeonghan," she said, giving him the rundown with practiced precision. But Jeonghan barely heard her, his mind still distracted by the way you’d turned the tables.
"Hey," he cut in, slowing to a stop in front of her. "What do you know about Y/N?" he asked, his tone casual but with an edge of curiosity that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
The publicist blinked in surprise, and beside her, his manager gave a short laugh. "Y/N? You mean the reporter?" the manager asked, voice dripping with amusement. "The one you’ve had run-ins with over the past couple of seasons?"
Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them. "Run-ins?" he repeated, his lips curling into a small, knowing smirk. "What exactly are you implying?"
The publicist shrugged, exchanging a look with the manager. "She’s been covering F1 for a while, pretty sharp with her articles," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "Some of them have definitely gotten attention, especially that one a few weeks ago... the one about you and the whole ‘mysterious love life’ thing." Her eyes flicked to his manager, who made a face at the mention of that piece.
Jeonghan sighed, running a hand through his hair. He’d tried to forget about that article, but your earlier conversation (read as: challenge) had baffled him. "I shouldn’t have said anything," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "But you know she always gets a rise out of me, don’t you?"
The manager snickered. "Oh, we know. It’s not every day we get to watch you struggle to keep your cool. She’s got a way with words, that one." He winked. "But hey, I get it. She’s a great reporter—sharp, clever—and always knows where to find the juiciest stories. You just might want to be a little more careful with what you say around her next time."
Jeonghan smirked. "Careful? Since when have I ever been careful?"
His publicist gave a pointed look, clearly not impressed. "That’s not the problem, Jeonghan. It’s that you tend to forget she knows exactly what buttons to push."
Jeonghan chuckled, his eyes glinting with a new energy. "Oh, she’s good, I’ll give her that. But I’m not so easily rattled." His mind wandered back to the way you’d smirked and walked off, leaving him standing there feeling like he'd just been served a dish of his own medicine.
"Don’t underestimate her," the manager added, half-joking. "You’ve been in this game long enough to know, no one gets a rise out of you like that without knowing exactly what they’re doing."
Jeonghan hummed thoughtfully. "I suppose you’re right. But maybe..." He trailed off, eyes narrowing as a plan started to form in his mind. "...Maybe it’s time I gave her a taste of her own medicine."
The publicist and manager exchanged a glance but didn’t say anything. They knew that look—the one Jeonghan got whenever he was plotting something, usually with a dash of mischief and just the right amount of charm to make it impossible for anyone to say no. The same charm that had gotten him into trouble more times than they cared to count.
"You’ve got your interviews now, Jeonghan," his publicist reminded him gently, pulling him back to reality. "We can revisit this later. Just keep your head in the game for now."
He nodded, though his mind was still fixated on you. "Yeah, yeah. Later."
As he entered the press room, he was immediately hit with a barrage of questions. The usual ones about his win, his performance, and his plans for the rest of the season. But even as he answered, his thoughts lingered on you and that damn article. You were always one step ahead, always stirring the pot just enough to keep things interesting. But now, it seemed you had caught his attention for real.
And maybe—just maybe—he was going to have some fun with this.
FORMULA 1 MSC CRUISES JAPANESE GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Suzuka Ciruit
The neon lights of Tokyo cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the bustling streets, the city alive with energy even late into the night. After a long day of prepping for the upcoming race, you’d decided to wind down with a quiet drink in a tucked-away bar that promised a moment’s reprieve from the chaos of the paddock.
The bar was small and intimate, the kind of place that felt like a secret only locals knew about. Jazz music hummed softly in the background, and you found a seat near the corner, ready to savor your drink in peace.
But of course, peace wasn’t in the cards tonight.
“Y/N?”
The familiar voice made you freeze mid-sip. Turning your head, you found none other than Yoon Jeonghan standing a few feet away, his face lit with mild surprise and unmistakable amusement. He wasn’t in his Ferrari team gear for once—just a sleek black jacket and jeans, looking effortlessly casual in a way that somehow made him even more irritatingly attractive.
“Jeonghan,” you replied evenly, setting your drink down. “What are you doing here?”
He shrugged, sliding onto the stool beside you without an invitation. “Same as you, I’d imagine. Taking a break from the madness.” His eyes flicked to your glass. “Whiskey? I wouldn’t have pegged you for the type.”
“And what type is that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
He leaned back slightly, his lips quirking into that trademark smirk. “The type who drinks whiskey alone in a bar and pretends they’re not thinking about work.”
You rolled your eyes. “Well, you’re wrong. I’m not thinking about work. I’m thinking about how nice it is to not deal with questions about lap times and tire strategies for five minutes.”
Jeonghan chuckled, signaling to the bartender for a drink. “Fair enough. Though, if memory serves, you’re usually the one asking those questions.”
“Occupational hazard,” you shot back. “And if memory serves, you’re usually the one avoiding them.”
“Touché.” He raised his glass when it arrived, a silent toast that you reluctantly mirrored with your own.
For a while, the conversation meandered through safer topics—Tokyo’s sights, the food, the insanity of race week—but there was an undercurrent of something sharper, a game of verbal ping-pong that neither of you seemed willing to let go of.
“You know,” Jeonghan said after a particularly clever jab from you about his less-than-stellar start in Australia, “I think I’ve finally figured you out.”
“Oh?” you asked, amusement dancing in your tone. “Do tell.”
“You act all cool and collected, but deep down…” He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in slightly. “…you love the chaos. You thrive on it.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, though a grin tugged at your lips. “And what about you, Mr. Reigning Champion? Aren’t you the one who said chaos is just part of the game?”
“True,” he admitted with a lazy shrug. “But I like to think I’m more strategic about it.”
“Strategic?” you echoed, incredulous. “You literally said ‘let them talk’ after crossing the finish line in Australia. That’s not strategy, Jeonghan—that’s reckless arrogance.”
He laughed, the sound low and warm, and you hated how it made your chest tighten just a little. “Maybe. But it keeps things interesting, doesn’t it?”
You didn’t respond, sipping your drink instead, determined not to give him the satisfaction of an answer.
Jeonghan tilted his head, his gaze flicking over you with a knowing glint. “This feels familiar.”
You raised an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What does?”
“Let’s just say you have a knack for leaving me with something to think about,” he said casually, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.
A flicker of amusement crossed your face. “Still losing sleep over it, Jeonghan?”
He leaned in, his voice dropping low, laced with mischief. “Not quite. But I’ve been wondering if you’re all talk or if you actually mean half the things you say.”
You smirked, leaning back just a little. “And what are you planning to do about it?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Guess you’ll have to find out next time,” he said smoothly, signaling to the bartender and slipping his card onto the counter.
You frowned, catching on quickly. “Jeonghan, you don’t have to—”
“Of course I don’t,” he replied, his smirk growing as he leaned in just enough for his voice to drop, intimate and teasing. “But what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t treat you every now and then?”
“A terrible one,” you deadpanned, crossing your arms.
He chuckled, standing up and adjusting his jacket. “Always so quick with the comebacks.”
You tilted your head, not backing down. “And yet, here you are, still trying to keep up.”
He grinned, leaning down so his face was level with yours. “Oh, I’m not just keeping up, sweetheart. I’m leading.”
With that, he threw on his jacket, turning to leave, but not without one last playful remark. “Enjoy your night, Y/N. And next time…” He flashed a grin over his shoulder, his voice dipping lower. “Try putting that mouth of yours to better use.”
Your mouth dropped open, and you could hear his laugh as you watched him disappear into the neon-lit streets.
Damn him.
The Suzuka Circuit’s air was heavy with anticipation, the disappointment in Ferrari’s garage palpable. Jeonghan leaned against the barrier in the media pen, his crimson Ferrari suit contrasting with the growing dusk. Despite his relaxed posture, the tension radiating off him was hard to miss.
"Yoon Jeonghan," you began, stepping forward with your mic. "P11 today—your first time not making it to Q3 since your rookie season. What happened out there?"
His smile was thin, masking the fire simmering beneath. "Suzuka’s a tough circuit. I put in a solid lap, but in the end, it just wasn’t enough. A couple milliseconds make all the difference."
"Kim Mingyu of McLaren knocked you out in the dying seconds of the session," you pointed out, your tone as neutral as possible.
"Yeah, Mingyu had a great lap," he said, though his smirk betrayed a hint of frustration. "Kudos to him for that. It’s the nature of the game—sometimes you’re the one knocking others out, and sometimes you’re the one being knocked out."
You tilted your head, pressing just a little. "Ferrari’s upgrades were supposed to shine here at Suzuka. Do you think the car—or the driver—fell short today?"
His eyes met yours, sharp and knowing. "Is that your way of asking if I’m losing my edge?"
You smiled faintly. "Just doing my job, Jeonghan."
"And doing it well," he replied smoothly. "I’ll make sure to give you something better to write about tomorrow."
Yoon Jeonghan’s Q2 Knockout: A Sign of Ferrari’s Struggles or a Driver Underperforming?
Your analysis was live before the sun set over Suzuka, dissecting Jeonghan’s performance lap by lap:
"While Ferrari’s SF-24 showed promise in Q1, Jeonghan’s Q2 lap exposed cracks in execution. Hesitant braking into Spoon Corner cost him vital time, and a wide exit through Degner 2 raised questions about his confidence under high pressure. Kim Mingyu’s decisive lap in the McLaren only highlighted the contrast, leaving Ferrari fans wondering if Jeonghan can rebound from this rare stumble."
It didn’t take long for the article to ripple through the paddock—and reach its subject. The article was sharp, critical, with the same bite that you had become a household name for. And Jeonghan read every word.
He must have been an idiot to assume you would be kinder after the way he’d left you gobsmacked a few nights prior at the bar.
You had just wrapped up your interview with Mingyu, the day’s pole sitter, when Jeonghan found you.
"Got a minute?" he asked, voice deceptively light.
You glanced up, startled to find him so close, still in his Ferrari suit, his hair slightly damp from the cool-down lap.
"Something on your mind?" you replied, keeping your tone professional.
He didn’t bother with pleasantries. "That article."
You raised an eyebrow. "Specificity helps, you know."
He chuckled darkly. "The one where you ripped apart my Q2 performance like you’re a technical director." He took a step closer, and for the first time, the calm façade cracked - his smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Hesitant braking? Lack of confidence under pressure? You really think I’m losing my touch?"
"I think Suzuka demands perfection," you replied evenly. "And today, perfection wasn’t what we saw."
He let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "You love this, don’t you? Watching me stumble so you can tear me apart in print."
"Jeonghan," you said, straightening, "if you want me to write glowing reviews, give me something to work with."
"You should’ve mentioned how close I was to Mingyu’s time," he shot back.
"Close isn’t enough," you countered, coolly. "Not in this sport."
His eyes narrowed, and he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "Careful, sweetheart. Don’t let them think you’re this obsessed with me."
"Careful, Jeonghan," you shot back mockingly. "Sienna Hartley might not like hearing you get so worked up over me."
His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could walk away. "Here’s an exclusive for you," he said, his voice sharp. "Me and Sienna? Not together."
You blinked, thrown off for just a moment before you schooled your expression. "Good to know. Now let go."
He released you immediately but lingered just long enough to murmur, "Don’t think this is over."
The Suzuka chaos worked in Jeonghan’s favor.
When the lights went out, Jeonghan’s start was perfect—clean, aggressive, calculated. By the first corner, he had already gained two places, capitalizing on a sluggish Alpine and threading the needle between a Williams and an AlphaTauri.
The midfield battle was fierce. Suzuka’s notorious esses demanded precision, and Jeonghan attacked them with surgical efficiency, his Ferrari responding like an extension of his own instincts. He overtook the Aston Martin of Lee Seokmin into Turn 11 with a move so bold the crowd audibly gasped.
Each pass felt like a small victory, but it wasn’t enough. The podium still felt miles away. His fingers tightened on the wheel as he navigated the sweeping Spoon Curve, catching a glimpse of the orange McLaren far ahead—Mingyu.
The memory of your post-quali interview slipped into his mind. Close isn’t enough. Not in this sport.
He exhaled sharply, forcing the thought away. Now wasn’t the time. Jeonghan approached Degner 2, the car planted firmly under him. He could feel the wear on his tires but knew he still had grip to spare. He glanced briefly at the digital display on his steering wheel, calculating the gap to the car ahead—P5, the Red Bull of Choi Seungcheol.
As he accelerated toward the Hairpin, your voice echoed in his head again. Hesitant braking. Confidence issues.
His jaw clenched. It wasn’t anger—it was something more complicated. Why did you always manage to get under his skin? He should’ve been focusing on tire wear, fuel management, or his next target, but instead, his mind betrayed him.
He thought of the way you’d smirked during the interview, how your tone had been sharp, almost daring. The way you’d walked away, leaving him with more to say.
Focus. He snapped himself back, braking perfectly into the Hairpin. The slip of attention hadn’t cost him, but it had been close. Too close.
A well-timed pit stop under a virtual safety car catapulted him to P4. He rejoined the track with fresh mediums, slicing through the field with an aggression that stunned even his team.
By Lap 40, he was staring down the rear wing of Kwon Soonyoung—his own teammate. The team’s radio lit up, the pit wall hesitating.
“Jeonghan, Soonyoung ahead on a different strategy. Keep it clean.”
He didn’t wait for a direct order. Into 130R, the fastest corner on the track, he swung to the outside. His car shuddered with the force of the maneuver, but he held his line, leaving Soonyoung no choice but to yield.
“P3, Jeonghan. You’re on the podium now. Great move.”
With only two laps to go, he was in P2, chasing Mingyu, who had a comfortable lead. Jeonghan knew catching him was impossible, but that wasn’t the point anymore. This was about proving something—to his team, the fans, and maybe even to you.
The Ferrari hummed beneath him, a symphony of power and precision. Every turn, every braking zone, every shift felt like redemption. When he crossed the line in P2, the roar of the crowd was deafening, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat.
The media room was packed, buzzing with questions for the podium finishers. You started with Mingyu, still glowing from his dominant victory.
“Kim Mingyu,” you began, “another win for McLaren. How does it feel to catch up to Jeonghan in the driver’s championship?”
Mingyu smiled, leaning into the mic. “It feels incredible. The car was perfect today, and the team did an amazing job. Credit to everyone back at the factory.”
Before you could move on to the next question, Jeonghan interjected from his spot.
“Must feel nice to start up front and stay there,” he quipped, his tone light but pointed.
Mingyu grinned, unfazed. “You would know, Jeonghan. But you kept me looking over my shoulder the whole time.”
The room chuckled, and you shot Jeonghan a warning glance, which he ignored entirely.
Later, when a question was directed at Jeonghan about his race recovery, his response was pointed. "Oh, you know. I’m pretty good at managing tire degradation. And I had a lot of people doubting me on this track specifically, so I had to prove them wrong too."
His gaze locked on yours as he delivered the last line, and the meaning wasn’t lost on you—or anyone else in the room.
Jeonghan barely made it three steps out of the press conference room before Soonyoung intercepted him, leaning casually against a stack of Pirelli tires like he had all the time in the world. The amusement on his face set Jeonghan’s internal alarms blaring.
“What the hell was that about?” Soonyoung asked, arms crossed in mock authority.
Jeonghan blinked, expertly schooling his expression into one of pure confusion. “What was what about?” he replied, his tone dripping with innocence.
“Oh, don’t even try to play dumb with me, Jeonghan. I know you too well.” Soonyoung’s grin widened as he stepped closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “You were doing something during that press conference. I’ve never seen you look that smug unless you’re—”
“I was answering questions,” Jeonghan interrupted smoothly, plucking a water bottle from the cooler without breaking his stride. He unscrewed the cap with deliberate calm, taking a slow sip. “That’s what press conferences are for, in case you forgot.”
Soonyoung squinted at him, unconvinced. “Right. And here I thought press conferences were for you to pretend you’re unbothered while delivering backhanded digs at Kim Mingyu.”
Jeonghan barely managed to keep a straight face, though he felt the tiniest flicker of pride. He had been particularly good with his barbs today. Still, there was no way he was admitting that. “Don’t project, Soonyoung,” he drawled. “Not everyone uses media day as therapy.”
Before Soonyoung could retort, a new voice joined the conversation.
“I know what it was,” said Kim Sunwoo, strolling up with the unshakable confidence of someone who didn’t yet understand how much trouble he was about to cause. The young mechanic had a smirk plastered on his face, the kind that made Jeonghan instinctively want to flee.
“You know what?” Jeonghan asked warily, his eyes narrowing.
“That look you had during the Q&A,” Sunwoo continued, leaning casually against a tool chest. “You were staring at her, man. Like, full-on laser focus. It’s like you were trying to send her a message.”
Jeonghan’s grip on the water bottle tightened. He felt his ears heat up but refused to let it show. “I was answering her question,” he said evenly. “It’s called eye contact. You should try it sometime—people like that sort of thing.”
But Sunwoo wasn’t done. “And don’t think we didn’t notice you getting all flustered when Mingyu’s name came up,” he added, his smirk widening.
“Flustered?” Jeonghan repeated, letting out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right. That’s definitely the word I’d use to describe me.”
“Come on, dude.” Sunwoo shrugged, undeterred. “Admit it. You’ve got a crush.”
The words hit like a sucker punch. Jeonghan froze mid-sip, choking slightly as the water went down the wrong way. He coughed, spluttering as Sunwoo and Soonyoung erupted into laughter.
“Alright,” Jeonghan said sharply once he’d recovered, pointing a finger at Sunwoo. “You’ve been spending too much time on TikTok. Get back to work before I have you polishing rims for the rest of the season.”
But Sunwoo only grinned wider, completely unbothered. “Jeonghan’s in loooove,” he teased, drawing out the word in a sing-song voice.
“I said that’s enough,” Jeonghan snapped, the slight pink tinge creeping up his neck completely betraying his forced composure. “Shouldn’t you be tuning an engine or something useful?”
Soonyoung, meanwhile, was doubled over laughing, clearly enjoying himself far too much. When he finally straightened, he clapped Jeonghan on the back. “Hey, don’t worry about it, man. If you need advice, just let me know. I’m great with women.”
Jeonghan groaned, brushing him off. “The day I take advice from you, Soonyoung, is the day I retire. He shoved past them toward his motorhome, muttering under his breath. “Insufferable. Both of you.”
But even as he slammed the door behind him, Jeonghan couldn’t stop the echo of Sunwoo’s words from rattling around in his head.
You’ve got a crush.
He scoffed aloud, shaking his head. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, tossing the water bottle onto the couch. But as he sank down beside it, arms crossed and jaw tight, he couldn’t quite stop himself from wondering.
Jeonghan didn’t want to be here.
The club pulsed with energy, a humid swirl of bodies pressing too close, the bass reverberating in his chest like a persistent headache. Strobe lights sliced through the haze, and the air smelled faintly of spilled drinks and cheap cologne. Somewhere in the chaos, Soonyoung had disappeared, leaving Jeonghan to fend for himself.
He’d been ready to make his exit the moment they walked in, but Soonyoung had insisted. “You need to loosen up, Jeonghan. Let the adrenaline from the race wear off. Have a drink, maybe dance.”Jeonghan had scoffed at the idea, knowing full well that his reason for not wanting to stay wasn’t exhaustion.
No, it was you.
Even when you weren’t in the room, you lingered in his mind like the ghost of a song he couldn’t stop humming. The podium had been a nice distraction. But now, surrounded by the chatter of strangers and the clinking of glasses, his thoughts drifted back to the press conference and the pointed, teasing look you’d given him when he spoke.
And then there was Mingyu—always Mingyu—whose name you’d said with just a little too much warmth. Jeonghan had pretended not to notice, but it had been impossible to ignore.
Shaking his head, Jeonghan pushed through the crowd, determined to leave. He had almost made it to the exit when someone collided into him, hard enough to send him stumbling forward.
“Whoa—watch it!” a voice slurred, sharp with irritation but unmistakably familiar.
He turned, already scowling, but the expression froze on his face when he saw you.
“Jeonghan?” you said, blinking up at him, your voice teetering between surprise and amusement. Your cheeks were flushed, lips curling into a slow smile as you adjusted your grip on the drink in your hand.
“You?” he blurted, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second.
“What are you—?” you started, only to trail off as a giggle bubbled out of you. Shaking your head like you were trying to clear it, you added, “Wow. Small world, huh?”
“I guess so,” Jeonghan said, his tone carefully even, though his gaze lingered on the way the dim light caught the sheen of your hair, the curve of your smile. His eyes dropped to your drink, then back to your face. “Are you drunk?”
“No,” you said, far too quickly, before adding with a sheepish laugh, “Okay, maybe. Just a little.”
The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening to curve into a smile. “Sure looks like it.”
You waved him off with a dramatic flourish, nearly spilling your drink in the process. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be... I don’t know, brooding on a podium somewhere?”
He tilted his head, pretending to be affronted. “I don’t brood. And besides, this is a celebration.”
“Oh, right,” you said, stepping closer. Your gaze softened, and your voice dropped just enough to make the words feel like they were meant for him alone. “The big comeback.”
“Lots of doubters, huh?” you added, the slight slur in your voice doing nothing to dull the edge of your words.
Jeonghan blinked, caught off guard, before a chuckle escaped him. “Well, your article did the talking for you.”
For a moment, you just stared at him, your eyes a little too bright, your smile a little too slow. “What a way to get my attention, pretty boy.”
His breath caught, his carefully built façade cracking for just a second. “You think I’m pretty?”
Your lips parted, but before you could answer, a hand landed firmly on your shoulder.
“There you are!”
Jeonghan looked up to see one of your friends glaring at him as they steadied you. “I leave you alone for five minutes, and you’re... what? Flirting with Yoon Jeonghan now?”
“Not flirting,” you protested weakly, though your lopsided smile said otherwise.
Your friend wasn’t convinced, nor were they interested in his response. They tugged you into the crowd with an apologetic glance over their shoulder. “Sorry about her—she’s had a night.”
Jeonghan stayed rooted in place, his gaze following your retreating figure. His lips curved into a faint smile as your words replayed in his mind.
“What a way to get my attention,” he murmured to himself, shaking his head.
And yet, as he stood there, the thought struck him that maybe you’d already gotten his.
FORMULA 1 GRAND PRIX DE MONACO 2024Track: Circuit de Monaco
The paddock at Monaco was alive with its usual glitz and glamour, the unmistakable hum of anticipation hanging thick in the air. Cameras flashed, team personnel buzzed around, and the harbor glistened under the sun. Monaco, the crown jewel of the F1 calendar, had a way of amplifying everything—victories felt sweeter, defeats more crushing, and the stakes impossibly higher.
Jeonghan, fresh off securing pole position, had his usual air of nonchalance, but the glow of triumph was undeniable. The fans chanted his name; the cameras adored him. Yet as he stepped off the podium erected for the post-qualifying festivities, his sharp eyes caught sight of something—someone—that brought him up short.
You.
You were standing just beyond the throng of journalists, your press badge gleaming under the midday sun. It had been weeks since he’d last seen you, weeks since your sharp quips and piercing questions had filled the air between you like sparks on dry wood.
Those weeks had been… odd, to say the least. You’d been reassigned to cover Formula E, a shift Jeonghan had learned about only after noticing your absence at the paddock in China. He had played it cool, pretending it didn’t matter, but he had found himself seeking out your byline anyway—reading articles that had nothing to do with him or F1, just to feel the rhythm of your words.
Even the searing critiques you usually aimed at him had been sorely missed. It was maddening, really, how much quieter the world had felt without your fire.
Now, here you were again, back in the fray of Formula 1, as though no time had passed. Jeonghan’s expression remained casual, but his stride toward you was deliberate, cutting through the chaos of the paddock.
When he stopped in front of you, his smirk was already in place, a shield against the strange, unwelcome flutter of relief in his chest. “Where’ve you been?” he asked, tilting his head with practiced ease.
You looked up from your notebook, arching a brow at him. “Missed me, Jeonghan?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
The word landed between you like a drop of rain on hot asphalt, its simplicity taking you aback. Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard, and Jeonghan couldn’t help but notice how the sharpness in your gaze softened for a fraction of a second.
But then, as quickly as the moment arrived, he leaned in, his smirk deepening. “Someone had to keep the paddock interesting.”
You rolled your eyes, recovering your composure. “I see the Monaco air hasn’t done anything for your humility.”
“And I see Formula E hasn’t dulled your wit,” he shot back, stepping closer so the noise of the paddock faded slightly.
You shook your head, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You’ve done not too bad these past few races, huh?”
The comment was offhand, tossed in almost as a formality, but it hit Jeonghan harder than he expected. Compliments—genuine ones—were rare from you, and they stirred something unexpected in him.
Jeonghan blinked, the smirk faltering for just a second before he quickly replaced it with mock arrogance. “Not too bad?” he echoed, feigning offense. “I dominated in China, held my ground in Miami, and destroyed Emilia Romagna. Give me some credit here.”
For all his ego, Jeonghan knew he wasn’t wrong. He’d won China by a jaw-dropping 22.3-second margin, Mingyu so far behind that Jeonghan had time to deliver an entire thank-you speech over the radio before the McLaren driver even crossed the checkered flag. In Miami, even a grueling five-second stop-go penalty hadn’t stopped him; he finished P2 (behind Kim Mingyu, annoyingly) and picked up the extra point for the fastest lap, earning him Driver of the Day. And in Emilia Romagna, he was the clear favorite from the moment the race weekend began. The Tifosi were relentless, their cheers in the grandstands so deafening that Jeonghan could barely hear his engineer’s voice over the radio.
When he crossed the finish line first, the sea of red under the podium roared with such thunderous applause that his ears rang for hours afterward. In just three races, Jeonghan had cemented himself as the best contender for the 2024 World Champion.
And yet, somehow, it wasn’t as sweet without you there to write about it.
“Alright,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on. “You’ve been exceptional.”
The word struck like a sucker punch. For once, Jeonghan didn’t have a clever retort.
"Congrats on pole, Jeonghan," you said, your voice cool but sincere, offering him a small smile. It made his heart skip a beat.
Jeonghan’s lips twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You called me exceptional."
You glanced up at him, closing your notebook with a flick of your wrist. The corner of your mouth quirked into a smirk. "Yes. Now, thoughts on pole?"
He's silent for so long that you politely clear your throat, hoping to cut through the sudden stillness. "Maybe this should be my headline for the day, Jeonghan. Monaco's Maze Leaves Golden Boy Spinning Out."
It's like someone doused him with ice water. His easy, sun-soaked posture stiffens, and the small smirk he'd been wearing evaporates.
You're still a journalist. He forgets that sometimes.
"Why do you do that?" he mutters, voice edged with something unfamiliar—disappointment, maybe.
You blink, caught off guard by the abrupt change in tone. “Do what?”
“That.” He gestures vaguely between you and the notebook tucked in your hand. The lenses of his sunglasses catch the sunlight, but there’s no mistaking the intensity behind them. His gaze pierces, searching for something in your expression. “Bringing the shitty headlines into every conversation."
You arch a brow, tucking the notebook closer to your chest as if shielding it from his line of sight. “Shitty? You mean accurate, Jeonghan.”
His jaw tightens, a subtle movement, but enough to draw your attention. There’s a faint crease forming between his brows now, and you realize it’s not your usual back-and-forth banter. “You know what I mean,” he mutters, voice low and barely audible over the hum of the paddock—the distant rumble of engines, the echo of voices, the clinking of tools in nearby garages.
For a moment, you’re at a loss. Jeonghan doesn’t let things like this bother him—or, at least, he’s always been good at pretending they don’t. His whole brand is carefree charm, a perpetual smirk, and the confidence of someone who knows he’ll always be the center of attention. This feels different.
“You’re upset about a headline?” you ask, genuinely curious now.
“It’s not about the headline.” His tone sharpens, but he stops himself, jaw clenching like he’s swallowing something bitter. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, his fingers brushing over the brim of his cap. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, tinged with something almost vulnerable. “It’s about how you never let up, even when it’s me.”
The admission lands heavily between you, unexpected and disarming.
You shift uncomfortably under the weight of his words, the way they seem to strip away the professional distance you’ve been clinging to. “Why should I?” you counter, keeping your voice steady despite the flicker of doubt creeping in. “You’re just another driver, Jeonghan.”
His laugh is short and humorless, cutting through the charged air between you. “Right. Just another driver.”
There’s something about the way he says it—low, almost resigned—that catches you off guard. The bitterness in his tone isn’t theatrical; it’s real, raw, and so at odds with the image he projects to the world.
You glance at him, searching for the Jeonghan you’re used to—the one who shrugs off criticism with a knowing grin, who always has a teasing retort ready. But for once, he’s not hiding behind a smirk or a cocky quip. He looks tired, the weight of his words pulling at the edges of his carefully maintained charm.
“Jeonghan,” you begin, unsure of what you’re even trying to say.
But he shakes his head, cutting you off before you can find the right words. “Forget it.”
He takes a step back, and it feels like a gulf opening between you. The mask of indifference slips back into place with practiced ease, but you’ve already seen the cracks. “You’ve got your job to do,” he says, his tone clipped and distant. “Make sure you spell my name right in that next ‘shitty headline.’”
You hate the way your chest tightens at his words, hate the instinctive urge to reach out and stop him as he turns to walk away, his figure retreating into the chaotic swirl of the paddock.
But you don’t.
Instead, you grip your notebook tighter, the edges digging into your palm as if the physical discomfort might drown out the ache building in your chest. The buzz of your phone in your pocket snaps you out of the moment. Grateful for the distraction, you pull it out to see a text from your editor: Post-qualifying article. Deadline: 6 PM.
Just another driver.
The words echo hollowly in your mind, unconvincing and painfully untrue.
Because the truth is, Jeonghan has never been just anything to you.
And that’s exactly why this is so damn complicated.
Jeonghan spends the night refreshing his Twitter feed.
He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, honestly.
Maybe it’s the rush of validation that comes from a clever reply, or the sting of criticism that reminds him he’s still human under the helmet. Or maybe it’s something else entirely—something he doesn’t want to name. The applause of the crowd is long gone, and the adrenaline from securing pole position hours earlier has settled into a restless hum. His phone feels heavier in his hand as he scrolls, tapping at random links and skimming comments that veer between praise and criticism.
The article finally pops up, your name bold and unmistakable at the top. His stomach tightens, a sensation he’ll never admit to anyone, least of all you.
He clicks it immediately.
The headline strikes first:
Kim Mingyu’s Risky Qualifying Lap Keeps Rivals on Edge
For a moment, he freezes, his eyes scanning the words again to make sure he didn’t misread.
Mingyu?
Confusion knots his brow as he scrolls down. The opening paragraph is a glowing analysis of Mingyu’s audacious lap—a near miss in the second sector, a masterful recovery in the final corners. The kind of detailed, evocative writing that Jeonghan knows you reserve for stories you care about.
Then, buried halfway through, he finds his name:
“Jeonghan, true to form, delivered a flawless lap to secure pole position. His consistency and precision were unmatched, placing him at the front of the grid for tomorrow’s race.”
That’s it.
No breakdown of his sector times, no mention of the deft control it took to navigate the tight Monaco corners under immense pressure. Just a single, clinical acknowledgment, overshadowed by Mingyu’s second-place drama.
Jeonghan stares at the screen, his thumb hovering over the refresh button. He doesn’t know what he was expecting—a parade in words? A headline with his name front and center?
It’s ridiculous, he tells himself. Pole position speaks for itself. It doesn’t need a poetic article to back it up.
But that doesn’t stop the irritation bubbling under his skin.
He tosses his phone onto the bed with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. His hotel room feels quieter than it should, the distant hum of the city barely seeping through the windows.
He can’t shake the feeling that you’re making a point. That this is your way of reminding him that while he might be the golden boy on the track, he doesn’t get special treatment in your world.
Not in your writing. Not from you.
It’s infuriating.
And yet, a part of him—one he’s unwilling to examine too closely—wants to know why you didn’t write more about him. Wants to know what he’d have to do to make you look at him the way you clearly look at Mingyu.
Not just another driver.
But the one worth writing about.
The morning of the Monaco Grand Prix dawned with the soft hum of engines filling the paddock and the gleaming streets of Monte Carlo radiating under a cloudless sky. Jeonghan arrived early, his customary calm masking the roiling anticipation beneath. Pole position was his—secured with a lap so clinical it had left his rivals chasing shadows. Yet, the sharp sting of your article still lingered, buried beneath layers of pride and annoyance.
By mid-morning, the paddock buzzed with tension. The Monaco circuit—narrow, unforgiving, and relentlessly demanding—left no room for error. Victory here wasn’t just about speed; it was about precision, strategy, and an unwavering mental edge. Jeonghan knew that all too well.
As he suited up, the familiar ritual steadied his thoughts. Helmet, gloves, fireproofs—each piece transformed him into the driver everyone expected him to be. His engineer’s voice crackled over the comms. “Focus on the start, Jeonghan. Turn One is everything.”
He gave a curt nod, stepping into the car. The roar of the crowd was muffled as the cockpit enveloped him. Lights on the dashboard blinked in sequence, a visual metronome syncing with his heartbeat.
The engine roars to life beneath Jeonghan as he settles into the cockpit, the familiar hum of the Monaco Grand Prix vibrating through the seat, up his spine, and into his very bones. His focus sharpens like a blade, the heat of the sun seeping through his visor, but he’s not thinking about the sweat trickling down his neck or the weight of the helmet that obscures his field of vision. He’s thinking of the laps he’s put in, of the sacrifice, the years of work that led him here, to this very moment, pole position in Monaco.
He has no illusions about the challenge ahead. This track has always favored the one at the front, especially when that one is someone as methodical and precise as Jeonghan. It’s not often that the pole sitter falters here. But that’s not what has his stomach in knots. It’s not the track or the other drivers. It’s you. The thought of your words, your perspective, your gaze.
What if this win isn’t enough? What if I’m still just another driver to you?
His grip tightens on the steering wheel, and for a moment, he considers the possibility of failing, of cruising through the race without the sharp, passionate energy that has always pushed him. What if he doesn’t even get the headline he’s chasing? What if all this effort amounts to nothing more than another expected victory, no deeper praise, no recognition?
He blinks, pushing the thought away. He can’t afford distractions. He’s here to win—nothing else matters.
The lights blink, one by one, before finally turning off, and he’s off, the car surging forward into the narrow streets of Monaco, engines screaming in unison. His concentration narrows, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. The first few laps are a blur of tactical moves, maintaining the lead, setting the pace. Behind him, Mingyu is close—too close—but Jeonghan has enough room, enough air to breathe.
The laps tick by, the gaps between drivers stretching and shrinking like the ebb and flow of a tide. In Monaco, you can’t make mistakes. The barriers are close enough to bite, and one slip-up could send everything into chaos. Jeonghan doesn’t think of that, though. He doesn’t think of the press, of his reputation, of the words hanging in the back of his mind.
What he thinks about is the win. The pure, simple joy of crossing that finish line first. He wants to feel the weight of the moment, of the accomplishment, and more than anything, he wants to look up and see you there—see that your words reflect the magnitude of this victory.
He holds the lead through the race, but it’s a quiet victory, one he can feel in his bones but doesn’t fully experience. The lap times are consistent, but nothing spectacular happens. No drama, no surprise overtake, no breathtaking maneuver.
It’s a clean, controlled victory—exactly what everyone expects from the driver in pole position.
By the time the checkered flag waves, Jeonghan crosses the line in first. The crowd erupts in cheers, but Jeonghan doesn’t feel the same rush of emotion. The thrill is absent, replaced instead by a deep, gnawing sense of doubt.
The win is his, but it feels like it’s already slipping away from his grasp.
In the post-race briefing, he sits with his team, nodding as they discuss tire strategies, pit stops, and the things that went right. But his eyes keep drifting to the back of the room, to where you stand, clipboard in hand, scribbling notes with focused intent. Every time he tries to catch your gaze, to make eye contact, you look away, as if determined to keep your distance.
It stings more than it should.
Jeonghan leans back in his seat, the weight of his helmet resting against his neck, the pressure of your indifference pressing down on him. He wants to reach out, wants to tell you that this win—this clean, controlled, expected win—deserves something more. But he stays silent, twisting the words in his mind, unable to voice the insecurity that’s suddenly consuming him.
The press conference follows the briefing, a whirlwind of questions, cameras, and flashing lights. The room is full of journalists, all clamoring for soundbites, all eager to discuss the expected result—Jeonghan, pole position, and now, victory. But Jeonghan doesn’t care about the usual congratulatory remarks. He’s waiting for something more. Something real.
When the article finally drops, hours later, he barely waits before pulling it up on his phone. He knows what it’s going to say, but still, the disappointment claws at his chest as he reads the headline.
Jeonghan Dominates Monaco: Pole Position Translates to Victory
His stomach twists, and he exhales sharply, trying to ignore the hollow feeling that spreads through him. It’s everything he expected—a result that leaves no room for admiration, no room for praise. Just the simple, obvious statement that he did what everyone expected him to do. The race was clean, flawless even, but there’s no depth to the words, no recognition of what it takes to win here, at Monaco, the most challenging track in the world.
The thought gnaws at him.
It’s not enough.
The press conference continues, the cameras flashing, but Jeonghan’s mind is far from the words he’s being asked to repeat. He’s not thinking about the team’s success, about the strategies that worked, or even about the crowd's cheers. His eyes find you across the room once again, but this time, you don't look away. Your gaze is fixed on something—anything—but not on him.
He can’t help but wonder if it’s because you don’t see him as more than just another driver. Just another one of the usual suspects who gets a win when it’s expected. He’s fighting for something more—something beyond the surface. But for now, it seems like that’s something he’ll never get from you.
He’s won Monaco. But in that moment, the victory feels like the hollowest thing in the world.
FORMULA 1 AWS GRAND PRIX DU CANADA 2024Track: Circuit Gilles Villeneuve
The Canadian Grand Prix feels like a blur. The rain starts as a light drizzle, but by the time the race begins, it’s pouring, transforming the circuit into a slippery mess. The slick track glistens under the flood of water, making the circuit treacherous, a spinning wheel of danger. The air is thick with the scent of wet asphalt, and there’s an ominous tension in the paddock, a murmur that hangs in the atmosphere as if everyone knows something bad is about to happen.
You catch sight of Jeonghan on the grid. He’s staring straight ahead, hands clasped behind his back, his posture perfect, like the picture of composure. But you can see it in his eyes—something flickers there, a mix of tension and determination. His car, finely tuned for dry conditions, isn’t built for this. The engineers have done what they can, adjusting the setup, but there’s only so much they can do when the weather turns so violently. You know this track—the Circuit Gilles Villeneuve—is not forgiving, and for someone like Jeonghan, a precision driver who thrives when everything falls into place, this is the worst-case scenario. He’s trying to keep his focus, but you can see the strain on his face, the pressure mounting with every passing moment.
The starting lights go out, and the cars roar off the grid, their engines screaming in defiance of the rain. Jeonghan’s car is sluggish in the first few laps. You see him fighting with the wheel, struggling to keep the car in line, each turn a reminder that the odds are stacked against him. The rain is only getting heavier, and the car, built for speed in perfect conditions, is no longer responsive, no longer the finely-tuned machine he’s so accustomed to. It’s like he’s driving a different car altogether.
As the laps tick by, the race feels like a slow-motion disaster, unfolding before your eyes. Jeonghan’s always been skilled in the wet, but this is different—this is more than just rain. This is a mechanical mismatch, an impossible task to overcome. You watch him push, trying to find any way to make up time, but it’s clear he’s just not able to. The car slides wide through the corners, the back end kicking out as he struggles to maintain control. His frustration is palpable, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity.
And then, it happens.
The rear end of Jeonghan’s car breaks loose as he enters Turn 6, and for a moment, it’s a dance of power and precision, a flick of the wheel, an attempt to save it. But it’s futile. The car loses traction, and before you can even process it, he’s in the barriers. The sound of impact is like a gut punch, a sickening crunch that sends a wave of dread through you. The crowd's collective gasp is drowned out by the static crackle of his radio.
“Jeonghan, do you copy?” The voice of his engineer is urgent, panicked, but there’s no mistaking the defeat in it when the response comes through. Jeonghan’s voice is clipped, emotion stripped away in favor of the cold reality.
“I’m out. Car’s done.”
The message is simple, the weight of it crashing down on you. The race is over. Lap 30. The dream, the chance to prove himself in a season that’s been anything but easy, has slipped away, drowned by the rain.
You feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. It’s a loss for Jeonghan, but it feels like a loss for you too. Not because of the race itself, but because of the frustration you saw in his face. The disappointment. The feeling of helplessness. It’s all there, and it hits you harder than you expect.
He doesn’t speak to anyone after. He doesn’t go to the media pen, doesn’t stand in front of the cameras for the obligatory interview. There’s no deflection, no distractions. He’s just... gone. You barely see him in the paddock. He doesn’t even go to the Ferrari garage to debrief with his team. He disappears into the background, like he’s trying to erase himself from the scene altogether, retreating into the shadows, avoiding the world that’s waiting to cast its judgment.
And you? You stay away too. The press room feels suffocating, the questions ringing in your ears as you try to focus. You write your piece, a cold, sharp report about the race and Jeonghan’s crash, a clinical dissection of what went wrong. But something feels hollow as you type. The words don’t flow the way they used to. They’re just words, strung together to meet the deadline, to give the readers what they want. It’s not about the story anymore. It’s not about the race. It’s about the loss.
You can’t shake the image of Jeonghan crashing out, of his frustration written in every line of his face, every motion of his hands. You can’t forget the way he looked when he climbed out of the car, shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen onto him. His eyes are distant, like he’s already checked out, retreating into himself. It’s a look you’ve seen before, but it’s sharper now, more pronounced. He’s carrying something, a burden that you don’t understand, a burden you’re not sure you can even help him carry.
But all you can do is write. And even that doesn’t feel like enough.
FORMULA 1 ARAMCO GRAN PREMIO DE ESPAÑA 2024
Track: Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya
The Spanish Grand Prix feels different from the moment you step out of the car, the heat oppressive, the air thick with anticipation and the inevitable tension of the weekend. The usual rhythm of the paddock is off-kilter, heightened by the suffocating summer heat, the burning sun beating down on every exposed surface. The heat is more than just physical; it's palpable in the way the drivers move, in the clipped tones of the engineers, in the quiet buzz of conversation that flickers out like static.
But even through the sticky, heavy air, the tension feels electric—charged, ready to snap. The circuit is a challenge in itself, and the drivers know it. There’s no room for error here—just wide, hot tarmac and the constant pressure of chasing that perfect lap.
You’ve done your best to avoid Jeonghan, kept a comfortable distance as much as possible. But there’s something about the way he carries himself now—an edge that wasn't there before. It’s sharp, biting, and yet there’s an underlying vulnerability that makes everything harder to ignore.
When qualifying results flash up, you’re caught off-guard. Soonyoung is on pole, Mingyu in second, and Jeonghan… Jeonghan is in third.
Jeonghan strides into the paddock after qualifying, his face carefully composed, but there’s a look in his eyes—something sharp, something that makes you hesitate. You haven’t spoken in days, not since Canada, not since he shut you out. You’ve been avoiding him, and he’s been avoiding you, but you both know the silence can’t last forever.
You’re standing near the media area when he approaches, and for a moment, it feels like the world holds its breath. The slight tilt of his head, the way his gaze flicks over your shoulder, pretending not to care, but you see through it.
"Don't do this," he says, his voice tight, but it's not the playful teasing you’ve grown used to. It’s something darker. Something tired.
"Don’t do what?" you snap, your patience running thin. "Pretend everything’s fine?"
His jaw clenches, eyes narrowing. "You’ve been avoiding me. Why? Because of Canada?"
You blink. The question hits harder than you expect, and you struggle to keep your composure. “You expect me to just forget what happened? You were fine after the crash, Jeonghan. You didn’t even bother with the press. I can’t just pretend that wasn’t... anything.”
The words come out sharper than you intend, and for a split second, you regret it. You see the way his shoulders stiffen, the brief flicker of pain in his eyes before he masks it with that carefully constructed indifference.
"Maybe I didn’t want to deal with your harsh words," he snaps, taking a step closer. “Maybe I’m tired of being the perfect driver for you, the one who’s supposed to be good enough to meet your standards. But I’m not—am I?"
Your chest tightens at the accusation, at the sudden rawness in his voice. "You think I’m too harsh? You think I’m just waiting for you to be perfect all the time?" You laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. "That’s what this is about? You crashing out wasn’t because of me. I write the truth, Jeonghan. And maybe the truth is you didn’t have the car for that race. It was out of your control."
His expression darkens, and you see that familiar flash of anger—one you’ve seen more times than you care to admit. "No," he hisses, taking another step toward you. "The truth is, you're so wrapped up in your narratives, you forget that I’m human. You forget that I have feelings too, and that maybe... maybe I wanted to do this for myself, not for some headline or some article. But you... you don’t see me that way, do you? You see me as another story, another fucking headline to dissect. Just another driver."
His words cut deeper than anything else could, and the final crack in your restraint breaks wide open. You can feel the heat rising in your chest, the tightness in your throat, the way your breath hitches.
“You want me to treat you differently?” you bite back, furious, stepping into his space. “You want me to hold your hand and tell you it’s okay every time you fail? Because you’re so tired of being just another driver? Well, you know what, Jeonghan? I am tired. I’m tired of trying to keep this professional, of pretending that I’m not watching the same guy who couldn’t even handle his own crash. You don’t get to demand better treatment from me when you can’t even handle the heat.”
For a moment, neither of you move, and the silence is thick, charged with the weight of your words.
He stares at you, eyes dark, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. You’re both too close now, caught in this space where words are weapons, and you’re both bleeding out.
Finally, Jeonghan turns away, his expression unreadable, but you can see the tightness in his back, the way his jaw works, like he’s holding something back. "Maybe you should stop writing about me altogether," he mutters, his voice rough, before stalking off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding and chest aching.
For a moment, you stand frozen, caught between regret and relief, between the anger that still simmers beneath your skin and the sudden emptiness that creeps in now that he's gone.
The moment Jeonghan storms off, leaving you standing there with a surge of anger and a pounding heart, you don't realize someone’s been listening. But someone has. The faint click of a camera, barely audible over the sound of your pulse, is enough to make you pause. You turn, instinctively, to see a familiar face from the gossip side of the paddock. It's Soojin, a reporter known for getting the juiciest bits of drama and twisting them into scandalous headlines. She’s got a camera in one hand, her phone in the other, furiously typing something into it with a smirk that sends an uncomfortable ripple through your gut.
Before you can say anything, she’s already gone, blending back into the throng of people milling around the paddock, her steps quick and sure. The damage has been done. You know it, and the prickling sensation in the pit of your stomach tells you that it’s about to get a lot worse.
By the time you’ve made it back to the media center, the storm has already hit. Your Twitter feed is flooded with the words “Trouble in Paradise?”, and the accompanying photos. The images are damning—Jeonghan’s angry face, red with emotion, and your own flushed, furious expression, both of you screaming at each other in the middle of the paddock. There’s no context, no explanation, just the raw emotion, raw enough to sell.
The headline isn’t even what stings. It’s the comments that follow. Speculation, assumptions, and a flood of opinions. Some call it a lover’s quarrel, some assume the worst, but most seem content to paint the picture of two people on the verge of breaking. It’s not just your name that gets dragged through the mud; it’s Jeonghan’s too. Both of you, caught in a perfect storm of emotions and bad timing. The last thing either of you needs.
You try to shut it out, but it’s impossible. The text messages from your editor come through, asking for a statement. Your phone rings with calls from the PR team, from your colleagues, and even from your friends, who all seem to know about the situation before you’ve even had a chance to process it yourself.
And then, just when you think it couldn’t get worse, the email comes. It’s from Ferrari’s PR team, and it’s almost too professional to be true:
Dear Y/N,
In light of the recent events surrounding your interactions with Mr. Yoon Jeonghan, we would like to offer you full access to the Ferrari garage for the remainder of the season. This will provide you with the opportunity to write an in-depth feature on the team, showcasing the work and dedication that goes into each race weekend. We believe this move will allow for a clearer perspective on the situation and help ensure that your reporting reflects the true nature of the team and its drivers.
We look forward to your continued coverage.
Best regards,
Ferrari PR Team
It’s a calculated move—a distraction, a chance to smooth things over. And you know it. The message is clear: everything must look fine. Everything must be fixed, packaged neatly for the media and the fans to consume. You’re a pawn in a much bigger game, and they’re making sure you play along.
At first, you think about refusing. You think about how everything feels so wrong right now. About how the image of you and Jeonghan, caught in the heat of an argument, is being used to feed the frenzy. But the PR team doesn’t leave room for argument. You know that declining would only escalate things further, make them harder to fix.
So, you agree.
The access starts almost immediately. They give you a full tour of the Ferrari garage, show you the inner workings of the team, introduce you to the engineers, the strategists, the pit crew. You’re given permission to write about the team’s strategy, their behind-the-scenes preparation, but there’s always a sense that you're being watched—every move, every word.
You can’t help but notice Jeonghan’s absence. Every time you walk through the garage, he’s not there. The driver who once greeted you with a cocky smile and a teasing remark, the one who always found a way to make you laugh, is nowhere to be found. It’s like he’s vanished, swallowed by the thick wall of Ferrari’s PR machine.
It’s as if nothing is real anymore. The false smiles, the calculated interviews, the way the drivers exchange glances with a rehearsed ease. The more you observe, the more you realize how much of this world is a performance, a show put on for the audience, with no room for anything real. It all feels like it’s slipping through your fingers, leaving you with nothing but an empty, fragile façade.
Still, you’re expected to keep writing, to deliver the polished pieces the team expects. You’re supposed to put the headline “TROUBLE IN PARADISE?” behind you and focus on the carefully constructed narrative. So, you do. For now.
But even as you walk the pits, breathing in the scent of burnt rubber and sweat, there’s a quiet ache in the back of your mind. The truth is, you don’t know how much longer you can keep pretending that everything is fine.
Not when you still feel Jeonghan’s words hanging in the air between you, like the remnants of a storm that’s yet to pass. Not when you still want, with everything in you, to be able to fix it.
And maybe that’s the problem.
The crash happens so quickly, so violently, that it almost feels unreal. One moment, the tell-tale red of Jeonghan’s car is cutting through the circuit with his signature precision. The next, it’s a twisted mess of metal and rubber, skidding off the track, his car spinning wildly as Lee Seokmin’s Aston Martin clips him just before the tight corner at Turn 14. You watch it all unfold from the pit wall, your heart stopping for a brief second as the sound of the crash echoes through the air.
There’s a collective gasp from the crew around you, followed by the frantic chatter of engineers and strategists, trying to process what just happened. You can see the smoke rising from the wreckage, and your breath catches when the marshals begin to swarm the car, signaling that Jeonghan is still inside.
The radio crackles to life, but Jeonghan’s voice doesn’t come through. For a second, it feels like time slows down. The pit wall is a blur of motion, but you’re frozen, eyes locked on the track, praying for him to be okay.
Then, finally, the confirmation comes: “Jeonghan is out of the car. He's fine. We'll move him to the medical center.”
A wave of relief washes over you, but it’s short-lived. The weight of the crash—his crash—still hangs in the air, and it’s clear from the looks of the Ferrari crew that no one knows exactly what went wrong. The tension in the paddock is palpable, and as you’re given full access to the debriefing room afterward, the atmosphere is thick with unspoken frustration.
Jeonghan walks in with that same seething expression he had after the crash, and the room goes silent. His eyes are red-rimmed, his jaw clenched, the kind of anger that’s so deep it can’t be shaken by anything or anyone. His usual confident swagger is replaced by a taut, barely contained rage that makes it hard for anyone to even breathe in his presence. His voice, when he speaks, is sharp, cutting through the room like a knife.
“You think this is a joke?” he snaps, looking at his team with a glare so intense it’s almost suffocating. His fists are balled at his sides, his shoulders tense with barely controlled fury.
The debriefing begins, but it’s clear that no one knows how to handle him. His coach tries to keep things calm, but Jeonghan's sharp words only make the tension worse. The rest of the team sits in silence, unsure of what to say, how to fix the situation. His eyes never leave the table, his posture rigid, as though every part of him is fighting the urge to storm out.
The meeting goes in circles—strategies discussed, what went wrong, how to move forward—but nothing seems to land. Jeonghan doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to listen to anyone right now. His frustration is palpable, and it’s clear this crash, this failure, has broken something inside of him.
When he finally stands, his chair scraping harshly against the floor, there’s an air of finality to it. Without another word, he storms out, leaving a tense silence in his wake. No one dares to speak, knowing that anything they say would be pointless. The door slams shut, and the meeting disbands soon after.
But you don’t leave. You don’t really have anywhere to go. Not yet.
You make your way to the Ferrari canteen, your footsteps echoing in the empty corridors. It’s one of those rare moments when you’re not chasing a headline, not following the usual routine, and the monotony of it all feels like a relief. You order two beers without thinking. You don’t need two, but for some reason, it feels right. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the crash, or maybe it’s just the weight of everything—the pressure, the disappointment, the simmering frustration with Jeonghan that you haven’t had the chance to process yet. The beers are cold, the glass bottles slick with condensation, and when you walk outside to the grandstands, you find him.
Jeonghan is sitting alone, his back against the metal railing, the crowd long gone. The air is warm, the kind of summer heat that clings to your skin and makes everything feel a little heavier. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back as he stares at the sky, and for a moment, you wonder if he even notices you approaching.
Without saying a word, you sit beside him, the soft crunch of your shoes against the gravel the only sound in the stillness. You don’t offer him a drink immediately. Instead, you hold the bottles in your hands, feeling the chill seep into your palms, letting the silence stretch between you.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, you hand him one of the beers. He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the faintest shift in his posture, a soft hum of acknowledgement as he accepts it, cracking the cap with a quick twist.
“Jeonghan,” you say, breaking the silence, your voice quieter than you expect it to be. He doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. You take a sip of your own beer, the bitter taste grounding you in the moment. You can feel the tension that’s been building between you both, the weight of the unspoken words, but for now, you can’t bring yourself to make him speak.
Then he does. “Full access, huh?” His voice is rough, the teasing edge to his words gone, replaced by something heavier. The bitterness is unmistakable. “You must be thrilled, getting to see me crash out in front of the entire team.”
You almost choke on your beer. You can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or genuinely hurt, but it stings regardless.
“I’m not,” you say quickly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. You wish he would look at you, but he’s staring straight ahead, his jaw still tight, muscles still coiled like a spring. "I don’t want that, Jeonghan. What don’t you get?"
“No?” He tilts his head slightly, but his gaze stays fixed. “I would think Miss Scathing Articles would relish the chance to tear me down again.”
A sharp retort sat on your tongue, but you swallowed it. There was no point. Instead, you looked away, focusing on the distant horizon where the racetrack lay, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. "I don’t," you said quietly. "I’m not interested in tearing you down. I never have been."
Jeonghan’s laugh was hollow, almost like a scoff. "Color me surprised."
A beat passed between you both, the air thick with unspoken words. You took a sip of your beer, now lukewarm and slightly flat, but it didn’t matter. Neither of you had the luxury of pretending everything was fine anymore.
He finally turns to you, his eyes meeting yours; there’s something in the way he looks at you—raw, vulnerable, almost like he’s waiting for the punchline of some cruel joke.
“I’m sorry,” you say after a long silence, your voice softer this time, barely above a whisper. You’re not sure if he hears you, but he looks at you with an expression that makes you feel like you’ve just stepped into a minefield.
He doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, he exhales a long breath, rubbing his forehead with his fingers as though the weight of it all is finally catching up to him. The tension between you hangs heavy in the warm summer air, the quiet hum of distant cicadas filling the space where words should be. Jeonghan takes another sip of his beer, the bottle pressed lightly against his lips as though it might cool the heat simmering under his skin. He looks tired—no, more than tired. Worn down. The type of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could fix.
“You don’t have to apologize,” he says finally, the words coming out uneven, almost like they’re foreign on his tongue. His voice is softer now, missing the sharp edges that had cut into you moments before. “You were just doing your job.”
“Jeonghan,” you start, but he holds up a hand, silencing you.
“No, really.” He forces a thin smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the kind of expression you’ve seen him use in press conferences—a shield, practiced and perfect. “You’re here because Ferrari told you to be. Because someone thought it’d be a great PR move. You don’t owe me anything beyond that.”
The words sting, even though you know they shouldn’t. He’s not wrong. This isn’t your world, not really. But you can’t help the knot tightening in your chest as you watch him retreat into himself, the walls going up before your eyes.
“I’m not here because they told me to be,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “I’m here because I wanted to be. Because I saw the crash, Jeonghan, and I—” You stop, swallowing hard as the memory flashes behind your eyes again. The twisted metal, the plume of smoke, the moment you thought—
“I was scared,” you admit, your voice cracking slightly. “Not as a journalist. Not as someone with a job to do. As someone who—” Jeonghan’s gaze snaps to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, but there’s something vulnerable there, too, something unguarded.
You don't finish the sentence.
Jeonghan watches you closely now, his beer suspended mid-air, forgotten. The sharpness in his gaze softens, replaced by something else—curiosity, maybe, or an unease he doesn’t quite know how to address.
The air between you feels heavy, suffocating in its quiet. You can still hear the faint echoes of the crash in your mind, the awful screech of metal against asphalt, the split-second horror of thinking you’d just seen him—
He sets the bottle down with a soft clink against the railing, breaking the spell.
“Scared, huh?” His voice is quieter now, and there’s a touch of disbelief, as though he’s trying to decide whether to accept your words or dismiss them.
You nod, throat tightening as you try to push through the lump that’s settled there. “Terrified,” you admit, the word feeling foreign and vulnerable on your tongue. “Not because of what I’d have to write, but because I thought—” You bite down on the rest of the sentence, unwilling to say it aloud.
Jeonghan exhales, long and slow, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he leans back against the railing. “I’m fine,” he says eventually, the words flat and unconvincing. He glances at you, his lips pressing into a faintly wry smile. “A little bruised. A little pissed. But I’m fine.”
It’s not enough to untangle the knot in your chest, but it’s a start. You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything else.
He finishes his beer in a few swallows, the motion oddly decisive, before standing and brushing off his pants. For a moment, you think he’s about to leave without another word, the tension between you both left unresolved.
But then he turns, holding out a hand toward you. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a faint curve to his lips that feels almost... playful.
“Friends?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, his hair falling into his eyes. “If you’re going to be hanging around the garage all season, might as well, y’know?”
You blink at him, taken aback. The man who’d stormed out of the debriefing room in a fit of rage, who’d spat barbs at you moments ago, now stood here offering a truce like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“Friends,” you echo, narrowing your eyes as you take his hand. It’s warm, his grip firm but not overbearing, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if this is another performance—an act to keep you at arm’s length.
But when he pulls you to your feet, there’s something genuine in his expression, something almost relieved.
“You better not make me regret this,” he says, letting go of your hand as he shoves his now-empty beer bottle into your other one. “And don’t think this means you’re off the hook for the shit you wrote.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as he smirks.
For the first time all day, the knot in your chest loosens just slightly. You follow him back toward the paddock, your steps lighter than they’ve been in weeks.
And for now, that’s enough.
FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS AUSTRIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Red Bull Ring
The Red Bull Ring stretches out before you like a postcard of precision. Nestled in the Austrian hills, the track gleams under the soft morning sun, its curves and straights inviting the first roar of engines. The garage is alive with motion—engineers bent over laptops, mechanics tightening bolts, and the hum of anticipation that comes with any race weekend.
You step into the Ferrari garage, an interloper in a sea of red. Jeonghan’s car gleams in its designated spot, pristine and ready, as though it hadn’t been a crumpled wreck just a week ago. The team works around it like a well-oiled machine, barely sparing you a glance. You’re supposed to be here, technically, but that doesn’t stop the slight twinge of unease as you find a quiet corner near the monitors.
“Back again?”
The voice is unmistakable, light and teasing. You turn, and there he is: Yoon Jeonghan in his fireproofs, the sleeves tied around his waist, his white undershirt faintly clinging to his frame. He looks every bit the picture of calm, like he hasn’t spent the past few days fielding press questions about his crash.
“Didn’t think you’d miss the chance to watch me run into someone,” he adds, smirking as he adjusts his gloves.
You raise an eyebrow. “Is this your way of saying you’re aiming for Aston Martin?”
He laughs, a real laugh this time, and it’s startling how much it changes the air around you. “Not today. But I’ll keep you updated if Seokmin starts driving like a rookie again.”
“Careful, Jeonghan,” you shoot back, crossing your arms. “I might put that in my next article.”
He leans casually against the wall, his dark eyes scanning your face with an intensity that’s become familiar in the past few weeks. But there’s no edge to it today, no armor. Just him, relaxed and—for once—almost easygoing.
“You’re not as scary as you think you are,” he says after a beat, his voice low enough that the hum of the garage nearly drowns it out.
You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the grin that creeps onto your face. “And you’re not as charming as you think you are.”
He tilts his head, considering this like it’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all day. “Fair. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”
“Purely professional,” you quip, ignoring the way his smirk grows.
Before he can reply, the engineer by the monitors calls him over, gesturing to the screen. Jeonghan holds up a finger, signaling for a moment, then turns back to you.
“Stay out of trouble, yeah?” His voice is lighter now, teasing but not in the way that cuts. It feels natural, like banter between...well, maybe not quite friends. Not yet. But something close.
You shrug, watching as he walks toward his team, the confidence in his stride unmistakable. The tension that had lingered after the crash feels like it’s finally begun to dissolve, replaced by something steadier. Not quite trust, but something adjacent.
As you settle into the corner, notebook in hand, you can’t help but glance at him every so often. On the surface, it’s just another practice session, another day at the track. But for the first time in weeks, it feels like something close to normal.
FORMULA 1 QATAR AIRWAYS BRITISH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Silverstone Circuit
Silverstone roars to life under a blazing sun, the grandstands filled to capacity with fans waving flags and wearing team colors. The overcast sky has burned off, leaving the track shimmering under the summer sun. It’s one of the biggest stages of the season, and Jeonghan delivers a masterclass in qualifying, the finely tuned Ferrari underneath him responding to every input like an extension of himself. The sharp smell of rubber and fuel lingers in the air, mingling with the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
He’s back.
The final lap times on the leaderboard tell the story: pole position. Ferrari’s garage is electric with celebration, engineers clapping each other on the back, a cheer rising when Jeonghan steps into the swarm of red. His team surrounds him, hands gripping his shoulders, voices shouting praise over the din.
He grins, wide and unguarded, the weight of the last few weeks lifting ever so slightly. Spain and Canada had shaken him, but this—this feels like a reckoning. Proof that the mistakes and setbacks weren’t the whole story.
“Perfect lap, Jeonghan,” his engineer says, beaming as he hands him a water bottle.
He nods in acknowledgment, taking a swig, his heart still racing as he glances around the paddock. The sun is high now, glinting off the sleek curves of the cars lined up in parc fermé. Jeonghan’s gaze sweeps over the crowd, soaking in the energy—until he sees you.
You’re standing just outside the McLaren garage, the vibrant orange of their branding a stark contrast to the reds and blacks of his world. You’re leaning against a barrier, the breeze tugging at your hair as you laugh at something Mingyu says. Your face is so open, so full of light, that it’s almost magnetic.
Mingyu gestures animatedly, clearly in the middle of some ridiculous story, his grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s. You throw your head back with a laugh, and Jeonghan feels a tightness in his chest he can’t quite place.
The joy that had filled him moments ago flickers.
Why does it bother him?
The thought lingers as he watches you, his water bottle dangling forgotten in his hand. Jeonghan isn’t used to this kind of gnawing discomfort. He’s competitive, sure, but this is something else entirely.
Jealousy.
The sun is lower in the sky when he finds you, his long strides purposeful as he weaves through the paddock. The golden hour light makes everything seem softer, but Jeonghan’s mood is anything but. His thoughts from earlier have been simmering, the warmth of victory eclipsed by a frustration he can’t shake.
You’re leaning against a railing, scrolling on your phone when he approaches.
“Shouldn’t you be in the Ferrari garage?” he says, his tone sharper than he intends.
You blink up at him, startled. “I was just catching up with Mingyu.”
Jeonghan crosses his arms, his brow furrowing. “Funny. I thought you were doing a full-access piece on Ferrari, not McLaren.”
There’s something in his voice—an edge that sets your teeth on edge. “I am,” you reply slowly, standing up straighter. “What’s this about?”
He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “Is that why your articles about Mingyu are always glowing? What, are you sleeping with him?”
The accusation is like a slap, cutting through the air with a harshness that leaves you stunned.
Your expression shifts, disbelief giving way to anger. “Are you serious right now?”
Jeonghan doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw tight. The regret in his eyes is fleeting, buried under the weight of his own misplaced frustration.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” you snap, your voice trembling with fury. “It’s always one step forward, two steps back with you, Jeonghan.”
His lips part as if to reply, but you don’t wait for him to dig himself deeper. You storm off, your footsteps echoing against the paddock floor. The sting of his words lingers, but so does the look on his face as you walk away.
Jeonghan stands there, watching you go, the tension in his shoulders giving way to a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knows he’s crossed a line, and the weight of his own stupidity settles heavily over him.
The knock on your hotel room door comes before sunrise, soft but insistent. You groan, burying your face in your pillow before dragging yourself to the door.
When you open it, the hallway is empty. But at your feet sits a bouquet wrapped in crisp white paper, tied with a simple satin ribbon.
Roses. Soft blush pink, their petals perfectly unfurled, paired with delicate sprigs of baby’s breath.
The arrangement is beautiful, almost heartbreakingly so, the kind of bouquet that feels like a story in itself. You crouch to pick it up, your fingers brushing over the velvety petals. The faint, sweet scent of roses fills the air, mixing with the crisp morning chill that seeps into the hallway.
Nestled among the flowers is a small envelope.
You pull it out, your thumb brushing over the edge of the paper as you open it. Inside, scrawled in a slightly messy hand that’s unmistakably Jeonghan’s, are two simple words:
I’m sorry.
You glance down the hallway instinctively, half-expecting to see him lingering in the shadows. But it’s empty, as silent as it was before you opened the door.
You stand there for a moment longer, the bouquet in your arms and the note trembling slightly in your fingers. The apology feels heavier than the flowers, weighted by the memory of his words from yesterday.
He didn’t need to apologize like this, you think. He could have texted, could have mumbled something in passing when you inevitably crossed paths today. But instead, he’d gone to the trouble of figuring out your favorite flowers—roses and baby’s breath, a detail you don’t even remember telling him.
The realization stirs something in you, softening the edges of your anger.
The roses sit on the desk as you get ready for the day, the baby’s breath adding a delicate touch to the arrangement. The card leans against the vase, its two-word apology a quiet presence in the room.
Somewhere in the city, Silverstone is waking up, the air already buzzing with anticipation for the race. But here, in the stillness of your hotel room, you take a moment to breathe, to let the gesture sink in.
Jeonghan’s voice echoes faintly in your mind, the memory of yesterday’s confrontation still fresh. And yet, as you glance at the roses again, the sting of his words begins to dull, replaced by something softer, something not yet ready to be named.
The pre-race buzz was electric. The roar of engines echoed faintly in the distance, a constant backdrop to the paddock’s chaotic rhythm. Mechanics zipped between garages, reporters hustled to get last-minute quotes, and fans outside the barricades chanted their favorite drivers’ names. Amid all this, your footsteps fell heavy against the asphalt, your target in sight: Yoon Jeonghan.
There he was, leaning against the nose of his red Ferrari, his race suit a striking flash of scarlet that caught the sunlight and made him look annoyingly pristine for someone who had caused you so much grief. He was chatting with an engineer, that easy, charming smile plastered on his face like he hadn’t thrown baseless accusations your way less than 24 hours ago.
You marched toward him, purpose sharpening your steps. The bouquet from this morning was still vivid in your mind—blush pink roses, soft and elegant, their delicate petals almost glowing against the green of the baby’s breath, a stark contrast to the seething frustration you still carried. And the note—just two infuriatingly simple words—burned in your pocket, a reminder of the apology you hadn’t quite accepted yet.
“Jeonghan,” you called, your voice cutting through the low hum of conversation around you.
He glanced up, his casual demeanor faltering for a split second when he saw you. Then, like a switch had flipped, his smile returned. “Oh, hey.”
You stopped a foot away, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “How did you know my favorite flowers?”
His lips quirked into a faint smirk, and he leaned ever so slightly against the car, as if the conversation were a game he’d already won. “Oh good, they got delivered to the right room.”
“Jeonghan,” you said, your tone sharper now, “don’t deflect.”
“Deflect what?” He tilted his head, his eyes sparkling with that infuriating glint of mischief that made you want to throttle him and laugh in equal measure.
“JEONGHAN.” The snap in your voice turned a few heads nearby, but you didn’t care.
He sighed dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fine. A certain papaya-colored birdie told me.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Papaya-colored birdie... Mingyu?”
Jeonghan hesitated, his grin faltering for just a moment. You saw the gears turning in his head, calculating whether to deflect again or come clean.
“Spit it out, Yoon Jeonghan,” you said, stepping closer, “or I’ll never write a single kind thing about you for the rest of your life.”
His mouth twitched, caught between amusement and resignation. Finally, he shrugged, his voice almost too casual. “Childhood friends, eh? You and Mingyu? That explains yesterday.”
You blinked, thrown by the abrupt shift in topic. “Don’t change the subject,” you snapped, though his words tugged at something in the back of your mind. “You really went to Kim Mingyu for help? After accusing me of—”
“I might have... aggressively encouraged Mingyu to spill everything he knew about you,” Jeonghan admitted, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
You raised a brow. “Aggressively encouraged?”
“Fine,” he said with a huff. “I threatened to steal his steering wheel from the McLaren garage if he didn’t talk.”
Despite your irritation, a snort escaped you. “And he just handed over my life story, huh?”
Jeonghan crossed his arms, mirroring your stance. “What can I say? He’s surprisingly chatty when he thinks you’re in trouble. Very protective, that one.”
You clenched your jaw, the pieces clicking into place. “So, that’s why you jumped to conclusions yesterday. You thought—”
He cut you off, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “I know. I was out of line. That’s what the flowers were for.”
For a moment, the noise of the paddock seemed to fade. The wind carried the faint scent of burning rubber, and the distant cheers of fans reached your ears like a muted hum. Jeonghan’s expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something quieter, almost vulnerable.
“For what it’s worth,” he added, his tone lower now, “I really am sorry.”
You exhaled slowly, the weight of the last day lifting slightly from your chest. “You’re lucky I like roses.”
“I know,” he replied, his grin returning, lighter this time, almost boyish. “Good taste, huh?”
“Good recovery, at least,” you muttered, your lips twitching despite yourself.
Jeonghan’s laughter followed you as you turned and walked away, the sound less grating than it had been the day before. It wasn’t forgiveness—not yet—but it felt like a start.
FORMULA 1 HUNGARIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Hungaroring
The Hungarian Grand Prix paddock was buzzing, but you could tell something was off. The sound of chatter and engines felt like distant echoes as you stood by the garage, watching Jeonghan’s Ferrari pull back into its stall after a less-than-stellar FP1. The car’s engine quieted as the mechanics immediately went to work, inspecting it. But it wasn’t the car that caught your attention—it was Jeonghan himself.
He was unusually quiet, his usual cocky confidence buried beneath the furrow of his brow as he stripped off his helmet and gloves. His gaze was focused on the car, but it was clear his mind wasn’t in the garage. He seemed... distant, almost frustrated. The others in the team were busy talking strategy, discussing the data, but Jeonghan barely spoke up during the debriefing. It was strange.
The team finished up, but you noticed Jeonghan lingered near the back, hands on his hips, staring at his car like it had personally betrayed him. It wasn’t like him to be this quiet, especially not after a session where he was so used to being in control. You could practically feel the weight of his thoughts from where you stood.
You didn’t want to be intrusive, but you couldn’t ignore it—something was wrong.
You walked over, careful not to disturb the mechanics who were still busy at work. "Jeonghan," you called softly, stepping beside him. He turned to you, but his eyes didn’t quite meet yours. They were focused on something distant, like he was seeing the track or the car but not really seeing them.
“Everything okay?” you asked, trying to keep the concern out of your voice, but it slipped through anyway. “You’ve been quiet since the debriefing.”
He gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine.”
You weren’t buying it. You had known Jeonghan long enough to recognize the way he carried his frustration. It wasn’t the kind of thing that could be hidden behind a casual smile, no matter how practiced.
“You sure? You know you don’t have to be okay all the time, right?” you pressed, stepping a little closer. The air around you felt heavy, charged with unspoken words.
Jeonghan exhaled sharply, his fingers digging into his gloves before he slowly pulled them off. He seemed to be gathering himself before speaking. “I hate it,” he muttered, and his voice had a rawness to it that caught you off guard. “Not being perfect. I... I can’t stand it.”
“Not being perfect?” you echoed, surprised. Jeonghan, the ever-cocky, confident driver, admitting that?
He looked up at you then, his eyes intense, as though he was searching for something in your gaze. “Yeah. I know it sounds stupid,” he said with a wry laugh that lacked its usual humor. “But it’s who I am. I’m a perfectionist, always have been. Every little mistake... it sticks with me. I can’t just move on. I think about it. Constantly.”
You watched him, absorbing his words, the vulnerability in his tone feeling like a crack in his otherwise polished exterior. Jeonghan, always so composed on the surface, always teasing and joking, was admitting something deeper now—something more personal.
“Is that why you were so quiet during the debriefing?” you asked, keeping your voice soft.
“Yeah,” he muttered, his gaze flicking to the car again. “I know I didn’t have the best session, but it feels like... like I failed. Like I’m not doing my job right. I could’ve done better.” His jaw clenched as if he were angry at himself.
The silence that fell between you was thick, almost suffocating, and you could feel the tension radiating off him. You hadn’t seen him like this before—not with this level of self-doubt.
“You’re not failing,” you said, your voice firm. “You’re allowed to have bad sessions. Hell, everyone has bad days. But that doesn’t mean you’re failing. It’s just a part of it.”
Jeonghan glanced over at you, his lips curving into a small, grateful smile. “You really believe that?”
“Yeah, I do,” you said, nodding. “I mean... it’s not all about being perfect. Sometimes it’s the mistakes that push you to be better.”
Jeonghan looked down at his hands, still clutching the gloves, and you could see the gears turning in his mind. “I know. But it doesn’t make it any easier.”
“I get it,” you said, crossing your arms and leaning against the side of the garage. “But you’ve got a whole team behind you. And we all know what you’re capable of. You’ll get there. It’s just one session.”
He finally met your gaze, his eyes softening. “Thanks.”
There was a long pause, the sound of distant chatter and the hum of the paddock filling the silence. You were so used to Jeonghan’s teasing and cocky attitude that this quieter, more introspective side of him felt like a different person altogether. And maybe it was—it was the side that wasn’t the driver who fought for every fraction of a second on the track, the side that just wanted to be good enough.
“It’s not stupid, you know,” you added quietly. “Caring about being good at what you do isn’t stupid. It’s just... exhausting sometimes.”
Jeonghan laughed lightly, the sound a bit more genuine this time. “You have no idea. But I’m getting better at... handling it. I think.”
You smiled at him, feeling a strange sense of relief wash over you. There was still that hint of unease in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders, but for the first time all day, he seemed a little more at ease with himself.
As you turned to leave, you shot him one last look. “Just don’t be so hard on yourself next time, okay?”
“I’ll try,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. And for a moment, you almost believed him.
The stands were eerily quiet now, a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd just hours earlier. You wandered through the empty paddock, your steps unhurried as the hum of the night settled around you. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint clatter of the Ferrari team packing up, but Jeonghan wasn’t with them.
You’d seen him after the race, his jaw tight as he climbed out of the car. Finishing P5 wasn’t bad by any measure, but it wasn’t what he wanted. And with Mingyu overtaking him in the Driver’s Championship by just twenty points, it was clear Jeonghan had taken it as a personal blow. His disappointment hung around him like a shadow.
It wasn’t hard to guess where he’d gone.
Sure enough, when you climbed up into the grandstands, there he was. Sitting alone in the middle row, still in his Ferrari race suit, unzipped to the waist to reveal his black base layer. His hair was tousled from the helmet, his posture slouched, shoulders hunched as though the weight of the day hadn’t yet left him. Beside him were two bottles of beer, one already open and resting loosely in his hand.
You approached quietly, but Jeonghan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn around when you reached him, your feet crunching softly against the debris of the crowd—discarded programs, empty wrappers, and forgotten flags. He must’ve known it was you, though. He always seemed to know.
“Mind if I join you?” you asked, your voice breaking the stillness.
He finally glanced up, his expression unreadable. “It’s a free grandstand,” he muttered, gesturing to the empty seats around him.
You slid into the seat next to him, the cool metal chilling through your clothes. Jeonghan’s gaze returned to the track ahead, where the floodlights illuminated the ghost of the race. He took a sip of his beer, silent.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable—just heavy. You could feel the frustration radiating off him, the bitterness that came with being so close but not close enough.
“You should drink this before it gets warm,” he said suddenly, pushing the unopened beer toward you.
You picked it up, twisting off the cap with a small smile. “Thanks. Not exactly the post-race celebration you were hoping for, huh?”
He huffed a humorless laugh. “Not exactly.”
The silence fell again, but this time you weren’t willing to let it linger. You turned to him, watching the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the neck of the bottle. “You’re still in the fight, you know,” you said gently.
Jeonghan’s lips quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Well, you are,” you insisted. “Three points. That’s nothing. You’ve come back from worse.”
He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tilted his head back, looking up at the dark sky above the track. “You don’t get it,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “It’s not just about the points. It’s about everything. The mistakes, the pressure... the expectations. It’s like... like I have to prove that I deserve to be here. Every single time.”
“You do deserve to be here,” you said firmly, the conviction in your voice enough to make him turn to you. “You wouldn’t be in that seat if you didn’t. You’re one of the best drivers on the grid, Jeonghan. Everyone knows it. Even Mingyu. Especially Mingyu.”
Jeonghan scoffed, a flicker of a smile breaking through his stormy expression. “Bet he’s loving this right now.”
“Maybe,” you said, leaning back against the seat. “But knowing Mingyu, he’s probably already plotting ways to rub it in at the next race.”
That earned a laugh, small but real, and the sound was enough to make you smile too.
“You’re good at this,” he said after a moment, his tone softer now. “Talking me off the ledge.”
“Someone has to,” you replied with a shrug. “And honestly? I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. One race doesn’t define you, Jeonghan. You’re not just a number on the leaderboard.”
He looked at you then, his gaze lingering. There was something in his expression—gratitude, maybe, or something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name. “Thanks,” he said simply, the word weighted with more than just appreciation.
You clinked your bottle against his. “Anytime.”
The two of you sat there for a while longer, the weight of the day slowly lifting as the quiet of the night wrapped around you. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—for now. And as Jeonghan leaned back in his seat, his lips curving into the faintest of smiles, you knew he’d be okay. Eventually.
You took another sip of your beer, the chill of the bottle grounding you as Jeonghan’s earlier tension began to melt away. The ghost of a smile still lingered on his lips, and for the first time since you’d climbed up to find him, his shoulders seemed lighter.
“So,” he said, breaking the quiet, his voice tinged with a familiar mischievousness, “what’s your headline going to be this week?”
You raised an eyebrow, scoffing softly as you bumped his shoulder with your own. “You’ll see it when you see it, Yoon Jeonghan. No spoilers.”
His chuckle was low and warm, a sound that felt like the first crack of sunlight after a storm. “Should I be worried?”
“Always,” you replied, the corners of your lips quirking upward. “But maybe not too much this time.”
He gave you a curious look, his expression halfway between wary and amused, but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back, his gaze drifting back to the track. The night was calm now, the weight of the day’s disappointment tucked into the folds of shared silence.
The headline hit Monday morning, and Jeonghan had to admit, you’d delivered once again.
Ferrari Falters in Hungary: Yoon Jeonghan's Fight for the Title Tightens
The article was incisive, as sharp as he’d expected. You broke down his struggles in FP1, critiqued his race strategy, and even called out the overtaking move that cost him crucial points. It was the kind of detailed, no-nonsense analysis you were known for, and Jeonghan read every word with a mix of frustration and admiration.
But at the bottom, tucked beneath the last paragraph, there was a footnote—barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.
“Despite Hungary’s setback, Yoon Jeonghan remains one of the most popular and formidable contenders for the championship. With only twenty points separating him from the lead, Belgium offers a more than fair chance for the Ferrari star to close the gap and reclaim his momentum.”
Jeonghan blinked, then read it again, a slow smile tugging at his lips. He leaned back in his chair, the paper still in hand, and shook his head.
“Subtle,” he muttered, though his tone was anything but annoyed. It was gratitude, warmth, and a flicker of hope all wrapped together in a single word.
He might have faltered in Hungary, but you’d reminded him—the season wasn’t even half over. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t fighting alone.
FORMULA 1 ROLEX BELGIAN GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps
The weekend at Spa began like a dream.
The legendary Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps was a driver’s haven and a monster in equal measure. The longest track on the calendar, its 7 kilometers of asphalt wound through the lush forests of the Ardennes, combining high-speed straights, sweeping corners, and the unpredictable challenges of its microclimate. The iconic Eau Rouge and Raidillon dared drivers to go flat out, while the downhill plunge into Pouhon tested their courage and precision. It was a place where skill separated the good from the great.
Jeonghan thrived on its challenge.
FP1 and FP2 were his playgrounds, his Ferrari gliding through corners like it was made for this circuit alone. The car was responsive and balanced, every adjustment in setup shaving precious milliseconds off his laps. Jeonghan pushed it to its limits, feeling every bump and curve beneath him as if Spa’s asphalt were an extension of himself.
By the time he returned to the garage, his name was at the top of the timesheets, and his team wore expressions of pride and relief. Engineers crowded around him during the debrief, their excitement palpable. Even Mingyu wandered over to toss a mockingly impressed, “Don’t get used to it, Yoon,” in his direction.
Jeonghan, basking in the buzz of dominance, had only winked.
But then came the penalty.
A breach in power unit regulations—an unavoidable technicality that slapped him with a grid penalty. It was frustratingly bureaucratic, a punishment that felt out of his control and yet deeply personal. His pole position was stripped away, and he was relegated to P10.
In the Ferrari garage, Jeonghan leaned against the back wall, arms crossed, the weight of his helmet heavy in his hand. The rhythmic hum of power tools and bursts of chatter around him did little to soothe his simmering frustration.
It wasn’t just the penalty—it was the sting of perfection slipping through his fingers, a weekend that had started flawlessly now teetering on the edge of disappointment.
He glanced up, ready to bury himself in the chaos of the paddock, and froze.
You were there, leaning casually against the pit wall, chatting with one of the mechanics. The glow of the overhead lights caught in your hair, and despite the whirlwind of activity, you were a picture of calm. Your hands moved as you spoke, animated yet confident, the faintest flicker of a smirk playing on your lips.
His gaze lingered.
It hit him—a memory of your words from Hungary, your unwavering belief cloaked in sharp wit: “A more than fair chance to close the gap.”
For the first time since the penalty, the gap didn’t feel insurmountable.
He didn’t realize he’d been staring until you caught his eye. Your brows rose, and you tilted your head in mock curiosity before excusing yourself from the mechanic and walking toward him.
“You okay?” you asked, your voice laced with a note of amusement and something softer underneath.
Jeonghan shrugged, plastering on his signature cocky grin. “Since when are you worried about me?”
Your lips twitched in a barely concealed smile. “Oh, I’m not worried. Just curious. I wanted to see how Ferrari’s golden boy handles a little adversity.”
His grin faltered for the briefest moment before sharpening again. “Keep watching,” he said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I might surprise you.”
You tilted your chin, your expression a blend of challenge and intrigue. “Don’t disappoint me then.”
The way you said it—like you meant it—sparked something fierce in him.
As you turned to leave, the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air, anchoring him to the moment. Jeonghan watched you disappear into the paddock, your confident stride a sharp contrast to his brooding, and for the first time that day, a smirk tugged at his lips.
It wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.
P10 to P1.
It was the kind of race drivers dreamed of—the kind that earned its place in highlight reels for years to come.
The chaos began even before the lights went out. Rain had threatened all morning, dark clouds heavy over the Ardennes, but it held off just long enough to keep everyone guessing. Jeonghan sat in his Ferrari on the grid, surrounded by cars that had no business being ahead of him. He’d spent every second since the penalty recalibrating his mindset, shifting his frustration into fuel.
As the lights went out, his singular focus kicked in.
Turn 1, La Source: Jeonghan dived inside, threading through a gap that barely existed. The radio crackled with his engineer’s voice, commending his clean move, but he barely registered it. Eau Rouge and Raidillon loomed ahead, their uphill sweep demanding precision, bravery, and trust in his car.
He took the corners flat out.
By Lap 5, Jeonghan was in P7. His mind churned as he studied the cars ahead, each one a problem to solve. Every braking point, every shift in weight through the curves—it all required perfect execution.
But then came the rain.
It began as a drizzle at Pouhon, the light sheen on the track turning treacherous by the next sector. Jeonghan’s grip on the wheel tightened as he adjusted his lines, feeling for every ounce of traction.
“Box this lap for inters,” his engineer instructed.
“No,” Jeonghan replied, his voice steady. He could feel it—the balance of risk and reward. He stayed out one lap longer, the gamble paying off as he overtook two cars struggling on the wrong tires. When he finally pitted, the stop was flawless.
By Lap 20, the red flag came out, the rain too heavy for safety. Jeonghan sat in the pit lane during the suspension, helmet off, sweat beading his brow. His thoughts wandered for the first time since the race began.
Your words came back to him.
"Jeonghan’s perfectionism is both his weapon and his curse. When he is at his best, he’s untouchable. But the question remains: can he handle the pressure when the odds aren’t in his favor?"
His jaw tightened. You were right—about the pressure, about the way he held himself to standards so high they sometimes crushed him. But you’d also written something else.
"A more than fair chance to close the gap."
He wasn’t sure why, but that sentence anchored him.
When the race restarted, Jeonghan was a man possessed.
Sector by sector, he clawed his way through the field, each overtake cleaner and bolder than the last. At Blanchimont, he overtook Soonyoung in a move that was half instinct, half calculated risk. His engineer’s voice came over the radio in a disbelieving laugh: “Mate, you’re insane!”
By the final lap, he was leading. The roar of the crowd blended with the steady beat of his heart as he crossed the finish line, victory his once more.
The pit lane was a blur of celebration. His team engulfed him in a sea of red, their cheers drowning out even the din of Spa’s loyal fans. Soonyoung appeared out of nowhere, throwing an arm around Jeonghan’s shoulders.
“Winning in Spa from P10? You better believe I’m buying the first round,” Soonyoung declared, grinning despite his P2 finish.
Jeonghan laughed, the sound ragged and raw from effort, but his mind wasn’t entirely in the moment.
Later, in the quiet of the motorhome, when the adrenaline had settled and exhaustion was creeping in, Jeonghan pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over the search bar before typing your name.
The article was already live.
His breath caught as he read your headline:
From P10 to Perfection: Yoon Jeonghan’s Masterclass at Spa
It was glowing, but in your unmistakable style—balanced, sharp, and honest. You praised his overtakes, his strategy, and his ability to rise under pressure. Your writing was like poetry, an ode to his resilience, his precision in the rain, his ability to claw victory from the jaws of defeat. But what caught him off guard was the final line.
"With the championship fight closer than ever, it’s not a question of if Jeonghan will close the gap. It’s a question of when."
Jeonghan read it three times, his chest tight with something that felt almost like pride.
For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to believe them.
The bass thrummed low and heavy, a pulse that seemed to reverberate straight through the packed room.
Jeonghan leaned against the bar, his drink in hand, his racing suit long since replaced by a fitted black shirt with the top buttons undone. The sleeves were rolled just enough to expose his forearms, the dark fabric clinging to his frame in a way that effortlessly commanded attention. Around him, the club buzzed with post-race energy—drivers, engineers, and team members alike reveling in the victory and chaos of the day.
Soonyoung was next to him, buzzing with his usual infectious energy. Jeonghan caught snippets of his teammate’s banter, but his mind was elsewhere.
“God, Jeonghan, if you stare any harder, she’s going to spontaneously combust,” Soonyoung teased, sipping his drink with a knowing smirk.
Jeonghan blinked, startled. “What?”
Soonyoung rolled his eyes, nodding toward the dance floor. “Her. You’ve been staring at her like she’s a particularly tricky apex all night.”
Jeonghan followed his gaze.
There you were, dancing with a group of Ferrari engineers, the colored lights spilling across your frame, making your skin glow. You laughed at something one of them said, your head tilting back, your hair swaying with every movement. Jeonghan’s grip on his glass tightened.
“You’re hopeless,” Soonyoung said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just go talk to her. Or better yet, dance with her. God knows you’ll make everyone else jealous.”
Jeonghan scoffed, setting his empty glass down on the bar with a sharp clink. “You’re imagining things.”
“Sure, and you just happened to spend the past ten minutes glaring at the poor guy she’s dancing with.”
Jeonghan shot him a warning glance, but Soonyoung only grinned wider.
“Look, you’ve already won at Spa,” he added, leaning closer. “Might as well take another victory tonight.”
Jeonghan shook his head, but the heat in his chest betrayed him. He cast one last glance at you before downing the rest of his drink and pushing off the bar.
The crowd was a blur of movement, bodies packed tightly together under the pulsing lights, but Jeonghan moved with purpose. He found you easily, your energy magnetic even in the chaos.
The beat shifted as he approached, slowing to something deeper, sultrier. He stepped in behind you, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin.
“Enjoying yourself?” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your ear.
You turned slightly, glancing at him over your shoulder. Your lips curved into a teasing smile, your eyes dancing in the dim light. “Jeonghan. Didn’t think you were the clubbing type.”
He smirked, his hand brushing lightly against your waist. “I make exceptions for special occasions.”
You arched a brow, leaning back into him just enough to blur the line between teasing and inviting. “Special occasions, huh? Like winning at Spa?”
“Something like that,” he said, his voice a touch quieter now. His fingers rested lightly on your waist, the heat of his touch sending a shiver up your spine.
You turned to face him fully, your hands drifting up to rest on his shoulders, playful and almost casual. “So? What’s it like being untouchable?”
He chuckled softly, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips and back again. “You’d know,” he said smoothly, “if you were paying attention during my races instead of writing snarky articles.”
You laughed, a soft, melodious sound that made his chest tighten. “I did pay attention,” you countered, leaning in slightly, your lips barely a breath away from his ear. “You were alright, I guess.”
“Alright?” he repeated, feigning offense. “You called it a masterclass. Don’t think I didn’t read your article.”
Your grin widened, the fire in your eyes matching the teasing edge in your tone. “Oh, that? Don’t let it go to your head, Yoon. I still expect a proper interview.”
His hands shifted to your hips, grounding you against him as he swayed slightly to the beat, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you actually like me.”
“And if I did?” you teased back, your voice soft but no less challenging.
For a moment, the world around you fell away. The music, the lights, the press of the crowd—it all faded as the space between you closed. Jeonghan’s eyes lingered on your lips, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the adrenaline of racing.
Then, just as you tilted your head, leaning closer—
“JEONGHAN!”
The moment shattered.
Sunwoo’s voice boomed over the music as he appeared out of nowhere, the mechanic’s grin wide and oblivious. “Bro, come on! You can flirt later! Dance with me!”
Jeonghan groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder as your laughter spilled over him like warm sunlight.
“This isn’t over,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.
You pulled back, still laughing, and met his gaze with a wink. “I’ll hold you to that.”
FORMULA 1 HEINEKEN DUTCH GRAND PRIX 2024Track: Zandvoort
The paddock at Zandvoort was always one of Jeonghan’s favorites. The smell of fresh sea air mixed with the unmistakable tang of fuel and rubber, while the orange-clad crowd painted the stands in a fiery glow. Jeonghan didn’t even mind the noise—something about the Netherlands had a way of energizing him.
He was walking back from the driver’s parade when he spotted you outside the Ferrari hospitality tent, a coffee in hand, your eyes scanning the throng of people with practiced ease. The crisp breeze tugged at your hair, and Jeonghan slowed his pace, his lips curling into a familiar smirk.
You glanced up just in time to catch him staring. “Don’t you have a race to focus on?”
“Don’t you have an article to write?” he shot back, his voice smooth as ever.
“I’m multitasking,” you replied, raising your coffee in a mock toast.
Jeonghan stepped closer, close enough that the conversation felt private despite the bustling paddock around you. “Let me guess,” he said, crossing his arms, “today’s headline is, ‘Ferrari Driver Jeonghan Looks Extra Handsome Under Dutch Sunlight.’”
You snorted, barely suppressing a laugh. “Oh, please. I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Can Ferrari’s Yoon Jeonghan Deliver After Spa Masterclass?’”
“Flattering,” he mused, tilting his head. “I thought you’d save the sarcasm for the post-race write-up.”
“I aim to keep you humble,” you said with a shrug, though the playful glint in your eyes gave you away.
Jeonghan leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a thrill down your spine. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like a fan.”
You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could get a word in—
“Jeonghan!”
A voice cut through the tension like a knife. You both turned to see Soonyoung jogging up, waving enthusiastically. “There you are! We’re late for the strategy briefing!”
Jeonghan sighed, the corners of his mouth twitching as he glanced back at you. “Guess we’ll have to finish this later.”
You grinned, your eyes dancing with amusement. “Don’t let me keep you from your briefing, Ferrari’s golden boy.”
Jeonghan’s smirk deepened. “I’ll see you after I win.”
He walked off, Soonyoung talking his ear off as you watched him go, the heat in your chest lingering far longer than it should have.
The race came and went, and though Jeonghan didn’t win—Mingyu’s dominance at Zandvoort was almost an inevitability—he still managed to bring home a solid podium finish.
Later, back at the hospitality suite, you found yourself standing near the balcony, staring out at the ocean waves in the distance.
“Not bad for a day’s work,” came a familiar voice behind you.
You turned to find Jeonghan leaning casually against the doorway, his hair still damp from the post-race shower. He’d swapped his racing suit for a simple white shirt and jeans, but somehow, he still looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.
“Not bad,” you admitted. “Though I was expecting a win. Should I change the headline to ‘Close, but Not Quite’?”
Jeonghan’s laugh was low and smooth as he closed the distance between you. “I think you’re just trying to rile me up.”
You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Is it working?”
He stepped closer, close enough that you could see the faint freckle on his cheekbone, the way his lashes caught the light. “You tell me.”
The air between you crackled, your banter giving way to something heavier, something unspoken. For a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.
“Jeonghan!”
The door slammed open, and Mingyu’s booming voice shattered the moment.
Both of you jumped, turning to see the taller driver grinning sheepishly. “Uh, sorry. Team dinner’s starting soon, and they’re waiting for you.”
Jeonghan’s jaw tightened, but he plastered on an easy smile. “Of course they are.”
Mingyu left as quickly as he’d come, leaving you and Jeonghan alone again.
“Do people just have radar for this?” Jeonghan muttered, raking a hand through his hair.
You laughed, the tension easing slightly. “Maybe it’s the universe telling you to focus on racing.”
He stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Or maybe it’s telling me I’ll just have to try harder.”
Your pulse quickened, but before you could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Jeonghan sighed dramatically, stepping back with a rueful smile. “Guess I’ll have to settle for third interruptions.”
You smirked, folding your arms. “You’re consistent, at least.”
“Don’t forget it,” he said with a wink, his voice smooth as ever as he walked away.
And just like that, you were left alone, the waves crashing in the distance as you wondered how long this game of cat and mouse could last.
another lil a/n: full throttle is probably one of my favorite things i've EVER written and i am so proud of myself for getting this out of my head and onto the page.
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