lily

[beomiracles]

𝓟𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝓒𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌

𝓓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝓔𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 ⸝⸝ In Strawberryland, where all the people are happy, and a little fruity; Little Apricot finds herself drawn to the only thing the village seems to resent. — For in a lonesome house by the far end of the valley, where the sun never seems to shine, and the grass never seems to grow, lives a boy who was once as peachy as one could be.

Nowadays, he's grown somewhat of a hermit, and should his sharp glares not be enough, his harsh words certainly will be when he fends off any visitors that may dare come his way. No one knows what happened to the boy. Though one thing was clear; every peach Beomgyu touched quickly turned rotten. ⸝⸝

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ wc, 16k ་༘࿐

𝓹airings peach!beomgyu x little apricot!reader (f) 𝔀arnings heavy grumpy x sunshine trope, fairytale themed (kinda goes in threes, at least in the beginning), mean beomgyu, naive/gullible reader, longing/yearning, unprotected sex, creampie, little apricots cum is described as a jam-like texture, cum eating, oral (f. rec), overstimulation, beomgyu is fuzzy (cause peach fuzz), lot of kissing, loads of sexual tension..

#serene adds ✎.. hello!! I'm so so excited for this fic you guys seriously have no idea, imagine my current excitement and then bump it up 100x! I've worked so hard on this fic, but most of it felt so natural when I was writing, everything kinda just flowed? I hope that shines through!! ahh, and I can never shut up so here we are at 16k when my target was 7k but oh well.. oh but I would love to hear your thoughts on this!! merry christmas!! consider this my gift :3

THIS FIC IS A PART OF AN EVENT, GET REDIRECTED TO THE EVENTPOST !

The sun rises early in Strawberryland, its warm rays casting the plump little houses in an orange glow. It’s quiet, for the colorful meadow has yet to wake up. The birds are still sleeping soundly, the deers hidden in the treeline as they huddle close to one another. All that can be heard is the soft rippling of clear water as it runs along a small stream. Everyone is asleep, all except for one.  — Little Apricot rises just as the sun, and she does so with excitement. 

Pots and silverware clank together, creating a chaotic atmosphere in your tiny kitchen as you shuffle about. The soft hum of a foreign melody dances across your lips, your hands working diligently as they alter between stirring the jam that was cooking on the stove, and onto unscrewing the lids of the many jars you’d prepared. An outsider would think something big was coming, that this might’ve been a special day indeed. 

And it was. For Little Apricot at least. 

“Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty…” You point to each neatly secured jar, filled to the brim with creamy orange jam. They’re topped with a matching ribbon, tied nicely around the plaid and orange lid. And they’re now all ready to be handed out. — “Forty-nine…” You trail off, gaze lingering by the last jar, “Fifty…” 

With pursed lips, your hands hover above it, debating on whether to shove it in the already full basket alongside the rest. In the end you do. And with your bright orange coat pulled over your body, you step outside, letting the warm sun caress the soft skin of your cheeks, causing a smile to spread across your face. Today was a good day. 

Your steps are light and cherry as you skip down the cobbled road that takes you through Strawberry village. The happy song of the melody you sang rings out into the air, and you only tune it down to a soft hum as you approach the first door of the day. — With a gentle knock, you wait, swinging back and forth on two legs as you balance the heavy basket in your hands. 

The blue door to the little hut swings open and you’re greeted by a mess of hair as bright and blue as the sky itself. Blueberry Kai greets you with a smile, his sapphire like eyes sparkling in the sun as they land on the basket in your hands. “Hi Little Apricot!” He almost sings the words and you refuse a giggle as you coyly avert your gaze. 

“Hi Kai, I brought you one of these..” You reach for one of the jam filled jars, handing the boy it as you await his verdict. — Kai’s smile widens as he takes the jar from you, and it seems small in his large hands. “You’re too good to us Apricot”, he says, though doesn’t refuse your kindness but rather thanks you with the promise of bringing a fresh blueberry pie in the following days. 

You continue like that, happily skipping down the road that looped around the village. And for each house you stopped by, the grin on your lips only grew, as did the warmth on your face and the love that filled your chest. Gradually your basket emptied and got lighter, and once you’d delivered Lemon Drop Soobin his jar, all that remained was one. 

The bright and orange little jar looks lonely as it rocks back and forth by the bottom of your now comically large basket, and with a small frown you glance toward the forest line. “Hmpf”, you huff, shaking your head sharply before turning on your heel and marching toward the dark trees. You had made enough jam for everyone in this village, and you’d make sure to deliver it as well. 

..Suppose you had underestimated the dark and menacing nature of the woods just slightly. But it wasn’t like the forest in Strawberryland was always this…scary, it just so happened to be the part where one individual resided. The youngest of the village speculated that his presence is what caused the nature around him to turn dark, that his vile and evil ways killed everything around him. You didn’t believe such nonsense, yet you found yourself gripping the basket tighter in your hands as you carefully trudged forward. 

You’ve been walking for a good twenty minutes, following a sparse dirt road as you peer through the thick tree trunks, when a small cottage suddenly floats into vision. Your heart beat immediately picks up, thumping loudly against your ribcage as you with hesitant steps approach. — The small hut looks just like the others of the village. Or at least, it used to. 

The white paint on its sides had been dirtied by nature's force, vines climbed the walls and tangled around the windowsills where the peachy paint had chipped. The roof was a round and once warm shade, though now, it looked just as lifeless as the rest of the house. You wondered how anyone could possibly live like this. 

A small wooden sign is shoved into the ground, it is just as battered as the rest of the place and reads the words, “Keep Out!” A flicker of uncertainty passes you by, but you ignore it. It was probably just something he had put up to scare any kids that dared come this way despite their mother’s warnings.

As you heave the steps up his front door, you try to remember what he’d looked like. You don’t think you have seen him for quite some time now. For he only ventured into town when he needed something, and judging by the state of his small cottage, it had been a while. Still, you figured that he deserved a jar of jam just as much as anyone else. It wasn’t like he was a criminal or anything of the sort…He was just, well… Him. 

The knock you deliver to his door is just as soft and cheerful as the others had been. Though this time you have to remind yourself to smile, it didn’t come naturally when your heart was palpitating at a near alarming rate. — You wait another minute, nearly two, but there’s still no answer. With a small frown you try your luck again.

Another soft knock. 

“Hello? Is anybody there?” You call out, the shaky edge to your voice coming off a lot stronger than you’d hoped. But you hadn't come all the way out here for nothing, and you would be damned if you didn’t get this last jar off your hands. A few moments later, you hear it, the soft rustling of something, of someone, moving on the other side. 

And much to your delight, the door swings open mere moments later. Though the sight you’re met with does little to ease the agitated beating of your heart. A tangled mess of unkempt dark brown hair, paired with fierce and menacing eyes and a nasty scowl that stretches across his pale lips. — Peach Beomgyu looked ready to beat you bloody. 

Your words get caught in your throat, and as much as you try to swallow, not an ounce of saliva will go down. Clearing your throat, you readjust the basket in your hands, wordlessly extending it in front of you. Beomgyu’s gaze falls on the lonesome jar before snapping back up to you. His brows furrow, twisting his face into even more of an accusing look as his eyes narrow on you. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” His voice has got a clean cut edge to it, sharp and impeccably demanding. Suddenly, your usual lines all diminish into nothing, your brain melting into a pile of jam as your mouth goes dry. “I… I brought you some-” — “I can see what it is, do you take me for an idiot?” He snaps, effortlessly cutting you off as he shoves your basket back with a look of sheer distaste. 

Your mouth opens and closes, like that of a goldfish mindlessly swimming around in its bowl. “Y-Yes but you see I”, you swallow, “I made it myself.” And though you knew your words to be true, they were hardly convincing as you stumbled over them. Beomgyu’s brows rose on his forehead, but he did not look surprised, merely lightly interested. You counted the win anyway. 

With trembling arms you extend him the basket once more, encouraging him to retrieve the jar. But he only looked at it as though it would jump up and bite him in the face. “Well you’ve wasted your time then”, he grunts, averting his gaze as he urges you off his porch. You won’t budge, feet clamming to the old wooden boards as you stubbornly present the jar for him. 

Beomgyu scoffs, running a hand through his dark hair, and you’re surprised when his fingers don't catch onto the mess of strands, in fact the brown locks looked almost…soft. You shake your head, blinking twice as you pick the jar up, shoving it against his hard chest as you peer over at him with a determined expression, your lips pressed together in a firm line. 

“I’m sure you can reconsider”, you probe, much to little avail as Beomgyu’s scowl only grows. You were sure you’d overstepped for good this time. — But he doesn’t shout, nor does he tell you to get the hell away from his house. He chuckles. And though it’s far from an actual laugh, it’s something other than the tired and displeased groans. It makes your stomach flutter in an unfamiliar way. 

You almost expect him to wipe a half-hearted tear from his eye. To maybe condole you on your gullibleness or your overbearing kindness. Well, and a small part of you hopes he might actually accept the jar. — He does none of those things, instead he takes a small, almost unnoticeable step back. And before you know it, the door is slammed shut in your face, leaving you alone in the dark and menacing forest once more. 

With a petulant huff, you glance toward the window by the door, just in time to see him drawing the peach colored curtains in front of the glass, blocking him from your view. “Bastard”, you mutter as you step off the porch, kneeling down in front of it to place the jar down, “I’ll just put you right here…” 

As you trudge down the dirt path leading from his cottage and back to the village, you can feel his lingering gaze on you, peeking through the light and peachy curtains. You smile to yourself, feeling accomplished despite his refusal, for you did not take his cruel words personally. — At the end of the day an angry person will always be the angriest with himself. 

⸝⸝

It quickly becomes somewhat of a habit for you to make fifty jars instead of forty-nine. At first you had told yourself that the number was just much more satisfactory in itself, and that it was easier to make five full batches rather than four and then some. But you could only lie to yourself for so long. And when you find yourself on Beomgyu’s doorstep a third time in the span of two weeks, you know that the extra jar is more than just a number. 

He doesn’t answer you when you call for him, but you know he’s there, listening, even though he doesn't want to, because he can’t help himself. And each time, you place the little jar on his porch. The orange jam is a stark contrast to the dull forest all around, and is easily spotted. — You keep returning, not because you fancied being ignored outside his shut door, or because you enjoyed the muddy walk to his little house. But because whenever you returned, the jar from last time would be gone. 

And when you for a fifth time find yourself on his porch, swaying back and forth as you hum along to a quiet melody, you’re surprised when the door actually opens. He’s frowning, lips tugged into what you presumed to be a permanent scowl. You wondered if he ever smiled. — Beomgyu gives you a quick one over, his gaze undoubtedly lingering by the jar in your basket. 

He clears his throat, “What the hell are you still doing here?” His question catches you off guard and you blink as your attention returns to the present moment. “Huh?” Is all you can muster, the response coming out as a question of your own. — Beomgyu scoffs, rolling his eyes as if he’d just asked you the most obvious thing. “You’ve been out here for twenty minutes, what the fuck do you want?”

Twenty minutes? Had it really been that long.. You would admit that you usually lingered for a minute or two before placing the little jar and returning back home. It wasn’t like you were waiting for him, well… You might have been. Suppose that today your mind had travelled a little too far, even for your own liking. But to think that you’d spent a whole twenty minutes in front of his door, lost in thoughts.. 

“I… Well I..” You bite the inside of your cheek, your brows creasing into a confused frown. You open your mouth to speak, but what comes out is not a coherent response, rather… “Your hair is brown.”

Beomgyu looks taken aback for once, his own frown deepening tenfold as he regards you with confusion. “So?” He retorts, folding his arms across his chest. — You don’t think it had ever occurred to you, but the unkempt and wild mess atop his head was a dark shade of brown, nearly black. It suited him, sure, it made his already sharp features and dark eyes stand out even more. But you couldn’t help but wonder why… 

All of the people in Strawberryland had cheerful and bright colors. You thought of Blueberry Kai’s bright blue hair, Lemon Drop Soobin’s warm yellow and Yeonjun Sorbet’s striking red. Yet Peach Beomgyu had…brown hair? It didn’t make any sense. — Beomgyu looks almost insulted as he waits for you to respond, impatiently tapping his foot against the threshold. 

“Isn’t your hair supposed to be…peach colored?” You say, pointing a curious finger to the mess on his head. Beomgyu frowns, reaching a hand up to run through the dark locks as he waves you off, huffing in dismay. “What’s it to you?” He tsk’s, his attention flickering down to the jam in your basket once more, and only when his gaze meets yours do you register the silent question behind his eyes. 

“O-Oh, right I brought you more jam!” You force a small smile, the least you could do was be polite. You were determined to make friends with him, one way or the other. And as you hand him the glass container, Beomgyu takes it. It’s a huge first step, and you feel your heart swelling at the action. He twists the jar between his fingers, studying it like it might explode on him any second now. 

At last, he gives a small hum of approval. — “It’s good, right?” Your question comes out too cherry, already celebrating your small victory. Beomgyu quickly shoots that bird down with a sneer. “I’m being polite, there’s a difference.” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, his eyes taking over your hopeful frame once more. “Though I’m sure you couldn’t tell the difference even if you wanted to.” 

The door slams shut on your nose. 

Suddenly, the forest is cold again, the heat falls from your face, the fire coursing within you being drowned out by a bucket of cold water. Well, there goes that. You wait by his door for another five minutes, but the small cottage is silent. The curtains are drawn, shutting you out, just like he did everybody else. 

With heavy steps you climb off the porch, cringing at how the old and withered boards creaked under your weight. Your sigh echoes against the tall trees that loom above you, and you slowly make your way down the muddy path. You had noticed on your second visit that flowers didn’t seem to grow here, any sign of vegetation seemingly drowned out by the nearly unbearing anger and resentment that lingered in these woods. 

Had Beomgyu really caused all of that? 

You think back to your brief encounter with him, with Beomgyu. But no matter how hard you tried, your mind seemed to get caught on his brown hair, you couldn’t quite shake it off. You only knew one other brown-haired individual here, and that was Gingerbread Taehyun. But Beomgyu and Taehyun were far from alike, and you shake your head once more. 

Something was wrong, very clearly so. For the way Beomgyu had disregarded the matter, shoving it aside like it pained him to be reminded of… You longed to know what could have caused it. And you find yourself imagining a different Beomgyu, a Beomgyu that smiled. With light and peachy hair, a pink blush coating his soft cheeks, warming his pale face up. You imagine a Beomgyu with dimples that dented into his skin hard from laughter. 

You imagine a happy Beomgyu. 

The fantasy makes your steps return to their usual light skip, and by the time you re-enter the lively village, you feel happy again. 

⸝⸝

With your basket filled once more, you head down the cobbled road, taking you around Strawberry town. Today you were in a particularly good mood. You don’t know if it had to do with meeting Blueberry Kai out by his berry bushes, or if it had to do with the little rabbit you saw in your garden this morning. But you were determined to make this day a perfect one. 

In fact, you were in such a joyous mood that the dark clouds crowding the village did not bother you as you went knocking on each and every door. For each smile you received, for each jar you handed out, the love beating within your heart only seemed to grow. —  When you turn off the large road, and venture onto the muddy path taking you deep within the forest, you’re filled to the brim with love. And if there was one person in Strawberry village that needed it, it was Peach Beomgyu. 

You think you’re about halfway there when the first droplet lands on the tip of your nose. The cold water makes you frown as it slides down your face, catching on your bottom lip. Sticking your tongue out to taste it, the sweet flavor fills your mouth. After that another one follows, then another one, and another one. It’s not long before rainfall is pouring down over you, clinging to the leaves and splashing against the forest floor in dramatic effect. 

Blinking the droplets from your eyes, you scurry forward, pulling your coat tighter around yourself as you hurry. Mud clams to your orange shoes, dirtying them in disgraceful shades of brown. But you carry on, relief flooding your chest as the familiar little house floats into vision. You do not stop to consider who’s door you were actually knocking on when you slam your fist against the weathered wood. 

Today, you have no time to wait outside for another five minutes, you have no time to bicker with the grumpy man over his doorstep and you certainly don’t want to turn on your heel and endure the unpleasant walk home. There was little that could diskindle your spirits, but rain and mud were definitely two of them. 

Much to your immense relief and surprise, the door glides open a mere minute later, revealing a confused looking Beomgyu. The smile stretching across your lips only seems to make his scowl grow. Yet you persist, giving him your widest and most pleading eyes as you silently beg for him to let you inside. — Beomgyu’s harsh gaze flickers from your wet coat, clinging to your body and the adamant look on your face before shifting to the heavy rain that battered against his porch. 

With a displeased groan he steps to the side, allowing you to skip inside the small cottage. Your excitement as you enter his home is followed up by a small squeal, your gaze darting around as you take in the unfamiliar surroundings. — Beomgyu’s house was unlike anything you had ever imagined, not to say that you had spent a deliberate amount of time trying to figure out how he lived, you had merely been…Curious, so to say. 

From the peachy curtains to the matching sets of creamy pink pillows that adorned his small sofa, everything seemed to follow a peachy theme. The fireplace sparking in the middle of the room draws your attention and you quickly find yourself huddling in front of it as you rub your cold hands together. 

Your quiet ‘woah’ as you pull your orange coat from your wet body rings out into the silent house. The kitchen by the corner looks to have been used recently, a small pot of something placed on the stove. Amazed by the fact that Peach Beomgyu lived like any other resident in Strawberry village, your jaw hangs open as you remain frozen in place. 

Somewhere behind you, Beomgyu emerges from the hallway. He stops a good distance from you, leaning against one of the crowded bookshelves pushed up alongside the wall, his arms folded across his chest. You send him a bright smile, “Thank you”, you say, not knowing how else to show your gratitude for his hospitality. 

Beomgyu rolls his eyes, a small scoff passing his lips as he averts his gaze, his dark eyes lingering on something you couldn’t quite catch. A brief silence follows, it’s almost awkward.. You’re not exactly sure what to say, what he would appreciate hearing, if anything even suited those pesky ears of his. 

So you hum, quietly rocking back and forth on your feet as you glance at the decorations above the fireplace. They were nothing fancy, and most of the tiny figurines looked old, perhaps he’d inherited them. Come to think of it, you don’t remember ever hearing anything about a family member of his. The thought sadeness you for reasons you cannot understand. It wasn’t like Beomgyu was opposed to the solitary life he lived, he’d chosen it for himself, hadn’t he? 

Yet you can’t help but purse your lips at the thought of living like this, no matter how cozy his quaint little cottage was, it still lacked the warmth of love. — “It is a lovely home you’ve got”, you say, trying your best to show interest in the way he’d decorated the space. But Beomgyu doesn’t seem to buy into the mundane compliment. He merely shrugs, letting out a small grunt as his dark eyes flicker back to you. 

“Why were you out in the rain?” It’s the first time he’s ever asked you an actual question, the first time he’d even seemed moderately interested in anything that regarded you. Your smile only widens, and you can see the way his face twists in distaste at your ever so cheerful attitude. “Well why do you think? I was delivering jam!” The exclamation immediately makes you jump as you come to your senses and you reach for the basket you had discarded on the floor. 

The small jar is wet and you wipe it against the sleeve of your shirt before skipping over to him in order to hand him it. Beomgyu’s arms remain stubbornly crossed as his gaze flits between the orange jam and your hopeful grin. With a small groan he relents and plucks it from your waiting hand, shoving it onto the shelf next to him as he averts his attention elsewhere. 

You wondered if your presence made him uncomfortable. Judging by the way he stood, the greater portion of his body turned as far away from you as possible, and his jaw clenched, you would guess it did. Then again, was there anyone Peach Beomgyu liked? You did not take his grumpy demeanor or his shortcut responses personally. Still, there was an unmistakable opportunity at hand, and you would be a fool not to take it. 

“Mind if I take a seat?” You ask, but you’re already approaching the small couch. Beomgyu’s lip twitches, but he gives a small nod, his arms returning to their crossed position over his chest. His sofa is oddly comfortable, allowing you to sink into the cushion as you lean back slightly. The warmth of the fire caresses your cold face, slowly melting the layer of metaphorical ice that had built around you. No amount of fire would be able to melt the harsh ice block surrounding Beomgyu, you thought with a small grin. 

He remains unmoving and unspeaking, quietly watching you from his spot by the corner of the room. You did not insult him on his lack of manners, he had actually allowed you inside his home even as you showed up unannounced, perhaps that was more than enough. — Your attention falls on your muddy shoes and a pang of guilt flares through you. “Oh, sorry, I should’ve taken these off!” 

Beomgyu opens his mouth to speak but is quickly interrupted as you kick the pointy orange heels off your feet, scurrying toward the door as you place them right in front of it. “Sorry, I’ll clean it up, don't worry!” You say as you dart for his kitchen. Quickly disoriented, you tug open drawers and pull cabinet doors in search of anything to clean the stain you had left on his floors. “Where do you keep your towels?” You ask, so caught up in trying to resolve the mess you’d unintentionally caused that you didn’t even notice him creeping up behind you. 

“Here”, he says as he hands you a peach colored rag. You freeze, for his voice came from just above your ear, his chest nearly pressed against your back. The scent of fresh peaches made you nearly drowsy as you blink before gingerly accepting the cloth from him, trying your hardest to ignore the way your fingers brushed against one another, the tingle that the soft fuzz coating his skin left. “I… Thanks”, you coyly mumble, desperately wishing he wouldn’t catch on to the stammer of your voice as you round him in the small kitchen, quickly slipping away from his intoxicating presence. 

What was that.. You think to yourself, brows knitted together in a confused frown as you find yourself on the floor, scrubbing the muddy stains away. The sounds of his approaching footsteps make your eyes widen, and you refuse to turn your head in his direction. — “It’s really not necessary”, he mutters, the usual grumpiness to his voice replaced with something akin to guilt. But you firmly shake your head, scrubbing even harder at the old wood. “It’s fine, no problem! I caused it!” You chirp, ignoring his small huff as you continue to clean. 

When you’re done you gingerly rise to your feet, clutching the now dirty rag between your fingers as you bite the inside of your cheek. Beomgyu reaches for it again, but you quickly pull back, you don’t think you could bear feeling his skin against yours a second time. “I’ll put it away!” You quickly say, plastering on the biggest of grins you could muster, “Where do you want it?” 

Beomgyu’s expression is unreadable as he studies you for a moment. It looks almost as if he’s about to say something, but he stops himself, shaking his head once as he points down the hall. Quickly nodding, you follow in that direction, the sounds of your feet padding against the floor ringing in your ears. 

Finally away from his intense gaze, you exhale a sigh of relief as you turn to relocate yourself. The dark hallway had led you to what you presumed to be a small washroom, racks of clothes crowded the vast majority of the space, and you found a small sink as well. You place the dirty cloth in the hamper before turning to head back. But before you can even get as much as another step in, a door to your left catches your attention. It’s slightly ajar, letting on to the bed inside. 

Quickly glancing down the hall once more, you dare a small peek inside. Beomgyu’s bedroom did not match the rest of the house. It lacked all the peachy colors, instead it was crowded from head to toe in… books. Sure the bookshelves in the living room had caught your attention earlier, but just as the old figurines, you’d figured that it was something he’d inherited. Now you can’t help but wonder if Beomgyu actually enjoyed literature. While the prospect did indeed seem odd, it wasn’t entirely out of place either. There was only so much entertainment out here..

But before you get the chance to investigate further, the sounds of floorboards creaking pulls you from your brief trance. Sharply turning on your heel, you make your way back into the living room where Beomgyu was waiting for you. — The rain was still pouring down outside, and you had little clue of just how long you were going to be stuck here. 

As your gaze falls on Beomgyu, you feel your breath getting caught in your throat. You don’t know what it was, but something had changed. Something that made you so impeccably drawn to him in a way you could not fathom. You tried to reason with yourself, you tried to shift the blame onto the weather, onto the clumsy mistake of waltzing inside his home without as much as a second thought. 

But as your eyes linger by his dark ones, the narrowed gaze he still held, you find that it’s none of those things. Suddenly you know why you keep returning to this small hut, why you bother with the twenty minute walk back and forth, why you face rejection on his doorstep each time. — You felt empathy for him, perhaps even pity. You pitied Beomgyu, the lonely boy who lived all alone out in the forest, with no one to come visit. 

And perhaps that was naive of you. To even think that he cared about something as trivial as a bit of company. Yet you couldn’t find it in you to take his mean and cruel demeanor to heart. Because no matter how harsh the bark was, he never seemed to bite. He had let you inside his home, in spite of your persistent nagging on his porch for the past weeks. He hadn’t minded when you dirtied his floors, and even now, he didn’t seem to want you to leave. 

So were you really that naive to think that what you were doing was right? That what you were doing was appreciated by him, even if he didn’t show it. You want to think so. 

“Do you want me to make you tea?” You chirp, breaking the thick silence that had filled the small living room. Beomgyu cocks an eyebrow at you, but merely shrugs. You weren’t even sure if he had the ingredients to make tea, you had just assumed… It was something everyone had, no? 

Ignoring his nonchalant response, you walk past him and into the small little kitchen once more. It wasn’t at all like your big one at home, but then again, you doubted that he spent his days making fifty jars worth of apricot jam. — He doesn’t follow you, and part of you is relieved. His absence allows you to work casually as you still tried to figure out what about him had made you so nervous all of a sudden. 

You take your time as you bring out a pot, setting it down on the stove as you fill it with water from the tap. Once it’s slowly boiling, you rummage around to find yourselves a pair of cups to drink from. Pulling drawers upon drawers open, you cough as the smell of dust invades your senses, some of these looked to have been kept shut for years. 

As a last resort, you tug the cabinet door above the fridge open. And your eyes immediately widen as they fall on the empty jars stacked inside. All of them are cleaned out, the glass reflecting in the dim light of the kitchen. Your gaze lingers by the orange lids, and the silk ribbons you’d tied around them still intact. A small smile tugs at your lips, your heart warming at the sight. He even kept the jars. 

Quickly slamming the cabinet shut when he approaches, you turn to him with a flushed expression. “Where are your cups?” You squeak, the surprise in your tone evident, not having expected him to reappear so soon. — Beomgyu leans against the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest as he nods toward the one drawer you had yet to open. Mentally slapping yourself, you turn to it with a tight smile as you pull it open. 

As you prepare the herbs for the tea and check on the water, you try to make plain conversation. You ask him about the weather, about what he does during the days or if he has any upcoming plans. You find that he’s a very concise individual, and you’re never able to pull more than a short sentence from him as he begrudgingly responds to your persistent interrogation. 

Still, he stays in the kitchen until you finish pouring the cups. Whether that was because he didn’t trust you around his house or because he wanted to be there, remained unknown to you. 

The tea is boiling hot against your tongue, yet you insistently bring it to your lips, taking small and hesitant sips as you desperately avoid his gaze. For someone so short of words, he seemed to have no problem staring at you. You told yourself that it might have to do with his lack of social interaction. But his unyielding gaze slowly chipped away at your resolve, making you all the more anxious as you glanced out the window, wishing for the rain to let up soon. 

It still felt so surreal, standing in Peach Beomgyu’s kitchen, drinking tea from his cups, as if this was just another Thursday afternoon. But his prolonged silence made the growing tension between you feel anything but mundane and ordinary. Did he really not have anything to say? You had tried every approach imaginable, there was nothing that would get him to utter more than a small hum. 

As your eyes peer out the window, and over what you imagined to once have been a garden, a new question surfaces. — Your attention flickers back to him, still by the door frame, he’s gripping the cup in one hand, barely having sipped his tea, he seems far too preoccupied with watching you. 

“Don’t you grow any peaches?” You ask, letting your head fall to the side as you take your turn in studying him. Beomgyu’s unreadable expression morphs into a small frown, and he ponders your question for a moment. When a whole minute passes, you think he might not reply at all, it wouldn’t be completely unexpected, for he had little manners as it was. But then he suddenly shifts his weight over to his other leg, readjusting his hold on the cup. 

“No.” 

He states firmly, finally bringing the peachy mug to his lips as he takes a sip of his tea. It’s your turn to frown, your gaze dropping to the brown mixture swirling in your own cup as you bite the inside of your cheek. “Why not?” — Everyone in Strawberryland tended to their fruits, so why didn’t he? 

Beomgyu shrugs, appearing more than disinterested in the conversation taking place. “I don’t like them”, he says, the nonchalance in his tone taking you aback as your eyes snap to him. Don’t like them? But he was Peach Beomgyu, was he not supposed to love peaches? You want to ask him what he means by that, what made him so resentful of the one thing he represented. But the closed off look on his face made you waver. You did not want to blindly push and prod at buttons which you had no clue of. 

You remain silent, awkwardly sipping your tea as you avoid his burning gaze. 

And as your cups emptied out, the rain stopped. 

⸝⸝

Peach Beomgyu did not like visitors. In fact, he detested them. Much so that he had gone to the quite extreme length of putting up warning signs in front of his house. And while the signs did their job at keeping nosey little kids out, they seemed futile on that persistent ball of joy that would skip past them as she neared his cottage. 

Beomgyu could not understand what made Little Apricot come back over and over again. He could not understand what kept you in such a jolly mood and he could certainly not fathom the reasoning behind the little jars of jam you would leave behind. — It irked him in a way that was beyond explainable. And every three or four days, he would be pulled from whatever book he was reading by two curt knocks to his door. 

Internally groaning he would shake his head, ignoring the fierce ray of sunshine on the other side. But you just wouldn’t leave. The sounds of you humming along to a light melody would slip through the cracks of his shut door, it would creep inside his house and dance across him, taunting him with its sickly sweetness. Beomgyu would swat it away, pressing his nose further into his book as he desperately tried to ignore any signs of your presence. 

You would always leave after a few minutes, taking your light and cherry song with you as you did. And Beomgyu would always sigh out in relief, ignoring the small tug at his chest when the silence enveloped him once more. — He would get up, carefully pull the curtains to the side as he watched your bright orange coat disappear into the thick forest of trees. 

Then he would open his door, stopping in his tracks as his gaze flickered down to the little jar you’d left behind. When it first occurred he’d slammed the door shut. Ignoring the jar for a good twenty minutes before ripping the door open again with a frustrated huff, finding the jam still there, its bright orange color stinging his eyes. 

For some reason, Beomgyu had picked it up, he’d turned it in his hands and opened the lid. The creamy jam smelled just like you, the soft and sweet aroma of apricot prickling his nose in a most unfamiliar way. And he’d taken the jar inside, stubbornly ignoring it for a whole day before he finally caved. — It tasted just as delicious as it smelled, as delicious as you smelled. 

Beomgyu finished the jar in half a day, and when it was all empty, he found himself staring at the clean glass with a confused frown. It was just jam. He scoffed as he shoved the empty jar into a cabinet, blatantly ignoring the fact that he had yet to throw it away, telling himself that he might find use for it in the future.   

When you returned mere days later, he ignored you, yet he found another jar, just like the first on his porch. It would go on like that, and for some reason, Beomgyu found himself listening after that sickeningly cheerful melody you always sang. And everytime you knocked on his door, his fingers would itch to reach out and open it, for reasons he could not understand, and did not want to. 

But on your seventh return, you did not give your usual curt knocks, you did not hum along to any melody at all. At first, Beomgyu didn't even believe it to be you. But as he opened the door, and found Little Apricot on his porch, drenched from head to toe, he found himself unable to move. Not even when you pleaded with him so nicely did it register what you were asking. 

And suddenly you were inside his home, the place he treasured so dearly and had sealed off to the rest of the world. Yet you had managed to worm your way inside, and the feeling that bloomed within his chest was like no other. — You were everywhere, the same sickeningly sweet scent of your apricot jam now filled his entire home. It clung to the walls, soaked in the carpets and dusted off on the furniture. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t block it out, and you occupied his mind and body fully. It confused him. 

You quickly made yourself at home, and Beomgyu noted that you were just as dutiful about any other task as you were your jam. Rushing about even though you barely found your way, tugging cabinet doors and pulling drawers open as you made the two of you tea. — He doesn’t know why he lets your eager hands wander over his belongings, why he drinks the tea you make him or why he even bothers to answer any of your invasive and prying questions. 

He feels nearly dizzy in your presence, it’s a strange and uncanny feeling, a feeling he hasn’t felt in years, if ever. And Beomgyu doesn't know if he should fear the warm and fuzzy feeling that spreads within his chest as he looks at you, or if he should give in to it completely. Though if he did, he feared that you wouldn’t ever look at him the same. 

Oh but Beomgyu likes the way you look at him. With big and hopeful eyes. You don’t seem to understand just how messed up he is, or perhaps you do, and in that case you had to be stupid to ignore it. Naive. That was probably the right word. Gullible, sweet, and far too kind for your own good. Did you not know not to trust everything you see? He shakes his head at the thought. 

Still, there’s an odd feeling of comfort in the way you embrace him, with your kind words and quiet care as you deliver him jam. He doesn’t want to let go of that feeling just yet, though if he ever tries to pursue it, he thinks you might crumple in front of him. — It has him torn. And as he lies in bed that night, the smell of apricots linger around him, pressing in on him with a demanding force. 

He groans as he turns over, burying his face in the pillows. But all he can see is you, your bright orange coat, and he can smell you, you’re everywhere, plaguing his body and mind. He twists uncomfortably, stubbornly ignoring the heat pooling in his stomach, refusing to let his hands wander as he tries to block out any thought of you. 

Beomgyu wishes that you won’t come by his house again. He knows he won’t be able to stop himself if you do. 

⸝⸝

The soft knock to your door makes you tear yourself from the empty jars you were currently wiping down, discarding them on the countertop as you make your way over to the entrance. Your steps are light and cherry as you skip over, fingers twisting the lock, an excited grin already plastered across your face. — “Blueberry Kai!” You squeal when you’re met with the sight of the blue haired boy, his tall frame looming over you as he gives a shy nod. 

“Hi Little Apricot!” He says, his face flushing in an adorable shade of blue. Your gaze drifts to his hands, clutching a blue box tightly. “I uh..” He sends you a coy smile as he extends the box, “Got you this.. As a thank you, for you know.. All you do.” 

It’s with wide eyes that you happily accept the gift, feeling its weight in your hands as you gently pluck the lid. Your attention falls on the freshly baked blueberry pie and the sweet aroma immediately fills your nostrils. With a wide grin, you glance up at him, “You’re the best Kai!” 

The two of you settle out in your garden, amidst the many apricot trees you had planted, all blooming with ripe and orange fruits. Hungrily wolfing down the pie Kai had brought, you barely make time for conversation as you focus on savoring the flavors on your tongue. And when you for the fifth time exclaim, “It’s delicious!”, Kai can’t help but chuckle. 

Once the wave of desire has cooled off, and your stomach starts to feel full, you lean back in your chair as you regard him with a questioning expression. It looked like something was bothering him, for his usual lopsided smile was nowhere to be found, and his brows furrowed across his forehead. — “Is something up?” You ask him as you wipe your lips on the corner of a napkin, gently placing it down as you twist in your seat. 

Kai’s head snaps in your direction, and he gives a sheepish look, as if you’d caught his drift of mind. “Yeah I just..” He trails off, as if unsure of how to word himself properly. You wait, your legs swinging back and forth as your bare feet drag through the wild grass, the feeling tickling your sensitive skin.

“Have you been seeing Peach Beomgyu?” 

The question was not one you’d expected, and you feel your face heat up as you turn your gaze back to the blue haired boy. “I deliver him jams, just like everyone else!” You say, plastering on an even wider grin as you try and brush past the topic. But Kai doesn’t let it go, his brows creasing even further as he leans forward. “Why? I mean, it’s not like he’s done anything for you.. And I’m not saying I don’t think it’s kind of you”, he takes a breath, slowly letting it go. “But what if he’s just using you, Apricot?”  

Your frown makes him immediately continue as he says; “I mean, he’s not exactly friendly.. I’m just afraid you’ll end up getting taken advantage of, your kindness is something many of us take for granted…” — His words made you think, your chin jutted out as your mind traveled back to the visits you’d paid Beomgyu. You recall the many times he’d slammed the door in your face, and the times in which he hadn’t opened it at all. Suppose Kai might have a point… 

But you also remember that rainy day not too long ago. You remember the way his gaze lingered by you, the way your heart fluttered at his mere presence. It couldn’t possibly be what Kai was implying, could it? If he was really taking advantage of your kindness, why did your heart beat so quickly at the thought of his name? 

“I think he deserves the jam just as much as anyone else in Strawberryland”, you state, nodding to yourself as you sink back in the chair, arms spread on the armrests. Kai bites the inside of his cheek remaining quiet, though the look on his face told you that he wished to intervene further. 

“I talk to him”, you shrug, acting as if the matter was nothing short of common for you. — “He is actually quite an interesting person, if you give him a chance.” You send Kai a small smile, but the blue haired boy doesn’t seem to buy it as he runs a hand through his short hair. “I don’t know Apricot… There’s a reason he lives out there..” — “Like what?” You cut him off, leaning forward in an instant with an almost challenging look on your face. 

Kai opens his mouth to speak, then he stops himself. You watch as he battles with himself for a moment before finally sighing. “Well he’s…Different.” — “Different how?” You knew you were pushing him now, and that he soon would be caving, but you didn’t care. For a small part of you, a part you had tried to ignore for long, felt the need to defend Beomgyu, even if you hardly knew him, it felt like your responsibility. Because if you didn’t, then who would? 

“You don’t know?” Kai suddenly asks and your face falls for a moment. Didn’t know what? Kai shifts in his seat as he glances around your flourishing garden, as if checking for witnesses, and when he speaks again, it's in a hushed whisper. “You know… About the peaches..”, he murmurs, swallowing as he holds your gaze. 

“The peaches?” You repeat, a little too loud for his liking as he winces. “Yes”, he mutters between sealed lips. “He can’t… I mean, he says he doesn’t like them, but the truth is he can’t even grow them.” Kai leans back up as soon as he’s uttered the words, hurriedly checking his surroundings once more before shrinking back against the backrest of his chair. 

Your face contorts into a confused grimace, “Can’t grow peaches?” That’s ridiculous, everyone in Strawberryland grows their own fruits, what could possibly make him so different? Kai slowly nods as he fiddles with the spoon discarded on his empty plate. “I mean, I’m sure he doesn’t want to either, but even if he did, he physically can’t”, he shrugs before continuing, “That’s why he moved out there, so that the rest wouldn’t have to know how much of a failure he was…” He says the last words with a hint of sympathy, and you couldn’t help the way your chest churned at the thought. 

“You’re saying I should stay away from him?” It’s not a question but a statement, you didn’t need an answer because Kai had already made himself clear. Yet he gives a firm nod, letting the silverware drop back onto the plate. “Yes”, he says, “I’m worried that whatever curse lingers around him might transfer onto you…Besides, who knows what he’s capable of..” 

It hurt, hearing him speak so negatively of Beomgyu. Suppose you had grown a small attachment to the grumpy peach, so what? Delivering him some jam every now and then certainly didn’t harm anyone. You failed to see Kai’s reasoning, failed to see the worry laced within his words. Still, you did something most uncharacteristic, you lied.

“I won’t go see him.” 

⸝⸝

Your basket isn’t as heavy as usual when you skip down the cobbled road. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that you had only brought three jars of jam today, and they were all meant for one person. — Throwing a final glance over your shoulder, you venture off the main road, emerging into the thick treeline as you begin the journey to Peach Beomgyu’s house. 

Not only had you brought jam, but you’d put in the effort of baking muffins as well. They had come out slightly burnt, their edges a refined and dark black but you didn’t mind, they tasted just as sweet and you were sure they would go well with the jam. — To thank him, that was the goal of today, you told yourself. To thank him for his hospitality as he let you stay last time, and enough jars of jam to last him well over two weeks. 

As you near the now familiar house, you can’t help but feel a sense of excitement. It flutters in the pits of your stomach, swirling around as your heart beats steadily within your chest. Had you not been so focused on the task at hand, perhaps you would’ve noticed the way the trees seemed to sway, the leaves rustling despite the lack of wind and the eerie silence that fell over the woods on this particular day. 

But you don’t, and soon enough, you’re making the steps up his creaking porch. Your soft knock somehow seems to ring out like thunder in the thick and quiet air. — Glancing around, you prepare for the inevitable wait as you sway back and forth on your feet. But to your surprise, it is mere moments later that the door is ripped open, revealing a disheveled Beomgyu on the other side. 

Immediately you notice the subtle flush across his normally pale and cold cheeks. His dark hair stands in all directions, and you frown as your gaze flickers over his dark eyes, his pupils widened to an extent that nearly concerns you. Was he sick? Had you come at a bad time? Your attention falls on the way his chest heaves with each jagged breath he takes, and it trails along his arm, finally landing on the way his fingers bore into the wood of the doorframe to steady himself, knuckles turning white at the sheer force he used. 

“Beomgyu, is everything okay?” You ask, blinking the shock away as you readjust the grip on your basket. He doesn’t say anything, and you were just about to suggest coming back another time when he suddenly lurches forward. — You barely have time to realize what’s happening, but the feel of his vice-like grip around your wrist makes you wince as he yanks you inside. 

The door slams shut behind you and the smell of peaches suddenly infiltrates your every sense. You don’t think you have ever smelled anything like it before. It was strong, sweet, almost sickly so. It felt far from the citrusy tang apricots carried and you frown as you glance around the area. His living room looks the same, kitchen too, where was the smell coming from? — A chill runs down your spine as you pick up on the sound of a lock clicking behind you. Beomgyu’s harsh exhale is hot against the back of your neck, and it makes the hairs there stand tall as you freeze in place. 

When he places an equally warm hand on your shoulder do you realize that the smell is coming from him. He’s practically radiating it. And along with the thick layer of heat that coats him, it pulsates off of him with steady rhythm, slapping you across the face as you squint up at him. Just what was going on.. “Beomgyu..?” He doesn’t answer, and you fervently search his gaze, only to find that he’s looking at something completely different. 

You cover your mouth with a trembling hand, a confused and alarmed frown painting the rest of your face. He must have caught something, a virus of some sort, something that made his body flare up like this, something that made him smell so…So truly divine. You shake your head, screwing your eyes shut as you take a step back. 

He still hasn’t said anything, not a single word from the moment he ripped his door open. And when he takes a step forward, you find yourself immediately faltering backward. He chases you, with deliberate and long strides, and you don’t stop until your back hits one of his overcrowded shelves, the books and figurines on it rattling as you do. You turn your head in surprise, only to feel his hot fingers on your chin as he steers you back his way. 

Beomgyu pries your hand from your lips, his breath audibly hitching in his throat when his eyes fall on your open mouth once more. He looks ready to swallow each shaky exhale you emit, and before you can protest does he slam his lips against yours. — Your eyes shoot open, your hands flying to his shoulders in an attempt to push him back. But Beomgyu was strong, scarily so, and he easily shoves you up against the shelf. 

The small noise of surprise gets drowned out by his harsh groan, his hands gripping at your waist as he shoves you against the stacked books. — “B-Beomgyu wait- This isn’t…” You  manage to gasp when he parts for air. His face is flushed in a light pink, and the mess of dark brown hair lays in uneven sections across his hungry eyes as he pants. It didn’t make any sense, none of this did. 

Your basket had fallen to the floor due to all the commotion and one of the jars had rolled onto the hard wood. Beomgyu didn’t even seem to register the chaos he was creating as he pressed his lips back on yours. He kisses you with a need best described as insatiable, leaving room for nothing but his demanding ways as his tongue shoves past your parted lips, slipping into your mouth with urgency. 

The shock slowly begins to wear off and you realize what’s actually going on. Peach Beomgyu was kissing you, well, he was damn near eating you. It didn’t… You didn’t… Your thoughts seemed to cut short, any sense of semblance slipping through the cracks of your fingers as you helplessly chased them. — You should push him off, you should yell at him and ask what in the world had gotten into him. 

Because Peach Beomgyu didn’t make friends, and hell, he certainly didn’t kiss people. This was completely unwarranted and you deserved more than an explanation for his near outrageous actions. 

For some reason, you find yourself pulling him even closer. 

It barely registered at first. Your fingers moved on their own as they clutched the shirt he was wearing, tugging him against you with a force just as strong as his. You couldn’t explain it, the need to be close, the need to give in to every single thought that yelled for you to back away. — Kai’s words linger in your scrambled mind when Beomgyu’s hands go to the back of your thighs, hoisting you into his arms, forcing a proximity that was dangerously close. 

Perhaps you should’ve listened to him when he’d told you to stay away. When he’d warned you about Beomgyu. Something was not right with him, you knew that, every fiber of your being told you that this was a bad idea. Yet your mind couldn’t seem to overpower the fire that spread inside your heart, clutching it tightly in its grip, pulling you towards Beomgyu. 

You have always followed your heart. You followed it when you delivered jam, because it fluttered when the others appreciatively accepted their jar. You followed it because it beats extra hard when someone smiles your way. You followed it because it made you happy. Even now, you followed it, you followed it through the thick and dark trees, through the wilted flowers and the eerie silence that led all the way to his house. 

You followed your heart all the way to Beomgyu, until you finally found yourself in his arms. 

A noise of surprise rips from the back of your throat as he walks you over to the couch, setting you down amongst the peachy pillows. He stares down at you for a moment, his tongue swiping across your plump lips, and you find yourself mesmerized by him. In the dim light of the fireplace, he didn't look at all like his cold and mean self. Beomgyu looked warm, flourishing and alive. 

The strong scent of peaches radiated off of him in waves, making your eyes flutter as you got a whiff of him. — Your mouth opens, you want to say something, you want to confirm that this moment is real, that this is just not a figment of your imagination and that you are actually here, that he’s actually here and that he’s… Him. 

“You smell good.” His voice is gruff, and you can barely make out his dark eyes as he leans down, for his brown hair covers the majority of his flushed face. — You squeal when his lips drag across the juncture of your neck, when his hot tongue presses against your skin. “Like apricots..” He murmurs, as his nose nudging against your collarbone, “But better.” 

He inhales sharply, the groan he emits going straight to your core and you feel a strange wave of desire build in your stomach. It felt weird, though not unpleasant, and certainly not unwelcome. — Still, you shriek when his fingers reach for your orange coat, insistently tugging it from your body. Beomgyu doesn’t even seem to register your bashful exclamation as you try to cover yourself, instead he tugs at your blouse, flicking the first few buttons open as his eyes rake across your warm skin. 

“Fuck”, he grunts and you would be ashamed to admit that the small slip of his tongue made you throb. — “Do you like this?” He asks, his hungry eyes suddenly latching onto yours. Your face was practically on fire as you nodded, and Beomgyu’s smirk grew wide. “I can tell”, he then adds, making you jump as his hand slides up your inner thigh, stopping all the way under your plaid skirt, his fingers inches from the lining of your panties, “You reek of it.” 

“I…” You did not know if that was a compliment or not. But you meekly tried to close your legs, only for Beomgyu to pry them apart again as he pushed your skirt up over your hips. — His breath is warm, much warmer than the fire sparking next to you. It makes your skin flare up as it caresses you. 

“Please”, he murmurs, the words barely audible as his head drops down between your thighs. “I need to taste you, just once.” — You weren’t exactly sure what he meant by that, but the strange flutter rising in your stomach had become almost impossible to ignore and out of sheer desperation you nod, breathing out a small, “yes.” 

Beomgyu doesn’t need to hear it twice. Two of his long fingers slip around the hem of your panties, tugging the garment down your legs, though giving up halfway when his impatience got the better of him. The sound of cotton ripping fills your ears, making you dizzy as he exhales against your bare cunt, nearly panting against it upon eyeing the orange cream that your arousal had built up. 

Your eyes fly open when he first licks a stripe along your core, a surprised moan leaving your lips as you peer down at him. Fingers digging into the plush and peachy couch, you swallow, your gaze training on his brown hair as it buries between your legs, longing to reach out and touch him. — The first, almost hesitant taste he’d gotten only seemed to make him spiral even further and you choke on a small gasp as the bridge of his nose presses against your clit, his tongue dwelling deep inside your cunt as his hands grab at your waist, sliding down your thighs. 

His eyes flutter in ecstasy, the creamy taste of apricots overwhelming his taste buds as the acidic sensation floods him. He quickly realizes that he needs more, and a lot of it. “W-Wait, wait, Beomgyu–” The tingling feeling bubbling within you felt like it was about to implode on you, it made your thighs tremble and your head spin as you fought to stay somewhat composed. 

But it’s like he’s on a different planet, nothing you said mattered when you were so perfectly spread before him, your warm and inviting cunt just waiting for him to completely devour. Your soft whines and silent pleas made his head spin, and he knew he needed more, as much as possible. 

Your head tips back when his fingers suddenly slide between your soaked folds, digging into your quivering cunt as he curls them. — “B-Beomgyu..” His name leaves your lips a mere whimper, though you’re not sure what you’re even asking of him. You want to say something, to convey the heat inside of you, the feelings swirling within your chest and the fierce beating of your heart. But the words get caught in your throat, your eyes screwing shut as pleasurable vibrations course through you. 

Beomgyu moans at the taste of your release on his tongue, greedily lapping up every single droplet of creamy apricot as he tugs you closer. He doesn’t seem to worry about breathing, and his chest heaves dramatically against the couch cushion, his hips stuttering as he shudders. — The feeling of his tongue against your clit suddenly goes from overwhelming to overbearing, and your thighs clamped around his head as your hands push him back. 

“N-No more!” You gasp, your face flushed in all shades orange as you blink fervently. Beomgyu groans when he separates from your cunt, a displeased look flashing across his desire-filled expression. The lower half of his face is coated in a thick layer of something dangerously close to the apricot jam he’d been feasting on for weeks. He blatantly ignores your gawking stare as he wipes the mess from his cheeks, stuffing his fingers into his mouth, his eyes already searching for more as he attempts to spread your legs once more. 

You whine, rubbing your thighs together in embarressment, resisting a shiver as his hand runs across your knee and down your calf. “One more”, he says, and though his voice is masked by a layer of determination, you can still decipher the silent plea as his dark eyes search yours. — Biting the inside of your cheek, you shyly avoid his gaze as you let it wander across his body. 

With a slightly shaky hand you point to the shirt he’s wearing. “T-Take it off..” You murmur, the small sentence nearly inaudible. The uncharacteristic smirk he’d been wearing since your arrival quickly finds its way back to his lips and Beomgyu complies as he tugs the garment over his head, discarding it on the floor as he turns back to you with a look of expectancy. 

Admittedly so, you had been craving a closer look at him since the day you’d first found yourself on his porch. Something about him pulled you in. Perhaps it was the subtle pink flush of his face, one that had intensified right now, making him almost glow. Or it was the soft fuzz that crawled across his skin, it feels ticklish under the tips of your fingers as you trail them along his naked chest. Peach fuzz, you think to yourself with a small smile. — Beomgyu shudders, but bites back another comment as he watches you with dark eyes. 

Your attention flickers to his hair, dark and unkempt. His hair left a lot of questions, some which you had spent more time pondering than you’d like to admit. Your hands card through the surprisingly soft locks, giving them a gentle tug and Beomgyu groans, his head immediately falling forward as he wraps an arm around your waist. 

He pulls you onto his lap in seconds, making you straddle his hips, ignoring the way you wince as your sensitive cunt makes contact with the rough fabric of his pants. — Your gaze drops to the not so subtle bulge straining against the fabric, your hands tentatively palming him through the material, carefully gauging his reaction. 

The strands of his dark hair tickle your neck as he leans forward to press languid kisses along your shoulder. His teeth drag across your skin, and for a moment you thought he might actually try and take a bite out of you. It was like he was trying to merge with you, to envelop you fully, like that was the only way to extinguish the fire burning within. 

He helps you with the zipper, swiftly tugging his hard cock from the confinements of his pants, giving it a few deliberate strokes as he directs kisses to your blazing skin. — You can’t help but eye the way his fingers wrap around his shaft, noting the way he presses his thumb against his slit, shuddering against you as he does. Eager to do the same, you reach out. Beomgyu freezes when your hand joins in on top of his, but makes no move to brush you off. 

Saliva pools in your mouth at the sight of light and pink precum dribbling from his flushed tip, it perfectly matched the flush of his face. Beomgyu chokes on a strained moan when your fingers swipe across his slit, gathering the sticky and sweet substance on your hand as you bring it to the lips. — He tastes sweet, like peaches, ripe and perfectly harvested. You sigh at the euphoric taste, your eyes fluttering as your tongue darts out to lick at the remnants that had spilled down your chin. 

Beomgyu’s throbbing cock twitches at the sight and he doesn’t hesitate as yanks you forward. “Don’t do that”, he breathes, “Please. Don’t do that.” It sounds as if he’s using all his willpower to hold back. You didn’t want him to. You wanted to see him just as he was, every last bit of him, you wanted to see it all, to familiarize yourself with everything that was him.  

“You taste good”, you say, the compliment coming out a little breathless when he presses the tip of his cock against your overstimulated cunt. “Yeah?” He asks, pushing past the tight rim of muscle as he eases his way inside, bringing you back onto his thighs. “You do too.” — His words barely register in your mind, for it’s far too clogged up on the feeling of him, throbbing and alive, inside of you. 

His hands are on your waist again, pulling you forward as he sets you in motion. You gasp at the way he brushes up against every bundle of nerves, soft eyelashes hitting your cheeks as your eyes flutter. — With trembling fingers you reach for his face, you wanted to kiss him again, you wanted it more than anything. In this very moment you felt greedy, selfish almost, your body moving on its own accord as you sought out pleasure. 

You had always considered yourself a selfless person, always giving and giving, never expecting anything in return. It felt strange, you had never desired anything the way you desired Beomgyu right now. The feeling scared you. Was this what Kai had warned you about? Should you have listened. — Even if you wanted to, you don’t think you could ever stop now. It was too much, he was everywhere, all at once. Yet there never seemed to be enough. 

Your lips crash against his with urgency, somehow the kiss turns out sweet. It’s soft, gentle, caring. Beomgyu hums into your mouth, the taste of peaches and apricots mixing with one another. It tastes sweet, refreshing, and exciting. — Your combined moans echo out into the small cottage, the fire burning alongside your already blazing bodies, intensifying the raw and intimate moment. 

Suddenly you know what you’d been longing for all this time, what had been missing in your otherwise mundane but joyful life. Delivering jams wasn’t enough, the warm smiles only eased the loneliness in your heart to an extent. No, this, this was what you needed. Another warm body against yours, someone to devote yourself entirely to, someone who acted without expecting anything in return. You would like to think of Beomgyu that way, even though you know you probably shouldn’t. 

“Fuck, you’re so perfect- I..” Beomgyu cuts himself off as he pulls back from the heated kiss. Sweat slides down his forehead and you lean in to press a small peck between his furrowed brows. His jaw slacks as he lets ragged breaths pass his parted lips, his hips jerking up to meet yours. — Large hands slide down the sides of your trembling thighs, running over the curve of your ass as he squeezes the soft flesh there. 

“D-Don’t know how much longer…I’m..” You stumble over your words, foreheads pressed against one another as small wordless sounds of pleasure rips from your throat. Beomgyu hums, his fingers creeping up your spine, dark gaze trained to your tits, catching the way your perky nipples strained against the cotton of your blouse. — “Fucking perfect.” He grunts, repeating himself over and over, enjoying the way it sounded on his tongue. 

His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing it in gentle motions. The action makes your teeth latch onto your bottom lip as tears prickle in the corner of your eyes. With a small cry you feel your orgasm course through you, your cunt desperately clenching around his cock, pulling a string of curses from Beomgyu as his head tips back, exposing his flushed neck and bobbing adam's apple. 

The peach cream is warm as it sputters from his twitching cock, spreading throughout your belly when he finishes inside of you. It’s unexplainable, the closeness, the intertwinement, you feel almost bound to him in that moment. — His body feels electrifying against yours, the soft fuzz tickling you when he pulls you to his heaving chest. 

It feels idyllic, being so close to him. He doesn’t feel at all like the Beomgyu you had acquainted yourself with. This feels raw, it feels real. The weeks you’d spent carefully peeling the layers back had led you here, a place in which you never would’ve even considered finding yourself in. — And when you peer up at him, you find it hard to ever look away. He looks dazed, half a smirk plastered onto his face as his arms tighten around you. 

You did not know if this had been a mistake or not, you did not know if you would come to regret this the following day. But right now it felt just right, just perfect. — You wish to stay like this, if just a moment longer. 

⸝⸝

You found that Beomgyu liked to sleep in. 

As usual, you had woken along with the sun, rising as the first rays cast upon you. Stretching out with a small yawn, you freeze when your feet hit something hard. Cracking a groggy eye open, you find your toes stubbed against the armrest of a peachy couch. Shaking your head as you blink the sleep away, you glance around. — You were in Beomgyu’s living room. 

Your gaze falls on the fire, it had since long died out, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. Then onto the discarded basket, tipped over on the floor a few paces away. And then to your bright and orange coat, thrown on the cream colored carpet. — At last, you settle on him. Beomgyu lays sprawled out on the sofa, taking up the vast majority of it as he forces you into a compromised position somewhere between its backrest and him. 

With a small grunt you ease yourself into a sitting slouch, steadying yourself with a hand on his naked chest. The pink flush had gone down, and he no longer looked as if he were on fire. In fact, he looked almost peaceful like this. Blissfully asleep as he takes slow and steady breaths through his slightly parted lips. His eyes move behind closed eyelids, lashes fluttering, as his nose scrunches. 

You reach out before you can even stop yourself, fingers carefully carding through his dark hair. Memories of your previous night together flash before you, replaying themselves in crisp clear quality. You remember his warm hands on you, his fuzzy skin against yours, his lips, the way he tasted, the way he made you feel. — Your body tingles all over at the mere thought. 

Mindlessly your hands wander, not stopping until they reach a peculiar little mark on his ribcage. At first glance, it looked nothing out of the ordinary, and you would have probably brushed it off as a birthmark, had it not been for the way Beomgyu flinched when you pressed against it. — He groans, rolling over on his side, now facing you as his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you to him as his face nuzzles against your stomach. 

“Too early..” He complains, his voice muffled and laced with sleep as his hands clumsily grab at your hips. Pursing your lips, you reach for the mark once more, pressing the tips of your fingers against it. Beomgyu groans as he attempts to swat your hand away, persistently ignoring your advances until you finally speak up. — “What’s that?” 

“Hm?” He raises his head, blinking against the bright sun before his attention shifts to where you’re pointing at. A small scoff passes his lips, his expression morphing into one of recognition and distaste, like you’d just reminded him of something he’d been trying to forget. — “It’s nothing”, he grunts, heaving himself into a sitting position as he stretches. Your eyes trail his figure with far less shame than you would’ve liked to admit. But as they do, you encounter several marks of the same kind. 

“Beomgyu, there’s one here too”, you point to the reddish hue on his forearm. How had you not noticed these yesterday? Then again… Your cheeks flush as you recall the events of last night, quickly shaking your head as you try to rid yourself of such thoughts. — Beomgyu huffs, waving a dismissing hand your way as he tries to brush the topic off. “Don’t they hurt?” You quire, pushing the conversation further. 

Beomgyu sighs, running a sleepy hand through his disheveled and dark hair. “Yeah, sure”, he mutters but doesn’t seem too bothered by the admission. — “Had them for as long as I can remember”, he then adds with a small shrug, “something about peaches bruising easily.” 

You don’t question him on the topic again, he didn’t seem keen on talking about it. And you respected that. Yet you couldn’t help but get lost in thought as your mind pictured the dark spots. Were Kai’s words true? Had Beomgyu himself began rotting?

⸝⸝

You visit Beomgyu the next day, and the day after that, and even the one to come. He doesn't question your sudden appearances. And you no longer have to wait outside his shut front door, for he opens it right away, even if he lets you inside with nothing but a short nod or a small grunt. 

The two of you don’t do much. You drink tea, sometimes you eat biscuits with the jam you brought. Other times he allows you to scour his crowded bookshelves, you use him as your own library, picking a book and returning with it a few days later. — Beomgyu will often sit on the couch, you by the warm fireplace as you ramble on about the book, sharing your thoughts excitedly. Often it felt as if you were conversing with yourself, but you knew that he was listening. You could tell by the way his lip twitched, or the way he rolled his thumbs over one another. 

Neither of you bring up that night, the night where you had.. It’s buried, buried beneath the small talk. Buried beneath the tea and the biscuits, beneath the silence of just enjoying each other’s presence. — Beomgyu never tells you to leave, but you do so anyway. And though your heart yearned to spend another night in his house, you were not so sure that it was a good idea. You had yet to tell anyone about it, not even Blueberry Kai knew. The secret burdened you, in a way. 

Beomgyu never mentioned the bruises again, so you didn’t either. Sometimes you would catch a glimpse of them, when his shirt slid up as he reached for a book on the top shelf, or when he rolled his sleeves up to do the dishes. If he ever caught you staring, he’d make sure to cover himself again. The sight pained you, and you wished there was something you could do. Anything. 

When you weren’t at his house, you spent your days researching, as silly as it might sound. In the short span of a week, you had learned everything there was to know about peaches. From their soft and fuzzy outsides to their pink and creamy insides. You read about growing peaches, about harvesting peaches, you read about which seasons they thrive in and which they don’t. — Safe to say you confidently called yourself an expert. 

Yet there was one peach you couldn’t quite seem to figure out. 

Beomgyu was nothing like the peaches in the books, with the exception of the soft fuzz that coated him and the pink flush of his cheeks whenever he got flustered. And as the night drags on, your tired eyes follow along the written liens on the page before you in a lazy manner. With your head propped on your hand, you stifle yet another yawn as you blink the sleep away. 

No, this wouldn’t do. All answers were not in books, and certainly not answers about Beomgyu. With the quick shake of your head, you slam said book shut, and with newfound determination you rise to your feet. — If you couldn’t ask him about it, then you would simply have to work with what you’ve got; and that was a whole bunch of newfound knowledge on peaches. 

⸝⸝ 

The next morning you leave home before the birds wake. With nothing but a short blink of sleep but energy to feed an army, you march down the cobbled road. You don’t have to look for the small pathway that leads off the main street anymore, your feet take you there on your own, allowing your thoughts to wander as you dwell into the thick forest. 

Beomgyu’s familiar house makes your chest swell, and your pace quickens as you approach. — The knocks you deliver to his door are sharp, demanding and slightly impatient. With the small click of your tongue, you glance around the silent woods, tapping your foot restlessly against the old porch. A minute or so later, the door glides open, and you’re met with a freshly woken peach. 

“Do you know what time it is?” Beomgyu retorts, though his voice lacks its usual bite, he’d stopped using that with you. “It’s almost seven”, you chirp as you brush past him and into his homely living room, having already made yourself more than comfortable within his house. Beomgyu’s protesting groan becomes a faint background noise as you settle the heavy basket you were carrying onto his dining table. 

It’s just now that he seems to notice it, his eyes scouring the items stacked inside, neatly concealed with a plaid blanket. — “What’s the meaning of this?” He mutters as he nears you, his chest brushing against your back as he reaches past you to peel the blanket off. You freeze, swallowing a small gulp as you blink a couple of times. Beomgyu had started doing that.. Being so close, you mean. It was as if the matter of personal space didn’t occur in his mind. Not that you minded, however it reminded you of your night together, and that was something you did mind. 

“Peaches..!” You chime, trying your hardest not to let on to your flustered state. Beomgyu, on the other hand, goes silent behind you. His warm breaths are slow and steady against the back of your neck as his fingers fiddle with the handle of the basket. “What for?” He asks, his voice gruff and unreadable. 

Hesitantly, you reach for one of the smaller bags, holding it up as you show him the tiny seeds inside. “They’re not peaches yet..” You murmur, and you’re thankful that he can’t see your face as it twists in embarrassment. — “I thought we could plant them together”, the proposal comes out a mere whisper, the words getting caught in your throat as you avoid glancing behind you to get his reaction. 

Another eerie silence follows. 

It drags on for nearly a whole minute before Beomgyu finally shifts behind you. “No.” He firmly states, the abrupt refusal washing over you like a bucket of ice cold water. This time you can’t hold yourself back from twisting on the spot, coming face to face with him. — “Why not?” You press, your brows furrowing as you grip the small bag of seeds. 

Beomgyu leans forward, restricting the already confined space between the two of you. The back of your thighs press against the dining table, and you find yourself leaning backward when his nose nudges against your own. — “Because I don’t like peaches.” His expression is painted with distaste, as if the word itself spread a bitter taste on his tongue. However, you refused to back down, and with a small huff you shook your head; shoving him back as you grab the basket and head for the smaller door that leads out into his garden.

The fresh morning air is soothing against your burning skin, still tingling where his warm breath had caressed. You take in a deep breath, savoring the cool air as it slips down into your lungs. As you do, you survey the garden. While it wasn’t in horrible condition, it looked like it had been left unattended for the greater part of its existence. Yet you march forward, finding a nice open patch of grass as you sink to your knees. 

You rummage through the basket in search of the small shovels you’d brought. Then comes the process of tearing up the ground beneath you. It’s a tedious process, but one that you find to quite enjoy. A familiar sensation of calm and peace washes over you as you work just like you would in your own garden; shoveling the soil into a pile next to you. 

The sun is warm against your back as you work, yet its rays don't quite seem to reach the lonesome cottage, for the dark forest surrounding you shuts it out. — Wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, you find yourself completely engrossed in the task at hand. Much so that the sound of the door being opened and closed passes you by unnoticed. 

Beomgyu’s steps are heavy as he slowly approaches your hunched over form. You feel his presence before you see it. The way his gaze tears holes through the back of your neck, dark and piercing eyes locked on your every move. He stops a pace away, maintaining a safe distance, as if the seed itself were to jump up and swallow him whole. 

It’s quiet, neither of you saying anything as you let the tense air speak for itself. You can feel him watching you as you shovel more dirt, having made a decent depth to the hole. Briefly, you consider the fact that this might’ve been a mistake, that you had overstepped once and for all, and that this time, he wasn’t just going to brush it off as insistence. — When you reach for the bag of seeds, he suddenly speaks up: 

“Why are you doing this?” 

You hadn't expected him to ask that. Quite frankly you had expected him to drag you away. To shut his door in your face and tell you to never come back. His question makes you waver, fingers hovering above the opening section of the little bag as you freeze mid-action. Why were you doing this? To say pity felt derogatory, for you didn’t think Beomgyu longed for pity, if anything he repelled it. So what was it? 

“Friendship”, you finally say, your hands resuming their work as you shake a few seeds out onto your open palm. “It’s what friends do”, you add as you turn to peer up at him. It was hard to make out his expression, the sun behind him momentarily blinding you. But his scoff is loud and clear, and you catch the way his fingers twitch as he resists the urge to clench them into fists. 

He mutters something under his breath, the words inaudible to your ears. Then he crouches down next to you, the action taking you by surprise. A small, almost unnoticeable smirk is tugged across his lips, it's a strange look on him, one you don’t think you’d ever seen. — “Friendship?” He echoes as he glances toward the bag in your hand. You nod, rolling the seeds on the flat of your palm, “Are we not friends?” 

Beomgyu pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, his gaze trained on something beyond your line of sight as he peers out and ahead. “I don’t know..”, he murmurs, his eyes briefly dropping to his own hands, splayed out in front of him. — “I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend.” The admission is followed by the soft flush of his neck and cheeks, the light pink radiating on his skin. 

His words make your chest tighten, the corners of your lips falling as your face drops. Never had a friend? You’d always assumed that Peach Beomgyu liked it better that way. Perhaps not, perhaps he was just as lonely as he looked right now. — Placing the bag of seeds down, you reach over, clasping his hand in yours. The small seeds linger within your intertwined palms, enveloped in the warmth simmering between you.  

Beomgyu’s brow twitches, his dark eyes lifting as they lock with yours, a silent question lingering within them. — “I can be your first friend”, you smile, even though your stomach is fluttering with nerves. He looks slightly taken aback, like he hadn’t expected for those to be the words to come out of your mouth. His lips part, only for him to close them soon again, silently nodding. 

Your heart was practically ablaze. 

Only when his hand squeezes around yours do you seem to remember yourself as you shake your head. “Right”, you say as you point to the little hole you had dug, “Let’s plant these!” — Beomgyu seems hesitant at first, his eyes flickering between your intertwined fingers and the soil patch. Still, he reluctantly gives in as he lets you guide your joint hands toward the hole. 

You make sure to gently pat the little seeds in, taking a moment to lean back and admire them before motioning for Beomgyu to cover them with dirt. He complies, gingerly scooping some into his palms as he covers the hole back up. Together you flatten it out, your hands bumping into one another as you do. It’s impossible to ignore the way his fingers flare up in pink whenever they touch yours, and you smile at the discovery. 

When you’re finally done, you lean back up, placing your hands on your knees as you regard the small patch with pursed lips. “Now we wait”, you huff, realizing that even with the help of Beomgyu it would take a good couple of months before these were even close to being done. To wait and for so long for something was awfully boring. 

With a reclined sigh, you begin collecting the tools you’d used, shoving them back into the basket. Beomgyu had gone awfully quiet next to you, quiet even for him. You pay it no mind, far too busy with re-organizing yourself. It’s not until his warm fingers suddenly grasp your chin, his touch feathery light yet scorching hot, that you react. 

Your wide eyes barely manage to meet his upon turning your head before his lips press against yours. The sudden kiss takes you by surprise and you blink a couple of times before allowing your shocked eyes to fall shut. — It didn’t feel like it had that night, this was slow, timid almost, and Beomgyu was far more hesitant this time around as his hand went to your waist. It was cute, you thought. 

And when he finally pulls back, there’s a warm pink covering the entirety of his face as he clears his throat into his closed fist. “Do..” He begins, quickly trailing off as he avoids your gaze. “I mean, is that something friends do?” — You frown, mouth opening and closing as you think of an answer. 

“I don’t…I don’t think so. I think it’s something that more-than-friends do…”, you shyly admit, watching as the color that had just begun fading off of his face resurfaced once more. — Beomgyu grunts, shaking his head once, as if banishing the embarrassment from his mind, his dark hair falling in uneven sections in front of his eyes. “Then..”, he puts on a more stoic expression but you catch the nervous fidget of his fingers as they play with a strand of grass, “Then I want to be ‘more-than-friends’ with you.” — “If…If that’s okay?” He quickly adds, his face falling for a brief moment. 

You can only nod, a grin stretching across your lips so wide that the corners of your mouth hurt. “I would like that very much.” — Beomgyu exhales a heavy sigh of relief, his shoulders slumping slightly as he peers at you through dark strands of hair. You awkwardly clear your throat, feeling your own face heat up at the request you were about to make: 

“Can you…do that again? The kiss I mean..” 

He chuckles, and you think it was the first time you ever heard him even remotely laugh. — “Without a doubt.” 

⸝⸝

Things became different with Beomgyu after that. But it was a good different. It was different because he had started coming to you. — It had shocked you at first, when he’d knocked on your door, and you had opened it, expecting anyone but him. Even more so when he’d willingly accompanied you into town. Though he didn’t say much, he still followed along as you browsed the different stands, humming a quiet yes to whatever you found interesting. 

People cast glances your way, but he didn’t seem to care for them. And neither did you, for the warm feeling of your hand in his washed away any other thoughts. — He even met Blueberry Kai once, though their first meeting was stiff and beyond tense, you couldn’t help the way your chest swelled at the accomplishment. 

Beomgyu was polite, at least when he wanted to be. He stopped to hold the door for others, picked up a lost purse and returned it to its owner, and he carried your basket when it became too heavy. After a while he started accompanying you when you went out to deliver jams, and the faces of others as they opened the door soon grew from shock to recognition as Beomgyu slowly made his way back into society. 

Still, you preferred to spend quiet and lazy days at his house. Away from everyone else, just the two of you, basked in a different kind of tranquility. Sharing soft kisses on the couch, long mornings in bed, reading out in the garden, and having tea in the kitchen. — It was a simple life, a life that had been right under your nose all along. 

And the peaches soon bloomed, much to everyone’s surprise. The first ripe fruits, hanging off the tree, pink and plump. Beomgyu watches as you reach for one, plucking it from its branch as you turn it in your hands. — “Perfect, no?” You say as you let your fingers glide over the familiar fuzz covering the fruit. 

Beomgyu hums as he, too, reaches for one. The shirt he wore rides up his stomach, exposing his flushed skin to you. But there were no bruises this time, they had faded months ago. And none of you questioned it, though you were certain you knew why. — Beomgyu brings the peach to his nose, inhaling its sweet scent as his eyes flutter. A small smile splayed across his face, that was also something different. 

Your gaze lingers on his frame just a moment longer, fixated on the dark hair on top of his head. Only… It wasn’t dark, not anymore. — You reach up to card your hand through his soft locks, fingers catching one a strand by the very top. You run it between your thumb and index finger, its peachy color glowing under the sun. 

To think that a little bit of love was all someone like him needed to bloom. 

It was a funny thought indeed.

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ALL THE WAYS WE LOSE — choi yeonjun

Genre: rivals to lovers, idiots in love, mutual pining, summer romance Word Count: 35.9k

For as long as Y/N can remember, summers in town have meant one thing: competing with Choi Yeonjun. Whether it's festival games, academic achievements, or something as ridiculous as who can finish their tteobokki first, neither is willing to back down. But as another summer begins, Y/N finds herself struggling to separate genuine frustration from something far more complicated.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ choi yeonjun x fem! reader

a/n first part is finally here! I got so motivated to write this, I had so much fun.

Part of the Our Beloved Summer AU !

🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

The summer of 1999 did not arrive quietly in Jeju; it came wrapped in the thick, salt-crusted air blowing off the sea, the omnipresent thud of Fin.K.L and H.O.T playing from a battery-powered cassette player outside a local fisheries cooperative, and the terrifying, electric countdown to a new millennium that everyone talked about but no one really understood.

The world was supposedly ending in five months under the weight of the Y2K bug, but down in the winding, stone-walled alleyways of a quiet coastal village on the island's southern rim, the only thing truly ending was youth.

The neighborhood itself was a low-slung labyrinth of black volcanic basalt walls, weather-beaten rooftops secured with thick ropes against typhoon winds, and stubbornness. It sat perched on the sloped cliffs overlooking the ocean, far away from the polished, wealthy high-rises of Seoul where rich families sent their children to elite private academies.

Here, the landscape was a breathless, unforgiving series of rocky coastlines and steep coastal inclines that tore through the rubber soles of cheap sandals. The air smelled permanently of drying squid, wild crushed hydrangeas, and the thick, pungent tang of fermenting mandarin groves baking under the heavy island sun.

By the afternoons, the heat didn't just sit in the air; it rose from the sun-baked black stone in shimmering, oily waves that made the distant horizon of the sea look like a mirage melting into the sky.

Y/N walked down the center of the narrow, sloped asphalt road leading up from the harbor, her feet heavy in her shoes. Every few steps, the soles would stick slightly to the softening tar of the pavement, leaving faint, gray smudges behind her.

She kept her head down, completely oblivious to the vast expanse of blue water cutting into the horizon to her left or the humid, salty wind blowing her bangs into her eyes. Her high school uniform blouse—the stiff, heavy synthetic blend that the school administration insisted on even in August—was glued to the skin between her shoulder blades, but she didn't care.

Her entire universe had shrunk to the size of a wrinkled, yellowing sheet of paper clutched in her hands.

[1999 PROVINCIAL MOCK EXAMINATION - JULY]

RANK 1: CHOI YEONJUN (JEJU NAM HIGH SCHOOL) - 396 / 400 RANK 2: JEON Y/N (JEJU NAM HIGH SCHOOL) - 392 / 400

Four points.

It was always four points. The equivalent of one poorly phrased classical Chinese poem she had second-guessed in the final five minutes, or a single miscalculated geometry proof. To the village elders, coming in second in the entire province was a miracle worthy of praise. To Y/N, it was a public execution. Her fingers tightened around the edges of the ledger, crumpling the cheap paper as she kicked a loose piece of volcanic gravel down the concrete path leading toward her house. She was so hyper-focused on the printed ink, replaying every single math equation in her head, that the rest of the world completely blurred out.

Whack.

A sudden, sharp rustle of leaves exploded from the heavy green ivy hanging over a low basalt stone wall to her right. Before she could even register the sound, a tall figure dropped out of the branches of an old, overhanging mandarin tree, landing squarely on the sloped path just inches in front of her.

"Boo."

Y/N shrieked, her heart violently leaping into her throat. Her tracks screeched to a halt, her shoes slipping slightly on the gravel. The heavy split-ring binder she’d been clutching slipped from her underarm, hitting the pavement with a loud, hollow thud as the mock exam paper fluttered out of her hands.

"Choi Yeonjun!" she gasped, pressing a hand flat against her chest, her heart hammering frantically against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Are you insane?! You almost gave me a heart attack!"

Standing in front of her, entirely unfazed by her outburst, was the source of her four-point torment.

Despite spending every spare hour of his summer swimming out by the rocky piers or hanging out near the docks, Yeonjun possessed a striking, stubborn paleness that the island sun seemed entirely unable to touch. His skin was smooth, clear, and fair, making him look less like a coastal country kid and more like someone dropped into Jeju from a glossy Seoul music magazine. Against that pale canvas, his hair was a deep, ink-black. It fell loosely over his forehead in sharp, unruly strands that split down the middle, entirely defying the school's strict haircut regulations. It was long enough to brush the nape of his neck, damp at the tips from salt water and a quick splash at the harbor pump, catching the blinding white glare of the afternoon sky.

He was balanced on his heels, a half-eaten red-and-white double-bar popsicle in his left hand. An oversized, bleached-out t-shirt hung off his broad shoulders, and a thin silver chain sat flat against his collarbone, catching the harsh glare of the sun.

Standing at a commanding 5′11, he completely dwarfed her, his shadow swallowing her small frame entirely on the narrow incline. He had shot up unexpectedly over the last year, his presence suddenly heavy, broad, and entirely distracting.

"You're too easy to scare," Yeonjun drawled, a slow, infuriating smirk spreading across his full, slightly parted lips. He tilted his head down, looking down at her from his height with an easy, loose-limbed grace. He bent at the waist, his long fingers plucking her crumpled exam result out of the dirt before she could reach for it. He straightened back up, holding the yellow paper high above his head, well out of her reach, his dark, hooded monolid eyes scanning the text. "And you shouldn't walk while reading. What if you fell down the cliff? I'd have to tumble down into the sea after you, and my clothes are already dry."

"Give it back," Y/N snapped, her voice rising in defensive anger. She lunged forward and reached up to grab the paper, but Yeonjun simply pivoted his shoulder, using his sheer height advantage to keep it easily out of her grasp.

"Let's see," Yeonjun murmured, his eyes glittering with mischief as he looked down at her. "Ah. July results. Still four points, Y/N-ah."

Up close, the sun caught the tiny pale scar just below his left ear—the mark from when he’d fallen onto the jagged black rocks by the shore when they were nine, trying to prove he could dive off the high pier before she did.

"I don't need a commentary from the gallery, Choi," she spat, her face flushing bright red from a mixture of heat and sheer frustration.

"It’s not commentary, it’s a reality check," Yeonjun said softly. The smirk didn't leave his face, but his tone dropped into a lower, quieter register that made the small hairs on her arms stand up. He broke the popsicle cleanly in half down the wooden stick with a sharp crack and extended one side down toward her, the red syrup already melting over his pale thumb. "Here. Eat this before your brain cooks from overthinking. You always stall on the math logic section because you think about what the question is trying to ask instead of just looking at what's there."

Y/N felt a hot surge of blood rush to her ears. He had analyzed her failures just as closely as she had obsessed over his successes. She snatched the popsicle from his fingers, their skins brushing for a fraction of a second—a brief contact that sent a sudden, unwelcome jolt straight through her chest.

"The final university entrance exam is in November," she whispered, her teeth sinking into the red ice as she glared up at him. "Anything can happen before then. The millennium changes in five months, Yeonjun. I’m not letting you go out on top."

Yeonjun’s smirk faded slightly, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an unblinking focus that felt far too heavy for a simple high school rivalry. He leaned down just a fraction, bringing himself closer to her eye level, his gaze intense. "The world isn't going to end, Y/N-ah. But even if the lights go out... I’m still going to be exactly four points ahead of you. Because you're so busy looking for a fight, you never look at what's right in front of you."

The silence that followed his words felt heavier than the August humidity. For a terrifying, breathless second, Y/N couldn’t look away. Up close, she could see the faint violet shadows under Yeonjun's eyes—proof that despite his effortless front, the late-night lamp in his window wasn't just for show. She could taste the artificial cherry from the melting popsicle coating her tongue, cold and sharp, a stark contrast to the thick heat radiating from the sun-baked road.

"I look at what's in front of me just fine," she muttered, forcing her eyes down to his collarbone where the thin silver chain pooled against his skin. She took a step back, breaking the suffocating proximity. She bent down to retrieve her heavy split-ring binder, her fingers scraping against the concrete pavement. "And right now, what's in front of me is an absolute nuisance."

Yeonjun let out a low, breathy laugh that shook his broad shoulders. The heavy intensity vanished from his face as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by that familiar, loose-limbed ease. He swung his canvas school bag over one shoulder, adjusting the strap over his bleached-out t-shirt.

"If I'm a nuisance, Jeon, then you're a menace," he said, falling into step right beside her as she began walking again.

He didn't ask for permission. He never did. He just adjusted his pace to match her furious pacing, his long shadow stretching across the road and completely swallowing hers. The road began to slope upward, winding away from the harbor road and toward the tightly packed wooden gates of the village.

"Stop following me," Y/N said, her sandals sticking slightly to a patch of softening tar.

"We live next door," Yeonjun pointed out, taking a slow bite of his remaining half of the popsicle. His ink-black hair shifted with the movement, a stray strand catching on his thick eyelashes. "Unless you want me to hike through the Hallasan foothills just to give you space, you're stuck with me until the gate."

"Then walk faster. Your legs are twice the size of mine anyway."

"And miss the look on your face when you try to calculate how many hours of sleep you need to skip tonight to make up those four points?" He tilted his head down, his dark, hooded eyes glittering with pure mischief. "No way. It's the best part of my afternoon."

"You are insufferable," she hissed, but her heart gave a strange, unruly thud against her ribs.

They reached the top of the crest where the path narrowed into a residential corridor. The basalt retaining walls here were old, covered in salt-hardened vines and dry moss that survived the sea winds. Behind those walls sat their respective family homes, separated by nothing more than a waist-high divider of black stone that they had both been jumping over since they were old enough to scrape their knees.

As they approached her weathered wooden gate, Y/N snatched her exam paper back from his fingers with a sharp tug. He let it go easily this time, his lips curling into a soft, unreadable line as he watched her slide the yellowed page safely into her binder.

"See you at dinner, Y/N-ah," Yeonjun murmured, stopping at the edge of his own walkway.

Y/N paused, her hand resting on the wooden latch of her gate. "What dinner?"

"Our moms went to the five-day market up in the city this morning," he said, turning his back to lean casually against his stone wall, his hands tucked into his pockets. "Your dad bought a crate of that Jeju black pork. My dad got the Hallasan soju. It’s a 'celebration' for the mock exams." He looked back over his shoulder, his ink-black hair falling into his eyes as his smirk returned. "I want to see your face when our dads start talking about the Seoul National applications."

Before she could fling her binder at his head, he slipped through his own gate, the rhythmic thud of his canvas sneakers fading into the quiet hum of the front courtyard.

Y/N stood alone in the blinding heat, her uniform blouse sticking to her skin, her fingers tightly gripping the metal latch. The cicadas screamed from the trees alongside the crashing rhythm of the tide below, a deafening reminder that summer was fleeting, the millennium was coming, and Choi Yeonjun was still the only variable she couldn't solve.

By seven in the evening, the blinding white glare of the Jeju sun had finally bled out into a heavy, bruised violet behind the endless horizon of the sea. The temperature dropped by only a few degrees, but the air remained thick and sticky with salt and humidity, carrying the intense aroma of charred fat and caramelized garlic across the shared space between their properties.

The two families had set up a low, rusted iron grill over a bed of glowing charcoal right in the middle of Y/N’s yard, positioned beneath the sweeping branches of an old hackberry tree that grew right against the black basalt stone wall marking the property line.

Y/N sat cross-legged on a low wooden platform—a pyeongsang—her knees tightly pressed together under a loose cotton skirt she had quickly changed into after school. Her fingers were still faintly stained with blue ink. Across the small low-legged table sat Yeonjun.

He had changed out of his school bag and damp uniform into an oversized, faded white t-shirt that made his broad shoulders look even wider in the dimming light. His ink-black hair was still damp from a quick post-school rinse at the harbor pump, a few wet strands clinging to his forehead. Under the warm, flickering glow of the single lightbulb strung up on the hackberry tree, his fair skin looked smooth, almost translucent, completely out of place against the rugged, smoky backdrop of the coastal courtyard.

Between them, the small grill hissed violently as thick strips of Jeju black pork released their grease onto the coals, sending up plumes of white, savory smoke that drifted toward the open village windows.

"Look at this marble! You can't get meat like this up in the commercial grocery chains in Seoul, Jin-goo!" Y/N’s father roared, his face already a deep, flushed red from his second shot of clear Hallasan soju. He flipped a piece of pork with a pair of long metal tongs, dropping it directly onto the plate in front of Yeonjun’s father.

Choi Jin-goo laughed, a booming sound that echoed off the stone walls. He knocked back his small glass of liquor, slamming the heavy glass down onto the wooden table with a satisfying thud. "Eat up, Yeonjun-ah. You need the energy if you’re going to maintain that number-one spot until November. Four hundred points is within reach!"

Y/N felt her stomach instantly contract into a tight, hard knot. She kept her eyes fixed on her piece of lettuce, carefully wrapping a charred piece of garlic inside it to keep her hands from shaking.

"Our Y/N was only four points behind," her father chimed in, though his voice carried a faint, underlying edge of forced pride. He poured another heavy stream of soju into his neighbor’s glass. "Four points! If she hadn't tripped up on that final geometry section, Jeju Nam High School would have two students at the top of the provincial ledger. If she wants to join her sister up in Seoul... well, she can't be making those kinds of mistakes when competing with mainland kids."

He turned his gaze toward Y/N, the weight of his stare heavy and exhausting. "Your older sister is already sitting in the lecture halls at Korea University, Y/N-ah. The whole village is still talking about it. You think the agricultural cooperative is going to support a second elite mainland tuition if you're dropping points on easy logic proofs?"

The mention of her sister felt like a cold splash of water against the heat of her face. Her sister, the pride of the block, who had successfully crossed the sea to claim her place in the red-brick prestige of the capital's top tier.

"Oh, stop it, both of you," Yeonjun’s mother interrupted, her voice sharp enough to cut right through the men’s bluster. She walked over from the kitchen door, carrying a heavy stone bowl of steaming soybean paste stew, her gold bangles clinking loudly. She set it down right in the center of the table and gave her husband a pointed nudge with her elbow. "You’d think the boys in the Gangnam cram schools didn't have brains the way you two talk. Let the kids breathe. They walked all the way up that terrible incline from the docks in this heat."

She turned her sharp, discerning eyes toward Y/N, her expression softening into something warmer. "Y/N-ah, don't you listen to them. Korea University is practically waiting for you. Four points is nothing but a gust of wind on a coastal hill like this. My Yeonjun just happened to guess right on a poem this time. Next month, it could easily be you at the top."

"Mom," Yeonjun muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening as his fair skin flushed slightly around the cheekbones.

"What? It’s true," his mother said, settling onto the platform next to him and immediately moving a perfectly crisped piece of pork onto Y/N’s plate. "You study hard, but you're lazy about the margins, Yeonjun. Y/N has the discipline. If you aren't careful, she’s going to leave you behind on the island when winter comes."

"November is still five months away," Y/N’s mother interjected softly, giving Yeonjun's mom a grateful look as she placed a bowl of cold radish soup on the table. "Anything can change before the millennium turns."

"Nothing is going to change," Y/N's father muttered, ignoring the women as his eyes stayed fixed on Y/N. "Not unless she stops second-guessing herself. You're too cautious, Y/N-ah. Your sister didn't hesitate when she took the exam. You study until four in the morning, but you lack the killer instinct. Look at Yeonjun. He doesn't look back."

Y/N felt a hot, defensive sting behind her eyes. She gripped her chopsticks tighter, the metal biting into her fingers. The weight of her sister's shadow, her father's quiet anxieties about mainland tuition, and the terrifying countdown to the year 2000 all seemed to settle squarely on her chest, suffocating her more than the smoke from the grill.

She risked a glance up across the small table.

Yeonjun wasn't eating. He was staring down at his small glass of barley tea, his full, slightly parted lips pressed into a hard, rigid line. The lazy, teasing smirk he had worn on the sloped path was entirely gone. He looked just as tense as she felt, his pale fingers tracing the rim of his glass over and over again.

"She doesn't lack a killer instinct, uncle," Yeonjun said suddenly.

The table went quiet, save for the rhythmic crashing of the tide below the cliffs, the shhh-shhh-shhh of the cicadas in the dark trees, and the steady hiss of the pork fat hitting the coals. His mother stopped fixing the side dishes, her eyes shifting quietly between her son and the girl across the table.

Yeonjun raised his head, his eyes locking onto Y/N’s father with a calm, unblinking focus that felt intensely deliberate. "Y/N doesn't lack anything. The logic section on that exam was deliberately ambiguous. The examiners phrased the variables to catch people who rush through the proofs. She didn't fail because she was cautious. She just took the question seriously. She'll get into whatever university she wants."

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat. Her heart gave a sudden, erratic skip that had absolutely nothing to do with her sister's shadow or her father's disapproval. She stared at him, her lips parting slightly. He was defending her. Choi Yeonjun, the boy who lived to remind her of her defeats, was standing between her and her father's criticism.

His father pieces together a grin, a little awkwardly this time, breaking the sudden tension. "Listen to him. Already acting like a scholar. Eat your meat, boy."

Yeonjun didn't look at his father. He shifted his gaze across the narrow table, his dark eyes meeting Y/N's through the thin veil of rising white smoke. The intensity in his look was heavy, quiet, and entirely overwhelming. There was no mockery there, no triumph. Just a strange, silent understanding that made her feel like they were the only two people sitting on that wooden platform on the edge of the island.

"I’m full," Y/N whispered, suddenly pushing herself up from the platform. The wooden structure creaked under her movement. "I... I need to review my vocabulary errors."

"Y/N-ah, you barely ate—" her mother started, but Y/N was already stepping out of her sandals and hurrying up the concrete steps into the dark, quiet safety of her house, the heavy screen door slamming shut behind her.

Inside the house, the air felt cooler, but the heavy scent of grilled pork fat still drifted through the open kitchen window, paired with the muffled sound of her father’s booming laughter rising from the courtyard below.

Y/N leaned her back against her closed bedroom door, letting out a breath she felt like she’d been holding since she hit the top of the hill. She dropped her heavy split-ring binder onto her low laminate desk, the metal rings clinking sharply against her standing desk calendar. The calendar page was flipped to November 1999, with the 18th circled in bleeding red ink: CSAT (College Scholastic Ability Test).

Her bedroom window faced directly across the narrow gap separating her house from Yeonjun's, bounded by the ancient basalt wall, looking straight down into her own yard.

She walked over and pulled back the lace curtain, looking down through the screen. The dinner below was still in full swing. Her father was currently gesturing widely with a small glass of soju, pointing toward the dark sky as he rehashed his theories on the Y2K bug to Yeonjun’s dad.

Sitting right across from them on the wooden platform, looking completely checked out, was Yeonjun. He was leaning back on his hands, his long legs stretched out, staring blankly up at the hackberry branches while the adults talked over him.

“She just took the question seriously.”

His voice still rattled around the inside of her skull. It was infuriating. Why did he have to say it like that?

Why did he have to look at her like he actually understood exactly what went wrong in her head during that final geometry proof?

She didn't want his defense, and most importantly, she didn't want his pity. She just wanted to erase those four points.

Down in the yard, as if sensing the weight of her stare, Yeonjun’s head shifted. He didn't move the rest of his body, keeping his posture relaxed and unbothered so his father wouldn't notice, but his dark, hooded eyes lifted slowly, accurately positioning her bedroom window in the dark.

Even through the screen and the lace curtain, the eye contact was instant.

Yeonjun didn't smile. He didn't smirk. He just looked up at her through the warm, flickering glow of the lightbulb strung in the tree, his ink-black hair casting a slight shadow over his eyes. Then, he looked back down at his glass of soda as his mother dropped another piece of meat onto his plate.

Y/N let the curtain fall back into place, her heart giving a sudden, erratic skip against her ribs. She turned back to her desk, took a deep breath, and flipped open her workbook to page one.

She was going to beat him next month. She had to.

The fourth day of the four-week summer break was the kind of heavy, unmoving hot that made you feel like you were walking through warm soup. Inside the house, the small plastic fan on Y/N’s desk was merely rearranging the heat, aggressively pushing the warm, salt-tinged air around her small room until the pages of her closed books felt crisp to the touch. Realizing her brain was turning to absolute mush, she had abandoned her room entirely, dug a crumpled 1,000-won bill out from under her dresser, and walked down the coastal path for the sole purpose of surviving through the scorching heat.

Now, she was sitting on the low wooden bench right outside the neighborhood village store near the harbor, the only spot on the entire sloped block blessed by the roaring, icy exhaust of the store's outdoor ice cream freezer.

She had her legs stretched out in front of her, wearing a pair of loose cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt, her hair twisted up with a giant blue plastic claw clip. In her right hand, she held a red-and-white double-bar popsicle. She had already cracked it down the middle, but the mid-August humidity was working faster than her teeth. Red, syrupy drops were currently racing down her thumb, threatening to ruin her sneakers.

The store’s old outdoor speaker hummed in the background, playing a slightly distorted, tinny version of Fin.K.L’s "To My Boyfriend," completely drowned out by the deafening, rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh of the cicadas hidden deep in the pine trees.

Clonk.

A cold, condensation-dripping can of Chilsung Cider was suddenly pressed directly against her bare, burning shoulder.

Y/N shrieked, flinching away from the icy shock so hard her sandals slid on the concrete pavement. She glared up, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Standing over her, entirely unbothered, was the source of her daily frustration. Yeonjun was wearing a loose, faded blue shirt, his pale shoulders looking broad and lean against the bright plastic storefront awning, and his thin silver chain sat flat against his collarbone. His hair was messy, sticking out in random directions from a nap, but his dark, hooded monolid eyes were glittering with pure mischief.

"You’re going to drop the cherry side if you keep shivering like that, Jeon," Yeonjun drawled. He didn't ask for permission; he just slid onto the opposite end of the low wooden bench, his long legs stretching out into the blinding sun. The old wood creaked under his weight, shifting her slightly closer to him.

"I know that, stop nagging, Choi." Y/N snapped, quickly using her tongue to catch a stray drop of melting syrup before it hit her knee. “What are you even doing here anyway?”

"My mom sent me down here to buy sesame oil," Yeonjun said, popping the tab of his soda with a sharp, crisp crack. He took a slow, deep sip, his throat moving as he swallowed. "Your mom is currently in our kitchen teaching her how to braise local hairtail fish."

Y/N groaned, leaning her head back against the stone wall of the store. The cold wood of the bench felt good against her bare thighs. It was true. With the four-week break only on its fourth day, their mothers had already pooled their resources to survive the heat, essentially turning both households into one giant, loud, domestic hub. It was impossible to exist in her own house without hearing the village gossip echoing over the shared basalt wall.

"They're completely losing their minds over there," Yeonjun muttered, staring blankly across the narrow coastal road at a delivery truck. He rested his cold soda can against his bare knee. "It’s only August and my dad spent the entire morning clearing out the back shed to store three crates of bottled water. He's convinced the digital meters on the local pipes are going to freeze up the second the clock strikes midnight on New Year's Eve."

"My dad bought a manual typewriter from the city market yesterday," Y/N admitted, a small, involuntary laugh escaping her lips before she could stop it. "He thinks the mainland bank records are going to entirely disappear into a black hole, so he wants to type out all our bank account numbers on paper. It's five months away! We haven't even finished the summer yet, and they're acting like the world ends tomorrow."

Yeonjun tilted his head down, a slow, lazy smirk pulling at his full lips as he looked at her. "A typewriter? Really? Does he even know how to use it?"

"Don't laugh at him," she said, though she was smiling too, the icy cherry syrup cold against her tongue. "He spent an hour trying to figure out how to ink the ribbon."

"Everyone's rushing it," Yeonjun murmured softly. The smirk faded into something more relaxed, his tone dropping into that lower register that always felt a little too quiet against the roar of the cicadas and the distant waves. He turned the green aluminum can around in his hands, watching the condensation pool at the bottom. "The adults are so busy panicking about the year 2000 that they're forgetting we still have to get through September first. It’s like they want to skip the rest of the year entirely."

Y/N watched a lone drop of water slide down the side of his cider can, mirroring the red syrup on her hand. For all their bickering and the constant weight of who was leading the provincial ledger, sitting here on the village store bench felt strangely normal. There were no fathers comparing their futures, no ferry rides to mainland college tracks, just the heavy mid-August heat and the sticky scent of cherry ice.

"Maybe they're just scared of what happens when the calendar resets," Y/N said quietly, taking another bite of her popsicle.

"Maybe," Yeonjun said. He reached out, his long, pale fingers lightly tapping the wooden slat between them, his knuckles brushing the edge of her oversized t-shirt for a fraction of a second. "Move your arm, Jeon. You're dripping red juice right onto your bag."

The tinny storefront speaker shifted smoothly from Fin.K.L into S.E.S.’s "Dreams Come True," the ethereal intro synthesizer sounding warped and heavy under the weight of the afternoon glare. Across the road, a stray dog lazily stretched out in the narrow strip of shade beneath a small pharmacy awning, panting in sync with the rhythmic hum of the grocery store's refrigeration units.

Y/N finished the remaining hunk of her popsicle in one massive, brain-freezing bite, wincing as the cold spike hit the back of her throat. She tossed the sticky wooden stick into the small blue plastic wastebasket beside the bench and leaned her head back against the warm stone wall again.

"If the world actually does end in five months," Y/N murmured, staring up at the dusty plastic fringe of the store awning, "What do you think happens to our school records?"

Yeonjun raised an eyebrow, tilting his head back to look at her. "Your records? Is that seriously what you're worried about?"

"I'm just saying," she muttered, kicking her sandal against the ground. "We've spent the last three years turning our brains into mush for an exam that happens in November. If the Y2K bug wipes out the national database in January, does that mean we did it all for nothing? Does the ledger just vanish across the sea?"

Yeonjun didn't answer right away. He stretched his long legs out a bit further, his canvas sneakers catching the direct glare of the sun. He looked down at his green cider can, his thumb tracing the smooth rim over and over again. The lazy, teasing posture he usually wore around the village seemed to melt away, leaving something quiet and grounded in its place.

"The records doesn't matter," he said softly, his voice dropping into that lower, clearer register that always caught her off guard.

Y/N turned her head to look at him, her eyebrows knitting together. "Easy for you to say. You’re at the top of it."

"That’s not what I mean," Yeonjun said. He turned his head, his eyes locking onto hers with an unblinking focus that felt far too heavy for the middle of a hot Thursday afternoon. "Even if the computers crash, and the lights go out, and they lose every single test score between here and Seoul... we still lived through it. We still sat in those suffocating classrooms until midnight. We still walked up this stupid hill from the harbor every morning."

He paused, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips; it wasn't his usual arrogant smirk.

"The database doesn't remember that, Y/N-ah," he murmured, his gaze dropping down to her ink-stained fingers before lifting back to her eyes. "We do."

Y/N’s breath hitched slightly in her throat. It was infuriating how he could do that—shift from being an absolute nuisance to saying something that made her feel completely laid bare, all within the span of a single conversation.

Before she could think of a single sharp retort to break the sudden, suffocating proximity, the plastic bead curtain of the grocery store storefront rattled loudly.

"Yeonjun-ah!" the storekeeper’s wife called out, poking her permed hair out of the doorway. "The sesame oil is on the counter! Tell your mother I threw in a handful of wild green onions for the hairtail!"

He picked up his cider can, finishing the last swallow in one long draught, and stood up from the wooden bench. His frame immediately blocked out the sun again, casting a long, familiar shadow over her lap.

"Duty calls," he drawled, his lazy, teasing tone returning so fast it made her head spin.

The next afternoon, the heat didn't just sit over the village; it felt like a physical weight pressing down on the back of Y/N’s neck. A deceptive breeze drifted off the southern coast, carrying the sharp, briny scent of low tide and rotting kelp, but it offered no relief. It only stirred the thick, suffocating air that smelled of sweet, overripe fruit and sun-baked basalt.

Y/N stood on the third rung of Mrs. Lee’s weathered wooden stepladder, her thighs burning from holding the stance. The ladder was wedged unevenly between two large, gnarled roots of an heirloom apple tree. Unlike the manicured mandarin groves that lined the rest of the slope, this tree was wild, overgrown, and stubborn. Its branches were heavy with tart, green cooking apples that needed to be harvested before the late-August typhoons turned them into bruised mush on the ground.

Her hair was twisted into an unruly bun, held together by a cheap plastic claw clip that kept slipping against the sweat dampening her nape. She wore an old, white t-shirt that had faded to a dull gray, its cotton fabric glued to the skin between her shoulder blades.

Thwack.

She twisted a particularly stubborn green apple off its stem, dropping it into the woven wicker basket hanging from the top rung. Her palms were sticky with a mixture of dirt, tree sap, and the gray residue of the lead pencil she’d been gripping until three in the morning while re-solving geometry proofs.

Every muscle in her body ached, but the frantic, rhythmic shhh-shhh-shhh of the cicadas deep in the foliage seemed to sync with the aggressive throb in her temples. She was exhausted, irritated, and running entirely on pride.

Crunch.

The sharp snap of a dry twig on the gravel path below made her freeze.

"You're reaching with your lower back, Jeon," a smooth, drawling voice cut through the heavy hum of the insects. "If you fall and crack your skull on these volcanic rocks, Mrs. Lee is going to make me clean up the mess."

Y/N’s jaw locked so hard her teeth clicked. She didn't look down immediately. Instead, she let out a long, ragged breath, her fingers tightening around a low-hanging branch until the rough bark bit into her skin.

She turned her head slowly, looking down through the dense canopy of dusty green leaves.

Choi Yeonjun was leaning against the low basalt stone wall that bordered the orchard, looking entirely too comfortable. He was holding a large, empty burlap sack in one hand.

He looked cool. He looked effortless. And it made a hot, volatile surge of irritation spike straight into Y/N's chest.

"Nobody asked for your commentary, Choi," she spat, her voice tight as she reached for another apple, deliberately ignoring the way her balance shifted precariously on the worn wood. "Don't you have a mock exam ledger to gloat over? Or did you come down here just to pollute my breathing space?"

Yeonjun let out a low, breathy chuckle that barely stirred the heavy air. He stepped over the low stone wall with an easy, loose-limbed grace, his sneakers crunching against the dry earth as he walked straight toward the base of her ladder.

"Mrs. Lee called my mom twenty minutes ago," he said, halting just two feet away. He tilted his head back, his eyes scanning her flushed face, tracking the stray, damp hairs glued to her temples. "She said she hired a helper who was moving like a snail and needed someone with actual vertical reach to finish the top branches before the rain starts. I’m just doing my civic duty."

"I am not moving like a snail," Y/N hissed, her face burning from a volatile mix of the oppressive heat and sheer, defensive anger. She looked at his empty burlap sack, then down at her half-filled wicker basket. The familiar, toxic spark of competition—the same one that had governed every single time of her life—flared up, bright and blinding. "In fact, I've already cleared the entire lower eastern quadrant."

Yeonjun looked at her basket, then slowly raised his eyes back to hers, a slow, infuriating smirk pulling at the corner of his full lips. It was his classic, arrogant look, but there was a subtle, heavy intensity behind his gaze that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"Is that right?" he murmured, tossing the empty burlap sack into the dirt and pulling a second, identical wicker basket out from behind the wall. He hooked it over his forearm with a fluid, practiced motion. "Tell you what, Jeon. Since you’re so confident in your 'strategic placement,' let's make it interesting. Ten minutes. Whoever fills their basket last gets pay for the gimbap and the loser also has to carry both loads up the hill to Mrs. Lee’s porch."

Y/N’s chest rose and fell in a sharp, heavy breath. Her fingers twitched against the branch. It was a ridiculous, childish bet—exactly like the tteokbokki races and the festival games they had engaged in since they were nine years old. But under the weight of her father's silent expectations, her sister's looming shadow, and those suffocating four points on the July ledger, she needed a win. She needed to beat him at something, even if it was just green apples in a dusty orchard.

"You're on," she snapped, her eyes narrowing. "But you stay on the north side of the trunk. If you cross into my branches, I’m throwing a rotten one at your face."

"Deal," Yeonjun drawled.

He didn't waste another second. He stepped up to the opposite side of the tree, his tall frame allowing him to easily reach the mid-level branches without even using a ladder.

The silence that followed was dense, broken only by the furious, aggressive rhythm of their movements. Y/N worked with a frantic, unyielding energy, her sandals shifting loudly on the wooden rungs as she grabbed, twisted, and dropped apples into her basket. Thud. Thud. Thud. The rough stems scraped against her fingertips, but she barely felt it. She was hyper-focused, her eyes darting from one green cluster to the next, her brain rapidly calculating the fastest route through the leaves.

To her right, she could hear the steady, rhythmic crack-drop, crack-drop of Yeonjun’s harvest. He didn't rush the way she did; he moved with a loose, deceptive speed, his long fingers expertly finding the heaviest fruit, his broad shoulders shifting fluidly beneath his shirt.

The heat between them grew suffocating. The air inside the canopy was trapped, thick with the scent of crushed leaves and the sharp, acidic tang of sap. Y/N’s breath came in shorter, heavier rasps. Sweat dragged a slow, ticklish path down the side of her neck, soaking the collar of her t-shirt. She risked a glance through the thick foliage, trying to gauge his progress.

Through the tangled branches, she caught the sight of his jawline. The lazy, teasing smirk was entirely gone from his face. His thick bangs were plastered to his forehead, and a single bead of sweat traveled down the sharp line of his throat, pooling right where his silver chain rested against his skin. He was working hard. He was actually trying.

The realization sent a strange, erratic skip through Y/N's pulse. He wasn't just humoring her; he was taking her seriously.

"Stop watching the competition, Jeon," Yeonjun muttered, his voice surprisingly rough and low through the leaves. He didn't turn his head, but his fingers wrapped around a large apple at the very top of his reach. "You’re losing momentum."

"I am not looking at you!" she yelled back, her face flushing a deep, violent crimson.

Determined to break his lead, Y/N shifted her weight, climbing up onto the very top platform of the stepladder. It was an unstable, narrow piece of wood, never meant to be stood on. She stretched her right arm out as far as it could go, her fingers straining toward a cluster of three massive, perfect green apples hanging from a high, isolated branch near the center of the tree.

"Y/N, don't go up that high," Yeonjun said, his tone instantly shifting, losing its competitive edge and hardening into something sharp, authoritative, and sudden. "The ground is uneven on that side."

"I've got it," she muttered through gritted teeth, her fingertips brushing the smooth skin of the furthest apple.

She leaned just an inch further.

The left leg of the weathered wooden ladder sank suddenly into a soft, hidden pocket of loose dirt beneath a gnarled root. The wood gave a loud, terrifying crack, and the entire structure tilted violently to the side.

Y/N let out a sharp, terrified shriek as her footing vanished into mid-air, her basket slipping from the rung and sending dozens of green apples cascading down like a hail of gravel.

She braced for the hard, unforgiving impact of the black volcanic rocks below.

Instead, a pair of solid arms crashed into her space, breaking her fall before she could even hit the ground. Yeonjun had lunged across the root system, his body colliding with hers as he caught her securely against his chest. The momentum sent them both crashing backward into the thick, dry grass at the base of the stone wall.

The air rushed out of Y/N’s lungs in a sharp gasp as they hit the ground.

For a long, breathless second, the entire world went completely still. The deafening roar of the cicadas seemed to drop away, replaced by the heavy, erratic thudding of a heartbeat that was far too loud to be her own.

Y/N opened her eyes, her vision swimming slightly.

She was pinned flat against the soft grass, completely cushioned by the solid weight of Yeonjun’s body. He had thrown himself underneath her to break the fall, his long legs tangled with hers in the dirt. His hands were locked firmly around her waist, his large palms warm and heavy through the thin fabric of her gray t-shirt.

Right above her, inches from her face, was Yeonjun.

His head was resting back against the ground, his chest rising and falling in harsh, ragged heaves against her ribs. His ink-black hair was completely disheveled, strands falling wild over his eyes, and his pale skin was starkly flushed around his cheekbones.

He was staring down at her. For the first time all summer, the protective, effortless mask he wore was completely fractured, leaving his expression raw, breathless, and laced with a terrifyingly fierce panic.

"Are you out of your mind?" Yeonjun breathed, his voice a low, rough whisper that rattled against her chest. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging into her sides as if he was checking to make sure she was still intact. "I told you not to go up there. Do you actually not have a brain? Are you that desperate to beat me?"

Y/N stared up at him, her lips parting slightly as her own breath hitched completely in her throat.

Y/N’s chest heaved under the sudden, suffocating weight of his presence. For a terrifying split second, the sheer panic in his eyes threatened to crack open the neat, organized boxes she kept her feelings in. The raw honesty on his face was a weapon she didn't know how to defend against.

But then, the defense mechanisms she’d spent a lifetime building slammed shut. If she admitted he was right—if she let him see that those four points actually kept her awake at night, or that the thought of him winning made her throat tight—she would lose. And Jeon Y/N did not lose and definitely not to Choi Yeonjun.

She forced a sharp, breathy scoff into her throat, aggressively shoving against his broad shoulders.

"Oh, please," Y/N snapped, her voice instantly recapturing its sharp, defensive edge even as her heart threatened to burst out of her ribs. She twisted her hips, wriggling out from under his heavy frame until she could scramble backward into the dirt, putting three feet of safe, dusty earth between them. "Don't flatter yourself, Choi. I'm not desperate to beat you. I'm risking my neck because your smug face makes me physically sick, and the thought of me having to pay for your meal while I carry two baskets of apples up the hill is literally a nightmare scenario."

She stood up quickly, ignoring the sharp ache in her ankle and the way her knees wobbled slightly from the residual adrenaline. She aggressively brushed the dry grass and volcanic dirt off her bare shins, avoiding his gaze entirely.

"And for your information, my balance was perfectly fine," she lied through her teeth, gesturing wildly at the collapsed wooden ladder. "The ladder is a safety hazard. Mrs. Lee should be reported to the town hall for having faulty equipment."

Yeonjun didn't move for a long moment. He stayed seated in the grass, his long legs sprawled out, his hands resting behind him on the dirt. The fierce, panicked intensity in his dark eyes slowly retreated, replaced by a cold, hard shutter as he watched her immediately re-erect her walls.

The silence between them grew incredibly tense—not the heavy, loaded silence of a moment ago, but the sharp, prickly silence of two people who had just stepped right up to the edge of a cliff and scrambled backward in a panic.

Slowly, Yeonjun let out a low, humorless breath that sounded almost like a sigh. He reached up, running a hand through his wild black hair, pulling the damp strands back from his forehead before his lips twisted into a familiar, defensive smirk. But the smirk didn't reach his eyes. They remained flat, guarded, and completely unreadable.

"Right," Yeonjun drawled, his voice stepping right back into that lazy, arrogant high school cadence. He pushed himself up from the ground with an effortless, fluid movement, brushing the dirt off his denim shorts with a single, aggressive slap of his palms. "My bad. I forgot who

I was talking to. For a second there, I thought you actually possessed human emotions, Jeon."

He stepped past her, deliberately brushing his shoulder against hers with enough force to make her stagger half a step. He reached down and grabbed his wicker basket, which was still mostly full of the green apples that hadn't spilled.

"Since you're so perfectly fine and definitely didn't just almost break your spine," he muttered, tossing a single, bruised green apple from his hand into her half-empty basket, "I'll see you at the top of the hill. Try not to pass out from the humidity on your way up."

Without waiting for her reply, he turned his back on her, his long strides quick and deliberate as he headed up the gravel path toward Mrs. Lee's house.

Y/N stood alone under the heavy shade of the apple tree, her fists clenched tightly at her sides, her heart still hammering a furious, unruly rhythm against her ribs. She had successfully kept her armor on, but as she looked down at the bruised apple he had left behind, her chest felt completely hollow.

By five o'clock, the bruised iron-gray clouds had crawled closer from the horizon, swallowing the last bits of the afternoon sun and plunging the orchard into a premature, eerie twilight. The wind was picking up now, rustling the thick canopy of the apple tree with a heavy, restless sigh that smelled of rain and cold slate.

Y/N knelt in the dirt, her fingers stinging as she gathered the scattered green apples that hadn't been completely pulverized by the fall. Every thud of a fruit hitting her basket felt like a dull echo of her own heartbeat. Her shoulder still felt warm where Yeonjun’s chest had been pressed against it, and no matter how hard she rubbed her ankles, she couldn't shake the phantom sensation of his fingers locking around her skin.

"Stupid," she muttered to herself, throwing a particularly small apple into the wicker basket. "Completely insufferable."

She was angry at him for being right about the ladder, angry at him for his effortless rescue, but mostly, she was furious with herself. For a single, weak second, she had wanted to stay down in the grass. She had wanted to let the ledger slide out of her mind.

Clutching the heavy wicker handle, she hauled herself up. Her left ankle gave a small, protesting throb, but she clamped her jaw tight and forced herself to walk with a straight, unbothered posture as she lugged the weight up the gravel incline toward Mrs. Lee’s porch.

When she rounded the corner of the low basalt wall, she found Yeonjun already sitting on the wooden edge of the veranda.

He was leaning back against a wooden pillar, one long leg dangling off the platform while the other was pulled up to his chest. In his right hand, he held a green aluminum can of Chilsung Cider—sweating heavily in the humidity, already popped open. He was talking quietly with Mrs. Lee, his face pulled into that polite, sweet-grandson expression he only used for the neighborhood elders.

"Ah, Y/N-ah!" Mrs. Lee called out, her wrinkled face crinkling into a smile as she spotted her over her glasses. She was sorting through Yeonjun's basket, wiping the dust off the green skins with a damp cloth. "Look at you, drenched in sweat. Put the basket down over there, dear. Yeonjun told me the ladder gave out. Thank goodness he was there to catch you, or your mother would have skinned me alive before the university exams!"

Y/N felt a hot prickle of embarrassment rush up her neck. She shot a sharp, warning glare at Yeonjun, but he didn't even flinch. He just took a slow, deliberate sip of his cider, the aluminum can clicking softly against his teeth. Her eyes instinctively tracked the movement of his throat as he swallowed.

"It was nothing, Mrs Lee," Yeonjun said smoothly, his voice dropping into that easy, respectful cadence. He finally turned his eyes toward Y/N, his lips curling into a lazy, victorious smirk that felt entirely manufactured compared to the raw panic she’d seen in the dirt ten minutes ago. "Y/N is just a little uncoordinated when she’s tired. I was happy to help."

"I am not uncoordinated," Y/N muttered under her breath, dropping her basket onto the wooden floorboards with a loud, aggressive thud.

"Here, take your wage, kids," Mrs. Lee interrupted, pressing a crisp 10,000-won bill into each of their palms, along with a heavy plastic bag filled with the bruised apples that weren't fit for selling. "Go home before it gets dark."

They walked out of the gate in a heavy, suffocating silence.

The village road was completely deserted, the local fishermen having already secured their boats at the harbor below. He walked half a step ahead of her, his long shadow stretching out behind him, cutting right across her path.

Y/N stared at the back of his neck, her chest tightening with an uncomfortable, itchy frustration. The silence between them was too loud. It was the kind of quiet that meant he was thinking, calculating his next move, and she hated not knowing the variables.

"You didn't have to tell her," she said suddenly, her voice cutting through the humid air.

Yeonjun stopped. He didn't turn around, but his broad shoulders dropped an inch. He took one last sip of his cider, tilted his head back, and tossed the empty green can into a recycling bin by the side of the road with a hollow, ringing clatter.

"Tell her what?" he asked, turning around slowly. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his denim shorts, his dark eyes shadowed under his messy black bangs. "That you almost broke your neck because you can't stand the thought of me being four points ahead of you? I omitted that part, Jeon. I was being charitable."

"I told you, it had nothing to do with the points!" Y/N stepped closer, her fists clenching at her sides as she looked up at him. "Why do you always do that? Why do you always twist everything into a competition? You act like my entire life revolves around trying to beat you."

Yeonjun let out a sharp, humorless breath. He took a single step forward, closing the distance between them until the sharp, clean scent of his soap and the heavy tang of the ocean completely enveloped her again. The lazy, teasing mask he had worn on Mrs. Lee's porch vanished in an instant, leaving his jawline locked and rigid.

"Doesn't it?" he whispered, his voice dropping into that lower, terrifyingly clear register. He leaned down just a fraction, bringing his dark monolids level with hers. "Tell me I'm wrong, Y/N-ah. Tell me you don't look at me every single day just to measure how much further you need to go to get off this place."

The honesty in his voice was a physical weight, pressing against her chest until she could barely breathe. The wind whipped a stray lock of his ink-black hair across his eyes, but he didn't blink, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that felt far too heavy for the middle of a deserted village road.

"I'm going home," she muttered, walking fast past him.

Three days later, the bruising gray storm clouds had finally cleared, leaving behind a sky so blindingly blue it looked fake. The heavy humidity had returned with a vengeance, baking the island until the black basalt walls practically radiated heat.

Y/N found herself dragged out of her dark bedroom and away from her English vocabulary cards for the sole purpose of playing pack mule to her mother. After spending two hours navigating the shouting throngs at the coastal five-day market, they had taken refuge inside Myeong-suk’s Boutique, the only real clothing store in their small seaside town.

The shop smelled heavily of mothballs, synthetic linen, and the industrial cooling mist of an old wall-unit air conditioner that aggressively rattled against its brackets. Y/N stood near a rack of oversized floral blouses, her arms aching from the heavy plastic bags of dried anchovies and garlic cloves resting against her shins.

A few feet away, her mother leaned over the glass jewelry counter, completely locked in a high-speed gossip session with the shop owner.

"I’m telling you, Myeong-suk, the price of hairtail fish skyrocketed this week," her mother complained, gesturing widely. "And don't get me started on the electricity bills with these kids keeping the lights on until four in the morning to study..."

Y/N sighed, letting her fingers mindlessly trace the rough texture of a linen dress on the rack. Her mind was entirely elsewhere—specifically trapped in the memory of the orchard three days ago. She still felt an annoying, hot spike of humiliation every time she remembered how she had scrambled away from Yeonjun in the grass. They hadn't spoken since. He hadn't even looked toward her window at night, keeping his desk lamp off or his curtains aggressively drawn.

“Did you see Yeonjun at the harbor pump yesterday?”

The quiet, giggling whisper cut right through the hum of the air conditioner. Y/N’s fingers froze against the hangers.

She glanced through the gaps of the clothing rack. Standing near a display of colorful plastic hair clips were two girls wearing lightweight summer clothes that were trending in Seoul. Y/N recognized them instantly—they were juniors, the type who spent most of their lunch breaks hovering near the outdoor basketball courts.

"I saw him!" the second girl squeaked, slapping her friend’s arm in a frantic rush of excitement. "He was helping his dad haul those heavy fishing nets off the boat. His shirt was completely drenched, and when he pushed his hair back... wah, I seriously forgot how to breathe for a second. His arms have gotten so much bigger since the spring. He looks completely different from the scrawny boys in our class."

"Right? He doesn't even look like he belongs on this island," the first girl whispered, leaning in closer until their foreheads almost touched over a display of plastic hair clips. "My older sister said all the girls at the academic academy up in Jeju City are talking about him too. They say he’s not just handsome, he’s probably going to place number one in the whole province for the CSAT. A perfect guy who studies like a monster and looks like that? It’s completely unfair. Some girl from the girls' high school apparently tried to hand him a letter by the bus stop last Friday."

"Oh my god, really?" The second girl gasped, clutching her chest. "What did he do? Did he take it?"

"No, my sister said he didn't even look at the envelope. He just kept his headphones on, muttered some excuse about being late to meet his dad, and walked right past her. He's totally untouchable. It's like he's completely blind to anyone who isn't a textbook."

"Well... maybe he's already seeing someone secretly?" The younger girl speculated, her voice dropping into a hopeful, nervous register. "Someone at school said he's always hanging around that girl who lives next door to him. The one whose older sister went to Korea University."

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She pulled back slightly, her shoulder stiffening up behind the clothing rack as she tried to make herself completely invisible between a row of starch-stiff denim skirts.

"Who, Jeon Y/N?" The first girl let out a small, dismissive huff, waving her hand in the air. "No way. My brother is in their grade, and he says those two can't stand each other. They literally fight over everything. He said during the mock exam review, Choi didn't even look at her when the teacher read the ledger scores. They’re just neighbors who happen to go to the same school because their parents are close. I mean don’t get me wrong she’s pretty but they've known each other since they were toddlers, so she probably just annoys him like an annoying younger sister."

"Ah, that makes sense. I heard she's a total psycho about her grades anyway. Always sitting in the front row, glaring at the chalkboard like she wants to murder the teacher." The girl giggled, spinning a hair tie around her finger. "Who would want to date a girl who spends her entire Friday night memorizing English vocabulary? Besides, someone like Choi Yeonjun is definitely going to cross the sea to Seoul National University. He'll be living in the capital, hanging out in Hongdae, and dating a beautiful college girl by next spring. Why would he ever settle for someone here on the island? Especially a girl who's just a bitter runner-up."

The words hit Y/N like a sudden, cold splash of sea water, leaving a sharp, stinging sensation behind her ribs.

They can't stand each other. A bitter runner-up.

It was exactly what she had been telling herself for three years. It was the exact, clinical logic she used to justify her competitive rage. But hearing it out loud from a stranger’s mouth didn't feel satisfying or validating. It felt incredibly bitter, heavy, and frustratingly permanent, making the small boutique feel twice as hot as it actually was.

"Y/N-ah! What are you doing hiding back there like a ghost?" her mother’s loud voice boomed across the quiet store, shattering her train of thought. Her mother waved her over from the counter, holding up a pair of hideous, neon-pink sun-sleeves. "Come look at these. You need them for when you walk down to the library.!"

The two juniors snapped their heads toward the sound of her name, their eyes widening in sheer, terrified panic as they realized the exact person they had been gossiping about was standing five feet away.

Y/N didn't look at them. She kept her chin up, forcing her face into a cold, perfectly unbothered expression as she stepped out from behind the clothing rack. She picked up the heavy grocery bags from the floor, her fingers digging tightly into the plastic handles until her knuckles turned white.

"I don't need them, Mom," Y/N said, her voice sounding a little sharper, a little louder than she intended. "The sun doesn't bother me. Let's just go home. I need to study."

Her mother blinked, startled by the sudden shift in her daughter's tone. She looked from Y/N’s rigid posture to the two younger girls who were suddenly pretending to be intensely fascinated by a rack of discounted socks.

"My goodness, what is wrong with your temper today?" her mother sighed, shaking her head as she handed the shop owner a few bills. "Always 'study, study, study' the second the sun comes out. Fine, let's go. Myeong-suk, I'll bring the side dishes by tomorrow!"

Y/N didn't wait. She turned on her heel and pushed through the boutique's heavy glass door, the small brass bell above it letting out a sharp, mocking ting-a-ling.

The afternoon heat hit Y/N like a physical blow the second she stepped onto the asphalt, but it barely registered. She walked half a step ahead of her mother, her sandals slapping aggressively against the pavement, the heavy plastic bags of dried anchovies and garlic cloves banging against her shins with every stride.

Her mother was still muttering behind her about the price of goods, but the sound was completely drowned out by the rhythmic, mocking loop of the first-years' voices in her head.

He looks completely different from the scrawny boys in our class.

A perfect guy who looks like that.

Y/N’s fingers dug tighter into the plastic handles until her knuckles turned a stark, bloodless white.

Was Yeonjun attractive?

It was a stupid, hazardous question to even let drift into her mind. For years since they were kids, she had systematically trained her brain to view Choi Yeonjun through a strictly clinical lens. He was a number on a ledger. He was an annoying voice over the shared basalt stone wall. He was a set of broad shoulders blocking her view of the chalkboard.

But as she stared down at the sun-baked road, her mind traitorously flashed back to the orchard three days ago—and suddenly, the clinical lens completely shattered.

She remembered the solid, heavy feel of his chest pressed against her ribs when they crashed into the grass. She remembered the way his shirt had shifted, exposing the sharp, sun-browned lines of his collarbone and the lean strength of his shoulders. Her skin still felt hot where his large palm had slid up her ribs, his thumb resting right against her jawline.

Up close, he didn't look like the boys they had grown up with, running around the harbor in stained shorts. He had grown up over the summer. His jawline had sharpened into a tense, rigid line, his ink-black hair was always perfectly, infuriatingly messy, and those dark, hooded monolid eyes held a heavy, unblinking focus that made her chest ache with an unbearable tension whenever he looked at her.

No, her brain suddenly fired back, a fierce, desperate wave of denial slamming into her chest. Absolutely not. Delete that.

She forced herself to draw in a sharp, rattling breath of the humid air, her jaw locking so tight it throbbed. What were those underclassmen even talking about?

They were first-years; their brains were practically mush driven entirely by high school K-drama delusions.

Choi Yeonjun wasn’t attractive. He was ordinary. He was completely average.

If you stripped away the ridiculous, oversized rumors and the fact that he happened to hit a growth spurt a few months before everyone else, he was just the same annoying kid who used to wipe his sticky fingers on her gym shirt in middle school.

Those juniors were blind. The whole village was blind.

He was just a local harbor kid who happened to be tall. If he went to a real academy in Seoul, he’d blend right into the background of a thousand other high schoolers. He would be completely invisible.

So why did your heart stop when he caught you in the orchard? a tiny, treacherous voice whispered in the back of her mind.

Adrenaline, she fiercely argued back, her eyes narrowing as she glared at the sun-baked pavement. A basic, physiological fight-or-flight response to a near-death experience on a faulty piece of agricultural equipment. It had zero to do with him.

She gripped the plastic handles of the grocery bags until her knuckles turned a bloodless, stark white. He was her rival. He was a four-point gap on a piece of paper. He was an obstacle she needed to clear so she could get off this rock. That was the only variable that mattered. He wasn't allowed to be anything else, especially not some village heartthrob that other girls got to daydream about.

The sky over the western coast was bleeding a deep, bruised violet, the setting sun plunging into the seaa and painting the water in brilliant streaks of burnt orange and gold. The violent heat of the day had finally fractured, replaced by a cool, aggressive wind that roared off the tide, carrying a sharp spray of salt and the heavy scent of dry pine needles.

Y/N was stretched out on an old, weathered pyeongsang that sat tucked beneath the jagged shadow of an ancient pine tree right where the coastal path met the rocks. She was lying flat on her stomach, her chin propped in her palms, her bare feet swinging mindlessly in the evening air.

Buried in her lap was an old, battered paperback fantasy novel she had read a dozen times since she was ten years old. The edges were soft and yellowed, the cover taped together at the spine, and the pages smelled comfortingly of old paper. With the steady, deafening roar of the tide crashing against the black basalt rocks just twenty feet away, the entire world felt entirely distant. For the first time all week, the stubborn knot in her shoulders had completely unraveled.

Crunch.

The sharp snap of gravel under canvas sneakers cut through the roar of the waves.

"You're going to ruin your eyesight reading in this light, Jeon. Or did you suddenly develop night vision over the summer?"

Y/N’s shoulders went instantly rigid. The peaceful, private bubble she had built around herself popped with a violent zip.

She slowly closed the book around her thumb to keep her page, letting out a long, irritated breath against the smooth wood of the pyeongsang before rolling over onto her side to face her daily tormentor.

Choi Yeonjun was standing at the edge of the wooden platform. He was holding a crinkling plastic bag from the local cooperative store, the tops of a couple of ice cream bars and loose bags of shrimp crackers peeking out. He had clearly just been passing by on his way up from the harbor road, his long legs stretched out in a pair of faded denim shorts. He wore a loose, sleeveless dark shirt that sat wide on his shoulders, and the thin silver chain around his neck was catching the last, fiery glare of the dying sunset.

His dark, hooded monolid eyes were squinting slightly against the wind, but they fixed onto her with that slow, unblinking focus that always made her stomach do an unruly, defensive flip.

"This is a public space, Choi," Y/N snapped, shielding her book protectively against her ribs as she glared up at him. "And the lighting is perfectly fine. Go away. Go eat your snacks somewhere else."

Yeonjun let out a low, breathy chuckle, the sound easily cutting through the rushing wind. Instead of walking away, he smoothly stepped onto the edge of the wide wooden pyeongsang. The old timber gave a slight, familiar creak under his weight as he sat down on the opposite end, dangling his long legs off the side.

"I was planning on eating them at home," Yeonjun murmured, reaching into the plastic bag and pulling out a small melon ice bar, already starting to melt in its wrapper. He tilted his head, his dark eyes dropping to the taped spine of the book in her lap. The teasing smirk on his lips softened, a sudden, unexpected flash of recognition crossing his face. "Wait. Are you seriously still reading that thing? You've had that book since the fifth grade. I remember you crying when the binding broke in middle school."

Y/N’s face flushed a hot crimson that had absolutely nothing to do with the setting sun.

"I did not cry, you uncultured idiot," she muttered, rolling back onto her side so her back was completely turned to him, using her book as a physical barrier between them. "And it’s a classic. Leave me alone."

"Sure, it is." Yeonjun’s voice came from right behind her, sounding closer now—much closer than he had been a second ago.

Y/N felt the wood shift significantly under his weight. She tensed, her heart giving a sudden, violent thud against her ribs. She looked over her shoulder.

Yeonjun hadn't stayed on his side. He had moved, sliding down the length of the pyeongsang until he was lying flat on his side too, his head propped up by his elbow, facing her. He was barely a foot away, the melting ice cream bar held carefully away from the wood.

Up close, the sharp, freezing scent of the sea ocean clung to him, mixed with the clean, familiar smell of his soap. The amber light of the sunset hit the sharp line of his jaw and cast long, dramatic shadows over his eyes.

He's completely ordinary, she fiercely argued with her own brain, her knuckles turning white against her book cover. He's just a local kid. A messy kid.

But the lie felt entirely pathetic. Standing in a crowded boutique listening to juniors talk about how attractive he was was one thing, but having him lie next to her on a sun-bleached wooden deck, with his broad shoulders completely blocking out the entire golden horizon, made it impossible to deny. He wasn't ordinary. He was entirely too big for this platform, and the sudden, heavy proximity was suffocating.

Yeonjun shifted slightly, his dark monolids holding her gaze with an intensity that made the space between them feel dangerously small. He reached out, his long, pale fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second in the air before he lightly tapped the corner of her battered book.

"You always hide down here when you're in a bad mood," Yeonjun murmured softly, his voice dropping below the roar of the crashing tide, creating a private, heavy pocket of air under the shade of the pine tree. "You've been doing it since we were kids. Every time you're pissed at the world, you run straight to this tree. Who are you mad at today, Y/N-ah? Me, or someone else?"

Y/N’s chest tightened, the heavy roar of the waves suddenly feeling very far away compared to the low, gravelly timbre of his voice. Hearing her actual name slip past his lips—so quiet, completely stripped of that defensive, arrogant edge he usually wore like armor—sent a sharp, erratic spike straight through her pulse.

She pulled the book closer to her chest, her chin digging into the soft edge of the taped spine.

"I'm not mad at anyone, Choi," she lied, her voice tight as she desperately tried to reconstruct her walls. She stared at the small silver chain resting against his collarbone, refusing to look him in the eye. "I was perfectly fine until you showed up with your melting ice cream and your unsolicited psychological analysis."

Yeonjun didn't snap back. He didn't drop a lazy taunt or pull away. He just stayed right there, propped up on his elbow, his dark, hooded eyes tracking the fierce, defensive tension in her jaw. The fiery orange reflection of the sunset danced across his wet hair, casting long, sharp shadows across the bridge of his nose.

Slowly, he reached into the crinkling plastic bag between them, pulled out a second ice cream bar—a classic sweet soda pop flavor—and dropped it onto the weathered wood right in front of her nose.

"Eat it before it turns into soup," he murmured, his fingers lingering on the plastic wrapper for a beat before he drew his hand back. "You look like you're about to bite through your own lip."

Y/N glanced down at the ice cream, then back up at him, her eyebrows knitting together in suspicion. "What is this? A bribe? Are you trying to poison the competition?"

"Yeah, exactly," Yeonjun drawled, a tiny, familiar smirk finally pulling at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remained intensely focused, heavy with that unspoken weight from the orchard. "I put extra salt in that one just for you. Come on, Jeon. Just take it. Consider it a truce for the next ten minutes."

She hesitated, her fingers twitching against her book. She wanted to reject it. She wanted to stand up, throw her sandals on, and march right up the hill to show him that he couldn't just slide into her space and soften her edges. But the cold air radiating off the wrapper was entirely too tempting in the heavy twilight, and her throat felt parched from the salty sea wind.

With a sharp, reluctant huff, she let go of her book and snatched the ice cream. She tore the plastic open with her teeth, the sharp, nostalgic scent of sweet blue soda immediately bursting into the air.

"Ten minutes," she muttered through a mouthful of ice, rolling onto her back to look up at the dark pine needles swaying against the violet sky. "And then you leave. I have a chapter to finish."

"Deal," Yeonjun whispered.

He rolled onto his back too, mirroring her posture on the wide wooden platform. He tucked his hands behind his head, his long legs dangling off the edge of the pyeongsang, his shoulders entirely relaxed against the sun-bleached timber.

The silence that settled between them wasn't the prickly, aggressive quiet of the clothing store or the suffocating heat of Mrs. Lee’s orchard. Cooled by the freezing spray of the ocean and anchored by the steady, rhythmic crashing of the tide against the basalt rocks, it felt temporary, fragile, and strangely safe.

For the first time in days, Y/N let her eyes drift sideways. From this angle, she could see the clean, sharp profile of his face against the dying light—the slight curve of his nose, the full shape of his lips, the dark strands of hair plastered to his temple.

He's ordinary, she tried to tell herself one last time, staring at the small mole near his ear. Just a neighbor.

But as Yeonjun let out a slow, content sigh, the silver chain shifting softly against his throat, the lie completely evaporated in the wind. He wasn't ordinary, and no matter how many walls she built, she knew she was running out of bricks.

The sky had officially faded from a violent orange to a deep, velvety indigo, leaving only a thin ribbon of gold hugging the horizon where the sun had dipped below the sea. The wind coming off the water had grown cooler, rustling the heavy pine branches above them with a hollow, rushing sound.

Y/N bit into her soda bar, the icy sweetness numbing her tongue. She stared up at the dawning stars, waiting for him to break the silence with some annoying comment, but he didn't. He just lay there, staring up at the same sky, breathing in a slow, steady rhythm.

"My mom said your dad came back down from the Seoul office for the weekend," Y/N said suddenly, her voice cutting through the roar of the waves. She kept her eyes fixed on a bright planet blinking through the pine needles, shifting the conversation to something completely ordinary. "She said she saw him at the village bus stop yesterday morning. He was still wearing his corporate suit trousers in this humidity."

Yeonjun let out a low, breathy chuckle, the sound vibrating through the wooden planks beneath them. He shifted, rolling onto his side to face her fully, propping his head up with his hand. "Yeah. He literally got off the flight from Gimpo, took the express bus down here, and immediately started complaining about the lack of air conditioning at the terminal. He refuses to take off his dress shirts until he’s strictly inside the house."

Y/N glanced over at him. In the deepening twilight, she could see the clean, sharp outline of his profile. Even slouched on an old wooden deck in a loose tank top, he carried a certain striking presence that was getting harder and harder to ignore.

"He’s been working in the capital for three years now, right?" she asked, taking another bite of her ice cream.

"Four, actually," Yeonjun murmured, reaching into the plastic bag between them and pulling out a bag of shrimp crackers, tearing it open with a loud crink. He offered the bag to her first. "He only comes down to the island once or twice a month now. Every time he visits, he looks at the village like he's trying to remember where we keep the grocery store."

Y/N reached into the bag, taking a few crackers. The salty, familiar crunch was a perfect contrast to the melting soda bar. "Must be weird. Going back and forth between a glass skyscraper in Seoul and a house next to a mandarin orchard."

"It is," Yeonjun said quietly, his dark eyes reflecting the faint starlight as he looked out at the dark water. "He keeps telling me that the city moves so fast you don't have time to breathe. He brought home a mountain of corporate gift sets this time. Spam, premium cooking oil, ginseng... my mom told him to stop bringing that stuff because we don't have room in the pantry."

A sudden, genuine laugh escaped Y/N's lips before she could stop it. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking slightly. "My mom would gladly take the Spam off her hands. She was just complaining about the price of groceries at the market today."

"I'll tell her to drop a box over the wall tomorrow then," Yeonjun said, his eyes softening as he watched her laugh.

The intense, suffocating tension that usually defined their recent interactions had completely evaporated, replaced by the easy, comfortable rhythm of two neighbors who knew everything about each other's families. For a few minutes under the old pine tree, the unsaid things vanished, and they were just sharing snacks on a weathered deck while the tide rolled in.

Y/N chewed on a shrimp cracker, the salty flavor cutting through the artificial blue raspberry sweetness left on her tongue. "If he brings that much stuff back every time, your kitchen must look like a convenience store warehouse."

"It does," Yeonjun said, rolling onto his back again and staring up at the dark canopy of pine needles. "My mom literally barricaded the secondary fridge with boxes of premium seaweed snacks yesterday. If you want some, please come take them. Otherwise, I’m going to be eating them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until winter."

"I might take you up on that," she murmured, her voice dropping into a softer, more relaxed register than she had used with him in months. "My sister uses those up like crazy when she makes her lunchboxes."

A comfortable silence settled between them, punctuated only by the rhythmic, heavy shush of the tide dragging against the pebbles below. The cold air coming off the water was sharp now, raising tiny goosebumps along Y/N’s bare arms, but the proximity of the wooden deck and the shared warmth of the space kept her from shivering.

She turned her head slightly to look at him. His profile was painted in deep shades of blue and gray by the twilight, the silver chain around his neck glinting faintly whenever the distant harbor light swept across the shore.

"Is your dad going back up on Sunday night?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah. The late flight," Yeonjun replied. He didn't turn his head, but his jaw tightened just a fraction. "He has a presentation on Monday morning at the headquarters. He spent most of this afternoon pacing around the living room, rehearsing it in his corporate voice. It’s weird hearing him talk like a manager when he’s standing in his socks in our living room."

Y/N let out a small, breathy huff of amusement, imagining the senior Mr. Choi who usually helped patch up the stone walls whenever the heavy summer typhoons hit acting like a high-powered Seoul executive.

"I guess he belongs up there now," she said softly, the words slipping out before she could think to filter them.

Yeonjun stayed quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward her, his dark, hooded monolids fixed on her face with that heavy, unblinking intensity that always made her chest ache.

"He thinks he does," Yeonjun murmured, his voice dropping into a lower, rougher cadence that seemed to vibrate directly through the weathered timber of the pyeongsang. "But every time he leaves, he forgets his favorite travel thermos or his reading glasses. My mom says it’s because a part of him keeps trying to leave an anchor behind so he has to come back."

Y/N looked at him, her fingers freezing over the empty ice cream wrapper. The way he said it—softly, with a heavy sort of gravity—made the cold sea breeze feel a little sharper against her skin.

"An anchor," she repeated, the word tasting strange on her tongue.

"Yeah," Yeonjun murmured, his eyes never leaving her face. He shifted his arm, his large hand flat against the wood, just an inch closer to her side. "He spends all month surrounded by gray buildings, glass elevators, and people who only know him by his title. Then he comes back here, and the first thing he does is complain about the humidity, but... he stays out on the veranda for three hours just watching the dark over the ocean."

He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible line forming between his sharp eyebrows.

"I think he's terrified of waking up one day and realizing he completely forgot what the salt air smells like."

Y/N felt a strange, tight ache bloom behind her ribs. For all her stubborn denial, for all her focus on running away from this island, she had never considered what happened to the people who actually managed to leave it. She thought about his dad's suit trousers, pristine and out of place against the dusty village bus stop, and suddenly, the capital didn't just sound like a glittering paradise of freedom. It sounded vast. It sounded lonely, almost like a prison somehow.

"Do you think..." Y/N hesitated, her voice dropping until it was barely a whisper against the roar of the tide. "Do you think that happens to everyone who crosses the sea?"

Yeonjun didn't answer right away. He looked up at the deep indigo sky, where the stars were now burning crisp and clear through the gaps in the pine branches. The silver chain around his neck rose and fell with his slow, steady breath.

"I don't know," he said quietly, his voice carrying a rare, vulnerable weight. "But if it happens... I guess you just have to make sure you're leaving something behind that's worth coming back for."

He turned his head back to her, his dark monolid eyes holding hers with an intense, unblinking focus that made the space between them feel dangerously small. The teasing rival she fought with every day felt entirely distant, replaced by the boy who had shared her childhood summers, standing right on the edge of becoming a man.

Y/N swallowed hard, her heart giving a heavy, unruly thud against her ribs. She couldn't look away, completely trapped by his gaze under the shadow of the old pine tree.

"Like a thermos?" she tried to joke, her voice cracking slightly as she desperately tried to lighten the heavy atmosphere.

Yeonjun let out a low, breathy chuckle, his eyes softening as a familiar, gentle smirk returned to his lips. "Yeah, Jeon. Exactly like a thermos."

He opened his mouth, his gaze dropping to her lips for a split second before lifting back to her eyes. His expression went intensely quiet, that heavy, unblinking focus returning with a vengeance.

"Or maybe," Yeonjun murmured, his voice dropping into a lower, rougher cadence that barely carried over the sound of the wind, "it's not an object you leave behind. Maybe it's a person who makes you want to stay in the first place. Someone you've been with for—"

He cut himself off. The words hung suspended in the cool sea air for a single, breathless second, heavy and terrifyingly real. Y/N’s heart gave a violent, erratic wallop against her ribs, her fingers locking so tight around her paperback book that the taped spine groaned.

Yeonjun stared at her, his jaw tightening as if he’d suddenly realized exactly how much of his guard he had just dropped.

Then, just as quickly as the intensity had flared, he blinked, a sudden, casual mask sliding back over his features. He let out a sharp, breathy huff of a laugh, looking away toward the dark horizon as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"Anyway," he muttered, his voice shifting back into his familiar, lazy drawl, though it sounded a little rougher around the edges than usual. He smoothly swung his long legs over the side of the platform and stood up, the old timber giving a loud creak. "It's getting pitch black out here. If we don't head back now, your mom is going to think I kidnapped you, and my mom will never let me hear the end of it."

Y/N sat frozen on the wooden deck for a beat, her brain scrambling to process the sudden whiplash. One second the air had been thick enough to choke on, and the next, he was just her annoying neighbor again, dusting sand off his denim shorts.

He was going to say something else, a tiny, frantic voice whispered in her head. He almost did.

"Right," she managed to say, her voice sounding tight as she hastily shoved her feet into her sandals. She stood up, clutching her book against her ribs like armor, desperately trying to ignore the chaotic thumping in her chest. "Obviously. It's freezing anyway."

Yeonjun picked up the empty plastic wrapper and the grocery bag, slinging the strap over his broad shoulder. "Come on, Jeon. Move those legs. Let's see if that high-and-mighty walking speed of yours works in the dark."

"I walk perfectly fine, Choi," she snapped, marching past him onto the gravel path, her face still burning hot despite the chilly wind coming off the tide.

As they walked side-by-side up the dark hill, the shadows of the mandarin trees stretching out across the road, neither of them spoke. But every time his shoulder brushed against hers in the narrow lane, Y/N gripped her book a little tighter, acutely aware that the space between them had permanently changed, no matter how hard he tried to brush it off.

Three days later, the usually sleepy concrete courtyard of the village community center had completely transformed into a frantic, chaotic construction zone. The upcoming annual summer festival had sent a sudden jolt of adrenaline through the entire neighborhood, dragging everyone out of their houses to prep the town’s central hub.

The air smelled entirely different today—the familiar, crisp scent of raw sea salt was completely masked by the rich, savory smoke of charcoal grills being test-fired, the sharp tang of fresh paint, and the sweet aroma of crushed mandarins from the juice stalls being set up along the perimeter. Everywhere Y/N looked, there was movement. Elderly village men in wide-brimmed straw hats were shouting instructions over the rumbling roar of a flatbed truck unloading heavy wooden stage platforms, while a group of neighborhood aunts argued fiercely over the exact placement of the banner for the local marketplace stall.

Y/N stood near the main entrance of the building, her shoulders already aching as she balanced a heavy, splintering wooden crate of plastic banners against her hip. Her mother had abandoned her twenty minutes ago, marching into the air-conditioned depths of the center to bark orders about the festival's side-dish distribution, leaving Y/N outside to serve as a utility pack mule for the decoration committee. She adjusted her grip on the crate, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with her shoulder, squinting against the blinding afternoon glare.

Thwack. Thwack.

The sharp, rhythmic ring of iron hitting wood cut through the noisy clatter of the courtyard.

Y/N turned her head toward the center’s main concrete awning. Yeonjun was standing near the very top of a tall, weathered wooden stepladder that looked entirely too unstable for her peace of mind. He was tasked with securing the main string of traditional red-and-blue silk lanterns to the high roof frame. He had two extra iron nails clamped firmly between his teeth, his sharp focus entirely narrowed at the wooden bracket he was fixing.

He was wearing a faded, oversized white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled tightly up to his shoulders, exposing the lean, functional muscles of his arms and the sharp definition of his back as he swung the hammer. A light sheen of sweat made his skin glisten under the hot sun, and his ink-black hair was messy, a few strands sticking to his damp forehead.

Ever since that night under the pine tree by the beach—ever since he had left that sentence hanging, suspended and terrifyingly close to a confession—a strange, fragile truce had settled between them. They hadn't spoken a single word about what he almost said, but the sharp, defensive walls they usually hid behind felt noticeably thinner.

Yeonjun swung the hammer one last time, driving the nail flush into the beam. He wiped his brow with the back of his forearm, took the nails out of his mouth, and dropped them into his palm. As he shifted his weight to look down at the courtyard, his dark, hooded monolid eyes scanned the crowd before locking instantly onto her.

A slow, familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, breaking the intense concentration on his face.

"If you're just going to stand there using my hard labor as free entertainment, Jeon, the least you could do is hold the bottom of this ladder," he called down, his lazy, gravelly drawl cutting easily through the surrounding noise. He climbed down two rungs, letting the hammer dangle carelessly from his fingers as he looked down at her from his height. "This thing wobbles every time a truck drives past. My life is flashing before my eyes up here, and you're just watching like a spectator."

Y/N let out a dramatic, exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes as she marched across the concrete courtyard, her sandals slapping loudly against the pavement. She set the heavy wooden crate down by the base of the awning with a solid thud, dusting her hands off on her shorts before planting them firmly on the sides of the weathered wooden ladder.

"If you fall, Choi, I'm not catching you," she said, looking up at him through her eyelashes, squinting against the fierce afternoon sun. "In fact, I might just step aside and let gravity do its job. It would certainly make my shifts at the boutique a lot quieter."

"Wow. Cold-blooded as always, Jeon," Yeonjun drawled, though his smirk only widened. He shifted his weight intentionally, making the old wood give a loud, ominous creak just to watch her knuckles turn white as she gripped the frame tighter. "See? I'm risking my life for the cultural integrity of this village, and you're out here plotting my demise."

"Don't flatter yourself. You're up there because the elders know you're the only one tall enough to reach the rafters without needing an extension cord," she shot back, a small, involuntary smile tugging at her lips. "Now shut up and nail the next lantern before my arms freeze in this position."

Yeonjun let out a low, breathy laugh that vibrated down the wooden rungs. He reached into his pocket for another nail, placing it between his teeth with a practiced ease before reaching for the heavy blue silk lantern dangling from his shoulder.

"Hold it steady then," he muttered around the nail, his voice dropping into that lower, slightly muffled register.

As he leaned forward to secure the bracket, his loose t-shirt shifted, and the silver chain around his neck swung forward, catching the bright glare of the sun. Up close, Y/N could see the slight tremor of fatigue in his biceps from holding his arms up for so long, but he didn't slacken his pace. He worked with a surprising, quiet efficiency that she rarely got to see when he was busy lounging around the village.

"You missed a spot on the left," Y/N called up, leaning her chin slightly forward against the smooth wood of the ladder. "The red lantern is crooked. It looks like it’s throwing a tantrum."

Yeonjun stopped, his hammer suspended in mid-air. He looked down at her over his shoulder, his dark monolids narrowing in mock irritation. "It's not crooked. It's artistic tilt, Jeon. You clearly have no eye for festival aesthetics."

"It looks like a deflated mandarin, Choi. Fix it."

"If I fix it, do I get a reward?" he asked, a sudden, playful glint flashing in his eyes as he looked down at her. He rested his forearm against the top rung, completely ignoring the hammer for a second. "Like, say... you actually admitting that I'm doing a good job for once?"

"In your dreams," Y/N scoffed, though the tips of her ears felt suddenly warm under the summer heat. "Fix it, or I let go of the ladder right now."

"Alright, alright! Threats of violence, typical," he chuckled, quickly turning back to the beam and aggressively nudging the lantern into a perfectly straight line with the butt of his hammer. "There. Pristine. Are your exacting standards satisfied, Director Jeon?"

Y/N tilted her head back, narrowing her eyes as she critically examined the newly adjusted lantern. "Hmm. I suppose it will do. At least the tourists won't think our village decorations were put up by a toddler."

"A toddler? Ouch. You really know how to cut a man down to size," Yeonjun said, though his chest heaved with another silent laugh. He deftly tucked the hammer into the looped canvas tool belt resting low on his hips, a motion so fluid and casual it looked entirely practiced. Carefully, he began his descent, his long legs navigating the narrow wooden rungs with a lazy sort of grace until his sneakers finally met the solid concrete of the courtyard.

The moment he stepped down, the space between them shrank drastically. Standing at his full height, he easily blocked out the harsh glare of the afternoon sun, casting a long, cool shadow completely over her. The faint, clean scent of his soap mixed with the sharp tang of sweat and the earthy aroma of the nearby mandarin crates drifted over to her, making her pulse give a small, unprompted skip.

"Man, my shoulders are completely fried," Yeonjun groaned, rolling his neck until a loud, satisfying pop echoed through the air. He raised his arms, stretching his hands high above his head. As he did, the hem of his faded white t-shirt rode up just enough to expose a brief, tantalizing sliver of his lean, tanned lower back and the sharp line of his hip.

Y/N immediately ripped her eyes away, fixing her gaze intensely on the splintering wooden crate by her feet, her cheeks flaring with a sudden, localized heat. "If you're going to complain, go do it to the village foreman. I'm just the ladder dynamic stabilizer."

"The what?" Yeonjun let out a sharp, delighted bark of a laugh, dropping his arms and leaning forward slightly so he was directly in her line of sight again. His dark, hooded eyes danced with pure amusement. "Is that the official corporate title you're giving yourself, Jeon? 'Ladder dynamic stabilizer'?"

"Shut up," she muttered, kicking the corner of the wooden crate with the toe of her sandal. "It sounds better than 'person who stopped Choi Yeonjun from cracking his skull open on the pavement.'"

"Fair point," he drawled, a soft, incredibly gentle expression overtaking his face before he could stop it. The teasing smirk melted into something warmer, his gaze lingering on the stray wisps of hair stuck to her damp temples. He reached out, his hand hovering in the air between them for a fraction of a second as if he wanted to brush the strands away, before he

thought better of it and dropped his hand into his pocket. "You've been hauling those banners around all morning, haven't you?"

"My mom has zero mercy when it comes to festival prep," Y/N sighed, letting her shoulders slump as the banter finally wound down into a comfortable, shared exhaustion. "She wants the entire entrance lined with the plastic flags before the evening bus arrives from the ferry terminal."

Yeonjun looked over at the massive crate, then back at her small frame. Without a single word, he stepped past her, bent at the waist, and effortlessly hoisted the heavy wooden box into his arms, his biceps flexing tightly under the strain.

"Hey—what are you doing?" she asked, blinking in surprise.

"What does it look like, stabilizer?" Yeonjun said, giving her a wink over his shoulder as he began walking toward the main entrance gates. "I'm protecting my investment. If you throw your back out today, who's going to hold my ladder tomorrow?"

Y/N stood rooted to the concrete for a second, her hands completely empty and her brain temporarily short-circuiting. Her eyes were still helplessly glued to the line of his back—to the way his shoulder blades shifted under the thin cotton of his shirt and the undeniable, effortless strength it took to lift something that had been making her knees buckle.

A sudden, aggressive wave of heat rushed straight up her neck, flooding her cheeks until they felt like they were on fire. Get a grip, she told herself frantically, ripping her gaze away to stare intensely at a random crack in the pavement. It's just Choi Yeonjun. He's just... lifting a box. Muscles do that when people lift things. It's biology. Stop being weird.

"Hey! I didn't ask for your help, Choi!" she called out, her voice coming out a little sharper and higher than intended as she quickly jogged to catch up with his long, effortless strides. She desperately needed to cover up the fact that her heart was currently performing a drum solo against her ribs.

"You didn't have to," Yeonjun said over his shoulder, completely oblivious to the internal crisis happening two feet behind him. He navigated through a cluster of neighborhood elders who were busy untangling a massive knot of extension cords, carrying the heavy box like it was a crate of feathers. "Your face was doing all the asking for you.'"

"My bones are perfectly sturdy, thank you very much," she huffed, falling into step beside him and keeping a very strict, very safe distance so her arm wouldn't accidentally brush against his. She kept her eyes locked dead ahead, terrified that if she looked at his rolled-up sleeves again, her face would actually combust. "And I am not fragile."

"I know," Yeonjun murmured. His tone shifted, losing the mocking edge so quickly it caught her entirely off guard. He slowed his pace just a fraction, keeping his eyes trained on the path ahead but shifting the crate slightly so it wouldn't bump against her. "You're about as fragile as a block of volcanic rock, Jeon. That’s why I'm helping. If you pass out from heatstroke, I won't have anyone left to argue with, and this festival will be incredibly boring."

Y/N felt that familiar, unruly flutter behind her ribs again—the exact same dangerous, breathless sensation from the beach three nights ago. She squeezed her hands into fists inside her pockets, praying the shade of the community center gates would hide how utterly flustered she was.

"You really can't stand being alone with your own thoughts for five minutes, can you?" she muttered, trying to shield herself with her usual sarcasm, though it lacked its normal bite.

"Not when my thoughts are this exhausting," he replied smoothly. He stopped right by the main iron gates of the center, setting the heavy crate down on a concrete ledge with a dull thump. He wiped his palms on his shorts and turned around to face her fully, leaning his lower back against the ledge.

The afternoon breeze suddenly picked up, blowing a few messy strands of black hair across his eyes. He didn't brush them away; he just looked down at her, his dark monolid eyes reflecting the bright, glittering sunlight, a lazy, knowing tilt to his mouth.

"Alright, Director," Yeonjun drawled, crossing his arms over his chest—which only served to emphasize his shoulders even more, a fact Y/N's brain noted against her will. "The cargo has been delivered. Where do you want these banners strung up first? And don't say the top of the gate—I'm not climbing another ladder unless you promise to actually look after me this time."

A few hours later, the blistering afternoon heat had finally given way to a soft, golden twilight. The frantic pace of the courtyard had slowed down, leaving the community center looking ready for the big night.

Y/N and Yeonjun had retreated to the concrete steps of the main building, splitting a cold can of pear juice they’d swiped from one of the communal coolers. Y/N sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, her back leaning against the cool wall, while Yeonjun lounged a step below her, his long legs stretched out across the stairs, the half-empty can dangling carelessly from his fingers.

They sat in a comfortable, tired silence, simply people-watching as the village families began wandering home to wash up for dinner.

"Hey," Yeonjun said suddenly, his posture straightening just a fraction. He set his juice can down on the concrete and squinted across the courtyard toward the main gate. "Is that... wait, no way. Is that Soobin?"

Y/N followed his gaze. Walking through the iron gates was a strikingly tall, broad-shouldered guy holding a large duffel bag. He was wearing a simple, neatly ironed oversized blue button-down shirt and long beige trouser shorts—clothes that practically screamed big-city university student.

"Choi Soobin?" Y/N blinked, her eyes widening. "The elder Mrs. Choi's grandson? He's actually here for the summer?"

"Yeah, that's him," Yeonjun said, a grin breaking across his face as he watched the guy look around the courtyard with a shy, familiar smile. "He always comes down from Seoul right

before the festival to stay with his grandmother. I haven't seen him since last August." Yeonjun rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. "My mom mentioned he's in his second year of college now. Doing engineering up there."

Soobin noticed them from across the lot and gave a polite, hesitant wave, his dimples flashing even from a distance before he followed his mom and grandmother.

Y/N watched him walk away, genuinely impressed by how much the scrawny kid who used to hide behind his grandmother's skirt had grown. "Wow," she murmured, taking a sip of her juice. "He really grew up. He looks incredibly good. Seoul must be treating him well."

Beside her, the relaxed atmosphere instantly evaporated.

Yeonjun’s head snapped toward her so fast she could practically hear his neck click. His dark, hooded eyes narrowed into an intense, incredibly judgmental glare, and the easygoing smile completely vanished from his face.

"He looks what?" Yeonjun asked, his gravelly voice dripping with sudden, petty disbelief. He leaned his elbow back against the step above him, looking up at her as if she had just spoken in a foreign language. "He looks good? Jeon, he’s wearing a giant blue button-down. He looks like a walking corporate recycling bin."

Y/N couldn't help the smirk that spread across her face at his immediate, volatile reaction. "He looks put-together, Choi. The blue suits him, and he's huge now. Engineering looks good on him."

Yeonjun let out a loud, dramatic scoff, rolling his eyes as he picked his juice can back up and took an aggressive gulp. "Engineering. Please. It just means he spends all day looking at blueprints and calculators."

His expression shifted, a sharp, dangerously playful glint flashing in his eyes. He leaned back on his elbows, shifting his weight to nudge his shoulder teasingly against her shin as he looked up at her through his messy black fringe.

"Wait a minute," Yeonjun drawled, a slow, mocking smirk spreading across his lips. "Is that what this is? Do you actually have a little crush on the engineering boy? Is that your type now, Jeon? Tall, quiet, and looks like he wears a starch-pressed collar to sleep?"

"What? No!" Y/N shot back instantly, her voice rising a sharp octave.

"Oh, it totally is," Yeonjun teased, his voice dropping into a low whisper as he thoroughly enjoyed the sudden panic in her eyes. "Look at you, getting all defensive. Should I go call him back over here? Introduce you properly now that he’s a big-city college guy? See if he can calculate the structural integrity of your sudden crush?"

"Choi Yeonjun, shut up, he is not my type!" she snapped, desperately trying to ground herself.

But as she fought to keep her composure, her traitorous brain completely refused to cooperate. When Yeonjun taunted her about her 'type,' her mind didn't picture a neat blue button-down or engineering textbooks at all.

Instead, a vivid, overwhelming image flashed behind her eyelids: Yeonjun, standing on that wobbly ladder three hours ago, the hot afternoon sun making his skin gleam, the lean, functional muscles of his arms popping tightly as he swung the hammer, and the casual, effortless way he had hoisted that heavy wooden crate right out of her hands.

A violent, explosive blush rushed straight up her neck, flooding her cheeks with a heat so intense it felt literal.

Oh, no, she thought, a wave of genuine panic spiking in her chest. No, no, no.

She wasn't flustered because of Soobin. She was flustered because the only person currently occupying her thoughts—the only person who actually fit the description of what her body was reacting to—was the infuriating, beautiful boy currently smirking up at her from the step below.

"See! You're turning into a total tomato!" Yeonjun laughed triumphantly, completely misinterpreting the source of her sudden meltdown. He leaned back, thoroughly pleased with himself, his dark eyes crinkling completely at the corners. "I knew it. You're totally blushing."

"I am hot from working in the sun all day, Choi!" Y/N practically yelled, abruptly standing up from the concrete steps to hide her burning face. She clutched her empty juice box like a shield, her heart hammering a chaotic, deafening rhythm against her ribs. "I'm going inside to help my mom. Unlike you, some of us actually have things to do."

She turned on her heel and marched toward the community center doors, her sandals slapping furiously against the pavement. Behind her, she could hear Yeonjun’s low, amused chuckle echoing through the twilight air, but all she could focus on was the terrifying realization that her defenses against him were completely, utterly failing.

Yeonjun watched her retreat, his chuckle slowly tapering off until the heavy glass doors of the community center swung shut behind her. The moment she disappeared from view, the smug, triumphant grin on his face faltered, slipping away into the quiet twilight.

He looked down at his empty juice can, his thumb absently tracing the aluminum rim. A blue button-down, he thought, his chest tightening with a sudden, localized prickle of annoyance. 

Seriously?

He knew he was being ridiculous. It was Soobin. Soobin was a good kid, quiet, polite, and completely harmless. But the second Y/N had muttered that he looked incredibly good, something ugly and volatile had flared up in Yeonjun’s throat before he could even think to filter it. He hadn't just been teasing her to be annoying—he’d done it because the alternative was admitting that the comment had genuinely thrown him off balance.

He leaned his back against the concrete step, staring up at the darkening sky as the first few paper lanterns began to flicker to life around the courtyard.

She had blushed. She had turned an undeniable, explosive shade of crimson, her eyes widening in a panic that he had immediately jumped to label as a crush. He’d weaponized his usual banter to mock her for it, completely satisfied with his victory. But now, sitting alone on the stairs, a heavy sense of doubt began to creep in.

What if she actually does like him?

The thought sat like a stone in his stomach. He’d spent the last three days trying to convince himself to take a step back, trying to smooth over the terrifying moment on the beach where he had almost laid all his cards on the table. He’d told himself they were just neighbors, just childhood friends who bickered because it was easy. He’d deliberately hidden behind the teasing today, trying to keep things light, trying to keep her at arm's length so he wouldn't scare her off.

But watching her run inside, flustered and angry, his mind kept replaying the way her voice had spiked. He had assumed it was because of Soobin. He’d assumed she was hiding a secret interest in the smart, put-together university guy from Seoul.

Yeonjun let out a low, frustrated sigh, burying his face in his hands as his broad shoulders slumped. His skin still felt hot from the afternoon sun, his muscles aching slightly from the hours on the ladder, but none of that compared to the sudden, sharp ache of jealousy currently making his ribs feel entirely too tight.

If she really was looking at someone else like that... he was going to have a very hard time keeping his mouth shut for the rest of the summer.

The day of the festival finally arrived, heralded by a blazing sun that slowly began its descent, painting the island sky in long, bleeding streaks of deep amber, bruised violet, and brilliant gold. By 4:00 PM, the heavy, suffocating humidity of the afternoon was beginning to break, chased away by a cool breeze rolling off the ocean. Through Y/N’s open bedroom window, the distant, rhythmic thumping of traditional janggu drums and the faint, echoing sound of soundchecks from the main stage were already drifting into the house. The entire village was vibrating with life, but inside her bedroom, the air felt strangely thick, trapped, and entirely too quiet.

Y/N stood in front of her open closet, her bed already buried under a chaotic, colorful graveyard of discarded hangers and wrinkled fabrics.

She pulled out a simple cream linen sundress, held it up to her frame in the full-length mirror, and immediately tossed it onto the pile with a frustrated groan. Next came a neat pastel blouse—too formal, she’d look like she was going to a bank interview. A casual graphic t-shirt and denim shorts—too plain, she’d look like she hadn't even tried. She dragged her hands down her face, staring at her reflection with a growing sense of utter exasperation.

Why am I acting like this? she thought, her fingers tensing against her flushed cheeks. It's literally just a village festival.

Her heart was doing a strange, erratic flutter against her ribs—a restless, electric buzzing that had been humming under her skin since the exact moment her eyes snapped open that morning. She had attended this exact festival every single year of her life. It was a predictable, routine affair. Usually, she threw on whatever was clean and lying on her chair, brushed her hair to tame it, grabbed a skewered stick of grilled pork from the nearest stall, and spent the night trying to dodge the neighborhood grandmothers who wanted to matchmake her with their distant nephews. There was absolutely no reason for her palms to be damp right now. There was no reason for her stomach to be tied in a tight, twisting knot.

"Why am I so nervous?" she muttered aloud to the empty room, her voice sounding incredibly small and breathless against the distant backdrop of festive music.

She forced herself to take a deep, steadying breath, closing her eyes to clear her frantic mind. But the second darkness hit her vision, her brain completely betrayed her, entirely bypassing logic. It didn't flash to the bright paper lanterns she’d helped secure, or the prospect of the midnight fireworks over the harbor, or even the thought of running into Soobin in his neat big-city clothes.

Instead, her mind maliciously conjured an image from three days ago.

It replayed the sight of Yeonjun standing on that weathered wooden ladder, the fierce afternoon sun catching the sharp line of his jaw and making his skin gleam. It made her remember the precise, heavy shift of his broad shoulders under that faded white t-shirt, and the way his biceps had flexed so effortlessly when he ripped that crushing wooden crate out of her hands. Worse, it replayed the low, gravelly vibration of his voice when he had leaned over her on the steps, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners as he teased her about having a type.

Is that your type now, Jeon?

Y/N's eyes snapped open, a violent gasp escaping her throat as her face instantly flushed hot.

No. Absolutely not, she thought frantically, her internal voice shouting over the pounding rhythm of her pulse. I am not doing this. I am not getting dressed up for Choi Yeonjun.

The very idea was mortifying. They were neighbors. They were a localized disaster zone of bickering, insults, and aggressive eye-rolling. He was the boy who had once pushed her into a mud puddle when they were seven, the boy who stole her snacks, the boy who knew exactly which buttons to push to make her lose her mind.

But he was also the boy who had looked at her under the pine tree by the beach with a sudden, suffocating intensity that had nearly stopped her heart.

She looked back at the mirror, her eyes wide and dark with a panic she could no longer suppress. She was terrified. She was terrified because for the first time in her life, she

cared—deeply, horribly cared—about what he would think when he saw her tonight. She was terrified that if she wore something too pretty, he would see right through her, smirk that devastating, lazy smirk of his, and realize he had completely won. But she was equally terrified of wearing something ordinary and having his eyes just... pass over her.

"Get a grip, Jeon Y/N," she whispered fiercely to her reflection, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the edges of her vanity table.

Steeling her jaw, she marched back to the closet and aggressively grabbed a breezy, square-necked yellow sundress she had bought online months ago and never found an occasion to wear. It was simple, but it cinched neatly at her waist and left her collarbones bare. She stepped into it, her hands trembling slightly as she pulled up the zipper along her spine.

As the fabric fell into place, she stared at herself, her heart hammering a fierce, unmistakable rhythm against her ribs—a rhythm that she could no longer pretend was just excitement for the village fireworks.

She spent another fifteen minutes in front of the mirror, convinced she was losing her mind. She lightly patted a bit of lip gloss onto her lips, combed through her hair so it fell loosely over her shoulders, and immediately regretted it, half-tempted to pull it back into her usual bird's nest of a scrunchie just to spite her own anxiety.

A sudden, sharp knock on the front door made her jump entirely out of her skin. "Y/N-ah! Are you ready yet? Your mother already left for the food stalls an hour ago!"

The voice was loud, raspy, and instantly recognizable. It was Mrs. Kim from down the lane, probably sent as a scout to drag her out.

"Coming!" Y/N called back, her voice squeaking slightly. She took one last, desperate breath, smoothed down the skirt of the yellow dress, and slid into a pair of simple leather sandals.

When she stepped out of the front door, the village was bathed in a breathtaking, cinematic transition of light. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a deep, bruised indigo sky lit up by the brilliant, glowing strands of red-and-blue lanterns she and Yeonjun had hung just days prior. The air was thick with the mouth-watering scent of sizzling pork belly, sweet tteokbokki sauce, and the underlying crispness of the evening tide.

She walked down the narrow gravel path leading toward the community center lot, her hands nervously clutching the small strap of her purse. The closer she got, the louder the music became—a lively, chaotic blend of traditional festival melodies and the chatter of hundreds of locals and tourists.

And then, she saw him.

Yeonjun was standing near the main entrance gates, right beneath the very awning they had worked on. He was talking to a couple of the village elders, nodding politely, but his posture was completely casual, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his dark trousers.

Y/N’s breath hitched squarely in her throat.

He had actually dressed up. The faded, oversized white t-shirt from a few days ago was gone, replaced by a crisp, short-sleeved white button-down that was slightly unbuttoned at the top, exposing the sharp lines of his collarbones and the silver chain glinting under the lantern light. His hair was neatly styled, parted just enough to show his forehead, looking effortlessly sharp. He looked so devastatingly attractive it felt like a physical blow to her chest.

As if sensing her presence, Yeonjun’s eyes drifted away from the elders, scanning the incoming crowd.

His gaze cut through the sea of people and locked onto her instantly.

Y/N froze mid-step. She watched the exact moment his expression changed. The polite, vacant smile he wore for the elders completely vanished. His eyes widened by a fraction, tracking the line of her bare collarbones, the way the yellow dress cinched at her waist, and the loose waves of her hair shifting in the evening breeze.

For three agonizing seconds, Choi Yeonjun completely forgot how to blink.

The sudden lapse in his composure was all the leverage Y/N needed to salvage her own crumbling defense system. Seeing him completely stunned sent a sudden, intoxicating rush of confidence straight through her veins, replacing the frantic nerves that had been suffocating her in her bedroom.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, put on her best, most effortless smirk, and closed the remaining distance between them.

"Take a picture, Choi" she said, her tone dripping with a lazy, practiced amusement as she stopped right in front of him. She crossed her arms, tilting her head up slightly to meet his gaze. "It’ll last longer."

Yeonjun blinked, finally snapping out of his trance. He cleared his throat, a sharp, uncharacteristic cough escaping him as he quickly shoved his other hand into his pocket. A faint, localized pink hue crept up the tips of his ears, though he tried his absolute best to mask it by rolling his shoulders back and looking down at her with his usual hooded, lazy stare.

"I wasn't staring," he drawled, his voice a little rougher than usual. His eyes darted down to the square neckline of her dress for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to her face. "I was just checking to see if you actually managed to clean up for once. Who knew you owned clothes that didn't make you look so rugged?"

"Look who's talking," Y/N shot back, a bright, genuine laugh breaking through her facade. She gestured broadly at his chest, her eyes lingering just a second too long on the open collar of his shirt. "What is all this? A crisp white button-down? Styled hair? Who are you trying to impress tonight, Choi? Did a scout from a Seoul modeling agency secretly come down on the afternoon ferry?"

Yeonjun let out a low, breathy chuckle, though he looked visibly flustered by the sudden call-out. He rubbed the back of his neck.

"The elders told me I had to look presentable since I'm helping with the opening ceremony," he muttered, though the territorial, smug tilt of his lips was slowly returning. He stepped an inch closer, completely invading her space, the clean, intoxicating scent of his cologne washing over her. "Besides... I couldn't let Choi Soobin have all the glory, could I? If I didn't dress up."

"In your dreams, Choi," Y/N laughed, instantly shifting back into her comfortable armor of competitive defiance as they finally stepped through the main gates and into the heart of the festival grounds. They might have cleaned up nicely tonight, but a pretty button-down didn't change the fact that they were still, first and foremost, bitter rivals.

The community center parking lot and the surrounding park had been completely transformed into a sprawling, glowing night market. Strands of red, blue, and gold paper lanterns stretched overhead, casting a warm, flickering canopy of light over the surging crowd. The air was a thick, intoxicating sensory overload—the sharp, savory smoke of grilled samgyeopsal and sizzling scallion pancakes fighting with the sweet, sugary aroma of fresh, cinnamon-filled hotteok from the local vendors.

On either side of the wide dirt paths, row after row of brightly tarped booths had been set up. To their left, a crowded food lane was in full swing, with older village women aggressively waving fans over hot grills. To their right, the game stalls stretched out, vibrating with the loud, tinny sounds of trendy hits and the cheers of kids trying to win oversized plush toys.

"Wow," Y/N murmured, her eyes darting from a booth offering traditional ring-toss to a lively stall where a group of teenagers were crowded around a goldfish-scooping basin. "They really went all out this year. It looks completely different from the previous ones."

"Told you," Yeonjun said, his deep voice cutting through the noise right beside her ear. Because of the tightly packed crowd squeezing past them, he had closed the distance between them again, his broad shoulder solid and warm against her bare arm—a contact Y/N stubbornly refused to shrink away from. Giving him an inch meant letting him win. He looked around the bustling grounds, a satisfied, protective sort of pride settling into his features. "Though I'm pretty sure half these game booths are rigged. Old Man Park’s shooting gallery hasn't been calibrated since 1998."

"Are you just saying that because you lost 50,000 won trying to win a giant fox plushie three summers ago?" Y/N teased, tilting her head up to give him a thoroughly mocking look. "A true winner wouldn't blame the equipment, Choi."

Yeonjun’s eyes narrowed playfully, a competitive spark instantly igniting in his dark gaze as he looked down at her. "That fox was structurally compromised, Jeon, and you know it. I hit the target dead center." He stepped directly into her path, cutting her off slightly as he gestured toward the shooting gallery down the row. "Alright. Since you think you're such a pro, let's settle it right now. The loser buys the samgyeopsal skewers. Unless you're too scared to put your money where your mouth is?”

"Scared of you?" Y/N let out a sharp, mocking laugh, her chin tilting up in defiance. "Please. I've been aiming better than you since we were playing with water guns in elementary school, Choi. Get your wallet ready."

"Big words for someone who couldn't even lift a decoration crate on Tuesday," Yeonjun shot back, a dangerous, lazy grin spreading across his face as he turned on his heel and marched toward Mr. Park’s shooting gallery.

The stall was draped in faded red tarp, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent bulb that cast a harsh light over rows of small plastic targets and cork-loaded rifles. Mr. Park himself was sitting on a plastic stool, fanning himself with a newspaper, looking utterly bored until the two of them stepped up to the wooden counter.

"Two games, please, Ajusshi," Yeonjun said, sliding a crisp 10,000 won note across the counter. He didn't take his eyes off Y/N, his gaze dropping to her lips for a split second before locking onto her eyes with a heavy, intense challenge. "Make sure her rifle is working perfectly. I don't want any excuses when she loses."

Mr. Park grunted, sliding two plastic, spring-loaded cork rifles toward them. "You kids try not to shoot each other."

Y/N snatched her rifle up first, pumping the plastic slide back with a satisfying, aggressive clack. She rested her elbows on the wooden counter, lining up her sight with a row of small plastic spinning top targets. "Five shots each. Whoever knocks down the most wins. Sound fair, or do you need a handicap?"

"I'll even let you go first," Yeonjun drawled, leaning his hip casually against the counter right beside her. He crossed his arms over his white button-down, completely unfazed by the crowd bustling behind them. He was standing entirely too close, his cologne mixing with the scent of fried festival food, but Y/N locked her focus forward.

Squint, aim, fire.

Pop!

The cork flew straight, striking a plastic target directly in the center. The target spun violently and dropped.

"One," Y/N smirked, not looking at him as she quickly pumped the rifle again.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Two more dropped, but her fourth shot clipped the edge of a target, leaving it wobbling but stubbornly upright. Her fifth shot knocked down a clean final target.

"Four out of five," Y/N declared proudly, slamming the plastic rifle down onto the counter and turning to face him, her chest heaving slightly with adrenaline. "Beat that, Choi."

Yeonjun didn't look impressed. He lazily picked up his rifle, his large hands gripping the plastic frame with an ease that made it look small. He didn't even lean over the counter like

she had. He stood tall, raising the rifle to his shoulder, the fabric of his white shirt tightening across his back and drawing her eyes straight to the hard line of his shoulders. He aimed with one eye closed, looking devastatingly concentrated.

Pop! Target down.

Pop! Target down.

Pop! Target down.

He pumped the slide effortlessly, his rhythm steady, completely unbothered by her staring. On his fourth shot, pop, another one dropped. He had a perfect streak.

Y/N’s heart began to thump violently against her ribs. He was going to win, and she was going to have to pay for dinner while enduring his smug face for the rest of the night. Desperate to break his focus, she leaned into his peripheral vision, whispering maliciously, "Is that a bug on your shoulder?"

Yeonjun didn't even flinch. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he pulled the trigger.

Pop!

The final target snapped clean off its hinge and dropped instantly. Five for five. Perfect score.

"Nice try, Jeon," Yeonjun drawled, casually setting the rifle down on the counter. He turned his head to look at her, leaning in close enough that she could see the triumphant glint in his eyes. "But it's going to take a lot more than that to throw me off."

He turned to Mr. Park, who lazily handed over a small, ridiculous-looking plush keychain of a frowning cat. Yeonjun took it, spinning the plastic ring around his finger before dangling the cat right in front of Y/N’s nose.

"A deal's a deal," he smirked, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that made her stomach do a dangerous flip. "Five out of five means you're buying the samgyeopsal skewers tonight. And since I'm such a generous winner..." He dropped the cat keychain into her palm, his fingers brushing against hers just long enough to send a jolt of heat up her arm. "...you can keep the prize. It looks just like you when you're mad."

"I look nothing like this," Y/N grumbled, though her fingers closed tightly around the little frowning cat anyway.

"Oh please, you actually do." Yeonjun let out a loud, incredulous laugh, throwing his head back as he followed her away from the booth.

True to her word, Y/N dragged him over to the busiest stall in the food lane, aggressively counting out her 15,000 won to pay for two massive, sizzling skewers of samgyeopsal slathered in sweet-and-spicy glaze. She had slammed the money onto the counter with a dramatic sigh, but the triumphant, lazy grin Yeonjun flashed her made the minor hit to her wallet entirely worth it.

Twenty minutes later, the suffocating smoke and the roaring noise of the night market had faded into a soft, distant hum.

They had wandered away from the heart of the festival grounds, seeking refuge in a quiet, dimly lit park area overlooking the rocky coastline. They sat side-by-side on a weathered wooden bench, the night air suddenly crisp and smelling heavily of salt water. Overhead, the brilliant red-and-blue paper lanterns were fewer and further apart, casting long, gentle shadows across the grass.

Y/N took a careful bite of her skewer, savoring the smoky flavor, before resting her elbows on her knees. Beside her, Yeonjun was already polishing off his food with effortless efficiency, his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossing at the ankles.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The comfortable, familiar silence of the island settled over them, broken only by the rhythmic crashing of the waves against the shore below.

"Alright, I'll admit it," Y/N murmured, looking out at the dark horizon where a few fishing boats glinted in the distance. "The festival looks good this year. All that back-breaking labor on Tuesday actually paid off."

"Of course it did," Yeonjun drawled, setting his empty wooden stick down on the bench between them. He leaned back against the wooden slats, turning his head to look at her profile. In the faint, bleeding light of a distant blue lantern, the sharp lines of his jaw and the styled fringe of his hair looked soft. "We built it. Well, mostly me, since you spent half the time complaining about the heat."

"I did not—" Y/N snapped her head around to glare at him, but the retort died instantly in her throat.

He was leaning his elbow on the back of the bench, looking down at her with a quiet, unreadable expression. The fierce, competitive armor they had been wearing like shields all night suddenly felt entirely too heavy to hold up. Without the bustling crowd to distract them, the space between them felt microscopic. The clean, intoxicating scent of his cologne was drifting toward her in the cool ocean breeze.

Yeonjun’s dark eyes traced the slope of her nose, then drifted slowly down to her bare collarbones highlighted by the square neckline of her navy dress, before settling back on her eyes. The smug, victorious smirk he'd been wearing since the shooting gallery was entirely gone, replaced by a heavy, breathless stillness.

"You..." Yeonjun cleared his throat, his gravelly voice dropping into a low, quiet register that made Y/N’s heart instantly stall against her ribs. He reached out, his long fingers hesitant for a fraction of a second before he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His knuckles brushed against her skin, leaving a trail of pure fire in their wake.

"...you look really pretty tonight, Y/N-ah," he whispered, using her actual name for the first time all day. "I've been trying to find a sarcastic way to say it since four o'clock, but I'm tired of lying."

Y/N froze, her breath catching so sharply in her throat that the cool night air felt like a physical weight in her chest. The small, rigid plastic edges of the frowning cat keychain were biting hard into her palm, but she couldn't even register the minor sting. Every single one of her senses was entirely locked onto the boy sitting next to her, frantically trying to process the sudden, tectonic shift in the atmosphere.

Choi Yeonjun did not do sincere. He lived and breathed sharp, irritating grins, petty retorts, and exhausting athletic flexing designed purely to get under her skin. But right now, the lazy, mocking veneer he always wore like armor was completely absent.

"What?" she managed to say. The word slipped out much softer and more breathless than she had intended, completely ruining her attempt at a flat, unimpressed delivery. She tried to pull her standard scoff, but the blazing heat radiating across her cheeks entirely betrayed her defense. "Did the pork belly fat finally clog your brain, Choi? Where is this coming from?"

Yeonjun didn't flinch or immediately pull back. Instead, his hand slowly retreated from her hair, his long fingers trailing off with an agonizingly deliberate slowness. He kept his elbow propped securely on the back of the weathered wooden bench, leaning just a fraction closer into her personal space. A faint, slightly self-deprecating smile touched his lips—not his usual arrogant smirk, but something far more grounded. Far more human.

"It's not coming from anywhere," he said quietly, his eyes unwavering as they fixed onto hers. He let out a brief, quiet huff of a laugh, his gaze dropping down to his own hands for a split second, tracing the neat fabric of his black trousers before lifting back up to her face. "I'm just stating a fact. You spent the last three days covered in paint and dirt, and then you show up tonight looking... like this."

His eyes lingered on the delicate, square neckline of her yellow dress, tracking the subtle rise and fall of her collarbones before snapping back up to lock onto her wide eyes.

"I'm just giving you an honest compliment," he added, his voice finally returning to its familiar, slightly defensive drawl as he rolled his broad shoulders back against the bench, clearly trying to reclaim a bit of his usual cool composure. "Don't let it go to your head, Jeon. I still beat you at the shooting match."

The subtle, stubborn return of his competitive edge was the only thing keeping Y/N's soul from completely evaporating into the night air. It was a lifeline of familiarity in a conversation that had suddenly become terrifyingly uncharted. She let out a shaky, quiet laugh, forcing her eyes away from his sharp jawline to stare out at the dark, crashing waves of the coastline.

"Oh, please. You won by a single point, and it was entirely due to an unfair trajectory advantage," she muttered, her voice trembling slightly as she fought down the massive, traitorous smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that to sleep at night," Yeonjun murmured smoothly. He didn't look away from her profile, but the territorial, tense rigidity in his shoulders had completely dissolved, replaced by a quiet, protective stillness as the distant sound of the festival drums echoed softly over the dark water of the ocean.

"An unfair trajectory angle," Yeonjun repeated under his breath, a low, genuinely amused chuckle vibrating in his chest. "You really have an excuse for everything, don't you?"

"It’s not an excuse, it’s science," Y/N retorted, her voice finally regaining a bit of its usual defensive bite, though her heart was still hammering a furious rhythm against her ribs. She kept her eyes glued to the dark horizon, desperately waiting for the burning heat in her face to cool down.

"Right, science. Next time, I'll bring a ruler so we can—"

"Hey! Choi Yeonjun!"

A loud, boisterous voice cut through the quiet ocean air.

Y/N and Yeonjun both flinched, their heads snapping toward the gravel path. Shuffling out from the shadows of the tree line were Minho and Jinwoo, two of Yeonjun’s close friends. They were holding paper cups of festival drinks and skewers of their own, looking thoroughly loud and cheerful.

"I told you that was him," Minho grinned, pointing a greasy skewer at the bench as they marched over. He clapped a heavy, familiar hand onto Yeonjun’s shoulder, completely missing the tense atmosphere. "What are you doing all the way out here, man? The guys are setting up a tournament at the basketball court hoops. Mr. Jung brought out the proper leather balls tonight. You have to come carry the team."

"Hey, Y/N. You're here too? You should come watch us destroy the neighboring district's stats. Yeonjun's been bragging all week that he’s going to break the festival record." Jinwoo glanced down at Y/N. He gave her a casual nod.

Y/N forced a polite, easy smile onto her face, but internally, she felt the fragile, dizzying bubble that had spent the last ten minutes wrapping around them instantly pop.

It wasn't that she was a stranger. Everyone on the island knew exactly who she was—she was the top-ranked student, the sharp-tongued director of the festival's aesthetic design, and Yeonjun's permanent, formidable shadow. They were always mentioned in the same breath by the teachers and the elders. But when it came to moments like this, under the bright lights of a crowd, Yeonjun was the one who naturally carried the spotlight. He was the effortless athlete, the charming guy everyone wanted at their table, the center of gravity.

Sitting here in the dark, watching his friends immediately pull at his attention, the familiar reality settled back in. She was his rival in the classroom and on the court, but she was still the one who preferred the quiet fringes. He belonged to the crowd.

"I was just taking a breather," Yeonjun said. His voice smoothly transitioned back into his casual, easygoing banter tone, but his dark eyes immediately cut down to Y/N, checking her expression.

"Well, breathing time is over, Jun," Minho laughed, tugging at Yeonjun’s arm to steer him back toward the bustling paths. "Come on, Taehyun and the guys are already placing bets on who shoots the first three-pointer."

Y/N swallowed the sudden, dry lump in her throat, shifting her weight on the bench. She clutched the small plastic cat keychain tighter in her palm, refusing to look like she was waiting around for an invite.

"Go ahead, Choi," Y/N said, her tone perfectly flat, masking the sudden, hollow ache in her chest with a lazy wave of her hand. "Don't keep your team waiting. Someone needs to go show off for the village."

Yeonjun stopped mid-step, his body tensing as he pulled his arm out of Minho's grip. He looked back at her, his brows knitting together in a sharp, sudden frown as he sensed the immediate, invisible wall she had just constructed between them. Minho and Jinwoo kept walking ahead, calling his name over their shoulders, but Yeonjun stood under the dim blue lantern, his intense gaze searching her guarded face.

"You're not coming?" Yeonjun asked, his voice dropping out of that easy, public banter tone and back into the quiet register he had been using just minutes ago.

"I've had enough of your flexing for one night," Y/N replied, forcing a careless, dry chuckle as she leaned back against the weathered wood of the bench. She looked up at him, her expression perfectly engineered to look bored. "Go on. Taehyun’s actually going to take your money if you don't get down there to defend your pride."

Yeonjun didn't move. Minho and Jinwoo’s boisterous laughter was fading down the gravel path, but Yeonjun remained anchored right in front of her, casting a long shadow across her lap. His dark eyes narrowed, searching her face, completely unconvinced by the effortless dismissal she was projecting. He knew her too well. He knew the exact shade of her armor.

"Choi! Hurry up!" Minho’s voice echoed from the trees.

Yeonjun let out a sharp, frustrated breath through his nose. He shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets, his shoulders tensing under the crisp white fabric of his button-down.

"Don't go anywhere," he muttered, his tone suddenly laced with a quiet, fierce authority that caught her completely off guard. He stepped a fraction closer, his gaze dropping to the little plastic cat keychain still gripped tightly in her hand before locking back onto her eyes. "I'm going to win my money back from Taehyun. It'll take twenty minutes. Stay right here, Jeon. If I come back and you've sneaked off to the library or your bedroom, I'm counting it as a total forfeiture of tonight's rematch."

Before Y/N could even formulate a retort, Yeonjun turned on his heel and strode down the path, his long legs quickly eating up the distance as he disappeared into the warm, glowing haze of the festival grounds.

Y/N let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, her shoulders slumping as the absolute silence of the coastline rushed back to fill the void he left behind. She looked down at her palm, slowly uncurling her fingers to look at the ridiculous, frowning little plastic cat.

The spot on the bench next to her was still warm. She stared at the empty space, her heart doing a strange, conflicted ache. He was always like this—effortlessly pulling her into his orbit, refusing to let her fade into the background even when the entire world was shouting his name.

A quiet, helpless smile finally broke through her guarded expression. "Idiot," she whispered to the empty air, settling back against the bench to wait.

The thirty minutes she had promised herself bled into forty-five. Down by the courts, the distant roar of the crowd flared up, followed by a chorus of rhythmic chanting—Yeonjun’s name, echoing clearly even all the way out here. He had obviously won. He was probably surrounded by his friends, getting slapped on the back by the elders, and soaking in the effortless adoration that always seemed to find him.

Y/N looked down at the little frowning cat keychain in her lap.

A quiet, heavy sigh slipped past her lips. She wasn't angry; it was just a sharp reminder of how things actually worked. The fragile, dizzying bubble they had shared under the lanterns was a temporary fluke.

Standing up, she brushed the stray pine needles off her dress. She wasn't going to sit here like a ghost waiting to be remembered. She slipped the keychain into her pocket, turned her back on the glowing lights of the market, and took the quiet, dark path leading out of the park toward the residential hills.

The walk back to her neighborhood was peaceful, the roar of the festival fading into a dull hum before disappearing entirely. By the time Y/N reached her front gate, the only sound left was the steady chirping of cicadas. She unlocked the door, kicked off her sandals, and felt the immediate, grounding comfort of her quiet house.

After changing into a pair of pajamas and a worn-out t-shirt, she tied her hair up messily. She sat down at her desk, pulling a stack of practice exam papers toward her. Back to reality, she thought, clicking her mechanical pencil.

She had just finished shading in her first row of answers when a sharp, frantic beep-beep-beep startled her.

Her translucent pink Motorola pager was vibrating violently against the wooden desk, its tiny green backlight flashing in the dim room. Y/N picked it up, squinting at the small monochrome screen.

051-744-XXXX * 8282

She stared at the digits. The first part was the public payphone near the market, followed by

8282—the numeric slang for palli-palli ("hurry up").

Tossing the pager face-down onto the desk, Y/N let out a dry, dismissive sigh. She didn't move an inch. She wasn't about to put her shoes back on, walk down to the neighborhood public payphone booth in the dark, and waste a 50-won coin just because he sent a page. She ignored the blinking green light, picked up her pencil, and went right back to her studies. She was completely shutting him out for the night.

Three days passed in a blur of heavy silence and the steady scratching of her mechanical pencil against rough practice exam booklets. True to her word, Y/N had entirely buried herself in her studies, using the upcoming mock exams as a perfect, airtight excuse to block out everything else. She hadn't left her room except for meals, intentionally letting her pager sit dead and uncharged on the corner of her desk. The small, translucent pink device hadn't flashed once since Friday night. She had drawn the curtains, turned her radio to a quiet indie station, and forced herself back into the rhythm of being Jeju’s top-ranked student. The festival, the blue paper lanterns, and Yeonjun were supposed to be locked away in a compartment of her mind labeled temporary distractions.

But by Tuesday morning, the walls of her bedroom felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage.

Her eyes were burning from memorizing historical timelines, and the air inside her house felt suffocatingly still. Recognizing she needed a change of scenery if she wanted any of the math formulas to actually stick, Y/N packed her canvas bag with her workbook, a pencil case, and her heavy flask of iced barley tea. She slipped on a pair of simple denim shorts and a faded t-shirt, sliding her feet into her well-worn canvas sneakers.

The summer sun was already baking the coastal roads by the time she stepped outside, the thick, humid air smelling faintly of salt and pine. She walked down the residential hills with a determined, steady pace, heading straight toward the public library.

The library was an old, red-brick building situated right near the harbor, its back windows overlooking the quiet concrete docks where the old fishermen moored their wooden boats. It was usually deserted during summer break—the perfect place to disappear.

Y/N pulled open the heavy wooden door, the familiar, comforting scent of aged paper and floor wax instantly washing over her. She gave a quiet, polite nod to the elderly librarian dozing behind the front desk and walked straight toward the back rows, aiming for her usual corner table by the window.

She set her bag down, pulling out her study guide, but as she glanced out the large glass pane toward the shimmering blue water of the library docks, her heart gave a sudden, traitorous thud.

Sitting on the edge of the concrete pier, his long legs dangling precariously over the lapping waves, was Yeonjun.

He was wearing a simple yellow t-shirt and loose shorts, a far cry from the crisp white shirt from Friday night. His head was bent low over a thick textbook resting on his lap, a silver ballpoint pen twirling effortlessly between his long fingers. He looked tired—there were faint shadows under his eyes—but there was a stubborn, unyielding rigidity in the slope of his shoulders.

He was actually there. He had been waiting.

Y/N stood entirely frozen behind the glass, the heavy silence of the library suddenly roaring in her ears. She looked down at the open page of her workbook, but the printed numbers blurred into meaningless ink.

Just stay inside, her practical side whispered. He’ll eventually get bored and leave.

But the suffocating stillness of the library rooms suddenly felt unbearable. She couldn't just sit here and stare at the back of his head through a pane of glass for the next four hours. Deciding she’d rather study at the quiet pavilion further up the hill, Y/N quickly packed her workbook, her pencil case, and her heavy flask back into her canvas bag. She threw the strap over her shoulder, walked past the dozing librarian, and pushed open the heavy wooden front doors.

The moment she stepped out onto the library’s concrete steps, the heavy summer heat and the sharp, briny scent of the sea hit her full force.

And then, a shadow fell over her.

Yeonjun had already stood up from the pier. He was standing at the bottom of the library steps, as if he had been tracking her movements the second she cleared the threshold.

Y/N instantly tightened her grip on the strap of her bag, her defensive armor snapping right back into place. She made a move to step past him toward the hill path, her expression perfectly flat. "Excuse me, Choi. I'm going to find another place to read."

"Y/N, wait."

Yeonjun didn't reach out to grab her, but he stepped directly into her path, blocking her exit. His shoulders slumped slightly, all the usual teasing energy completely drained from his posture. He looked down at her, his dark eyes carrying a heavy, genuine vulnerability that caught her completely off guard.

"I haven't seen you," he said softly, his voice a little raspy. "For three days. You completely shut your pager off."

Y/N swallowed hard, keeping her face rigid despite the sudden, erratic thud of her heart. "I have mock exams to study for. I don't have time to stand around."

"I know," Yeonjun interrupted quietly, stepping a fraction closer. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at his sneakers for a brief second before forcing himself to meet her guarded gaze again. "I completely lost track of time, and by the time I ran back, you were gone."

He let out a quiet, defeated sigh, his chest rising and falling heavily in the summer heat.

"I'm really sorry, Y/N. I didn't mean to leave you sitting out there in the dark like that. I went to a payphone and tried to page you twice, but... I knew you were mad. I just wanted to apologize properly."

Y/N stared at him, her fingers wrapping so tightly around the canvas strap of her bag that her knuckles turned white. Hearing him say her actual name—not "Jeon," not some sharp, competitive nickname, but just Y/N—felt like a physical blow to the defensive wall she had spent seventy-two hours building.

The heat radiating off the concrete steps was intense, but the genuine, uncharacteristic vulnerability radiating from Yeonjun was what really made her feel faint. He looked completely stripped of his usual golden-boy armor.

"I wasn't mad," she lied quietly, her voice dropping lower as she tried to regain her footing. She looked past his shoulder toward the glittering harbor, refusing to let herself melt under his gaze. "I told you. Thirty minutes was my limit. You didn't show, so I went home to do what I was supposed to be doing anyway."

"You were mad. You have every right to be," Yeonjun countered softly, refusing to let her slide into her usual detached indifference. He took another small step up the stairs, narrowing the distance between them until she could smell the faint scent of sea salt and the crisp citrus soap he always used. "I messed up, Y/N. I hate that I made you feel like you were just waiting around for me while I was showing off down at the courts."

He reached into his pocket, his fingers fumbling for a moment before he pulled out a small, tightly folded piece of crumpled receipt paper. It was slightly soft at the edges, as if he’d been carrying it around and flattening it out with his thumb for days.

"I actually went to your gate on Friday night," he admitted, a faint, embarrassed flush creeping up the back of his neck into his ears. He glanced away for a split second, looking down at the concrete. "I was going to just slide this into your mail slot, but the second I stepped onto your pavement, my own mom opened our kitchen window to throw out the dishwater. I had to dive behind your wall so she wouldn't see me hovering outside your front door at one in the morning."

A tiny, involuntary twitch tugged at the corner of Y/N's mouth, but she quickly bit it down. It was completely ridiculous. They lived right next door to each other, sharing a brick boundary wall, yet here he was, tracking her down at the harbor docks just to hand her a piece of paper he could have thrown over the fence. "You're an idiot, Choi."

"I know," he said, a small, relieved trace of his usual smile finally breaking through his tired expression when he saw her guard slip, even just a fraction. He extended his hand, offering her the folded note. "I've been sitting on that pier since the library opened today hoping you'd show up. I just... I really didn't want summer break to pass with you refusing to look at me, even if we only live a wall apart."

Y/N’s laugh cut off abruptly, her defensive walls trying to snap back up, though the warmth in her cheeks betrayed her. "Don't say things like that, Choi. And how did you even know I'd be here? I didn't tell anyone I was coming to the library."

Yeonjun rubbed the back of his neck again, his smile turning a bit sheepish as a faint pink tint bloomed across his cheekbones. He looked out at the fishing boats bobbing in the harbor, suddenly finding the horizon very interesting.

"Well..." he dragged out the syllable, a rare, embarrassed chuckle escaping him. "I might have casually lingered by our shared wall this morning. Your mom was outside hanging up the laundry."

Y/N stared at him, her eyes widening. "You didn't."

"I did," Yeonjun admitted, finally looking back at her, his eyes full of a helpless, endearing sort of defeat. "I asked her if you were still alive because your pager was dead. She laughed and told me you were about to go crazy from staring at math problems, so you packed a bag for the harbor library. She basically ordered me to come find you and force you to take a break."

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her hands. "I am going to lock her out of the house."

"Hey, don't blame your mom. She's on team Yeonjun," he teased, his confidence fully returning now. He stepped right up to the edge of the pier, kicking his sneakers back and forth over the water before looking up at her through his messy fringe. "Besides, she’s right. Look at your eyes, Jeon—you're exhausted. Sit down with me."

He patted the sun-warmed concrete right next to him.

Y/N looked at the empty space, then down at the tightly folded receipt paper sticking out of her shorts pocket. The carefully built isolation of the last three days was entirely gone, shattered by a boy who was willing to brave neighborhood gossip and her own mother just to find her.

With a quiet, defeated sigh that was actually full of relief, Y/N let her canvas bag slide off her shoulder onto the concrete and sat down, letting her legs dangle over the lapping waves right next to his.

The cold, sad hotteok from the festival night became a running joke that carried them through the rest of July, a silly little bridge that brought them over the awkward gap of their unspoken feelings.

Once the ice was broken on the library docks, the shared brick wall between their houses practically ceased to exist. Their relationship shifted from a tense, guarded rivalry into something deeply fluid and domestic. They developed a silent rhythm that didn't need to be explained to anyone else. Whenever the morning heat in Y/N’s bedroom became too suffocating, a sharp, rhythmic clack-clack would rattle her window pane—Yeonjun, standing

on the flat stones of the wall dividing their yards, tossing small gravel pebbles against her glass.

They spent their mornings at the harbor pavilion, their textbooks spread out between them like a shield against the rest of the world. It was in those quiet hours that Y/N really watched him change. The effortless, golden-boy swagger he wore around the village elders and his friends melted away, replaced by a raw, stubborn focus that she secretly found mesmerizing. He would complain bitterly about historical dates, aggressively spinning his silver ballpoint pen until it flew out of his hand, but he never gave up. Y/N would silently pull his workbook toward her, correcting his formulas in her neat, precise script, hiding her small smiles behind her heavy flask of iced barley tea.

In return, Yeonjun looked after her in ways she hadn't realized she needed. He kept track of the time she forgot existed, gently snatching the mechanical pencil from her stiff fingers when she had been tracing lines for three hours straight. He’d force her to walk down to the rocky shore with him, their bare feet dipping into the cool tide pools while the humid July breeze rustled his dark hair.

There were afternoons where they didn't speak at all, just sitting side-by-side on a dry towel on the sand. His translucent blue pager and her pink one would sit forgotten between them, completely silent, because the only person they wanted to page was already sitting right there. Once, when the summer sun was particularly blinding, Yeonjun had casually shifted his broad shoulders, blocking the light to cast a shadow directly over her workbook so she could read without squinting. He hadn't even looked up from his own vocabulary list when he did it, but the casual, protective nature of the gesture had made Y/N’s heart do a violent, chaotic flip.

For nearly a month, the fragile, dizzying bubble they had shared under the festival lanterns wasn't a fluke anymore. It was their entire reality. They were softer with each other, their sharp edges rounding out until "Jeon" and "Choi" felt more like endearments than competitive taunts.

Until the calendar on Y/N’s wall cruelly turned its page. 10

The bold, black number was circled in aggressive red ink on her desk calendar. Ten days until the mock exams. Ten days until the entire province’s rankings were published, determining their entire trajectory for the final semester of high school.

The realization hit Y/N like a bucket of ice water on a Tuesday morning.

The humid summer air suddenly felt heavy again, thick with the looming pressure of their futures. Looking down at her workbook, she felt a sudden, familiar spike of panic. For the past three weeks, she had been pacing herself, letting Yeonjun pull her away for walks by the docks or ice cream runs to the corner store. But ten days was the danger zone. If she dropped her rank, everything she had worked for would slip away.

Her mechanical pencil clicked, a sharp, decisive sound in the quiet room. The bubble had to pop.

Right on cue, a sharp clack hit her window pane. Y/N didn't move. She kept her eyes fixed on a complex trigonometry problem, forcing her shoulders to remain rigid.

A few seconds passed, and then another pebble hit the glass, followed by a muffled, familiar voice shouting from below. "Jeon! Hurry up, the librarian said she’s turning on the standing fan in the back corner today!"

Swallowing the lump of guilt in her throat, Y/N stood up and slid her window open just an inch, looking down into the yard.

Yeonjun was balanced precariously on top of the brick wall, wearing a loose white t-shirt and light cotton shorts, his canvas bag slung over one shoulder. He was squinting up at her against the bright morning sun, holding up two frozen ice pops—one of them cider-flavored, her favorite. He gave her a bright, effortless grin, the kind that had spent the last month becoming her favorite sight.

"Get down from there, Choi," Y/N said, her voice deliberately flat, completely stripped of the warmth they had shared over the last few weeks.

Yeonjun’s grin faltered slightly, his eyebrows knitting together as he tilted his head, his hand lowering. "What? Aren't you coming? I even bribed the store ahjumma for the good flavors."

"I can't," she said, gripping the wooden windowsill until her fingers ached. She forced herself to look at his forehead rather than his eyes. "There are only ten days left. I’m locking myself in until exam day. Don't disturb me."

Yeonjun froze, the two ice pops slowly melting in his grip, sticky sweet drops of cider and soda running down his knuckles. The bright, easy light in his eyes instantly vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp confusion that quickly deepened into a heavy frown.

He didn't hop down from the wall. Instead, he adjusted his footing on the flat stones, stepping a fraction closer to her window pane. "Y/N, what are you talking about? We've been reviewing the material together every single day. We're on schedule."

"We're behind," she corrected sharply, her voice cold as she tightened her grip on the wooden window frame. "You might be fine with a comfortable score, but I'm not. Ten days is when the actual top-rankers lock down. I can't afford to lose focus over ice pops and walking down by the docks."

The words were intentionally harsh, cutting straight through the soft, comfortable space they had built over the last month.

Yeonjun's jaw tightened, his chest rising and falling beneath his white t-shirt. The silence between their two houses stretched out, thick and heavy, broken only by the relentless, mocking buzz of the morning cicadas. He looked down at the melting ice pops in his hand, a

bitter, self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips before he tossed them carelessly into the small cooler bag hanging from his arm.

When he looked back up at her, the vulnerability she had seen at the library steps was completely gone, replaced by a rigid, defensive armor that mirrored her own.

"Is that what the last three weeks were to you?" he asked, his voice dropping into a low, quiet register that made her chest ache. "Just a lack of focus? A distraction from your rank?"

Y/N swallowed hard, the lump in her throat feeling like a piece of lead. She wanted to take it back. She wanted to tell him that she was just terrified—terrified of losing her placement, terrified of how much she had come to look forward to the sound of pebbles hitting her glass every morning. But looking at the circle of aggressive red ink on her desk calendar behind her, she forced her face to remain completely expressionless.

"Yes," she lied smoothly, staring directly into his eyes. "That's exactly what it was."

Yeonjun stared at her for three long seconds, as if waiting for the punchline, or a small slip in her expression, or any sign that the girl who had shared her iced barley tea with him yesterday afternoon was still in there. But she didn't give him anything.

Slowly, his expression turned into a hard, closed-off mask.

"Fine," he said quietly. He didn't use her name. He didn't call her "Jeon." He just adjusted his canvas bag on his shoulder, turned his back to her window, and dropped down from the brick wall, disappearing into his own yard without another word.

The heavy wood of her bedroom window slid shut a second later, the lock clicking into place with a definitive, final snap. Y/N walked back to her desk, her knees trembling slightly as she sat down, staring blankly at the complex formulas in her workbook. The silence of her room, which had once felt like an airtight sanctuary, now felt entirely hollow.

The next eight days were a brutal test of endurance.

Y/N didn't lift her head from her desk. She studied until her vision blurred and her fingertips were permanently stained with graphite. She memorized entire passages of classical Korean literature, derived advanced calculus proofs until her wrists ached, and kept her radio completely turned off. The silence in her room was total, heavy, and absolute.

But the hardest part wasn't the material. It was the lack of sound from the outside.

Every single morning, right around 9:00 AM, her eyes would instinctively dart to the window pane. Her ears strained, listening for the distinct, sharp clack-clack of gravel hitting the glass. But it never came. The brick boundary wall between their houses remained entirely quiet. Once, when she went down to the kitchen to refill her water flask, she caught a glimpse of Yeonjun's mother through the window. The older woman looked over at Y/N's house with a small, visibly worried sigh before pulling her laundry basket inside.

Yeonjun had taken her at her word. He was completely gone.

By the time the day before the mock exam arrived, Y/N felt like a hollow shell of herself. Her mock exam scores in her practice booklets were flawless—perfect percentages across the board—but looking at them didn't give her the rush of satisfaction it used to. It just felt cold.

The heat that afternoon was oppressive, the late-July humidity wrapping around the island like a suffocating blanket. Unable to look at the walls of her room for another second, Y/N grabbed her bag and walked down to the harbor pavilion. She told herself it was just to get out of the stuffy house, but the second she reached the wooden structure, her chest tightened.

The pavilion was empty. The spot where they usually sat—where their ankles would accidentally brush under the table—was covered in a thin layer of dust.

She sat down heavily, pulling out her final review packet, but her mind kept drifting to the tightly folded piece of receipt paper still tucked into the zippered pocket of her bag. She hadn't opened it since Tuesday. She had been too afraid that reading his messy handwriting would completely break the rigid focus she had fought so hard to maintain.

With trembling fingers, she unzipped the pocket and pulled the paper out. It was soft from being carried around. Slowly, she unfolded the creases.

I'm sorry I was late, his rushed, oversized script read. The chief cornered me and I lost track of time. I bought the hotteok you wanted, but they're cold now. Don't give me the forfeiture point yet.

A sharp, painful lump formed in her throat. I'll keep trying anyway.

But he hadn't tried this time. Because she had looked him dead in the eye and told him he was nothing but a distraction. She had weaponized the one thing he respected—her future—to push him away.

"Stupid," she whispered to the empty pavilion, her eyes stinging as she clutched the note against her knee. "You're so stupid, Y/N."

Right then, a shadow fell over the wooden floorboards of the pavilion.

Y/N's head snapped up, her breath catching in her throat.

Standing at the entrance of the pavilion was Yeonjun. He wasn't wearing his casual cotton shorts or holding ice pops. He was wearing his formal school uniform shirt, his hair neatly brushed back, looking every bit the pristine, top-tier student he actually was when he tried. He had a heavy stack of reference books tucked under his arm, and his face was completely unreadable, his dark eyes fixed directly on her.

The morning of the mock exam arrived with the suffocating, motionless heat typical of early August.

The main hall of the high school was dead silent, save for the synchronized, frantic scratching of mechanical pencils against rough paper and the heavy, rhythmic hum of the large industrial fans mounted on the walls. Rows of identical wooden desks stretched across the room, each occupied by a student staring intently at the booklet before them.

Y/N sat in the second row, her posture rigidly straight, her fingers tightly gripping her mechanical pencil. Her eyes were burning from the late-night cramming, but she kept her focus laser-locked on the pages. For ten straight days, she had known nothing but the walls of her room, formulas, and timelines. She hadn't looked out her window, and she hadn't let herself think about the boy sitting just a few columns over.

Three rows back, in the aisle next to the windows, sat Yeonjun.

They hadn't spoken a single word to each other since their fight by the brick wall. When they had crossed paths in the school courtyard an hour before the exam, they had walked right past each other like complete strangers, their shoulders nearly brushing but their eyes fixed straight ahead. The comfortable, sun-drenched bubble of July had been completely obliterated.

Even now, Y/N refused to turn her head. She kept her gaze pinned to a complex trigonometry derivative, her chest tightening as she filled in the small graphite bubbles on her answer sheet. But she could feel the heavy, unyielding weight of his presence in the room. Every time the silver ballpoint pen on his desk clicked, or every time he shifted slightly in his wooden chair, a sharp, traitorous jolt went straight through her pulse.

They were back to being rivals. The soft edges were gone, replaced by the rigid, familiar armor of the island’s top two students fighting for the same exact spot.

When the sharp, high-pitched ring of the school bell finally shattered the silence, signaling the end of the test, a collective, massive sigh of relief rippled through the hall.

"Pencils down," the proctor announced loudly. "Pass your answer sheets to the front."

Y/N let out a long, shaky breath, her stiff shoulders finally dropping an inch as her papers were collected. As the room dissolved into the chaotic chatter of students aggressively comparing answers, she quickly packed her pencil case into her bag and stood up. She didn't look back at him. She walked straight out of the stuffy main hall and went home, the silence between them stretching out, thick and heavy, through the rest of the grueling week it took for the papers to be graded.

The morning the mock exam results were posted, the main hallway of the high school was a chaotic sea of white uniform shirts. A dense crowd of students pressed tightly against the bulletin board, the low, anxious buzz of whispers echoing off the concrete walls as everyone scrambled to find their names on the master ranking sheet.

Y/N stood at the very back of the crowd, her fingers gripping the strap of her canvas bag so tightly her knuckles ached.

Taking a slow, steady breath to quiet the frantic thudding of her heart, she excused herself through the tight wall of her classmates. The crowd naturally parted for her, their eyes darting between her and the top of the paper with hesitant, nervous expressions.

Y/N’s eyes skimmed past the long column of names, flying straight to the very top line.  RANK 1: CHOI YEONJUN (JEJU NAM HIGH SCHOOL) - 396 / 400 RANK 2: JEON Y/N     (JEJU NAM HIGH SCHOOL) - 394 / 400

Two points.

Y/N stared at the numbers, the crisp black ink blurring slightly before her eyes. She was two points behind him. For the first time all year, the number one spot didn't belong to her. The absolute lockdown, the sleepless nights, the grueling isolation—it hadn't been enough to bridge the gap.

"Woah, Yeonjun actually took the top spot again..." someone whispered nearby, but the voice sounded muffled, as if underwater.

A sudden shift in the crowd made Y/N turn her head.

Yeonjun was standing at the edge of the hallway. He wasn't celebrating, and he wasn't surrounded by his usual group of friends. He was just standing there, his school bag slung over one shoulder, his dark eyes locked intensely on her face. He looked entirely different from the boy who had smiled on the pier; his expression was serious, guarded, and laced with a quiet intensity that made her breath hitch.

Slowly, the rest of the students began to drift away toward their classrooms, sensing the thick, unyielding tension radiating between them.

Within a minute, the hallway cleared, leaving just the two of them standing a few feet apart in the morning light filtering through the high windows.

Yeonjun didn't look at the bulletin board. His eyes never left hers. He took a single, deliberate step forward, his leather uniform shoes clicking sharply against the linoleum floor.

"Two points, Jeon," he said quietly, his voice low and raspy in the empty hall. There was no teasing edge to his tone, no arrogant swagger. "I told you I wasn't going to let you drop your rank. But you shut me out anyway."

Y/N took a shallow breath, her fingers tightening around her bag strap until the canvas cut into her palm. She didn't want to look at the bulletin board behind her, but the numbers 398 and 396 seemed burned into her retinas anyway. It was the same story as always. No matter how many hours she locked herself away, no matter how many practice booklets she bled her graphite into, Choi Yeonjun remained an immovable wall at the very top of the ledger.

"I didn't drop my rank," she said, her voice tight, forcing her chin up to meet his intense gaze. "I'm still second. You're always first anyway. Congratulations."

"Don't do that," Yeonjun interrupted, his tone sharp but dropping even lower as he took another step closer. The gap between them narrowed until the familiar scent of his citrus soap, faintly mixed with the morning humidity, reached her. "Don't act like this was just about maintaining the status quo, Y/N. You practically treated me like a disease for ten days. You didn't even look at me when we passed each other in the courtyard on exam morning."

"Because I had to focus!" she burst out, her composure finally fracturing. The frustration, the exhaustion, and the absolute hollowness of the last week and a half came rushing to the surface. "You don't get it, Yeonjun. You hold the top spot so effortlessly. You can sit on a pier, spin your pen, and just stay up there. I have to fight for every single inch just to keep up with you. If I lose my footing for even a second, the gap widens. I was terrified."

Yeonjun stopped right in front of her. The hard, defensive mask he had been wearing since their fight by the wall finally cracked, revealing a deep, painful frustration underneath.

"I do get it," he said softly, his voice trembling slightly. "Why do you think I pushed myself to hold that score?"

Y/N blinked, caught entirely off guard by the raw vulnerability in his eyes.

"I didn't study just to keep you below me, Jeon," Yeonjun whispered, leaning down slightly so he was looking directly into her eyes. "I studied like my life depended on it because you told me I was a distraction. You told me that being around me was going to ruin your future and cost you your placement. So I forced myself to pull off that score just so I could stand in front of you today and prove that I'm not dragging you down. I'm right here with you."

He let out a quiet, shaky breath, a bitter, lopsided smile touching his lips.

"I wanted to show you that we could both be at the top and still have... whatever this is. But you wouldn't even give me the chance to try."

The heavy wooden front door of the Choi household was propped wide open, letting the rich, savory aroma of grilled pork belly and seasoned soybean stew spill out into the narrow alleyway. Inside, the sound of laughter, clinking glass bottles, and the enthusiastic chatter of their parents echoed through the small house.

It was a joint celebratory dinner. For the adults, a first and second place finish for the neighborhood kids was the ultimate bragging right at the local market, and they had spared no expense setting up the low table in the living room.

Yeonjun sat cross-legged on the floor, politely pouring a fresh glass of barley tea for Y/N’s father. He was wearing a clean navy polo shirt, his hair still slightly damp from a quick post-cram-session shower. He smiled and nodded at the right moments, but his eyes kept drifting toward the open sliding door leading out to the small courtyard.

The sun had already dipped below the horizon, painting the island sky in deep shades of violet and bruised gold.

And Y/N’s seat across from him was still completely empty.

"Ah, look at how much our Yeonjun has matured," Y/N’s mother beamed, leaning over the table to hand him a small dish of freshly made scallion kimchi. "He used to skip his workbook sessions just to run around the village, but look at him now! First in the province!"

"He worked very hard this time, Sun-Hee," Yeonjun’s mother agreed, nudging her son with a proud elbow. "Though I think he had a very good motivator living right next door."

Yeonjun offered a small, sheepish smile, but the tightening in his chest only grew heavier. He set his chopsticks down, his eyes lingering on the unused set of utensils waiting at the empty place setting.

Carefully sliding back from the table, Yeonjun stood up. "Excuse me for a moment," he murmured politely to the adults. "I'll go check on the rice cake order."

He stepped out of the lively living room and into the cooler air of the kitchen. Y/N’s mother was just finishing up at the sink, wiping down a large metallic platter.

"Um, Mrs. Jeon?" Yeonjun asked softly, stepping closer so his own parents wouldn't hear him from the other room.

The older woman turned around, a warm, knowing expression instantly softening her face when she saw the hesitant look in his eyes. "Looking for Y/N?"

Yeonjun rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Yeah. I went to the brick wall earlier, but her window was locked. Is she still studying?"

Y/N’s mother let out a soft, gentle sigh, shaking her head as she set the dish towel down. "That stubborn girl. She refused to sit at the table tonight. She told me she didn't deserve a celebratory dinner for second place, no matter how many times I told her how proud we are."

She reached out, gently patting Yeonjun’s arm.

"She took a flashlight and walked down toward the rocky beach about an hour ago," her mother whispered, giving him a small, encouraging nod toward the back door. "Go find her, Yeonjun. She listens to you, even when she’s being an absolute mule."

"Thank you, Mrs. Jeon," Yeonjun said, his heart executing a sudden, frantic kick against his ribs.

He didn't grab a jacket. He didn't even bother switching into his proper sneakers, just sliding his bare feet straight into his outdoor sandals. Slipping quietly out the back gate, he bypassed the main road entirely, taking the narrow, unpaved shortcut that led straight down the hill toward the dark, crashing sound of the tide.

Y/N didn't reply right away. She stared down at her bare feet, her toes digging into the coarse sand at the base of the rock. The flashlight in her hand cast long, distorted shadows across the tide pools below them, the water reflecting the pale silver of the moon.

"I'm not punishing myself," she said quietly, though the slight crack in her voice gave her away. "I'm just tired, Yeonjun. I feel like I’ve been running a marathon for three years, and every time I think I’m about to cross the finish line, you’re already standing there, perfectly fine, not even out of breath."

She finally turned her head to look at him, her eyes bright with a mixture of exhaustion and a vulnerability she usually kept under lock and key.

"I locked myself away for ten days. I didn't sleep more than three hours a night. And it still wasn't enough to close the gap. It makes me feel like no matter how hard I work, there's just a limit to what I can do."

Yeonjun’s lopsided smile completely disappeared. His expression softened, a deep, genuine seriousness taking over his features. He reached out, his long fingers gently but firmly wrapping around the barrel of her flashlight, tilting it down so the bright beam wasn't blinding her.

He didn't let go of her hand afterward. Instead, his thumb slid over the back of her knuckles, his skin warm and grounding against the chilly night air.

"Do you really think I don't get out of breath, Y/N?" he asked, his voice barely louder than the crashing waves. He used her actual name, completely dropping the competitive 'Jeon' persona. "You think I hold the top spot because it's easy? I stay up until four in the morning staring at the same exact pages you do. The only difference is, I do it because I’m terrified that if I slow down for even a second, you're going to breeze right past me and never look back."

Y/N blinked, the wind catching a few loose strands of her hair as she stared at him.

"I'm not some untouchable wall," Yeonjun continued, shifting his body so he was facing her completely on the narrow rock, his knee brushing against hers. "I'm just a guy who is trying entirely too hard to keep up with the smartest girl on this island. When you shut me out for those ten days, I didn't study to beat you. I studied because the thought of you looking at me and seeing a distraction—someone who was holding you back—scared the hell out of me."

He squeezed her hand, his dark eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made the rest of the world fade into the background.

"Two points isn't a defeat, Y/N. It's a tie in everything but the ink on that board.Your mom knows it, my mom knows it, and I know it. So stop hiding down here." A tiny, familiar trace of his playful grin tugged at the corner of his lips. "Come back up to the house. If you want, I'll even let you have the biggest piece of pork belly to make up for the forfeiture point."

Y/N let out a dry, bitter laugh, but it cut off quickly as she pulled her hand out of his grip. She twisted the flashlight in her palms, the beam skittering wildly across the dark rocks.

"A tie?" she murmured, looking out at the black horizon. "My dad doesn't see a tie, Yeonjun. He sees a rank. And next to my name, it says two."

She drew her knees even closer to her chest, burying her face against her shins for a second before looking back at the sea. The coldness that had settled into her bones over the last ten days wasn't just about the score—it was the crushing weight of the house she had to go back to every night.

"You know what my dad said when he saw the ranking sheet this morning?" Y/N asked, her voice dropping into a hollow, quiet register. "He didn't say 'good job.' He didn't even acknowledge the 396. He just looked at me and asked if I was slacking off because the weather was getting warm. Then he reminded me that by the time Hye-jin was my age, she had already locked in her early admission template for Korea University."

Yeonjun’s jaw tightened, the easy warmth in his expression instantly vanishing. He knew about her older sister, of course. Everyone on the island knew about Jeon Hye-jin—the golden child who had escaped the village on a prestigious scholarship to one of the top three universities in the country. Her framed acceptance letter still sat prominently on the sideboard in the Jeons' living room, a silent, looming shadow over every single meal.

"Hye-jin is all they talk about," Y/N whispered. "Every single dinner, every time a neighbor asks how I'm doing, my dad brings her up. 'Y/N just needs to follow her sister's footsteps.' 'Hye-jin never needed to be reminded to study.' It's like I'm just a defective copy trying to replicate her blueprint. If I don't get into a prestigious university, if I don't take that number one spot back from you... I'm just the daughter who couldn't make it."

She turned her head to look at him, her eyes shining with a raw, agonizing pressure that she had kept locked behind her perfect posture and sharp tongue for years.

"That's why I couldn't have you around, Yeonjun," she said, her voice trembling. "When I'm with you, I forget to be afraid. I forget about Korea University, I forget about my sister, and I forget about my dad's face when I bring home anything less than perfection. But fear is the only thing keeping me running. If I lose it, I fail. And I can't afford to fail."

The crashing of the waves against the boulders suddenly felt incredibly loud in the silence that followed.

Yeonjun didn't speak right away. He stared at her, his dark eyes absorbing the raw, fragile honesty she had just stripped bare. The playful, competitive banter they had used as a shield for years completely evaporated, leaving behind the stark reality of the heavy burden she had been carrying alone in that room next door.

Slowly, without a word, Yeonjun reached out. He didn't take her hand this time. Instead, he slipped his palm around the back of her neck, his thumb resting gently against her jawline, and gently pulled her toward him.

Y/N stiffened for a fraction of a second, her breath catching, but as his warm, solid shoulder pressed against her cheek, the rigid posture she had maintained for weeks finally collapsed. She let her forehead drop against his collarbone, her fingers tightly clutching the fabric of his navy polo shirt as a heavy, shuddering breath escaped her lips.

"You're not a copy of her," Yeonjun whispered, his voice deep and fiercely steady right next to her ear. His other arm came up, wrapping securely around her back, pulling her into a tight, grounding hold that shielded her from the cold sea wind. "And you're not defective, Y/N. Your dad is wrong. He’s completely blind if he thinks a number on a bulletin board defines what you're worth."

He rested his chin lightly against the top of her head, his chest rising and falling in a slow, calming rhythm.

"Hye-jin didn't have to compete with me," he murmured, a faint, serious trace of a smile in his voice. "She had it easy. You're fighting the toughest rival on this island every single day, and you're still sitting at a 396. You're brilliant. You're terrifyingly smart, and you do it all while carrying the weight of that entire house on your back."

He tightened his grip slightly, letting his warmth seep through her oversized t-shirt.

"If fear is the only thing keeping you running, then let me hold it for a while," Yeonjun said softly, his thumb gently caressing the nape of her neck. "You don't have to run twenty-four seven, Y/N. You can stop and breathe when you're with me. I won't let you fall behind, and I definitely won't let you fail. I'll make sure of it."

Y/N closed her eyes, the familiar scent of his citrus soap wrapping around her like an airtight sanctuary. For the first time since the calendar had turned to August, the suffocating pressure in her chest began to ease, replaced by the steady, unwavering heartbeat of the boy who refused to leave her side in the dark.

The late-August heat eventually broke, washing away the sticky humidity of the island and replacing it with the crisp, biting winds of autumn. As the green leaves of the courtyard trees turned into a brilliant, brittle gold, the dynamic between the two houses changed completely.

The brick wall between them was no longer a barrier. It became a bridge.

The strict separation Y/N had tried to enforce during the mock exams never returned. Instead, a silent, seamless routine established itself in the months leading up to the final stretch. Every morning at precisely 8:30 AM, the familiar clack-clack of a single pebble would

hit Y/N's window pane. She wouldn't open it to argue anymore. She would simply grab her canvas bag, slide her thermos of hot barley tea into the side pocket, and meet Yeonjun at the back gate.

They became an inseparable force. In the library, they occupied the quietest desk in the back corner, tucked away behind the heavy rows of encyclopedia shelves.

When the pressure in the room became too suffocating—when the looming specter of her father's expectations or her sister's perfect legacy started to claw at her chest—Yeonjun would simply reach under the wooden table, find her hand, and lock his fingers with hers. He wouldn't say anything. He would just hold on tightly until her breathing steadied.

They never explicitly labeled what they were. On an island where everyone’s eyes were fixed on their futures, they didn't need to. But the shifting boundaries were undeniable. It was there in the way Yeonjun would automatically take the outside of the sidewalk whenever they walked along the harbor docks to shield her from the chilly ocean wind. It was there when Y/N started intentionally buying two boxes of the sweet, warm hotteok from the market stall, always giving him the one with extra brown sugar syrup.

It was there in the quiet, late-night hours when the island went dead silent. They would sit on their respective sides of the low brick wall, their shoulders pressed against the cold stone from opposite sides, talking in hushed, smoky whispers into the autumn air about anything other than the exam.

Then, the golden leaves fell, the branches turned bare and skeletal, and the calendar ruthlessly flipped to November.

The morning of the College Scholastic Ability Test (CSAT) arrived with a bitter, bone-chilling frost that coated the island's narrow streets. The sky was a pale, icy blue, and the air was so cold that every breath they took formed thick, white clouds.

The high school gates were surrounded by lowerclassmen beating drums, holding banners, and shouting encouraging cheers, but inside the testing center, the atmosphere was as heavy as a courtroom.

Y/N stood in the crowded, drafty hallway of the exam building, her hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her padded winter coat. Her fingers were trembling, ice-cold despite the heat packs she was clutching. The weight of her father’s silent glare from breakfast—the rigid, unspoken mandate that today she must secure her ticket to Seoul—sat like a massive block of concrete on her chest.

"Jeon."

She turned her head quickly. Yeonjun was walking through the crowd toward her. He was wearing his heavy black puffer jacket, his hair slightly messy from the biting wind outside. His face was pale from the morning chill, but his eyes were completely focused, tracking her down instantly amidst the sea of anxious students.

He stopped right in front of her, ignoring the whispers of the classmates around them. Without a word, he reached into his pockets and pulled her hands out into the open air.

His palms were incredibly warm. He wrapped his large, long-fingered hands entirely around hers, squeezing tightly to transfer his heat into her freezing knuckles.

"Look at me," Yeonjun murmured, his voice low, steady, and completely grounding against the chaotic noise of the hallway.

Y/N lifted her eyes, meeting his dark, unwavering gaze.

"The formulas are in your head. The timelines are perfect," he said, a tiny, fiercely confident trace of his signature smile touching the corners of his lips. "You've run the marathon, Y/N. You're the smartest, most terrifyingly brilliant person on this island, and there isn't a single question in that booklet that you haven't already beaten a hundred times in the library corner."

He stepped a fraction closer, blocking out the rest of the hallway, his thumbs gently rubbing the backs of her hands.

"I don't care about the two points, and I don't care about the ranking sheets," Yeonjun whispered, his voice dropping into that intensely gentle register reserved only for her. "Just go in there and take what's yours. When it's over, I'll be waiting right by the front gates. We're getting off this island together."

The heavy, metallic ring of the first warning bell echoed through the corridors.

Yeonjun gave her hands one last, firm squeeze before slowly letting go. He didn't look back as he turned toward his assigned testing room down the opposite hall, but the lingering warmth of his grip stayed behind, completely shattering the icy fear that had paralyzed her all morning.

Y/N took a deep, clear breath of the cold air, adjusted the strap of her bag, and walked into her classroom.

The heavy iron gates of the high school finally groaned open, and a massive, exhausted flood of students spilled out into the freezing November dusk. The frantic energy of the morning cheers was entirely gone, replaced by a surreal, quiet daze. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long, bruised purple shadows across the frosted pavement. The CSAT was finally over. The three years of absolute hell had ended in the span of a single afternoon, leaving everyone feeling strangely weightless and hollow.

Y/N walked down the concrete steps of the main building, her padded coat zipped tightly to her chin. Her fingers were numb, and her mind felt entirely blank, as if the exam booklet had completely scraped her brain clean.

"Hey."

She didn't even have to turn around to know the voice. Yeonjun stepped up beside her, his hands buried deep in his black puffer jacket pockets, his shoulders moving in a loose, relaxed stride that contrasted sharply with the rigid posture of every other student around them. The heavy, intense focus he had worn that morning was gone, replaced by a soft, quiet relief.

"You look like a zombie, Jeon," he murmured, leaning his head down slightly to catch her eye. The cold air turned his breath into a thick puff of white steam.

"I feel like a zombie," Y/N muttered, though she couldn't stop the small, faint tug of a smile from breaking through her frozen expression. "My brain stopped functioning somewhere around the section-four listening comprehension."

"Mine too," he lied easily, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He nudged her shoulder with his own, steering her away from the main group of students who were already aggressively fighting over their answers. "Don't look at them. Don't even think about the answer sheets. The results won't be official for weeks."

They walked past the school boundaries, the chaotic noise of the village gradually fading as they took the familiar, winding path down toward the quieter part of the harbor. The ocean wind was bitter, cutting straight through their coats, but neither of them suggested going home yet. Going home meant facing her father's silent, heavy expectation; it meant the inevitable interrogation about how many questions she thought she missed.

"Let's go eat," Yeonjun suddenly suggested, stopping under the dim yellow glow of a streetlamp near the harbor crossroads. He turned to face her fully, his dark eyes bright in the twilight. "Not at home. Let's go to that small tent place by the old pier—the one with the spicy rice cakes and the hot fish-cake broth. My treat."

Y/N hesitated, looking down the road that led toward their neighborhood. "Our parents are probably waiting..."

"Let them wait," Yeonjun cut in smoothly, taking a step closer to block the chilly wind from hitting her face. He pulled one of his hands out of his pocket and reached out, his long, warm fingers gently catching the edge of her sleeve, tugging her slightly toward the pier path. "We’ve spent three years eating dinner with a textbook propped against the water pitcher, Y/N. Just tonight, let's eat somewhere where nobody is going to mention Korea University or templates. Just you and me. What do you say?"

Y/N looked at his hand resting on her sleeve, then back up at his face. The yellow streetlamp illuminated the faint, hopeful curve of his lips and the quiet intensity in his eyes. He was right. If she went home now, the suffocating atmosphere of her living room would instantly undo the fragile peace she felt.

"Okay," she whispered, her breath blooming into a small cloud of white mist. "Let's go. But I want the extra fried seaweed rolls too."

"Deal," Yeonjun chuckled, his smile widening into something brilliant and relieved.

He didn't let go of her sleeve. Instead, his hand slid down the fabric until his fingers brushed against her bare, frozen knuckles. Without a word, he slipped his hand into hers, his large, warm palm completely enveloping her cold fingers as he pulled her along the dark pavement. They didn't walk at their usual hurried, competitive pace. For the first time in years, they had nowhere they needed to rush to.

The small pojangmacha tent by the old pier was a small sanctuary of warmth against the brutal November wind. Thick, translucent plastic flaps shielded the inside from the cold, fogged up entirely from the rising steam of the large, bubbling metal trays. The rich, savory scent of spicy gochujang and boiling turnip broth hit them the moment Yeonjun pulled the plastic curtain aside.

An elderly woman cooking behind the counter beamed at them. "Welcome! You two look exhausted. Sit, sit! The heaters are on."

They slid into a small plastic table in the corner, the heat from the small portable gas stove immediately thawing Y/N’s numb cheeks. Yeonjun ordered a massive spread—spicy rice cakes, hot fish-cake skewers in steaming broth, and a double portion of fried seaweed rolls.

As the food was set between them, the steam rising between their faces, the surreal weightlessness of the day finally settled in.

"We actually did it," Y/N said softly, staring at the bright red tteokbokki. She picked up her chopsticks, her hands notably steadier than they had been that morning. "It's over."

"Told you we'd survive," Yeonjun murmured. He grabbed a small paper cup, ladled some of the hot fish-cake broth into it, and carefully pushed it across the table toward her. "Drink this first. Your lips are literally blue."

Y/N took the cup, the warmth of the paper transferring to her palms. She took a slow sip, the savory, peppery broth instantly warming her throat. Across the table, Yeonjun was watching her, his chin resting in his hand, his dark hair falling slightly over his eyes. The easy, lazy charm he usually wore around the village was replaced by a deep, quiet softness.

"What?" she asked, suddenly feeling a flush that had nothing to do with the floor heaters.

"Nothing," Yeonjun said softly, a lopsided smile touching his lips. He reached across the small table, his index finger gently tapping the back of her hand. "Just thinking that you look a lot better when you're not trying to memorize the entire Joseon dynasty timeline in your head."

Y/N rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest spread rapidly. "Don't get used to it. The results come out in December. If you beat me again, I'm going back to being your worst nightmare."

"I look forward to it, Jeon," Yeonjun chuckled, his eyes crinkling. He picked up a rice cake and pointed it at her. "But until December... you're stuck with me."

The early December wind blew a flurry of light, powdery snow across the school courtyard, dusting the dark branches of the trees and turning the frosted windowpanes white. Inside the main hallway, the atmosphere was entirely different from the anxious, frantic energy of August. The final, official CSAT scorecards had arrived from the national evaluation board.

There was no master ranking sheet pinned to the bulletin board this time; instead, the homeroom teachers handed out the crisp, white sheets of paper individually, sealed in official brown envelopes.

Y/N sat at her desk, her winter coat still zipped up to her chin. Her hands were completely steady this time, tempered by the quiet months of autumn and the steady warmth of the boy sitting just a few columns over. She didn't look around the room. She carefully slid her thumb under the adhesive seal of the envelope, pulling out the stiff paper.

Her eyes skipped past the percentiles and standard deviations, landing squarely on the final, raw composite score printed in bold black ink at the bottom.

A clean, undeniable 395. It was a spectacular score, a definitive ticket to any SKY university in Seoul. The weight that had crushed her chest for three long years—the ghost of her sister's legacy, her father's silent, unyielding pressure—suddenly felt lighter, as if a tight knot in her chest had finally unraveled.

Instinctively, she turned her head toward the window.

Yeonjun was already looking at her. His scorecard was resting flat on his desk, completely open. He wasn't smiling, but his dark eyes were bright, holding a profound, intense clarity as he looked across the quiet rows of desks.

Slowly, he lifted his right hand, holding up his index finger, then his middle finger. Two. Then, he tilted his head toward the door.

Y/N understood instantly. She carefully slid her scorecard back into its envelope, stood up from her desk, and quietly walked out into the hallway. A few seconds later, the heavy wooden door of her classroom clicked shut, and Yeonjun stepped out into the corridor beside her.

The hallway was quiet, the rest of their classmates still huddled around their desks comparing standard scores. Yeonjun stopped right in front of her, the winter light filtering through the high frosted windows casting a pale, soft glow over his features.

"Well?" he asked softly, his voice low and raspy in the quiet space.

Y/N didn't say a word. She simply held up her scorecard, tilting the paper so he could see the bold black digits.

Yeonjun looked at the number 395. Then, without a word, he pulled his own crisp white paper out of his blazer pocket and held it up right beside hers.

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat.

They had tied. Down to the very last decimal point, the very last scaled score, they were perfectly, flawlessly equal. The long, grueling years of fighting for the exact same inches, the sleepless nights behind their respective sides of the brick wall, the two-point gap from August—everything had converged into a single, identical number.

"A tie," Y/N whispered, her eyes darting between the two papers. A sudden, massive wave of relief—and something entirely wild and joyful—rushed through her veins. "Choi Yeonjun, we actually tied."

Yeonjun let out a quiet, breathless laugh, his shoulders finally dropping as he folded his scorecard and shoved it back into his pocket. The defensive, unyielding mask of the island's top student was completely gone, replaced by a brilliant, radiant smile that crinkled the corners of his dark eyes.

He took a step closer, completely ignoring the school boundaries, and reached out. His long, warm fingers wrapped firmly around her wrist, pulling her gently toward him until the familiar scent of his citrus soap and the winter cold completely enveloped her.

"I told you," Yeonjun murmured, his voice dropping into that intensely gentle register, his dark eyes locked onto hers with absolute certainty. "I told you we could both be at the top together."

He smiled down at her, his thumb gently brushing against the inner skin of her wrist. "Your dad can't say a single word about a rank anymore, Y/N. There is no number two."

Y/N looked down at his hand on her wrist, then back up at the identical scorecards. The tight, bitter knot that had lived in her chest since freshman year finally dissolved completely. For the first time in her life, she didn't feel like a defective copy of her sister, and she didn't feel the suffocating terror of her father's disapproval. She had held her ground against the best student on the island, and she had done it on her own terms.

A soft, breathless laugh escaped her lips, her eyes crinkling as she looked up at him. "You really planned this, didn't you? You slacked off on a question just to make it even."

"Please," Yeonjun chuckled, leaning his shoulder against the cold hallway wall, though his fingers didn't leave her wrist. His gaze softened, tracing the genuine, unburdened smile on her face. "I bled graphite for that 395, Jeon. You just finally stopped running scared and caught up to me." He pulled her slightly closer.

The celebratory dinner at the Choi household had been a stark contrast to the tense night back in August. This time, there was no empty chair, no heavy silence, and no lingering shadow of comparison. Sun-hee and Yeonjun’s parents had clinked their glasses together in genuine, unburdened joy. Even Y/N's father had sat quietly, a rare, nod of definitive approval settling on his face when he looked at the identical numbers on their scorecards. The ghost of her sister's perfect legacy had finally been laid to rest.

But as the night wore on and the adults drifted into deep, nostalgic conversations about the village, Yeonjun had caught Y/N’s eye across the low table, tilting his head toward the back door.

Now, the lively noise of the house was a distant echo, replaced by the soft, rhythmic lap of the dark tide against the shore.

They had bypassed the cold, jagged boulders of the rocky beach and walked down to the soft expanse of the sandy cove. Yeonjun had dragged down a couple of thick wool blankets and a tangled strand of warm, battery-powered fairy lights he’d scavenged from his mother’s holiday boxes. The lights lay coiled in a soft, glowing amber circle around them on the sand, casting a gentle, romantic haze that shut out the vast darkness of the winter ocean.

Y/N sat with her legs stretched out, leaning back on her hands, her face buried in the high collar of her oversized sweater. Yeonjun was sitting right next to her, his long legs bent, his shoulder locked perfectly against hers to keep out the chill of the December breeze.

"My dad actually smiled tonight," Y/N said softly, her breath forming a faint, clear plume in the amber light. She looked out at the black horizon, but the heavy tightness that usually accompanied thoughts of her family was completely gone. "He told me he was proud of me. For the first time, Yeonjun. He didn't mention Hye-jin once."

Yeonjun turned his head, watching the way the soft light caught the relaxed, peaceful curve of her profile. "He should be proud. You forced him to see you, Y/N. Not a copy, just you."

He reached out, his hand sliding across the rough wool of the blanket until his fingers found hers. He didn't just hold her hand; he tangled their fingers together, pulling her hand into the deep, warm pocket of his heavy jacket.

"It feels weird," Y/N murmured, shifting her weight to lean more heavily against his side. "For three years, my entire life was defined by the next mock exam, the next textbook, the next rank. Now... there’s nothing on the calendar. We actually have a future to think about."

"Does the future scare you?" Yeonjun asked quietly, his thumb slowly brushing over the back of her knuckles inside his pocket.

"A little," she admitted, turning her eyes to meet his dark, steady gaze. "Seoul is huge. It's not like this island where we know every alleyway and every face. What if we get swallowed up up there?"

Yeonjun let out a soft, low chuckle, the vibration shaking his chest against her shoulder. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, taking hers with it, and lifted it up between their faces.

"Let it try to swallow us," he whispered, his eyes locked onto hers with that fierce, unwavering certainty that had anchored her all through autumn. "We fought each other for three years just to survive this place. You think a couple of subway lines and a bigger city can handle the top two students from this island?"

He leaned down slightly, his forehead gently brushing against hers, his warm breath fanning across her cheek.

"Wherever we go, the rank stays behind. It's just you and me now."

The distant murmur of their parents’ voices faded into the cool night air as they left the warm, brightly lit house behind, walking down the familiar path to the sandy shore. In a quiet hollow of the beach, away from the cutting wind, the amber glow of battery-powered fairy lights cast a soft, shifting circle over the sand. It lit up the heavy wool blankets they had pulled around their shoulders, sealing them into a private, quiet sanctuary against the vast darkness of the December ocean.

Y/N leaned back against the smooth drift of sand, her eyes tracking the rhythmic, white foam of the tide breaking in the dark. For three years, every breath she took had been measured in percentages, rankings, and the suffocating distance between herself and the boy sitting beside her. She had been the permanent shadow to his light, the perpetual second place, defined entirely by what she couldn't quite reach.

But as she looked down at the pale gold light reflecting off their tangled fingers, the old, bitter hunger for the top spot didn't flare up.

She turned her head slightly, watching the quiet, relaxed line of Yeonjun’s shoulders as he stared out at the black horizon. The sharp, untouchable rival from the school bulletin boards had dissolved over the long months, replaced by the steady, unyielding warmth of his hand holding hers in the deep pockets of his winter coat. He was no longer the wall blocking her path; he was the anchor keeping her grounded.

In the silence of the winter beach, looking at the identical numbers that had finally satisfied her father and silenced the ghost of her sister's legacy, Y/N realized the truth. The victory wasn't in beating Choi Yeonjun, nor was it in the perfect symmetry of their final scores.

Her real triumph was right here, on an isolated island beach. For someone who had spent her entire youth terrified that closeness would cost her the future, she had managed to fight her way to the absolute top of the province without losing the only person who truly understood the weight of the climb. She had kept her ambition, secured her freedom from the island, and kept him, too.

As Yeonjun squeezed her hand, pulling her just a fraction closer against the chilly sea breeze, Y/N closed her eyes and let her head rest against his shoulder. For the first time in her life, she didn't feel the need to look at the scoreboard. She had already won. 🫧𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐

permanent taglist @flytomyro0m @nanilis @fairfootedflekk @swangyu @frostymatcha @starlami @jellyybelly @bakudon @twinklefairyland @monosung @pageraf @bamgeutori taglist @sleepystar0304 @ssdandelion177 @stqrgr7 @danjakz @kiraaa143

[daphsrealm]

this is my answer

pairing: unistudent!reader x unistudent!beomgyu.

genre: angst | introspective | hurt/comfort | can also be read as platonic.

word count: 3152.

warnings: themes of identity loss, social masking and people-pleasing, quiet loneliness within friendships, the pressure to become easier to be around, and emotional suppression. ps. please read with care <3

summary: you don’t notice when you start disappearing—until someone finally makes you stop.

author’s note: i’ve wanted to write something for the first anniversary of panic for a while now. panic has always meant more to me than just a song by my bias, so even though i missed the date, i still wanted to write this. i hope there aren’t any issues with the korean lyrics.

❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦

you have a very particular way of disappearing.

not the dramatic kind, no slamming doors, no tearful exits, no moment you can point to and say there, that's when it happened. just a slow, practiced erosion. a joke swallowed before it reaches your mouth. an opinion softened until it means nothing, until it's just air with a little shape to it. a laugh adjusted to the right volume, the right pitch, the right moment.

you've gotten so good at it that sometimes you don't even notice the disappearing. you just look up one day and there's a little less of you than there used to be, and you think huh, and then someone says something and you laugh at the right moment and forget to think about it again.

❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦

your friends are not bad people. that's the thing that makes it so hard to name.

they're fun and warm and you've known them long enough that leaving feels like amputation, like you'd be cutting off something that grew with you, something that has your history threaded through it. soomin was there when your grandmother died. jiwon held your hand through your worst exam season. raeun knows the name of every person you've ever had a crush on. these are not small things. you don't throw away small things, and you definitely don't throw away people who know you the way they do.

it's just that somewhere along the way, they developed a frequency. something settled and specific, a particular register of humor and opinion and volume that became the group, the thing you all were together. and you were funny once — genuinely, specifically funny in a way that was yours — and then at some point your jokes started landing slightly wrong. a beat too slow. a reference too niche. a little too much, a little too strange. and you noticed. of course you noticed. you're good at noticing things, you've always been good at noticing things.

so you adjusted. you turned your dial down until the static cleared.

❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦

it happens so gradually that by the time you're sitting in the cafeteria on a thursday with your rice going cold, you don't even register it as loss. it's just the shape of things. soomin is telling a story about her professor, and jiwon keeps interrupting with commentary, and raeun is on her phone but laughing at the right moments, and you are there. present. accounted for. performing the correct version of yourself with the kind of muscle memory that doesn't require thought anymore.

something crosses your mind — a connection, something absurd and specific and genuinely funny, the kind of joke that would have come out of you automatically two years ago. you can feel it sitting there, waiting. you open your mouth.

and then jiwon says something and soomin cracks up and the moment tips and you feel your mouth close again. you take a sip of water instead. push the rice around. smile when the laughter dies down.

덩그러니. hollow. surrounded by people who know you and completely, quietly, alone inside it.

❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦

it starts with a voice memo.

you find it by accident, three weeks into the semester, looking for a recording of a lecture you'd saved in the wrong folder. it's from two years ago. you'd titled it nothing but a row of laughing emojis, which means you thought it was worth saving but couldn't explain why.

it's you, laughing so hard you can barely breathe, telling some story — something about a bus and a miscommunication and a very confused elderly man — and your voice is so much louder than you remember it being. bigger. fuller. the laugh especially, which keeps dissolving into wheezing that makes whoever was with you laugh harder, which makes you worse, this loop of genuine helpless laughter that lasts almost a full minute before you collect yourself enough to finish the story.

you listen to it once. then you listen to it again.

주워 담지 못할 흘러가 버린 그 아픔. the pain that's drifted away, scattered like pieces you can't gather back up.

you hadn't thought of it as pain before — hadn't thought of it as anything, really. just adjustment. just fitting. but hearing your own voice be that loud, that unguarded, that much — something sits heavily in your chest. not grief exactly. something quieter and more confusing. the feeling of standing in a room where furniture used to be.

you put your phone face down on your desk and sit there for a long time, doing nothing.

you don't cry. it's not a crying kind of feeling. it's more like a question you don't know how to finish asking.

❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦

you meet beomgyu on a wednesday, which feels arbitrary until later when it doesn't.

he's in your history of cinema elective — a class you picked because it fit the gap in your schedule and because you used to love watching films, actually, in the way you used to love a lot of things before you got busy becoming a version of yourself that was easier to be around.

he sits two rows ahead and one seat to the left. he's the kind of person who takes up space without seeming to notice he's doing it, laugh too loud for the room size, gestures too big for his desk. you'd clocked him as someone who existed in a different atmosphere entirely and left it at that.

then the projector breaks.

it's midway through a screening — something french and slow-moving that you'd actually been enjoying — and the room goes from cinematic dark to horrible fluorescent in about four seconds and everyone blinks at each other, disoriented, while the professor goes to find someone from IT.

the silence is the awkward kind. people reach for their phones.

and you say, to no one in particular, not really meaning to say it out loud at all: "cinema is dead and we killed it."

beomgyu turns around in his seat. he laughs. not politely, not as a courtesy, but actually laughs, sharp and genuine, like you surprised it out of him. you blink, not expecting the reaction. "what?" "nothing," he says, still smiling. "just.. yeah."

he faces forward again but the smile doesn't quite leave. and there's something in that — in being looked at like you said something worth reacting to, in being the reason for it — that sits with you longer than it should.

the projector comes back on. you face forward. you don't know why a stranger laughing at your joke feels like something. you just know that it does.

❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦

it becomes a thing, with beomgyu. not an intentional thing. just a series of small accidents that start feeling inevitable.

he falls into step beside you after class one week and talks about the film you just watched with the kind of earnest conviction that makes you feel like it's okay to have opinions, actually, like opinions are not something to be rationed. you disagree with him on something and say so and he doesn't make you feel strange for it — just argues back, animated, and asks you to explain your reasoning, and you do, and he listens to the whole thing before responding. you can't remember the last time someone asked you to explain your reasoning.

he ends up at the same campus café you go to on tuesdays. he lends you a pen in a lecture you share and doesn't make a thing of it. he reads over your shoulder once at a film annotation you're making and says "that interpretation is a stretch, by the way" and you tell him it's not and somehow that turns into twenty minutes of debate that you enjoy more than any conversation you've had in recent memory.

it's not romantic, not exactly. it's something adjacent to it — the specific electricity of feeling truly, actually seen. of being in a space where you don't have to manage yourself.

❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦

you mention a film one afternoon, something niche and strange that you'd stopped bringing up around your friends — god, you're so pretentious about movies said with a laugh that was only half joking, and you'd laughed along and stopped mentioning it.

beomgyu pulls it up on his phone immediately, turning the screen toward you. "okay we're watching this together. when are you free?" "you don't have to.." "i want to." he says it simply. no performance. "when are you free?"

you realize, walking home that evening, that you said three things in that conversation that you would have swallowed six months ago. jokes that landed. references that didn't need explaining. thoughts that came out of your mouth before you could assess whether they were too much or not enough.

you realize you've stopped running the calculations around him. you don't know what to do with that. you file it away and try not to think about it.

❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦

it's a saturday when something cracks.

your friends want to get lunch. a place near campus, the loud kind with menus that are too big and music that's slightly too much. you're sitting in the corner, soomin on your left, jiwon across from you, raeun on her phone. the conversation is moving fast, the way it always does, fluid and familiar, and you're laughing at the right moments and nodding at the right beats and somewhere inside you there is a version of you watching from a little distance, waiting.

soomin is telling a story about her date last night. it's meandering — she tells stories the long way, always has — and there's a detail she mentions, something small and specific, and you see it. the joke. it's right there, perfectly shaped, the kind that would make the whole table lose it, and for a second something lights up in your chest because god, it's a good one, and you take a breath..

"okay but then he said.." soomin keeps going. jiwon cuts in. "wait, he actually said that?" "he said it like it was normal!"

raeun looks up from her phone to react and the table shifts, laughter building, and the window closes. you sit back in your seat. the breath goes out of you quietly. you take a sip of your drink and you smile and you think it doesn't matter, it wasn't that funny, it's fine—

you don't notice beomgyu until you look up.

he's sitting a few tables away, alone, and from the stillness of his expression you can tell he's been there long enough to see it — not the joke, not the content, but the shape of it. the inhale before the sentence. the way you folded back. the specific geometry of making yourself smaller.

his eyes meet yours for just a second. he doesn't look away dramatically, doesn't make it a thing. just holds it for a moment, steady and quiet, and then glances back down at his coffee.

너였더라면 어땠을까? if it had been you, how would it have been?

the thought arrives fully formed and it isn't about beomgyu, not exactly. it's about the version of you that existed in that voice memo, laughing until she wheezed. it's about what it would feel like to be in this exact moment as her. to just say the thing. to take up the space. to not need the window to stay open because you would just.. open it yourself.

you don't know who that person is anymore. you're not sure you know how to get back to her. you excuse yourself to the bathroom.

you make it there and you stand at the sink with the cold water running and you look at your face in the mirror for a long moment. you look fine. that's what makes it so hard — you look completely, totally fine. you have perfected looking fine to such a degree that your own reflection gives you nothing.

무너지는 마음을 꽉 잡아. hold tight to this crumbling heart.

the thing is, you didn't notice it crumbling. that's the part you keep circling. you didn't notice because it didn't happen all at once. it happened in cafeteria moments, in swallowed jokes, in opinions softened into nothing, in a laugh turned down to the right volume so many times that now you can't remember what the original volume even was. it happened in the gap between who you were in that voice memo and who you are right now, standing in a restaurant bathroom running cold water over your hands.

i want to be myself but i don't know how. the thought lands in your chest like something finally admitted. you turn the tap off. you dry your hands. you go back to the table and you smile at the right moments for the rest of lunch and when you get home you sit on your bed for a long time in the dark, doing nothing, thinking about the girl in the voice memo and how far away she feels.

❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦

beomgyu finds you on the steps outside.

you hadn't told him you were leaving early. but he's there anyway, sitting on the third step down, looking at his phone with the relaxed posture of someone who isn't in a hurry. you stop when you see him. he looks up.

"hey," he says. "hey." you sit beside him because there isn't really anything else to do. the air is cold — that specific late-winter cold that has teeth in it — and you pull your sleeves down over your hands and look at the street.

"you don't have to say anything," he says, after a moment. "i'm not waiting for an explanation." "i know." and somehow that makes it easier to talk.

"i think i forgot how to be myself," you say, eventually. it comes out simpler than you expected. quieter. "like i adjusted so many times to fit into spaces that i don't actually know what i sound like when i'm not adjusting."

beomgyu is quiet for a moment, the way he always is when he's actually thinking about something rather than just preparing a response.

"i did that once," he says. "different situation. but i know what it looks like from the inside. where you're not even sure what you're protecting anymore, you're just protecting it." "yeah." the word comes out soft. "exactly that."

"does it get easier?" you ask. you don't mean it as a question exactly, more like thinking out loud. "just. being yourself. taking up space. not running the calculations."

he turns to look at you then, and there's something in his expression that is both serious and very gentle.

"i think you stop waiting for permission," he says. "that's the only thing that actually changed for me. i kept waiting for someone to say okay, you can be yourself now, we've decided it's fine. and they never said it. and then at some point i realized they never would. so." he shrugs, like it's simple, like he knows it isn't. "you stop waiting," he says. "you just say it. loud and proud. and then it's out there and it's yours and no one can take it back."

빌어먹을 세상속에서 — 보란듯이 당당하게 말해줄테니. in this damn world, i'll say it boldly, proudly, so everyone can see.

you sit with that for a long moment. the street is quiet. somewhere a car passes. the cold settles around you both like something gentle.

i don't want to run away anymore.

the thought arrives without drama. no crack of lightning, no sudden clarity. just.. a settling. something going still inside you that's been restless for a long time.

you don't say it out loud. but something shifts in the way you're sitting. your shoulders come down slightly. you take a breath that goes all the way to the bottom.

❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦ ⊱ 𖥧𖡼 ✿ 𖡼𖥧 ⊰ ❦

it's two days later when the group chat pings.

jiwon: guys are we going out saturday?

soomin: yes please i need it

raeun: always

and then, a minute later,

jiwon: y/n you in?

you look at the message for a long time. you look at their profile pictures lined up at the top of the chat, the history scrolling up — years of it, plans and memes and check-ins and the occasional 3am message when someone was having a hard night.

these are not bad people. you know that. you will always know that. but there are things you have given up to be in this space, and you have been calling it adjustment and it is not adjustment, it is loss, and the girl in the voice memo deserves better than to keep pretending otherwise.

you: i think i need some space for a while.

you watch the typing indicators appear, then disappear. appear again. and then

soomin: oh! is everything okay?

and you think about beomgyu on the steps. loud and proud, so everyone can see. you think about the joke you swallowed in the restaurant, and the one before that, and all the ones before that. you think about the voice memo, the laugh, the girl you've been reaching for.

you: i will be.

this is my answer.

and then you put your phone in your bag and you walk.

not running. that's the thing, it doesn't feel like running at all. it feels like walking toward something, even if you can't see it yet.

이 추운 겨울날도 지나갈테니까. this cold winter too shall pass.

you don't have everything figured out. you know that. the thread is loose and you'll have to pull at it eventually, sit down with them and have a conversation that will be harder than a text. you're not fixed. fixed isn't even the right word.

but you're here. outside. breathing. walking in a direction you chose.

you text beomgyu twenty minutes later. something completely stupid. a terrible pun about the film you watched together, the kind of joke that requires a specific and ridiculous sense of humor, the kind that is so completely, unambiguously you that there's no performing it, no calculating it, no adjusting the volume.

he responds in under a minute.

that's genuinely the worst thing anyone has ever sent me.

and then, three seconds later:

send more

you laugh. actually laugh. the loud kind, the big kind, the kind from the voice memo, the kind that startles the woman walking past you on the street and makes you cover your mouth and laugh harder at yourself for that. your eyes water slightly. your chest feels enormous.

it's not fixed. the winter hasn't passed yet. there are conversations still to have and pieces still scattered that you'll have to decide whether to gather or let go.

but you said the thing. you took up the space. and for the first time in longer than you can remember, the voice saying it sounds exactly like yours.

this is my answer.

[tinningtus]

Hii!! I was wondering if you could do a childhood friends to enemies to lovers beomgyu x reader or any txt members tbh, I just really love this trope so much, so it would be really nice if you could do it (no pressure!!)

𝐴𝐿𝑊𝐴𝑌𝑆 𝐴 𝐶𝑂𝑊𝐴𝑅𝐷 ‧₊˚ ⚝

C.BG

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ɪᴅᴏʟ!ʙᴇᴏᴍɢʏᴜ x ꜰᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꨄ︎ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴠᴇ

ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ: Being friends with Beomgyu is… complicated, he always seems to slip from your grasp. When you finally confront your feelings it might just be too late…

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: angst, hints of depression, suggestive content but nothing too explicit, kissing, switching perspectives kinda, Yeonjun cameo(he’s kind of a wingman)

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 8.2k

𝙆𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙮𝙨…⋆˚࿔ hey anon thank you for the request I have a lot of fun writing for you guys so keep em coming if there's any more you wanna see!! I also love the childhood friends to lovers trope so I really hope I did it justice for you anon, I was actually planning on writing something similar soon so it came at the perfect time and I think you got it so right, gyu is the perfect candidate in my option!!

I tried to work on the enemies bit but I mainly wrote the story that came to me when I read the request so I hope that’s okay and that there’s enough angst in here for you!!!

Knowing Beomgyu is like knowing the lines on your palm. Those lines; they never move, hold steadfast on their position like his at your side. They crease to your will as you clasp your fist as he does for you, whatever you'd beg him to do would be done. When you were too lazy to get up for snack replenishment during weekend hangouts you'd whine his name, extending the syllables so they itched at him until he stood and gathered all of your cravings under his arm, albeit not without a grumble and complaint. He did it for you all the same. He would do anything for you. That’s what you always thought.

You'd met one evening in early March, barely 10 and stood stone faced on his families porch along with your brother. Your parents away for the week meant he was the one entrusted to look after you, so when he insisted on a gaming night with his best friend you naturally had to be the tagalong. Not that you had a distain for video games, on the contrary you often had fun on the odd occasion your brother let you play on his consoles, it's more that you knew you'd only be sat there bored while he and his friend hogged the controller, so you stood with a face like thunder and anticipated the most monotonous evening of your life.

When the door opened you'd expected your brothers friend, or his parents at least but a boy your age stood with the biggest grin like he was expecting you, awaiting your arrival.

"Hey, Beomgyu. This is my sister, look after her, yeah?" Your brother speaks in passing, clapping the boys shoulder before disappearing into the other room in search of his companion, leaving you dumbfounded and staring as the boy ushers you in with excitement.

You'd never been in his house before, you'd had no reason to, your brothers friend would usually come round to your home or they'd hangout elsewhere, and you hadn't known Beomgyu had existed until 30 seconds ago; but his home was warm. Not too much different to your own home in truth, but there were hints of life that were simply not apparent in your own, half opened chip packets and game cartridges scattered across the living room floor where the the two older boys sat huddled near the tv screen. The distant sound of shooting and alien chittering from whatever game they were playing but you could only hear the chirp of the young boy as he circled you with excitement.

"So what do you wanna do? We can watch our brothers play games? Or we can go to my room, I have so many cool things to show you! Oh, or we can play-" he hopped around you and the kitchen counter with as much leap in his step as a spring bunny, unable to contain himself at the prospect of having a play mate similar in age.

"I don't want to play" you jab, face sullen as he stops in front of you, pout on his lips in disappointment. Truthfully, he seemed a little too - rambunctious, for you, clearly an awful lot more energy. You're but a child and even you can recognise that your play styles are simply too different to get along. He looks the type of wild to pull worms from the soil and chase with them, and you - well you are a quieter child than that. You'd simply never get along the way your brothers did.

"Oh, okay" you observe the way his small features round to something more placid, less possessed by boisterous spirit but to something softer. Something more observant "if you don't want to play, then maybe you can watch me play guitar? I wasn't suppose to have it until my birthday but dad already taught me a few things, want me to show you?"

He's no longer bouncing around and pleading attention but you look at him as though he were, his quick shift in energy piques your curiosity, how he could chameleon to your exact temperament is bewildering and intriguing all the same. So you bite.

You give him a simple nod of acceptance and he beams back, clearly ecstatic at your approval but holding it at bay for you, leading you to his room where the guitar sits neatly in the corner. It contradicts the way the rest of his items are haphazardly thrown around, toys and clothes scattered to his delight but the guitar sits there like a sacred relic.

When he pulls the strap on and brings the guitar to his front it swamps him, he looks tiny sat behind it but you think he couldn't look cooler. You can try and hide your wonder but your eyes tell the truth. They always have. You gawk when he pulls the strings in subdue melody, rudimentary in skill but he's plucking all the correct notes. You can see he has a flair for this, the guitar that once looked gargantuan in his arms now plays like it belongs there.

By the time he's finished you stare in awe and he smiles in triumph, informing you of all the precise terminology he's learned so far and you listen, even letting you strum a few strings yourself.

That night you discovered two things about yourself. You had a growing interest in guitars, and that you genuinely enjoyed Beomgyu's company.

── .✦

Over the next few months, you'd begged your parents for a guitar of your own. While skeptical of price and the logistics of you actually learning, they couldn't deny that this newfound hobby of yours came with the promise of a new companion, something lacking in your roster. While you were not inept enough to lack all social skills required to make and retain friends, you had never seeked them out until Beomgyu. So they gifted you a guitar and you were elated at the prospect.

You'd accompany your brother more and more when he'd visit his friend so that you could spend time in Beomgyu's company. Most times he would teach you how to play, things he'd learned about tone or which notes sounded best when played together. While he did it was apparent he had a gift you did not possess, you weren't bad at it, far from it, but it seemed to come so naturally to him. How quickly he picked things up astounded you to the point you couldn't even feel envy, only admiration; even pride that he was your teacher.

Guitar lessons were not the only reason for your hangouts, often times you'd just sit while he played or completed homework. That was the thing you helped him with, the gift you possessed. You'd read to him when you'd been tasked with learning chapters for school, he'd always complain like he hadn't the patience for it so you gladly read the words to him.

By the end of year the two of you were inseparable.

Over the next few years you'd collected other friends, as did he, but you'd always find your way back to each other. Now in the same school and only living a block away from each other, you'd walk together to school, sometimes sit in the same classes, and then lunch together. When he joined a school band, he begged you to audition with him, he'd taught you well, you were almost as good as him. Almost. But it was not your passion, it was his. So you encouraged him to follow his desires, join the band he wanted to so desperately and share his talents, after all, you believed they shouldn't be hidden in this tiny corner of the world. His music deserved to be heard by more than just you.

He looked to you with such longing, perhaps he desperately wanted you beside him in the band that much but you decline, he’d do just fine without you, he’d shine infact.

That's why you encouraged him again when he came over to your house one evening with a story of how he was scouted in the street that day, a casting manager asking for an audition, one he refused.

"What on earth possessed you to say no?" You launch yourself up from your laying position on your bed to face the boy somewhat skittishly adjusting the objects on your desk.

"Well, we've got exams. They're important you know" he speaks without looking up, probably somewhat apprehensive of the scalding he knows you're about to give him.

"Yeah, they are. But this is an audition to become a trainee, gyu! You get what that means, right? They manage BTS for god sake, you'd be crazy famous too!" You bark at him hoping to drum some sense into him.

"An audition doesn't mean I'd get it anyways" he turns to lean against your chair, eyes locked on his heels gently kicking at the floor.

"They'd be fools not take you on, you play guitar better than anyone I've ever seen, your voice is beautiful. You were born to be on a stage somewhere" you'd seen it on him, looking through the window to the music room when he practices with his band. He glows, music is the beat that keeps his heart pumping.

"I don't know anything about dancing, I'd be a mess. And I'd have to go to Seoul, away from... everything" now he looks at you, the whisper of a confession on the tip of his tongue.

He promised himself in that very moment if you begged him to stay, pleaded to keep him by your side he'd let that confession slip from his lips. He'd tell you how he feels his blood pulsing through each and every vein when you laugh, virtually cardiac levels when he's the one to draw it out of you, how he's never had a first kiss yet but he dreams that it's with you. He'd tell you that it's because of you he doesn't want to leave.

But you never saw that when he looked at you. You saw the young boy who taught you guitar in your room, the one whose talent you were constantly chasing. You'd put away your own selfish desires to keep your friend by your side to see him where he was born to be "that's why they train you, you learn so quickly it'd barely be an issue for you. And we'd come to visit you of course. You wouldn't be alone. You'd have to show me around Seoul!"

The smile on your face cements that's he will keep his mouth shut, lock away those thoughts of holding your hand in his into the deepest centre of his mind. Somewhere he doesn't need them.

── .✦

When the casting manger contacts him again, he makes a decision that changes the course of his entire life, with his families support and yours, he auditions in Seoul with the guitar he taught you with and is immediately moved onto a trainee position.

You couldn't be prouder, pride that you had seen something in him that now others were seeing too. He deserved everything they could give him and more.

What you hadn't expected was how lonely it was. Now you'd walk to school by yourself and although you'd eat lunch with your other friends you couldn't deny there was a hole that Beomgyu use to fill out with jokes and a booming laugh. When you got home at the end of the day it would rarely be when he was free to message, not that it was explicitly allowed anyway.

You learnt to speak in code and deleted messages that couldn't be traced when his phone was taken for reviews to ensure he was focusing on training. You'd log each and every one of his messages into your mind bank before they'd be wiped forever, putting on a brave face to pretend it didn't bother you that you couldn't confide in your best friend the way you use to.

For two long years you lived in almost radio silence for him, until he told you that he was to debut finally. A part of you was petrified at that prospect, you wanted the world to love him the way you did but you still longed for the bond you lost all that time ago. When you saw him on the debut stage through your phone screen along with his members, his hair dyed from the last time you saw him and a face that time had matured slightly, you decided right there that you didn't want to sit on the sidelines anymore, you wanted to watch him prosper by his side, like you once had. So you made a decision too.

Now that he had debuted, the restrictions he had during his trainee period loosened ever so slightly, enough to visit you on the first day in your new apartment in Seoul. Your brother had already helped you move your boxes inside but Beomgyu was the one to help you unpack them, placing trinkets he recognised and some he did not onto shelves.

"I still can't believe we're both here now. Though I don't suppose you'll have much time to show me around like I asked when i pushed you to take the audition" you playfully goad him, of course you hadn't meant to actually make him feel guilty that he was busy following his dreams now, that was simply the by product of your teasing.

"I'll do my best for you, madam" he bows with feign importance, mischief laced into his actions. The years had shaped and moulded him into an idol but he was still your Beomgyu. The one light in spirit with a sickening talent for discerning your each and every mood. You'd describe him as stagnant if it wasn't such an admirable trait.

"You still play, no way! Same guitar too!" He comments jovially when you pull the guitar case from a box and you should feel nostalgic for the time he first taught you how to tune it but only the bittersweet taste of regrets rise like bile in your throat. He notices that too.

"I know I'm busy a lot of the time now, but I promise I'll make time for you" he looks to you with the same chocolate eyes as the boy you met all those years ago, but you can only manage a weak smile. You don't want to launch your expectations into the sky to have them crashing down before your feet again. You'll take moments like this instead, where he's in-front of you once more, sat on your couch while you unpack the last remaining boxes.

"Plus I have to introduce you to my members. You guys are the most important people in my life so it's only right you meet. Don't worry, you'll love them- they're a lot of fun" his words circle the drain too close to longing, begging to be a part of his world again when he'd opened it up to thousands. You agree but you'll believe it when you're there, when he lets you in once more.

── .✦

He keeps his word and you find yourself involved in his life again, of course adulthood means that your time together is not as abundant as it was when you were children but you're okay with that, you understand that's how it works. You busy yourself in your new job and make your own friends along the way, you never feel the blues from a new city despite being so far away from Daegu, from your family. You have a piece of home right here in the city with you.

You do eventually meet his members over a meal he'd invited you to and you understand why he feels such a close bond with them. They are every bit as kind as he is, making you feel welcome and not like the outsider you once felt. Now you feel present, grounded in the roots Beomgyu has planted.

They laugh and joke with you like old friends do and when the night ends they don't let you pay a penny towards it. Beomgyu would not allow it, jesting that it was a 'perk of being friends with an idol', as if that's why you were. You were friends with him long before the fame and you'd be here if he lost it all tomorrow. You just scoff and push your purse back into your bag, earning a giggle from Beomgyu.

Despite his hectic schedule, he does find time for you, even if it's only for a coffee during his breaks or a quick call before you climb into bed. You meet on occasions and some of those times his members are present due to his conflicting schedules but you don't mind. In fact you welcome it, you gain them as friends of your own and you feel yourself anchoring into his life like you use to wish for.

A couple more years pass and you fall into steady rhythm with him this way, you are accustomed to having him close to you again and you finally feel some sort of completion in your life, like the world had finally spat out what it chewed up so many years ago when you lost him.

Like most things though, it doesn't seem to last forever.

His hair grows and changes colour a few more times and his jaw sharpens, morphing into his adult features with grace. He grows from that small boy with a guitar too big for him into a handsome man with talent flowing from his fingertips, and his fame grows too.

You try to support him as best you can, you attend his shows when you're able to, when he's not touring in foreign countries you suppose you'll never visit and when he's not occupied with schedules, you drop him messages offering to catchup whenever he's free. Gradually his replies shorten in words and lengthen in time taken until you get no replies at all and you feel that distance creeping back in, no matter how much you try to cling to him.

His albums sit on your shelf and his voice on the radio torments you to no end, you see his face on advertisements and realise you have as much power as his thousands of adoring fans.

It's in his absence your buried feelings surface.

You're not sure when you began to fall in love with Beomgyu. It never happened like the movies said it would. You never stood in the rain with the idea of all encompassing love filling you to your bones, embracing your very being. It never suddenly hit you all at once, realising he was the one who stood by your side the entire time, unseen by you until the very moment your love triumphs.

Truthfully, selfishly, you think it might be when the world began to know him, dig their claws in and claim him for their own. You're proud of what he had achieved but it sours and poisons the more you think about what it had taken from you.

You know you love him because he makes you feel such ugly feelings and leaves you to compartmentalise them alone. You think you might just be angry and selfish enough to let all these feelings loose and let him deal with the fallout.

Your tipping point comes an evening you never expected it to, you'd had a long day at work, one you wanted to wash away from your skin and be done with. The hum from the refrigerator drills through your skull, it's been louder recently and it doesn't seem as cold as it once did so it's just another thing to add to your long to-do list. You reach in to grab something for dinner but it's more baron than you remember. When was the last time you went grocery shopping?

Despite the growl in your stomach, you close it again and push the hunger away, you'll eat something later you tell yourself, as if those few hours could fix what you've lost.

Honestly you don't remember the last time you messaged Beomgyu, one that he actually took the time to properly respond to, probably 6 months ago by now. It's easier to shut your mouth and live in silence than to wait for an echo.

You look around and see a room you don't recognise, you use to dream about being here, in Seoul. The big city with endless choices but you only feel powerless. You longed to be here by his side, and for a time you were but now you could be a million miles away for all it mattered. The distance in your heart was longer than the 15 minute drive to his apartment.

In a way you feel lost adrift, floating aimlessly in an endless ocean towards nothing. There's nothing you hope for anymore, no clear path you can see and you live out your days like a zombie repeating the same monotonous tasks you did in life. An imposter.

Your phone chimes from the table and you sigh, your body wants you to ignore whoever wants you for something but your brain craves distraction from the damn hum of the refrigerator you need to fix, so you pick your phone up and feel your heart palpitate.

yeonjun>⩊<: i think he needs you. can you come over?

Your thumbs tremble over the letters, frightened to type out characters only to see yourself delete them. You have no idea how to respond, no idea if you still have the authority to determine if he should need you.

But you know Beomgyu. You know his tendencies to bury within himself and lock out anyone or anything sent with the white flag of surrender to aid. He was always the same, even as a child, you'd have to battle to be let in and not to any fault of his own, he never learned how to be vulnerable.

But did you deserve to pretend to know how to break through to him anymore? Did he deserve for you to be the one to do it after casting you aside like you meant nothing? You are severely oblivious and that terrifies you the most.

you: he's at your dorm?

You hold your breath for a reply.

...

yeonjun>⩊<: yeah. he's not... well. we're gonna leave for a bit to give you guys some space. Sorry

His apology is so loaded you feel guilt that he feels the need to apologise on his behalf. That one little word breaks you more than you were prepared for. He's sorry that you have to be the one to contact when he's most likely aware of the dead air Beomgyu has created between you, it solidifies the vast crater in your bond that you have been avoiding acknowledging. It's far too painful and it sears you now.

you: okay. I'll be there soon

You reply before better judgement can grip your shoulders and shake. You don't doubt Yeonjun's worry, he's observant in ways and wisdom beyond his years, but you doubt Beomgyu's need for you. You want to believe with all your heart that you are the sole thing he needs to break him out of his melancholic spell, but this is not a movie, and you are not those people.

Despite that, you find yourself stood outside his dorm door, fist raised to knock as you try to gain the courage. You have no idea if he will even answer for you and you assume it's that singular doubt that forces your hand. Like it's just a game you're playing. No actual consequences.

You feel sick once more after a few beats of silence and then the heavy shuffling behind the door, it opens slowly before you and reveals the man you haven't seen for months.

There's no polite way to say it, but the months haven't been kind to him, his hair is ratty and matted like a brush hasn't touched it for that long too, the red rim on his waterline tells you he hasn't slept much either. You don't doubt it's nothing his makeup team couldn't cover and conceal for the cameras, but here, stood in front of you he can't hide.

His eyes widen for a split second, you catch it and know he hadn't expected you of all people when he peeled the door open. His chapped lips stutter with words that won't come to him.

"You look like shit" the words tumble from you before you can stop yourself and before he can start. He glances you up and down, you feel scrutiny under his gaze and swallow it down when you remember that despite everything, he's not the one to look at you that way, with distain. He never was and you know he never will.

He steps aside for you, inviting you inside as he shuts the door behind him. It looks the same as you left it inside, with the mess of five boys you imagine not much of it moved in the first place and that gives you some strange comfort. When you turn around to look at him, his back is to you, still facing the door, cowering from your stare "what are you doing here?"

It's not judgement in his voice but indifference and that hurts more.

"...Yeonjun told me you're not doing well" you feel meek even having to explain why you turn up now after all this time, as if you are the one who put that distance between you.

"I'm fine" his reply is snappy, rehearsed.

"Don't do that, Beomgyu, don't lie to me" you sigh, holding your gaze on him when he finally turns on his heels to look at you.

"What do you want me to say?" His lips continue to move like he wants to unload everything, finally spill his heart out to someone, to you, but he reins it in with a sharp tug.

"Tell me that it's true, that you need help or just need someone to talk to about things that trouble you! Tell me that you've been doing better than everyone thinks you are! Tell me anything, anything at all instead of shutting me out!" You're the first the raise your voice, it's not how you wanted to conduct yourself in this conversation but he draws out the baser emotions in you. Right now you're settled on anger.

"I've been busy!" He bites back, running fingers through his hair exasperated as he marches right past you to the kitchen counter as if it makes it seem as though he's being truthful.

"Bullshit. You were just as busy before and you made time for me then. What changed, huh? Not man enough to tell me yourself that you don't need me anymore? So you ghost me and your problem just floats away?" You hadn't expected to let those feelings you locked away out so soon but here you are, heart on your sleeve hoping he doesn't rip it right from you. Still hoping for more.

"You know that's not true" solemn takes over his features reluctantly, flattening his brows as his eyes round like the weight of his actions finally comes crashing down over the crown of his head.

"Do I? Because you've made it pretty damn clear you don't give a shit. I would do anything for you and this is how you repay me? I waited for you no matter how full your schedule got, that's fine I get it, I know how busy your work is but I waited for you still. I cooked for you on days your legs gave out after practice, was there for you through highs and lows and I never asked for anything back. Just for you to show me a bit of goddamn effort. To show me that you cared" your palms slam on the kitchen counter, startling him like your voice is a whip.

"I even moved to Seoul for you! So you wouldn't feel so lonely in the job I encouraged you to do!-"

"-I never asked that of you! I would've been perfectly fine here by myself!" He cuts you off with a booming voice, all past sorrow in his irises replaced by fiery exhaustion, it burns when you're close so you step back from the counter one step and the cold embrace of distance stings just as much.

"you want to know why I stopped calling? Because I felt so fucking guilty every time you did those things for me it ached that I couldn't give you shit in return. Because I can't keep pretending that I'm okay with that!" he closes that distance in an instant, now there's only a slither of air between you, between your faces. You feel the heat from his breath and know his temper hasn't cooled. You can only stand dumbfounded and listen.

"I couldn't tell the woman I've loved since we were 15 years old that friendship isn't what I wanted anymore only to have no time for you, it's fucking selfish and I won't do it!" His voice cracks from the torment, tears well in his eyes but he won't let them spill upon seeing your own tears mirror his. Fatigued from breaking inside, being torn apart by the heft of his confession untold and the guilt of his neglect, he can no longer hold onto it and it escapes him before he can filter it through choosier words.

This isn't how he envisioned telling you, if he ever was to. He'd held it within so long that it branded itself to his soul, something that belonged to you but you'd never see. He imagined that if he ever gained the courage it would be to the backdrop of the city illumined, twilight blanketing the sky and candle light flickering in your eyes. He can see the dress you are wearing, black and thigh length and hugging you in all the right places, you playfully scold him for looking everywhere but your eyes and he gives you a toothy grin, waiting to devour you right after the decadent dinner gleaming up at him.

It's the least you deserve, you're worthy of worship greater than that, but he can't give that to you.

"...why would you never tell me that? Why would you let me sit in the dark thinking you'd never love me back?" The tears track down your cheeks, he longs to wipe them away and never be the reason for them again but he stands there. Still.

"What would be the point? If I can't devote myself to you the way I want there's no use in trying. We'd be so brutal together" his heart shatters in two admitting this aloud to you, all he wants is to embrace you and his words form daggers to stab you instead. He can see you're breaking too, everything you thought you knew about the world pulverising all at once and it made worse when he gulps it all down.

His face falls flat before you, forcing each itch to iron out until there’s little emotion left on his features. This is what’s best. Best for you to finally let go.

"You're a coward, Beomgyu! A fucking coward!”You wail and hit at his chest with closed fists, begging, demanding him for anything but he stands there still, taking everything you throw at him with closed eyes. He can’t bear to see scorn clouding your eyes that use to look at him with such devotion.

You push his chest a few more times with weak hands, longing to flatten your palm against his chest to feel the heart beating beneath you now know pumps for you. But when you look up to him, you find nothing there. A blank fucking statue so you pull your hands back, taking a few steps backwards for the slightest chance he’ll grab you and hold you, never letting go again.

He doesn’t.

You can’t stand to be in this room anymore, standing around his things and his smell and him. He’s no more than an imposter of the man you knew. An imposter you still love, despite everything. It would be so much easier to hate him.You rush for the door, unlocking it with a clink and it slams behind you.

It’s only when the door closes, after a few beats of silence that means he is truly alone, that he lets himself break down, sobbing into his palms and drops to his knees. His cries wrack his body, the stifling air you left chokes up his lungs like the ramifications of everything he’s said.

You’d never want to see him again.

── .✦

Time moves like staring at it filtering through an hourglass for you. It should pass the neck of the glass swiftly but the longer you stare the longer you realise how it seems to appear like a line that never ends. As though the sand never makes it to the bottom.

Your apartment is a stranger to you despite spending every moment that you aren’t at work within the same four walls. That might be the worst part, a painful reminder that time must still go on, running away from you. You have no idea if you should stay but leaving might just be harder. The prospect of returning to Daegu, to the streets you use to walk and chase the ghost of a man you used to to know makes you feel sick, churning your stomach and letting the bile wash you away.

You find yourself drifting away in spirit, wondering what he is doing. What he’s feeling. If he feels half as bleak as you do. It doesn’t anger you anymore, it only feels raw and numb simultaneously, like crashing waves licking the rocks wounds on the way back down.

Beomgyu feels everything tenfold. He has a tendency for it. Ever since he was a child his heart had been weak and if left unguarded it would have pierced and ruptured by now. His humour and wits serve as his armour and even those he’s failed to adorn in the months since he laid everything out to you only to pull it back without letting you touch.

His members have noticed, there’s a space empty that he use to fill out with his soul and Yeonjun feels the run off guilt. He’d meant for the very opposite of this, he knew of Beomgyu’s love for you, ever observant and hoped him strong enough to commit to his desires, but now he’s only a shell of his former self.

Beomgyu still recalls that fateful conversation with Yeonjun.

He’d practically locked himself in the studio the week before you came to him that night, the only way he could drown out your silence was writing. Song lyrics you’d probably never hear, the world would probably never listen to, far too somber for anything they should release. He barely looks up when the studio door clicks open, lost in thought.

“You still writing?” Yeonjun’s voice calls out softly to him. Beomgyu only nods.

A small sigh escapes Yeonjun as he plants himself on the couch beside the desk, he’s hunched over the music sheet, multiple scribbled out words and rearranged sentences.

“You should take a break, you won’t get anywhere forcing it” Yeonjun fiddles with the hem of his jumper “maybe a break from love songs might clear your head too”

Beomgyu lifts his head, his friend is too specific to not understand the inner turmoil within him. He tries to respond but all words fail him. Yeonjun speaks up in the absence “If you love her like I think you do, you owe her an explanation”

That pricks at him, even the mere mention of you is enough to flip his entire worldview upside down, more so the mention of how he failed you. How his failure is so obvious everyone can bear witness to it “she deserves better than what I can give her” his lips betray him, he meant to quip that Yeonjun has no idea what he’s talking about. Instead he lays out his insecurities.

“And yet you’re the one she loves” he should rejoice in the fact that if other people can see your affection, it must give it some merit, some truth in there. Instead shame surfaces, reinforces that his treatment of you is not just but its the right choice anyway in order to push you far enough away from him, far from his failures “Don’t you think she should at least have a say in what she thinks she deserves?”

Those words echo through him even now, back then he excused himself from the studio, Yeonjun’s insight only made him want to run and now they repeat on him like a tape on loop.

He thinks about what it would mean to give in to his deepest desires, to let you hold him in the way he yearns for in his dreams. Nothing restricts you there, nothing bounds you in chains with the length destined to be one link too short to reach out for each other. There he’s free to imagine the life he pines for, how you’d smile when he wakes you in the morning, giggling in his ear. How soft your skin would feel beneath him. He even dares to dream about growing older with you, watching new wrinkles form and you look just as beautiful as you do right now.

In another life, he’d like that with you.

Here, in waking life, his dreams only serve as torment. He needs solace, some sort of comfort in his unrest so he pulls out the old guitar case from his closet, buried under piles of clothing and whatever else he’s stuffed in there to forget.

It’s lighter than he remembers, or perhaps it’s because the last time he played it he was smaller, younger. He used it for the audition but when he arrived in Seoul he used most of his first months pocket money to buy a new one, one that looked more fitting for a new life. This one sat, untouched and unplayed.

Peeking the cover back it looks exactly how he remembers, a few knocks and scratches that tell it’s worn in but it’s his all the same. It’s as old as first meeting you.

He gently pulls it out with the intent to rest it upon his knee and play once more, though when he notices something peeling from the strap that he doesn’t remember being there, he has to know. It’s tucked in the corner near the stitching, a small piece of crinkled paper glued to the leather, clearly meticulously to avoid marring it, but the adhesive is old now and shedding from the surface.

He runs his finger over to flatten it in order to read the words and his heart swells so much he’s surprised it doesn’t balloon past his chest.

‘even when the world is singing your songs, I’ll be the last one stood in the crowd. wait for me’

It’s your handwriting. Even if it was printed he’d know it was you, they’re your words. Before he can feel anything, there’s a prick in his eyes, a singular tear slipping past his cheek without allowing so. And then, a singular second later, he feels it all.

His heart that once threatened to protrude now a concave to the cavernous bottom in his chest, bleeding that he knows all too well how you held true to your words, you’d stand by them through the most fearsome storm.

He thinks back to what you had called him, ‘coward’. You are right, he’s never been brave enough for you, back then and now. Years ago he’d swore he’d confess if you told him the thing he needed to hear, and now, he told himself that what you want doesn’t matter because of his cowardice. He’s never given you the grace of speaking for yourself, and now you have.

Now he knows what you want and he’s still been a coward, running and hiding from you. It’s not enough for him, his actions disgust him instantaneously and that’s how he knows he won’t let himself be that same coward anymore.

He launches from his bed, gathering a jacket and swinging it over his hoodie, ignoring all and everything else, all of it until he reaches your door. His hand falters for a brief moment, knocking before falls back into those habits that led him here in first place.

When you open the door, every feeling he’s ever felt for you floods his system, wonder, admiration, frustration, remorse, love.

“Beom-“

“-listen to me, please” it’s not just his words that plead you, it’s his eyes. He sounds as though he needs this more than your anger and upset need a voice. Despite everything, he’s still your Beomgyu, so you allow him to speak.

“I-I’m not good at this, you know I’m not. I’ve never been that great at asking for help but I’ve always been good at taking what you give me anyway. I don’t want to be that man anymore” he begins, swallowing down his pride and everything with it “I want to be a better man for you. I want to give you everything I was scared to before. I’ve been so stupid, I allowed you to think that I didn’t care and that I was too busy for you when that couldn’t be further from the truth. I was too scared to commit. Well fuck that, I don’t want to live like that anymore and I want to give you the love I was too much of a coward to before”

He lays himself out for you to see, bare before you. He’s never felt so vulnerable but maybe there’s a strength in that he couldn’t have foreseen before. Looking to your face, he watches the way you break and try to build those blocks back up, piece by piece even though they burn when you touch them “How can I trust you? You say you want that but how can I trust that you won’t let me fade into nothing again? It was the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced, Beomgyu”

Your voice cracks, but you manage to hold your tears this time. You try to keep yourself together but Beomgyu has always had that talent of seeing past everything.

“You can’t trust me. Not yet. But I promise you, I’ll never hurt you like that again, I’ll prove it to you. I’m asking you to let me try” it’s the most honest he’s been with you, with himself, for years. Although the gravity this situation is crushing, you could either shatter everything he is or help him soar with a single word, but in this very moment he feels light enough for the honesty.

“…okay” you murmur just loud enough. His head snaps to you in an instant, checking if the word you spoke wasn’t just a figment of his imagination “okay. Don’t fuck it up, Beomgyu, I’ll never forgive you if you do”

You repeat with a sturdiness you hadn’t anticipated you’d have, you need him to know the direness of his words and what they mean if he breaks them. You will not survive him if he does so again.

He gulps down harder, fingers twitching at his sides, not from your warning but that there’s finally no barriers between him and what he longs to do to you. The distance isn’t there and neither is the friendship, you’ve both thought of each other differently long enough to pretend otherwise.

He takes a step closer, glancing to your lips before he asks “can I kiss you?”

You look to him, the boy who once sat on the edge of your bed after school days now a man asking for your permission. You’ve waited long enough to deny him and yourself, you nod with certainty.

He bridges the gap between you both and connects your lips with delicacy, testing the way they feel against his own. It’s only once he feels you moving along with him that he decides to deepen it, eliminating the rest of the space and knitting a hand through your hair to hold the back of your neck, the other guiding the small of your back to melt into him.

You taste like everything he dreamed of, there’s no gloss on your lips but he tastes the sweetness all the same, imbuing it to himself. You move so softly against him, he swipes his tongue along your bottom lip, begging for entry. You allow him in, opening your mouth and when he slips his tongue against yours for the first time you can’t help but mewl.

The sounds he drawls out of you

makes his blood rush, spurring him to dive deeper, moving with more passion against you until your teeth clack but neither of you care much, too focused on the vibrations between your bodies. Your palms rest on his chest to steady yourself but also to clasp your fingers in his shirt, tugging him closer flat against you.

You feel dizzy, not just from finally feeling Beomgyu but from the lack of oxygen in your brain so you part in order to catch your breath.

“I love you” Resting his forehead to yours, he pants inches away from your face “I love you so fucking much”

His confession is all you’ve ever wanted to hear, but in this moment all you want is him.

“Then don’t stop” he takes no more time once you whisper to him, connecting your lips once more and stumbling backwards with you into the confides of your apartment, where he can display the extent of his love.

── .✦

Your fingers flit over a few options of shining jewels, glimmering in the light of the setting sun filtering through your window. You observe the cuts of each gemstone, determining which would look best with your current outfit, you decide on the small diamond pendant that sits perfectly against your collarbone, a memory of it being gifted to you on your birthday passed two years ago.

You move to observe your reflection in the mirror, twisting the stone between your fingers and smiling to yourself when you deem it looks right.

He must be a psychic, or at least some higher being has gifted him with future sight because as soon as he steps out from the bathroom you’re stood by the floor length mirror, flattening out the creases in the thigh length black dress he use to envision you in. You match his dress shirt and pants in colour but he thinks you could outshine him in a plastic bag. His feet drive him to approach.

You notice his appearance in the mirror behind you, turning so you can intake him fully. His shirt is ironed out, not a crease in sight, his chest slightly exposed through the undone top buttons, utterly decadent “you look dashing”

He smiles and leans down with the puff of a soft laugh “shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

“You should” you chuckle back, wrapping your arms around his neck. You both stand there in contempt quiet for a moment, fully absorbing each other’s appearance.

“How pissed with me would you be if I said I wanted to rip this damn dress off and have my way with you until we were almost certainly late for the reservation?” He whispers against the shell of your ear, moving his lips down to playfully nip at your neck.

You scoff playfully, leaning back so he’s forced to look at you instead “hmm, pretty pissed since you’ve been promising me to take me there for weeks now”

“I know. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately, you know what it’s like approaching a comeback” it’s not your intention, but he feels the same guilt he carries with him, although now it doesn’t feel quite so suffocating under your understanding.

“I know, gyu. I’m only messing” your lips curving lets him know you harbour no ill feelings on the subject, you know that this is what being with Beomgyu entails, and you do more than endure it for him, you embrace his success. It’s not easy. It never is, but love begs to prevail.

He feels his love for you wrap and fold in on itself, he couldn’t ask for your support anymore, it already stretches past him miles ahead.

You pull him in by the collar of his shirt suddenly, dragging your lips along his ear to mimic his previous actions “besides, I was already planning on you ripping this dress off after dinner. Don’t want to spoil desert now, do you?” You pull his hand to the hem of your dress, dragging his fingers along the underside until he feels no laced fabric underneath, no barrier between him and what he craves.

The last thing you hear is his breath hitching, fingers driving into the meat of your thighs while he guides you backwards and you hit the edge of the bed “fuck dessert, I want you now…”

His lips collide against yours with force, a promise to never let them leave your skin until he was done.

ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @nota10butadefinite8 @buttersoob

[elsiece]

from my winter to your summer – PART TWO

SYNOPSIS — as winter gives way to spring, a burned-out university graduate unexpectedly finds himself working at a small flower shop café after a chance encounter during his father’s funeral slowly changes the course of his life.

⤷ pairing ⭑.ᐟ choi beomgyu x fem! reader

⤷ genres/tags ⭑.ᐟ slow burn, strangers to lovers, forced proximity, coworkers au, flower shop & cafe au, roommates au, hurt/comfort, ANGST (im sorry..), healing, mutual pining, yearning, found family

wc ⭑.ᐟ total 39,5k+ part one, 17,9k+ (click here for pt 1.) part two, 21,6k+

⤷ warnings ⭑.ᐟ alot of grief, depression themes, financial struggles, unhealthy coping mechanisms (mostly smoking/alcohol), beomgyu gets chased/assaulted by debt collectors, blood/injury mentions, violence/themes of violence, mentions of physical abuse, mentions of death

⤷ taglist ⭑.ᐟ @woncheecks @fairfootedflekk @whoisgami @swangyu @bamgyt @flapsniffer4kook

The two weeks that followed were quiet in the best way. Beomgyu showed up for every shift, early and prepared, and somewhere between the morning rush and the afternoon lull he stopped looking like a guest in his own body. 

Yeonjun took credit for this, loudly and often, claiming that his "mentorship" was the reason beomgyu no longer looked like he was attending his own funeral. He responded by learning how to make Yeonjun's coffee just bad enough to be annoying but not bad enough to warrant a remake. 

Yeonjun called it betrayal at first. Then it just became typical. 

The mornings always started with Y/n unlocking the cafe door, and beomgyu already waiting outside with two cups of coffee because he walked past the shop on his way from your grandparents' house anyway. Yeonjun would arrive ten minutes later, loud and complaining about the weather regardless of whether it was sunny or raining. 

The three of you would set up together, unfolding chairs and arranging pastries and checking the flower buckets by the window, and by the time the first customer walked in the cafe already felt lived in.

Beomgyu learned the register faster than anyone expected. He learned the drink orders faster than that. By the end of the first week back, Yeonjun had stopped double checking his work, which was the highest form of praise Yeonjun knew how to give. 

"You're still weird," Yeonjun told him one afternoon, watching beomgyu steam milk without looking at what his hands were doing. "But you're useful weird now." Beomgyu didn't look up. 

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." 

"Don't get used to it."

The flower shop side of the cafe stayed busy too. 

Y/n handled most of the arrangements, but beomgyu started helping when things got overwhelming, handing her specific stems before she even asked. 

He didn't know flower meanings the way you did, but he remembered which ones went together, which colors looked right under the window light, which ribbons Y/n reached for first. 

Yeonjun called him a groupie. "A flower shop girl groupie," he clarified. 

Beomgyu didn't look up from the ribbon he was tying. "Groupies follow bands." 

"You're following her." 

"I'm following the coffee." 

"You don't even drink coffee." Beomgyu paused. Set the cup down. 

"Pastries then." Yeonjun just stared at him.

Y/n ignored those two from how often they bickered, just said thank you and moved on. But you noticed the way Beomgyu's shoulders straightened every time.

Soobin came by three times over the two weeks, always during the afternoon slow hours, always ordering the same iced Americano and sitting in the corner booth where he could see the whole room. 

He didn't say much about Beomgyu's living situation mostly because he didn't know. Beomgyu hadn't told him about moving out of the apartment yet, and Y/n hadn't asked why. Some conversations were easier to delay than others. Soobin seemed to sense something had shifted though. 

He watched Beomgyu move behind the counter with something like quiet relief, and when he caught Y/n's eye across the room he raised his eyebrows once, a silent question you pretended not to understand.

Yeonjun started noticing things too. Small things. 

The way Beomgyu always made Y/n's coffee first even when other orders were waiting. The way he carried the heavy flower buckets without being asked but only when Y/n was the one who needed them. The way he stood a little closer to your side of the counter than his own. 

"You know," Yeonjun said one evening while wiping down tables, "if you're going to be obvious about it, at least commit." 

Beomgyu was restocking cups behind the counter and didn't look up. "I don't know what you're talking about." 

"Sure you don't." 

"I don't." 

Yeonjun stopped wiping and stared at him. "Oh my God. You're actually going to stand there and lie to my face?"

Beomgyu finally looked at him. "I'm not lying."

"You're deflecting. Which is basically lying but with better posture." Yeonjun pointed the rag at him. "I see you, Choi Beomgyu. I see everything."

Beomgyu stared at him for a beat, then the corner of his mouth twitched. Yeonjun caught it immediately. "There it is. You're smiling. I knew it."

"I'm not smiling."

"You're doing that thing where you pretend to be stoic but your face betrays you. It's tragic really. You'd make a terrible spy."

"I wasn't planning on becoming a spy."

"Good. Because you'd be fired on day one." Yeonjun leaned against the counter, grinning. "You'd walk into some secret facility and someone would hand you a coffee order and you'd just... make it. Out of habit."

Beomgyu shook his head, but the smile was still there, quiet and reluctant. "You're weird."

"I'm charming. There's a difference."

"There's really not."

Yeonjun laughed, loud and bright, and Beomgyu's smile widened just a fraction.

Y/n pretended not to hear any of it. But you also started noticing things you couldn't unsee. The way Beomgyu's attention drifted toward you during quiet moments. The way he laughed, really laughed, at something stupid Yeonjun said and then looked at you immediately after, like he was checking if you were laughing too. You didn't know what to do with any of it, so you did what you always did. You smiled, handed him a rag, and told him to get back to work. He took the rag every time, and every time he stayed a little closer than before.

On this very slow afternoon, you were restocking the pastry display when Beomgyu appeared beside you again. He didn't say anything at first, just stood there watching your hands arrange the croissants in a neat row.

"You're doing it wrong," he said.

You glanced up. "I've been doing this for two years. I think I know how to arrange pastries."

"The crooked ones go in the front."

"Why would I put the crooked ones in the front?"

"So people take them first." He reached over and swapped a misshapen croissant to the front of the display. "Then the pretty ones stay for later. It's a basic strategy."

You stared at him. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"It's retail psychology."

"It's you making excuses for being lazy."

He picked up a pastry brush and tapped it against his palm. "I'm not lazy. I'm efficient, boss."

You snatched the brush from his hand. "You're annoying."

"And yet," he said, leaning one elbow on the counter, "you keep me around."

"Because you're useful."

"For carrying heavy things?"

"For knowing where the backup coffee beans are."

He nodded slowly, like this was valuable information. "So my value to you is purely functional."

"Completely functional."

"No emotional attachment whatsoever."

"Zero."

He looked at you for a beat too long. "Liar."

You threw a napkin at his face. He caught it.

The bathroom door at the back of the cafe swung open and Soobin emerged, shaking water off his hands and looking mildly annoyed at the world. He spotted Beomgyu immediately and made a beeline for the counter.

"You," Soobin said, pointing. "Register. Now."

Beomgyu didn't move. "I'm not even on register today."

"I don't care. I need more coffee and one of those sliced cakes. The chocolate one." Soobin leaned against the counter, dragging a hand down his face. "I had a rough day, bro."

"What happened?"

Soobin lifted his head just enough to glare at nothing. "My coworker heated up fish in the office microwave at ten in the morning. The entire floor smells like someone died."

Beomgyu stared at him. "That's it?"

"That's it? Gyu, the smell is in my clothes. In my hair. I can taste it." He shuddered. "I had to sit through a two hour meeting breathing through my mouth like an animal."

"You could have just opened a window."

"We don't have windows. It's a basement office." Soobin's voice cracked. "A basement office with a fish smell. I'm living in a nightmare."

Beomgyu finally pushed off the counter rolling his eyes while snickering and walked toward the register, taking his sweet time. Soobin watched him shuffle over like a man with nowhere to be.

"Why is it," Soobin said, "that when you're with her, you're suddenly all bright like you’re in sunshine and rainbows land?"

Beomgyu punched something into the register. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"But the second I show up, you turn into Eeyore." Soobin gestured at him. "Gloomy, bitchy, and depressed.

Beomgyu slid a cup across the counter. "Your coffee."

"Don't ignore me." Soobin grabbed the cup. "It's favoritism. Straight up fuckass favoritism and I see it."

Beomgyu finally looked at him. "You want the cake or not."

"I want the cake. But I also want an apology."

"You're not getting either if you keep talking."

Soobin gasped, one hand pressed to his chest. "You wouldn't dare."

Beomgyu walked to the pastry display and pulled out the last slice of chocolate cake, placing it on a plate with exaggerated care. He set it in front of Soobin without a word.

Soobin stared at the cake. Then at Beomgyu. "This doesn't fix anything."

"Eat your cake."

"I'm eating it under protest."

"Good."

Soobin shoved a forkful into his mouth, chewing aggressively while maintaining eye contact with Beomgyu the entire time. Beomgyu just stood there, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

You busied yourself with the flower buckets by the window, pretending you hadn't heard any of it. But you were smiling, and when Beomgyu glanced over at you, he was too.

Hours later, the cafe was empty and the sun had started its slow dip toward the horizon. A pipe burst in the back room around four, nothing dramatic, just a persistent leak that made the floor wet and the whole place smell like old metal, so your grandfather called and said to shut it down early. 

Yeonjun had never looked more relieved. "A plumbing emergency," he said, tying his apron string for the last time. "Finally, a real excuse to leave before seven."

The three of you moved through the closing routine in comfortable silence. Yeonjun wiped down tables while Beomgyu counted the register and you swept the floor near the flower buckets. It was peaceful in the way late afternoons could be, the kind of quiet that didn't need to be filled with conversation.

Yeonjun finished first, grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door. "Alright losers, I'm out." He pointed at Beomgyu. 

"Don't burn the place down." Then at you. "Don't let him burn the place down."

"No promises," you said.

Yeonjun left with a wave, the bell above the door chiming once before the cafe fell quiet again. You finished sweeping while Beomgyu packed the last of the pastries into a box to donate. The light through the windows had turned into a softer golden glow that bathed the displayed flowers beautifully.

You leaned the broom against the wall and stretched your arms above your head. "Hey. You’re coming with me to the grocery store since we have time now."

Beomgyu looked up from the pastry box. "Okay."

No hesitation. He closed the box, wiped his hands on his apron, and untied it in one smooth motion. You grabbed your bag from under the register while he grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. The two of you stepped out into the cooling evening air, the sky turning that soft blue just before dusk.

The grocery store was only a few blocks away, a mild crowd at this hour aside from a few exhausted parents and a man buying instant noodles in bulk. You grabbed a cart and headed toward the produce section, Beomgyu trailing behind with his hands in his jacket pockets.

Near the back of the store, a woman stood behind a small cart handing out tiny paper cups. Free samples. 

Today it was some kind of dumpling situation, two flavors side by side, kimchi and japchae.

You grabbed a kimchi and popped it into your mouth. Beomgyu reached for the same. "No," you said, smacking his hand away. "Get the japchae." 

"What why?" 

"Because I want to try both but I don't want to take two." 

"So take two." 

"That's greedy." 

"It's a free sample. You're not going to jail."

You ignored him and grabbed a japchae, chewing thoughtfully while Beomgyu watched you like you'd just performed a magic trick. 

"Okay," you said, eyes widening. "That's actually really good." Beomgyu picked up a kimchi and ate it. His eyebrows lifted. "This one's better." 

"No it's not." "It's significantly better." "You're lying."

He grabbed another japchae and held it out to you. "Try again." You took it. Chewed. "Okay fine it's good. But the kimchi is still better." 

"You haven't even tried the kimchi a second time." 

"I don't need to. I remember." 

"That's not how taste works."

You snatched a kimchi from the tray and ate it just to prove him wrong. You chewed. Swallowed. 

"Huh." 

"Huh what." 

"Okay that's also good." 

Beomgyu crossed his arms. "So we agree both are good." 

"We agree both are good." 

"But which one is better."

You looked at the tray. He looked at the tray. The sample woman was watching them with a small smile, clearly enjoying herself.

"Okay," you said. "We have money for one more." 

"For the way back home," Beomgyu agreed. 

"Kimchi," you said. "Japchae," he said at the exact same time.

You both turned to look at each other. "What," you said. 

"The other one was definitely better," he said. 

"No it wasn't." 

"You literally just said kimchi was also good. Not better. Also good." 

"That's the same thing." 

"It's not the same thing and you know it."

The sample woman held out the tray. "I have two left," she said. "One of each." You and Beomgyu looked at the dumplings, then at each other. 

"Fine," you said, grabbing the kimchi. 

"Fine," Beomgyu said, grabbing the japchae. 

You both ate in silence, chewing aggressively while maintaining eye contact. "Still think mine's better," he said with his mouth full. 

"I can't hear you over how good my dumpling is." He swallowed. 

"Wow how childish" You say as you stick your tongue out at him. 

He did it right back, which was somehow even more childish, and then you both burst out laughing right there in the middle of the grocery store, the sample woman grinning at you both like she'd just watched her favorite drama.

The sample woman was watching the two of you with her hands clasped together. "You two are such a cute couple," she said, beaming.

Beomgyu didn't miss a beat. "Thank you."

You turned to look at him. He was already pushing the cart toward the rice aisle like nothing had happened. The sample woman winked at you as you caught up to him near the rice, shaking your head.

Your heart undeniably skipped a beat but you ignored it, you had to.

You slapped his back. "Come on. Let's find the rest of this list and get back. We're helping grandma and grandpa cook a feast tonight."

He rubbed his shoulder where you hit him but didn't complain. "What are we making?"

"Not sure yet. She said something about beef and dumplings."

"More dumplings?"

"These ones won't be free samples, so don't get excited."

He pulled the list from your hand and scanned it. "You forgot the green onions."

"I didn't forget them. I was saving them for last."

"You forgot them."

"I was saving them."

He walked toward the produce section without another word, and you followed, still smiling, still ignoring the way your chest felt a little lighter than it had before.

"Beomgyu, stop slicing the scallions that thick. You're making them for giants at this point, not people."

Beomgyu looked down at the scallions, then back at your grandmother. "This is how I always cut them."

"Then you've been eating giant scallions your whole life. No wonder you're so tall."

He paused. "That's not how height works."

"Are you a nutritionist?"

"No."

"Then don't argue with me, Beombeom. Slice thinner."

The nickname had stuck since the first week he moved in.Your grandmother had been looking for her reading glasses and asked "Beomgyu, have you seen them?" but it came out jumbled, Beomgyu and Beom something else, and Beombeom just tumbled out. 

She laughed at herself. Beomgyu stood there frozen, unsure how to react. But she kept using it, and after a while even your grandfather picked it up, and now it was just what they called him. He pretended to hate it (He didn't.)

You were across the kitchen chopping garlic, barely holding back a laugh. Beomgyu glanced at you. "You're not helping."

"I'm not a nutritionist either," you said. "So I have no professional opinion."

Your grandmother nodded approvingly. "See. She knows when to stay in her lane."

Beomgyu sliced the next scallion thinner, holding it up for inspection. Your grandmother squinted at it. "Better. Still ugly, but better."

"That's the nicest thing you've said about my cooking."

"Don't let it go to your head, Beombeom, you still cut the scallions unevenly."

Your grandfather walked in from the garden, a handful of fresh herbs in his fist. He set them on the counter and looked at Beomgyu's cutting board. "Who cut those?"

"Beomgyu did," you said.

Your grandfather picked up a scallion slice and examined it like evidence from a crime scene. "These are uneven."

"I cut them thinner," Beomgyu said.

"They're uneven."

"Thinner, though."

"Uneven and thin." Your grandfather dropped the scallion back onto the board. "That's worse than thick. At least thick is consistent."

Beomgyu looked at you. You shrugged. He looked at your grandmother. She was stirring the pot and pretending not to listen. He looked at your grandfather, who was already washing the herbs and humming to himself.

"I'm going to keep cutting scallions," Beomgyu said quietly. "And no one is going to tell me they're wrong."

"You're wrong," you said.

"I said no one."

"I'm not no one. I'm your coworker and roommate."

"That's the weakest defense I've ever heard."

Your grandmother laughed, loud and warm, and your grandfather smiled into the sink. 

Beomgyu kept cutting, but you saw the corner of his mouth turn up, just a little. He fit here. But that was the thing. He fit.

Your grandmother took over the stove, stirring the beef in the big cast iron pot while your grandfather moved behind her, reaching for spices on the top shelf without being asked. 

They worked like a machine that had been running for decades, no wasted movement, no words needed. Just the quiet hum of two people who knew each other's rhythms better than their own.

You handed Beomgyu a bowl of mushrooms to slice. "These need to be thin. Actually thin. Not Beomgyu thin."

"What's Beomgyu thin?"

"Inconsistent."

He took the bowl. "I'm starting to think you just like insulting me."

"I'm starting to think you just noticed."

Your grandfather snorted from across the kitchen. Beomgyu glanced at him, then back at you, then down at the mushrooms. He sliced them carefully, deliberately, each one uniform and neat. When he finished, he pushed the bowl toward you without a word.

You looked at the mushrooms. Then at him. "These are actually perfect."

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised. I'm suspicious."

He picked up a mushroom slice and held it out to you. "Eat it."

"You want me to eat a raw mushroom?"

"I want you to admit I did a good job."

You took the slice from his fingers and ate it. "Fine. You did a good job."

"Thank you."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

Your grandmother reached over and flicked his ear. "No egos in my kitchen. Only vegetables."

He rubbed his ear but didn't complain. Your grandfather handed him a peeler and a basket of potatoes. "Make yourself useful. And try not to peel your own fingers off."

"I've peeled potatoes before."

"Have you peeled them well?"

Beomgyu took the peeler and got to work. The potatoes were small and knobby, awkward to hold, and you watched him wrestle with one for a moment before your grandmother clicked her tongue again.

"Like this." She took the potato and peeler from his hands, showing him the motion, quick and efficient. The skin came off in one long strip. She handed everything back. "Now you try."

He did. It came out acceptable. Not perfect, but acceptable. Your grandmother nodded once and turned back to the stove.

The kitchen filled with sounds after that. The sizzle of beef hitting hot oil, the rhythmic thunk of your grandfather chopping herbs, the scrape of Beomgyu's peeler against potato after potato. You moved between them all, washing what needed washing, handing over ingredients before anyone had to ask, wiping down the counter when it got too crowded.

At some point your grandmother started humming. An old song, something you'd heard a hundred times growing up. Your grandfather joined in after a while, not singing exactly but humming along, off key and unbothered. Beomgyu paused his peeling to listen.

"She does that," you said quietly. "When she's happy."

He looked at your grandmother's back, then at your grandfather's profile, then at you. "This is what it's supposed to feel like, isn't it."

You didn't ask what he meant. You already knew.

"Yeah," you said. "It is."

He went back to his potatoes. But his shoulders had dropped, that tension he always carried finally loosening, and when your grandmother turned around and pointed her spoon at him, telling him he missed a spot on the third potato, he didn't flinch. He just smiled and picked up the peeler again.

Later that night, the house had gone quiet. 

The dishes were washed, the leftovers packed away, and your grandparents had retreated to their room an hour ago. Now you were in the kitchen, barefoot on the cool tile, assembling a tray of snacks like a woman possessed. Cheese crackers, apple juice, and a bowl of grapes. Perfect since you were rewatching The O.C. for the third time and tonight felt like a Summer episode kind of night.

You carried the tray upstairs, careful not to clink the glass against the plate. The hallway was dark except for the soft glow spilling from the crack of Beomgyu's door. His room was at the end of the hall, the one with the bay window that faced the garden, and through the gap you could hear him playing. It was quiet and slow. The notes drifted out like he was figuring them out as he went, not a song you recognized but a tune that felt familiar anyway.

You stopped outside his door. His cat was curled on the windowsill beside him, tail flicking lazily in time with the music. Beomgyu sat with his back against the wall, one leg stretched out along the cushion, the guitar cradled against his chest. His head was tilted down, hair falling over his forehead, fingers moving across the strings like they knew exactly where to go even when he wasn't looking. 

The bruises on his face had faded to almost nothing now, just faint smudges of yellowish green that caught the lamplight. He looked peaceful.

You watched for a moment longer than you meant to. His cat noticed you first, ears perking up, tail stilling. Beomgyu looked up, following the cat's gaze toward the door.

You knocked softly. "Hey. I got snacks." You lifted the tray. "Can I come in?"

He didn't say anything for a second, just looked at you from across the room, guitar still in his hands. Then he nodded and shifted over on the window seat, making room. His cat meowed. "She says yes," he said.

You laughed and pushed the door open wider.

You stepped inside and settled onto the other side of the bay window, tucking your legs beneath you and balancing the snack tray between your bodies. 

His cat immediately abandoned him to sniff at the crackers. "Traitor," Beomgyu muttered, and you laughed.

The guitar rested against his lap, his fingers still loosely curled around the neck. Scattered across the window seat beside him were sheets of paper covered in handwritten chords and lyrics crossed out and rewritten, some pages torn from notebooks, others just loose scraps with edges worn soft from being folded and unfolded too many times. 

You picked one up without asking but he didn't stop you.

"You wrote these?"

"Tried to." He shifted, suddenly self conscious, reaching for one of the pages like he might hide it. You pulled it out of reach.

"No, don't. I want to see."

"They're not finished."

"So?" You looked at the page in your hand, messy chords and half written lines, something about rain and tram tracks and a window facing the city. "I think they're good."

"You haven't even heard them."

"I don't need to. I can tell."

He stared at you for a moment, something unreadable in his expression, and then he looked down at the guitar and started picking at a string. Not playing anything. Just fidgeting.

You set the page down and leaned back against the window frame, looking at him. The room was soft around you both, warm light from the lamp, the garden dark beyond the glass, his cat now curled between you like a furry paperweight.

"So," you said, smiling into the quiet. "I see we have a future musician in my house."

He snorted. "Future musician huh… that's quite generous of you."

"I'm being serious."

"You're being nice."

"I'm being both." You nudged his knee with yours. "Play something for me, anything, I’m sure it will sound beautiful"

He looked at you for a long moment, guitar still in his hands, and then his fingers found the strings and he started to play. Soft and airy, you watched his hands move as his head tilted the way it did when he was concentrating, and when he glanced up at you halfway through, you were already smiling. 

He didn't look away and neither did you.

The song faded into a gentle finish, his fingers stilling on the strings. The last note hung in the air for a second before disappearing into the quiet of the room.

"Well," he said, looking down at the guitar. "I have another one. It's kind of old, though."

"What's it called?"

He paused, like he was deciding whether to tell you. "Maze in the Mirror."

You tilted your head. "That sounds sad."

"Yeah..." He looked up at you. "It was written a long time ago. Different life."

"Okay lets hear it."

He studied your face for a moment, then adjusted his grip on the guitar and began. The opening chords were familiar in a way you couldn't place, something about the melody pulling at the back of your memory. 

Then he started singing, his voice was low and soulful. The lyrics fell out of him like they'd been sitting in his chest for too long, like he'd been waiting for a reason to let them go. 

You watched his fingers move across the strings, watched his jaw tighten on certain lines, watched his eyes stay fixed on the guitar like looking at you would break something open he wasn't ready to show.

You knew this song was about his life before through the version he was singing right now, the way his voice cracked just slightly on the chorus, the way his shoulders tensed and relaxed with each verse. 

The last chord faded and the room went quiet. His cat stretched and yawned from the windowsill, unbothered by the weight of everything he'd just poured into the space between you.

You didn't say anything for a moment. Neither did he.

Then you reached over and picked up a cracker from the snack tray. "That was really good," you said, keeping your voice light even though your chest felt tight. "You should play more often."

He looked at you like he was waiting for you to say something else, something more deeper. But you just bit into the cracker and smiled, and after a second he let out a breath and smiled back. 

"Pass the cheese," he said.

You handed him the plate happily.

Two months had passed since Beomgyu moved in. 

Two months of morning coffee routines and grocery store bickering and late night guitar sessions that drifted through the hallway like a second heartbeat. 

Two months of the house settling around him, absorbing him into its walls until it became hard to remember what it felt like before he was there. 

The garden had fully bloomed into summer, the camellias long gone but the jasmine still climbing the fence, and the bay window in his room caught the afternoon light at an angle that made everything look golden and soft. He had stopped flinching at unexpected noises. He had started leaving his door open.

The debt collectors hadn't found him. He kept paying, small amounts each month from an account they couldn't trace to an address they didn't have, and for a while he let himself believe that was enough. That they would get tired or perhaps move on to someone else. He didn't want to talk about it. Not to Y/n, not to Soobin, not to your grandparents who had given him a key and a drawer in the kitchen and a place at the table like he'd always been there. He carried it the way he carried everything, quiet and close to his chest, and he told himself it was fine as long as no one else had to carry it with him.

The weekend had started like any other. Saturday morning, sunlight through the kitchen windows, your grandmother humming over a pot of rice while your grandfather read the newspaper at the table. You were still upstairs, probably still half asleep, and Beomgyu had offered to grab the mail from the box at the end of the driveway. Just a short walk. Just a quick errand. Something to do with his hands while the coffee brewed.

The mail was mostly junk– Flyers for pizza places, a coupon for a pharmacy he'd never visited, and an envelope that looked like a bill but wasn't his. He flipped through them walking back, barefoot on the warm pavement, and then he stopped.

One envelope was different, 

Plain white with no return address. 

Just his name written in black ink, block letters, no curves or loops. This came from someone who wanted to make sure he knew exactly who they were looking for.

His name. Choi Beomgyu.

Not the name on the lease. Not the name on any utility bill at this address. Just his name, written by someone who had found him anyway no matter how hard he tried this time.

The coffee inside him turned to ice. He stood there at the end of the driveway, the morning light warm on his shoulders, and he could feel the distance between this moment and the last two months cracking open like something fragile finally breaking. They knew. Somehow, they knew.

He slipped the envelope into his pocket and continued walking toward the house. His face didn't change nor did hands shake. He had spent years learning how to look fine when he wasn't, and that skill didn't leave just because he had somewhere safe to sleep now.

The kitchen smelled like sesame oil when he stepped inside, your grandmother handing him a cup of tea without asking while your grandfather grunted something that might have been good morning from behind his newspaper. You appeared in the doorway a moment later, hair messy and eyes still heavy, yawning into the sleeve of an oversized sweater that might have been his.

"Mail," he said, setting the stack on the counter. All of it. Except the one in his pocket.

You grabbed a flyer and squinted at it. "Pizza sounds good for dinner."

"It's nine in the morning," your grandmother said.

"Planning ahead."

Beomgyu sat down at the table and drank his tea, nodding along to your grandfather's commentary on the weather while his knee bumped against yours under the table when you sat across from him, just because that was something he did now, something casual and warm that meant nothing and everything at once.

The envelope burned against his thigh but he didn't reach for it, not yet, not here.

Later, when the house went quiet and everyone had drifted to their own corners of the weekend, he would open it in his room with his cat curled on the bed and the window cracked open to let in the summer air. He would read whatever was inside, fold the paper back up, hide it somewhere no one would think to look, and go back downstairs like nothing had happened. 

That was what he did. 

That was what he had always done.

But for now, he let his knee rest against yours, and he listened to your grandmother tell a story about the time your grandfather tried to fix the sink and flooded the entire laundry room, and he pretended the world outside this kitchen didn't exist. Just for a little longer.

The afternoon had melted into evening without him noticing, the golden light through the kitchen windows shifting to a softer blue as the house settled into that quiet hum before dinner. 

Beomgyu had spent most of the day trying not to think about the envelope, helping your grandmother with the garden and then your grandfather with some minor repair in the shed, keeping his hands busy so his mind couldn't wander. But now dinner was over and the dishes were done and everyone had retreated to their own corners of the house, and there was nothing left to distract him.

He sat on the edge of his bed with the envelope in his hands, his cat curled at the foot of the mattress, the window cracked open just enough to let in the warm summer air and the distant sound of crickets. 

His thumb slipped under the seal just as three knocks came at his door. 

"Gyu!" Your voice, bright and urgent. "I need your help. Please."

He shoved the envelope under his pillowcase before his brain could catch up with his body, then crossed the room in three strides and pulled the door open. "What happened? Are you okay?"

You were standing in the hallway under the soft glow of the ceiling light, and you were very clearly okay. More than okay. You were wearing a white tube top that cinched at your ribs and fell into a soft ruffle at your waist, paired with a flowy matching skirt that made the whole thing look like a sundress when put together. Your hair was down, slightly curled at the ends, and you smelled like something floral and warm. In your other hand you held a burgundy top and a dark denim mini skirt, the hanger swinging slightly from your fingers.

You stepped past him into the room without waiting for an invitation. 

"Okay, so Chaewon just texted and everyone's going to that new karaoke bar near Hongdae and I haven't seen them in forever so I said yes, but now I can't decide between these two and I need someone with working eyeballs to tell me which one doesn't make me look like I'm trying too hard."

Beomgyu blinked at you. 

The words registered somewhere in the back of his brain but they were taking their time reaching the front because the front was currently occupied with the way the white fabric sat against your shoulders, the way your collarbones caught the dim light from his lamp, the way your hair fell in soft waves instead of its usual messy bun or ponytail. He had seen you in aprons and oversized sweaters and pajamas at seven in the morning.

He had never seen you like this.

His ears went pink. He could feel them burning and there was nothing he could do about it except hope the lighting was too low for you to notice.

"The white one," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he meant it to.

You tilted your head. "You didn't even look at the burgundy one."

He looked at it. Briefly. Then back at you. "White."

"You're not even considering the other option."

"Because the other option isn't on you right now."

The words hung in the air between you but he didn't take them back, just stood there in his doorway with his arms crossed and his ears burning, watching your face for whatever came next. 

You stared at him for a second, mouth slightly open, and then you looked down at yourself like you were seeing the white outfit for the first time.

"So," you said slowly, "you're saying the white one."

"I'm saying the white one."

"The white one that I'm currently wearing."

"That's the one."

You laughed, a little breathless, and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. His eyes followed the movement. "Okay," you said. "White it is.”

"So," you said, still holding the burgundy top, "do you maybe want to come? Chaewon said to bring friends. No matter who they are, like literally anyone. She once brought her cousin who didn't speak for three hours and everyone still had a good time.

Friends.

The word landed somewhere in his chest, not hard enough to hurt but enough to notice because that's what he was, that's what he was supposed to be, and he wasn't sure why it made something in his stomach drop.

"I don't know," he said, looking away. "I don't really have anything to wear. And you know I'm not good with the whole socializing thing."

You waved your hand like that was irrelevant. "You can borrow something from my grandpa and besides you don't have to talk. You can just stand there and look mysterious, Everyone likes the mysterious guy."

"That's not a real thing."

"It's absolutely a real thing. Ella would lose her mind."

He didn't answer. You watched him for a moment, head tilted, and he could feel you trying to read whatever was happening behind his face. Then you shrugged and grabbed the burgundy top off his bed. "Okay. No pressure. But the offer's there."

She headed for the door, then paused, turning back. "For the record, I think you'd look fine in anything." And then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving him alone with his cat and the unopened envelope on the nightstand and the strange hollow feeling in his chest that he refused to name.

"Wait."

The word came out before he could stop it. He heard your footsteps pause in the hallway.

Beomgyu stood up, crossed the room, and opened the door. You were still there, holding the burgundy top, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

"I'll come," he said. "Just give me five minutes to find something to wear."

Your eyebrows went higher. "Really?"

"Really."

A slow smile spread across your face, the kind that made his stomach do something stupid. "Okay. Five minutes. I'll wait downstairs."

You turned and walked toward the stairs, and he watched you go, watched the white skirt sway with each step, and tried not to think about why he had changed his mind. 

He could tell himself it was because you had asked. He could tell himself it was because he owed you for everything. He could tell himself a lot of things. 

But the truth was simpler and uglier and he didn't want to look at it too closely. The truth was the thought of some guy at that bar seeing you the way he was seeing you right now, in that white outfit with your hair down and your smile easy, made something hot and restless coil in his chest. 

He had no right to feel that way. 

He had nothing to offer. 

He was a guy with debt and a dead father and an envelope hidden under his pillow that he was too scared to open. But he was also a guy who couldn't stand the idea of you walking into that bar alone, so he would go. 

He would stand in the corner and look mysterious or whatever you had called it, and he would make sure you got home safe, and that was all, that was enough, it had to be.

He closed the door and walked to his closet. His cat meowed at him from the bed. "Don't," he said, pulling open the closet door. She meowed again but he ignored her.

You were leaning against the car when he came out, scrolling through your phone, the white outfit glowing under the porch light. You looked up at the sound of the front door closing and your eyes did a slow scan from his boots to his face.

"Well, well," you said, pocketing your phone. "Who said you didn't have anything to wear?"

Beomgyu looked down at himself. Dark brown leather jacket, a plain white shirt underneath, dark baggy jeans that actually fit him properly for once. He had found the jacket in the back of his closet, something he hadn't worn since before his father disappeared, and the jeans were old but clean. 

"I found stuff."

"That's Soobin's jacket, isn't it?"

His hand went to the collar. "Maybe."

"You two share clothes?"

"We lived together in college. Things got mixed up." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "He never asked for it back."

You tilted your head, still looking at him, and then you smiled the way you did when you were about to say something annoying. "You look good."

He scratched the back of his neck, heat creeping up his ears. "Thanks."

"Come on, let's go." You opened the driver's door and slid inside. He got in the passenger side, shutting the door behind him, and the car smelled like the air freshener you'd hung on the rearview mirror weeks ago, vanilla and clean.

You started the engine but didn't pull out yet, adjusting your mirrors out of habit. Beomgyu buckled his seatbelt and stared at his hands in his lap.

"Thank you," he said. "For driving, I mean. I would, you know, if I ever had the opportunity to learn…or even touch a car." His voice got quieter at the end, his jaw tightening as he looked down at his empty hands.

You didn't say anything for a moment, then you giggled soft and warm and reached over to ruffle his hair, his head bobbing with the motion as your fingers lingered for a second before pulling away.

"Don't worry about it," you said. "You always got me."

You smiled at him, easy and sure, like the words cost you nothing but meant everything. He stared at you for a second too long, felt his pulse trip over itself, and turned toward the window before his face could give him away.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go."

You put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway, Beomgyu watching the house disappear behind them with the envelope still on his nightstand and his cat probably sprawled across his pillow, but he didn't think about any of that, he just watched the streetlights blur past and tried to ignore how warm his head still felt where your hand had been.

The karaoke bar was tucked in a basement on a busy Hongdae side street, the entrance marked by a neon pink sign that flickered like it was about to give up. You led the way down the stairs with Beomgyu behind you, the thump of bass getting louder with each step until the door swung open and the room hit them both at once, dim lighting and the smell of buttered popcorn and someone absolutely butchering a 2000s ballad on the small stage near the back.

Your friends had claimed a long section of booths and mismatched couches pushed together near the windows, drinks already scattered across the low table and jackets draped over the backs of chairs. Chaewon spotted you first and waved both arms like she was signaling a rescue helicopter. "Finally! I was about to send a search party."

"Traffic," you said, sliding your bag onto an empty spot on the couch.

"It's ten at night," Ella said flatly. "There's no traffic."

"There's always traffic when I'm driving."

"Now that's just a skill issue, not a traffic issue."

You ignored her and turned to Beomgyu, who was standing slightly behind you like he was considering the nearest exit. The room had gone a little quieter, not silent but noticeably more aware, a few pairs of eyes doing the quick scan that happened whenever someone new walked in.

"Everyone, this is Beomgyu," you said. "He's my friend. And my favorite coworker."

Beomgyu gave a small nod. "Hi."

Chaewon leaned forward with her chin in her hand. "Favorite coworker. That's cute. Does Yeonjun know?"

"Yeonjun knows his place."

Sohee snorted from the corner. "Which is second place, apparently."

Beomgyu's shoulders relaxed a fraction. Taehyun, who was sitting next to Chaewon with an easy slouch, raised his drink in Beomgyu's direction. "Taehyun. Chaewon's boyfriend. She talks a lot but she means well."

"I don't talk a lot," Chaewon said. "I'm selectively verbal."

"You've never been selective a day in your life," Taehyun said.

She kicked him under the table and he didn't even flinch but smiled instead.

Kai leaned across Ella to wave at Beomgyu, all limbs and chaos. "I'm Kai. Ella's cousin. She told me you guys work at a flower shop slash cafe. That must be nice. Do you ever take home the flowers that are about to die? I feel like that's a job perk nobody talks about."

Beomgyu blinked. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes," Kai repeated, turning to Ella. "He said sometimes. That's so humble. I would take them every day. My room would look like a funeral."

"You would also forget to water them and they'd die faster," Ella said.

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

Kai opened his mouth, closed it, then grabbed another tangerine. "I'll get back to you on that."

Yujin waved from the far end of the couch, sandwiched between Sohee and Sungchan. "Ignore them. They're like this all the time. I'm Yujin. This is Sohee and Sungchan. We work together so we're basically trauma bonded."

Sohee gave a small wave, his expression friendly but lowkey like he was already halfway to sleep. "Don't let her scare you. She's the one who started the trauma bonding."

"I started it because you two are useless without me," Yujin said.

Sungchan didn't look up from his phone but raised a hand in Beomgyu's direction. "Sungchan. I'm the useless one she's referring to."

"You're not useless," Sohee said. "You just have nothing to say ninety percent of the time."

"That's called being smart," Sungchan said. "If you don't open your mouth, you can't say anything stupid."

Sohee considered this. "That's actually not wrong."

"It's not right either," Yujin cut in. "It's just an excuse to be antisocial."

Sungchan shrugged. "I'm okay with that.”

Yuna was curled at the end of the couch with a soda in her hands, not saying much, but she offered Beomgyu a small smile when he glanced her way.

You bumped your shoulder against his. "See? Not so scary."

"I wasn't scared. I just don't know why everyone here has so much energy."

"It's called being social. You should try it sometime."

"I am being social. I showed up, I'm standing here and I haven't walked out the door."

"That's the bare minimum and you know it."

He looked at you with that flat expression he did so well, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "You invited me. You said I could stand in the corner and look mysterious."

"I lied. You have to actually interact now."

"That feels like a trap."

"It's not a trap, it's just what happens when you show up to things you know. People expect you to ‘participate.’"

"That wasn't in the job description."

"You don't have a job description. You're not employed here."

"Then technically I don't have to listen to you."

You narrowed your eyes at him and he just raised his eyebrows back with the smallest hint of a smile threatening his mouth, Kai watching the whole exchange like a tennis match.

He stared at you and you stared back until he finally sighed, shoving his hands deeper into his jacket pockets before turning to face the group. "I'm Beomgyu. I work at a cafe. I don't sing."

Kai immediately pointed at him. "That's exactly what someone who can sing would say."

Beomgyu didn't blink. "Then I guess you'll never know."

Kai gasped. Ella kicked him. "Sit down."

"I am sitting."

"Then sit quieter."

Chaewon patted the empty space on the couch next to her. "Sit, sit. We're doing shots in ten minutes and I need someone to hold my hair back."

"I'm not holding your hair back," Taehyun said.

"I wasn't talking to you."

Beomgyu sat down on the edge of the couch, close enough to you that your shoulders almost touched. He didn't say much after that, just listened, watched, let the noise of the room wash over him while you laughed at something Ella said and Chaewon stole a fry off Taehyun's plate and Kai tried to convince everyone that he could sing, which based on the look on Ella's face, was a lie. But he was there, and when your knee bumped against his under the table he didn't move it away.

Chaewon passed out drinks and Taehyun queued up a song, some slow R&B thing that he definitely picked because Chaewon liked it. She rolled her eyes but she was smiling, and when he started singing she leaned her head against his shoulder like it was nothing, like that was just what they did. 

Sohee and Yujin were in the middle of a heated debate about whether a hot dog counted as a sandwich while Sungchan offered zero input, just nodding along like he was getting paid to be there. 

Kai had migrated to the snack table and was building a small tower of tangerines.

Ella slid closer to you on the couch, lowering her voice. "He's cute."

"Who."

"Don't play dumb. The coworker."

You glanced at Beomgyu. He was watching Taehyun sing with an unreadable expression, his hands resting on his knees, his whole posture careful like he was still figuring out how to exist in this room. "He's just a friend."

"Uh huh."

"He is."

"I didn't say he wasn't." Ella popped a piece of popcorn in her mouth. "I just said he's cute. You're the one getting defensive."

"I'm not getting defensive."

"You're literally clenching your jaw."

You unclenched your jaw while Ella smirked. Goodness you hated her sometimes.

Yuna finally spoke up from the end of the couch, soft and quiet. "Beomgyu, do you sing?"

Everyone turned to look at him. He stiffened slightly. "Not really."

"Liar," you said.

"I'm not a liar. I just don't sing in public."

"So you sing in private."

"That's not the same thing."

Kai abandoned his tangerine tower and pointed at Beomgyu. "That's exactly the same thing. Singing is singing. Location doesn't matter."

"Location absolutely matters," Beomgyu said.

"So if you were alone in a room with no one watching, you'd sing?"

"That's not what I said."

"That's what you implied."

"You're putting words in my mouth."

"I'm extrapolating." Kai looked around the table for support. No one gave it to him. "Fine. Be mysterious. See if I care."

Ella grabbed Kai by the back of his shirt and yanked him back to his seat. "Sit down. You're doing too much."

"I'm being friendly."

"You're being a lot."

Kai looked genuinely hurt for half a second before he shrugged and grabbed another tangerine.

Taehyun finished his song and the room clapped, Chaewon loudest of all. He handed the mic to Sohee, who immediately passed it to Yujin, who passed it to Sungchan, who looked at it like it was a cursed object. "No," he said, and set it down.

"Boring," Yujin said.

"Cry about it," Sungchan replied.

The night rolled on like that, easy and loud and full of small moments that didn't mean much individually but added up to something warm. Beomgyu didn't talk a lot but he laughed once, quiet and real, when Kai tried to do a backflip off the couch and landed on Taehyun instead. He caught you looking at him and held your gaze for a second before looking away, but his ears were pink again and you pretended not to notice.

By 11:30 the place had shifted. The ballad singers had cleared out and someone had cranked the bass, the main area near the stage turning into an unspoken dance floor with bodies moving under the pulsing lights. 

Your friends were scattered across the room now, Chaewon pulling Taehyun by the wrist toward the crowd while Yujin screamed along to a song neither of them knew, and Kai had somehow convinced Ella to stop judging him long enough to attempt whatever it was he was doing with his arms. Sohee and Sungchan had disappeared somewhere near the bar, and Yuna was swaying by herself near the speakers with her eyes closed, looking happier than you'd seen her all night.

You were standing near the edge of the dance floor with a warm drink in your hand that you'd been nursing for the past hour, watching everyone let loose while the bass vibrated through the floor and up your legs. Beomgyu leaned toward you, his mouth close to your ear so you could hear him over the music. "Bathroom."

You nodded and he slipped away through the crowd, his dark jacket disappearing between bodies and flashing lights until you couldn't see him anymore. Ella appeared at your side a moment later, grabbing your arm and yelling something about the chorus drop that you couldn't quite make out, but you let her pull you into the mess of it anyway, laughing as she spun you around under the neon glow.

Beomgyu pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, the bass fading slightly as he neared the hallway that led to the bathrooms. The air was cooler back here, less crowded, and he let himself exhale properly for the first time since they'd arrived. 

He wasn't super drunk but the noise was starting to get to him, the press of bodies and the constant yelling over music, and he needed a minute to just stand still.

The bathroom was to his left but a sound came from somewhere else, a voice drifting through a window at the end of the hallway where the building opened up to a narrow alley. The window was old and wooden, the glass smudged with city grime, and it was cracked open just enough for the night air to slip through. 

He recognized the voice before he saw the face. That calm, almost irritatingly ‘friendly’ tone that made his blood run cold. The older man from that night outside his apartment, the one with the scar through his eyebrow and the pitying smile.

Beomgyu's feet stopped moving. His chest tightened the way it always did when he thought about that night, the way his body remembered the pain before his brain could catch up. 

He should walk away. 

He should go back to the dance floor and find you and pretend he hadn't heard anything. But something kept him there, frozen by the window, peering through the crack in the glass.

The alley was dim, lit by a single flickering bulb above a dumpster, and the older man was standing with two other guys Beomgyu didn't recognize. 

They weren't threatening anyone tonight. 

They weren't collecting debts or shaking down scared kids. 

They were passing small wrapped packages between them like it was nothing, just another transaction on just another night. One of them handed over a roll of cash and the older man pocketed it without even looking down.

Beomgyu's hands started shaking but he pulled out his phone anyway, moving slowly, carefully, making sure the light from the screen didn't give him away. 

He angled it through the crack in the window and pressed record. The video was grainy and dark but you could see enough, the exchange, the packages, the casual way they conducted business like they owned the alley. 

He filmed for maybe twenty seconds, thirty, until the older man looked up and Beomgyu's heart stopped. But the man was just glancing at the fire escape, not the window, and Beomgyu slipped his phone back into his pocket and stepped away from the glass.

His legs felt unsteady as he walked back toward the crowd, his pulse loud in his ears. He kept his head down, his hands in his pockets, his face neutral the way he'd learned to make it over years of hiding. 

No one looked at him twice. No one followed him. 

The music was still loud and the lights were still flashing and your friends were still dancing like nothing had happened because nothing had happened to them. He found you near the edge of the floor with Ella, your hair slightly damp at the temples and your smile wide, and something in his chest ached at how normal you looked, how untouched by the world he came from.

He didn't say anything, he just stood beside you and waited for you to notice him. When you did, you grabbed his wrist and tried to pull him into the mess of bodies but he shook his head, leaning close to your ear. "Not too late, okay? We should head out soon."

You looked at him for a second, studying his face, and he knew you could see something was off even if you didn't know what. But you just nodded and squeezed his wrist once before letting go. "Give me ten more minutes."

He nodded and stepped back toward the edge of the room, finding a spot against the wall where he could watch the door and the crowd and the alley window all at once. His phone was heavy in his pocket and the video was still there. He didn't know what he was going to do with it but for the first time in months he had something they didn't know he had, and that felt like power even if it also felt like fear.

By twelve thirty any plan of leaving early had gone out the window. Your friends were absolutely wrecked, Chaewon hanging off Taehyun's neck while he tried to keep her upright, Kai attempting to teach Ella a dance move that involved way too much hip for someone with his coordination, and Yujin screaming the lyrics to a song that wasn't even playing anymore. Even Yuna had loosened up, her arm around Sohee's shoulder as they swayed somewhere near the speakers.

You were drunk too, he could tell. 

You were just the floaty kind of drunk where everything was funnier and brighter and your body moved without asking permission. You had both hands in the air and your head thrown back, laughing at something no one else could hear, and the white outfit you'd chosen was glowing under the lights like you were the only person in the room he could actually see.

He wasn't completely gone, not like Chaewon who was currently using Taehyun as a human railing, but he was definitely past the point of overthinking. The alcohol had smoothed out his edges, made the lights less harsh and the music less overwhelming, and somewhere between the second drink and the third time you'd grabbed his hand to pull him closer, he'd stopped caring about being careful. His hands had found your waist around the third track and they hadn't left since, your back pressed against his chest while you moved together like you'd been doing this for years instead of minutes.

You turned around to face him, your arms looping over his shoulders and your face way too close to his. "You know," you said, breathless and grinning, "we really should be going home soon."

"Yeah," he said, his voice lower than he meant it to be. "We should."

You tilted your head, your smile turning sly. "But why would we when we're having such a good time?"

Your hands slid down his chest, palms flat against the fabric of his shirt, and he swore his heart stopped. "You are having a good time, right?" You looked him up and down, slow and deliberate, like you were taking inventory of everything he was trying to hide. "Right, Beomgyu?"

He should say something clever. He should make a joke or deflect or do literally anything other than stand there with his hands burning where they were resting on your hips. But you were looking at him like that and your breath was warm on his jaw and the beat was thrumming through both of you and he couldn't remember why he was supposed to be careful.

"Yeah," he said, and his voice came out rough. "Let's enjoy ourselves."

Your smile widened and you pulled him closer, your body fitting against his like it was made to be there, and when you started moving again it was different than before. 

Slower. Closer. 

His hands slid up your back and your fingers curled into his hair and neither of you were laughing anymore. The eye contact was too much and not enough, your gaze dropping to his mouth for half a second before snapping back up, and he saw the exact moment you decided to stop thinking about it.

You kissed him first. Or he kissed you. He couldn't tell anymore. All he knew was that your mouth was on his and his back was against the wall and your hands were in his hair and his hands were everywhere, your waist, your jaw, the back of your neck, pulling you closer like he was afraid you'd disappear. 

You tasted like the sweet drink you'd been nursing all night and something else, something that was just you, and when you made a small sound against his mouth he thought he might lose his mind.

The music was still loud and the lights were still flashing and your friends were still dancing somewhere behind you but none of it mattered. You were kissing him like you'd been waiting for permission and he was kissing you like he'd finally stopped pretending he didn't want to. 

Your teeth grazed his bottom lip and his breath hitched, his fingers tightening on your waist as you pressed closer, and closer, until there was no space left between you at all.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead against his, noses brushing. His hands were still on your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your white top like he was afraid you'd slip away. Your eyes were half closed, lips swollen, and when you let out a small breathless laugh he felt it against his mouth.

"Fuck," he murmured, barely audible over the music.

You laughed again, softer this time, and your fingers traced along his jaw. "Yeah."

He kissed you again before you could say anything else, slower this time but deeper, his hand sliding up your back to cup the back of your neck. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and when his tongue brushed against your lower lip you made a sound that went straight through him. 

His other hand moved from your waist to your hip, then back to your waist, then down to your thigh, never staying in one place too long but never going anywhere he shouldn't. He didn't know the rules for this, had never really done this before, but your body was warm against his and you kept making those small sounds and he just wanted to keep hearing them.

You broke the kiss again, both of you breathing hard, and he rested his forehead against yours. Your noses touched, your breath mixing with his, and he could see the way your pupils were blown wide, the way your lip gloss had smeared, the way your hair had escaped from wherever you'd tucked it earlier.

"Beomgyu," you whispered, and his name in your mouth sounded different than it ever had before.

"Yeah," he said, his thumb tracing small circles on your hip.

You smiled, slow and a little dazed, and reached up to push his hair out of his face. It fell right back. You did it again. He caught your wrist gently and pressed a kiss to your palm, and your breath hitched the same way he had minutes ago.

"Your hair's a mess," you said.

"So is yours."

You looked at each other for a second, then both laughed, quiet and drunk and something else, something that felt like falling. He kissed you again just because he could, just because you were right there and your mouth was warm and you kissed him back like you'd been waiting for it. 

His hands stayed on your waist, your hips, the small of your back, everywhere but nowhere he shouldn't go, and when you bit his lower lip gently he made a sound that he'd be embarrassed about later but right now he didn't care.

What finally broke the moment wasn't either of them pulling away. It was Kai attempting another backflip off the couch, missing entirely, and landing sprawled across Taehyun's lap with his legs in the air like an overturned beetle. 

Chaewon screamed with laughter while Ella just stood there shaking her head, and even Sungchan looked up from his phone for the first time all night.

You pulled back just enough to see what was happening, your body still pressed against Beomgyu's, his arms still loose around your waist. When you caught sight of Kai flailing on the floor you burst out laughing, the sound bright and breathless, and he couldn't help but laugh too because your laugh was contagious and the whole night had become something he didn't recognize anymore.

"Okay," you said, still giggling, your forehead dropping against his shoulder. "Okay, now it's time to go home."

"Yeah," he said, his chin resting on top of your head. "Let's go."

You stayed like that for a second longer, his arms around you and your face buried in his chest, neither of you in any real rush. Then you pulled back and looked up at him, your eyes still hazy and your smile still wide, and you reached out to smooth down his hair even though it was already a lost cause.

"Come on," you said, grabbing his hand. "Let's sober up a bit first."

He let you pull him through the crowd, his fingers laced with yours, and when you looked back at him over your shoulder he was already looking at you.

Soon enough he pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, the street quiet except for the distant hum of summer crickets. Before you could reach for the door handle, his hand was over your mouth and his other arm was pushing you down, both of you ducking below the dashboard as his body angled itself over yours like a shield.

"What the–" you started, muffled against his palm.

"Shh." His voice was barely a breath, his face close to yours, eyes wide and focused on something outside the windshield. "Don't move. Don't make a sound."

You followed his gaze through the gap between the dashboard and the steering wheel. Three figures were standing near the front gate of your grandparents' house, their silhouettes dark against the porch light, one of them pointing toward the upstairs windows like they were trying to confirm something. 

Your blood turned to ice. The alcohol in your system did nothing to dull the recognition. These were the men. The ones from his apartment. The ones who had left him bruised and bleeding on his own floor.

Beomgyu's hand slowly lowered from your mouth, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin. He pressed himself closer to you, his body blocking your view of the men outside, his forehead almost touching yours.

"Y/n," he whispered, and his voice was steadier than you expected, steadier than you felt. "I need you to listen to me, okay? I need you to quietly and secretly run toward the back gate and go inside the house from there. Do not make any noise and do not turn back around for me. Do you understand?"

You shook your head, your hands clutching at his jacket. "No, no, no, Beomgyu–"

"Hey." He cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, and you realized you were crying, hot tears spilling down your face that you hadn't even noticed forming. "This will all pass soon. I have something that can protect us in my phone, but right now I need you to be safe, okay? I'll handle this. I'll make sure to not disrupt your grandparents' sleep."

"Promise me," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Promise me you'll be okay. Please."

You held out your pinky, small and childish and desperate, and he looked at it for a second before wrapping his pinky around yours. His grip was warm and solid.

"I promise," he said. Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead, soft and quick. "Go. Wait for my signal. Two minutes or when I blink like this." He blinked once, twice, a slow pattern you'd remember. "Be careful, Y/n."

You nodded, wiping your face with the back of your hand. "You too, Gyu."

He gave you a small nod and then you were moving, slipping out of the car as quietly as you could, crouching low as you made your way toward the back gate. You didn't look back. You couldn't. You just ran, barefoot on the cool grass, your heart pounding so loud you were sure the whole neighborhood could hear it.

Behind you, Beomgyu watched the three men until you disappeared around the corner of the house. Then he sat up slowly, opened the car door, and stepped out into the summer night.

He stepped out of the car and closed the door with a soft click, the sound barely audible over the crickets. The summer air was warm and thick, the kind of night that usually felt like a blanket, but right now it felt like a hand around his throat. 

He didn't run. He didn't hide. He couldn't.

He just walked toward the front gate with his hands loose at his sides and his face blank, the same expression he'd worn the first time they'd found him outside his apartment.

The older man saw him first. He was leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed, the same scar cutting through his eyebrow, the same grey threading his dark hair. He didn't straighten up or act surprised. He just smiled, slow and pleased, like he'd been waiting for this moment all along.

"Well, well," he said, pushing off the wall. "The prodigal son finally comes out of hiding."

The other two turned. One of them was the younger man from that night, the one with the sharp jaw and the empty eyes who had grabbed Beomgyu's hair and yanked his head back. The third was someone new, bigger, broader, his face hard in the way that came from years of doing exactly this kind of work. They flanked the older man like shadows, not quite surrounding Beomgyu but close enough to make the message clear.

"We've been looking for you," the older man continued, stepping closer. 

"You're harder to find than we expected. New address, new job, new little life tucked away in the nice part of town." He glanced up at your grandparents' house, at the warm light glowing in the upstairs window. "Cozy. Very cozy. You really think you could hide here forever?"

Beomgyu didn't answer. He just kept walking, slow and deliberate, angling his body so that his back was to the car and his face was toward the men. The movement was natural, unforced, like he was just shifting his weight. But he was turning them. Turning their faces away from the driveway, away from the passenger door, away from where you were supposed to be.

The younger man noticed something, a flicker of suspicion crossing his face, but before he could look behind him the older man spoke again.

"Cat got your tongue? That's not like you. Last time we talked, you had plenty to say. Something about not being your father's mistakes." He laughed, short and humorless. "Look where that got you. Running. Hiding. Playing house with some girl who doesn't even know what you are."

Beomgyu's jaw tightened but he didn't speak. His eyes flicked toward the house, toward the back gate, toward the window where he hoped you would stay safe. 

He blinked. Once. Twice. A slow pattern. 

The signal.

The older man noticed his distraction and stepped directly into his line of sight. "I'm talking to you, boy. You think ignoring us is going to make us go away? You think moving out of that shithole apartment and shacking up with some rich girl's family means you don't owe us anymore?"

"It doesn't work like that," the younger man said, his voice soft and sharp at the same time. "You can run anywhere you want. Change your number. Change your name. We'll always find you."

Beomgyu's heart was pounding but his face stayed still. His phone was still in the car, sitting in the cup holder where he'd left it after filming in the alley, the video still there, the evidence that could end all of this. 

But he couldn't use it now anyway. Not here. Not with you in the house and your grandparents asleep upstairs. He needed you safe first. That was all that mattered.

"I've been paying," he said finally, his voice low and steady. "Every month. I haven't missed a payment."

"Paying," the older man repeated, mocking. "You've been throwing scraps at us and calling it payment. You think that covers what your father owed? You think that covers the interest? The inconvenience of tracking you down?"

"I'll pay more."

"When?"

Beomgyu didn't answer. The older man stepped closer, close enough that Beomgyu could smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes, the same smell from that night outside his apartment.

"Here's the thing, Beomgyu." His voice dropped, almost gentle, which made it worse. "We've been patient with you. Very patient. But patience has a price, and you're running out of time." He glanced toward the house again, his eyes lingering on the upstairs window. "Nice place. Shame if something happened to it. Or the people inside."

Beomgyu's hands curled into fists at his sides but he didn't move. He couldn't. Not yet.

"You stay away from them," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he meant it to.

The older man raised his eyebrows. "Or what? You'll call the police? You'll hire a lawyer with all that money you don't have?" He laughed again, soft and cruel.

"You're nothing, kid. You've always been nothing. The only reason you're still breathing is because we're generous."

The younger man shifted beside him, cracking his knuckles. "We could change that."

Beomgyu held his ground. His eyes flicked toward the house one more time. The upstairs window was dark now. You were inside. You were safe.

"Double," the older man said, holding up two fingers. "Double what you've been paying, starting this week. And if you try to run again, if you try to hide, we won't come looking for you." He smiled, and there was nothing friendly in it anymore. "We'll come looking for her."

Beomgyu's blood ran cold. He stared at the man, his face unreadable, but something behind his eyes shifted. Hardened.

"I'll have the money," he said quietly.

The older man studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Good. That's what I like to hear." He stepped back, gesturing to the other two. "See? He learns. Eventually."

The younger man didn't move. He was still watching Beomgyu with that empty stare, his head tilted like he was trying to figure out what made him tick. 

"You know, I don't believe him," he said, not to the older man but to no one in particular. "He's got that look again. The one where he thinks he's smarter than us."

"I don't think I'm smarter than anyone," Beomgyu said.

"No, you definitely do." The younger man took a step closer, invading his space. "You think because you moved into this nice house with this nice girl that you're above all this. Like you're better than the rest of the filth we deal with." He reached out and flicked Beomgyu's collar the same way he had that night outside the apartment. 

"You're not better. You're just luckier. And luck runs out."

Beomgyu didn't flinch. "Are you done?"

The younger man's eyes narrowed. The older man put a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. "Easy. He's not worth it."

"He's never worth it," the younger man muttered, but he stepped back.

The older man turned to leave, then paused, looking over his shoulder at Beomgyu. "One more thing. That girl you're so concerned about. The one watching from the window." He nodded toward the house. "She seems nice. Pretty. Probably has a bright future ahead of her. It would be a shame if she got caught up in something she doesn't understand."

Beomgyu's blood boiled but he kept his face neutral. "She's not involved."

"She is now. You brought her into this the second you moved into her house." The older man smiled, thin and cold. 

"So here's what's going to happen. You're going to come with us. Right now. We're going to have a conversation somewhere more private, and we're going to discuss a new payment plan. One that doesn't involve you hiding behind your girlfriend's family."

Beomgyu's heart dropped. "No."

"It wasn't a question."

The younger man grabbed his arm. Beomgyu wrenched it free, stepping back, his fists coming up before he could think about it. "I said no. You don't touch her. You don't talk about her. You don't even look at this house again."

The older man's expression shifted, something darker flickering behind his eyes. 

"And what exactly are you going to do to stop us?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping low. "You're nothing. You have nothing. No money, no power, no backup. Just a girl who doesn't know what she's gotten herself into and a house full of old people who'll be dead before the decade's over." He tilted his head, mockingly sweet. "Is that really what you want to protect? A temporary situation?"

Beomgyu swung before he could think. His fist connected with the older man's jaw and the man staggered back, hand flying to his face, blood already seeping between his fingers. The younger man's eyes went wide for half a second before they turned cold, and then the bigger one was on Beomgyu, slamming him against the stone wall.

"You're going to regret that," the older man said, wiping the blood from his lip. He was smiling now, a thin red smear across his teeth. "You're going to regret that so much."

The bigger man's fist drove into Beomgyu's stomach and the air left his lungs in a rush. He doubled over, gasping, but the younger man grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. 

"Look at me," he said. "Look at me when we're hurting you."

Beomgyu spat blood on the ground and didn't say a word.

The younger man hit him across the face, once, twice, and Beomgyu's head snapped to the side each time. His ears were ringing. His vision was blurry. He could taste copper on his tongue. But he didn't make a sound. He refused to make a sound because if he made a sound you would hear it and you were already scared enough.

"Still so quiet," the younger man murmured, almost admiring. "Still so stubborn. You know what I think? I think you like this. I think you like getting beat up because it's the only time anyone pays attention to you."

Beomgyu didn't answer. He just stood there, swaying, blood dripping from his split lip onto the collar of his white shirt.

The older man grabbed him by the chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "This is the new payment plan," he said softly. "Every month, we come here. Every month, we take something from you. Money, blood, it doesn't matter to us. What matters is that you understand you belong to us now. Not to her. Not to this house. To us."

Upstairs, you watched from behind the curtain with your hand clamped over your mouth so hard your teeth were cutting into your palm. Tears were streaming down your face but you couldn't look away, couldn't move, couldn't breathe. 

Beomgyu was on his knees now, the bigger man's hand around his throat, and you could see the way his body was trembling, the way his hands were shaking even as he tried to push himself back up.

You wanted to call the police. You reached for your phone and realized it was still in the car as well. Beomgyu's phone was in the cup holder, you remembered suddenly, he had left it there when he got out. 

You grabbed your keys and turned to run downstairs but then you saw it, a light flicking on in the house across the street. The neighbor's kid. 17 years old, home from school for the summer, always up late playing video games. His window faced the street. 

He had seen everything.

The younger man pulled Beomgyu up by his jacket and shoved him against the wall, his forearm pressing across Beomgyu's throat. "Say something," he hissed. "Say something so I have a reason to keep going."

Beomgyu looked past him, past the wall, past the street, toward the dark window where he knew you were watching. His lips moved but no sound came out.

"What was that?" the younger man said, leaning closer.

Beomgyu smiled. It was small and bloody and barely there, but it was enough. "You're going to jail," he whispered.

The younger man's face contorted with rage. He drew back his fist and Beomgyu braced himself but the blow never came because the sound of sirens cut through the night, distant at first, then closer, then right around the corner. Blue and red lights flickered across the houses, across the trees, across the blood spattered on the grass.

The older man's head snapped up. The younger one swore. The bigger one was already backing away.

"Someone called the cops," the younger man hissed.

"We need to go. Now." The older man grabbed Beomgyu by the collar and shoved him to the ground. "This isn't over. You hear me? This isn't over."

They ran, but they didn't get far. Police cars blocked both ends of the street, officers pouring out with flashlights and radios, and within seconds the three men were on the ground with their hands cuffed behind their backs. The older man was still staring at Beomgyu when they pulled him up, his eyes cold and knowing, like he'd already figured out how to get out of this.

But Beomgyu didn't see that. He was on the ground, curled on his side, his face pressed into the cool grass. His right eye was swollen shut. His lip was split in two places. His ribs screamed every time he breathed. But he was alive, and you were safe, and the men who had been hunting him were in handcuffs.

An officer crouched down beside him. "Sir, can you hear me? Can you tell me what happened?"

Beomgyu opened his mouth but no words came out. Everything hurts. Everything was spinning. And then he heard your voice, calling his name from somewhere far away, and he tried to turn toward it but his body wouldn't cooperate. 

The officer was saying something about an ambulance, about keeping him still, about not moving his neck, but Beomgyu wasn't listening anymore. He was thinking about the way you had smiled at him earlier, in the car, right before everything went wrong. He was thinking about the way you had said his name like it meant everything.

The last thing he saw before the world went dark was the flashing blue and red lights reflecting off the window of your bedroom, and he hoped you weren't watching anymore. He hoped you had turned away. He hoped you didn't have to see him like this.

The days after that night blurred into something shapeless, something that didn't feel like time so much as a slow drowning. You sat in the same plastic chair beside Beomgyu's hospital bed for what could have been hours or days or weeks, you couldn't tell anymore. 

The room was small and white and smelled like antiseptic and something floral from the arrangement someone had left on the windowsill, you couldn't remember who. Your grandparents had come and gone in shifts, your grandmother holding your face in her hands and telling you to eat something, your grandfather standing at the foot of the bed with his jaw tight and his hand on Beomgyu's ankle like he was trying to anchor him to this world.

You looked terrible. 

You knew you looked terrible because you caught your reflection in the dark screen of your phone and barely recognized yourself. Your hair was tangled in a knot at the back of your head, your eyes were swollen from crying and lack of sleep, and you were wearing an oversized zip up hoodie over a faded sleep shirt with a cartoon character on it that you'd had since high school. The shorts you'd thrown on in the dark were wrinkled and uneven, and the sandals on your feet were from your grandmother's closet, one size too big and not matching anything else you had on. 

You didn't care. You couldn't care. The only thing that mattered was the rise and fall of Beomgyu's chest under the thin hospital blanket.

He looked worse than you. 

His face was a mess of purple and yellow bruises, his right eye still swollen shut despite the doctors saying the swelling would go down. There were stitches above his eyebrow and along his cheekbone, small black threads that stood out against his pale skin like cracks in porcelain. His left arm was wrapped in a cast from wrist to elbow, a clean white plaster that someone had written the date on in black marker. 

He hadn't moved since they'd brought him in. Not once. Just the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft beeping of the machines, the IV drip that fed him what he couldn't take on his own.

You held his hand. His fingers were cool and limp in yours, the same fingers that had played guitar in his room just a few nights ago, the same fingers that had brushed your cheek when you were crying in the car. You traced the lines of his palm, the calluses on his fingertips, the small scar near his thumb that he'd told you about once, from a knife accident when he was seventeen. 

You wanted him to squeeze back. 

You wanted him to open his eyes and look at you with that flat expression he did so well, the one that pretended he didn't care when you knew he did. You wanted him to say something annoying about your outfit or your hair or the way you'd been holding his hand for three days straight.

But he just lay there, and you just sat there, and the beeping of the machines marked the seconds like a clock you couldn't turn off.

You had talked to the police twice. Once on the phone, once in person, a detective with kind eyes and a notepad who asked you questions you could barely answer. You told him about the possible evidence on Beomgyu's phone from that night when he told you before making sure you were safe. 

The detective had leaned forward at that, his pen pausing over the paper. "And you have this phone?" You nodded. 

"Do you know the password?" You shook your head, and something in the detective's expression flickered, hope dimming into patience. 

"Well. Let us know when he wakes up."

When he wakes up. 

Not if. When.

You held onto that word like a lifeline.

The nurses had stopped trying to get you to go home after the second day. They brought you coffee and sandwiches you barely touched, blankets you let fall to the floor, updates you absorbed without really hearing. 

His vitals were stable. His brain activity was normal. He was just asleep, they said, his body giving him the rest he needed to heal. 

You wanted to believe them, you wanted to believe that he was dreaming about something nice, something peaceful, something that didn't involve fists and blood and the sound of sirens. But you couldn't stop seeing him on the ground, curled on his side, his face barely visible under the bruises. You couldn't stop hearing the way the younger man had laughed, that empty hollow sound that had made your blood run cold.

So you held his hand and you waited, and you told yourself that waiting was something you could do, something you were good at, something that meant you hadn't given up.

On the third day, three knocks came at the door.

Soobin stepped in first, looking like he hadn't slept either. His eyes were red and he was holding a bouquet of flowers, the generic kind from the convenience store down the street, wrapped in plastic and tied with a rubber band.

Behind him was Yeonjun, uncharacteristically quiet, a wicker basket hanging from his arm filled with fruit and snacks and things you recognized as Beomgyu's favorites, the ones he always reached for during breaks.

Yeonjun took one look at you sitting there in your ugly sleep shirt with your tangled hair and your swollen eyes, and his face crumpled. He set the basket on the windowsill and crossed the room in three strides, pulling you up out of the chair and into a hug so tight you couldn't breathe. You didn't realize you were crying until you felt his shirt getting wet under your cheek.

"Hey," he said, his voice rough. "Hey, it's okay. We're here. We've got you."

Soobin set the flowers down on the bedside table and stood at the foot of the bed, looking at Beomgyu's face with an expression you couldn't read. He reached out and touched Beomgyu's ankle through the blanket, the same way your grandfather had done, like he was trying to remind him that people were waiting.

"I brought the fruit he likes," Soobin said, his voice thick. "The weird ones that nobody else eats. He's going to be so annoying about it when he wakes up."

"When," Yeonjun said, pulling back to look at you. He was crying too, you realized, tears streaming down his face that he didn't bother to wipe away. "Not if. When."

You nodded, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "When."

Soobin came around the bed and wrapped his arms around you both, the three of you standing there in the small white room with the beeping machines and the sleeping boy and the flowers that would wilt before he ever got to see them. You stayed like that for a long time, not talking, not moving, just holding on to each other because it was the only thing any of you could do.

When you finally pulled apart, you were all a mess, tear-streaked and red-eyed and exhausted in a way that went deeper than sleep. Yeonjun handed you a tissue from the box on the nightstand and you laughed, wet and broken, because of course he knew exactly where the tissues were, of course he'd already scanned the room for things you might need.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

You shook your head.

"Okay. Soobin's going to stay with him and you and I are going to the cafeteria."

"I don't want to leave–"

"You've been here for three days. You smell." He said it gently, not mean, and you laughed again because he was right and because laughing felt better than crying even if it hurt.

"I don't have anything else to wear."

"Then we'll go to your house and get you something."

"I can't bring myself to drive."

"Then I'll drive you."

You looked at Beomgyu, at his swollen face and his casted arm and the slow rise and fall of his chest. 

You didn't want to leave. 

You wanted to be there when he opened his eyes.

But Yeonjun was right about the smell, and your body was shaking with exhaustion, and you hadn't eaten anything that wasn't coffee in three days.

"Okay," you said. "Okay."

Soobin pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down, taking Beomgyu's hand in his, the way you had been doing for days. "I've got him," he said. "Go. Take a shower. Eat something. I'll call you if anything changes."

You nodded, letting Yeonjun guide you toward the door. You paused at the threshold, looking back at Beomgyu one more time, at the blue and purple bruises and the black stitches and the pale stillness of his face.

"I'll be back soon," you said, though you didn't know who you were saying it to, him or Soobin or yourself.

Then you walked out into the hallway, and Yeonjun put his arm around your shoulders, and the door clicked shut behind you.

Yeonjun kept his eyes on the road and the radio low, saying nothing. You watched the city gutter past the passenger window, the same streets you'd traversed a hundred times now rendered hollow and unfamiliar, like you were watching someone else's life through someone else's window.

When you pulled into the driveway, the house looked the way it always did at dusk, warm lights glowing behind the windows and the garden spilling over its edges, but something about it felt off now, too still, too quiet in a way that had nothing to do with the absence of noise. 

Your grandparents were already on the porch, your grandmother's hand pressed to her mouth, your grandfather's arm wrapped around her shoulders. They didn't rush to meet you. They just stood there waiting, and that stillness was somehow harder than if they had run to the car.

Yeonjun walked you to the door, exchanging quiet words with your grandfather that you didn't bother to listen to. Your grandmother pulled you into a hug, her body small and warm against yours, and you let yourself lean into her for a second before pulling away.

"Go take a bath," she said softly. "Yeonjun will stay for dinner. We'll talk when you're ready."

You nodded and climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last, your feet dragging like they didn't want to carry you any further. The bathroom waited at the end of the hall, the same one you'd known since childhood, and you locked the door behind you before leaning back against it, eyes shut, letting the cool wood press into your spine.

The tub filled slowly, water drumming against water, the only sound in the room. You undressed without looking at the mirror, peeling off the wrinkled shorts and the faded sleep shirt and the sandals that belonged to your grandmother, letting them drop to the floor like remnants of a person you no longer wanted to be.

You sank into the hot water and let it burn.

And then the thoughts came.

You should have noticed the envelope.

You should have asked him about it that morning when you saw him slip it into his pocket, the way his hand moved too quickly, the way he wouldn't meet your eyes.

You should have pushed harder when he said he was fine, when he said not to worry, when he gave you that flat look that you knew by now meant he was lying through his teeth.

You should have stayed in the car.

You should have grabbed his phone sooner, run it inside, called someone, done anything other than stand there frozen behind the curtain like a coward.

You should have run out there.

You should have stood between him and those men even if it meant they hurt you too, because at least then he wouldn't have been alone on the ground, and at least then he would have known someone was there who wasn't just watching from a window.

The water was too hot and your skin was turning red but you didn't move. You just sat there, knees drawn to your chest, staring at the tiled wall.

You thought about the kiss.

You hadn't let yourself think about it since it happened. There had been too much else, too many sirens and hospital rooms and waiting, always waiting. But now, in the quiet of the bathroom with the steam rising around you, you couldn't avoid it anymore.

The weight of his hands on your waist. The way he had looked at you in that half dark before your mouth found his, like you were something he had spent a long time wanting and still could not quite trust to be real. The way he had said your name, not loud and not desperate, just low and certain, as if it were the only syllable his tongue knew how to form anymore.

You could not remember who leaned in first. 

Maybe you. Maybe him. Maybe both of you at once, pulled together by something neither of you had been brave enough to name. 

But you remembered the moment your lips touched his. 

You remembered the way thinking stopped entirely, the way the rest of the world fell away and left only the shape of him, the heat of him, the quiet sound he made when your fingers curled into his hair.

You had wanted him for longer than you cared to admit. Maybe it started the first week he moved in, when you found him on the windowsill with his guitar and his cat curled beside him, the evening light turning everything soft and magical. 

Maybe earlier, at the cafe, when he began making your coffee without being asked, sliding it across the counter like it was nothing when you knew it wasn't. 

Maybe even further back, in the flower shop, when he walked in looking hollow and untouched and you gave him a discount on funeral flowers because something about his quiet devastation made you want to be gentle with him.

You didn't know when it started. You just knew it wasn't small anymore. 

It wasn't a crush or a passing interest or the kind of thing you could laugh about with your friends over drinks. It was heavy and real and it had been sitting in your chest this whole time, waiting for you to notice.

And now he was in a hospital bed, and you were in a bathtub, and you had no idea if he felt the same way or if the kiss had just been the alcohol and the music and the moment.

You sank lower into the water until it touched your chin, and you let yourself cry again, because crying was the only thing your body seemed to know how to do anymore.

The water had gone cold by the time you finally stepped out, skin pruned and bones heavy. You dried off slowly, methodically, then pulled your grandmother's robe from its hook on the door, the fabric worn soft from years of use. For the first time since coming home, you stood before the mirror and looked.

Your face was blotched red, your eyes swollen nearly shut, your hair a tangled wreck spilling over your shoulders. You looked exactly like someone who had spent three days in a plastic chair waiting for a boy to wake up. 

But beneath all of it, beneath the exhaustion and the grief and the guilt coiled tight in your chest, you were still there. Still the girl who had handed a stranger a discount on funeral flowers because his silence reminded her too much of her own. Still the girl who had offered him a room in her grandparents' house without asking permission, because the thought of him sleeping on that filthy couch made her chest ache. Still the girl who had fallen for him somewhere along the way, quietly and thoroughly, without ever finding the courage to say it out loud.

You wiped your face with the back of your hand and walked out of the bathroom. Yeonjun was waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, his back against the wall, his phone in his hand. He looked up when he heard you, and something in his expression softened.

"Better?" he asked.

"No," you said. "But I'm clean."

He nodded like that made sense. "Your grandma made soup. You should eat something before we go back."

You opened your mouth to argue, to say you weren't hungry, to say you'd rather just go back now, when your phone buzzed against the kitchen counter. Soobin's name flashed across the screen.

You answered before the second ring. "Hello?"

"He's awake."

The words didn't register at first. They hung in the air like a foreign language, sounds you knew but couldn't quite translate. Then Soobin's voice cracked on the other end of the line, and you heard him exhale like he'd been holding his breath for days.

"He's awake," he said again. "He's asking for you."

You looked at Yeonjun. He was already watching you, his eyes wide, his body half turned toward the door. Your grandparents stood frozen by the stove, your grandmother's hand over her heart, your grandfather gripping the back of a chair.

"Go," your grandmother said, her voice thin and wet. "Go, go."

You both didn't need to be told twice. Yeonjun grabbed his keys from the counter, your grandmother's robe still hanging off your shoulders, your hair still dripping onto the floor. Yeonjun was already out the door, the car already running by the time you reached the driveway, and you didn't care that you were still wearing slippers, didn't care that you hadn't eaten, didn't care about anything except the fact that Beomgyu was awake and he was asking for you.

By the time you arrived, you didn't wait for Yeonjun to park. You were out of the car before it fully stopped, your grandmother's robe still wrapped around you, your slippers slapping against the hospital floor as you ran. The hallway stretched too long, the elevator took too long, and by the time you reached his door you couldn't feel your hands anymore.

You pushed it open.

He was sitting up against the pillows, his face a ruin of purple and yellow, the bruising spreading across his cheekbone like ink dropped into water. His right eye was still swollen but open now, just a slit, just enough to let the light in. The cast on his arm was the same stark white, the split on his lip still raw, his hair matted flat on one side from days of lying still. But his eyes were open. He was awake and he was looking right at you.

"Y/n," he said.

His voice was ruined, scraped raw and paper-thin, the sound of someone who hadn't spoken in days because he hadn't. But when he said your name, it came out the same way it had in the car that night, low and steady, like it was the only syllable his mouth still knew how to say.

You didn't move. You just stood there in the doorway, frozen, staring at him like you were seeing a ghost. Then your face crumpled and the sound that tore out of you was not a word and not a sob, something animal and raw, something your body had been holding behind a dam that finally broke. 

Your legs folded beneath you and you went down hard on the cold tile floor, knees to your chest, arms wrapped around your shins, forehead pressed to your knees. You wept like you had not allowed yourself to weep in front of anyone, ugly and helpless and completely undone, your shoulders heaving, your breath coming in jagged gasps that seemed to belong to someone else entirely.

Beomgyu said your name again, softer, but you couldn't look at him. You couldn't look at anyone. You just sat there on the floor with your grandmother's robe pooling around you and your heart cracking open and no idea how to close it back up.

Yeonjun came in behind you. You heard his footsteps stop, heard him take in the room, heard the small sound he made when he saw Beomgyu sitting up. "Hey, man," he said, his voice thick. "You look like garbage."

"I feel like garbage," Beomgyu said.

"Yeah, well." Yeonjun cleared his throat. "You're alive, so."

He didn't say anything else, just crouched beside you and pressed his hand to your back, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades like a parent would, like someone who didn't have the right words but wanted you to know they were there anyway. He didn't tell you to stop crying or promise that everything would be okay, he just kept his hand there, steady and patient, while you fell apart on the hospital floor.

Soobin was in the corner, you realized dimly, his face pale and his eyes red. He gave you a small nod when you looked at him, something that might have been a smile if either of you had the energy for it. Then he looked at Beomgyu, and something passed between them, some wordless understanding that didn't need to be spoken out loud.

You don't know how long you sat there. A minute. Maybe more. Eventually the crying slowed to hiccups, and the hiccups slowed to shaky breaths, and you wiped your face with the sleeve of your robe and looked up.

Beomgyu was watching you. His good eye was glassy, his split lip trembling just slightly, and you realized he was crying too. Quietly, without sound, just tears tracking down his bruised cheeks and disappearing into the bandages on his jaw.

"You're such an idiot," you said, your voice cracking. "You know that? You're the biggest idiot I've ever met."

He blinked at you, his good eye still glassy, his split lip twitching like he was trying not to smile. "That's a strong statement coming from someone who showed up to the hospital in her grandmother's bathrobe."

You looked down at yourself, at the faded floral fabric and the slippers that were definitely not yours, and you laughed. It came out wet and ugly and probably insane, but you couldn't stop. "I didn't have time to change."

"You had time. You just didn't think about it."

"Because someone was in the hospital."

"Because someone was in the hospital," he repeated, softer now, and something in his expression shifted. "And you came anyway. Looking like that."

"Looking like what?"

He studied you for a long moment, taking in the tangled hair and the swollen eyes and the robe that was swallowing you whole. "You look like you haven’t been sleeping well," he said.

You swallowed hard. "Because I've been sitting in a plastic chair for three days waiting for you to wake up."

He was quiet for a second. Then: "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

You laughed. It came out wet and broken and probably insane, but it was a laugh, and when Beomgyu smiled back at you, small and tired and real, you felt something in your chest loosen for the first time in days.

Yeonjun cleared his throat from somewhere behind you. "So, I grabbed your stuff while you were showering. You know. In case you wanted to stop looking like you went dumpster diving for half an airpod."

He held up a small duffel bag you didn't recognize, probably borrowed from your grandmother, and you took it without a word. Inside was a pair of sweats, a plain t-shirt, and your actual shoes. You wanted to hug him but you didn't have the energy. You just nodded and muttered something that might have been thank you and shuffled to the bathroom to change.

When you came back, Soobin was already grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. "Work thing," he said, his jaw tight. "They said if I don't come in they're firing me, and I can't afford to get fired right now." He paused at the door, looking back at Beomgyu. "Don't do that again please."

"Do what?"

"Almost die. It's exhausting and frankly rude. I had to cancel plans for this."

Beomgyu raised an eyebrow. "What plans?"

"Soobin shrugged into his jacket. "None of your business. The point is, don't do it again." He paused at the door, glancing back. "I mean it. You're a terrible patient and I don't have the patience for this a second time."

"You literally have the word patience in your name."

"Soobin pointed at him. "Don't use logic against me. I'm leaving." He left.

Soobin left. Yeonjun announced he was going to the cafeteria for the third time that day, something about needing real coffee and not the instant garbage they served on the patient floors, and then it was just the two of you.

Beomgyu lay propped against the hospital pillows, which slumped no matter how many times he adjusted them, his bruised face turned toward the window where the evening light had begun to fade. You sat in the plastic chair beside his bed, finally dressed in clean clothes, your damp hair swept back from your face and already drying in uneven waves. The machines beeped their quiet rhythms and the fluorescents buzzed overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional glow, and for a long while neither of you filled the silence, both of you content to simply exist in the same room for the first time in days.

"You should eat something," Beomgyu said eventually, nodding at the basket of fruit on the windowsill.

"No, you should eat something."

"I'm attached to an IV. I'm being fed."

"That's not the same and you know it."

He didn't argue. He just looked at you, his good eye tracing your face like he was memorizing it, and you felt your cheeks warm under the attention.

"What," you said.

"I'm glad you're okay," he said.

You frowned. "Why wouldn't I be okay?"

He was quiet for a moment. "When they were on top of me, I couldn't see you anymore. I didn't know if you'd made it inside. I didn't know if they'd seen you. I just kept hearing you scream my name and I couldn't tell if it was real or if I was imagining it."

You felt your throat tighten. "It was… real."

He was quiet for a moment. "And also when I woke up, you weren't here. Just Soobin. He said they made you go home. Said you hadn't left this room in three days and your body was giving out." He paused, his jaw tightening. "I thought maybe something had happened to you on your way out. Or after. I didn't know."

"Soobin should have led with 'she's fine.'"

"Soobin was too busy crying to lead with anything."

You almost laughed at that. Almost. "I'm fine. I'm here. I just look like garbage because I haven't slept."

"Well you have been sitting in a plastic chair for three days."

"That's exactly what I've been doing."

He nodded slowly, his good eye still fixed on your face. "I kept asking for you. Every time I woke up. They said you weren't there and I thought maybe you'd left. Like you'd seen enough."

"I would never."

"I know that now." His voice dropped lower. "But I didn't know then. And I kept thinking about those men in your front yard, and your grandparents in the house, and you somewhere out there alone, and I couldn't do anything because I couldn't even open my eyes."

You reached for his hand under the blanket. He let you.

"I'm not going anywhere," you said.

"I know."

"You keep saying that but I don't think you believe it."

He looked down at your joined hands, then back at your face. "I'm working on it."

The room fell silent again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that came after something heavy, when words weren't enough and neither of you wanted to pretend they were. You pulled your knees up to your chest and rested your chin on them, watching him watch you.

"The evidence," you said. "On your phone. The detective said it could help. But he needs your password."

Beomgyu was quiet for a moment. Then: "It's your birthday."

You blinked. "What?"

"My password. It's your birthday." He looked away, his ears turning pink beneath the bruises. "I changed it a while ago. I don't know. It was easy to remember."

You stared at him. Your heart was doing something complicated in your chest, something that felt a lot like the opposite of loosening. "You made your password my birthday."

"It's six numbers. It's not that deep."

"It's kind of deep."

"It's really not."

"You're lying."

"I'm always lying," he said, and when he looked back at you there was something soft in his expression, something that made your breath catch. "You should know that by now."

You held his gaze, refusing to look away first. "We're going to get through this. We pinky promised, remember?"

His expression shifted, something warm flickering behind the exhaustion. He lifted his good hand and placed it over yours where it rested on the blanket. "Yeah," he said quietly. "We will."

The room seemed to shrink after that, the walls drawing closer, the hum of the machines fading into something distant and unimportant. You were both still looking at each other, neither of you willing to break whatever had settled between you, some thread pulled taut that had been fraying for weeks and was now seconds from snapping.

His thumb moved against your knuckles, slow and absent, like he didn't even realize he was doing it. Like his body had decided something his mind hadn't caught up to yet. The calluses on his fingertips dragged across your skin, rough and warm, and you felt it everywhere, in your throat, in your stomach, in the space behind your ribs where your heart had started beating too fast.

Your breathing had gone shallow. You could hear it, the soft push and pull of air that seemed too loud in the quiet room, and you knew he could hear it too because his chest had stopped moving altogether. 

He was holding his breath. 

Waiting. 

For what, you didn't know. For you to pull away. For you to say something. For you to do exactly what you were about to do.

His eyes dropped to your mouth. Just for half a second. Just long enough for you to notice, just long enough for your pulse to trip over itself and stumble. Then back up, meeting your gaze again, and there was something different there now. Less guarded. More naked. Like he had stopped pretending he didn't want this.

You watched his throat move as he swallowed, watched the way his jaw tensed and relaxed, watched the bruises on his cheek shift with the motion. He was so close. 

When had he gotten so close? 

You could see the individual stitches above his eyebrow, the small scar near his hairline you'd never noticed before, the way his split lip was still raw at the corner. His breath fanned across your face, warm and unsteady, and you realized you had leaned in without meaning to, your body moving toward him like it knew something you hadn't admitted yet.

His hand tightened around yours. Not pulling you closer, not pushing you away, just holding on, like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this bed, this room, this moment.

Your free hand came up before you could think about it, your fingers brushing the edge of the bandage on his jaw. He didn't flinch. He just watched you, his eyes dark and heavy lidded, and when your thumb traced the line of his cheekbone he let out a breath that sounded almost like relief.

"Y/n," he said, and your name on his lips was barely a sound, more exhale than word, but it undid something in you all the same.

You leaned closer. 

He leaned closer. 

The space between you narrowed to nothing, his forehead almost touching yours, his nose brushing against your cheek. You could feel his heartbeat through his fingers where they were still tangled with yours, or maybe that was your own heartbeat, you couldn't tell anymore. Everything had blurred together, the line between him and you, between what you were supposed to do and what you wanted to do.

His eyes searched your face, looking for something, permission maybe, or confirmation, or just one last excuse to stop before it was too late. You didn't give him one. You just looked back at him, steady and certain, and let him see everything you'd been hiding.

The door swung open. Yeonjun stopped mid step, his arms full of cafeteria trays, his mouth half open around whatever word had been about to come next. 

"Okay guys, I got a rice bowl, soup, these little side dish things, and–"

He looked at Beomgyu. He looked at you. He looked at the space between your faces, which was approximately two inches and shrinking.

"I knew it," he said, not even bothering to hide his grin. "I fucking knew it."

You yanked back like you'd been shocked, heat flooding your face, your hand slipping out of Beomgyu's. Beomgyu, to his credit, just sighed and let his head fall back against the pillow.

"You have the worst timing in the history of the world," he said.

"I have impeccable timing. I caught the thing I've been waiting to catch for weeks." Yeonjun set the trays down on the windowsill and crossed his arms, looking far too pleased with himself. "Lovebirds."

"We're not–" you started.

"You literally almost kissed. I saw it with my own two eyes. My eyes don't lie."

"Your eyes are deluded," Beomgyu said.

"My eyes are observant. There's a difference."

You buried your face in your hands, your ears burning, but you were laughing. You couldn't help it. The absurdity of it, the relief of it, the way everything had been so heavy for so long and now Yeonjun was standing there with cafeteria food and a smug expression like nothing in the world was wrong. 

Beomgyu was laughing too, quietly, his shoulders shaking beneath the hospital gown, his good hand pressed over his mouth like he was trying to hide it.

Yeonjun watched both of you with a satisfied nod. "Eat your food. Then you can go back to almost kissing. I'll wait outside."

"Don't wait outside," you said.

"I'm absolutely waiting outside."

"Yeonjun."

"Y/n." He grabbed a rice bowl and shoved it into your hands. "Eat. You look like a ghost. A very embarrassed ghost, but still a ghost."

You took the bowl, still laughing, still red in the face, and when you glanced at Beomgyu he was already looking at you, his good eye warm despite the bruises. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

The investigation took longer than anyone expected. The video on Beomgyu's phone was just the beginning. Once the police started digging into the debt collectors, they found a trail of illegal activity stretching back years: Drug distribution, extortion, assault charges from other victims who had been too scared to come forward. 

The older man with the scar, the younger one with the empty eyes, the bigger one who never spoke much, all had records, warrants, connections to things much bigger than a dead man's unpaid loans.

Beomgyu sat in a small office downtown with a public defender your grandparents had helped him find, a tired woman in her forties who spoke slowly and didn't sugarcoat anything. She explained that under Korean law, he had three months from the date of his father's death to decide whether to accept the inheritance or refuse it. His father had left nothing but debt. No house, no savings, no assets of any kind. The choice was simple.

"So I just... sign this?" Beomgyu asked, staring at the paper.

"You sign that, and you're not responsible for a single won of what your father owed."

"That's it?"

"That's it." She slid a pen across the desk. "Debt doesn't pass down like a curse, no matter how much those men wanted you to believe it did. They were counting on you not knowing the law. It happens more often than you'd think."

Beomgyu signed. His hand didn't shake.

The collectors were indicted a week later. The charges piled quickly, drug distribution, extortion, aggravated assault, and for the youngest one, an outstanding warrant for something far uglier, details the media was legally barred from printing. None of them would see the outside of a cell anytime soon.

During the first hearing, the older man caught Beomgyu's gaze from across the courtroom, that familiar scar cutting through his eyebrow, his expression unreadable. Beomgyu held his stare. He did not flinch. He did not look away first.

He realized later that he had not thought about that night the way he used to. The memory still lived somewhere in the marrow of him, would probably always live there, but it had lost its teeth. No more waking up with his heart already pounding. No more checking the street before stepping outside. It was just something that had happened to him. Not something that owned him.

Your grandparents had come to the hearing too, sitting in the row behind him, your grandmother's hand on his shoulder, your grandfather's jaw set in that stubborn way it got when he was angry on someone else's behalf. Soobin sat on his left, Yeonjun on his right, and you were next to Yeonjun, your fingers brushing against Beomgyu's under the armrest every time the judge spoke. When it was over, when the gavel came down and the collectors were led away in handcuffs, Beomgyu didn't say anything. He just stood up, turned around, and looked at all of you.

"Let's go home," he said.

Now in the present time, the cafe had surrendered to summer the way it always did, the air conditioner gasping in the window and the flower buckets demanding water twice as often, the heat leaching the life out of every petal within hours. 

Tourists had discovered the place by now, lured in by the pink storefront and the handwritten signs and the rumor that a boy with a guitar sometimes sat on the back patio as the evening cooled. Beomgyu still refused to sing in public, but he played sometimes, quiet instrumentals that drifted through the open windows and made strangers linger at their tables long after their cups had emptied.

Yeonjun was behind the counter, aggressively wiping down the espresso machine like it had personally offended him. You were at the register, ringing up a customer who couldn't decide between two types of tea. Beomgyu was in the back, unloading a delivery of fresh flowers, his cast gone now, his bruises faded to nothing, his hair longer than it had been before, falling into his eyes the way it always did when he forgot to get it cut.

"Beomgyu!" Yeonjun yelled toward the back. "We're out of oat milk."

"We were out of oat milk yesterday," Beomgyu's voice drifted back.

"And we're still out today. That's a problem."

"That's your problem. I don't drink oat milk and you’re on cafe duty today."

"You work here!"

"I'm a flower guy now." Yeonjun pointed at the flower buckets. "All you’re doing is just holding them."

"I'm unloading them. There's a difference." Beomgyu appeared in the doorway, a crate of hydrangeas balanced on his hip. "Also, we have oat milk in the back. You just didn't look."

"Why would I look in the back when the front fridge is right there."

"Because the front fridge has been broken for two weeks."

"What, no It has not."

"It literally has. I put a note on it. Go look."

Yeonjun walked over to the front fridge, squinted at a piece of paper taped to the door, and turned back around. "That note says 'out of order' in handwriting that looks exactly like Y/ns."

"That's because I wrote it."

"So you're telling me I've been serving customers from a broken fridge for two weeks?"

"I'm telling you that you don't read notes, grumpy gramps."

Yeonjun threw his rag on the counter. "I hate it here."

"You love it here," you said without looking up from the register.

"I tolerate it here. Barely."

The customer left with her tea and the cafe settled into its familiar afternoon lull, sunlight slanting through the windows at that particular angle that made the dust motes look like floating gold, everything slower and softer as if the world had paused to catch its breath. 

Beomgyu set the crate down and began arranging hydrangeas in the bucket by the window, his movements deliberate and unhurried, the same way he did everything now, no rush, no anxiety, just the quiet fact of being exactly where he was.

You leaned against the counter and watched him arrange the flowers, the way his fingers moved with that quiet care he didn't seem to know he had. He caught you looking after a moment and raised his eyebrows.

"You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"Where you stare at me like you’re expecting something… should I be scared?"

You smiled, small and easy. "Maybe I'm just admiring the view."

His ears went pink but he didn't look away. "The view is arranging hydrangeas."

"The view is very good at arranging hydrangeas."

He shook his head, ducking his face, but you caught the smile tugging at his mouth before he hid it. "You're impossible."

"And yet," you said, soft, "here you are."

He looked back at you then, properly this time, and something unspoken passed between you, some quiet understanding that had long since outgrown the need for language. Yeonjun made a retching sound from behind the espresso machine.

"You two are disgusting," he said. "Get a room."

"We have a room," Beomgyu said.

"Then use it. Some of us are trying to work."

"You're not working. You're just standing there."

"Well I'm supervising."

"You're loitering."

Yeonjun gasped. "Mind you, I am employed. I have a paycheck and I have rights."

"Your rights don't include standing around while I do actual labor."

You laughed, and Beomgyu smiled, and the afternoon unfolded the way summer afternoons should, slow and syrupy and full of nothing that needed fixing. The flowers drank their water, the espresso machine hissed its steam, and the world beyond the windows continued its indifferent spin. 

But inside this small shop with its lopsided chairs and its crooked signs and its three occupants who had stumbled into something resembling a family, everything had finally settled into its rightful place.

The bell above the door chimed.

Soobin walked in looking like he'd just run a marathon, his shirt untucked, his hair a disaster, his eyes wild with the particular brand of exhaustion that only came from dealing with corporate stupidity. He beelined for the counter, collapsed onto a stool, and dropped his head into his hands.

"Guys," he said, his voice muffled by his palms. 

"You will not believe what my boss said to me today."

Oh right. And Soobin. We couldn't forget about Soobin either. The best friend who had been there from the beginning. 

⤷ a/n: wanted to kms writing this oh mygod, please enjoy everyone.... I'm sorry for putting beomgyu through hell.... rip

[elsiece]

from my winter to your summer – PART ONE

SYNOPSIS — as winter gives way to spring, a burned-out university graduate unexpectedly finds himself working at a small flower shop café after a chance encounter during his father’s funeral slowly changes the course of his life.

⤷ pairing ⭑.ᐟ choi beomgyu x fem! reader

⤷ genres/tags ⭑.ᐟ slow burn, strangers to lovers, forced proximity, coworkers au, flower shop & cafe au, roommates au, hurt/comfort, ANGST (im sorry..), healing, mutual pining, yearning, found family

wc ⭑.ᐟ total 39,5k+ part one, 17,9k+ part two, 21,6k+ (click for pt 2)

⤷ warnings ⭑.ᐟ alot of grief, depression themes, financial struggles, unhealthy coping mechanisms (mostly smoking/alcohol), beomgyu gets chased/assaulted by debt collectors, blood/injury mentions, violence/themes of violence, mentions of physical abuse, mentions of death

⤷ taglist ⭑.ᐟ @woncheecks @fairfootedflekk @whoisgami @swangyu @bamgyt @flapsniffer4kook

Winter in Seoul always makes the city look lonelier than it actually is.

By six in the evening, the sky already darkens into a dull shade of blueish grey while the streets below slowly fill with people rushing home with their shoulders tucked inward against the windy cold. The tram tracks running through the city glisten faintly after the afternoon rain, reflecting blurry streaks of red and yellow from passing traffic lights. 

From the fourth floor of an old apartment building squeezed between a cafe bar and a run down convenience store, Beomgyu watches all of it from behind a fogged window.

His apartment hugged him warm enough to survive winter, but not warm enough to feel like home.

The heater near the kitchen works inconsistently, humming loudly for ten minutes before giving up entirely even now and then, so Beomgyu mostly relies on oversized hoodies and layered blankets instead. 

You could say Beomgyu’s apartment reflected the quality of life he was living now. The dim yellow lamp beside the couch softened the clutter scattered across the apartment, blurring the mess once the night settled in. Empty ramen bowls sat abandoned near the sink beside cups of cold coffee he forgot to finish hours ago, while laundry hung carelessly over the backs of dining chairs because he had stopped folding clothes properly months ago. Near the kitchen counter rested a pile of unopened envelopes, their bright red warning labels standing out harshly against the dark apartment like reminders he could no longer avoid.

Past due, on its final warning. The bright red labels blur together at this point, and Beomgyu no longer bothers opening them knowing there is little he can do about any of it anyway.

The cold wind slips through the small crack in the living room window, carrying with it the distant rattling of tram tracks, passing conversations from the street below, and the lingering scent of rain mixing into cigarette smoke. Most people would have shut the window completely during weather like this, but Beomgyu had long grown used to the noise of the city filling the apartment, finding it far easier to sleep with the world living quietly around him than alone with his own thoughts.

So every night before sleeping, he leaves the window slightly open, just enough for the sound of the trams below to reach him and make the apartment feel a little less lonely.

He sits against the headboard of his bed now, one leg stretched lazily across the mattress while the other stays bent near his chest. The right side of the bed rests directly beside the large window overlooking the city, allowing the flickering tram lights outside to spill faintly across his sheets whenever one passes by. 

His guitar sits loosely against his lap as smoke curls from the cigarette balanced between his fingers, the gentle melody echoing quietly through the apartment before fading into the distant sounds of the city below. Most of the songs he writes these days never make it past a few scattered chords before being abandoned halfway through.

There used to be a time where music felt bigger than this apartment, back when Beomgyu still allowed himself to dream beyond simply working enough to survive another month.

But these days, his guitar mostly sat against his bed collecting dust between restless nights and unfinished sheets, the strings only coming alive whenever sleep refused to welcome him. Still, despite everything, Beomgyu doesn’t think his life was always miserable. Difficult, maybe. And definitely exhausting at times. But there were still moments he remembers fondly enough to miss.

His mother died when he was younger, yet even after her passing, there were still memories Beomgyu held onto with surprising fondness. Cheap late night dinners shared with his father after exhausting school days, old movie films humming softly in the background as he fell asleep on the couch, the quiet sound of his father restringing his guitar long after midnight because Beomgyu had once again snapped them during practice. 

They were small moments, almost forgettable to anyone else, but somehow they stayed with him the longest.

His father was not a bad man, but somewhere along the years, life had worn him down enough for everything around him to begin falling apart alongside him.

After university graduation, something in him completely gave out. Debt piled up faster than Beomgyu could understand, strange men started appearing outside their apartment asking questions his father refused to answer properly, and eventually even those explanations stopped altogether.

Then one day, his father disappeared without a note, a goodbye, or anything at all. The only thing Beomgyu remembers clearly about that day was standing outside the graduation hall searching through crowds of unfamiliar faces while everyone else posed for photos with their families. Parents carrying bouquets. Friends laughing loudly. Cameras flashing everywhere beneath the bright summer light.

Beomgyu waited nearly two hours before Soobin finally approached him quietly and asked if he wanted to leave.

That was eight months ago.

Now all that remains of his father are unpaid debts and a last name Beomgyu no longer knows what to feel about.

The tram screeches faintly against the tracks outside as Beomgyu exhales slowly, setting the cigarette down against the overflowing ashtray beside him before adjusting the guitar against his lap again, ignoring the slight ache settling into his fingertips from the cold.

His phone buzzes somewhere underneath the pile of clothes near the couch, probably Soobin again, but Beomgyu lets it ring out. 

Outside, snow falls lightly between the city lights while the streets below continue moving as usual despite the weather. Couples walk beneath shared umbrellas, office workers hurry toward train stations, and somewhere downstairs, laughter echoes briefly against the building walls. 

Beomgyu watches quietly for a moment before reaching toward the window and pushing it open slightly wider.

A couple of knocks suddenly echo through the apartment, firm enough to pull Beomgyu from his thoughts almost immediately.

His eyebrows knit together slightly as he glanced toward the front door. Nobody visited him this late besides Soobin, and Soobin usually spammed his phone beforehand before showing up uninvited with convenience store bags hanging from both arms.

For a brief moment, Beomgyu wonders if it’s another debt collector.

The possibility alone makes his chest feel heavier than before.

Outside, another tram screeches faintly against the tracks as Beomgyu carefully sets the guitar aside near his pillow before pushing himself off the bed.

The hardwood floor feels freezing beneath his feet, cold enough to make him briefly regret leaving the window cracked open again.

Another knock follows soon after, just enough to pull him entirely from the warmth of his bed.

Beomgyu drags a hand through his hair tiredly before walking across the apartment, the dim yellow light stretching his shadow faintly against the cramped floor. The city noise grows quieter the closer he gets to the door until eventually all he can hear is the soft humming of the heater and his own breathing.

His hand pauses briefly against the doorknob.

Then he opens it.

Two officers stand outside beneath the apartment hallway light, dressed in dark winter uniforms with snowflakes still melting against the shoulders of their coats. An older man stands in front while a younger woman remains slightly behind him holding what looks like a folder tucked beneath her arm.

For a moment, nobody speaks, leaving only the lingering silence and uneasy eye contact hanging between them.

Beomgyu’s gaze flickers between their faces quietly before settling somewhere past them down the empty hallway instead.

And somehow, before either of them even say anything, something inside him already knows.

The older officer clears his throat gently.

“Are you Choi Beomgyu?”

Beomgyu nods once.

The woman beside him lowers her gaze briefly toward the folder in her hands before the older officer continues, his tone noticeably more careful now.

“We’re sorry to inform you that your father was found deceased earlier this evening.”

At that moment, even the distant sounds of the city outside seem to fade into the background. 

The tram tracks.

The passing cars.

The muffled conversations coming up from the street below.

All of it suddenly feels strangely far away.

Beomgyu stares at them for a few seconds without saying anything, his expression unreadable enough that the younger officer briefly looks uncertain whether he understood them properly or not.

His father is dead.

The thought settles awkwardly in Beomgyu’s mind, almost difficult to react to properly after spending so long not knowing whether his father was even alive to begin with.

A cold draft slips through the apartment from the still open window behind him, carrying the lingering scent of cigarette smoke into the hallway. For a moment, Beomgyu says nothing, almost as if his thoughts had stalled completely.

Life continues so normally it almost feels cruel.

“We found identification on him earlier tonight,” the older officer continues softly. “You were listed as next of kin.”

Next of kin.

Beomgyu nearly laughs at the phrase.

His father disappeared nearly a year ago and somehow still managed to leave responsibilities behind for Beomgyu to clean up afterward.

Some things never change.

“We understand this may be difficult,” the woman says carefully, finally speaking for the first time. “There are a few procedures regarding the funeral arrangements and personal belongings we’ll need to discuss later, but for tonight-”

“That’s fine.”

Beomgyu’s voice comes out quieter than expected.

The officers pause.

He swallows once before nodding faintly, more to himself than them.

“That’s… fine.”

But even to his own ears, the words sound strangely hollow.

The officers leave not long after that, their footsteps gradually fading down the apartment hallway until silence settles over the room once again. Beomgyu stands by the door for a moment before shutting it quietly behind him, the apartment looking exactly the same as before yet somehow feeling more dreadful now.

Slowly, Beomgyu lowers himself back onto the edge of the bed, staring blankly toward the tram tracks below as snow continues falling lightly between the city lights. His father is dead, yet even now the thought refuses to settle properly in his mind.

After a moment, he quietly reaches for the coat hanging over the chair nearby. Maybe another bottle of soju wouldn’t hurt tonight.

The funeral arrives quicker than Beomgyu expects it to.

The night before, he sits quietly at the edge of his bed counting the remaining bills inside his wallet before eventually pulling his coat over his shoulders and leaving the apartment. 

Winter settles heavier across the city that morning, cold air brushing against his face as he walks past damp sidewalks and slowly opening storefronts. Somewhere nearby, the smell of coffee drifts through the streets while tram tracks shimmer faintly beneath the cloudy sky.

A small flower shop catches his attention a few streets away from his apartment.

The warm lighting behind the fogged windows stands out immediately against the muted grey buildings surrounding it, and after hesitating briefly, Beomgyu steps inside. 

The soft chime of the door echoes gently behind him as warmth slowly settles over his skin, replacing the cold that had followed him throughout the walk there. 

Fresh flowers crowds nearly every corner of the shop while faint music hums quietly near the counter, and small handwritten tags rest beside certain bouquets explaining the meanings behind different flowers.

Large glass windows allowed the pale winter sunlight to spill softly throughout the shop, settling beautifully across the bouquets and casting a gentle glow against their petals. The warmth of the natural light made the colors appear almost dreamlike underneath the muted winter sky outside, giving the entire space a quiet sense of comfort that felt untouched by the cold city streets beyond the glass.

“Can I help you with anything?”

The voice pulls Beomgyu from his thoughts.

He looks up quietly, finally noticing you standing near the counter with a bundle of freshly trimmed stems resting against your arm. Small leaves clung absentmindedly to the sleeves of your cardigan while your fingers adjusted the ribbon tied around one of the bouquets beside you, movements familiar enough to seem almost automatic by now.

For a brief moment, Beomgyu simply watches as you carefully place the arrangement back down beneath the sunlight pouring through the windows.

“I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to get,” Beomgyu admits quietly after a moment, his gaze drifting awkwardly toward the flowers surrounding him.

A small smile pulls at your expression as you step away from the counter and closer toward him.

“That’s okay,” you reassured softly. “Most people don’t.”

Your eyes briefly scan the flowers he had been lingering around earlier before settling back on him again.

“Do you know what kind of occasion it’s for?”

Beomgyu hesitates.

“A funeral.”

A quieter silence settles between the two of you after that, the kind that naturally follows certain words once they’ve been spoken aloud.

Your expression softens almost immediately, though you’re careful not to let sympathy overwhelm your face enough to make him uncomfortable. Instead, you glance back toward the flowers beside you before gently reaching toward a cluster of pink camellias.

“You don’t have to choose only one kind,” you say quietly while gathering several stems into your hands. “Some flowers say different things better together.”

Beomgyu watches quietly as your fingers drift between the bouquets, careful and unhurried in the way you gather certain flowers while leaving others behind. Sunlight spills softly through the windows, briefly catching against shades of pink and white beneath your hands.

His gaze drifts toward the pink camellias resting near the counter, lingering briefly on the small handwritten tag beneath them.

Love. To miss someone deeply.

The words remain quietly at the back of his mind while he watches your hands move between the bouquets, carefully sorting through different flowers with an ease.

“These are often chosen for funerals too,” you say softly.

Your fingers brush past a cluster of sweet peas before gathering several stems together beside the hydrangeas and white tulips resting nearby. Beneath them, fading ink stretches neatly across the small paper tags.

Goodbye. Gratitude.

Beomgyu’s gaze lingers on the small paper tags longer than it should. There is something quietly unsettling about how naturally the meanings seem to fall into place beside one another, as though the flowers had already arranged the feelings for him before he ever found the words himself. Even so, his hand still reaches toward them without hesitation.

You continue adjusting the bouquet in your hands, adding several hydrangeas beside the sweet peas before eventually reaching toward the white tulips resting near the edge of the display. The petals brush lightly against your fingers as you pull a few stems free, their handwritten meaning resting quietly beneath them.

Forgiveness.

For the first time since entering the shop, Beomgyu lowers his gaze slightly, his thoughts turning inward in a way he had spent months avoiding altogether.

He’s not entirely sure whether his father deserves forgiveness yet. Still, standing beneath the warmth of the flower shop with the bouquet slowly taking shape between your hands, the idea no longer feels quite as distant as before.

You gather the flowers together carefully against the counter, adjusting the arrangement with concentration while sunlight catches softly against the ribbon slipping between your fingers.

“They all mean different things on their own,” you murmur, tilting the bouquet slightly to examine it beneath the light, “but together they usually become something… that touches the heart gently.”

Beomgyu says nothing at first.

His gaze lingers briefly on the flowers before drifting toward the large windows beside the shop, where the city outside continues moving beneath muted skies and passing tram lines. 

For the first time that morning, the noise in his mind feels quieter than usual, softened slightly by the faint scent of flowers lingering throughout the room.

“You know a lot about this stuff,” he remarks eventually, his voice quieter than before.

A small smile tugs faintly at your expression as you straighten the ribbon around the bouquet once more.

“My grandparents own the shop,” you explain. “I grew up around flowers, so after a while you just start memorizing what everything means.”

Your fingers brush absentmindedly against one of the camellia petals before continuing.

“Most people who come here are usually buying flowers for someone they love,” you say absentmindedly, smoothing the ribbon carefully between your fingers. “Birthdays, anniversaries, confessions, funerals... things like that.”

Something about the sentence causes Beomgyu’s thoughts to linger there unexpectedly.

Truthfully, he had never spent much time around places like this before. Romance had always felt distant from his life growing up, especially when most of his time outside university disappeared into part time jobs while whatever money remained afterward went toward tuition fees, groceries, or expenses his father could no longer keep up with. Eventually, relationships became something he simply stopped thinking about altogether. There were always more important things demanding his attention first.

Still, despite everything, his father had never been rough with him. Even during the worst periods of their lives, there had always been patience lingering beneath his exhaustion, enough for Beomgyu to remember him as more than just the man who disappeared.

You finish wrapping the bouquet not long after that, folding the paper carefully around the flowers before tying the ribbon neatly beneath the stems. The arrangement rests quietly against the counter between the two of you.

For a brief moment, Beomgyu simply looks at it.

Then, almost as though remembering where he was, he reaches toward his wallet.

“How much does it cost?”

You name the price after a short pause.

Beomgyu’s brows furrow almost immediately.

Truthfully, he knew next to nothing about flowers, but even to him the number sounded wrong. Too low for the amount sitting in front of him, especially after watching you spend the last several minutes carefully piecing the bouquet together by hand.

His gaze lifts from the flowers back toward you.

“Isn’t it usually more expensive than that?”

You hesitate briefly at the question, fingers absentmindedly straightening one of the loose ribbons left across the counter before a small smile tugs faintly at your expression.

“Normally, yeah.”

There’s something oddly sheepish about the way you admit it.

Before he can respond, you continue lightly, almost as if trying to brush past it before it becomes a bigger conversation than necessary.

“It’s fine though. Think of it as me investing in future business.”

Beomgyu looks at you quietly.

You gesture vaguely toward the empty side of the shop near the windows.

“My grandparents are turning part of the place into a cafe soon as an extension,” you explain. “So if you come back once that opens, we’ll call it even.”

The offer leaves you lightly, almost absentmindedly, as though kindness had long become second nature to you rather than something carefully presented for others.

Beomgyu lowers his gaze briefly toward the bouquet in his hands. Somewhere between the quiet conversation and the meanings carefully woven into each flower, the weight he had carried in with him that morning no longer feels quite as unbearable as before.

By the time the city finally begins to thaw from winter, nearly two months have passed since Beomgyu first stepped into the flower shop down the street.

After that, time moves quietly. The city slowly sheds the last traces of winter while Beomgyu drifts through his days with the same tired familiarity he had long grown used to. Work, sleep when he can manage it, cigarettes by the window, and occasionally waking up with his cat curled somewhere near his legs beneath the blankets.

Still, every now and then, Beomgyu finds his attention drifting briefly toward the flower shop whenever he walks past it on the way home from work. The renovations had already begun sometime during the second week of spring, construction paper now covering part of the windows alongside a small handwritten sign mentioning the cafe opening soon.

He never stops walking long enough to look properly though.

Saturday mornings are usually reserved for sleep.

Or at least they would be if Soobin allowed them to remain that way.

Three loud knocks suddenly echo throughout the apartment.

“Choi Beomgyu,” Soobin’s voice follows almost immediately from outside the door. “If you’re ignoring me again, I’m genuinely leaving.”

Beomgyu groans quietly into his pillow, eyes still barely open as his phone vibrates somewhere underneath the blankets beside him.

Another knock.

“I bought coffee.”

A long silence passes before Beomgyu finally drags himself out of bed, shuffling toward the front door in oversized sweatpants and a hoodie he’s fairly certain originally belonged to Soobin anyway.

The moment the door swings open, Soobin steps inside carrying two iced coffees before stopping abruptly near the entrance.

His eyes sweep across the apartment before he slowly turns back toward Beomgyu again.

“Oh wow,” he mutters flatly. “This is actually concerning now.”

Beomgyu lets the door close behind him before scratching absentmindedly at his hair.

“You say that every time you come over.”

“Because somehow every time I come over it looks worse…you know people usually lose security deposits over things like this, right?”

Morning sunlight spills through the large windows beside the bed, exposing the apartment with far more honesty than the softer glow of night ever could. Laundry remains draped carelessly over chairs, convenience store bags crowd the kitchen counter, and crumpled receipts lie scattered across the floor beside Beomgyu’s guitar as though they had simply been left wherever his exhaustion gave in.

Soobin places one of the iced coffees onto the counter before turning back toward him again.

“When was the last time you cleaned this place properly?”

Beomgyu pauses.

“…Recently.”

“You hesitated.”

“I didn’t. You’re hearing things.”

“You literally looked around the apartment for evidence before answering me.”

Beomgyu reaches for the iced coffee resting on the counter instead of responding, earning a quiet scoff from Soobin as he begins absentmindedly gathering empty bags into one pile near the kitchen.

The apartment falls briefly silent outside the occasional rustling of plastic and the distant rattling of tram tracks beyond the windows.

“You know,” Soobin starts eventually, nudging aside one of the cabinet doors that refused to close properly anymore, “at some point this stops being your fault and starts becoming the apartment’s.”

Beomgyu glances toward him lazily from across the counter.

“It’s not that bad.”

Soobin slowly looks around the apartment again, his expression unconvinced.

“One day this ceiling is genuinely going to collapse on top of you.”

“It hasn’t yet.”

“That’s a concerning way to measure stability, by the way.”

Soobin stares at him flatly for a moment before letting out a disbelieving laugh beneath his breath.

“I’m serious though.”

This time his voice softens slightly.

His gaze drifted around the apartment again, lingering briefly on the parts of the room Beomgyu himself had long stopped paying attention to properly. The peeling corners near the ceiling, the worn wooden flooring beneath their feet, the heater that occasionally gave out whenever the weather became too cold.

“You should move out eventually.”

The suggestion settles quietly between them.

Beomgyu lowers his gaze toward the coffee bottle, turning slowly between his hands.

“Can’t really afford eventually right now,” he answers after a moment.

Soobin doesn’t respond immediately to that.

Because despite the sarcasm and constant complaints, both of them already know money is only part of the reason Beomgyu still remains here. Some attachments settle themselves so deeply into a person that leaving begins to feel far more difficult than staying, even when the place itself has long stopped being good for them.

And truthfully, Beomgyu knows it too.

The apartment had begun wearing him down in quieter ways recently. The poor sleep, the stale air, the exhaustion that seemed to cling to the walls no matter how often he opened the windows. Even the city outside no longer felt comforting in the same way it once had.

Still, neither of them pushes the conversation further after that.

Soobin simply exhales softly before reaching for his coffee again, leaning against the kitchen counter as the morning light settles across the apartment around them.

“How’s work been lately?”

Beomgyu lets out a quiet breath through his nose, already tired by the question alone.

“The cafe’s still understaffed.”

“The one that pays you basically nothing?”

Beomgyu lets out a quiet scoff beneath his breath before taking another sip of coffee.

“Well, which other places are lining up to hire me right now?” he mutters. “So yeah. That one.”

Soobin shakes his head lightly.

“And you’re still doing deliveries after shifts too?”

Beomgyu hums absentmindedly in response before reaching toward the couch to move aside yesterday’s hoodie. Through the windows behind him, his old bicycle remains chained downstairs near the tram tracks, rust beginning to gather faintly around parts of the frame.

Sometimes even Beomgyu is surprised that the thing still works.

A quieter silence settles over the apartment after that.

Soobin watches Beomgyu for a moment from across the counter, taking in the tiredness lingering beneath his expression a little more carefully this time. The overgrown hair, the dark circles, the way exhaustion seemed to follow him so naturally now that even Beomgyu himself no longer appeared aware of it.

Something in Soobin’s chest tightens slightly.

He exhales softly before pushing himself away from the counter.

“Okay,” he says suddenly. “Get dressed.”

Beomgyu glances up lazily.

“For what?”

“We’re leaving this apartment before it absorbs you into the walls permanently.”

“So dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

Soobin points vaguely toward the bedroom.

“There’s a new cafe that opened nearby,” Soobin says while grabbing his jacket from the chair. “And before you say no, you’ve been locked inside this apartment for two weeks straight, so we’re leaving.”

Beomgyu groans quietly, already sinking further against the couch.

“I just woke up.”

“And somehow you still look exhausted. Come on.”

Despite the complaining that leaves him afterward, Beomgyu eventually drags himself off the couch anyway, mostly because arguing with Soobin for too long had always been pointless.

By the time they made it downstairs, the city had already fully settled into the slower pace of late morning. Sunlight falling between buildings in soft patches while the streets buzzed with weekend traffic.

“So where exactly are we going?” Beomgyu asks eventually, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his hoodie as they walk.

Soobin gestures vaguely further down the street.

“Some new cafe that opened recently. Hyuka said it’s good.”

Beomgyu hums absentmindedly at that, not paying much attention until the familiar storefront slowly comes into view between the row of older buildings lining the street.

Only then does recognition settle quietly in the back of his mind.

The flower shop.

Or well, partly a cafe now too.

The space looks different from before. Small tables now fill the side near the windows while customers drift quietly in and out beneath the soft ringing of the door chime. It isn’t crowded exactly, but busy enough for the room to remain filled with movement, voices overlapping softly beneath the sound of coffee machines and faint music humming through the speakers overhead.

The transition between flower shop and café still feels slightly unfinished in places, as though the space itself was still adjusting to becoming something new. Bouquets continue crowding most of the shelves while trays of pastries rest near the register, handwritten drink menus tucked carefully between arrangements of flowers.

Business seemed steady.

Just busy enough for the lack of staff to become noticeable.

Behind the counter, you move quickly between customers with an apron now tied loosely over your clothes, balancing iced drinks in one hand while holding bouquets with the other. Every few minutes somebody calls your name from somewhere else in the café, pulling you immediately toward another task before you can properly finish the last one.

Even from across the room, the exhaustion is obvious.

“See?” Soobin says while holding the door open beside him. “At least this place has signs of life.”

Beomgyu lets out a quiet hum before stepping inside, his gaze drifting briefly across the café again before looking away. He recognizes the place immediately, though strangely enough, the thought barely lingers beyond that at first.

As you move between the tables balancing two drinks carefully against your arm, your attention briefly lifts toward the entrance at the sound of their chatter. 

For a second, you almost walk past them entirely.

Then recognition settles across your expression.

“Oh,” you breathe out softly, a small smile appearing almost immediately afterward. “You actually came.”

The sentence catches Beomgyu slightly off guard.

Beside him, Soobin’s eyebrows lift almost instantly as his gaze flickers between the two of you with poorly concealed curiosity. Beomgyu, meanwhile, only pauses briefly before looking toward you again, still processing the fact that you had somehow remembered him after all this time.

You adjust the drinks carefully against your arm before nodding toward the quieter side of the cafe near the windows.

“Come on,” you say lightly. “There’s still space over there before somebody steals it.”

Without waiting much for an answer, you lead them further inside the café, weaving easily between occupied tables and scattered bouquets resting throughout the room. The space feels warmer than before despite the obvious chaos surrounding it, softened by the sunlight pouring through the windows and the quiet clatter of cups echoing somewhere behind the counter.

Soobin follows Beomgyu silently for a few seconds before finally leaning slightly toward him.

“You know people here now?” he mutters under his breath.

Beomgyu barely glances up from the drink menu in his hands.

“I met her once.”

“So this is the famous social life you’ve been hiding from me.”

“There’s literally no social life to hide.”

Soobin hums unconvinced before looking around the cafe again, his attention lingering briefly on the constant movement happening behind the counter. Even from where they sat, it was obvious the cafe was still understaffed. One employee remained buried behind the espresso machine while you moved between tables, bouquets, registers, and orders almost without stopping.

“They look exhausted,” Soobin mutters.

Beomgyu’s gaze drifts absentmindedly toward the counter again.

You were currently balancing a tray of drinks against one arm while simultaneously apologizing to an older customer waiting near the register, all before immediately being pulled away by somebody else asking for extra napkins.

“Mm.”

“Honestly though,” Soobin continues while leaning back against his chair hoping Beomgyu will catch on to his hint, “places like this usually hire pretty easily when they first open.”

Beomgyu lets out a quiet scoff beneath his breath before lowering the menu onto the table.

“Easy for you to say.”

Soobin raises an eyebrow.

“You’re acting like I’m telling you to become a lawyer overnight. I’m literally just saying your current jobs are killing you.”

Beomgyu leans back against his chair with a tired sigh.

“My current job barely gives me enough shifts as it is.”

“Which is why you’re still biking around the city doing deliveries afterward,” Soobin mutters. “On that rusty thing that sounds like it’s about to collapse every time you touch the brakes.”

“It still works.”

“That’s not the point.”

Soobin lowers his voice slightly afterward, his expression softening just a little.

“I’m serious, Beomgyu. You can’t keep running yourself into the ground like this just to afford that apartment.”

At that, Beomgyu’s gaze drifts briefly toward the windows beside them.

Outside, tram lines stretched across the street beneath the afternoon sunlight while pedestrians passed by without much thought toward the world around them. 

Somewhere further down the road sat his apartment building waiting exactly as he had left it that morning, old enough now for even the walls to feel tired.

Because despite everything, Beomgyu knows Soobin isn’t wrong, and judging by the way his attention drifts back toward the menu without immediately responding, the thought lingers somewhere in the back of his mind longer than he wants to admit.

Truthfully, he had been meaning to leave his current job for months now. Minimum wage barely covered anything anymore, and whatever energy remained afterward usually disappeared into delivery shifts on his bike until late evening. Some nights his legs ached badly enough for him to feel it even while lying down afterward.

Still, finding another job never felt as simple as people made it sound. Especially not now.

“You should at least try,” Soobin says after a moment, quieter this time. “You look exhausted every time I see you lately.”

“That’s an exaggeration.”

“It’s true.”

Before Beomgyu can respond again, another voice cuts gently through the conversation.

“Well... we are hiring, technically.”

Both of them look up.

You stand beside their table holding two drinks against your tray, your expression caught somewhere between hesitant and amused as though you hadn’t originally intended to say the thought out loud at all.

For a brief second, Beomgyu simply stares at you blankly.

Then his gaze flickers toward Soobin beside him, whose expression had already shifted into immediate interest.

“You’re hiring?” Soobin repeats before Beomgyu can say anything first.

You nod lightly.

“We’ve been short staffed since opening the cafe side,” you explain while setting the drinks carefully onto the table. “My grandparents thought it’d calm down after the first few weeks, but it kind of... didn’t.”

As if on cue, somebody calls your name from somewhere behind the counter.

You glance back briefly before returning your attention toward them again.

“It’s mostly cafe work though instead of the flower shop,” you add quickly. “Taking orders, cleaning tables, helping with flowers sometimes.”

Beomgyu instinctively parts his lips to refuse, the rejection nearly leaving him out of habit alone after spending so long growing used to handling things by himself.

But before he can say anything, Soobin speaks first.

“He already works at a cafe.”

Beomgyu turns toward him immediately.

“Why are you answering for me?”

“Because you clearly won’t do it yourself.”

A quiet laugh slips from you at that before you reach into the pocket of your apron, pulling out a small folded paper.

“If you actually want it,” you say while placing it near the edge of the table, “just come by sometime this week.”

Another customer calls your name from across the cafe before Beomgyu can properly respond, pulling your attention away almost immediately. You offer them one last small smile before disappearing back toward the counter again, weaving easily between tables and half finished orders like you had been doing all morning.

For a moment, Beomgyu simply stares at the folded paper resting beside his coffee in silence.

When he finally glances up again, Soobin is already looking at him with a knowing smile he chooses to ignore entirely.

Still, his hand reaches toward the paper anyway.

As winter gradually gives way to spring, the days begin slipping past one another with little distinction left between them. 

Work fills most of Beomgyu’s mornings, deliveries consume whatever hours remain afterward, and before long even exhaustion starts feeling routine enough for him to stop questioning it altogether.

Morning cafe shifts eventually turn into late night delivery runs, leaving Beomgyu returning home well past midnight more often than not. Most nights end with convenience store dinners eaten in silence while the tram lights outside flicker against the windows beside his bed.

Tonight is no different.

The lock clicks softly behind him as he steps into the apartment just past midnight, exhaustion settling heavily into his shoulders the moment the door shuts. His hoodie still smells faintly like coffee beans and cigarette smoke while the ache in his legs pulses dully beneath every step from hours spent biking deliveries across the city afterward.

Somewhere near the kitchen, his cat lifts its head lazily from the couch before immediately settling back down once it realizes he had finally come home.

“Yeah,” Beomgyu mutters tiredly while toeing his shoes off near the entrance. “I’m alive.”

The apartment remains dim apart from the city lights filtering through the large windows beside his bed. Outside, rain taps lightly against the tram tracks below, leaving parts of the street slick with reflected light.

Beomgyu drags a hand through his hair before dropping his bag carelessly beside the couch.

Then his eyes land on the folded paper still resting near the edge of his desk.

The hiring note.

It had remained there untouched ever since that afternoon at the cafe, half buried beneath receipts and old written songs drafts yet somehow still noticeable enough to catch his attention every time he entered the room.

He stares at it quietly for a moment.

Truthfully, Beomgyu had already thought about the offer more times than he cared to admit, not because the cafe job itself felt particularly life changing, but because lately his current life had begun wearing him down in ways he could no longer ignore.

Even his apartment no longer felt like somewhere he returned to for rest, only a place he recovered in long enough to leave again the next morning.

The thought settles unpleasantly in his chest.

Slowly, Beomgyu crosses the room before lowering himself into the chair beside the desk. Rain continues tapping softly against the windows while the city hums faintly somewhere below the building.

For a long moment, he simply stares at the paper in silence.

Then eventually, his fingers reach towards it.

The edges of the paper had begun wearing softer over the past few days from being absentmindedly moved around the desk, your handwriting still resting neatly near the corner beside the cafe’s number.

Beomgyu exhales quietly before leaning back against the chair, the decision unsettling him more than he wants to admit.

Not because he felt particularly attached to the cafe he currently worked at, but because lately life itself had begun feeling fragile enough that even the smallest changes carried an uncomfortable sense of risk. Leaving meant uncertainty, unfamiliar faces, and the possibility of things turning out worse instead of better.

Still, staying didn’t feel sustainable anymore either.

His eyes drift briefly toward the rain outside before eventually returning toward his phone resting beside the desk.

After several seconds, he finally reaches for it.

The resignation message takes longer to write than Beomgyu expects. Half the sentences disappear almost immediately after being typed, deleted before they can properly form into anything coherent.

Eventually, he settles for something short and polite enough to avoid further conversation. Once the message is finished, his thumb lingers briefly over the screen before finally pressing send.

For a moment, nothing changes.

The apartment remains quiet. Rain continues falling outside. Somewhere near the couch, his cat shifts lazily beneath the blanket before settling down again.

Yet strangely enough, something inside his chest loosens slightly anyway.

That night, Beomgyu falls asleep before the tram lines outside completely empty for once.

The rain continues quietly against the windows while his cat curls near the edge of the bed beside him, the apartment remaining unusually still compared to most nights. Even the thoughts that usually keep him awake seem quieter somehow, softened by the simple fact that something in his life had finally changed, even if only slightly.

By morning, the resignation message still remains.

For a few seconds, Beomgyu simply stares at his phone from across the bed as though expecting regret to settle in overnight.

It doesn’t.

The realization leaves him strangely restless afterward.

He ends up getting ready far earlier than necessary the next morning.

At first, Beomgyu tells himself it’s only because he hadn’t slept through his alarm for once, but after standing in front of the bathroom mirror for nearly ten minutes adjusting his hair with growing dissatisfaction, even he stops believing that excuse properly.

The apartment remains unusually quiet as he moves around getting ready, cabinet doors opening and closing while discarded clothes gradually gather across the edge of the bed one after another. Near the window, his cat watches the entire process with visible indifference as Beomgyu stands in front of the mirror again, adjusting the collar of another sweater before eventually pulling it back off with a tired sigh.

Nothing looks right.

Or maybe everything looks too much like himself on every other exhausted morning he had dragged himself toward work half awake.

Eventually, with enough hesitation to irritate even himself, Beomgyu reaches for clothes usually reserved for better days. Dark jeans without frayed fabric near the knees, a charcoal sweater pulled from the back of the closet still carrying traces of fabric softener rather than smoke, silver rings slipping back onto his fingers after sitting untouched for weeks beside the sink.

The difference is subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice it immediately.

Beomgyu does though. Mostly because he can’t remember the last time he cared this much about how he looked before leaving the apartment.

Halfway through fixing his hair again, his phone suddenly lights up against the sink.

Soobin.

Beomgyu stares at the screen briefly before answering through FaceTime.

The moment the call connects, Soobin squints suspiciously at him.

“Why do you look employed?”

Beomgyu lets out a quiet scoff while turning back toward the mirror.

“I am employed.”

“No, but like... voluntarily employed.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

Soobin continues staring at him through the screen for another few seconds before his expression slowly shifts.

“Wait.” A pause.

“You took the cafe job?”

Beomgyu adjusts the sleeve of his sweater absentmindedly.

“I quit the other place last night.”

For a moment, Soobin genuinely looks shocked.

Then, almost immediately afterward, amusement spreads across Soobin’s face.

“No way,” he says, leaning closer toward the screen. “You actually quit?”

Beomgyu shrugs lightly while fixing his sleeve.

“It was getting unbearable anyway.”

“That place was already unbearable six months ago.”

“It paid me.”

“Barely.”

“And now look at you,” Soobin continued as though Beomgyu hadn’t spoken at all. “Putting effort into your appearance, changing jobs, and most importantly leaving the apartment willingly before noon.”

Beomgyu rolls his eyes, though not convincingly enough to hide the faint amusement tugging briefly at his expression.

“It’s literally just a cafe.”

“Mhm.” Soobin leans closer toward the camera slightly.

“And yet you changed outfits more than once.”

Beomgyu’s eyes narrow almost immediately after the sentence leaves Soobin’s mouth.

“How did you know that?”

“You have clothing piles in the background.”

Beomgyu glances briefly toward the pile of rejected outfits scattered across the bed before muttering something under his breath that Soobin doesn’t quite catch.

After that, the conversation quiets while Beomgyu continues standing in front of the mirror, absentmindedly fixing his hair before eventually pausing at his reflection for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Then, almost reluctantly, he speaks again.

“Do I look okay?”

The question leaves him quiet enough for Soobin to pause slightly, the teasing fading from his expression as he finally looks at Beomgyu properly instead of joking around through the screen.

“You look better,” he says simply.

Beomgyu glances toward the screen again. “Better?”

“Like yourself again.”

For a brief moment, neither of them says anything afterward. 

Then a small smile finally appears across Beomgyu’s face, faint but genuine enough for Soobin to mirror it almost immediately through the screen before the call eventually ends with a simple nod and wave.

Somewhere near the doorway, his cat watches him quietly while Beomgyu searches for a jacket that didn’t smell faintly like cigarette smoke or rainwater from delivery shifts.

“You’re judging me,” he mutters tiredly.

The cat blinks slowly in response.

Outside, the city had already begun settling into another grey morning by the time Beomgyu finally leaves the apartment, hands buried inside his pockets as he makes his way down the familiar street once again.

You, on the other hand, had already been awake for nearly three hours.

By the time the cafe doors unlocked that morning, you were still standing on top of a chair trying to rewrite part of the seasonal menu after your grandfather accidentally misspelled caramel twice in different ways. 

Somewhere behind you, milk steamed loudly from the espresso machine while fresh flowers continued arriving in buckets near the back entrance faster than anybody had time to properly organize them.

The cafe had grown busier than expected over the past few weeks.

Not overwhelmingly successful yet, but enough for everybody inside the shop to constantly remain moving. Orders piled up faster during mornings now, bouquets disappeared from displays before noon, and almost every shift ended with somebody too tired to properly count the register without making mistakes.

Which was exactly why you had started offering jobs to random exhausted customers, apparently.

The thought crosses your mind again while rearranging pastries behind the display counter.

Truthfully, you still aren’t entirely sure why you offered him the position so easily that afternoon when you didn’t even know his name.

Maybe because he looked like he needed it.

Or maybe because something about him had simply stayed in your memory longer than expected after the funeral flowers months ago, enough for you to recognize him immediately the second he walked back into the cafe.

Before the thought can settle any further though, the bell above the entrance rings softly.

Instinctively, your attention lifts toward the door.

And there he is.

Beomgyu pauses briefly near the entrance as though still adjusting to the warmth of the cafe after the cold outside, dark hair slightly tousled from the wind while his gaze drifts across the room searching for you amongst the morning rush.

The second your eyes meet, a small smile immediately pulls across your face.

“Perfect timing,” you call lightly from behind the counter before he can properly say anything first.

You quickly grab one of the spare aprons hanging near the counter before making your way toward him, carefully weaving between occupied tables and customers waiting near the register.

Up close, Beomgyu looks slightly more put together than the last few times you’d seen him. Cleaner clothes, silver rings resting loosely against his fingers again, hair still faintly messy despite the obvious effort he had put into fixing it beforehand.

The realization almost makes you smile wider.

“I’ll take this as you accepting my offer?” you ask lightly while holding the apron out toward him.

Beomgyu hesitates for half a second before nodding awkwardly.

“Yeah.”

His grip tightens slightly around the folded papers in his hand.

“And... thank you. Again.”

The gratitude sounds genuine enough to soften your expression briefly before he carefully hands over the documents he brought with him, slightly creased from being carried all the way there.

You glance down at them instinctively.

Only then do you finally catch his name properly for the first time.

Choi Beomgyu.

Something about finally attaching a name to him feels strangely satisfying in a way you can’t fully explain.

“Well,” you murmur absentmindedly while looking back up at him again, “welcome to the cafe, Beomgyu.”

Nearly two weeks pass before Beomgyu realizes he no longer dreads going to work.

The realization catches him off guard one afternoon while wiping down tables after the lunch rush.

Not because the job itself was remarkable. There were still exhausting days, endless orders, and customers who asked questions already answered on the menu directly in front of them. Yet somehow, the exhaustion felt lighter here than it ever had before.

The work was steady, the pay noticeably better than before. For the first time in a long while, Beomgyu wasn't spending every remaining hour of the day racing deliveries across the city on a bicycle that seemed determined to fall apart beneath him.

The adjustment hadn't been entirely easy though.

His previous workplace rarely required conversation beyond taking orders and leaving people alone afterward. Here, unfortunately, conversation seemed to be everybody's favorite hobby.

Particularly yours.

And Yeonjun's.

Together, the two of you possessed enough social energy to genuinely concern him sometimes.

"Good morning, Beomgyu."

"Morning."

"How'd you sleep?"

"...Fine."

"What'd you have for breakfast?"

Beomgyu blinking.

"You ask a lot of questions."

Meanwhile, Yeonjun somehow managed to hold entire conversations with customers, coworkers, delivery drivers, and occasionally himself without showing any signs of exhaustion whatsoever.

The first few days had been rough.

Every task felt unfamiliar. Every mistake felt obvious. Even asking simple questions had left Beomgyu awkwardly hovering nearby until somebody noticed he needed help first.

Usually you.

At some point, you had simply started explaining things before he could force himself to ask.

How the register worked.

Which flowers sold fastest.

Where supplies were kept.

How to survive the morning rush without accidentally ruining someone's order.

The habit stuck.

And somehow, so did Beomgyu.

More often than not, he found himself lingering nearby whenever there was nothing else demanding his attention. Not necessarily contributing much to the conversation, but remaining close enough to listen while you worked.

Thankfully, the paycheck from his previous job had arrived before he officially left.

Rent was covered. His cat still had food. For now, things were okay. Or at least okay enough that survival no longer occupied every waking thought.

Tonight, the cafe closes later than usual.

The last customer leaves not long before closing, allowing the three of you to finally begin cleaning up for the night. By the time everything is finished, it’s already past nine, the streets outside noticeably quieter than they had been a few hours earlier.

"See you tomorrow."

Yeonjun disappears first.

A few minutes later, you and Beomgyu step outside as well, the cafe lights fading behind you as the two of you head down the street together. The evening air feels cooler now, carrying the faint scent of rain from somewhere earlier in the day.

“You know,” you say, glancing over at him, “I wasn't sure you'd survive your first week.”

“That's dramatic.”

“You looked stressed all the time.”

“I was stressed.”

“Exactly.”

Your laughter slips out softly before you continue walking.

“Now you actually ask questions.”

Beomgyu lets out a quiet scoff.

“Only when I need to.”

“Which is already a huge improvement.”

Beomgyu lets out a quiet scoff, though he can't entirely deny it.

The next intersection approaches sooner than either of you expect.

“This is me,” you say, slowing slightly before turning toward the opposite street.

“Right.”

“Don't be late tomorrow.”

“I've literally never been late.”

“Yet.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and for a brief second Beomgyu finds himself smiling too.

Neither of you mention it.

“Goodnight, Beomgyu.”

“Night.”

With one final wave, you disappear around the corner, leaving Beomgyu to continue the rest of the walk home alone.

The walk home is uneventful, familiar enough that Beomgyu barely pays attention to it. The streets are quieter now compared to the afternoon rush, most storefronts already dark behind their windows as he makes his way back toward the apartment. His thoughts remain somewhere between tomorrow's shift and whether he remembered to buy more cat food before the end of the week.

By the time his building comes into view, his hand is already reaching into his pocket for his keys.

Then he notices them.

Three men stand near the apartment entrance beneath the glow of a flickering streetlamp. From a distance, they could have been anyone. Neighbors lingering outside. Smokers killing time before heading home. People waiting for somebody else entirely.

For a second, Beomgyu almost convinces himself that's exactly what they are.

Then one of them shifts his weight.

Another glances briefly down the street.

And something cold settles quietly in the pit of his stomach.

They don't rush toward him, don't call out his name, don't do anything that would alert the few remaining neighbors walking home or the convenience store owner locking up down the street.

They just wait.

Beomgyu's fingers curl tighter around his keys, the metal pressing into his palm hard enough to leave marks. His first instinct is to turn around. Walk in the opposite direction. Find somewhere else to be for an hour, a night, a week- anywhere but here.

But the older one in the middle is already looking at him.

Not staring. Just looking. Like he'd known Beomgyu was coming before Beomgyu knew it himself.

"Choi Beomgyu."

The voice is calm. Almost friendly. That's what makes it worse.

Beomgyu stops walking. His body makes the decision before his brain catches up. Some old survival instinct buried under months of exhaustion. His apartment door is thirty feet away. His neighbor's security camera points somewhere near the entrance. 

The street isn't completely empty yet.

But these men didn't choose this spot by accident.

"Been a while," the older one continues, stepping forward slowly. His shoes are scuffed but not cheap. His coat fits well enough to suggest he hasn't always done this kind of work. "You're harder to track down than your father was."

At the mention of his father, something cold passes through Beomgyu's chest. Not fear. Not yet. Something closer to resignation.

"He's dead," Beomgyu says quietly.

The man tilts his head slightly. "We heard."

A pause.

"Doesn't change the debt, though."

Behind him, one of the other men shifts his weight, the sound of gravel crunching beneath his shoe unnaturally loud in the evening air. He's younger than the first– sharper jaw, emptier eyes. The third hangs back near the building entrance, arms crossed, saying nothing. Watching.

Beomgyu swallows.

"I've been paying," he says. "Every month. Whatever I can."

"You've been paying something," the older man corrects gently. Like a teacher explaining a simple mistake. "But something isn't the same as enough. You know that."

Beomgyu doesn't respond.

The man takes another step closer. Close enough now that Beomgyu can smell cigarette smoke and something almost metallic like bad hand sanitizer, maybe. Or old coins.

"Your father borrowed a specific amount," he continues, voice low enough that only Beomgyu can hear. "We were patient with him because he seemed like the type who'd eventually figure it out. But then he disappeared. And now he's dead. And you're here."

Another pause.

"So here's the thing, Beomgyu." The use of his first name lands like a slap. "We're not bad people. We're not going to break your legs over a late payment. That's ugly. That draws attention. And neither of us wants attention, right?"

Beomgyu's jaw tightens.

"Right," the man repeats softly. "So here's what's going to happen instead. You're going to double what you've been giving us. Starting this week. Not next month. Not when you find a better job. This week."

"I don't have–"

"You don't have?" The man's eyebrows lift slightly, almost amused. "See, that's the part where you're confused. I'm not asking if you have it. I'm telling you what you owe."

The younger man behind him lets out a quiet laugh. Short. Unkind.

Beomgyu's eyes flick toward him for half a second before returning to the older man. His heart is beating faster now, but his face stays still. It's the only control he has left.

"And if I can't?" Beomgyu asks. His voice doesn't shake. He's proud of that.

The older man considers him for a moment. Then he smiles. Not a cruel smile, something worse. Something almost pitiful.

"Then we stop being patient."

He reaches out slowly and pats Beomgyu's shoulder. Once. Twice. Friendly. Like they're old acquaintances running into each other after years apart.

"You seem like a smart kid," the man says, already stepping back. "Smarter than your father. So I'll assume you figure it out."

The older man's hand leaves Beomgyu's shoulder.

For a moment, nobody moves. The streetlamp continues buzzing overhead, flickering shadows across the pavement. Somewhere down the street, a car door closes. A woman's laughter echoes briefly before fading into the evening.

Beomgyu should let them leave.

He knows he should let them leave.

But something in his chest tightens. Something that's been building for months. Years, maybe. All those nights counting coins on the kitchen counter. All those envelopes he stopped opening. His father's empty chair at graduation. The police officers standing in his doorway with snow melting on their coats.

You seem like a smart kid. Smarter than your father.

Beomgyu's jaw tightens.

"I'm not him."

The words leave before he can stop them.

Quiet. Almost calm. But there's something beneath them, something that makes the older man pause mid step.

Beomgyu doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't clench his fists. He just stands there beneath the flickering light, exhaustion and something sharper bleeding into his tone.

"I've been paying you for months," he continues, quieter now. "Even when I didn't have it. Even when I went without eating so the rent didn't slip. I'm not him."

The older man turns back slowly.

His expression hasn't changed. Still calm. Still patient. But his eyes–his eyes are different now. Colder. More focused.

"No," he agrees softly. "You're not."

A pause.

"You're worse."

Beomgyu's brows furrow slightly.

"Because he knew when to shut up," the man continues, taking a single step closer. "Your father? He was a coward. But he knew his place. He knew when to nod and when to pay and when to disappear."

Another step.

"You, though." The man tilts his head, studying Beomgyu like something mildly interesting he found on the sidewalk. "You've got that look. The one that makes people think they've got something left to prove."

Beomgyu doesn't back away.

He should. Every instinct screams at him to step back, to apologize, to say ‘sorry, I didn't mean it, I'll have the money, just give me more time.’

But his feet stay planted.

"I'll pay," Beomgyu says quietly. "I always have. But I'm not going to stand here and let you pretend my father's mistakes are mine."

The older man exhales slowly through his nose.

Almost disappointed.

"That's the problem, kid." His voice drops lower, losing the last trace of warmth. "You think this is about fairness."

Behind him, the younger man shifts forward. The third one uncrosses his arms.

"You think we care whose mistake it was?"

Beomgyu's heart hammers harder now, but his face doesn't change. His hands stay loose at his sides. His breathing stays even.

He's been scared before.

He's been hungry before.

He's been alone before.

This is just another thing to survive.

"The money's yours," Beomgyu says evenly. "I've never missed a payment. Not once."

"Not yet."

The younger man speaks this time, stepping around the older one until he's standing directly in front of Beomgyu. Up close, he's younger than Beomgyu expected, maybe he’s around his mid twenties, with sharp cheekbones and eyes that don't blink enough.

"But you're running out of time, aren't you?" the younger man murmurs. "Job's not paying enough. Rent's due soon. And now you're running your mouth like you've got something to bargain with."

Beomgyu doesn't answer.

The younger man smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes.

"I've seen your type before," he continues, tilting his head. "Quiet. Stubborn. Thinks if they just hold still long enough, the scary men will go away."

He reaches out and flicks Beomgyu's collar lightly. Once. Dismissive.

"But we're not going anywhere."

Beomgyu's hand moves before he thinks about it.

Not a punch. Not even a shove. Just his fingers wrapping briefly around the younger man's wrist, pushing his hand away from the collar. A reflex. Nothing more.

The contact lasts less than two seconds.

But the damage is already done.

The younger man's smile disappears.

For a single breath, nobody speaks. The streetlamp buzzes. Somewhere far away, a tram rattles along the tracks. The world keeps moving.

Then the younger man's fist connects with Beomgyu's stomach.

The air leaves his lungs in a rush that is sharp and immediate, folding him forward before he can stop it. His knees hit the pavement hard, scraping through his jeans, and for a moment all he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears.

"That was stupid."

The older man's voice comes from somewhere above him. Still calm. Still controlled.

Beomgyu coughs, one hand braced against the cold ground, the other pressed weakly against his stomach. His vision blurs at the edges before sharpening again.

"I didn't–" he starts.

The younger man grabs a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back.

"You didn't what?" The voice is softer now. Almost gentle. "Didn't mean to touch me? Didn't think we'd hit back? Didn't think at all?"

Beomgyu's scalp burns. His eyes water from the sting, but he doesn't close them. He stares up at the younger man's face at those empty, unblinking eyes and refuses to look away.

The younger man studies him for a moment.

Then he lets go.

Beomgyu's head drops forward. He catches himself on his palms, breathing hard, the cold pavement biting through his skin.

"The next time you put your hands on me," the younger man says quietly, crouching down to Beomgyu's level, "I won't let go."

Beomgyu says nothing.

The older man sighs from somewhere behind them, he’s not angry, just tired. Like a parent disappointed by a child's poor behavior.

"We came here to talk," he says, shaking his head slowly. "We wanted to give you a chance. A warning. That's more than your father ever got."

He steps closer, looking down at Beomgyu's hunched form.

"But you had to make it difficult."

Beomgyu's jaw clenches. His stomach throbs dully beneath his ribs. He can already feel the bruise forming–deep and warm beneath his skin.

"I'll have the money," he says again. His voice comes out rougher this time, scraped raw from the cough.

The older man crouches down in front of him.

They're eye level now. Close enough that Beomgyu can see the faint scar cutting through the man's left eyebrow. The grey threading through his dark hair. The complete absence of anything kind behind his expression.

"I believe you," the man says softly.

Then his hand shoots out- not a punch, not a slap, but something worse. His palm connects with the side of Beomgyu's face in a sharp, open-handed strike that sends his head snapping to the side. The impact rings through his skull, hot and dizzying, and for a second the streetlamp blurs into a smear of yellow light.

"But I don't believe you'll have it fast enough."

Beomgyu doesn't fall. He catches himself again, palms scraping against the pavement, blood beading up from the torn skin. His cheek stings. His ear rings.

The older man stands up slowly, brushing off his knees.

"Double," he repeats, looking down at Beomgyu. "Starting this week. And if you ever, ever, touch one of my men again, we won't stop with a warning."

He turns away.

The younger man lingers for a moment longer, staring down at Beomgyu with something almost like curiosity.

"You should've just nodded," he murmurs. "Would've been easier."

Then he follows the others.

Their footsteps fade down the street, slow, unhurried, the same pace they arrived with. By the time Beomgyu looks up again, the street is empty.

The streetlamp buzzes.

The tram rattles past in the distance.

Somewhere nearby, a convenience store's fluorescent sign hums quietly, casting pale light across the wet pavement.

Beomgyu stays on his knees for a long time.

His palms sting. His stomach aches. His cheek throbs where the older man's hand connected, already tender to the touch. When he finally pulls his hand away from his face, there's blood– not much, just a thin line from where his lip split against his teeth.

He stares at the red smeared across his fingers.

Then, slowly, he pushes himself to his feet.

His knees wobble once before holding. His ribs ache with every breath. The world tilts slightly before settling back into place.

Beomgyu limps toward his building.

The door clicks open. The stairs feel longer than usual. Every step sends a dull pulse of pain through his stomach, but he doesn't stop. Can't stop. Stopping means thinking. Thinking means remembering.

And remembering means admitting how badly he's trapped.

His apartment is dark when he finally reaches it.

His cat waits near the door, tail flicking curiously. Beomgyu doesn't turn on the lights. He walks past the kitchen, past the pile of unopened envelopes, past the guitar leaning against the wall.

The bathroom light is too bright when he finally flicks it on.

Beomgyu stares at his reflection.

Split lip. Dark bruises already blooming along his cheekbone. Dried blood near the corner of his mouth. His eyes are hollow, much emptier than they were this morning, emptier than they've been in weeks.

He runs the tap and splashes cold water over his face.

It stings.

Good.

He should feel it.

Tomorrow, he'll wake up sore. Tomorrow, he'll find concealer in Soobin's emergency bag, the one he keeps for mornings after nights like this. Tomorrow, he'll show up at the cafe with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes and hope nobody looks too closely.

Tonight, he sits on the bathroom floor with his back against the tub, his cat curling into his lap, and stares at the ceiling until the ache behind his ribs finally numbs into something he can carry.

You wake up before your alarm.

Not because of anything specific, no bad dreams or restless thoughts keeping you awake, just the quiet hum of morning light slipping through your curtains pale and golden in that way spring mornings have started arriving lately, the kind of light that makes everything feel softer and more possible. 

You stretch beneath your blankets, toes curling against the cool sheets, and for a moment you just lie there listening to the birds outside your window and the distant sound of traffic beginning to stir while your grandmother's soft footsteps sound somewhere downstairs, probably already making tea.

Spring has settled into the city properly now, the last traces of winter melting away sometime during the past two weeks and leaving behind longer days and warmer evenings and the kind of weather that makes people linger outside just a little longer than necessary. 

You've been lingering too, not outside exactly but somewhere, around someone, the thought slipping through your mind before you can stop it– warm and unexpected, like finding a forgotten flower pressed between the pages of an old book. You push it aside quickly, reaching for your phone instead.

7:02 AM. No messages.

Not that you were expecting any.

Beomgyu isn't really the type to send good morning texts, and half the time you're not even sure he owns a phone that properly works given how often he seems surprised whenever it buzzes. 

Still, something about walking into the cafe feels different lately, brighter and easier, like the space itself has shifted since he started working there and the air is less heavy than it used to be before the morning rush. You tell yourself it's just because Yeonjun complains less when there's another person to help, but you've been telling yourself a lot of things lately.

By the time you're dressed and downstairs, your grandmother already has tea waiting for you near the kitchen window, not asking where you're going because she never does anymore, just smiling into her cup and watching you tie your hair back with the same ribbon you've been using for years. 

"Working hard?" she asks softly, and you hum in response while grabbing a piece of toast from the plate near the stove. 

"Someone has to keep that place running," you say, and she laughs at that in a warm and knowing way that makes your cheeks feel slightly warm. 

"You've been coming home smiling at the end and I know that you’re not going more lately," she remarks lightly. "The flowers must be good for you." You don't answer, but you're still smiling when you leave the house.

The walk to the cafe takes fifteen minutes on a slow morning, but today you take twelve, the city already awake by the time you reach the street with shop owners sweeping their doorsteps and delivery trucks idling near the curb and the familiar clatter of the tram tracks humming beneath the morning rush. 

You weave between early commuters and slower pedestrians, your bag bumping against your hip with every step until the cafe comes into view eventually with same warm lighting behind the fogged windows, same handwritten sign near the entrance advertising today's specials, same small bell above the door that chimes whenever someone enters. 

You're the one who opens it today.

The cafe is quiet when you step inside, slower than usual for this time of morning, and Yeonjun is already behind the counter with his apron tied loosely around his waist and his phone in his hand, wearing the kind of bored expression he always has before the first customer arrives. 

"No good morning for your favorite coworker?" you call out while dropping your bag beneath the register, and he looks up at you lazily. 

"You're late," he says. 

"I'm literally five minutes early," you point out, and he sighs. 

"Exactly. Late." You laugh despite yourself, reaching for an apron behind the counter. 

"Is the coffee ready or are you just standing there looking pretty?" you ask, and he gasps dramatically with one hand pressing against his chest. 

"I'm always ready," he declares. "The coffee is also ready. But mostly me."

The two of you fall into the usual rhythm after that, flicking on the lights near the seating area, arranging pastries behind the display counter, checking that the flower buckets near the window still have enough water and it's familiar now in a way it wasn't two weeks ago, easier, like your body has finally learned the shape of this place without needing to think about it. 

The morning rush trickles in slowly, a few regulars and an elderly couple who always orders the same tea and a young mother juggling a toddler and a phone call while trying to decide between two different bouquets near the window, and you move between the counter and the tables easily until by the time the clock passes nine the cafe has settled into that comfortable mid morning lull– busy enough to feel alive, quiet enough to breathe.

Yeonjun leans against the counter beside you, sipping something iced that he definitely didn't pay for, and you can feel him watching you even before he speaks. 

"So," he says, drawing the word out in that way he always does when he's about to say something annoying. 

"Beomgyu." Your hands pause briefly over the register before continuing. 

"What about him?" you ask, keeping your voice casual. 

"Nothing," he says, his tone far too innocent. "Just noticed you've been... hovering lately."

 You scoff. "I don't hover." 

"You literally walked him through the same drink order three times yesterday," he points out. 

"Because he kept forgetting the measurements," you say. 

"And you found that annoying?" he asks, and when you turn to look at him properly his expression is carefully neutral but his eyes are smiling in that way they always do when he's trying not to laugh. 

"Say what you're going to say," you mutter, turning back toward the register. 

"I'm not saying anything." 

"You're thinking it." 

"I'm always thinking," he says, taking a long sip of his drink. "Doesn't mean I say it."

The bell above the door chimes before you can respond, pulling both of your attention toward the entrance as a group of university students filters inside laughing about something one of them said on the walk over, and just like that the conversation is forgotten beneath the rush of new orders. 

But somewhere in the back of your mind, Yeonjun's words linger anyway– you've been hovering –and maybe you have, not that it means anything because Beomgyu is new and awkward and doesn't ask for help even when he clearly needs it, so someone has to notice when he's struggling, and that someone just happens to be you more often than not. That's all.

By ten o'clock the cafe has gone quiet again, the university students having left twenty minutes ago and the regulars all finished with their drinks and disappeared back into the city, even the flower buckets near the window having stopped catching people's attention now that the morning rush has finally settled into the slower pace of late morning. 

You glance toward the door, then toward the clock, then toward the door again. Beomgyu's shift started an hour ago.

Yeonjun is wiping down the counter near the espresso machine, humming something under his breath that you don't recognize, and he doesn't seem concerned yet, why would he, when people are late sometimes for all kinds of small reasons like traffic or oversleeping or a dozen other things that have nothing to do with anything serious? 

But Beomgyu isn't usually late, and that's the thought that sticks because you've worked with him long enough now to notice the patterns. 

He arrives early, always early, usually hovering near the back entrance until someone lets him in because he refuses to knock before opening hours. 

He checks the schedule three times before every shift even though nothing has changed. 

He triple-checks his pockets for his keys before leaving every night. 

Beomgyu is careful and anxious and very much not the kind of person who oversleeps without sending five apology messages beforehand.

You pull out your phone. One message from your grandmother about dinner, three notifications from an app you never use, and nothing from Beomgyu. 

Your thumb hovers over his contact for a moment before you lock the screen again, telling yourself to give him time because it's only an hour, but the knot in your stomach doesn't loosen.

By ten thirty there's still nothing, and you've checked your phone seven times now while Yeonjun has started giving you strange looks between customers, his earlier teasing replaced by something quieter and more curious. 

"You're distracted," he says eventually, sliding a clean cup across the counter toward you. 

"I'm fine," you say, but you've rearranged the pastry display twice and it looked the same both times, and when he points this out you don't have a response. 

He watches you for a moment longer before exhaling softly through his nose. 

"Okay," he says, setting down his towel. "What's going on?" 

You shake your head, reaching for a rag to wipe down the already clean counter. 

"Nothing. I'm sure it's nothing. He's probably just-" You stop because you don't actually know what he's probably doing. You know the street, he mentioned it once, weeks ago, something about the tram tracks near his building, but you've never been there, never had a reason to, until now.

"I'm going to check on him," you say, and Yeonjun's eyebrows lift. 

"You don't even know where he lives," he points out. 

"I know the street," you say, already untying your apron and folding it hastily over the back of a chair. 

"It's nearby. I can find it." He stares at you like you've grown a second head. 

"That's insane," he says. 

"Probably," you agree, grabbing your bag from beneath the counter. 

"You're going to knock on random doors until you find him?" he asks, and you shake your head. 

"I'm going to ask around. Someone will know which building." He stares at you for another few seconds before his expression shifts into something almost fond. 

"You're really doing this," he says. 

"I'm really doing this," you confirm, and he sighs, long and dramatic, the way he sighs about everything before waving one hand toward the door. 

"Fine. Go. But if you're not back within an hour, I'm calling someone." 

"Call who?" you ask, already halfway to the door. 

"I don't know," he calls after you. 

"The police. Your grandmother. Beomgyu's tall friend who keeps showing up and judging our drink prices." 

You laugh despite the anxiety pressing against your ribs, promising him an hour before you're out the door.

The street is easy enough to find, you've walked past it a hundred times on your way to and from the cafe, that row of older buildings wedged between a coffee bar and a convenience store with their facades worn down by years of city weather, though you've never had a reason to look closer before now. 

Now you're scanning every entrance and every buzzer and every window that might belong to him, the first building you try having the wrong name on the intercom and the second having no names at all, just faded numbers beside each buzzer and a door that looks like it hasn't been properly locked in years.

You hesitate at the third. It's older than the others, narrower, the paint near the entrance peeling in long strips to reveal darker wood beneath while the intercom system hangs slightly crooked against the wall like someone fixed it in a hurry and never came back to finish. But there's a bicycle chained near the stairs with rust gathering around the frame, a basket hanging loose near the handlebars, looking barely functional in that way that suggests someone uses it because they can't afford anything better, not because they want to. Something about it makes your chest tighten as you press the buzzer for the fourth floor.

No response.

You wait ten seconds.

Then twenty.

Then thirty before pressing it again, and still nothing. 

Your phone reads 10:47 AM, and somewhere at the back of your mind a small voice whispers that he's not coming, that something's wrong, and you pull out your phone to scroll to Beomgyu's contact before you can talk yourself out of it. 

The line rings once, twice, three times, and then voicemail– Beomgyu's voice, quiet and slightly awkward, like he'd been embarrassed recording the message in the first place. "Hey, it's Beomgyu. Leave a message. Or don't. Whatever." 

The beep cuts through before you can think of what to say. 

"Hey," you start, your voice coming out steadier than you feel. 

"It's... it's me. From the cafe. You're late. Like, really late. And you haven't texted, so I just–" You pause, pressing your free hand against the cold brick beside the entrance. 

"I'm outside your building. I think. The one near the convenience store? Fourth floor? If you're there, just... buzz me in. Or come down. Something. I'm getting worried."

You hang up, and the silence that follows feels heavier than before as you wait another minute that stretches into two, still nothing, and the door in front of you is old and the lock looks older and you've seen enough movies to know that forcing it open would be easy, a shoulder against the wood, a well placed kick near the handle, but this isn't a movie, this is a building and someone's home and his home, and you have no right to break into it just because your anxiety is spiraling. 

But you also can't leave, not like this, not without knowing, so you try the handle.

It turns.

The door swings open easily, like it's been waiting for someone to push it, and the hallway inside is dim and narrow and shadowed with flickering lights overhead and the faint smell of mildew clinging to the walls while stairs stretch upward in front of you, the carpet worn thin in the center from years of use. 

You step inside, your footsteps echoing softly against the walls as you climb past the third floor and then the fourth, the numbers beside each door growing more faded the higher you go until some of them are barely legible beneath layers of paint. 

You find his door at the end of the hall, no decoration, no welcome mat, just a plain wooden door with a silver handle and a peephole that stares back at you like an unblinking eye.

You knock. 

"Beomgyu?" Silence. 

You knock again, harder this time, your knuckles stinging against the wood. 

"Beomgyu, it's me. From the cafe. Are you in there?" Nothing. 

Your phone reads 10:52 AM, and you tell yourself he's fine, he's just asleep or sick or his phone died, there are a hundred explanations that don't involve something terrible, but the longer you stand there the harder it becomes to believe any of them. 

"Beomgyu," you try again, your voice quieter now, almost pleading. 

"Please. Just say something. Even if you're mad. Even if you don't want me here. Just–" You try the handle.

It turns.

The door swings open, and for a moment you can't move.

The apartment is dark, not the soft darkness of someone sleeping but the hollow darkness of a place that hasn't seen proper light in days, curtains pulled tight over large windows to block out the spring morning you walked through just fifteen minutes ago, the only illumination coming from a lamp near the couch whose bulb flickers weakly and casts long shadows across the floor. 

You step inside anyway, your shoes crinkling against scattered paper, receipts, envelopes, things you can't identify in the dim light, and the air smells stale with cigarette smoke and old coffee and something metallic underneath that makes your stomach turn. 

The kitchen is a mess, not lived in messy but drowning messy, dishes piled in the sink and empty convenience store bags crowding the counter and a half empty bottle of soju near the stove that you're almost certain wasn't there last night.

Your eyes drift toward the couch, and then you see him.

Beomgyu is curled on his side with one arm tucked beneath his head and the other hanging loosely over the edge of the cushions, his breathing shallow, too shallow, even from across the room and even in the dim light, even from this distance, you can see the bruising. 

Dark purple against his cheekbone, dried blood near the corner of his mouth, his sweater rumpled and stained with something that could be coffee or could be something worse, his hair matted near his temple in a way that makes your chest ache just looking at it. 

For a moment you just stand there with your hand still on the doorframe and your bag still hanging from your shoulder, everything about you frozen except your heart which is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

Then you move.

"Beomgyu." His name leaves your mouth softer than you intended, almost a whisper, and you cross the room without remembering how, lowering yourself onto the edge of the coffee table in front of him. 

Up close the bruises are worse, his lip split, the cut still raw and red, a yellowish green mark spreading across his jaw that must have come from somewhere else, something bigger than a fist maybe, a wall or the ground. 

"Beomgyu," you try again, reaching out, your fingers hovering near his shoulder because you're afraid to touch him, afraid not to.

He stirs, barely, just a slight furrow of his brow and a quiet shift of his weight against the cushions, but his eyes don't open. 

"Hey," you say, swallowing hard and forcing your voice to stay steady. 

"Hey, it's me. It's... it's Y/n. From the cafe. I need you to wake up, okay? Just... just open your eyes for me." Nothing. Your hand finally lands on his shoulder gently like touching something that might break. "Beomgyu."

His eyelids flutter once, twice, and then slowly they open. For a second he doesn't seem to recognize you, his gaze unfocused and glassy and drifting somewhere past your shoulder before finally, finally landing on your face. His lips part, but nothing comes out.

"You're okay," you say, even though you don't know if that's true, even though the sight of him like this makes you want to cry. "You're okay. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Beomgyu blinks at you, and somewhere behind the exhaustion and the bruises and the blood and the hollow emptiness in his eyes, something flickers– relief, like he'd been waiting for someone to find him, like he'd given up on anyone coming at all. 

But then, his gaze drifts past your shoulder toward the open door, and something else crosses his expression, something sharper, almost afraid, and you realize he's looking at the light spilling in from the hallway, at the way anyone could walk past and see him like this.

You turn and push the door shut without thinking, the soft click of the latch sounding louder than it should in the silence of the apartment, and when you face him again his shoulders have loosened slightly, just enough for you to notice. 

"Okay," you say, your voice steadier now even though your hands are still shaking. 

"Okay, we need to get you to a hospital. Can you stand? I can call a taxi, or–"

"No." The word comes out rougher than you've ever heard from him, scraped raw from somewhere deep in his chest, and his hand moves weakly like he's trying to reach for you but doesn't have the strength. 

"No hospital."

You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the sentence. "What do you mean no hospital? Beomgyu, your face– you're bleeding– we don't even know if anything's broken–"

"I know," he says, quieter this time, and he sounds so tired, so impossibly tired, like even this small conversation is draining whatever energy he has left. 

"I know, but I can't– they're going to ask questions, and if the police get involved they're going to investigate, and if they investigate–" He stops, swallowing hard, and you watch his throat work around words he doesn't seem to know how to say.

Your chest tightens. 

"Then let them investigate," you say, and your voice comes out higher now, thinner, because you can feel the anxiety building behind your ribs like a wave you can't stop. 

"Beomgyu, someone did this to you, someone hurt you, and you just want to– what? Pretend it didn't happen? Sit here in the dark and let them get away with it?" You're rambling now, you know you're rambling, but you can't stop because the thought of him lying here alone all night while you were sleeping soundly in your warm bed makes something inside you feel like it's cracking open. 

"What if they come back? What if they do worse next time? You can't just– you can't just not report something like this, you can't expect me to just sit here and–"

His fingers find yours.

Not grabbing, not pulling, just... resting there, light and warm and surprisingly steady despite everything, and the contact is so unexpected that the words die in your throat immediately. You look down at his hand curled around yours, at the silver rings still on his fingers, at the way his thumb brushes once against your knuckles like he's trying to calm a frightened animal.

"Y/n."

His voice is soft now, softer than you've ever heard it, and when you finally look up at his face his eyes aren't glassy anymore– they're tired and bruised around the edges but focused entirely on you, steady in a way that makes your breath catch.

"I landed the first punch."

The words don't make sense at first. They hang in the air between you, strange and disconnected from everything you're seeing– the bruises, the blood, the way he can barely lift his arm without wincing. 

"What?" you whisper.

"I touched him first," Beomgyu says quietly, and there's no pride in his voice, no defensiveness, just exhaustion and something that looks like shame settling into the corners of his expression. 

"I started it. So if the police come, if they investigate... it's not just them. It's me too." He pauses, his thumb still moving slowly against your skin. 

"I have a first aid kit. Under the sink. It's okay."

You want to argue. 

You want to tell him that self defense isn't the same as starting something, that whatever he did couldn't possibly justify this, that he's being stupid and reckless and you won't just stand by and watch him bury this like everything else he seems to carry alone. But the way he's looking at you– calm and certain and so, so tired– makes the argument die on your tongue before it can fully form.

"Okay," you hear yourself say, quieter than you intended. "Okay. I'll help you."

Something in his expression softens, just a fraction, and his hand lingers on yours for a moment longer before he lets go. 

"Under the sink," he repeats, already starting to push himself up against the couch cushions, and you watch him wince but say nothing, turning toward the kitchen instead because moving is easier than standing here with the weight of everything pressing against your chest.

The first aid kit is exactly where he said it would be, a small white box buried beneath cleaning supplies and old takeout menus, dust clinging to the corners like it hasn't been opened in months. 

You carry it back to the couch and settle onto the coffee table in front of him, your knees almost touching his, and when you flip the lid open you're greeted by a mess of bandages and antiseptic wipes and things you barely know how to use.

"I've never done this before," you admit, pulling out a cotton pad and a small bottle of something that smells like medicine.

"Neither have I," Beomgyu says, and there's something almost resembling humor in his voice, faint and fragile but there. "We'll figure it out together."

You look up at him, at the bruises and the split lip and the way he's sitting here in his dark, messy apartment letting you see him like this, and something in your chest cracks open just a little more.

"Together," you repeat softly, and he nods once, and you press the cotton to his cheek as gently as you can manage.

You pull out your phone while Beomgyu watches from the couch, his bruised cheek resting against the cushion like holding his head up is already too much effort. The screen glows bright in the dim apartment as you type out a quick message to Yeonjun 

‘not coming back for another few hours, cover for me, I'll give you a bonus today’

and his response comes almost immediately, a string of question marks followed by 

‘Who are you and what have you done with my coworker?’ and then, softer, 

‘Just tell me if everyone's okay.’

You don't answer that one. You just lock the phone and set it aside, turning back to the first aid kit spread across the coffee table between you.

The apartment is quieter now, the only sounds coming from the occasional tram rattling past outside and the soft rustle of bandages as you pull out what you need. 

Beomgyu doesn't say much while you work, just sits there with his hands resting limply in his lap while you dab at the cut near his lip and wipe away the dried blood from his cheek, hissing softly whenever the antiseptic stings but never pulling away. 

You're careful, as careful as you can be with fingers that still tremble slightly, and somewhere in the middle of pressing a butterfly bandage over the worst of the split you realize he's been watching your face the entire time.

"You don't have to do this," he says quietly, his voice still rough around the edges.

"I know," you answer, not looking up from the bandage. "I want to."

He doesn't argue after that, just exhales slowly through his nose and lets you keep working, and the silence between you feels different now, less heavy, more like something being held carefully rather than something being avoided. 

You reach for a fresh cotton pad and dab at the bruise spreading across his jaw, and when he flinches you murmur an apology so softly you're not sure he even hears it.

"My dad," he says after a long moment, and the words come out haltingly, like he's pulling them from somewhere deep. 

"He had debt. Before he... before he died. They've been coming after me instead." He pauses, his jaw tightening beneath your fingers. 

"I've been paying what I can. It's never enough."

Your hand stills on his cheek. You don't say anything so you just let the silence stretch while your thumb moves absently against his skin, tracing the edge of the bruise without thinking. 

"They know where I live," he continues, quieter. 

"They told me to double what I've been paying. I don't have it. I barely have enough for rent and cat food." A bitter laugh slips out, short and humorless. 

"So I guess I'll figure something out."

You should say something reassuring, something about how things will get better or how he doesn't deserve any of this, but all the words feel wrong and hollow in your throat. 

Instead you just keep cleaning his wounds, methodical and slow, until the worst of the blood is gone and the cuts are covered and all that's left are the bruises, dark and blooming against his pale skin, already starting to purple at the edges.

Your hand pauses at his cheek.

You don't know what possesses you to do it, maybe the way he's looking at you, tired and scared and somehow still trusting, or maybe just the simple fact that he's been carrying all of this alone for so long and you're the first person to finally see it. 

Your fingers shift, no longer cleaning or bandaging but just... touching, your palm resting gently against the uninjured side of his face while your thumb brushes once across his cheekbone, soft and almost unconscious.

Beomgyu's breath catches. You see his throat move as he swallows, see something shift in his expression that you can't quite name, but he doesn't pull away. Neither do you.

"We need to do something about this," you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel. 

"Maybe you can move out, find a new place somewhere else so they won't find you. Somewhere far enough that they'll give up eventually." Your thumb brushes his cheek again, feather light. 

"You can't stay here, Beomgyu. Not like this."

He stares at you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching your face for something you're not sure you're giving away. Then he nods once, small and almost imperceptible, and his hand comes up to rest briefly over yours where it lingers on his cheek.

"I know," he says quietly. 

"I just... don't know how."

You don't have an answer for that. Not yet. So you just let your hand stay where it is, let the warmth of his fingers seep into your skin, and sit with him in the quiet of his dark apartment while the tram rattles past outside and the morning light slowly grows brighter behind the curtained windows.

The words come out before you can think about them, tumbling past your lips like they've been waiting there all along. "Move in with me."

Beomgyu blinks at you, his hand still resting over yours on his cheek. "What?"

"There's a spare room at my grandparents' house," you say, and now that you've started you can't stop, the sentences spilling out faster than you can organize them. 

"It's not being used for anything, just storage mostly, but it has a bed and a window and it's warm, and my grandparents won't care– they're always complaining the house is too big for just the three of us anyway–"

"Y/n–"

"Please." Your voice softens, your thumb brushing against his cheekbone again without meaning to. 

"Anywhere is better than here, Beomgyu. You know that."

He stares at you like he's never heard anything more absurd in his life, his eyebrows furrowed beneath the bruising, his split lip parting slightly like he wants to argue but can't find the words. 

"I can't just– you don't even– I have debt, I have people looking for me, I can't just show up at your grandparents' house and–"

"So stay until you figure it out," you interrupt gently, squeezing his fingers where they're still tangled with yours. 

"A week. A month. However long you need. Just... somewhere safer than this." You glance around the dark apartment, the scattered envelopes, the empty soju bottle, the curtains pulled tight against the morning light and when you look back at him your eyes are sharper. 

"Somewhere with windows that open and locks that work and people who will notice if you don't come home."

Beomgyu's jaw works silently, his throat moving like he's swallowing down about seventeen different arguments, and you can see the war happening behind his eyes, pride fighting against exhaustion, stubbornness against the obvious truth. His hand is still holding yours, you realize, his fingers curled loosely around your knuckles like he forgot to let go.

"Also," you add, and there's a hint of lightness creeping into your voice now, something almost teasing, "I still want to see my favorite coworker every day. Don't tell Yeonjun I said that, though. He'll never let me live it down."

Something cracks across Beomgyu's face– not quite a smile, not with the split lip and the bruises, but close. Close enough that something warm flickers in your chest despite everything. He looks down at your joined hands, then back up at your face, and you watch the last of his resistance crumble beneath whatever he sees in your expression.

"Okay," he says quietly, barely above a whisper. "Okay. Just... temporarily. Until I figure something out."

You nod, not trusting your voice, and your thumb brushes his cheek one more time before you finally let your hand drop. 

"Temporarily," you agree. 

"Now let's get you packed. I'm not explaining to my grandmother why I brought home a wounded stranger without at least a toothbrush."

The next few days pass in a strange blur of cardboard boxes and quiet negotiations.

Beomgyu doesn't have much– that's the thing that stays with you, long after you've carried the last box down the stairs and loaded it into your car. A few sweaters, more than a few hole ridden socks, a collection of guitar picks scattered across every surface like he'd been preparing for them to multiply.

His mother's photo in a cheap frame, the glass cracked along one corner but the image still clear– a woman with his same dark eyes and the same quiet smile, holding a baby Beomgyu against her chest. He wraps that one in a towel before placing it carefully into a box, and you pretend not to notice how his hands shake.

His cat supervises the entire operation from the top of the couch, tail flicking every time you fold something wrong.

The apartment looks emptier when you're done, somehow sadder than it did when it was full of clutter. The large windows still overlook the tram tracks, the heater still hums inconsistently, the pile of unopened envelopes still sits on the kitchen counter, but Beomgyu doesn't look back when he locks the door for the last time. He just shoulders his guitar case, picks up his cat carrier, and follows you down the stairs without a word.

His cat meows the entire drive to your grandparents' house.

Before you leave the apartment, you make him sit on the steps while you call Yeonjun. Not text– call. Because you've been avoiding him for two days and he deserves better than that, even if he's going to be insufferable about it.

The phone rings twice before his voice comes through, sharp and immediate. "You're alive. You're actually alive. I was starting to plan the funeral."

You lean against the stair railing, watching Beomgyu through the cracked door where he's pretending not to listen. "I'm sorry. I know I disappeared. There was– something came up. An emergency."

Yeonjun is quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again his voice is softer, all the teasing drained out of it. "Is Beomgyu okay?"

The question catches you off guard– not because you didn't expect it, but because you didn't expect him to ask it in that tone. You glance toward the door again, at the boy sitting on the steps with his cat carrier in his lap and his guitar case beside him, at the bruises still purple on his cheekbone and the way his shoulders curve inward like he's still bracing for impact.

"He will be," you say quietly. "I'm going to make sure of it."

Yeonjun doesn't push for more details. He just exhales slowly, and you can picture him running a hand through his hair the way he does when he's worried but doesn't want to show it. "Okay. Just... text me next time? So I don't think you both got kidnapped?"

"I'll text you."

"You better. Also you owe me. Like, actually owe me. I covered for you with your grandparents and everything."

You smile despite yourself. "I know. Thank you, Yeonjun."

"Yeah, yeah. Just bring him back in one piece. The cafe's boring without you two."

He hangs up before you can respond, and when you go back inside Beomgyu is watching you with something unreadable in his expression.

"He's not mad?" he asks.

"He's worried," you say, picking up a box. "There's a difference."

Beomgyu doesn't argue, but he doesn't agree either. He just picks up his cat carrier and follows you out the door.

Your grandparents take the news exactly the way you expected them to.

You wait until Beomgyu has been settled into the spare room, after his cat has been introduced to every corner of the house, after he's showered and changed into clothes that don't smell like cigarette smoke and old coffee, and before you sit them down in the living room. 

The three of you gather around the low wooden coffee table, cups of tea steaming between your hands, and you explain everything in the calmest, most measured voice you can manage.

Not all of it– some parts of Beomgyu's story aren't yours to tell. The debt. His father. The men who found him. The bruises you're still learning how to look at without flinching.

Your grandmother listens with her hands folded in her lap, her expression unreadable in that way it gets when she's processing something heavy. Your grandfather stares at the fireplace even though there's no fire yet, his jaw tight, his fingers drumming once against his knee before stilling.

When you finish, the silence stretches long enough that you start to worry.

Then your grandmother sets down her tea, rises from her chair, and crosses the room to where Beomgyu sits on the edge of the sofa like he's ready to flee at any moment. She doesn't say anything.

Instead, she just reaches out and takes his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing gently against his uninjured cheek, and looks at him the way she used to look at you when you were small and scared and pretending not to be.

"You're safe here," she says quietly. "Do you understand? Whatever you're running from, it doesn't follow you past this door."

Beomgyu's throat moves as he swallows. His eyes are very bright, though no tears fall. "I don't want to cause any trouble," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word despite his best efforts.

"Trouble," your grandmother repeats, like the word tastes strange in her mouth. "Child, I've been dealing with trouble since before your mother was born. You're not trouble. You're a boy who needs a place to rest, and we have more than enough room to give you that."

Your grandfather clears his throat from his armchair. "The spare room's been collecting dust since we turned it into storage a few years back. Nice to have someone using it again." He pauses, his gaze flicking toward Beomgyu's guitar case propped against the wall. "You play something for us sometime, and we'll call it even."

Beomgyu blinks at him. "I... yes. Of course. Thank you."

Your grandmother releases Beomgyu's face and settles back into her chair, reaching for her tea again. "Now," she says, her voice lighter now, almost business like. "Dinner is at seven. Y/n's grandfather cooks on Saturdays, so prepare yourself for too much food and even more questions about your life. Nothing too invasive, he just likes to know who's sitting at his table."

Beomgyu nods slowly, still looking a little dazed. "I can help. With cooking. Or cleaning up after. Whatever you need."

Your grandmother raises an eyebrow. "You cook?"

"Not well," he admits. "But I can learn."

Something in her expression softens– not that it was hard to begin with, but you watch her look at him the way she looks at stray cats who wander onto the porch, wary but already decided. 

"We'll start with dishes," she says. "Then we'll see about teaching you a few things."

Beomgyu nods again, and his shoulders drop just slightly though not all the way, not yet, but enough. Enough that you feel something in your own chest loosen.

Later, after your grandparents have retreated to the kitchen and the sound of your grandfather chopping vegetables drifts through the house, you find Beomgyu standing in front of the large window in the living room. 

His cat is curled on the windowsill, basking in the last of the afternoon light, and Beomgyu is just looking… at the garden, at the trees, at the way the sunlight catches on the exposed wooden beams overhead.

"They're not what I expected," he says without turning around.

You lean against the doorframe. "What did you expect?"

He's quiet for a moment. "I don't know. Not this." He gestures vaguely at the room covered with warm walnut floors, at the woven blankets draped over the chairs, at the small vase of fresh flowers on the mantel that your grandmother changes every week without fail. 

"Maybe people who would ask questions who are nosy or people who would want something in return."

"My grandparents aren't like that."

"I'm starting to realize."

His cat meows softly, and Beomgyu reaches down to scratch behind her ears without looking. The afternoon light catches the side of his face, the bruises already fading from purple to something closer to yellowish green, and you think about how different he looks here– still tired, but softer somehow. Less like he's waiting for the next blow.

"Hey," you say, and he turns to look at you. "I don't know how long this is going to take with figuring out the debt, dealing with those men, all of it. But you don't have to do it alone anymore. We'll figure something out together. For now, just... get some rest. Let yourself breathe."

Beomgyu holds your gaze for a long moment, something flickering across his face that you can't quite name– gratitude, maybe, or disbelief that someone actually means it. Then he looks back out the window, at the garden and the trees and the sky turning gold with the setting sun.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "I'll clock in for work tomorrow."

You smile at him, small and easy, and after a second he gives you something close to it back, not quite a smile, but the tired version of one, the kind that's more about the eyes than the mouth. It's enough.

Before either of you can say anything else, your grandmother's voice drifts in from the kitchen. "Lunch is ready! Both of you, wash up and come eat before it gets cold."

Beomgyu's cat meows from the windowsill, and you laugh.

"Come on," you say, pushing yourself up. "She gets bossy when the food's ready."

Beomgyu follows you toward the kitchen, and somehow the house feels a little warmer than it did before.

⤷ a/n: did not expect this to have more than one part but enjoy part two linked above and prepare yourself... <33

[bamyeong]

touch ups : again? ♡

pairings: idol!beomgyu x makeup artist!reader (f)

wordcount: 5-6k

synopsis: beomgyu suddenly develops the habit of snacking right before every schedule, leaving behind smudged lipstick, ruined lip tint, and endless excuses to visit his favorite makeup artist for yet another touch-up. after the seventh “accident” in a single day, you begin to wonder if he’s really that hungry—or if he just likes having an excuse to see you.

warnings/tags: beomgyu refers the reader as “noona”, teasing, fluff with a bit of smut, possessive behavior, age gap, power imbalance, making out, implied sexual activity, flirty beomgyu. probably missing some tags and this isn’t proofread.

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the first time it happens, you genuinely believe it's an accident.

you're backstage at music bank, hands full of brushes and makeup supplies, when beomgyu appears in your station doorway with that sheepish grin you've learned to read like it’s a second language. his lower lip is smeared with something dark—chocolate, you realize, as he gets closer, the careful gradient of the berry-toned tint you'd spent twenty minutes perfecting is completely destroyed.

"noona," he whines, already settling into your chair without being asked, "i got hungry…”

you sigh, reaching for a cotton pad and makeup remover. "you know we have thirty minutes until pre-recording. right?"

"i know, but the catering had those little chocolate pies and i couldn't resist." he tilts his chin up obediently as you grip his jaw gently to inspect the damage. his skin is warm under your fingers, slightly flushed from rushing back from the green room. "sorry."

"it's fine." you're lying. it's not fine—you're going to have to reapply the base around his mouth, redo the lip line, blend the tint all over again. but he's looking at you with those big brown eyes, all soft and apologetic, and you feel your irritation melting like the chocolate still clinging to the corner of his mouth. "just... try to be more careful, okay?"

"i will," he promises. "you're the best, you know that?"

you duck your head to hide your smile, focusing on cleaning him up.

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the second time is two days later.

inkigayo this time, a different venue, a different look—coral lips, sun-kissed skin, the concept styling calling for something fresh and summery. you're packing your kit when you hear the familiar shuffle of shoes against carpet.

"don't tell me," you say without looking up.

"i was weak," beomgyu announces, and when you do look up, sure enough, there's a telltale smudge of cheese dust, you realize with horror—across his upper lip. the gradient is ruined. again.

"beomgyu." you can't help the whine in your voice. "we don't have time for this. you're on in fifteen minutes."

"i'll be fast," he promises, already hopping into the chair. he catches your wrist as you reach for a wipe, thumb brushing deliberately over your pulse point. "you're always so good to me, noona. i really appreciate it."

something in his tone makes you pause, but then he's releasing you, closing his eyes, presenting his face for repair like the good client he usually is. you push the strange flutter in your chest aside and get to work.

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the third time, you start keeping track.

it's a photoshoot. concept photos for the new album, which means the looks are more elaborate, more precious, more expensive in terms of time and perfection. you've just finished beomgyu's second outfit change, a delicate dewy look with glossy lips that took forty minutes to perfect, when he returns from the craft services table with a rice cake halfway to his mouth and red bean paste smeared across his cheek.

"beomgyu!" the other stylists turn to look. you feel your face heat with embarrassment, with frustration, with something else you can't quite name. "what are you doing?"

"i'm hungry," he says simply, like that explains everything. like he didn't just destroy an hour of your work. he doesn't even look sorry this time. there's something playful in his expression, something almost challenging. "aren't you going to fix it?"

you fix it. of course you fix it. it's your job, and he's your responsibility, and besides… his skin is soft under your fingertips, and he smells like vanilla and something uniquely him, and when you lean in close to reapply the lip gloss, his breath ghosts warm against your cheek.

"all better," you murmur, stepping back.

his eyes open slowly, heavy-lidded, and he runs his tongue over his freshly-painted lower lip in a way that makes your stomach tighten. "thanks, noona. i knew i could count on you."

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the fourth time, you start to suspect.

it's a radio schedule, early morning, everyone bleary-eyed and running on coffee and adrenaline. you've given beomgyu a simple look: tinted lip balm, barely-there base, something natural for the visual radio broadcast. you're organizing your station when you feel a presence behind you.

"don't turn around," he says softly, and there's something in his voice that makes you freeze.

"beomgyu—"

"i got hungry again."

you turn anyway, and there he is, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. his lips are smeared with strawberry jam, sticky and sweet, but completely destroyed, and he's looking at you like you're the only person in the room.

"you're doing this on purpose," you accuse, but your voice comes out quieter than you intended.

"am i?" he tilts his head, all innocent curiosity, but there's a dimple forming in his left cheek that only appears when he's trying not to smile. "maybe i just have a big appetite."

"for snacks?"

"for..." he lets the word hang, gaze dropping to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "for certain things."

your heart is beating against your chest. the radio studio is small, cramped, full of staff and equipment and the constant threat of someone walking in, but beomgyu is looking at you like he doesn't care about any of it. like he'd let the whole world see.

"sit down," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. "i'll fix it."

he obeys, but as you lean in with a cotton pad, his hand comes up to circle your wrist—not stopping you, just holding you there, thumb stroking the sensitive skin.

"your hands are cold," he observes.

"it's early."

"you should warm them up." his eyes are dark, intense, nothing like the playful boy who'd whined about chocolate. "i know a good way."

"beomgyu—"

"after the schedule," he says, releasing you as suddenly as he'd grabbed you, leaving you unsteady and breathless. "come find me. i'll be... hungry."

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the fifth time, you don't even make it to the chair.

it's a fansign, hours of sitting and smiling and signing albums, and you've given him a look that needs to last: matte lip tint, setting spray, the works. you're checking on yeonjun's eyeliner when you feel a tap on your shoulder.

"emergency," beomgyu says, and his voice is pitched low, intimate, meant only for you.

you turn, expecting another smudge, another stain, another excuse. instead, you find him perfectly intact, lips pristine, not a crumb of food in sight. but his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and he's holding your gaze with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"what—"

"bathroom," he says. "now. please."

you shouldn't. you know you shouldn't. there are a hundred people in this venue, staff and security and fans waiting just outside, and you're supposed to be professional.

you follow him anyway.

he doesn't even wait for the door to close all the way before he's pressing you against it, his mouth hot and demanding against yours, and you can taste it now—strawberries, always strawberries, like he's been eating them in secret just to leave the flavor on his tongue for you.

"you've been driving me crazy," he breathes between kisses, hands sliding down to grip your hips. "all week, watching you get flustered, watching you touch my face, my mouth..." he nips at your lower lip, and you gasp, arching into him. "do you know how hard it is to sit still while you're painting my lips? wanting to bite you instead?"

"beomgyu… no—" you try for his name, but it comes out as a moan when he rolls his hips against yours.

"i wasn't hungry for snacks," he admits, mouth trailing down your neck, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses that you know will leave marks. "i was hungry for this. for you. your hands on me, your eyes on me, your attention."

"you're ridiculous," you manage, but you're already unbuttoning his shirt, already sliding your hands under the fabric to feel the heat of his skin.

"ridiculous for you," he agrees, and then his mouth is on yours again, swallowing whatever response you might have made.

you lose track of time. you lose track of everything except the taste of him, the feel of him, the way he groans when you scratch your nails down his back. it's only when your radio crackles with your supervisor's voice that you jolt back to reality, pushing him away with shaking hands.

"fix me," he says, grinning, gesturing to his swollen lips, the smeared tint, the love bites you've left on his neck. "you're the only one who can."

you fix him. you always fix him.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

the sixth time, you stop pretending to be surprised.

it's a music video shoot, long hours, hot lights, the kind of day that drains everyone dry. you've touched up beomgyu's makeup six times already—legitimate touch-ups, sweat and movement and the demands of performance, but when he appears in your station at hour nine with cherry lollipop residue on his lips, you just raise an eyebrow.

"really?"

"i have a sweet tooth," he says, not even bothering with the pretense anymore. he leans against your table, close enough that you can smell the candy on his breath. "and you're the only one who can satisfy it."

"that's not even subtle."

"was i ever subtle?" he reaches out, thumb brushing over your lower lip, and you let him. you've stopped pretending about that too. "i like watching you work. i like your focus, your hands, the way you bite your lip when you're concentrating." his thumb presses harder, pulling your lip down slightly. "i like making you touch me."

"you're shameless."

"for you?" he leans in, mouth hovering over yours, not quite kissing, never quite kissing until you're aching for it. "absolutely."

you kiss him first this time, grabbing his collar and pulling him down, and he makes a sound against your mouth that's half-laugh, with a half-groan. his hands slide into your hair, tilting your head back, deepening the kiss until you're dizzy with it.

"there's a supply closet," he murmurs against your jaw. "third door on the left. ten minutes."

"we can’t—"

"don't make me wait." he pulls back, eyes dark, lips already swollen and red—ruined. you'd think if you didn't know better, if you didn't know he does this on purpose. "i've been snacking all day just to see you. don't make me go hungry now."

you meet him in the supply closet. of course you do.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

the seventh time, you're ready for him.

it's been a long day—fan meeting, radio interview, variety show filming, and now a late-night live broadcast. you've been running on adrenaline and espresso since 5:00 am, and you're packing up your kit, dreaming of your bed and the silence of your apartment, when you hear the door to your station click shut.

you don't turn around.

"let me guess," you say, keeping your voice light, casual, even as your heart starts to race. "you found the catering table again."

"i found something better," beomgyu says, and then his arms are sliding around your waist, his chin hooking over your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear. "i found you alone."

"you've found me alone seven times today."

"have i?" he turns you around, and his expression is soft now, fond, all the teasing stripped away to reveal something vulnerable underneath. "i just... i like being with you. even if it's just for five minutes while you fix my makeup. even if it's just watching you work from across the room." he cups your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "is that pathetic?"

"no," you whisper, leaning into his touch. "it's... it's sweet. annoying, but sweet."

he laughs, bright and genuine, and presses his forehead to yours. "i can stop. the snacking, i mean. the excuses. if you want me to."

you think about it—the long hours, the ruined makeup, the constant interruptions. the way your heart jumps every time he appears in your doorway, the way your hands shake when you touch his face, the way you've started hoping he'll find something to mess up just so he'll come find you.

"no," you say. "don't stop."

his smile lightens up. "yeah?"

"yeah." you reach up, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling him down to meet you halfway. "but maybe... maybe next time, skip the snacks. just come find me."

"and say what?"

"say..." you kiss the corner of his mouth, the other corner, the tip of his nose, each press of lips deliberate, worshipful. "say you're hungry. say you need me. say you couldn't wait another minute to see me."

"i can do that," he breathes, and then he's kissing you properly, deeply, hands sliding down to grip your waist and pull you flush against him. "i can definitely do that."

the door clicks—someone trying to get in, finding it locked—and you both freeze, breathing hard, foreheads still pressed together.

"your makeup," you remember, pulling back to look at him. his lips are swollen, cheeks flushed, hair fluffed up from your fingers. he looks thoroughly kissed, thoroughly wrecked, and a possessive pride surges through you at the sight. "it's ruined."

"is it?" he doesn't look concerned. if anything, he looks pleased and satisfied. "guess you'll have to fix it."

"beomgyu, we don't have time."

"we have time." he catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm, your wrist, the sensitive skin of your inner arm. "we always have time. for this. for us."

"you're impossible."

"you're mine," he counters, and the certainty of it makes your chest ache with something warm and terrifying at the same time.

"yeah," you admit, because there's no point in denying it anymore. there never was. "yeah, i am."

he beams, and pulls you in for another kiss.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

you fix his makeup one last time that night, fingers steady now, familiar with the structure of his face, the shape of his mouth. he watches you work in the mirror, eyes never leaving yours, something soft and content in his expression that has nothing to do with the cameras waiting outside, the schedule pressing down on both of you.

"there," you say, stepping back. "perfect."

"perfect," he agrees, but he's looking at you, not his reflection. he stands, straightening his jacket, and pauses at the door. "hey, noona?"

"yeah?"

"i'm hungry."

you roll your eyes, but you're smiling, reaching for your bag, your coat, your keys. "there's a convenience store down the street. i'll buy you whatever you want."

"whatever i want?" he holds the door open for you, falling into step beside you as you head for the exit, for the night air and for whatever comes next.

"within reason."

he catches your hand, threading his fingers through yours, and brings your knuckles to his lips for a kiss that makes your breath catch. "what if what i want... is you?"

you squeeze his hand, leaning your head on his shoulder as you walk into the night together. "then i guess... you're going to need a lot more touch-ups."

he laughs happily, and you think: this is it. this is the beginning of everything.

"good," he says. "i was planning on developing a very big appetite."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

this was supposed to be a pure fluff fic, but then my brain said “what if they sneaked into a supply closet and kissed” (・ω<)

seven is a lucky number in korea (if you realized, the reader noticed his intentions then) and also it felt like the right amount of "okay this is definitely not an accident anymore" without being completely unbelievable. the man just really likes snacks and his makeup artist, can you blame him??

thank you if you got this far into reading! i hope you enjoyed this. ♡

[bamyeong]

steady confessions ୨ৎ

word count: 10-12k (?)

pairing: dr. choi beomgyu (neurology) x dr. reader (cardiology)

warnings/tags: doctor au, medical au, neurology x cardiology, hospital, enemies to lovers, fluff with smut, slow burn, workplace romance, neurosurgeon beomgyu, cardiologist reader, soft dom!beomgyu, established relationship, explicit, use of the petname ‘baby’

synopsis: you're the youngest doctor at the hospital, and you've worked hard for it. no patience for pretty brained surgeons who think they own the place. dr. choi beomgyu is exactly that. wonderful, annoying, with hands that can save lives at three in the morning but apparently can't stop stealing your coffee almost all the time.

─── ୨୧ ───

you've been fighting for two years. trading insults in hallways, pretending you don't notice how his scrubs fit or how he bites his lip like it hurts when he's reading your charts.

but when a bad night brings you together, things change because beomgyu doesn't want to fight with you anymore. he wants to know why you drink black coffee, why you have ink on your hands all the time, and why your heart beats fast when he's close.

and you? you're starting to wonder if his hands are really as skilled in bed as they are in surgery.

─── ୨୧ ───

the first time you meet dr. choi beomgyu, he's inside someone's head and you're trying to keep a patient alive.

not you personally. the patient. a kid on a motorcycle who hit a wall quite hard. you'd been called from your afternoon appointments to get to the trauma room. you arrived to find chaos.

"where's the brain doctor?" you snapped at the nurse, already gloved up.

"in surgery," she called back. "car accident, head injury, they took him up twenty minutes ago."

"and the other brain doctor?"

"stuck in another surgery. we've got the trainee covering, but..."

but. there was always a but in trauma case. you checked the patient yourself, confirmed the tear in his heart, stabilized him enough for the scan, then walked up to the surgery floor because if you were going to fix this kid's heart, you needed to know what his brain was doing first.

that's when you walked into the operating room without knocking, and found him.

he was young. younger than you expected for a brain surgeon with his reputation. top of his class, trained overseas, recruited back to build their strict program. you'd heard the gossip in the break room, the way the nurses sighed, the way even the tough emergency doctors spoke about him with respect.

he was also, unfortunately, gorgeous.

not in a soft way. in a sharp, and dangerous way. dark hair under his cap, focused doe eyes above his mask, long fingers working with a gentleness that seemed impossible given what he was doing. he was doing brain surgery, you realized, relieving pressure with movements so perfect they looked practiced a thousand times.

"pressure's dropping," the anesthesiologist said.

"give me two more minutes," beomgyu murmured, not looking up. his voice was lower than you expected, warm even through the mask. "i need to get this last clot."

you should have left. you should have waited outside, checked the board, found the trainee. instead, you stood there, frozen in the doorway, watching his hands move. steady, unshakeable, confident in a way that made something low in your stomach tighten immediately.

he finished, finally, stepped back, and only then did he look up. his eyes found yours immediately. dark, smart, stripping you bare.

"can i help you?" he asked, and there was something almost amused in his tone, like he knew exactly who you were.

"dr. choi," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you felt. "i'm dr. y/n, heart specialist. i need to know your patient's brain status before i fix his heart. if he's not going to wake up, i need to know now."

something flickered in his expression. surprise, maybe, or interest. he pulled down his mask, revealing a mouth that was unfairly shaped, soft lower lip and sharp teeth that showed when he smiled.

"dr. y/n," he repeated, like he was tasting your name. "the wonder kid from cardiology. i've heard about you."

"and i've heard about you," you replied. "the whole hospital has. something about a terribly handsome man and stealing people's coffee."

the nurses went very still. the anesthesiologist looked like she was trying to disappear.

but beomgyu laughed. it was a startled sound, and it changed his whole face from cold to something warm and approachable, being much more dangerous.

"i only steal the espresso," he corrected, pulling off his gloves. "and only when it's been sitting there for more than ten minutes. when it’s been abandoned."

"is that what they really teach these days? theft 101?"

"advanced theft, actually. with a minor in not taking shit from heart doctors who barge into my operating room." he stepped closer, and you realized with a jolt that he was tall, taller than you, which was rare, and he was using it to crowd your space in a way that should have been rude but instead felt like a difficult challenge. "my patient will wake up. brain activity is good, pupils responsive, and no brain death signs. i'll have him stable within the hour. does that meet your standards, dr. y/n?"

“yes.” you responded.

you turned and walked out then, spine straight, with your heart pounding against your ribs in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the way he looked at you.

that was two years ago.

now, standing in the break room at 6:47 in the morning on a tuesday, staring at the empty coffee pot where your coffee should be.

"looking for something?"

you don't turn around. you know that voice now. you know it in your sleep, unfortunately, you know the way it drops when he's tired, you know the way it sharpens when he's about to say something seriously cutting.

"my coffee," you say, keeping your eyes on the empty machine. "which someone drank. all of it. again."

"how tragic," beomgyu says, and you hear him moving behind you, the sound of his shoes on the floor. he's close now. "you know, there's a solution to this."

“enlighten me, doctor."

"make your own coffee. or…just throwing this out there, learn to share."

you turn then, and he's right there, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, he looks tired. dark circles under his eyes, because he's been practically living at the hospital. there was a burst blood vessel last night, you heard. emergency surgery at two in the morning.

"you look like hell," you tell him.

"you look like someone who needs caffeine," he returns, and then he's reaching past you, into your personal space, brushing your shoulder with his arm, then retrieving a thermos from behind the microwave. he holds it out. "here. i made extra."

you stare at it. then you stare at him.

"what's the catch?"

"no catch. i'm being nice."

"you're never nice."

"i'm nice sometimes." he shakes the thermos, and you can hear the liquid inside. “no sugar. i've noticed you don't take sugar. probably because you're already sweet enough."

"that's disgusting," you say, but you're taking the thermos from his hand anyway. "was that a line? did you just try to flirt with me using coffee?"

"did it work?"

you unscrew the lid, then take a sip. it's perfect. exactly how you take it, exactly the right temperature, and the fact that he knows this, that he's memorized all of this without you even realizing, makes something flutter in your chest that you blatantly ignore.

"it was mediocre at best," you lie.

beomgyu smiles, slow and knowing. "you're a terrible liar, dr. y/n. has anyone ever told you that?"

"has anyone ever told you that you have boundary issues?"

"daily. usually by you." he pushes off the counter, and for a second you think he's going to leave, but instead he shifts, trapping you between the counter and his body in a way that should feel threatening but instead feels warm. "i have a consult in twenty minutes. patient with heart problems after brain bleeding. large bleed in the head, heart enzymes through the roof, and heart function down to thirty percent. your department's already involved, but i wanted to give you a heads up personally."

this is how it is with him. professionalism wrapped in closeness. you've learned to separate the doctor from the man, but some days the line blurs more than others.

he's looking at your mouth now, which you realize immediately, and you should move before it becomes something else, but you don't. you never do. "dinner," he says suddenly.

"what?"

"dinner. tonight. after rounds? there's a soup place near hongdae that stays open late, and i'm starving, and so are you. i'm tired of eating alone in the break room while you glare at me from across the table."

"that's not..."

"it is.” he glare. it's very intimidating.

you should say no. you've been saying no for two years, or at least you've been saying not yet, not now, not while we're colleagues. but his eyes are soft underneath all the annoying teasing, and you can see the exhaustion there, the loneliness that comes with being good at something that requires everything from you.

"just dinner," you say, and you're not sure if you're warning him or yourself.

beomgyu's smile this time is different. more real, something that reaches his eyes and stays there.

"just dinner," he agrees. "i'll meet you at the south entrance. 8:30. don't stand me up, dr. y/n. i have a fragile ego."

"you'll live," you say, but you're smiling too, and he sees it, and his expression shifts into something that looks a lot like hope.

he leaves then, finally, and you stand alone in the lounge with your coffee and your racing heart and the feeling that you've just crossed a line you can't uncross now.

─── ୨୧ ───

the patient is a disaster.

not the brain part. beomgyu fixed the bleeding by 10:00 in the morning. you spend six hours in the intensive care unit adjusting medications, watching the heart images closely.

you consider canceling. you're exhausted, covered in sweat, and your hair falling out of its tie. but when you check your phone, there's a text from an unknown number. "south entrance. i'll be the one in the leather jacket looking pathetic. don't worry, i showered. -b" and something in your chest loosens.

you change quickly, washing the hospital smell from your skin and changing into the spare clothes you keep in your locker. you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and wince. you look like what you are. a doctor who's been awake for twenty hours, pale and bruised under the eyes, too thin because you keep forgetting to eat.

but beomgyu has seen you worse. beomgyu has seen you at three in the morning with blood on your scrubs and tears in your eyes because you lost a patient. he has seen you furious, you grieving, you competent and cruel. this tired woman is probably the most honest version of yourself you've ever shown to someone.

the south entrance is quiet at night, just the glow of the emergency lights and the occasional taxis passing. you see him before he sees you. leaning against the wall, he's on his phone.

then he looks up, and sees you and that smile that spreads across his face is so open, so relieved.

"you came," he says, pushing off the wall.

"you invited me."

"i invite you a lot. you usually find reasons to be busy." he falls into step beside you, and you're walking now, away from the hospital, into the night air that smells like rain. "how's our patient?"

"stable. for now. we'll need to watch her for the next two days. rebleed risk, blood vessel spasms. but her heart's recovering."

"because of you."

"because of medicine," you correct, but you're pleased despite yourself. "your surgery was clean. no leftover problems. she'll wake up if the brain lets her."

"that's the trick, isn't it?" beomgyu says, and there's something sad in his tone. "we fix what we can reach. the rest is just... waiting and hoping."

"you did everything right," you tell him, because you know that's not what he's saying but it's what he needs to hear. "the bleeding was unstoppable when she came in. she would have died without you."

"i know," he says, and it's not arrogant, just factual. "but knowing doesn't always help. at 3:00 in the morning, when you're staring at the ceiling in the on-call room, knowing doesn't make it easier."

you understand. you've been there.

the soup place is small, warm and steamy and smelling of broth and kimchi. beomgyu seems to know the owner. an older woman who smiles at him with real affection and leads you to a corner booth without asking for an order.

"he comes here after every big surgery," she tells you, patting your hand. "first time he brings someone. you must be special.”

"colleague," you say quickly.

"mm," she says, clearly not believing you, and bustles away.

"she likes you," beomgyu says, sliding into the booth across from you. the table is small, your knees brushing under it, and you don't pull away.

"she likes you. not me."

"no y/n." he's looking at you seriously now, all the teasing gone. "

the way he says your name. y/n, not dr. y/n, not the formal distance you've maintained for two years. it makes your breath catch. you've heard him say it before, in passing, in anger, but never like this. never like it's something precious.

"beomgyu," you start, not sure what you're going to say.

but then the food arrives. seafood soup for you, kimchi soup for him, rice and side dishes that give you time to compose yourself. you're starving, you realize, and you eat with the single-minded focus of someone who's learned to take food when it's available because you never know when the next emergency will pull you away.

beomgyu watches you eat with something like fascination. "you're the only woman i know who eats like she's performing surgery."

"precision is important."

"is that why you became a heart doctor? the precision of it?"

you pause, chopsticks halfway to your mouth. no one's ever asked you that. not directly, not caring about the answer. they ask about the money and the challenge. they don't ask about the why.

"i like rhythms," you say finally. "the heart has a rhythm. even when it's broken, even when it's failing, there's a pattern to it. you just have to learn to read it. brain work is... messier. electrical storms, chemical imbalances. the heart is mechanical. honest."

"and the brain is dishonest?"

"the brain lies. it tells you you're fine when you're bleeding out. it hides things. bleeding, tumors, memories. the heart just... beats. until it doesn't."

beomgyu is quiet for a moment, stirring his soup. "i think that's why we work," he says finally.

"what?"

"heart and brain. they're connected, you know. physically, through nerves. but also... metaphorically. you need both. the steady rhythm and the electrical spark." he looks up at you, and his eyes are dark, intense. "i think you're my rhythm, y/n. and maybe i might be your spark."

you stare at him, and you feel something shift in your chest. something that feels like the moment before a storm breaks.

"you're ridiculous," you say, but your voice is soft.

"probably. but i'm also right." he reaches across the table, and his hand finds yours, his fingers threading through your fingers with a confidence that makes you want to both pull away and lean in. "two years, y/n. two years of fighting with you, of wanting you, of telling myself that colleagues shouldn't, that we're too busy, too tired, too broken by this job to be good for each other."

"and now?"

"now i'm tired of waiting. i'm tired of pretending that what i feel when i see you is professional respect. it's not. it's... you're the first thing i think about when i wake up. not my cases. not my patients. you. the way you looked at me in that operating room, like you wanted to fight me and kiss me at the same time. i've been chasing that feeling for two years now."

your heart is beating now. his thumb is tracing circles on your palm, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.

"i don't do this," you whisper. "i don't date colleagues..."

beomgyu interrupts gently. "but you're allowed to have more. you're allowed to have this… to have me."

you should say no. you should pull your hand away. instead, you tighten your grip on his hand and say, "okay."

beomgyu's smile lit up immediately.

─── ୨୧ ───

the first time he kisses you, it's in the doctors' parking garage at 1:00 in the morning, three weeks after the dinner that changed everything.

you've been dating, if you can call it that. stealing moments in supply closets, trading texts that start with patient updates and end with "i miss you" and "when can i see you?”.

you've learned that he's gentle, underneath the arrogance. that he cries sometimes after bad outcomes, where no one can see him. that he's terrified of spiders and allergic to shellfish and that he became a brain surgeon because his grandmother died of a stroke when he was twelve and he couldn't understand why the doctors couldn't fix her.

you've learned that when he looks at you, he sees you. just you. the person who laughs at his terrible jokes, who brings him coffee when he's been in surgery for ten hours, who understands what it's like to hold a life in your hands and wonder if you're worthy enough.

tonight was hard. you'd called it at 12:47, and then you'd walked out of the trauma room and straight into beomgyu, who was somehow already there, already knowing and already reaching out for you.

he didn't say anything. he just took your hand and led you to the parking garage to his car, and he leaned against the hood and pulled you into his arms.

"i'm sorry," he whispered into your hair.

"i did everything right. everything. and i still..."

"i know." his hands were rubbing circles on your back, steady and warm. "i know, baby. i know."

you'd cried, ugly, loud and desperate, into his shoulder, and he'd held you through it, murmuring nonsense. pressing kisses to your temple, your forehead, anywhere he could reach.

and then you'd looked up, and he'd looked down, and the space between you had narrowed to nothing.

his mouth was soft. that was the first thing you noticed. how soft and careful he was, like he was worried you might break completely. the kiss was gentle and questioning. you made a sound against his lips, needy and embarrassing, and he responded by deepening the angle more, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, with his thumb stroking your cheekbone.

you could feel his heart beating against your chest.

when you finally pulled back, both of you breathing hard, he rested his forehead against yours and whispered, "i've wanted to do that for two years."

"show off," you managed, and he laughed,

"i'm going to take you home," he said, and his voice was rough, wrecked. "and i'm going to pretend that i don't want to kiss you again. but i will. i want to kiss you everywhere. i want to learn every part of you."

your breath hitched. "beomgyu..."

"just let me take care of you tonight," he murmured, pressing another kiss to your jaw, then your throat, right where your pulse felt like it was going to pop out. "let me be good to you."

you nodded, unable to speak and he kissed you again, harder this time, with a slight edge of hunger that hadn't been there before. his hands moved to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel him. hard and hot against your hip and the knowledge that you did that. it made you dizzy.

"your place," you managed between kisses. "now."

he didn't need to be told twice.

─── ୨୧ ───

his apartment was small, cluttered with medical journals and coffee mugs. he led you to his room where a nice, polished bathroom was connected to. "shower first," he said, already pulling his shirt over his head, revealing a torso that was lean and softly defined. "you're shaking."

you hadn't noticed, but you were. the adrenaline was kicking you hard.

he drew you into the bathroom, started the water, and then slowly, and carefully began undressing you. his fingers were steady as they pulled your sweater up and pulled down your jeans. he unhooked your bra and stared carefully. "beautiful," he whispered, looking at you in the harsh bathroom light without a trace of self consciousness. "you're so beautiful, y/n."

"you're not so bad yourself," you said, and your voice was husky.

he smiled and stepped into the shower, pulling you in after him. the water was warm. he immediately reached for the soap, lathering his hands and running them over your shoulders, your back, down your sides. he washed you with a thoroughness that was half intimate, his fingers lingering in places that made you gasp at some moments.

when he reached your breasts, you moaned, head falling back against the tile. he made a soft sound that was almost pained, and his thumbs brushed over your chest.

"beomgyu," you whispered.

"let me," he murmured, leaning in to kiss your neck, your collarbone. "let me touch you. i've thought about this so many times… i thought about having you in my hands and making you feel good."

his hand drifted lower over your stomach, and you parted your legs without being asked. needy and desperate in a way you'd never been with anyone else before. his fingers found you, sliding through your folds with confidence that made you cry out, and then he was circling your clit precision.

"steady baby," he whispered, arm wrapping around your waist to hold you up. "i've got you. let go, baby. i've got you."

he worked you with his fingers, one hand holding you carefully while the other drove you higher and higher. he knew exactly how to make you feel relieved and you realized with a dizzying rush that this was what it meant to be with a man who made his living with his hands.

when you came, it was with his name on your lips, your body shaking against his and your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. he held you through it, kissing your neck, your face, whispering praise that made you blush easily.

"that was just the beginning," he said, and there was a promise in his voice that made you shiver.

he turned off the water, wrapped you in a towel, and carried you to the bed.

he dried himself quickly, then climbed onto the bed, settling between your legs. he kissed you again and you could taste yourself on his tongue, which somehow made you even more turned on. his hands were everywhere, learning your body, and mapping the places that made you moan and squirm and beg.

"please," you whispered, arching up into him. "beomgyu, please."

"what do you want?" he asked, voice rough. "tell me. i want to hear you say it."

"i want you inside me," you said, and the words felt filthy but right. "i want you to fuck me. please."

he groaned, the sound torn from his chest, and reached for the bedside drawer. he pulled out a condom, rolled it on with practiced ease, and then he was there, hard against your entrance. he entered you slowly, so slowly you thought you might die from it. inch by inch until he was fully inside, filling you in a way that made your eyes roll back. he paused, breathing heavily.

"you okay?" he asked. the concern in his voice was clear as day.

"more than okay," you whispered. "move, beomgyu. please."

he started slow, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that was in its control. but you didn't want control. you wanted him wild and free, wanted him as undone as you felt.

"faster," you demanded, digging your heels into his lower back. "harder. i won't break."

he groaned, and then he was moving, really moving. "you feel so good," he panted, his thrusts becoming rough, losing their precision as his own pleasure overwhelmed him. "so tight, so perfect…fuck, y/n, i've dreamed about this."

"me too," you admitted, and it was true. you'd touched yourself to thoughts of him, memories of his hands, mouth, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered to him the most. "baby, i'm close. don't stop. please don't stop."

he reached between you, found your clit with his thumb, and that was it. you came apart, crying out his name. he followed you over the edge, burying his face in your neck and groaning as he spilled into the condom, his hips stuttering through his release.

for a long moment, neither of you have moved. he stayed inside you, breathing hard against your skin and you ran your fingers through his hair, holding him close.

"i love you," he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it. "i know it's fast and i know it's crazy, but i love you. i've loved you for so long.

you felt tears prick your eyes, happy and overwhelmed. "i love you too," you said.

he pulled back then, smiling that soft, real smile that was just for you. he kissed you. "stay with me tonight. and tomorrow. and the next day. stay with me as long as you'll have me."

"that might be forever," you warned.

"good," he said. "that's exactly what i was hoping for."

─── ୨୧ ───

the first time you have sex in the hospital, it's six months later, and it's completely his fault.

you'd been dating openly by then, the hospital gossiped, of course, but you didn't care. you were happy and beomgyu was somehow even more insufferable now that he had you, constantly touching you, kissing you, bringing you coffee and lunch and little gifts he picked up on his way to work.

you'd just finished a difficult case, a heart surgery that had gone longer than expected, and you were exhausted and hungry and in desperate need of a shower. you stumbled into the on-call room, intending to nap for an hour before your next shift, and found beomgyu already there, sat on the couch, reading a journal.

"hey," he said, looking up with a smile that made your heart skip. "tough case?"

"the worst," you groaned, flopping down beside him. "four hours of trying to fix a valve that didn't want to be fixed."

"come here," he said, setting the journal aside and opening his arms.

you crawled into his embrace, burying your face in his neck, and he held you, one hand stroking your back, the other playing with your hair. you relaxed into him, feeling safe and loved.

"you're amazing," he murmured against your hair. "you know that? the way you work, the way you care. you're incredible."

"you're just saying that because you want something," you teased, but you were smiling.

"i always want something," he admitted, and there was a new tone in his voice, lower, hungrier. his hand moved from your hair to your jaw, tilting your face up to his. "i want you. right here. right now."

"beomgyu," you protested weakly, even as your body responded to his suggestion. "we're at work. someone could walk in."

"the door locks," he said, and then he was kissing you, deep and dirty, his tongue sliding into your mouth that made you moan. his hands moved to your waist, pulling you on top of him, and you could feel him, hard and ready beneath you.

"you planned this," you accused, grinding down against him.

"maybe," he admitted, grinning against your lips. "or maybe i just can't be near you without wanting you. maybe you drive me crazy just by existing."

he placed you on his lap and his hands were everywhere, pulling at your scrub top, palming your breasts through your bra, you arched into his touch, already forgetting why this was a bad idea, already desperate for more.

he pulled your pants down, your underwear with them, and then his fingers were in you, curling to find that spot that made you see stars. you bit down on his shoulder to muffle your moan, and he hissed, the sound equal parts pain and pleasure.

"need you," you whispered. "beomgyu, i need you inside me."

he didn't hesitate. he reached for his wallet, pulled out a condom, and rolled it on with shaking hands. then he was guiding himself into you, filling you in one smooth thrust that made your back arch.

"quiet," he reminded you, his voice strained. "you have to be quiet, baby. can you do that?"

you nodded, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood, and he started to move. it was fast and dirty, nothing like the careful lovemaking at his apartment. this was need. two people who wanted each other too much to wait.

he fucked you hard, harder than you could’ve ever imagined. he groaned as you continued to ride his lap.

"so good," he panted. "always so good for me. my girl."

"only yours," you agreed, and you were. completely, irrevocably his.

after, as he holds your waist while you rest your head on his shoulder, trying to catch your breath, he pressed kisses to your shoulder and your collarbone.

"i'm going to marry you someday," he said, casual and certain.

"is that a proposal?" you asked, smiling.

"no," he said. "that's a promise for when i propose, you'll know it. i'm going to do it right, but i'm telling you now, so you can start getting used to the idea. you're the one for me y/n.”

you kissed him then, and you knew, with a certainty that you would say yes. that you would spend your life with this man.

"love you," you whispered.

"love you more," he returned, and then he was kissing you again, forgetting that you both were still at work.

a/n: a request for anon! i was supposed to have this uploaded yesterday, but i kept proofreading due to being a nervous wreck because of the hospital terms i had to include that i am not that familiar with. i hope this is alright T-T. i apologize for any grammatical errors that i might’ve missed out on!

[soobvns]

beomgyu’s been on my mind lately and this scratches the itch <3

[taexual]

. . . d e l i r i u m | 5

what might be good for your heart might not be good for my head /// sleep token, gethsemane

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: sometimes love and hate exist on opposite ends of the map. other times, on separate floors of the same building.

genre: ex!yeonjun / enemies to lovers au / neighbour au

warnings: slow burn, outrageous mutual pining, strong language, mentions of heavy drinking, illegal levels of yearning (arrest this man), angst of course, but also fluff?

words: 14k

[ ! ] this is a sequel to equilibrium

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── AUGUST 30, 2026. 8 AM

Your phone buzzed against the cardboard boxes beside your bed, rattling your empty glass of water and shocking you awake. At first, you didn’t understand where the noise had come from and stared at your ceiling, disoriented.

You had fallen into such a heavy sleep last night that you hadn’t even heard Violet coming in through the cracked window. Hadn’t texted Yeonjun that she was here.

Shit, you didn’t even know if she was here.

Bleary-eyed, you sat up and squinted through the narrow gap in your bedroom door. The flat was so quiet that it made your stomach knot.

Then something white moved past the leaves of your monstera.

Your tension eased. You grabbed your phone.

REINA [8 AM] you up? coming over in 30 if yes

Without thinking, you typed back:

YOU [8:03 AM] yes ok

Then, before your mind properly caught up, you switched to another chat to inform Yeonjun about Violet and quickly locked your phone again.

There was a faint smell of rain in the flat. You shut the window and went into the kitchen.

Violet meowed the moment she saw you stumbling in, and kept meowing until you realised to open the curtains for her. It was another overcast day, but the faint light still hurt your eyes.

It was only as you splashed cold water over your face that it struck you how bizarre it was for Reina to come over before ten on a Sunday.

By the time the intercom buzzed, you’d already convinced yourself that something awful had happened. You analysed her muffled it’s me, let me in, looking for signs of distress: a trembling voice, perhaps a stifled sob.

Nothing.

You were still confused when you opened the door.

Reina looked the same as always, albeit slightly tired, her long hair damp from the drizzle. Immediately, she began to complain about the trip upstairs.

“Jesus,” she wheezed, shoving a white bakery box into your hands and pulling you into a hug. “How does this building pass inspection? This lift is pre-war. And the stairs have the incline of a fucking ladder.”

You laughed into her shoulder. “You’re just very small.”

“So, that’s discrimination, then. There should be someone we can call about—oh.” You felt her stiffen just before she pulled away. “There’s a cat here.”

You turned.

Violet sat politely on the armrest of the sofa, staring at Reina with wide, cautious eyes.

“Yeah,” you said, setting the bakery box on the kitchen island. “That’s Violet.”

You reached for the cupboard above the sink and pulled down two mugs.

Behind you, Reina stayed silent, eyes locked on the cat. “Yeonjun’s Violet?”

The back of your neck prickled.

“Yes,” you said, keeping your tone even. “She kept showing up here every morning, so we decided to just let her stay.”

Reina frowned as she shrugged off her damp raincoat and draped it over the back of the sofa. Violet leaned in to give it a sniff.

“You decided,” she repeated. You pretended to be deeply engrossed in picking out coffee capsules. “Together?”

“Well, yes,” you said. “It’s his cat.”

“Right. It’s his cat. Spending the day in your flat.” She parted her lips, suddenly amused. “Hey—that rhymed. But also, what the fuck?”

“It—okay, listen.” You shoved a capsule into the machine. “Did something happen? I mean, I love having you here, obviously, but it’s barely nine in the morning.”

“Oh.” She climbed onto a stool at the kitchen island, tucking one leg underneath herself. “Well, how about you tell me what happened? Bin and I left last night and missed all the entertainment, apparently.”

Something bitter twisted in your stomach. “You didn’t miss anything.”

“No?” She grinned. “So, what did you do after we left?”

“I went home.”

“Mhmm. And who did you go with?”

You leaned back against the cupboards, palms pressing into the cold marble on either side of you.

“We live in the same building,” you said.

Reina tapped her fingers rhythmically against the countertop. “Right. And you’re co-parenting a cat.”

“We’re not—okay, we’re not co-parenting. It’s just a cat, Rei.”

“I’ve got nothing against the cat,” she said, though she shot Violet another wary look. Under normal circumstances, Reina adored cats. Under these circumstances, however, she did not trust them. “It’s just that, um—I was joking before, about feeling like we were back in grad school. But are we actually back? Because between the party and this, it’s very—”

“We’re not back,” you said.

Thankfully, the coffee machine clicked off before Reina could say anything else. You handed her the blue mug with a red heart at the bottom, the foam trembling slightly on the surface, then turned back to make your own.

“He lives downstairs,” you said. “And his cat keeps coming up through the fire escape. It made more sense to leave her here instead of texting him every five minutes.”

“Oh,” Reina said lightly. “So, you’re texting, too.”

You winced. “Well, the cat keeps showing up. I can’t exactly throw her out.”

“Mhmm. Just like you can’t throw Yeonjun out, yeah? Funny how that works.”

You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek.

“Well,” you said, “he’s not here now, is he?”

“Not yet, I guess,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. It burned down her throat exactly the way she liked it. “Has he been over, then?”

“Only to pick up the cat.”

It felt unpleasant, knowing that it was technically true, but still skipped over the peach cobbler and the lobby and the argument in the stairwell and the smoking area outside the restaurant.

Shit, you might as well have been back in grad school.

“And,” Reina continued, watching you pick up your red mug, “have you been over to his place?”

You lingered with your back to her for a second longer, fingers curled around the mug even as the ceramic burned your palms.

“I, uh.” You cleared your throat. “Once.”

“Oh, once.” Reina set the mug down on the countertop a touch too hard. “That’s interesting.”

“To help with a fern,” you added, turning around. “That’s it.”

“To—” She frowned. “To help with a what?”

You sat down opposite her and opened the box she’d brought. There were four cupcakes inside, with swirls of chocolate and vanilla frosting on top. The flat filled with the scent of warm sugar.

“He got a plant,” you explained.

“And he needed your help with it?”

“To find where to put it.”

“Where to—oh.” She picked up a vanilla cupcake from the box. “Is he four years old?”

Your lips twitched. “S’just a fern.”

“Right.”

Outside, the rain thickened, pattering against the windows. The whole flat dimmed, as though you’d been plunged underwater.

Violet, bothered by the noise, hopped off the sofa and trotted towards the bathroom. Bless her. She was probably going to inspect your washing machine; it appeared to have started leaking again. Either that, or you’d spilt water there last night after getting home.

You tried not to remember.

“So,” Reina said finally, taking a thoughtful bite, “it’s just a fern. And just a cat. And just a party.”

You spent an unnecessary minute peeling the paper from the base of the chocolate cupcake. “Right.”

“Mhmm.” She swallowed. “Won’t draw parallels to a year ago. But you see, of course, how easy that’d be, yeah? I mean, you said nothing was happening last time, too—”

“I see it.”

“Right.” She ran her tongue over her lower lip, fighting back a smile. “So, what actually happened yesterday? Because he spent the entire night following you around and then famously left with you.”

Your nose scrunched. “Is that really famous?”

“Did you check your phone?”

You took a large bite of your cupcake and tried to remember where you’d left your phone. The chocolate chips were half-melted, soft enough to stick briefly to your teeth.

“Wha’ should I have checked it for?” you asked through the mouthful.

“Doesn’t matter.” She waved dismissively with her mug. “Don’t unmute the group chat.”

“Oh. Brilliant.”

You could only imagine what was happening in the group chat that had otherwise been dead since graduation. Last you’d checked, Beomgyu and Nara had been arguing about which colour shoes went with the gown. She’d rather die, she insisted, than be caught in beige heels (she ended up wearing white).

“Is that why you came over, then?” you asked, lowering your cupcake to the island.

“Yes,” Reina said. “Had to hear everything straight from the source.”

“Not much to hear.”

“Mm. Give me a moment to process what I’ve already heard.”

You sighed and took another bite.

For a while, the two of you focused on eating and drinking.

Reina was mentally calculating how many flights of stairs separated her fists from Yeonjun’s face—just in case.

You, meanwhile, considered the medical likelihood of liquefying and seeping into the kitchen floorboards so you wouldn’t have to answer any of her inevitable questions.

Unfortunately, you remained solid.

“So,” Reina said at last, folding her cupcake wrapper into a perfect square, “should I be asking about the two of you going home together last night?”

You took a sip of coffee. It tasted bitter today. Should’ve added more sugar.

“You shouldn’t,” you said. “We just went home.”

Reina seemed willing to accept that and nodded once. “Okay. What happened leading up to going home, then?”

Your gaze fell to the cracked corner of the marble island. You couldn’t remember if the crack had come with the flat or if you’d somehow caused it yourself.

“I, uh—well, there was a point when I went out for a smoke,” you said slowly. “And he… came out, too.”

“And then what?”

Your eyes flicked briefly back to hers, then away again. “I’d rather not say.”

Reina paused with her mug halfway to her mouth.

“Oh.” She straightened so quickly that the stool creaked beneath her. “That—okay. Is he fucking with your head again?”

“No.”

“Okay. I’ll assume he is anyway.” She took a large sip to soothe the tickling in her throat. “Walk me through the thought process there, then. Come on.”

You clicked your tongue against your teeth. “I don’t think thoughts were involved in that process, to be honest.”

Reina tightened both hands around her coffee in a visible effort to behave maturely.

She did not succeed.

It started with one snort, then another. Then she caught the twitch in your mouth and bent forward against the island, laughing properly.

Despite the reluctant smile pulling at your lips, you gave her a deeply miserable look.

“Sorry,” she wheezed. “Sorry. God.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Okay. Ready to be an adult about this. What, um—what are we thinking now, then, babe? Surely, the thoughts are back now, yeah?”

You looked down into your mug. The foam lingered on the sides in pale rings.

Last night, you’d deliberately avoided thinking. Just returned home, washed your face, brushed your teeth, and gone to bed. But now, sitting here with Reina, your mind seemed to crack open, and every memory flooded in backwards: from the scarf Violet had dragged out of your box, to the dark basement corridor with the grey sofas on your first day of classes.

“I—” Your voice caught. You cleared your throat. “Remember that game we had? About which of us would be the last to find a campus crush?”

Reina didn’t understand where this was going, but her expression soured instantly at the memory.

“Yeah,” she said. “Still annoyed I lost my own game.”

You smiled faintly and took another sip from your mug.

“Well, at one point,” you said, “I texted you saying I’d lost. And then, about a minute later, I changed my mind. Don’t know if you remember tha—”

“Oh. I remember,” she said, pointing her cupcake wrapper at you. “First day of classes. Don’t think you ever told me who your crush was.”

It startled you that she recalled the exact date. Then again, over the entire course of the game, you’d only told her you’d lost once.

“Yeah,” you said with a long exhale. “Well. That was Yeonjun.”

“That wa—” Her expression turned blank.

You nodded, already bracing yourself.

Reina stared at you for three whole seconds before blinking.

“The puzzle pieces,” she said, “continue to fall into place.”

You snorted, lifting your mug before the instinct to minimise everything could kick in.

You remembered, still against your will, telling Yeonjun about this: on the sofa in his living room, while he’d had his cheeks stuffed full of grapes. He’d been euphoric. You tried not to linger on the memory.

“Right,” you said, swallowing the coffee. “So what I’m thinking now is… he probably shouldn’t have caught me off-guard back in grad school. I obviously must’ve liked him a little. I don’t know.”

Reina nodded carefully. She was trying to mirror your vocabulary, so she wouldn’t force conclusions onto you that you hadn’t yet reached yourself.

“Okay,” she said. This was her buffer word. “That—you’ve admitted that. That’s very good.”

A small smile appeared on your lips. “Oh, gentle parenting. Cheers.”

She let out a quiet snicker and nudged the cupcake box towards you.

You picked the one topped with chocolate sprinkles. The brown frosting had smudged slightly against the lid.

“The thing is, though,” you said, peeling back the wrapper, “he told me I’d won right after I accepted that—oh, hey, this doesn’t feel like a bet anymore. And I don’t want it to be. That—that’s when he said s’over. Fuck you and your feelings, basically.”

Reina reached for the last cupcake in the box. There was a stripe of chocolate smeared across the white icing.

“And,” you continued, “because everything between us was so brief, it feels like I haven’t even earned the right to feel this fucked up about it. Hurt, angry. Whatever. S’like it’s embarrassing. There’s this voice in my head constantly going, get a grip, it was only two weeks.”

The kitchen fell quiet once you finished speaking; the rain had softened back to a drizzle outside. At some point, Violet had returned to inspect the windows of the living room again.

Reina stared silently at the crack in the countertop.

Never—not once—in the year and a half since things ended with Yeonjun, had you openly admitted the bet had hurt you.

She’d seen that it had, of course. Seen the exhaustion, the irritability. She’d walked in on you sitting motionless at your desk, both hands over your face. You’d found an excuse every time your eyes met: stress, your thesis, New York. You were just tired. Just hadn’t slept enough.

Reina had even joked about him a few times, always gauging your reaction. You were consistent then, too: oh, I don’t care, he can get fucked.

This, right now, was very new.

“That was fucked up, ending the bet,” Reina said finally, setting her cupcake back down on the island. “Do you think I should’ve knocked him out when—”

Her focus drifted when Violet padded across the floor and came to a stop beside her stool.

“Oh, hi, baby,” she murmured, bending slightly towards the cat. “Came to help us figure out what your dad’s problem is? Think he’s just deeply unwell? Non compos mentis?”

You snorted. The majority of Reina’s co-workers at her NGO were former lawyers. She’d never trusted lawyers and had taken up studying Latin to make sure they knew what they were doing (they did not).

Violet, who did not speak Latin, sprang onto the island.

“Oh—hey!” Reina snatched her cupcake away just as Violet leaned in for a sniff and perhaps a little lick. “I haven’t agreed to share.”

The cat sat down in the middle of the countertop and turned her head towards you with a keen meow.

Snickering, you climbed off your stool.

Yeonjun had brought over a small plastic bag of treats the last time he dropped off her food. It sat beside the coffee machine now, clipped shut with one of your hairpins.

You shook out a cube of tuna into your palm.

“Here,” you said, lowering your hand towards her. “How’s this for you, little one?”

Violet accepted the treat immediately and leapt off the counter, carrying it back to her spot by the window. The rain had stopped altogether now, though the clouds still hung low outside.

Reina watched her with a faint smile.

“You’ve got snacks for her and all,” she said gently.

You lowered yourself back onto the stool and didn’t reply.

“Alright, then,” she said, taking a bite of her cupcake and turning back to you. “Where were we—ah, yes.” She swallowed. “Me beating up Yeonjun. Or do you want to do it yourself?”

You finished your cupcake in a few quick bites.

“I wanted to,” you said, wiping crumbs off your hands. Reina brightened. “But he kind of ran away from me the last time I tried to talk to him. Literally got into his car and drove off. And even later, when I found him again to ask about the—the whole scheme, he just walked off again.”

“Right.” She took a long sip of coffee. It was completely lukewarm now. “Break his legs, s’what I think. Never going to walk off again.”

You laughed.

Reina appreciated the momentary lightness. She set her mug back down on the island.

It made sense, she thought, why you’d denied being affected by this for so long. Getting hurt was one thing, but handing that hurt to someone and asking them to explain it, only for them to walk away, was another.

“What’s happening now, then?” she asked eventually. “Has he—I mean, he’s been downstairs for weeks now, yeah? And his cat’s practically moved in.” She glanced at Violet, who seemed to have fallen asleep against the monstera pot. “I’m assuming you’ve talked at least a little.”

You sighed. “Not really. We mostly talk about Violet.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Mostly.”

You took your time folding the cupcake wrapper.

“He did offer to explain,” you admitted, wiping icing from your lips with your index finger. “Said we needed to talk.”

Reina didn’t need to ask. She already knew you’d refused, and that was likely why Yeonjun had been trailing you all night yesterday.

“I think,” she said, uncomfortably serious now, “that would probably be good. Listening to him.”

You stared at your hands.

“For closure, first of all,” she continued. “To, um—to understand what actually happened.”

“And second of all?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “You’d figure out what comes next once you’ve heard why he ended everything so suddenly.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly sudden,” you said. “We did say the bet was—”

“Oh, come on,” she cut you off with a flick of her hand. “You can’t seriously believe it was really just a bet. Something had to have happened.”

“Did it, though?” You finally looked up. “He literally had a scheme to use me to embarrass his parents.”

Reina exhaled, forcing the lid of the cupcake box to tremble.

The scheme made no sense to her.

She’d made Soobin explain it to her three separate times and punished him by sleeping at home instead of at his house after each explanation. It remained excruciatingly stupid every time she heard it.

So, Yeonjun had wanted to date someone below his social status to spite his parents.

Reina had never held much hope for him, but surely he had to have been fucking joking. She’d seen the way he’d looked at you.

“Please don’t think I’m trying to defend him,” she said. “Fuck him, actually. But I thought that scheme wasn’t the reason he started the bet?”

You gave a weary shrug. “Maybe not. But the bet was still an ego boost.”

“Sure. But then, uh—he told you he had feelings for you,” she said, her gaze fixed on you in case she said too much. “That’s pretty far from that whole I’m the best in the world, and everyone loves me act.”

“Could’ve just been saying shit.”

“I guess,” she allowed, leaning back. “But do you honestly believe that?”

Your gaze dropped to the floor.

You remembered how Yeonjun had looked in the stairwell when he said he wanted to explain everything. The way he’d looked last night, too, clinging to that lamppost.

“No,” you admitted, but the word bruised on its way out. It felt like stepping on the same rake and taking the handle to the forehead all over again.

Reina nodded slowly.

“Right,” she said. “So, that’s what doesn’t add up. If he had feelings for you, why end the bet at all? You weren’t rejecting him. He had to know you liked him back. He’s a fucking idiot, obviously, but he’s not that stupid.”

That earned her a small twitch of your lips. Reina considered it a triumph.

“Soobin and I think his parents had something to do with it,” she said. “Otherwise, none of this makes sense.”

You folded your hands in your lap and pressed your thumbs together.

You’d had these thoughts looping over and over, hopeful and relentless, during those first months afterwards. Yeonjun had been convincing; he’d looked at you like he meant every word he said to you—which was why ending the bet hadn’t made sense. Something must’ve happened to change his mind.

But love wasn’t supposed to be something you changed your mind about.

“That’s even worse, then,” you said, “if it wasn’t just a bet for him, either. Because he still ended it without explaining anything. So it couldn’t have meant that much to him in the end.”

Reina lowered her gaze back to her empty mug.

“And then hearing him out now,” you went on, your voice tightening, “means I’ve got to dig up all of that. Admit that—admit that this is important. Maybe even forgive him. And then risk him just leaving again.”

A few stray raindrops tapped against the balcony, quiet against the glass, as though bashful to interrupt.

“That’s thinking three steps ahead, though,” Reina pointed out carefully, “isn’t it?”

You looked up at her. “Is it?”

“He spent the whole night following you around yesterday,” she said. “Seems genuinely desperate to be part of your life.”

“Seemed desperate for it last time, too.” Your eyes dropped back to your hands, a wry smile on your lips. “Still left.”

That was that, then.

Reina wanted to protect you from your own mind, but she couldn’t argue with you about this.

You leaned back against the stool, the metal edge digging into your lower spine. Your limbs felt strangely heavy, even though you hadn’t drunk all that much last night.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” you said. “Admitting that I wanted him outside the bet, that—that’s what ended up fucking me over. And I already said shit to him last night that I shouldn’t have. That’s it.”

Reina swallowed and tried to neutralise her expression. You were admitting things she’d expected to have to pry out of you inch by inch; she couldn’t get used to it.

“Okay,” she said again, still buffering. “I hear you. And I want to ask to elaborate, but I’m holding myself back. Please appreciate my efforts.”

One side of your lips stretched. “I appreciate your efforts.”

“Thank you.” She tapped her fingers against the marble. “So—uh, just to be technical about it for a second, yeah? You admitting that to yourself didn’t end things. That was good. It’s Yeonjun who ended things. And we still don’t know why. He knows, though. And wants to tell you, apparently.”

“Right.” You clenched your jaw. “But I don’t know if I want to know. Or if it even matters anymore.”

Reina lowered her head. She wanted to march downstairs and demand answers from him herself, maybe knock him out for good measure.

But this wasn’t her wound. Wasn’t her heartache.

“Babe,” she said after a moment.

You lifted your eyes.

“Do you really think it doesn’t matter?” she asked. “Or do you just wish it didn’t?”

You held her gaze for another second before turning towards the window instead. Violet was curled up like a little pretzel beside the flowerpots.

“I don’t know,” you said finally.

Reina shifted on the stool, tugging her left leg out from underneath her. It was completely numb.

“Shit,” she mumbled, shaking the feeling back into her foot. “Let me, uh—let me ask you something else, yeah?”

You turned back to her. “Mm. Love it when you come over just to interrogate me.”

She ignored that completely.

“Do you actually want him to just fuck off and leave you alone?”

You hooked your ankles against the bottom rung of the stool. You’d already anticipated the question and imagined your answer.

But, sitting here now, you could still feel his hands on you from last night, as though the traces of his touch were embedded under your skin.

“Probably not,” you said with a resigned exhale. “I mean, I kissed him.”

Reina coughed politely once, then less politely twice more.

“Right,” she breathed, pressing a fist to her chest. “O-okay, yes. I suspected that was what happened, so I don’t know why I—why I’m surprised. Um—”

“I’ll give you a minute,” you said, lips pressed tight. “More coffee?”

She tipped her head back and took a deep breath before looking at you again.

“I’m good,” she said, patting her chest. “We’re back.” She cleared her throat another time just in case. “Well, more or less.”

You snorted.

“This is smashing news to receive at nine in the morning, just so you know,” she said. “M’so glad I came over.”

“I can tell.”

“Mm.” She took another breath. “So, uh—okay. In light of this deeply important development, talking to him would make sense, no?”

You shook your head faintly. You’d followed your feelings before, ignored common sense, and this was where they’d led you.

“It would be better not to,” you said.

“For whom?”

You blinked. “For—well, for me.”

Reina ran her hand over the cold edge of the island and looked away from you for a second.

“Would it, though?” she asked.

You sighed again; a long, heavy sound. “I don’t know.”

That was the best you could manage, Reina was starting to notice. She recognised that she’d pushed far enough.

“Well, you don’t need to do anything right now,” she said. “You can think about it. Avoid it for a bit longer if you need to. Just, uh—you’re going to be seeing him anyway.”

You turned to Violet. “I know.”

“And it’s probably not going to get easier with time,” she added. “These things usually don’t.”

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, trying to organise your thoughts into something coherent.

“See, um…” You turned the empty mug between your hands. Your rings clicked against the ceramic. “I’m probably prideful enough to think this could get easier with time. Eventually, there might be no reason for us to talk anymore. Maybe Violet will stop coming here, I don’t know.”

Across the room, Violet lay so still that she resembled a plush toy. Reina watched her and did not share your optimism.

“Sure,” she said. “If that point ever comes.”

You looked back at her. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“Nara’s birthday is on Friday.”

You clicked your tongue. “Okay. Fuck. But maybe he won’t—”

“And Yeonjun’s is right after that.”

Your shoulders lowered again. “Well, I can skip that one.”

Reina tilted her head towards the sleeping cat. “Can Violet?”

You glanced back towards the window.

“Look.” Reina flattened both palms against the countertop, drawing your attention back to her. “This can very easily turn into a lifelong process of finding excuses to avoid him. And you might find enough of them—in fact, I don’t doubt you will.”

You opened your mouth to reply.

“But,” she continued before you could interrupt, “that means your brain stays switched on all the time. All the time, yeah? Constant fucking rerouting, planning ahead, avoiding places. It’s exhausting, babe. You can’t live like that.”

You tapped your finger absently against the edge of the island. The kitchen still smelled of coffee and chocolate.

“I get that,” you said. “It’s just a lot.”

“Well, of course it’s a lot,” she said. “You’ve been carrying all of it for over a year.”

You hummed.

“S’the band-aid thing, the way I see it,” she said. “You either rip it off in one go, and it hurts like hell for two seconds, and then it’s done. Or you peel it off slowly, tiny rip by tiny rip. And it stings the entire time, and your skin’s all raw by the end of it.”

A weak smile appeared on your lips. “Vivid imagery, Rei.”

“I know, yeah.” She smiled, then forced her lips back into a straight line. “S’what you’re doing, though. You peel the band-aid back a little, panic because it hurts, then try sticking it back on. But it’s never going to stick properly, is it? Corners all curled up. Hair’s getting caught underneath.” She shuddered. “S’a nightmare.”

The humour slowly faded from your face.

You dragged your fingers down your calf until your hand wrapped around your ankle, for no reason other than to give your nervous energy somewhere to settle.

“Well,” you said, looking back towards the balcony doors, “I could always just buy a new band-aid and slap that over the old one.”

“Over the—” Reina narrowed her eyes. “Oh, look at you, Miss Think-Outside-The-Box.”

You ducked your head with a soft chuckle.

“No, I mean, that’s true,” Reina said. “You could get a new band-aid. S’going to be fun, I imagine—and sustainable—having to find a new band-aid every time Yeonjun comes to collect the cat you’re co-parenting.”

You winced before you could stop yourself.

Reina noticed it immediately and leaned back from the island, already preparing to apologise.

“We’re not co-parenting,” you said before she could. “Violet just visits.”

She sighed. “Right.”

“I get it, though,” you added. “You’re right.”

Reina leaned slightly forward as if she’d misheard you.

“I—I’ll try to talk to him, I guess,” you continued, staring at your ankle. “Hear what happened. Rip off the band-aid. Whatever.”

Reina gave a slow nod. She climbed off the stool and, limping slightly on her numb leg, crossed the kitchen to you.

“Good,” she said, draping an arm over your shoulders. “And then we’ll get a new band-aid if we still need one, yeah? Not leaving you bleeding out.”

The thumping in your chest quieted.

“Yeah,” you said, resting your hand over hers. Her shirt was soft against your arm. “Thank you.”

“I’m with you, babe. Always. Will rip out his eyes, just tell me when.”

Laughing softly, you turned properly to wrap both arms around her. Reina leaned into you, exhaling.

“I don’t like seeing you suffer,” she whispered, her fingers brushing over the ends of your hair.

“I know.” Your throat tightened. “I love you, Rei.”

She squeezed you back. “I love you.”

✦ • ─── AUGUST 30, 2026. 10:30 AM

Eventually, you and Reina relocated to the sofa, where the conversation drifted back to her engagement party—focusing, this time, on the next plans.

“Sage,” she announced, “is still the leading colour for the bridesmaid dresses in my mind.”

“Wasn’t it emerald last week?” you asked.

“Oh, yeah.” She snorted. “But, see, I had a dream about this frog the other night—kind of like the one in Shrek, Fiona’s dad? No idea why my subconscious produced that, but anyway. Everyone wore this garish shade of green in the dream. In his honour, I assume, so—”

“The frog’s?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.” She grinned. “So, since then, emerald reminds me of frogs. So sage it is.”

You chuckled, leaning in closer to look at the Pinterest board on her phone screen.

It still startled you, sometimes, to hear her talk about marriage. She’d just turned nineteen when you met her, a year younger than you.

Now, listening to her describe, one more time, the way Soobin’s hands had shaken as he held the ring box, it felt as though you’d lived an entire lifetime alongside them. As though you’d watched them grow up and had grown up with them.

You couldn’t wait for all that would happen next.

When Reina left your flat a few hours later, she felt much lighter.

That was why, after the two of you hugged goodbye and confirmed your Friday lunch plans, she stopped one floor below. She stood on the landing for several seconds, one hand gripping the railing, and watched the weak midday light filter through the narrow stairwell windows.

This, she knew, was probably overstepping.

Maybe even catastrophically so.

Then she thought about the years the three of you—Soobin, you, and herself—had spent together. Thought about Yeonjun, too, lingering on the periphery of those memories, whether you and Reina wanted him there or not.

She turned and knocked on his door.

Then knocked again.

And again.

By the fourth knock, she was beginning to suspect he’d died, and she was bruising her knuckles for nothing.

Finally, the lock clicked. The door opened halfway.

Yeonjun had very clearly not expected to see her here.

“Oh,” he said first.

Then, “um.”

And finally: “Hi.”

“Hi,” Reina replied. “She doesn’t know I’m here.”

That seemed to answer the question he was about to have. But he still looked mildly startled, and a bit like he’d crawled from his bed and immediately regretted surviving the night. His hair stuck out in several directions, skin looked nearly translucent. Reina could practically see his headache.

“Okay,” he managed after a second. “Why, um—w-why are you here?”

“Um.” She glanced towards the stairwell as if you might suddenly appear and catch her here. “A question before I answer your question, okay?”

Yeonjun frowned faintly. “Sure.”

“Do you love her?”

The headache seemed to drop straight from his skull into his chest.

His grip tightened around the door handle.

“Yes,” he said.

Reina was glad he hadn’t hesitated.

“Okay,” she said. “Great. So, that’s why I’m here.” She inhaled sharply, and the rest of her words tumbled out in one furious burst: “I don’t know what the fuck your damage is, but you need to sort your shit out and explain the fucktrain of bullshit you pulled in grad school.”

Yeonjun closed his eyes briefly. This, he recognised, had to be where Soobin’s colourful vocabulary had come from.

He remembered, abruptly, taking the lift home last night. Remembered finding his jacket draped over the stairwell railing outside his door. No trace of you, other than a faint whiff of your perfume on the lapels.

“Sh-she won’t listen to me,” he said quietly. His eyes were so bloodshot that Reina wondered whether he’d slept at all or just lay there decomposing. “I’ve already tried.”

She took a moment to regain her breath.

“I talked to her,” she said then.

The corridor fell quiet. It smelled, she noted, oddly of burnt toast.

“You talked to her?” he repeated. “About talking to me?”

“Yes,” she said, gripping the edge of her raincoat sleeve. “But not for you. I did it for her. She deserves to know what the fuck happened to you back then. Honestly, I deserve to know, too, seeing as you two have dragged me into this mess against my will—but anyway. You need to explain, and you need to do it properly. In a way that makes sense.”

“It—yeah.” He dragged a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “I know. Yeah.”

He still looked dreadful and grey. But now he seemed to have a purpose again.

“And I swear to God,” Reina added, tipping her head back, “if you come up with another fucking bet, or lie to her about—”

“I won’t,” he interrupted. “I’m done with bets. And I never lied to her.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

“Not going to fact-check that,” she decided, “but that better not be a lie, either.”

“It’s not.”

“Good.”

She glanced toward the stairs again, debating, for a second, whether he’d earned the next part.

Finally, she sighed.

“Look… don’t expect anything once you’ve explained yourself,” she said. “For your own sake.”

Yeonjun tried to nod, but quickly decided he’d be better off not moving his head at all today.

“Trust me, I don’t expect anything,” he said. “Just want her to know what I was—what really happened. What she does with that isn’t up to me. She doesn’t owe me anything.”

For the first time since she came here, Reina allowed her shoulders to drop.

“That’s right,” she said. “She doesn’t. So don’t push her into anything she’s not ready for, yeah? Or I’ll be back here knocking on something other than your door.”

Yeonjun lowered his eyes, though the warning still stung enough for him to mutter, “I’d never push her.”

“No, that—” Reina clicked her tongue. “See, you say that, but you seem to push her just by standing too close. Remember that when you talk to her. Because you might think she wouldn’t give a fuck if you got struck by lightning tomorrow, but she’d start a fight with the fucking rain clouds for you. Alright? Remember that. Or I’ll really knock your fucking teeth in.”

A wave of dizziness rolled through him so suddenly that he had to lean harder against the doorframe to stay upright. His heart thudded heavily in his chest.

You’d told him you cared last night.

He squeezed his eyes shut. His ears were still ringing.

“Still with me?” Reina asked, leaning forward to check for signs of life.

Yeonjun opened his eyes again.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, I—I’ll remember.”

“And if there’s still shit you haven’t figured out yet,” she added, “figure it out first. Don’t take another year to do it, because—why did you need a year?”

“I—”

“No.” She held up both hands. “Never mind. Not my place. Just—just be ready. She’s already got questions. Don’t leave her with more.”

His pulse seemed to thrum through every inch of his skin.

A part of him wanted to run upstairs immediately. Talk to you right now, while adrenaline was still drowning out everything else.

He suspected all he’d manage was please.

“I won’t,” he said, forcing himself to take a breath. “I mean, I’ll try not to.”

Reina nodded. She trusted that more than she would’ve trusted his confidence.

“That’s fair,” she said. “So, we’re clear?”

He gave a small nod. “We’re clear.”

“Okay.”

She stayed on his doorstep another moment, studying him. His shirt was wrinkled. There was a faint crease along his cheek, probably from sleeping on that side of his face. He looked like, if he let go of the doorframe, he’d drop right onto the floor.

For one second, she almost felt sorry for him.

Then she remembered everything you’d said upstairs and crossed her arms.

“And in case you somehow still haven’t got it,” she said, “I’ll emphasise that again: I don’t care how much you drink or how fucked up you feel, yeah? I will literally fold you in fucking half, light your ass on fire, and launch you directly into the next galaxy if you hurt her. Are we clear on that, too?”

A shadow crossed his face.

He doubted Reina could make him feel worse than he already did, but the threat was fair.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s, uh—that part was already very clear.”

“Good.” Finally, she took a step back from the doorway. “Your cat’s at her place, by the way. What the fuck’s that about?”

“Oh—” He laughed, startling himself. “Yeah. That’s Violet. She sort of does whatever she wants. And apparently, what she wants is to be around her.”

Reina smirked despite herself.

“Interesting,” she said. “Seems she inherited that from you.”

Yeonjun felt a flush at the back of his neck despite the chill in the corridor.

“Yeah,” he said, finally pushing himself away from the doorframe. “Seems so.”

“Yeah,” she echoed, amused by the way he avoided her gaze. “Well. Don’t forget what I said.”

“I won’t,” he said. “And, f-for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have given up. I’d have kept trying to talk to her, however long it took.” His fingers curled around the handle again. “It’s not—I’m not doing this because you told me to.”

Reina watched him quietly for another second.

“I know,” she said finally.

Yeonjun realised, with some surprise, that this was probably the closest thing to approval he’d ever received from her.

“And, um…” Reina’s mouth twisted. “I’m also thinking she probably doesn’t need to know I was here.”

“Scared?”

“A bit, yeah.”

He smiled softly. “I won’t tell her.”

“Good.”

Reina stayed on the landing, feeling awkward now that she wasn’t threatening him.

“Just so you know,” she said. “I’m not rooting for you. You’ve got a lot of shit to fix before we can talk about that. But I also don’t want to repeat grad school. So I had to talk to you.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I don’t want that either. S’why I’ve been trying to talk to her.”

“Right. So try that again.” She paused, frowning. “Actually, maybe don’t. Let her come to you. She said she’d try to.”

His eyes lit up so quickly that it embarrassed them both. Reina looked away.

“She did?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He glanced down to process that. The linoleum outside his flat was terribly scratched. Part of the damage, he knew, had come from his own boxes when he’d moved in.

“That—well, knowing her,” he said, exhaling shakily, “that doesn’t necessarily mean she’ll talk to me soon.”

“True,” Reina admitted. “Nothing you can do about that now, though. You got yourself into this mess. Let her find you when she’s ready.”

Yeonjun didn’t argue. This was already more than he’d allowed himself to hope for after last night.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. I already know what I need to say to her anyway.”

Something in Reina’s expression softened very slightly.

“That’s good,” she said.

He ran a hand through his hair again. “Also, uh—m’sorry about drinking half the open bar last night.”

Reina’s lips twitched.

“Yeah. S’fine.” She nodded towards his face. “But take some aspirin. Your temples are turning blue.”

“Ah.” His hand lifted automatically to the side of his face. He could only feel the heat now, and none of the pain. “I will. Thanks.”

With a final nod, Reina turned and climbed down the stairs.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 30, 2026. 4 PM

When Yeonjun came to pick up Violet that afternoon, he wore a black jumper with the hood pulled up and did not look at you. The two of you communicated entirely through mime.

You opened the door.

He gave a nod.

You nodded back and stepped aside.

He bent, one hand braced against his knee, and whistled softly for Violet.

Violet walked over, tentative, her tail held high.

Yeonjun scooped her against his chest and stood. He gave you another nod.

You closed the door before either of you could accidentally say an actual word.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 31, 2026. 4 PM

When you returned from university the following Monday, Yeonjun wasn’t in the lobby.

You’d suspected he might stop waiting there eventually, and you were glad you didn’t need to search for what to say, yet his absence still felt odd in the empty space. The air was dry and still. Someone had left muddy footprints near the entrance; they’d already begun to dry.

You checked your letterbox and pulled out another advertisement for window frames—it had to be a joke, considering that ninety per cent of the windows in this building didn’t open. You crumpled it into your palm.

Your gaze drifted to the peeling adverts across the opposite wall. Alfred, the dachshund, had probably been found; the flyer was gone.

It was quiet here.

You could hear a faint ticking sound, as though that of a clock.

You turned up the stairs.

Inside your flat, you kicked off your shoes, grabbed a banana from the kitchen counter, and changed into your jumper and sweatpants. Violet was still here.

Before you could text him, Yeonjun rang the doorbell. This time, his jumper was blue.

The two of you performed the routine again: one nod, step aside, cat, another nod, door shut.

It felt worse today.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 1, 2026. 4 PM

On Tuesday, Yeonjun wasn’t in the lobby.

And then he forgot the second nod before he left with Violet.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 2, 2026. 4 PM

On Wednesday, Yeonjun wasn’t in the lobby.

At your flat later, he nodded an additional two times.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 3, 2026. 4 PM

On Thursday, Yeonjun wasn’t in the lobby.

But he looked at you, this time, as he picked Violet up. Then nodded and left.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 4, 2026. 4 PM

By Friday, you’d stopped expecting him in the lobby.

Exhaling heavily, you hitched the grocery bags higher against your wrists and started upstairs. The paper handles bit into your skin with every step. The carton of eggs kept thumping against your knee as if the eggs were suicidal.

You were exhausted.

University had wrung you dry this week; you’d forgotten how stressful that first month of the term could be. Professor Lee already needed your help reading through sixty essays from his undergrads. Even your lunch with Reina—during which she kept shooting you expectant looks—didn’t relax you as much as it used to.

Still, you hoped to recover in the next four hours before Nara’s birthday dinner. Hoped to squeeze in a nap as well.

Violet was stretched out in the middle of the living room when you unlocked the flat. She stood the moment she heard the grocery bags rustle and hurried toward you. You bent down to scratch under her chin. She enjoyed that tremendously, though not as much as she enjoyed the paper bags afterwards.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.

Violet was still sitting inside one of the bags, her tail waving through the opening.

Expecting another silent exchange, you opened the door. Yeonjun stood there, holding a plate of biscuits. He smelled of sugar and vanilla.

“Hi,” he said. Hearing his voice after nearly a week hit you straight through the ribs. He lifted the plate. “For you.”

For a second, your mind was empty.

“Oh,” you tried. “Th—thank you.”

You accepted the plate without registering your hands moving. The ceramic felt cool against your palms.

He’d been baking again, then.

You set the biscuits down on the kitchen island. Behind you, Yeonjun’s eyes followed you automatically.

The sunflowers, he noticed, were gone.

Violet untangled herself from the paper bag and scampered towards him, circling his ankles with an affectionate meow.

“Oh.” He crouched to scratch her ears. “Now you act as if you’ve missed me. Can you tell I’ve been baking, love? Hmm?”

You glanced down at the cat. “You smell like it.”

He looked up. “Hm?”

You leaned one hip against the island. “Like sugar.”

“Oh.”

Something in his eyes softened helplessly. He scooped Violet into his arms and straightened, his gaze dropping to the floor.

It struck you, suddenly, that if he nodded politely and left again, you might actually lose your mind.

“You, uh—” Your eyes flicked back to the plate. He’d used the same one he’d brought the peach cobbler on before. “You baked biscuits, then.”

Yeonjun couldn’t help a smile.

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you for noticing.”

“Mhmm.”

“They’re cherry.”

You turned back to him.

You remembered, of course, the neon pink, cherry-flavoured biscuits. The rain drumming against the roof of his car. The precision of his pen against your wrist.

You cleared your throat and looked away again.

“Have you got a minute?” you asked.

Yeonjun inhaled sharply.

“Yeah,” he said. Then, quieter: “Always.”

“Okay, um…” Your gaze drifted towards the balcony doors. “Can we talk? Or do you think we’ll end up late for Nara’s?”

He’d been waiting for this, but now that you were actually asking, he felt a reflexive urge to bolt.

What if he said something wrong and it became the last thing you ever said to each other, and he’d have no one to blame but himself, and—

He took another long breath.

“Yeah,” he said. “We—no, we can talk.”

You nodded.

“Do you want to go out on the balcony?” You gestured towards the living room. “Warm day today.”

“Sure.”

You carried the biscuits onto the balcony and set them down on the round metal table between two white chairs. They’d come with the flat, their legs slightly rusted and paint peeling in thin curls along the sides. You’d loved them immediately.

The balcony barely fit the furniture, let alone both of you, but it was cosy in the golden late-afternoon light. The metal table scorched your fingertips briefly when you touched it, still radiating the heat of the day.

Yeonjun lowered Violet by the balcony doors. She stepped outside cautiously, her whiskers twitching. The moment she felt the breeze, she scrambled towards the ledge to sniff at the wind.

Yeonjun took the chair on the left.

You sat on the right.

And then, neither of you spoke for a very long time.

Cars rolled steadily below. A pigeon landed on a nearby rooftop with a heavy thump of wings; Violet tracked it with wide, curious eyes. You realised you didn’t feel all that tired anymore.

“Well,” Yeonjun said eventually, leaning back in his chair, “reckon that’s a solid prequel.”

You snorted despite yourself. His shoulders relaxed at the sound.

He nodded toward the biscuits. You leaned forward to take one, and he did, too.

“Can’t remember us ever being quiet around each other for this long,” he added, taking a quick bite.

The biscuit was still warm in the middle when you tried it, buttery and soft enough to crumble against your fingers. It wasn’t as dangerously sweet as the ones from grad school.

“Yeah,” you said. “Would’ve spared us from your wardrobe room.”

His chair creaked as he shifted back. You wiped your palms against each other.

“Think I would’ve found another way to get to you, though,” he said. “Even without the Seven Minutes.”

He used to say things like that constantly back then, you remembered; careless little comments meant to fluster you into silence. Your instinct was still to drop your gaze and clench your hands.

“Right,” you said. “To get back at your parents, yeah?”

The warmth drained from his face.

“No,” he said. “Not for my parents. For me. Because I wanted to be with you.”

Your shoulders stayed taut against the back of the chair.

Across the street, a window slammed shut. Violet’s ears flicked toward the noise. Yeonjun looked that way, too, briefly distracted by the movement on the street below.

It occurred to him, as he watched the traffic, how easily you could just stand up and leave. Close the balcony door, end the conversation. End everything.

Immediately, he started to think of all the ways to stop that from happening, before he caught himself.

If you wanted to leave, you should be able to.

“C-can I start from the beginning?” he asked. “I don’t want to—I want you to know everything.”

You took a slow breath. “Yeah. Start wherever you like.”

Yeonjun had rehearsed this conversation hundreds of times in the past week: lying awake at four in the morning, standing outside your door with Violet, driving to work, in the queue at the shops, choosing between two brands of chocolate bars.

None of those rehearsals had included the look on your face, he realised now. He didn’t know what to expect.

“So,” he said, “the beginning is that I’m in love with you.”

Your gaze dropped immediately to the plate on the table.

His heartbeat was so violent that he wondered if you could hear it over the traffic below. You wondered if he could hear yours.

“You, um…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You probably already know that. I told you before. Once.”

“Yeah.” You let out a long breath. “And I almost believed you. Once.”

His jaw tensed.

Violet, sensing the shift in the air, took a turn around your chair and settled in the shade underneath it.

“I meant it,” he said. “And I mean it now. I’m in love with you. Probably have been since the day I sat next to you outside class in our first year, and you were mean to me.”

You turned to look at him. “You earned that. Acted like a knobhead.”

“I know.” His jaw relaxed enough to let him smile. “But I was done for immediately. And then you kept making it worse for me—unintentionally, I’m assuming. You always get this look in your eyes when you realise you’re talking to a complete idiot, and I—”

You frowned. “I don’t get a look.”

“There!” He jumped, pointing at you with ridiculous delight. “That’s the look.”

You turned away the moment your lips twitched. He laughed, settling back in the chair. The metal at the back poked his spine.

“S’lovely,” he said. “Makes me want to keep annoying you just to see it again.”

“You have problems,” you informed him, not cruelly.

“Yeah,” he replied easily. “Quite severe ones, too. We both know that.”

“Hmm.”

You took another biscuit from the plate.

Across from you, Yeonjun watched your legs swing beneath the metal chair: back and forth, back and forth. You still looked nervous, but you were staying.

“I, uh…” He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table. “I’ve already told you about the first time I wanted to kiss you.”

You let the biscuit melt on your tongue.

You remembered exactly the way he’d told you: standing by the window in your old bedroom, saying he’d spotted you on the balcony of his dorm room once, years ago, with a cigarette. He’d hidden behind the wardrobe door so you wouldn’t catch him watching.

It had been cute, if it was true.

“I remember,” you said, brushing crumbs off your sweatpants. They dropped to the floor.

Violet twitched under your chair, offended at the disturbance, and cracked one eye open. The crumbs smelled excellent, admittedly, but she had standards. She wasn’t eating crumbs. And off the floor, no less.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately,” Yeonjun said, “and I identified another moment that was particularly bad for me.”

You looked up. “Yeah? How bad?”

“Very.” The corners of his lips curled. “Thought I was properly fucked if you never liked me back.”

You turned back ahead, lips pursed.

“Oh—” He clapped his hands. “There’s that look again.”

You shook your head, fighting back a sudden laugh. “What’s the moment, then?”

He smoothed his palms over his black trousers. He’d got flour on them earlier, but you wouldn’t be able to tell now.

“D’you remember our final year of undergrad?” he asked. “November, maybe late October. When we usually started racing.”

You didn’t know what you were supposed to remember.

“Sure,” you said anyway, reaching for another biscuit. You pushed the plate with the last one towards him.

“Right.” He leaned forward to take it, turning it between his fingers. “Soobin and Reina had just started dating, and he refused—I say that with love—to shut the fuck up about her. Thought I was going to go insane.”

You smiled.

Even before they started dating, Reina and Soobin already talked about each other as if they were being paid per mention. Once they actually got together, it increased exponentially. You remembered complaining about the broken radiators in your flat once, and Reina sighing dreamily, Soobin and I were just talking about that yesterday.

It had been endearing. And a little nauseating.

“So then,” Yeonjun continued, pausing to chew, “one day, Soobin tells me he’s going to be late for the first race because he’s got plans with Reina. And I was—now, we know I’ve got problems.”

You snorted into your biscuit.

“At that point, I was making real progress, though,” he said. “Massive character development, yeah?” He gestured with the biscuit. “Huge. So instead of accusing him of abandoning me forever because he’d got a girlfriend, I kept quiet. But I still wanted him there. He’s my good luck charm.”

You swallowed, the cherry jam warm against your throat.

Yeonjun had told you how he’d spiralled when Alain got a girlfriend and started spending less time with him.

It happened to him again, then, with Soobin. And there’d been no one who was proud of him for handling it better.

You realised, absurdly, that you were.

“So,” he said, the white of his shirt reflecting the sunlight, “the day before the race, I told him, hey, Soobin. Why don’t you bring Reina? That way we can all hang out.”

Your gaze drifted sideways as you searched through old memories.

“So, uh—naturally,” he went on, swallowing the last of the biscuit, “after Soobin invited her, Reina got nervous. Thought hanging around his mates would be awkward. He said it wouldn’t be. She disagreed, apparently, and brought you along just in case.”

He could imagine how much convincing that must’ve taken, despite not knowing that part of the story. All Soobin had told him at the time was that Reina would bring her best friend. And Yeonjun, knowing exactly who said best friend was, proceeded to put his jeans on backwards.

“Hmm.” You leaned back in your chair, hands dropping loosely to your sides. Violet’s tail brushed against your fingers. “What’s special about this race, then?”

“I’m getting to it,” he said. “I remember the exact moment you arrived.”

You glanced at him.

“You wore dark jeans and this white top with glitter writing across the chest,” he said. “Don’t know what it said. Stared at you for ten minutes, and my brain stopped cooperating.”

You ran your tongue over your lips, an ironic smile spreading across your face. “You once accused me of seeing you in the shapes of the clouds. Bit ironic now, yeah?”

He snorted. “Yeah, I’m great at deflection. You didn’t know?”

“Hmm. Go on, then.”

“Right. I remember you had sunglasses on, too,” he went on, “even though it was dark. Bit performative if you ask me, but—”

“Okay—” you paused to let him finish laughing, the memory vague in your mind, “—it was light when we left the flat.”

“Fair,” he accepted, tipping his head back. “It was a good night anyway. The wind kept blowing your hair into your mouth. You kept spitting it out. And you were carrying your leather jacket in your hands. I thought you looked like an actress from a 00s film.”

“Please.”

“No, really.” His grin widened. “It pissed me off how hot you looked.”

That finally made you laugh again.

The sound satisfied him unreasonably.

“I remember you saw me,” he said, “and just stopped dead. Reina turned to look at you. You said something to her—probably that you were leaving because I was there.”

“Probably.”

He snickered. “Yeah. And then you were actually about to leave, but Beomgyu found you. He did that a lot back then. Always seemed to seek you out.”

Now you remembered.

Beomgyu had asked you, earlier that day, if you were coming to the race. You’d said no. So when he spotted you there anyway, he’d marched straight across the old camping grounds, grabbed your wrist and refused to let you escape.

“He wanted to know if I’d brought drinks,” you recalled.

Yeonjun didn’t like the fond smile on your face. “Why?”

“A few days before, he overheard Reina and me in class, talking about her grandmother’s homemade spirits,” you said. “And I mentioned that my gran used to make them too, when she was young. Cranberry liqueurs, Kahlúa knockoffs. You know. Stuff where, if you threw it on a wall, paint would probably come off.”

Yeonjun laughed under his breath.

“Beomgyu got obsessed,” you said. “Spent days begging us to bring him some.”

“Did you bring him any?”

“No,” you said. “Our grans were generous with alcohol, and Beomgyu already drank enough as it was. We weren’t helping him become a full-time alcoholic. Think he’s held a bit of a grudge since then.”

Yeonjun laughed again, louder this time.

It was the drinks, then, that Beomgyu had wanted from you.

Good.

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” he said, his foot bouncing lightly under the table. “I remember him moaning at you the entire night.”

“Yeah, well.” You shrugged. “He’s very good at making people feel guilty.”

“Yeah.” He shifted his ankles, trying to ease the pressure against his spine. “Anyway—so, later that night, I was getting into my car for the first heat, and I looked over, and Beomgyu was wasted. Just gone. Walking circles around the pergola, one shoe on, another in the grass under the drinks table.”

You snickered, raising your hand to cover your mouth. Yeonjun wished you wouldn’t; he wanted to see your smile.

“A-and then,” he said, “I saw him trying to shove you into his Audi, saying he’d be your navigator. Just drive. He couldn’t miss the race.”

You looked up at the roof of the building across the street, an amused smile on your lips.

Beomgyu’s Audi, you remembered, had been in a tragic state when you’d climbed in: wrappers and empty energy drink cans rolled under your feet, the seats smelled of strawberry yoghurt. Your fingers clung to the steering wheel with something sickeningly sticky.

“I remember,” you said. “He was too drunk to drive. Kept saying I had to do it in his honour because I’d betrayed him over the drinks.”

“Hmm.” Yeonjun watched you across the table, one elbow propped against the metal edge. “He actually made you start the race.”

You nodded. Before the sirens had signalled the start, Beomgyu had already been halfway out the passenger window. He’d promised to give you directions. Instead, the moment the engine coughed to life, all you got was, oh God, I’m going to throw up, please pull over—wait, no, don’t pull over, I’ll lose my place, oh God. Then he’d passed out.

“Yeah,” you said. “I didn’t get far.”

“Mhmm.” Yeonjun bent one leg under his chair. “But you did finish the first lap.”

“Okay,” you said, “and then I spent the rest of the night holding Beomgyu upright while he threw up in the grass.”

He snickered softly. He remembered crossing the straight and catching sight of Beomgyu folded over the guardrail, while you stood behind him rubbing circles over his back.

“Alright, yeah,” he said. “But, uh—did you check your lap time?”

You frowned. “Did they even record it? I wasn’t supposed to race.”

“They logged it under Beomgyu’s name.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm.” He sat up straighter, a small smile on his lips. “You beat me.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “No.”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

He laughed. “Yeah. First time driving Beomgyu’s wreck of an Audi, with his drunk ass passed out beside you, and you still beat me on your first go.”

The delight on your face was beautiful. He’d known it would be.

“I thought it didn’t count,” you said, nearly out of breath.

“Of course it didn’t. I spent the next ten minutes shouting that it shouldn’t. It was very important to me.”

You laughed again, your head tilting back. Violet looked up from beneath your chair to inspect the noise. Once she was sure that no one was dying, she curled back into herself.

Yeonjun watched the crinkles forming around your eyes and thought he’d have gladly watched you beat him a hundred times over just to get to this point.

“Wow,” you breathed at last.

“Yeah,” he said, still grinning. “Humiliated the absolute shit out of me. Never fucking wanted you more.”

You shook your head.

“You really are insane,” you said, but there was a softness in your voice now. An old instinct.

He forgot to swallow for a moment and inhaled too sharply, coughing into his fist.

“Sorry,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Yeah, uh—well, it only got worse from there, as you know very well.”

“It makes no sense, though,” you said, brushing the crumbs on the table into a tiny pile with your fingertip. “Because I remember all the times we argued. All your provocations. All of it.”

“Yeah.” He nodded along to every word. “I was in denial for a long time. But, fuck, let’s be honest, the more I pissed you off, the more I reinforced my problem. You were so mean to me. I was thriving.”

“That’s such—” A helpless laugh cut you off. Yeonjun lit up instantly. “I think we should be finding you help instead of sitting on my balcony.”

He snorted, shaking his head hard enough for his hair to fall into his eyes.

“S’fine,” he said. “I’ve accepted this is an incurable condition.”

“Ah, so just gave up, then. Typical.”

He gasped, clutching dramatically at his chest.

“Nooo,” he whined. “Don’t say that. You’re making this worse for me.”

You laughed so easily that he had to grip the back of the chair to physically stop himself from leaning across the table. Heliotropic, like a fucking sunflower.

Violet finally emerged from under your chair and stretched across the warm tiles, flexing her claws. Then she looked up at you. You looked back, still smiling.

Taking that as permission, she hopped into your lap, startling you slightly with her weight, and lifted her head in expectation, her pupils widening.

Obediently, you smoothed a hand down her spine.

“So, it was clearly bad for me,” Yeonjun said. He couldn’t look away from Violet sprawled contentedly across your thighs. “And that was why I talked our professors into letting me host that workshop with you later.”

“Hmm.”

“And…” His voice faltered. “After that, I suggested the bet.”

The warmth of the afternoon slowly drained away. You felt the cold at the nape of your neck every time the breeze lifted your hair.

“Right,” you said.

Yeonjun lowered his gaze to his hands. His thumbs moved restlessly against each other in his lap. He could feel the biscuits sitting in his stomach.

“All through this,” he said slowly, “from the moment we first talked, I kept looking for ways to get closer to you. That was all I did.” He swallowed. “I—I know I’ve got issues, yeah? Plenty. But wanting you is genuine. It’s got nothing to do with—with fucking schemes. None of that. It’s just you.”

Your eyes dropped to the dark tiles under your slippers and stayed there. Violet, offended you’d stopped stroking her, hopped off your lap and wandered back into your living room.

This time, Yeonjun was grateful you weren’t looking at him.

“On the last night of the bet,” he said, “after I sprained my wrist, my mum called me.”

The wind slid down your spine. You looked up, and the tension in his face made your stomach clench before he said anything.

“She gave me two options,” he said. The breeze caught the hem of his shirt and lifted it slightly. “Option one was that I break up with you.”

Your pulse stumbled hard enough to make you momentarily dizzy.

“Option two…” His jaw locked. “Option two was that I don’t break up with you. But the Board doesn’t let you graduate. Your thesis fails review for contract cheating.”

For a second, you forgot how to breathe.

It was surreal, at first, that accusing you of paying someone to write your thesis was a realistic option to begin with. Then you remembered the stark white walls of his parents’ house, and the heavy silence within. Remembered Yeonjun telling you his mother had once delayed his flight because he’d tried to run off on a holiday with friends.

Falsifying academic misconduct probably wouldn’t have troubled her much.

“That’s why I ended the bet,” Yeonjun said. “I didn’t want to lose you. But I couldn't let them do that to you.”

You looked up again. The sun was beginning to cast long shadows through the railings, painting stripes across the tiled balcony. Golden light brushed the edge of the plate and turned the white of Yeonjun’s shirt the colour of honey.

You felt almost nauseous.

He’d ended the bet, then, because he thought that wanting him would ruin your life.

“Why—why are you only telling me about this now?” you asked finally. “S’been over a year since we graduated.”

A flash of pain crossed his face. “I was afraid of what else my mum might do.”

“What else could she have done? My thesis had already passed review.”

He dropped his gaze and didn’t answer. The noise of the city filled the silence instead: the hum of the cars on the street, the distant wail of a siren several blocks away.

Your thoughts raced as you watched him.

You remembered the fellowship offer at New York University, the absurd timing of it—right after Yeonjun ended the bet. Right after his mother threatened your future if he didn’t leave you.

“Your mum—” Your stomach lurched. “Sh-she was behind my fellowship. Wasn’t she?”

Yeonjun squeezed his eyes shut. “I think so.”

“Fuck.”

“I don’t know what she did, exactly.” He opened his eyes again and fixed his gaze somewhere past your shoulder. “Could’ve just put in a good word. Made sure your name stayed in front of them. I don’t know.”

Your hands clenched into fists.

“The email I got,” you said, swallowing thickly, “said it was a nomination.”

He lowered his head. “Yeah. It was—it was still you, though. If you hadn’t done the work, she couldn’t have nominated you.”

“Mhmm. And if she hadn’t nominated me,” you returned, dryly, “I wouldn’t have got it.”

He didn’t try to argue. Instead, he let you sit with this for a minute.

“I-I think she wanted to make sure,” he said then, quieter. “Breaking up with you wasn’t enough. She needed you far away from me.”

You shook your head—in disbelief, Yeonjun thought, not realising that it was in disagreement.

It wouldn’t have worked.

If you’d known, it wouldn’t have worked.

He had thought there was no other way. Thought that staying together meant giving up everything else.

You didn’t think so.

You thought that staying together meant staying together. Thought it meant searching for some impossible solution, because that would still be easier than letting go.

“You…” You swallowed against the lump in your throat. There were twenty different things your mind was screaming at you. You tried to focus on the loudest one. “You didn’t explain anything. Just left. Did you really think I’d just fly to New York, be angry for a bit, and then move on?”

His whole posture folded inward.

He didn’t answer.

“You made me think that I wasn’t—made me think I had to be someone else,” you said. Your hands shook in your lap. “Someone worth staying for.”

He took a tentative breath.

“Fuck, I—I realise that now,” he said. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know how else to protect you from the fucking mess that is my famil—”

“You could’ve told me right away.” Your voice sharpened before you could stop it. “I didn’t know your mum called you. Didn’t know New York was them.”

“It—I didn’t know for sure it was them,” he said. He felt too large, suddenly, for your small balcony, too heavy for the flimsy chair. “You were a brilliant student; the fellowship made sense. But, um… after a while, I thought—thought the timing felt too convenient.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t go,” he said. “If you knew my parents had anything to do with it. Thought you’d refuse on principle. And New York was an incredible opportunity for you. It would’ve been—”

“And you don’t think I would’ve got other opportunities?” you cut in. “Think I couldn’t have done anything without your parents handing it to me?”

He winced. “No. Fuck no. That’s not what I mean. I know you could’ve. But this was already happening. This was your future. I thought if I—”

“Why do you think that was my only future?”

He finally looked up.

Your eyes locked across the small table, and something electric crackled through the warm air.

“I wanted you in my future,” you said. Yeonjun felt every sharp thing inside his chest twist at once. “I could’ve still gone to New York. You could’ve come with me. We could’ve—fuck, I would’ve defended my thesis, and they would’ve seen in the viva that I hadn’t cheated. It—”

You stopped to steady your breathing.

“There were things we could’ve done,” you said, without looking at him. “But your mum gave you two options, and you never even considered refusing both.”

His breath hitched in his throat.

Just a few days ago, Reina had warned him to remember: she’d fight with the fucking rain clouds for you. He thought he could see it in your rigid shoulders, in the furious hurt brightening your eyes.

He’d known it, he remembered now, even as he walked away from you: if he’d told you about his mother’s call, you would’ve fought for him.

That was why he hadn’t.

He knew that fighting with his parents was like standing in front of an oncoming train and asking it politely to stop. That’s what it had always felt like. You could exhaust yourself, give it your whole soul, and still change nothing.

He didn’t think he deserved the effort. The sacrifice.

“So, then,” you said, hands clenched so tightly your knuckles hurt. “Since we’re talking now, you’re not worried about what else your mum might do?”

Yeonjun sat very still.

Below the balcony, a motorcycle revved hard enough for the sound to echo between the buildings. The two of you listened to it fade, block by block, into the city.

“I’m not in touch with my family anymore,” he said at last.

You frowned, turning back to him. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, bringing a hand over his face, “I stopped going to dinners. Stopped answering their calls. Got a job. Got Violet. Moved out of the house they bought me, got my own place.” He glanced back toward the balcony doors. Violet’s tail was still visible beneath the shifting curtains. “I haven’t talked to my parents in months.”

Your brows stayed furrowed.

“Okay,” you said. “That—I get that.”

“Yeah.” He leaned back in the chair. “This had never happened before, them just letting me exist in silence. Even after Alain, we carried on as normal. But this is different. We’re not—we’re not talking anymore.”

Your gaze drifted past the balcony, towards the birch trees lining the street below. Their leaves shimmered with silver-green in the dying sun.

Alain, then.

People like you and me, he’d told you the only time you met him, aren’t irreplaceable in his life.

“It’s not entirely different, though,” you said. You could feel your pulse in every word. “Your parents forced Alain out of your life, and there was nothing you could do. Then years later, they forced me out, too.” Your gaze returned to him. “And again, there was nothing you could do.”

Yeonjun felt a wave of heat wash over him, so strong it hurt.

“It is different, though,” he said.

“How?”

He blinked incredibly slowly.

“It—I let them take Alain,” he said. “I played along when they acted like everything was fine. But I didn’t do that aft-after you.”

Something tightened in your expression. You lowered your head before he could recognise what it was.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “So what do you think would happen if your parents found out we both lived here? That we’re talking again?”

His gaze dropped.

“You think they couldn’t do anything else?” you pressed. “I’m back at university. I see your mum’s building every day. You really think your scheme wouldn’t accidentally come true anyway?”

He visibly flinched at the word.

“But I’m not speaking to them anymore,” he insisted. This was all he had. “They took it too far—t-they had to get the message.”

“Do you think they did?”

His eyes settled on the empty plate between you, red and blue around the edges. It was one of the first things he bought after moving out.

He realised now, staring at the crumbs, that his parents might not think this was permanent at all. They might think he was throwing a tantrum. Sulking. They might be waiting for him to come home again.

You were right, he thought. He hadn’t stood up for himself, or for Alain, or for you.

He’d just looked away.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.

You nodded.

“Nothing’s changed, Jun,” you said softly. “We’re sitting here talking, and everything’s still the same as before.”

Yeonjun looked down.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, staring at the grout between the tiles, “that I let my parents decide this, too.”

You let out a slow breath. “You shouldn’t apologise for that. You didn’t choose your family.”

“M’not apologising for my family.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers locked together. “I’m apologising for not holding onto you. For not keeping my word when I said I’d never let them harm you. I—I shouldn’t have agreed with any of my mum’s options.”

You looked out beyond the railing.

The light was changing now. The birch trees had already fallen into shadow.

After you didn’t speak, he added quietly: “I should’ve told you.”

You moved at last, folding your hands together in your lap. Something turned low in your stomach while you tried to understand where to put all of this inside yourself. And where to go from here.

“Why, um—why did you want to explain everything now?” you asked. “After so long. I wasn’t exactly making it easy for you.”

He glanced down.

“I’ve wanted to for a while after you came back,” he said. “But I didn’t know how. And it—well, I suspected you wouldn’t want to hear from me anyway. But now—living here finally gave me an opportunity to do it.”

“But why do it at all?”

He took a shuddering breath.

“Because you should know,” he said. “I made you think that none of it was real. That I didn’t love you. And that’s not true.”

Your pulse thudded against your clasped hands.

“Why,” you said, losing your courage faster than you could catch it, “is that something I need to know?”

His chest tightened.

He realised what you were really asking him.

“Because it’s the truth,” he said. “And I’m not saying I love you because I expect you to say it back.”

You closed your eyes.

For a second, you could almost visualise the band-aid Reina had mentioned. You’d peeled it back just enough to see the wound underneath. It was still alive. It stung.

“Do you think it’s easy for me to hear that now?” you asked, your voice cracking on the last word. You cleared your throat immediately. “To believe it after everything.”

He swallowed. “I know. But it—it’s still true.”

You looked up at the table between you.

“I get it, though,” he added. “You think I’m explaining this because I want us to pick up where we left off.”

You didn’t answer.

Yeonjun looked back towards the street. In the evening light, the building opposite had turned blue. A few of the windows were already glowing.

“I appreciate you explaining,” you said after a moment. “I just—I thought I’d had my thoughts sorted. They weren’t bothering me. And then—then you started fucking hammering downstairs, and I went to check. And now I don’t know what anything means.”

He looked up from the balcony railings. “What would you want it to mean?”

You took a deep breath, glancing up at the sky overhead.

“It’s not that I don’t want things to be normal again,” you said. Then looked back down. “Actually, I don’t even know what normal is.”

“Yeah,” he said, turning away. “I-I get it. The least I could do was tell you everything, but that doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t do it before. Or that I left.”

You hated that it all came down to one decision not to tell you the truth. And now you were on your balcony, months later, and everything he was saying, the good and the bad, scared you in equal parts.

“Well,” you said quietly, “I understand why you didn’t do it before.”

His head dipped. “Thank you.”

Somewhere inside the flat, something dropped to the floor. You heard it roll across the tiles. Neither of you moved to check what it was.

The streets below you were growing louder now; it was Friday night. Nara’s birthday dinner would soon be starting across the city. Beomgyu was probably already on a last-minute booze run.

Yeonjun swallowed.

He wanted to promise that he would never leave again. Wanted to swear that he’d fight this time, that he’d stay, do better.

But he’d made promises before. And the memory of him breaking them still lived inside you both.

He inhaled carefully and offered the only honest thing he had:

“We don’t have to—we don’t need to do anything.”

You lifted your gaze to him. For once, neither of you looked away immediately.

The last glint of sunlight caught the loose strands of his hair falling over his forehead. His eyes were slightly squinted. You remembered tracing his features at night, lying in bed next to him, half-asleep. He’d been so beautiful then.

Even worse now.

“What will we do, then?” you asked.

Yeonjun found hope in the question. You didn’t trust this yet, but you still wanted there to be a this.

He glanced down briefly, thumb rubbing over the side of his left wrist.

“I’d like us to be friends,” he said.

When he looked back up, your lips were already curving. He smiled back instinctively.

He didn’t know what it meant to be your friend. But it sounded infinitely better than not being yours at all.

“Hmm,” you murmured. “Never tried that before.”

A soft laugh escaped him. “Yeah. Reckon it’d go well. We’re clearly very normal around each other.”

You laughed, too, and something lightened in your chest—just a little. Just enough to take a solid breath.

You didn’t know if friendship between you was possible at all, maybe it was a terrible idea. But it wasn’t nothing. And it wasn’t everything.

“Okay,” you said before you could change your mind. “We can try being friends.”

“Yeah?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. I don’t know. Why not?”

The smile that spread across his face was so warm that you had to look away for a second.

“Okay,” he said, pushing himself slowly out of the chair. His hands spread slightly at his sides. “Can I—?”

You stood before he finished speaking.

The movement startled a grin out of him. “Oh—yeah?”

“Fuck off.”

He laughed as you stepped into him and folded into his open arms. He pulled you against his chest at once, warm and shaking slightly.

Your hands settled around his waist, still familiar with his shape. Your cheek pressed against his shoulder. You could feel his heartbeat, a little uneven. But slower than last weekend. Calmer.

“Would you have invited me in,” he murmured against your hair, “if I hadn’t brought the biscuits?”

Your smile pressed against the side of his neck. “Of course not.”

His laughter was a gentle ripple between you. You relaxed into him.

“Did you bake the biscuits, then,” you returned, “just so I’d invite you in?”

His arms tightened around you. “Of course.”

You laughed softly, your breath warm against his skin. He exhaled fully for what felt like the first time in a year and five months.

The sky continued to darken overhead.

For now, this was enough.

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thank you for reading!!♡♡

[filmsbyun]

Waltz of Words || Choi Beomgyu

𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝘵𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝜊𝑢𝑟: 𝑦𝜊𝑢 𝑠𝜊𝑤 𝘵ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝘵 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑑𝑠 𝜊𝑓 𝑏𝑙𝜊𝜊𝑚

Your heart and mind seek him for reasons no words could describe — an irony not lost on you, a writer, a weaver of words. And yet, when it comes to him, even you fail to stitch together the language to explain his existence in your life.

⊹₊ wc; 13.2k

Nobleman!Choi Beomgyu x Noblewoman!afab!reader

chapter tags: regency-inspired setting with loosely adapted historical accuracy, heavy slowburn continues, mutual pining reaching concerning levels, they should not be trusted in confined spaces together, forced proximity done wrong in all the right ways, beomgyu is one step away from losing his entire composure (and dignity), taehyun continues to ruin everyone’s peace unintentionally, suggestive tension through proximity and touch (nothing explicit but deeply charged)

warnings: overheard conversation about a young woman’s passing, mc inadvertently (and very much willingly) intercepting information tied to an ongoing investigation

i had to cut the chapter in half because it was becoming far too lengthy WAHAHAHAH i love this chapter a lot btw because i got to torture lord choi <//3 it is proofread but there might still be some errors! i also wanna thank @yvampyr for motivating me to publish another chapter through her constant praises of this series ily yvro

Story ml .☘︎ ݁˖ Previous chapter .☘︎ ݁˖ Next chapter

The ton often mistakes affection for possession. How unfortunate.

For there exists a far rarer form of devotion, one that asks for nothing and seeks no acclaim. It simply delights in seeing another smile and, having achieved such a feat, considers itself richly rewarded.

This author wonders how many hearts have been lost to that particular vice.

The golden ribbon of dawn had just begun its ascent across the horizon. 

Your adrenaline coursed with conspicuous vigour. It had been some time since your blood had carried such brightness through your veins. The act itself was no novelty. You had long since grown adept at slipping beyond the eyes of the aristocrats and at dissolving into thoroughfares where lineage commanded little notice. You had done so countless times.

This morning, however, differed in one irreducible particular. This time, you were not alone. 

In what had once been your private and faintly scandalous indulgence, there would now be Choi Beomgyu’s presence. 

You found yourself pondering how his hand would feel if it closed around yours to steer through a crowded crossing. To traverse markets and narrow lanes beside him unencumbered by titles and unobserved by matrons introduced an element that painted the undertaking brighter.

It felt perilous in ways that had little to do with discovery because this no longer resembled an excursion between like-minded allies. It felt nearer to flight — a departure into a world you would not mind remaining in, so long as he stood within it. 

“You have been smiling since you opened your eyes,” Maya mused, separating the strands of your hair with nimble fingers before weaving them into a single braid. “It is most distracting.”

You lowered your eyes at that, attempting severity and failing to maintain it.  “Must you always chaff me?”

“I say it because it is true,” she replied. “You carry your thoughts so heavily most days. This morning, you do not. I would keep this version of you, if I could.”

Warmth crept higher along your cheeks, unassisted by powder or paint. It appeared so thoroughly that it could fool anyone into assuming you had done some touch up.

“Perhaps I have grown soft,” you said quietly. You folded your hands in your lap, then unfolded them again. “It is not foolish, I hope?”

“Foolish?” Maya stepped around you and lifted your chin, studying your face with open affection. “No, my lady. It is human.” 

You allowed a small smile. Maya returned it to you brightly. She returned to secure the braid at the nape of your neck and coiled it into a modest knot, fastening the final pin. 

“There! Entirely unremarkable. Which, for once, is precisely the aim,” she beamed.

You rose and adjusted the bodice, drawing the laces taut and tying them. The fabric lay plain against you; no ornament distracted from the simplicity of the attire for the obvious part. You regarded your reflection only briefly before your gaze fell again.

“Maya.”

“Yes, my lady?”

It was a bit ironic how you — a weaver of words — failed to weave the very words upon your tongue when it came to Beomgyu. Your delayed attempt at speech formation did not go unnoticed by her. Instead of urging you, Maya waited.

You took a deep breath, then let it out. “I have always walked alone in these paths of mine. I have never had anyone take a genuine interest in the pursuits that occupy my mind, nor have I encountered one who regards the world as I do.” — but in the end, words did end up flowing naturally, and talking about him always brings upon a real smile on your lips.

Maya’s features softened. She took your hands before you could withdraw them and enclosed them within her own. “What troubles you?” she asked.

“I find that I want him there,” you confessed. When you lifted your eyes, hesitation tempered your expression. “More than I should, perhaps. Is it wrong to desire his company so much?”

Maya exhaled fondly. She rubbed her thumbs across your knuckles, as though warming them from cold. “My lady, there is no fault in wanting the presence of someone who makes your heart lighter,” she answered, giving your hands a gentle squeeze.

“I know,” you whispered.

“You have denied yourself companionship for long enough. You may keep a little joy for your own sake,” she continued, adjusting the fall of your shawl over your shoulders. “Go to him. See what becomes of it.”

They were mere words, but the brightness in your heart turned incandescent with joy upon hearing them. You rose from the chair and drew her into an embrace. Her hands pressed warmly against your back. The contact steadied your breathing.

“I shall be back soon,” you murmured near her ear, tightening your hold for a brief moment before stepping back.

“You shall return content,” she replied, patting your arm once and releasing you. “And you shall tell me whether he proved worthy of that smile.”

Beyond the window, dawn had grown brighter; the estate would soon stir in earnest. You turned toward the door and carried that warmth with you.

The old butler, Mr. Austen had long ceased to be merely a servant within the household; he occupied a station closer to stewardship. Beyond Maya, there existed no other soul to whom you entrusted your more unconventional enterprises.

It was he who had priorly secured a carriage — which was not one of yours or bore a crest that might betray affiliation. He had given an impression to the hired coachman that one of the attendants required conveyance to the church situated at the far end of town. The explanation met with no skepticism.  

When the appointed hour arrived, you descended the side staircase with your bonnet drawn low to obscure the greater part of your face. Mr. Austen assisted you into the carriage with care that bordered upon paternal instinct. Throughout the journey, no passerby gave the carriage a second glance. To them, it bore the insignificance of countless others that traversed the thoroughfare each day. 

By the time the church spire came into view beyond the clustered rooftops, your passage had been accomplished without incident. The carriage drew to a halt near the back wall, removed from the main square where foot traffic gathered in scarce number. Mr. Austen descended first, then turned to offer his hand once more.

You accepted it and stepped down upon the cobbled ground, lifting your skirts to avoid the damp between the stones. Once clear of the carriage, you reached up and adjusted your bonnet, ensuring it cast sufficient shadow across your features.

“Mr. Austen,” you said warmly, “I ought to thank you more properly. You always assist me, even when my requests are troublesome.”

He regarded you from beneath brows that had grown more expressive with age. “If I complained every time you made life difficult, I should have no breath left for anything else.”

You startled into a laugh. “So you admit I am troublesome!”

Mr. Austen’s smile was concealed under this grey mustache, but the crinkles around his eyes were an evident of it. It in return lifted the apples of your cheeks.

“I jest,” he said. “Though I must admit with pride that you have inherited both your parent’s resolve for greater pursuits.”

You tilted your head and allowed a hint of levity to enter your voice. “I keep wondering how you have not grown weary of me, or insisted to betray my secrets in the interest of your own tranquillity.”

At this, he exhaled through his nose and removed one glove, lifting his hand to rest briefly upon your head. The gesture was gentle.

“Betray you?” he said, lowering his voice in a parental rebuking tone. “I have served this household since before you could form a sentence. I carried you through those corridors when you could not walk. I have bandaged your knees and hidden your broken teacups. Do you suppose I would begin betraying you now?” 

“When you list it so plainly, I sound incorrigible.” Your smile softened. 

“You were an energetic child,” he corrected, drawing his glove back on. “You are now an energetic young lady. I know your mind. I know when you act with purpose.”

You lowered your gaze. “Even so, I must try your patience.”

“You try nothing of the sort,” he answered. His gaze moved past you toward the narrow street that curved away from the church. “Take care while you are out there. Keep to the streets we discussed and return by the hour agreed upon.”

“I shall.” You inclined your head in acknowledgment.

He stepped back to allow you passage toward the entrance, yet his eyes remained upon you until you reached the shelter of the stone archway. Only then did he withdraw to the carriage.

No passerby occupied the lane that led to the churchyard at this hour. The structure had endured many seasons without devoted care; ivy gripped the outer stonework, and long green climbers wound their way along cracked mortar and weathered arches. Moss had gathered between the flagstones of the path. 

You crossed the yard with brisk steps, gathering the edge of your skirt so it would not brush the damp growth along the wall. The wooden gate yielded beneath your hands with a subdued groan. You slipped inside and drew it back into place behind you, the iron latch settling with a hollow echo that traversed through the small vestibule.

The church received you in tempered light. Tall windows of stained glass admitted slender shafts of colour that descended across the rows of aged pews and wandered over the stone floor. Dust stirred faintly in the air where the sunlight touched it.

The hush within bore the solemnity of a place accustomed to confessions declared with trembling breaths and parting words spoken with tearful eyes. A sanctuary for lovers brought together by fate and here, beneath these very windows, they had stood hand in hand to bind their futures together before witness and blessing.

Within that broad expanse, he sat several rows ahead with a book in his hands. The stillness surrounding him gave the impression that he had been waiting for some time. You hadn’t taken three steps before he turned his head.

His gaze found you.

It was a wonder he did not drop the book, or how he had managed to preserve even the outward appearance of a gentleman. Nearly every rational thought had abandoned him, leaving only a tumult of sensation that defied decorum.

He could not reconcile the image before him with the world he occupied. There existed no refinement of language that could render you into adequate description within his mind. It was a theft from fortune itself that he should be granted this sight of you — heaven sent — in a place that had borne vows of eternity.

How undeserving he was, and yet how impossibly fortunate, to know you at all. To have encountered you in this lifetime was a miracle he could scarcely bear to acknowledge without trembling. He, who had done nothing to earn such grace, found himself granted it all the same.

He pressed the book shut with his thumb and set it aside upon the bench without once glancing away. Rising soon after, he remained where he stood and did not dare step forward to meet you. Any further claim upon your presence might verge upon excess.

The path you walked on had seen brides being led forward beneath veils.

You reached up and untied the ribbons beneath your chin, slipping the bonnet free and lowering it to your side. Filtered sunlight brushed across your features; you were unaware of the devastation your simple gesture wrought upon the man who watched.

With no witness but the silent church and its ancient walls, Choi Beomgyu found himself wholly, helplessly, and madly in awe of you.

Meanwhile, each step along the aisle was taken with a steadiness that belied the faint quickening beneath your ribs. Once standing before him, your lips parted in an aberrantly shy greeting.

“Hi.” — the greeting emerged so softly that it scarcely disturbed the hush surrounding you.

He forgot every prepared greeting he had carried with him into the church. He had spent the better part of the morning considering what he might say upon seeing you again but none of it survived.

"Hi,” he returned after a short moment. He stepped forward a pace, the faintest tremor betraying the effort it took to hold himself upright. “Did you have a safe journey here? I hope it was not troublesome to avoid the eyes."

You laughed, a delicate sound that rolled through the air and set his heart skittering. 

“This is hardly my first venture of the sort, Lord Choi,” you said, a trace of mirth touching your lips. “You needn’t worry on my behalf.”

He pressed his lips together, his eyes closing briefly as he recalled the forgotten detail. He inclined his head in a gesture that carried apology — one that seamlessly delivered that he had disciplined himself for even daring to dismiss something from his mind about you.

“Yes—yes, of course.” His voice softened, almost conceding the ground with care. “Forgive me. I remember now that you have done this many times before.”

Your smile deepened. “Apology accepted.”

You moved together toward the rear of the church where there was a door set behind the last row of pews. He reached ahead of you to pull it open, then stepped aside to let you pass through first. The faint freshness of the season’s turn kissed the skin beneath your eyes. 

A slim path stretched ahead, bordered by overgrown hedges and low-hanging branches that filtered the daylight into shifting patches upon the ground. Beomgyu lifted one hand to guide a stray branch away from your path before letting it fall back into place. He walked beside you, though never too near. You wished he did.

“After a short while, a man will pass here with his cart. We will join him and reach the town without a hitch,” he explained, glancing down the road ahead.

You tilted your head, curiosity brightening your features. "Are you friends with this man, Lord Choi?"

"He has been the one to get me in and out of town during these escapes of mine." His gaze carried a secretive fondness. The next moment, however, he gave you a look. “Though I must warn you, he sometimes let his tongue outrun his wit.”

You hummed, eyes tracing the patterns of sunlight through the branches. The faint stir of leaves above lent a softness to the moment. “It is lovely , isn’t it, Lord Choi?” you said after a pause, “to have friends who look out for you so, without question.”

You thought of Maya, and of Mr. Austen — whose loyalty had never once wavered despite the liberties you so often took. It was indeed the greatest gift in knowing that one was not alone in one’s ventures, however ill-advised they might appear to others. You were comforted to know that Beomgyu was not solitary in his wanderings; that beyond the confines of expectation, he too was sustained by hands willing to guide and guard his passage.

“You need not call me that.”

During the passing silence between you, in which the sound of your footsteps mingled with the whispering leaves — his low voice tickled your ears. The sensation travelled all the way down to your arms, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps whose reason of origin were too specific to be blamed upon the morning breeze.

Your feet slowed of their own volition. “Whatever do you mean?”

“‘Lord Choi’,” he said, meeting your gaze. “You do not need to keep using the title with me.”

“And what should I call you, then?” you jested, the question light upon your tongue. “Mr. Choi?”

That drew a different look from him. The smile that curved his lips deepened, and he held your gaze with a gravity that pulled at your senses. He allowed the meaning of his words to settle — and understanding came to you in a gradual unfoldment.

"Oh," you murmured, the single syllable tasting of revelation.

“We are not within society’s bounds here. If you continue to address me so, it may draw notice.” He wished to hear his name from you alone — stripped of rank and shaped only by your voice, entirely kept apart from every other claim upon him. It seemed, in that moment, an unnecessary barrier — one he could not bring himself to tolerate. “Use my name.”

You held your gaze on him, feeling a giddiness unfurl within your chest that made your pulse reckless. He was looking at you with expectation, a tender touch of patience, awaiting the very thing your heart ached to give. Your breath caught in a minuscule falter before you turned your face aside, conceding the moment without granting it its full due.

“You ask for liberties, Lord—” The title slipped out of habit; you halted, then amended with care, “—then I should expect the same from you, should I not?”

Beomgyu smiled in full, no withholding. “You may always expect from me what your heart permits, and far more besides.” — then he said your name.

He stepped closer in thought, if not in body, his words bending the social rules only to fold entirely around you. 

You had grown so accustomed to hearing him say “my lady” to address you that the notion of your own name claimed by his voice had never crossed your mind. Now, confronted with your title’s absence, you found yourself wholly unprepared. Would it be improper to coax him to repeat your name? Though you doubted whether you could ever request it again without succumbing into a breathless whisper. 

“Oi! Choi Beomgyu!”

You turned in tandem. An old man was approaching you with a slow, rolling gait on a haycart. 

“Didnt expect you to show up today!” he called, squinting at Beomgyu beneath the brim of his worn hat. “Thought you’d lost your nerve this time.”

“I gave you my word, uncle Park,” Beomgyu replied, stepping nearer as the cart drew close for him to lay a hand upon its side. His fingers closed around the wooden rail, steadying the slight jolt as the horse was brought to a halt. “You might consider granting me a measure of patience.”

“Patience?” Uncle Park barked, striking the side of the cart with a resounding slap. “You vanish for weeks on end and return with talk of patience? I ought to charge you interest for every day you kept me waiting.”

“Come now, do not begin reciting my faults before I have even greeted you properly,” Beomgyu drawled. The tilt of his mouth carried a trace of mischief that seemed ill-matched with the poise he otherwise wore. “You would have me condemned before I could attempt a defence.”

The change may have been miniscule but it did not escape your notice. It was, you thought, a sight to behold — to witness him thus.

“Well now, and who might this be?” The old man’s attention veered from Beomgyu with abrupt curiosity. He regarded you with frank appraisal before his brows rose and his grin widened into something altogether knowing. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and found yourself a sweetheart. Took you long enough, boy. I thought you meant to wander alone till your bones gave out.”

Oh, it was another sight to behold — to see such a bright shade of red adorning his face.

“No—no, you’ve mistaken it entirely,” Beomgyu spluttered, the denial arriving with such haste that it threatened coherence. “She is—we are acquainted. A friend.”

Uncle Park’s expression did not alter in the slightest. He let out a low hum, drawing the sound out as his gaze passed between you both again. He was unconvinced in the most evident manner.

“A friend, is it?” he repeated with skepticism. “Well, a friend with the look of her, I’ll grant you’ve done well for yourself.”

A trace of pity found its way through you for him. So you stepped forward before Beomgyu could further knot himself in needless explanation. Inclining your head in greeting, you offered Uncle Park a civility he had not anticipated.

“Good day, sir,” you said, hands gathered neatly before you. “We remain indebted for your assistance.”

He blinked with bafflement. Then he let out a small chuckle, scratching at his jaw. “No debt worth speaking of. Any friend of his is welcome enough.”

“I have heard you have been aiding him in reaching town,” you said once settled upon the cart’s wooden bed, Beomgyu following close behind. “Though I begin to suspect I have been introduced into a history far more elaborate than I was warned of.”

Beomgyu released a breath through his nose, turning his head aside as he ran a hand through his hair as though it might restore some fragment of dignity. “You have been warned sufficiently,” he muttered, though his glance betrayed a flicker of reluctant humour. “It is not my fault you chose to ignore it.”

“Was I now?” you returned, the question light but you were evidently chaffing.

“Warned?” Uncle Park echoed, taking up the reins and guiding the horse forward. “Now that is a detail I should very much like to hear. What, pray tell, have you been saying about me, boy?”

“Nothing that would survive your hearing,” Beomgyu replied without missing a beat, though the faint colour rising along the line of his cheek rendered the retort less convincing than he might have wished. 

Uncle Park released a loud laugh, head tipping back in delight as the horse gave a mild flick of its ear in response. “Ah, so you do possess a tongue when pressed!”

You turned your gaze upon Beomgyu then, interest brightening your expression as the exchange had offered you a private amusement worth savoring. “It seems I had formed a rather different impression,” you said, lightly. 

Beomgyu’s gaze narrowed with a flash of protest that did not quite disguise the reluctant curve threatening his mouth. “You can change your opinion of me if you want,” he returned. “But I would advise against placing too much faith in this man’s testimony.”

“Dangerous counsel,” Uncle Park interjected. “Encouraging a lady to doubt me at our very first meeting. You’ll have her convinced I am a scoundrel before I’ve even had the chance to prove it.”

“I suspect that you would require no encouragement at all in that regard,” you replied, your tone turning pleasantly contemplative.

A stunned beat passed over the air punctuated only by the sounds of the hooves. Not long after, the old man threw his head back and laughed again, wholly delighted. 

“Oh, I like her,” he declared, pointing a crooked finger in your direction. “You’ve brought me someone with sense, Beomgyu. That alone earns you forgiveness for your many disappearances.”

“I am relieved my standing has been restored on such merciful terms,” Beomgyu said dryly.

Uncle Park clicked his tongue, casting him a sideways look. “But do not grow complacent. A man who makes promises and neglects them is of little use to anyone, least of all himself.”

The remark had teeth underneath the jovial tone which altered the look in Beomgyu’s eyes. As much as it was miniscule, it was still perceptible. There was little room left for defence when the accusation aligned too closely with his own assessment of past conduct. For a brief stretch of thought, he allowed no rebuttal to form but his fingers tightened against the rail’s rough grain before he inclined his head.

“I am here now,” he said. 

The words were few, but they carried an undercurrent of finality that admitted no further censure.

Uncle Park stared for a passing moment, the remnants of his earlier levity giving way to a more considered regard. He gave a short nod and returned his attention to the road. 

“Aye,” he conceded. “That you are.”

You offered no interruption through it. There were conversations that did not belong to you, and you possessed enough discernment to leave them undisturbed. 

The wind had found its way into Beomgyu’s hair and tousled it in the most wild manner; a stray leaf remained stuck near his temple. Wordlessly, you reached forward and removed it, and upon feeling your touch on his skin, Beomgyu relaxed as he faced you. 

You lifted the leaf between your fingers, a faint smile touching your mouth as you held it out for him to see. He did not need to know that it had served as your excuse to touch him and to offer a moment of solace. He remembered your words of affirmations from the riverside. They were called forth with little effort, softening whatever had remained of the previous exchange. He said nothing.

From the front, uncle Park glanced back once more, his grin returning in full force. “You’ll have to tell me her name, at least,” he called. “Can’t keep calling her ‘friend’ all the way to town.”

Beomgyu’s expression tightened into a reluctant frown. “You may mind the road, and leave the rest to me.”

“Aye, I’ll mind it well enough,” the man replied, though satisfaction coloured his tone. “But I’ve eyes, boy. And I know what I see.”

The cart drew to a halt at the edge of the town, where the worn road gave way to a livelier thoroughfare beyond. Beomgyu descended first and his hand rose in instinctive assistance — though he paused just short of presumption, allowing you the choice of accepting it.

A soft laugh slipped from you, touched with fond exasperation as you accepted his offer. Even now, he held himself apart, careful to grant you space you had never asked him to keep. You had never objected to his hand — had, in truth, found yourself inclined to accept it whenever it was offered. 

You were more than willing to take his and only his hand.

Uncle Park watched the exchange with unabashed interest. Once you had offered your thanks and moved ahead, he turned toward Beomgyu with a pointed sound of disapproval.

“A friend, he says,” he remarked, shaking his head. “If that is friendship, I should like to see what he calls devotion.”

Beomgyu shot him a look that might have served as a warning in any other circumstance. Here, it merely provoked further delight.

After bidding him farewell, the two of you moved toward the town proper. What awaited you upon entry bore little resemblance to the subdued bustle you had anticipated. 

Colour adorned every visible corner and banners stretched between buildings in bright swathes, fabric stirred by the passing air; lanterns hung in careful rows, their glass catching the sunrays in fractured gleams. Myriads of laughter carried through the streets with a buoyancy that stirred even the most indifferent passerby.

“Have we arrived in the midst of some celebration?” you asked, gaze moving from one detail to the next before looking up at him. “Were you aware of this?”

His expression was shaped by honest surprise. “I had no knowledge of it,” he said, almost to himself, before his features eased and a smile found its place. “Still, it is rather fortunate. We should make use of it while we are here.”

He lifted his arm toward you in invitation.

You looked at the gesture, then at him. Had it truly slipped his consideration that any display of formality in such a place might draw unwelcome attention, when he had been so insistent elsewhere that you abandon it and call him by his name? Surely, it would not hurt to return a fraction of that boldness now, simply to see whether it might touch him the same way it had undone you.

You placed your hand into his, bypassing the offered formality entirely. His breath faltered.

You leaned closer, lowering your voice so that it reached him alone. “We cannot follow etiquette here, can we?” you murmured, tilting your head in a small indication toward the passing crowd. 

The words were meticulously delivered with a soft provocation that sought him out and held him there. Beomgyu exhaled, the sound uneven before he gathered himself, his fingers closing more securely around yours. It was no longer tentative in their claim. You beamed. 

“You have not yet eaten, have you?” he asked. “There is a place ahead I would like to show you. Their breakfast is worth the visit.”

Beomgyu led you through an alley tucked between bustling storefronts until the sight of a weathered wooden sign drew recognition from you. You had visited this establishment more times than you could count during your private excursions through the town. Little about it had changed since then. 

The old matriarch still presided over the shop with formidable vitality, directing her children and grandchildren from behind the counter while pots simmered and trays passed rapidly from hand to hand. Age had touched her hair and the bend of her back, though not a single soul beneath that roof appeared foolish enough to mistake her for frail.

The entire household erupted into a chorus of greeting the moment Beomgyu stepped through the doorway.

“Mum, Choi Beomgyu came back!”

“You finally remembered us?”

“Sit down before your face grows any thinner!”

One of the younger boys abandoned his errand entirely to throw his arms around Beomgyu’s middle, nearly causing him to stumble backward with startled laughter spilling from his mouth. An older woman emerged from the kitchen carrying a basket of bread and clicked her tongue at him before cupping his cheek in both hands, scolding him for his long absence while her eyes shone with unconcealed affection. 

It was one matter to know Beomgyu as you did. It was another matter entirely to witness the traces he left behind within the lives of others. 

What stood before you was not simply a man who was well-liked, but a man who had left impressions upon people so deeply fond that they reached for him — actually reached for him — with happiness made visible on their faces. This was something you had no tidy word for, which meant it was, in all likelihood, the truest thing about him. Looking at him made the brightness in your heart alight with joy.

The family ushered the two of you toward a crowded table beside several townspeople midway through their breakfast. There was more food than you can reasonably eat as they jumped at the opportunity to feed you when they noticed Beomgyu brought you along. Fresh bread still warm from the oven, butter softened beneath the morning heat, roasted potatoes seasoned generously with herbs, thick stew fragrant enough to draw sighs from nearby tables — the varieties only kept increasing.  

“Please,” you finally laughed after another bowl was placed before you. “Surely there are others here who must also eat.”

Every attempt to refuse additional servings was met with scandalised disbelief. You had easily eaten to the comfortable limit of your capacity and settled back with the satisfaction of a meal properly honoured. Beomgyu leaned forward at your side and studied your expression with poorly concealed anticipation.

“Well?” he asked. “Was bringing you here a wise decision?”

You exhaled contentedly and brushed a stray crumb from your fingertips. “Very wise. This reminds me of meals back home. There is far more soul within food prepared this way.” Your gaze wandered briefly toward the rear counter where kettles released curling streams of steam into the air, and said, almost to yourself, "I wonder if they carry tea." 

"They do," said Beomgyu, and paused in a way that told you the sentence was not yet finished. "Though I find myself compelled to ask something first. Have you ever had coffee ground fresh and prepared with any degree of honest care for the result?"

You raised your brows to show you were thoroughly interested in the subject. “Do you consider yourself an authority on the matter?”

“I consider myself tragically burdened with superior taste.”

A laugh escaped you. “I prefer tea,” you admitted, affording him the candour the question merited. “Though I have had coffee on occasion and found it perfectly—”

"Agreeable?" he supplied.

You rested your chin briefly upon your hand, smiling. "Is that not sufficient?"

Without another word, he rose and extended his hand toward you. There existed an eager brightness about him then, one that stirred immediate curiosity within your chest.

“Come,” he said. “Allow me the opportunity to change your opinion.”

 You placed your hand into his and permitted him to lead you toward the back portion of the establishment where shelves lined with jars and tins occupied the walls. The younger women there greeted him with visible delight before moving aside to grant him access to the preparation space, clearly accustomed to this intrusion.

“Do you do this often?” you asked while watching him roll the sleeves of his shirt slightly higher. 

The fabric gave way to forearms exposing elegant lines and the faint rise of veins beneath golden skin. It took you a while to tear your gaze away before you forced yourself to follow the movement of his hands instead. 

“Often enough that they have stopped questioning it,” he answered, sounding rather pleased with himself as he reached for a bag of beans. 

“I cannot decide,” you said, stepping closer to the counter and folding your hands behind your back, “whether that reflects well upon your skill or poorly upon their judgment.”

He glanced over his shoulder at you, and pressed a look of mock grievance into his expression. “You wound me before I have even begun.” 

The remark drew another soft laugh from you. He turned away shortly after, though not before you caught the fleeting brightness crossing his features.

“Shall I be of any help?” you asked, leaning lightly against the counter’s edge.

Beomgyu set the grinder down and turned fully toward you, raising his brows in consideration. He then snuck a glance briefly toward the woman at the far end of the room before motioning toward the stool set with a tilt of his head, the corners of his mouth already betraying him.

“My lady,” he said, lowering his voice into a murmur meant for you alone, “only needs to sit pretty for me.”

For one treacherous instant, your mind abandoned you entirely. 

You lowered yourself onto the stool with far more composure than you truly possessed, one hand curling against the edge of the wooden seat. A small lopsided smile touched your mouth in spite of every effort to contain it. 

My lady only needs to sit pretty for me. Such shameless words, spoken beneath his breath. 

The remark had already entered your chest with ruinous effect, carrying that infuriating mixture of sweetness and confidence he seemed capable of summoning so deftly whenever he chose to turn his attention wholly upon you. He just created a dangerously intimate air.

You turned your face away under the pretence of examining the shelves beside you, though the aim proved entirely futile once you caught sight of him again from the corner of your vision. The faint curve still threatening his mouth from your reaction alone conspired against your attempt at indifference with astonishing success. Beomgyu looked thoroughly pleased by his own effect upon you.

He selected the beans himself, inspecting them with surprising care before pouring them into the grinder. Morning light poured through the nearby window and scattered across him in fractured bands of gold, catching against the dark fall of his hair when he moved around. The rich fragrance of freshly ground coffee slowly wafted through the room, enveloping you little by little while Beomgyu continued his work with visible fondness for the task itself. 

Watching him in such a setting — attention devoted wholly toward preparing a simple cup of coffee for you — awakened a longing you scarcely recognised. It was not excitement, nor infatuation, nor any of the foolish sentiments novels delighted in exalting. It was the sudden desire to preserve the moment exactly as it was and return to it whenever the world became unkind. 

Beomgyu added milk and sugar only after pausing to ask how you preferred it, and when you answered that you trusted his judgement, his fingers faltered briefly against the spoon. You pretended not to notice. He pretended equally hard.

Then, at last, he poured the hot liquid into a cup and set it before you. The anticipation upon his face nearly made you laugh. You lifted the porcelain carefully and took your first sip.

The coffee carried none of the bitterness you had long associated with it; instead there came a depth to the flavour that unfolded gradually upon the tongue, mellowed by sweetness and softened further by the warmth of milk he had added for you. It filled you from within in a manner strangely comforting. 

"Oh," you said.

It was not your most eloquent expression of sentiment. It was, however, entirely sincere.

"Well?" Beomgyu asked softly. 

You stared down into the cup for another moment before looking back at him with open astonishment. “Lord Choi, this is extraordinary.”

Relief flooded his features so swiftly that you nearly laughed again. “Is that approval I hear?”

“Approval?” You chuckled softly before taking another sip, savouring it without the slightest attempt to disguise your delight. “I think you may have altered the course of my life.”

The younger woman arranging cups nearby covered her smile behind her hand at your reaction, though you scarcely noticed her. Your attention was held by the rich taste of coffee, which had far more depth than any of the ones you had previously endured out of courtesy during formal visits and social calls.

“I am glad it is to your liking,” he replied, watching you with such transparent fondness that it became difficult to look anywhere else for long. “You sounded displeased by bitterness, so I thought—” 

“No, you do not understand,” you continued, stepping closer without realizing it. “I have never tasted coffee this good before. I shall return home intolerably dissatisfied with everyone who attempts to prepare a cup thereafter.” 

“I would gladly make it for you myself,” he answered at once. 

You looked at him and found that he had, at some point, abandoned any pretence of attending to his own cup. He was watching you — had been watching you — so thoroughly gratified by the simple fact of your reaction that it surpassed, by some considerable distance, anything you might have readied yourself to receive. He looked at you the way a person looks at something they have long wished to share with someone, who has at last been granted the occasion.

"You are not even drinking yours," you observed, glancing pointedly at his cup. 

"No," he agreed, without a shade of contrition.

“You won’t be able to enjoy it once it loses its warmth.”

“Watching you enjoy yours appears to satisfy me far more.”

You smiled into the rim of the cup before lowering it again, entirely incapable of concealing your pleasure. 

And standing within that humble little kitchen, surrounded by roasted coffee and morning sunlight, Beomgyu found himself thinking that he would willingly spend every remaining day of his life chasing that look upon your face if only to witness it again.

The remainder of the morning passed beneath a gentler pace. 

You stayed far longer than either of you had planned, seated near the open window enjoying the cool breeze as you carried on conversations. At some point, Beomgyu suggested venturing further into town while the festivities still endured. Before your departure, you asked the elderly shopkeeper what precisely the occasion celebrated.

Spring, she had told you warmly. Renewal. The casting away of winter’s dreariness in favour of brighter days ahead.

You found the sentiment rather lovely.

The town had grown even more animated with the advancing afternoon. Children darted between merchants with sugared fruits clutched in their hands while musicians occupied crowded corners with fiddles and drums, their melodies spilling through the streets amidst merchants calling out to passing patrons. The crowd of people pressed nearer with every turn through the market, enough that Beomgyu’s hand remained securely around yours from the moment you stepped back into the thoroughfare.

You noticed that he no longer appeared startled by the contact.

In truth, it was you who kept drawing nearer whenever the crowd thickened while the two of you wound between stalls laden with flowers and embroidered ribbons. Every now and then a vendor would greet Beomgyu by name, and each greeting only deepened your fascination with the life he possessed beyond society and scholarly distinction. 

You kept getting reminded how beneath the open sky and amongst townsfolk who adored him without reservation, he appeared touched by a brightness that made him painfully beautiful to behold.

“You are very loved here,” you remarked softly after yet another merchant pressed free sweets into his hands despite his protests.

Beomgyu glanced toward you, faint embarrassment touching his features. “They are merely generous people.”

“No,” you replied, tightening your hand around his. “They are generous to you.”

Deeper colour touched the tips of his ears immediately thereafter, though salvation arrived in the form of a nearby fruit stall before either of you could dwell within the aftermath for too long. 

“Wait here,” he murmured.

You watched him exchange a few coins with the vendor before returning moments later with a pear resting within his palm; golden-skinned and ripened beneath the season’s warmth to the point where droplets of juice already gathered near the stem. He wiped the fruit against the sleeve of his shirt and held it toward you expectantly.

“For you.”

You looked from the pear to his face, then smiled slowly before inclining your head forward and biting directly into the fruit while he still held it.

The skin broke beneath your teeth with a soft crack. Sweetness flooded your mouth instantly, rich and sun-warmed, and a thin trail of juice slipped carelessly down your chin before you could stop it. A startled laugh escaped you at that.

“Oh, that is wonderful—”

You lifted your hand toward your chin, though he caught your wrist gently before you could wipe the juice away yourself. His thumb brushed beneath your lower lip in one slow motion, collecting the droplet there before releasing you entirely.

“Sweet, isn’t it?” he asked, voice lowered by a tenderness that rendered your pulse uneven. 

You could only nod.

Then, still holding your gaze, he lifted the pear and bit into the very place your mouth had touched. 

You blinked as your breath caught so abruptly at the sight that it did not escape Beomgyu’s notice, the corner of his mouth curving faintly around another bite.

“You appear scandalised, my lady,” he mused.

“You are behaving scandalously,” you returned, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed any attempt at reproach.

Right then, a burst of applause erupted from somewhere farther down the street, followed almost immediately by the lively sweep of fiddles and tambourines. The interruption arrived with merciful timing. You turned toward the source of the commotion while several townsfolk hurried past in excitement, and Beomgyu released a soft breath through his nose that suggested he, too, recognised salvation when it presented itself. 

“Let us go,” he said, glancing back at you over his shoulder and catching your hand. “I wish to see what has gathered such enthusiasm.”

The street opened into a bustling square awash with performers and festival-goers. Everyone clapped along to the music surrounding them, skirts swirling across cobblestones as partners spun one another beneath the bright spring afternoon. Whenever a step went poorly, the offender merely laughed harder before beginning again.

Everyone appeared so radiant in their carefreeness. You could not stop smiling as you watched.

Beomgyu watched you instead of watching them. “Do you like it?”

“How could I not?” you replied, gaze wandering across the square. “There is far more life here than within half the ballrooms I have attended.”

He hummed, crossing his arms. “Nobody here cares whether their footwork impresses a duchess.”

You laughed, gosh — how many times had he already made you laugh today? Beomgyu relished every second of that sound before extending his hand toward you.

“Come here.”

Your brows lifted instantly, taking his hand. “That is hardly a proper invitation.”

“You refused my last proper invitation,” he reminded you, stepping closer. “I saw little benefit in repeating myself.” 

Memory returned at his words; the winter ball from weeks prior, the hand he had offered then with the hopes of a waltz with you. You hadn’t indulged him back then. Instead you had given a vague promise of next time. 

Since the formal approach failed last time, this was Beomgyu trying a different one now. 

Your smile curved slowly afterward. “You remember that?”

“I remember nearly everything regarding you.”

You felt comfort in knowing that your passing remarks did not vanish into the ether when spoken to him. He appeared intent upon remembering you.

Appreciation had always existed as a distant and complicated thing within your life; admired beauty invited possession, admired intelligence invited challenge, admired status invited ambition. You were desired endlessly, yet so few had ever looked upon you with genuine regard for the woman standing before them rather than the advantages attached to her name.

To be cherished without demand had remained foreign to you for far too long.

With Beomgyu, that foreignness dissolved so naturally that you could no longer recall its absence. He simply looked at you as though your happiness alone possessed the capacity to enrich his world. Somewhere along the way, affection had ceased feeling like a bargain awaiting its price. In his company, it arrived freely and remained freely given. The wariness that had accompanied tenderness for so many years found itself slipping away piece by piece until trusting him felt no more difficult than turning your face toward sunlight.

Your gaze drifted back toward the dancers circling the square, your smile softening faintly at the sight of them.

“I am not certain I could do that,” you admitted after a moment, watching one particularly exuberant couple stumble into laughter after missing several steps entirely.

Beomgyu followed your line of sight before turning back toward you with raised brows. “You believe yourself incapable of moving in a circle?”

“No!” you laughed. “I meant—the dance steps. I do not know the steps.”

A low laugh escaped him. Beomgyu stepped closer and lifted your joined hands between you, giving them one small encouraging sway to the music drifting through the square.

“You need not know the dance,” he said. “As I have said, nobody here does.”

“That is hardly reassuring.”

“It should be.” His smile deepened. “Look around you.”

You did. 

A little girl stood atop her father’s boots several feet away while he guided her through clumsy turns. Of course it was not perfect, but they were happy. Nearby, two elderly women clapped along to the melody without even attempting the steps, and one poor gentleman had nearly collided into a flower cart moments prior only to receive applause for the effort.

The entire square overflowed with joy untouched by embarrassment. That was the radiance you had admired just moments prior. Your uncertainty had no moment to resurface after that. 

Beomgyu gave your hand another gentle pull. "All you need to do is follow my lead."

He began simply at first, coaxing you into the beat of the music without surrendering fully to the dance. One step. Then another. A turn barely deserving of the name while he guided your movements with slow encouragement.

“There,” he murmured once you managed the timing correctly. “You are already succeeding.”

You gave a sardonic roll of your eyes, chuckling. "You need not lie."

“I am being truthful.” He smiled. 

Gradually, laughter found you again. It slipped free without reservation each time you missed a step and Beomgyu caught you before you could stumble into disaster, and every burst of mirth from your lips appeared to affect him profoundly that he basked in his own delight. 

All of a sudden, he stopped altogether and winked. Before you realised his intention, Beomgyu drew you fully into the dancing circle.

A startled laugh escaped you immediately when he spun you beneath his arm, your free hand catching against his shoulder for balance. “Lord Choi—”

“Hush,” he murmured, pulling you nearer amidst the swirl of dancers before leaning close enough that his breath brushed against your ear. “No titles today.” 

The intimacy of his voice sent a shiver licking up down your spine. You bit your lip because you weren't sure what you would have said anyway. You weren't sure you were capable of forming language at all right now. So you let him lead you through the dance, pretending his words hadn’t set flames through your veins.

There existed no graceful structure to the dance itself. It took several attempts before you found the tempo hidden within the music, and even then you frequently stepped where you ought not, though neither of you cared in the slightest. The mixed informality made the moment far more intimate than any waltz performed beneath chandeliers could have achieved. 

Breathlessness overtook you quickly beneath the exhilaration of movement and music, your chest rising rapidly while delight coursed through you with almost intoxicating force. Your skirts swept against his legs whenever he drew you nearer, and every time laughter escaped your lips, Beomgyu felt an absurd desire to gather the sound and keep it. 

You had not realised joy could feel so boundless.

Strands of your hair had loosened from their arrangement during the dance, and when the wind carried them across your face, Beomgyu tucked them gently behind your ear. It was such a small act of care, easily forgotten by anyone else. But you found yourself wishing for the moment to lengthen, if only by a few heartbeats more. 

The earlier exuberance surrounding the square had mellowed into a slower melody carried by violin strings, while pairs gradually abandoned spirited turns in favour of swaying movements beneath the lanterns now glowing overhead. Your pulse had yet to recover from the dance, and every muscle protested pleasantly from exertion.

His gaze dipped toward your hands and remained there for a brief moment before returning to you. Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted one of your hands and guided it upward toward his shoulder. Then the other followed, his touch so gentle that you almost melted beneath the tenderness of it. When your arms settled loosely around his neck, Beomgyu did not hold you immediately afterward.

His eyes searched yours, the remaining space between you diminishing inch by inch under the sway of music. He simply wished for your willingness to meet his own, restrained only by the final thread of permission he sought from you before surrendering himself fully to the moment.

By then, you had begun to understand him far too well. 

Your smile was his answer — and Beomgyu’s breath visibly faltered at the sight of it.

His hands settled at your waist at last, and the movement carried such care that it nearly distracted you from the realization that he had drawn you closer. Amid the slow turning of dancers around you, your awareness became occupied by one curious detail. 

Beomgyu looked almost dazed by you. 

His thumb moved faintly against the fabric gathered at your waist while your fingers brushed against the hair at the nape of his neck, and for several precious moments neither of you spoke at all. Words would only diminish it. Slow dancing, wearing smiles of soft wonderment of two souls discovering, perhaps in a long, long while, how lovely it felt to be cherished without fear. 

By the time the sun had begun its gradual descent across the western hills, the jubilance of the festival no longer possessed the feverish exuberance that had greeted your arrival that morning. 

You spent the remaining time with Beomgyu visiting through dockside markets where fishermen shouted over one another beside crates of silver-scaled catches still glistening beneath the sun, and through narrow craftsmen rows crowded with pottery, embroidery, and tiny carved trinkets suspended from strings overhead. Eventually the clamour of it receded behind the two of you altogether.

The road drew the two of you away from the town’s centre, where sound gave way to open air and the press of bodies thinned into scattered footsteps along the edges of quieter lanes. Wild grass leaned in from either side of the path, and trees rose in loose clusters overhead, their branches shifting with the passing breeze. Beyond them stretched rolling fields bathed in molten gold, and farther still stood distant hills softened beneath a pale spring haze. 

You were content purely to walk beside one another while your footsteps scattered softly across the dirt road beneath.

"You know," you said, nudging a loose stone from the path with the tip of your shoe, "I was convinced this town was rather charming before today." 

The remark caught him, and he glanced toward you with a small furrow between his brows — genuinely concerned, turning the words over as though searching them for whatever had soured your opinion. “Before today?” he repeated. “That sounds suspiciously ominous.”

You merely continued walking.

“My lady,” he pressed, falling half a step closer, “have I somehow managed to diminish the reputation of this town within a single afternoon? That would be a devastating indictment of my abilities as a guide.”

A smile threatened at the corner of your mouth.

“I was biased,” you informed him with impeccable seriousness. “It appears considerably more charming when viewed beside you.” 

You had all the time to enjoy your success before it became plainly evident upon his face. Beomgyu laughed — which was a short, fractured sound and he turned his face partially away, rubbing the back of his neck while doing a remarkably poor job of concealing how flustered he was. 

"You," he said, still laughing beneath his breath, "live up to your reputation as a weaver of words, my lady." 

You had spent the better part of the day subjected to Choi Beomgyu's relentless talent for rendering you speechless. Witnessing the favour returned proved deeply gratifying. 

With the most earnest expression you could produce, said, "I meant it." 

He released a breath through a helpless smile as he looked briefly skyward in what appeared to be a wordless appeal for fortitude. 

"Thank you," you said, after a moment, "for showing me your world." 

Beomgyu lowered his gaze back to you, and his expression gentled almost imperceptibly. He let you talk instead of sharing his words.

“I only now realise that I never truly allowed myself to exist among these people during my visits here.” A faint laugh escaped you then, touched by self-awareness more than embarrassment. “I observed them endlessly. Their joys, their griefs, the indignities they endured—I carried all of it home and turned it into ink upon paper. Yet I remained apart from them all the while.”

The breeze swept loose strands of hair across your cheek. You tucked them back absentmindedly, turning toward him as you did. 

“Today felt different.” Your smile softened. “So thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for bringing me here and teaching me how to live within moments such as these.”

“You say as if I accomplished a great feat,” he said at last, exhaling a faint laugh. “I merely wished to spend time with you. The fact that you enjoyed yourself already feels reward enough.” 

Your smile deepened at that, coaxing him to mirror it. He was so, so helpless. 

“How long have you been coming here?” you asked. “The people seem remarkably attached to you. That grandmother nearly pushed her own grandson aside to embrace you.”

A reluctant grin crossed his face. “I suspect she likes me more than her grandson.”

“Oh, she absolutely does.”

Looking at him stirred another thought within you. Beomgyu had only returned from his studies abroad the previous autumn. Barely months had elapsed since he first appeared within your world, and yet he moved through these streets with an affection so thoroughly at home in him that it seemed to predate his arrival entirely. You wondered whether this attachment had begun only recently or whether the inclination toward places such as these had lived within him far earlier than you realised.

“It truly has not been very long,” he admitted. “Do you remember when I told you I used to teach children?”

You nodded.

“After returning here, as you already know, I found society rather…” He paused briefly, searching for a charitable description before abandoning the attempt altogether. “Suffocating.” 

You let out an utterly unidentified sound — a snort — behind your palm before clearing your throat. With a lingering smile, you passed him a little, “Sorry.” 

“I knew you would understand, my like-minded ally.” The title rolled from his tongue with unconcealed pleasure. “One can only survive gentlemen reciting dreadful poetry and debating inheritance disputes for so many evenings before seeking refuge elsewhere.” 

You hummed, indulging him with a very serious nod. “So this became your refuge?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He glanced toward the distant fields. “I began spending time here whenever obligations allowed it. One visit became several. Eventually the people stopped treating me as an outsider and started forcing food into my hands whenever I appeared.”

“That explains breakfast.”

“You have not yet witnessed Mrs. Han during winter.”

“But how did you even find the time?” you asked in wonder, still smiling. “You tutored my brother, attended every social gathering the ladies insisted upon, and somehow still managed to build an entirely separate existence beyond all of it.”

At this, Beomgyu cast you a sidelong glance touched by boyish satisfaction.

“I had my ways.”

You slowed your steps before narrowing your eyes at him. “That sounds suspiciously evasive.”

“Does it?” His smile widened further. “I had hoped it sounded mysterious.” 

“You sound incriminating.”

Beomgyu laughed, lowering his head — and you found yourself thinking that perhaps no place in the world had ever suited Choi Beomgyu half so beautifully as this one.

The two of you had barely reached the narrower end of the path when an elderly shopkeeper peeked out halfway through the doorway of a cramped little bookshop. “Beomgyu? S’that you, son?” His spectacles slipped low along his nose as he called toward Beomgyu in relief. “Come look at this for me before I lose what remains of my eyesight.” 

Beomgyu glanced toward the worn pages being waved impatiently through the air before turning to you with an apologetic smile.

“I shall only be a moment.”

You looked past him toward the shaded area beside the shop where ivy climbed the old stone walls in thick cascades, the cobblestones dappled beneath the sway of overhanging branches. You decided staying here would serve you far better than following him. 

“Go ahead,” you said. “I will wait here.”

He studied you for another second regardless. He was entirely unwilling to depart without making certain you truly did not mind, before finally relenting and stepping into the shop at the old man’s urging.

Left alone, you wandered farther into the lane at a leisurely pace, fingers brushing lightly across the ivy as your gaze traveled absently across the sunlit road ahead. It was then that a fragment of conversation drifted toward you from farther beyond the bend.

“…found her body only days ago, they say.”

It caused a drop so sudden at the pit of your stomach that you stood motionless for a moment. Your attention honed instantly. 

Two older men stood down the adjoining path with baskets hanging from their arms, their voices subdued beneath the rustling of leaves. They seemed unaware of your presence.

“They found her near the riverside,” the first spoke again with a sigh heavy with age and sorrow. “Poor child vanished weeks ago only to return home dead.”

You moved nearer quickly, stopping beside the protruding stone wall of a nearby building.

“Aye,” the other replied gravelly. “And after all that, the physicians claim it was merely disease that took her.”

“Well, what else would it be? There were no signs of harm upon the body. Fever, perhaps.”

A missing girl.

No marks.

No explanation beyond illness.

These were the very details you remembered hearing from Taehyun before; women disappearing without trace only to be discovered afterward beneath circumstances too peculiar to dismiss outright. The resemblance fit too neatly beside the next for coincidence to feel entirely convincing. Could this girl have been one of the victims tied to the very matter Taehyun had been investigating? This could be your opportunity to uncover a lead. 

You remained where you were for another moment, listening carefully in hopes that one of the men might reveal further particulars worth remembering.

“You heard about Sol, did you not?" One of the men lowered his voice further, though not enough to escape your hearing. “She keeps insisting the physicians overlooked it. The girl has convinced herself her sister was murdered.”

The other shook his head with a weary sigh. “Grief has driven her toward madness, that is all. Folk do not think sensibly after burying their own blood.”

But footsteps approached behind you then, forcing you to turn away from listening further. Beomgyu emerged from the bookshop carrying faint traces of ink upon his fingers, entirely unaware of the tension gathering beneath your composure.

“My sincerest apologies,” he said upon reaching you. “It required more time than I anticipated.”

“It is quite alright,” you assured him seamlessly, offering him a small smile untouched by suspicion. Your gaze drifted briefly toward the men still standing conversing beneath the trees.

“Do you wish to head back home now?” he asked, earning your attention. 

“The cobblestone paths here are rather lovely,” you remarked lightly. “Would you mind walking through the alleys with me for a little while?”

Beomgyu followed your gaze down the path. He gave a little nod. “I could hardly refuse you after bringing you all this way.”

Unfortunately, by the time you guided Beomgyu toward the adjoining lane, the two elderly men had already drifted apart, each disappearing toward separate corners of the town until no trace of their conversation remained behind save for the unease now stirring within you. A faint disappointment settled across your thoughts at losing the trail so swiftly, though you still carried one valuable fragment away from the exchange.

Sol.

Your next venture into this town under borrowed anonymity would no longer concern manuscripts or observation. You would find this Sol yourself, and perhaps through her uncover more of the truth concealed beneath these strangely bloodless deaths. 

The subtle change in your bearing from being deep in thoughts did not escape Beomgyu. His hand found your elbow with a gentleness that made no demand of you, and his voice had dropped to match it. “Are you alright?”

The touch drew you from your reverie. You looked up at him, startled by how swiftly he had discerned the alteration within you, and inwardly reproached yourself for allowing your mind to wander so visibly in his presence. Of all things, the last thing you wished was for him to believe you had ceased enjoying the day after every ounce of care he had poured into it solely for your happiness. 

You released a breathless laugh and shook your head lightly. “I am positively alright,” you assured him. “I was merely thinking… I think I shall miss today rather terribly once it ends.”

“My lady.” Beomgyu ducked his chin, searching for your eyes. “I see no reason for remorse, then.”

You blinked. “No?”

“We can return together whenever you wish,” Beomgyu spoke in the same gentle cadence, lifting his hand to caress away a leaf stuck above your ear. “If you desire to see the town outside your work, I shall accompany you. If you wish for more dreadful coffee from my hands, I shall make it for you again. Whatever you ask of me, I will do it.” 

His words were sobering. It swept aside the earlier unrest within your thoughts so completely that for several moments you could only look at him in silence, overcome by the simple enormity of being regarded with such wholehearted devotion. 

“I know,” you murmured, not shying away from his touch. Your gaze fell briefly from his face afterward, though the smile remained. “I think…”

“Yes, my lady?”

A small breath escaped you. “I like the word together when it belongs to you and me.”

Beomgyu felt the words hit him somewhere with no name for it. Every yearning thought he had spent months concealing now surged violently beneath his ribs, flooding through him until even the tips of his fingers ached with it. Your name filled his mind entirely; he was choked with tenderness for you and there existed no room for anything beyond you.

You.

Always you.

He stopped walking so abruptly that you nearly collided against him before catching yourself, your brows lifting in surprise at the sight of him standing utterly motionless in the middle of the lane. The breeze stirred through the branches overhead, scattering fractured light across his face, yet Beomgyu scarcely appeared aware of the world surrounding him anymore. 

Your name slipped from his lips in a voice touched by reverence so naked that it stole the breath from your lungs little by little. 

His hand twitched faintly at his side before curling inward upon itself. He was just about to speak —

— and then your attention darted past his shoulder.

Every trace of warmth vanished from your expression.

At the far end of the lane, two mounted officers stood beside a flower-lined storefront engaged in conversation with the shopkeeper stationed outside. The sight itself should not have troubled you. Law officers wandering the town warranted no alarm.

But one of the men was none other than Kang Taehyun.

Your cousin sat scarcely twenty yards away from you. He had the exact capability of dismantling every fragile layer of anonymity surrounding the two of you within seconds if his gaze merely wandered in your direction.

You cursed under your breath.

The sheer agitation you showed was so wholly unlike anything Beomgyu had witnessed from you throughout the day, that it alerted him almost right away. He followed your gaze and turned around in search of the cause of your distress. Instinctively at the same time, he stepped before you to shield you from whatever danger he thought you sensed. 

It took him only a few seconds to understand why you reacted that way.

“We need to hide,” you said quickly, pulse thundering hard enough to make your voice uneven. 

It was so unlike you to have your rational thoughts abandon you under pressure. Whenever complications arose, you were the person others relied upon to remain composed. This, however, was a catastrophe of an entirely different nature. The consequences of being discovered here were not danger, scandal, or social disgrace.

The consequences were Taehyun's interrogation method. 

Endless questions.

Questions layered upon questions until one felt tempted to fling oneself into the nearest river simply to escape them. Because there existed no force upon earth more relentless than Kang Taehyun after discovering information he believed himself entitled to know. 

"Hide?" Beomgyu repeated, looking a bit mortified.

"Yes, hide." Your fingers closed around his wrist. “If Taehyun sees us here, I shall never hear the end of it. Do you understand how many questions he will ask? How many conclusions he will draw? I refuse to endure that conversation.”

A reluctant smile threatened the corner of Beomgyu's mouth. The urgency written across your face prevented it. You were entirely serious.

Turning sharply, you surveyed the opposite side of the lane, only for fresh frustration to seize you. The road stretched far too openly ahead, stripped of any meaningful cover, and fleeing now would draw precisely the notice you wished to avoid. They possessed a considerable advantage with their horses over fleeing pedestrians besides. It would take very little for Taehyun to notice. 

You looked back at your cousin’s direction again and saw that they exchanged farewells with the shop owner.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." 

There was no longer time to weigh possibilities, nor to devise an elegant solution. Acting upon pure instinct, you seized Beomgyu by the arm and pulled him after you, your eyes catching upon a narrow passage concealed behind several wine barrels and a haphazard stack of wooden crates wedged between adjoining houses.

Cramped stone walls pressed inward on either side while creeping ivy descended from above in tangled curtains, swallowing the street's brightness beneath a canopy of green. What had appeared from the street to be a convenient refuge revealed itself, upon closer acquaintance, to be hardly large enough for two people to occupy comfortably.

Unfortunately, you discovered this only after dragging him into it.

Beomgyu stumbled after you with scarcely enough room to regain his footing, and in the same breath his hand braced the wall behind your head to prevent the both of you from colliding with the stone. The action happened so swiftly that neither of you possessed the opportunity to reconsider it, and when the rush of movement finally settled, there existed no worthy space between your bodies. 

The front of your dress brushed against his shirt with every breath you drew. Even the slight rise and fall of his chest had become impossible to ignore within such constrained quarters that only seemed to shrink with every passing heartbeat. His hand still remained trapped within your grasp, and somewhere amidst your frantic concern over Taehyun, you failed to notice what that proximity was doing to the poor man before you. 

Beomgyu felt perilously close to losing every sensible thought he had ever possessed.

Throughout the course of the day there had been stolen moments he had treasured beyond reason. Even during the dance you had stood close enough for him to count the gold flecks hidden within your eyes and when he had held your waist as you swayed, he believed he would return home convinced no greater trial could possibly exist than that. 

What extraordinary arrogance. 

That had been entirely nothing compared to this. 

This — with your breath warm where it grazed the open collar of his shirt and strands of hair displaced by the hurried retreat still framing your features in gentle disarray. He was a gentleman and he possessed honour to act with propriety regardless of circumstance — but the smell of jasmine reached him.

It had always been jasmine, that fragrance which clung to you and which had tormented him for days on more than one previous occasion, proving sufficiently disastrous for his peace of mind. He believed himself afflicted already. Now he understood he had merely been receiving warnings.

In this cramped plae with no air between you worth speaking of, it was not a threat so much as an accomplished siege. It overwhelmed him entirely, filled every corner of his senses until he could not think past it, could not locate the edges of his own good judgement through the dizzy, lightheaded daze of it. His honour, he noted distantly, was hanging upon a very single and very insufficient thread. 

Outside the alley, hoofbeats sounded against cobblestone. 

Both of you stilled instantly. 

Beomgyu took advantage of that opportunity to look over his shoulder toward the opening while keeping himself wholly before you, shielding you from view beneath the cover of his body and shadow. But you caught his face in both your hands before he could complete the motion. 

It brought him back to you entirely. Face to face, so close that the dim light caught the precise arrangement of his features and held them there before you with an intimacy so abrupt that the air went out of your lungs. You realised, in the same instant he did, what you had done. The nearness left no refuge from the intensity gathering within his gaze now. Your hands dropped from his face at once and you turned your eyes away. 

Beomgyu remained frozen exactly where your hands had placed him, looking down at you and — oh, you were divine — that was the only word his mind produced and it produced it with damning conviction, divine in the half-dark with ivy shadows crossing your face and your eyes averted and your breath still uneven against his throat. 

He could not look away. 

He needed to look away.

"I must apologise," you whispered, your eyes still carefully directed elsewhere. "I had to act quickly." 

His gaze dropped to your lips as you spoke. It was involuntary and it was catastrophic and he wrenched his eyes heavenward with an exhale that did not come out nearly as collected as he required it to. He stayed there, jaw tight, staring upward at the tangle of leaves and the narrow strip of sky beyond it. 

From this distance — and it was not a distance, it was nothing, it was the mere suggestion of space between two people — anything could happen if any of you just leaned in a bit. His thoughts were getting out of hand and he exhaled again, shakily, and continued to look at anything that was not you. His heart was beating wildly.

"No need to be nervous," you said softly, and he heard the effort in it — heard that you were furnishing words into the silence because the silence had become a living thing between you and required managing. "My brother is not so frightening as all that." 

They were empty words and rang hollow even to your own ears. Because it was not your brother that had reduced your thoughts to scattered, ungovernable things. It was the warmth of him — so deeply comforting that you feared you were about to be addicted to it. How thoroughly you already wished to. 

"Yes, my lady," Beomgyu said, and his voice had abandoned him almost entirely. 

He closed his eyes. Kept them closed for a breath, and then another, and then opened them and looked down at you and did what he had to do — he took your hand from where it had come to rest against his chest, and with painstaking care brought it down to your side and held it there.

He could not bear your touch upon him right now. The jasmine was already more than sufficient to unravel what remained of every sensible intention, and your hand against his chest was a trial he had not the resources to endure. 

In spite of all the warnings his better judgement could produce, Beomgyu leaned forward. 

Your eyes went wide and every word you had been reaching for dissolved entirely. You could not move, watching him close the distance between you with an expression so stripped of its usual composure that you barely recognised it — 

— then you felt the whisper of his hair against your cheek, the barely-there graze of it, and the eventual weight of his forehead coming to rest upon your shoulder. 

You went entirely still beneath him. The exhale that left you was entirely involuntary. 

He was breathing in shallow increments, not even daring to inhale a chestful of your scent. The hand he had braced against the wall beside your head curled tighter against the stone. The solidity of it was the only negotiation available to him. 

Another set of hoofbeats sounded beyond the alley entrance. 

"Are you—" you began, keeping your voice to barely a breath of sound. "Is it the confined space? Is it too much?" 

His fingers found your lips before you could draw another word. The touch was feather-light, the tips of his fingers resting against your mouth with a gentleness that managed nonetheless to silence you. He still had not lifted his head from your shoulder. 

"Please," he said. Then, as though the word alone had not sufficiently conveyed the full measure of what he was asking — "Just allow me this. Only a moment." 

You stood perfectly motionless there in the shdaows and did not speak, because there was nothing in you that wished to deny him. The pressure of his fingers against your lips vanished shortly thereafter, hand falling to his side with a limpness like some bones have fallen off from their places. 

From beyond the alley came Taehyun's voice as he issued instructions to the officer accompanying him. But within the shelter of barrels and tangled greenery, you heard only Beomgyu's breathing and it began to eclipse everything else. One bewildering thought, however, continued to circle through your mind.

How, precisely, had you managed to find yourself here?

With your cousin only streets away, your heart racing for reasons that had very little to do with being discovered, and Choi Beomgyu hiding his face against your shoulder as though the mere sight of you had become too much for him to bear. In a way, you had brought this upon yourself. If only you had thought of a better solution, you wouldn’t have put yourself in this position — or him.

Time passed in a strange haze thereafter. The voices outside gradually diminished, until the sound of departing horses finally carried through the lane and dissolved into the broader noise of the town. 

Beomgyu remained where he was for another fleeting while, gathering whatever composure had abandoned him, before at last drawing back and lifting his head.

Colour had risen high across his face. He seemed wholly incapable of meeting your gaze, choosing instead to stare at a weathered crate whose existence suddenly seemed to fascinate him greatly.

“I believe,” he said eventually, clearing his throat, “your cousin has departed.”

You looked toward the mouth of the passage before returning your attention to him. Your lips curved despite yourself.

“How fortunate for us.”

“Quite.”

Your entire body still carried the imprint of his nearness; the heat of him remained beneath your skin, refusing to relinquish its hold no matter how fiercely you attempted to reclaim your composure. Some traitorous part of you noted the precise distance between your hand and his, seized by an almost absurd desire to reach for it and close the space between you again.

But Beomgyu still looked dazed — whatever battle had transpired within him had plainly not concluded. For that reason alone, you thought better of your own desires for his sake, and kept your hands where they were. 

“We should leave,” you said at last.

Beomgyu nodded immediately, perhaps a shade too quickly.

He emerged first, casting a glance along the lane to ensure the way ahead remained clear. Only when he gave a small nod did you step out from the shadows. You felt the spring breeze greet you and renewed the air in your lungs, drying the sweat that had clung to your skin. 

Somewhere overhead, the wind moved through newly awakened branches and sent a scattering of petals adrift across the afternoon. You followed their descent before your gaze returned to the man standing before you, who had not moved far, who stood at the edge of the road with the breeze moving through his hair and the same dazed quality still present in his eyes when they met yours. 

Though you could not have named the exact moment it happened, winter no longer seemed capable of reaching you.

© filmsbyun ── please do not copy, translate, or repost my work without permission.

Taglist; @hoefororeo @i-like-to-read-at-4am @caratcakemoa @90steele @cen116 @i-am-not-dal @bamgeutori @nanilis @sunooqvrlsx @izzyy-recs @yeoningz @whatblop @beommieternity @xodidarks @bamgeutori @bamtoriui @lostgirlysstuff @younbeanz @melmochii @choke-on-flowerz @frankghgr @immelissaaa @luvgyutae @brrytears @beomgyusluver @soobabby @cherr4es @dilfboysgirly @fancypeacepersona @y2kgyu @bryxwdz @kkyubear @vicurious28 @ru-lin

[heejamas]

out of tune ˖ ୨ 🎙◞⋆ ☆

pairing: producer!beomgyu x producer!femreader part 1 // part 2 // part 3

summary: you and beomgyu have been at each other’s throats since day one at HYBE. both of you are producers, both of you are talented, and both of you absolutely refuse to lose to the other. whether it’s competing for the best demo, fighting over studio time, or bickering in team meetings, everyone knows one thing: you and beomgyu cannot stand each other so, of course, your boss decides to put you two on the same project—producing ENHYPEN’s next album. together. as in, sharing a studio, making creative decisions, and not murdering each other in the process. and suddenly, the tension isn’t just about work.

genre: enemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, slow burn, angst with a good payoff // w/c: 27k // warnings: not entirely proofread, smoking (reader and beomgyu smoke), drinking, angst, jealously, overworking characters, classic enemies to lovers type of plot

author's note: GUYS. i’m finally releasing this prisoner that’s been rotting in my drafts for a million years this one’s a longer fic, so i’m splitting it into part 1 and part 2! it’s definitely a slowburn, and also my first time writing a full-length fic like this. read part 2 here!!

out of tune's playlist <3

The HYBE cafeteria was unusually bright today. Or maybe that was just your headache talking.

You sat slumped at one of the corner tables, your laptop was open in front of you, but the words on the screen blurred together every time you tried to focus. Your body was in the office, but your soul was still somewhere on the dance floor from last night.

You were never drinking again.

A cup of coffee slid into your line of vision. You blinked, slowly lifting your head to see the familiar figure dropping into the seat beside you.

“Rough night?” Taehyun asked, amusement laced in his voice.

You didn’t answer, just wrapped both hands around the coffee like it was a lifeline and nodded your thanks. You took a sip, the bitter warmth cutting through the fog in your brain, and exhaled through your nose.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he pressed.

You finally peeled off your glasses and turned to him with a deadpan expression. “Do I look like I had a peaceful night?”

Taehyun let out a soft laugh. “No. You look like someone who made a lot of bad decisions and is currently regretting all of them.”

You sighed. “That’s exactly what happened.”

Taehyun was one of the few people in this building you actually liked. As a manager for a junior HYBE group, he wasn’t directly involved in your work, but somehow, over shared coffee breaks and snarky side comments during meetings, you had become friends. He was calm, observant, and, most importantly, he never judged you when you showed up like this.

“Who dragged you out last night?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Yunjin,” you mumbled, rubbing your temple.

Taehyun whistled. “That explains it. She doesn’t just go out—she goes out.”

“Tell me about it.” You shook your head. For a few moments, you just sat there, sipping your coffee in comfortable silence. The caffeine was starting to work, clearing the fog in your brain just enough for you to remember why you had dragged yourself out of bed in the first place.

“Anyway,” Taehyun said, as if reading your mind, “you think you got it?”

You glanced at him. “Got what?”

“The ENHYPEN album. You think you landed the producer role?”

You exhaled slowly, fingers tapping against your coffee cup. “Yeah. I mean, I should. I have the best pitch. It’s mine to lose.”

Taehyun hummed, watching you carefully. “Unless…”

You groaned, already knowing where this was going. “Unless the company decides to give it to Beomgyu.”

His lips quirked up slightly, but he didn’t deny it. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. If there was one person in this entire company who got under your skin more than anyone else, it was Choi Beomgyu. Beomgyu, your so-called “rival.” Beomgyu, the golden boy of the production team. Beomgyu, the one person standing between you and total creative dominance.

Since the moment you started working at HYBE, the two of you had been locked in a never-ending competition. You were both young, both talented, and both desperate to prove you were the best. Every project turned into a silent battle. Every meeting became a chance to outshine each other. Every time you thought you had the upper hand, he came back swinging with something better.

And, worst of all, he was good. As much as you hated to admit it, Beomgyu was one of the most talented producers in the company. His compositions were sharp, his sound design was clean, and when he wasn’t being an arrogant pain in your ass, he actually had an ear for what made a song great. But that didn’t make him any less infuriating.

“He’s been talking about it a lot,” Taehyun said, watching your reaction.

“Of course, he has,” you muttered. “He loves the sound of his own voice.”

Before Taehyun could press you, your phone buzzed with a notification. Your stomach flipped when you saw the email preview on your screen.

[HYBE Entertainment] Producer Assignment for ENHYPEN’s Next Album

Taehyun caught the way your shoulders tensed. “Well?”

You swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and opened it. And then, in bold letters, you saw it:

Lead Producers: Y/N & Choi Beomgyu.

You stared at the screen, unblinking.

Taehyun leaned over. “So?”

Slowly, you turned to him. “I hate this company.”

You barely had time to process your misery before you were ushered into one of the production meeting rooms. The headache was still lingering, but the coffee had helped enough that you could at least pretend to be functioning.

Across the table sat Baekhyun, ENHYPEN’s main A&R manager, flipping through a thick binder filled with concepts, references, and scribbled notes. He was in his mid-thirties, sharp-eyed and always impossibly put-together, the kind of guy who could walk into any room and immediately command attention.

“You look like hell,” he said, not even bothering with a greeting.

“Good morning to you too,” you muttered, dropping into your chair.

Baekhyun smirked, but didn’t push further. Instead, he slid the binder toward you. “Alright, let’s get to it. This is going to be ENHYPEN’s biggest album yet. They’re growing like crazy, and we need something that reflects that—something bold, mature, but still fresh.”

You nodded, flipping through the pages. There were mood boards, keywords, visual concepts—deep reds, blacks, a contrast of sharp and soft. “So, a sexy vibe,” you noted.

“Sexy, but not just for the sake of being sexy,” Baekhyun clarified. “It’s not about being provocative, it’s about confidence, about knowing your worth and expressing it. It needs to feel natural, not forced.”

“Got it,” you said, scanning a page filled with song references—everything from dark R&B to stripped-back acoustic ballads. “And the sound?”

“We want duality,” Baekhyun said, leaning forward. “Something sleek, something intense, but balanced with softer, more emotional tracks. Like… a contrast between the chase and the catch.”

You smirked. “So basically, heartbreak wrapped in temptation.”

Baekhyun snapped his fingers. “Exactly.”

You nodded, your mind already racing with ideas. This was the kind of project you thrived on, creating an album that told a story, something cohesive but layered, something that felt alive.

“I can already hear it,” you murmured, flipping to a blank page and jotting down rough ideas. “We need instrumentals that hit deep, a mix of live elements and modern production. R&B basslines, warm analog synths, breathy vocals in the right places…”

Baekhyun grinned. “See? This is why I knew you were the right person for this.” Your ego swelled, but before you could respond, he casually added— “And why Beomgyu is the perfect person to work on this with you.”

Just like that, your mood soured. You shut the binder and looked up at him, unimpressed. “Really?”

Baekhyun laughed. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying—”

“You’re just saying that you don’t like him. Which, frankly, is why this is going to be so interesting.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “We have completely different styles.”

“Which is exactly why this works. You bring structure, he brings unpredictability. You focus on energy, he focuses on emotion. You push each other, even when you don’t realize it.” You groaned, but you knew he wasn’t wrong. Baekhyun leaned back, watching you with an amused glint in his eyes. “You know, if you two weren’t so busy trying to one-up each other all the time, you might actually make a great team.”

You scoffed. “Doubtful.” Baekhyun only shrugged, a knowing smile on his face. You sighed, standing up and gathering your notes. “Fine. If this album flops, I’m blaming you.”

He smirked. “Noted.”

You turned toward the door, bracing yourself for the inevitable headache that would come from working directly with Beomgyu for the next few months. But as soon as you pulled it open, you nearly walked straight into someone.

Someone tall, with long black hair falling messily over sharp eyes that gleamed with something infuriatingly smug. His features were all sharp angles and effortless confidence, full lips curled into a smirk, the kind that made your blood pressure spike before he even said a word.

Choi Beomgyu.

Dressed in an oversized black hoodie layered under a leather jacket, silver chains peeking out from the neckline, and ripped jeans that looked both expensive and carelessly thrown on, he looked every bit like the type of person who thrived in controlled chaos. Like someone who knew exactly how to get under your skin and enjoyed every second of it. And he always made it look easy.

Your stomach twisted, not with nerves, not with excitement, but with that same frustrating mixture of irritation and awareness that always came with him. Because no matter how much you tried to ignore it, Beomgyu had a presence. The kind that made a room feel smaller when he walked in, like he pulled all the energy toward himself without even trying.

He was leaning casually against the doorframe, like he had been waiting for you to walk straight into him. His dark eyes flickered down at you, amused. He chuckled, stepping aside just enough for you to pass. But before you could make your escape, Baekhyun called from inside the room—

“Beomgyu, perfect timing. Y/N and I were just talking about how great you two are going to be working together.”

You clenched your jaw. Beomgyu turned to you, raising an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“No,” you deadpanned. “We weren’t.”

Beomgyu grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Too bad, cause I think we’re going to have so much fun.”

You took a slow breath, reminding yourself that murder was illegal. Then, without another word, you pushed past him and walked out of the room. Behind you, you could hear him laugh under his breath.

This was going to be hell.

By the time you finally stepped out of the HYBE building, the sky had already melted into deep shades of indigo. The day had been long, hours spent inside the studio, fine-tuning beats, layering harmonies, trying to shape the skeleton of a project that didn’t even exist yet. Your brain felt like mush, the melodies still buzzing in your head like an overplayed song on repeat.

You shoved your hands into your jacket pockets, letting the cool night air wake you up a little as you made your way toward the subway. Your body ached, exhaustion settling into your bones, but your mind wouldn’t shut up.

It was annoying how easy it was to think about the project, how ideas kept forming without you even trying. Even more annoying? The realization that, in some twisted way, Beomgyu was actually a good fit for this album. You hated that it made sense.

Because as much as you wanted to believe you could do this on your own, you weren’t stupid. You knew your strengths, you were a producer first, a composer second. Melodies came naturally to you, the kind that could make someone feel something without even needing lyrics. But lyrics weren’t your strong suit. You could write, sure, but not the way Beomgyu could.

That was the problem. He was good. And he knew he was good.

His songwriting had this effortless quality, like he wasn’t just writing songs, he was telling stories. He knew how to take a concept and turn it into something that felt real. And if this album was supposed to be all about desire, longing, and the push-and-pull of emotions, then yeah, maybe he was the right person for this. But you’d rather die than admit that out loud.

With a tired sigh, you pushed the thought away as your train pulled up to the station. You just needed to go home, take a hot shower, and vent to the one person who wouldn’t hesitate to call you out on your bullshit.

By the time you unlocked the door to your apartment, you could already hear the faint sound of music playing from the living room.

Yeonjun was sprawled across the couch, laptop balanced on his stomach, probably tweaking some mix for one of his own projects. He worked at SM, but somehow, despite the constant rivalry between companies, the two of you had ended up as roommates.

Not that it was surprising. You had known each other for years, long before either of you had started working in the industry. Your friendship had survived everything: late-night study sessions in college, chaotic moving days, and now, the shared struggle of being overworked producers.

When you enter your place, the smell of something warm and familiar wrapped around you instantly. “You cooked?” Your voice came out halfway between shock and suspicion.

Yeonjun, who was also eating his ramen, looked up to give you an unimpressed look. “First of all, rude.”

You let out a breathy laugh, kicking off your shoes. “I mean, last time you ‘cooked,’ we almost set off the fire alarm, so forgive me for being a little traumatized.”

Yeonjun rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he gestured toward the table, where two bowls were already set out. “Sit. Eat. You look like you just survived a war.”

You groaned, dragging yourself to a chair. “I feel like I just survived a war.”

He lifted up, and sat across from you, resting his chin in his hand as he watched you take the first bite. The warmth of the broth was immediate, soothing the tightness in your chest that you hadn’t even realized was there. Yeonjun waited until you had eaten a little before speaking again, voice softer now. “Long day?”

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders. “Yeah. But…” You paused, picking at your noodles with your chopsticks. “I got it.”

Yeonjun blinked. “Got what?”

“The Enhypen album,” you said, finally looking at him. “Baekhyun gave me the project.”

For a second, he just stared at you. Then, his face lit up. “Oh, shit!” He practically lunged over the table to shake your shoulders. “Y/N, that’s huge! Why didn’t you say that first?”

You laughed, swatting his hands away. “I was getting there!”

“You deserve this,” he said, grinning as he leaned back again. “Seriously, they couldn’t have picked anyone better. I knew this was yours.”

His words sent a strange warmth through your chest, one that had nothing to do with the ramen. “Thanks,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I really wanted it.”

Yeonjun’s smile softened. “And now you have it.” Then, after a beat—“Wait, this means you’ll be locked in the studio for months. I’m never gonna see you.”

You snorted. “Please. You’ll be begging me to stop ranting about synth layers by the end of next week.”

“Okay, yeah, probably.” He smirked. “So, what’s the concept?”

You sat back, letting your head rest against the chair as you thought about it. “Sexy, but in a romantic way. Like… polished, expensive. Desire, but not in a loud way. It’s supposed to be smooth. Mature. A little dangerous, but still aching for something real.”

Yeonjun let out a low whistle. “Damn. Sounds like a dream album.”

You nodded, your fingers drumming absentmindedly against the table. “I spent all day trying to build a soundscape that fits that vibe. The melodies are coming together, but…” You hesitated. “It’s missing something.”

Yeonjun raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You exhaled, tapping your chopsticks against your bowl. “Lyrics.”

He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head, waiting. You sighed, rubbing your temple. “Baekhyun thinks it’s the kind of album that needs a really strong lyrical identity. It has to feel intentional. Like every word matters. And… I get it. But that’s not really my strong suit, you know?”

Yeonjun nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “So… you need a songwriter.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. And that’s the problem. Because Baekhyun already assigned me one.”

Yeonjun’s lips curled at the edges. “Lemme guess.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Yep.”

His grin stretched wider. “Beomgyu.”

You pointed your chopsticks at him. “Don’t start.”

He just laughed, leaning back against his chair. “I mean, I get it. He’s good. And if the concept is all about longing, I hate to admit it, but that’s his thing.”

You exhaled sharply. “I know. That’s what’s pissing me off.”

Yeonjun chuckled. “So what, you guys are just gonna be stuck in a studio together for the next few months?”

You poked at your ramen. “Pretty much.”

“You gonna survive that?”

You scoffed. “I’ll manage.”

Yeonjun gave you a knowing look. “You say that now, but I know you. You’re gonna drive yourself insane over this.”

You groaned. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

He nudged your foot under the table. “Hey. For what it’s worth, I think this is gonna be good for you.”

You frowned. “How?”

“Because,” he said simply, “Beomgyu pushes you. You hate it, but you need it. And whether you want to admit it or not, the two of you working together? It’s gonna make something insane.”

You stared at him for a long moment, then sighed, dropping your head onto the table dramatically. “Why do you have to be so right all the time?”

He laughed, reaching over to ruffle your hair. “It’s a curse.”

You swatted his hand away, but the heaviness in your chest felt a little lighter. Maybe Yeonjun was right. Maybe this was exactly what you needed. But still, if Beomgyu so much as breathed wrong, you were going to kill him.

The sound of your alarm was the first thing you registered. Sharp, insistent, and entirely too aggressive for this early in the morning You groaned, rolling onto your side to slap at your phone blindly. A soft knock came from your door.

“You alive in there?” Yeonjun’s voice was muffled but amused.

“Barely,” you grumbled.

The door creaked open slightly. “You’ve got ten minutes before I leave. If you’re not ready, I’m not waiting.”

Liar. He always waited. Still, you forced yourself up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You barely had time to throw on some semi-presentable clothes before you were slipping into Yeonjun’s car.

The drive was comfortable, filled with sleepy silence and whatever playlist Yeonjun had on shuffle. Every now and then, he’d hum along to a song or tap his fingers against the steering wheel, the familiarity of it making your exhaustion a little easier to bear.

“Big day?” he asked eventually.

You sighed. “Yeah.”

Yeonjun glanced at you. “You nervous?”

You shook your head. “No. Just… mentally preparing myself.”

He smirked. “For the album or for Beomgyu?”

You shot him a glare. “Drop me off right here. I’ll walk.”

He snorted, pulling up in front of the HYBE building. “Good luck,” he said as you unbuckled your seatbelt. “Try not to freak out.”

“No promises,” you muttered, stepping out.

As you made your way inside, the familiar hum of the building’s early morning routine surrounded you, employees shuffling in, conversations murmuring in the background, the faint notes of music drifting from a nearby studio. Your first stop, as always, was the company café. You needed caffeine. But as you approached the counter, your mood soured instantly.

Because standing there—already engaged in conversation—was none other than Beomgyu.

And he wasn’t alone. Taehyun, of all people, was with him, the two of them deep in discussion. The sight made your stomach twist weirdly. You had always found it strange how someone as levelheaded as Taehyun could willingly spend so much time with him.

You weren’t sure what they were talking about, but the second Taehyun spotted you, his face lit up. “Morning, Y/N,” he greeted, completely oblivious to the way your eyes immediately locked onto Beomgyu.

“Morning,” you replied, forcing yourself to focus on Taehyun instead. “Didn’t know you two were having a little coffee date.”

Taehyun rolled his eyes, but Beomgyu, ever the opportunist, smirked. “Jealous?” he asked.

You scoffed. “Of what, exactly?”

Beomgyu shrugged, stirring his coffee lazily. “Me. Him. This moment of pure camaraderie.”

You gave him a deadpan look. Taehyun sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I even try.”

Before you could respond, Beomgyu leaned against the counter, regarding you with that ever-present smugness. “Baekhyun told you about the meeting, right?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What meeting?”

Beomgyu’s smirk widened. “Figures.”

You groaned. “Beomgyu.”

The songwriter just lifted his cup to his lips, clearly enjoying this. He swallowed his sip of coffee, dragging out the silence before finally saying, “Baekhyun scheduled a meeting for us. With Heeseung.”

Your brows furrowed. “Heeseung?”

“He’s co-producing some of the album,” Taehyun explained. “He’s been really hands-on with this comeback.”

You nodded slowly. You had known Heeseung was involved, but this was the first you were hearing about an actual meeting. “So when is this happening?” you asked.

Beomgyu glanced at his watch. “In about… twenty minutes.”

You inhaled sharply. “Are you serious?”

Beomgyu grinned. “What? You need more time to prepare?”

You opened your mouth, probably to say something regrettable, but Taehyun quickly stepped in. “Okay, let’s not start this before a meeting.” He shot you both a pointed look. “Try to behave, yeah?”

You exhaled sharply, turning back to the counter to grab your coffee. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.” You turned on your heel, shooting him one last glare before heading for the conference room. This was going to be a long day.

The conference room is sleek, all clean lines and soundproofed walls, but the air inside feels thick with expectation. You lean against the table, arms crossed, trying not to let the weight of the situation sink in too much. Across from you, Beomgyu sits with his usual careless ease, twirling a pen between his fingers like he’s got all the time in the world.

Baekhyun flips through the binder of notes, while Heeseung sits beside him, watching everything with that sharp, unreadable gaze of his. Heeseung is a lot of things, an incredible performer, a perfectionist, and most of all, observant. Even now, you can feel him studying you and Beomgyu, picking up on things you aren’t even saying out loud.

"Alright," Baekhyun says, snapping the binder shut. "This album is going to be big, but we need it to feel cohesive. That’s why I brought you three together." He nods toward Heeseung. "Heeseung's been working on the overall creative direction with the group, so he’s got a vision for the sound. But you two—" he looks between you and Beomgyu, "—need to bring that vision to life."

Heeseung leans forward, clasping his hands together. "I have some ideas for the emotional beats of the album. I think it should feel… layered. Not just desire for the sake of desire, but something deeper. Craving, frustration, vulnerability. The kind of push-and-pull that makes people feel something."

You nod, already picturing melodies in your head. "I get that. It can’t just be surface-level. The production has to carry that duality too, something sleek but aching underneath."

Beomgyu hums beside you, finally paying attention. "I like that. But we can’t overcomplicate it. It still has to hit immediately, you know? If the production is too… pretty, it won’t land."

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "I wasn’t planning on making it ‘pretty.’"

His lips curve into a smirk. "You say that, but your demos always start out all delicate before you drown them in atmosphere."

You scoff, but before you can fire back, you remember something. You pull out your phone, scrolling through your files. "Actually, I have something. It’s just an idea, but…" You trail off as you connect to the speaker and press play.

The room fills with the soft hum of synths, a deep bassline kicking in a second later. The melody is restrained, almost hesitant, but there’s tension in it, a slow build that promises something bigger. Baekhyun leans back in his chair, nodding along, his fingers drumming lightly against his knee. Heeseung listens with his head tilted slightly, his brows furrowed in thought.

But it’s Beomgyu you’re watching.

His usual air of disinterest is gone. He’s listening—actually listening—his fingers absentmindedly tapping a rhythm against the table. His lips part slightly, his head tilts, and then, without saying a word, he grabs his notebook, flips to a blank page, and starts writing.

You should be annoyed. Maybe you are. But more than that, you’re intrigued. Because you recognize this version of him, the one who isn’t just all cocky smirks and sharp remarks, but the one who gets lost in the music the same way you do. The one who doesn’t just hear songs, he feels them.

And maybe it’s because you recognize it, or maybe it’s because you can already hear something forming in your own mind, but before you even realize it, you’re reaching for a pen.

The two of you don’t speak at first. You don’t need to. Beomgyu jots something down in a messy scrawl, then taps the edge of his notebook twice before turning it toward you.

Won't you give it to me? Our secret

You stare at it for a second, then shake your head. "Too direct," you murmur, crossing out a word with your pen. You rewrite it underneath—

Won't you let me in? Our secret

Beomgyu’s eyes flicker with something—approval, maybe, or just excitement—and he immediately scribbles something in return, adjusting the cadence of the next line to fit. Back and forth, line by line, the song starts to take shape. He throws out a melody, you refine it. You hum a transition, he finds a way to make it sharper.

At some point, you pull your chair closer without thinking, angling yourself toward him as you lean over his notebook. He shifts too, elbows resting on the table, so close now that you can feel the warmth of his arm next to yours. His knee bumps against yours, but neither of you moves away.

Your phone is still connected to the speaker, and every now and then, you pause to tweak the demo, adjusting a chord, adding a reverb effect, testing how the lyrics sit against the melody. The more you work, the more the energy builds.

It’s like a high. The thrill of chasing an idea, of catching it just before it slips away. Baekhyun exhales a quiet laugh, finally breaking the silence. "Well, damn," he mutters, amused.

You glance up, only now remembering that he and Heeseung are still in the room.Heeseung is watching the two of you with his arms crossed, one brow raised like he’s witnessing something he wasn’t expecting. "Is this how you two always work?"

Beomgyu leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head like he didn’t just spend the last twenty minutes hyper-focused beside you. "We've never worked together"

Baekhyun smirks. "That's a shame."

You open your mouth to argue, but then you stop. Because the truth is, you don’t actually know how to explain it. You and Beomgyu have spent so much time trying to one-up each other that you’ve never really thought about what it feels like when you work together.

And maybe you don’t want to think about it too much now, either.

Beomgyu is watching you, his expression unreadable, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll say. You hesitate for half a second, then roll your eyes, reaching over to shut your notebook.

And maybe it’s just the adrenaline from the session, or maybe it’s something else entirely, but as you gather your things, you can’t shake the feeling that this—whatever just happened between you and Beomgyu—is something you’re going to be chasing again.

The moment you step into the hallway, you exhale, feeling the lingering buzz of the brainstorming session still thrumming under your skin. Your mind is moving too fast, melodies and lyrics weaving together even as you try to shake them off.

Before you get too far, Heeseung catches up to you, matching your pace effortlessly. "That was impressive," he says, hands tucked into his pockets.

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. "What was?"

He smiles knowingly. "Don’t play dumb. The way you and Beomgyu just… locked in like that. You guys have a really strong creative dynamic."

You scoff. "Please. It was a one-time thing."

Heeseung just hums in amusement. "Sure," he says, voice dripping with skepticism. "But seriously, I really liked what you did with the demo. That shift in the pre-chorus? That was smart."

The unexpected praise makes your steps falter slightly. You work with a lot of talented people, but compliments from someone like Heeseung, who has an ear for every small detail, actually mean something. "Thanks," you mutter. "Still needs work, though."

Heeseung nods. "Yeah, but that’s what makes it exciting. You and Beomgyu had some really solid ideas in there. I can already tell this album is gonna be something special."

There’s something in his voice, genuine, excited. It’s the same kind of excitement you feel when a song starts coming together, when you can hear the final product before it even exists.

And maybe—just maybe—that feeling is stronger now because of how easily you and Beomgyu fell into rhythm together. Not that you’re going to admit that.

Before you can respond, you hear footsteps approaching. Beomgyu slows as he reaches the two of you, glancing between you and Heeseung with mild curiosity. "What’s this? A secret meeting?"

You roll your eyes. Heeseung chuckles, shaking his head. "Relax, man. I was just telling Y/N how good that session was. You guys really work well together."

Beomgyu gives you a look, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he tilts his head toward Heeseung. "You heading out?"

"Yeah," Heeseung nods. "But I’ll catch up with you guys later."

With that, he gives you one last easy smile before walking off, leaving you alone with Beomgyu. Big mistake. The second Heeseung disappears down the hall, Beomgyu turns to you with a lazy grin. "So," he drawls, "what did he say about me?"

You narrow your eyes. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he says, shifting his weight against the wall. "Did he say I was a genius? A lyrical mastermind? The only reason this album is gonna be good?"

You glare. "Wow, and here I was thinking you couldn’t possibly get more unbearable."

Beomgyu just laughs, completely unfazed. "I’m serious, though. You should really start getting used to working with me. I mean, if this first session was any proof, we make a great team."

You cross your arms. "Yeah, alright"

Beomgyu tilts his head. "Anyway, I’m gonna be in my studio for a bit—working on some ideas. You know, since I’m so dedicated."

You raise an eyebrow. "And this concerns me how?"

His smirk is instant, sharp. "Because, genius, that demo we worked on still isn’t finished. And if I remember correctly, you’re kind of obsessed with making things perfect."

You exhale through your nose, already feeling the trap he’s setting. "I’ll work on it on my own."

"Sure, sure," he muses, rocking back on his heels. "Except… we both know it’s better when we do it together."

You roll your eyes. "I don’t ‘do things together’ with you, Beomgyu."

He grins, leaning in slightly. "You did today." Your fingers twitch at your sides. You hate that he’s right. You hate that, for a moment, working with him didn’t feel like a battle, it felt electric.

Beomgyu seems to know exactly what you’re thinking, because he shrugs, all casual confidence. "I mean, if you wanna waste time trying to fix it alone, be my guest. But you saw how fast we worked together. We could probably finish a whole verse in an hour—less, if you don’t get distracted staring at me."

You scoff. "Oh my god. You're unbelievable."

"You keep saying that, but you still haven’t said no."

You open your mouth to argue, but then, against all logic, you hesitate. Because he’s right. Again. For as much as you can’t stand him, the truth is undeniable: when you and Beomgyu get into that creative zone, things happen. He watches you carefully, amusement flickering in his dark eyes as you consider it. Finally, with a heavy sigh, you relent. "Fine. Maybe I’ll stop by later."

Beomgyu beams, clearly way too pleased with himself. "Knew you would."

"Don’t get cocky."

"Too late," he says, already turning to leave. But just as he starts walking away, he throws one last remark over his shoulder— "Can’t wait to see how long you last before you come running to my studio."

You swear under your breath, clenching your fists. That smug little—No. You’re not letting him get to you. You pull out your phone, ignoring the way your heartbeat is still uneven, and type out a quick text.

[you]: are you at the company?

Taehyun responds almost instantly.

[taehyun]: Just finished up. Why? [you]: meet me outside [taehyun]: …Are you about to fight someone? [you]: just fucking get there jesus

Shoving your phone back into your pocket, you reach for the crumpled pack of cigarettes in your jacket. It’s a bad habit—one you don’t let yourself fall into often—but it’s always been your go-to when you feel like you might actually explode.

You light up, inhaling deeply, letting the nicotine settle in your lungs as you lean against the wall. The city hums around you, cars passing, distant chatter from people walking by, but your head is still full of Beomgyu. His smirk, his voice, the way he gets under your skin so damn easily.

You take another slow drag. A few minutes later, footsteps approach, and then—

"You really need to quit that," Taehyun says, stepping up beside you.

You exhale, watching the smoke dissipate into the night air. "Yeah, yeah."

He looks at you for a moment, then sighs. "Beomgyu?"

You shoot him a glare. "I hate how predictable that was."

Taehyun just laughs, shaking his head as he leans against the wall next to you. "Alright. Tell me what happened."

And you do. Between slow drags of your cigarette and exasperated hand gestures, you let it all out. Beomgyu’s arrogance, his teasing, the way he makes you want to strangle him and throw yourself into another session with him at the same time. Taehyun listens, nodding along, his expression somewhere between amused and exasperated.

When you finally finish, he exhales, running a hand through his hair. "You know," he says, "for someone who ‘hates’ working with him, you sure as hell can’t stop talking about him."

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. "I swear to god, if you say one more thing—"

"Relax," he grins, bumping his shoulder against yours. "I’m just saying. If this keeps up, this album’s gonna be fun to watch."

"Fun," you mutter, taking one last drag of your cigarette before flicking it away. "Yeah, sure. If Beomgyu doesn’t kill me first."

Taehyun snorts. "I dunno. You’re the one smoking like you’ve just seen your life flash before your eyes." You shoot him a glare, but he just grins. Taehyun shifts beside you. "So, you’re going this weekend, right?"

You frown. "Going where?"

"The HYBE party," he says, like it should be obvious. "Producers, execs, big names—basically a ‘who’s who’ of the industry."

You make a face. "Oh. That thing."

"Yes, that thing," he deadpans. "Don’t tell me you weren’t invited."

"I was."

"And?"

"And I ignored it."

Taehyun groans. "Of course you did."

You roll your eyes. "Why would I waste my time going to that? It's just a bunch of industry people getting drunk and kissing each other’s asses."

"Yeah," he says, "and that’s exactly why you should be there."

You huff, leaning back against the wall. "Taehyun, I barely have time to eat, let alone go make small talk with people I don’t care about."

He gives you a pointed look. "If you want more people to care about you, you need to start showing up to these things."

You open your mouth to argue—but then his words hit you in a way you weren’t expecting. Because you’ve heard them before. Not from him. You’re good, but no one’s ever gonna notice if you never leave this cave.

Beomgyu’s voice, unshakable, rings through your head.

It was late—too late, really, for either of you to still be in the studio—but you had been working, tweaking a demo, lost in your own world. And then he had walked in, leaning against the doorframe with that lazy smirk, watching you like he had you all figured out.

At the time, you had rolled your eyes and told him to fuck off. Now, standing here, you hate that his words come back so easily.

Taehyun must notice the shift in your expression because he nudges your shoulder. "Hey. You okay?"

You blink, shaking the thought off. "Yeah. Fine."

"Uh-huh," he says, unconvinced. "So, you’re going?"

You sigh, kicking at the pavement. "I’ll think about it."

He smirks. "That means yes."

You groan, "I hate you."

"You hate a lot of people," Taehyun teases, already stepping away. "But I’ll see you at the party, yeah?"

You don’t answer. But the thought lingers, anyway.

The walk back inside feels heavier than before. Maybe it’s the cold finally settling into your skin, or maybe it’s the fact that Taehyun’s words—and Beomgyu’s, fucking Beomgyu’s—are still bouncing around in your head.

You push the thoughts away as you step into your studio, shutting the door behind you. This is what you need. Work. Something to focus on. Something that doesn’t smirk at you like it knows you better than you know yourself.

Sitting down in front of your computer, you slip your headphones on and pull up a track you’ve been building. The beat kicks in, a deep, pulsing rhythm, crisp percussion layered underneath. You tweak a synth, adjusting the filters until it hums just right. The bass needs more weight. You push it up, listening as the sound thickens, your fingers moving without thinking.

The door swings open. You pull your headphones off, already prepared to tell whoever just barged in to knock first, but the words die on your tongue when you see who it is. Soobin.

He pauses in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, blinking at you like he wasn’t expecting to see you here either. His eyes, soft, dark, perpetually kind, widen slightly before he lets out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh—shit. Sorry," he says. "I thought this room was empty."

You shake your head, waving a dismissive hand. "It’s fine. You’re not bothering me."

He hesitates for a second, shifting on his feet like he’s not sure if he should stay or leave. You take him in properly, his hoodie slightly oversized, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal his wrists, his hair slightly tousled like he’s been running his hands through it all day. Soobin has always had this way about him, gentle, easygoing, warm in a way that makes people feel safe without even trying.

Soobin steps further into the room, leaning against the doorframe with that easy, almost shy smile of his. "So," he starts, his voice warm and easy, "how’s the project going?"

You lean back in your chair, giving a small shrug, trying to look casual despite the knot in your stomach. "Yeah, it’s going… well. I’m happy with how the beat is shaping up. Just need to refine a few things."

Soobin smiles, his gaze drifting to the computer screen, clearly not just focused on the music. There’s a softness in his expression, like he knows when you’re holding back, but he doesn’t push. "Beomgyu said you two were going to be working together on the new album," he says casually, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, still lingering by the door.

The mention of Beomgyu makes you stiffen for a split second, but you force yourself to remain composed. You try to play it cool, even though the words "working together" feel like they’ve got a much sharper edge to them.

"Yeah," you say, keeping your voice neutral. "Baekhyun put us both on the project. Not really my first choice, but… it is what it is."

Soobin tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just a touch. "Hmm."

You raise an eyebrow, sensing that there’s something more to his reaction than he’s letting on. "What? What’s up?"

Soobin shrugs, his smile returning, but it’s a little softer now, like there’s something he wants to say but he’s not sure if he should. "I’m just surprised. Beomgyu never really talks much about the people he works with, you know?"

Your heart skips a beat. "What do you mean?"

He looks at you thoughtfully for a moment, his eyes flicking to the screen again before meeting yours. "I mean… he mentioned you, actually. Said your work was 'solid.' Which, for him, is practically a compliment."

You blink. Beomgyu? Complimenting you? It takes a moment for the words to fully sink in. "Wait, seriously?"

Soobin chuckles, shrugging. "Yeah. Maybe he’s not as much of a jerk as you think." He pauses, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Or maybe he’s just trying to get under your skin."

You roll your eyes, though there’s a small smile playing at the corner of your lips despite yourself. "I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the second option."

Soobin seems to think about that for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "But hey, maybe working together will surprise you."

You shoot him a skeptical look, but there’s something in Soobin’s voice, something sincere, that makes you pause. "Maybe," you say, your tone softer. "I just don’t know if I’m ready for that kind of surprise."

Soobin chuckles, stepping back toward the door. "Well, if anyone can handle Beomgyu’s ego, it’s you."

You watch him leave, his figure disappearing behind the door with that usual, casual air he carries, but his words stay with you. If anyone can handle Beomgyu’s ego, it’s you.

You take a deep breath, leaning back in your chair, eyes fixed on the blinking cursor on your screen. The beat you’ve been working on earlier suddenly feels distant, like it’s just background noise to the thoughts swirling in your mind.

You didn’t expect Soobin to say that. In fact, you didn’t expect him to even mention Beomgyu.

Beomgyu's ego. The words replay in your head, and you can't help but feel that familiar bitterness rise in your chest. He was arrogant, always so sure of himself, as if he thought he could charm his way into every room he walked into—every meeting, every collaboration, every conversation. But that wasn't the worst part. No, the worst part was how effective it was. He was good at what he did. So good, it made you sick to admit it.

Your fingers hover over your keyboard, but you don't type anything. Instead, you let your mind wander back to the countless times you’d crossed paths with Beomgyu. From the first time you’d met him, there had always been this unspoken tension between you two. You could never quite pinpoint why, but it was always there, like a challenge, an unspoken game.

Beomgyu was never afraid to speak his mind. Never afraid to push you, challenge you, throw something in your face to see how you'd react. He wasn’t the type to back down, especially not in a field like this, where every day felt like a battle for the top spot.

And yet, in all the years you’d worked alongside him, you’d never been able to figure him out. You hated how unpredictable he was. How he’d come in with that cocky grin, take control of a room with nothing more than his presence, and leave you second-guessing everything about the project you’d just finished.

It wasn’t just his confidence that grated on you. It was the way it worked. How easy it was for him to charm clients, co-workers, everyone. You’d always been the opposite, quiet, focused, just a little too serious for the industry’s taste. But Beomgyu? He could weave his way through conversations, make jokes, make everyone like him.

You weren’t so good at that. You weren’t good at pretending things were okay when they weren’t, and you definitely weren’t good at ignoring the way Beomgyu’s presence made your heart race just a little too fast.

You pull your headphones back on, the sound of the track filling your ears, but it doesn’t help. You can’t stop thinking about him. About his stupid smile, the way he’d always act like he knew more than you, the way you’d find yourself questioning every decision you’d made just because he disagreed with it.

You stare at the screen, tapping your fingers absentmindedly on the desk. The ping of a new message from the company chat pulls you out of your thoughts. You glance at the screen, already knowing who it is before you even look. Beomgyu.

You almost groan, but instead, you open the chat without thinking too much about it. His message is short—typical Beomgyu. And, of course, he has to type in all lowercase letters, just like you do.

[beomgyu]: you coming to work with me today or nah?

You lean back in your chair, staring at the message for a second. He always had to throw in that annoying casual tone, like you were just some kind of colleague he could poke fun at. Not that you were going to let him get to you.

[you]: maybe

The typing bubble shows up immediately, and you can already tell he’s typing a response. Of course, he wouldn’t leave you hanging.

[beomgyu]: alright, i’m coming over. don’t run away this time.

You lean back in your chair, exhaling deeply. As much as you’d like to ignore him, you know that when Beomgyu’s around, the work somehow gets done. Annoying as he is, he’s good.

A few minutes later, you hear the soft sound of the door to your studio creaking open. You don’t even look up from your computer at first, but you can feel his presence in the room. It’s hard to miss, he’s got this way of filling up space with his confidence, as if he belongs in every room he enters. "That was fast," you say, still clicking through your files.

"I was already on my way," Beomgyu replies smoothly. His voice is light, teasing, but you can hear the subtle scratch of his hoodie against his skin as he moves, stepping closer.

Only then do you finally glance up. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as he watches you like he’s already won something. "Thought you’d be hiding from me again," he muses.

You huff a quiet laugh, rolling your eyes. "I wasn’t hiding. Just… working. Something you should try sometime."

Beomgyu pushes off the frame, walking toward you with that effortless, too-cool confidence that somehow never looks forced. He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he nods toward your screen. "What have you been working on, then?"

You hesitate for a beat. It’s not like you don’t want to show him, it’s just that you know how this goes. He’ll have something to say, and you’re not sure if you’re in the mood to let him have an opinion today. Still, your fingers move on their own, pulling up the track. "A beat," you say, pressing play. "Something I was messing with earlier."

The studio fills with the low pulse of a kick drum, steady and clean. A deep bassline follows, smooth but weighty, the kind that makes your chest vibrate. You keep your eyes on the screen, tweaking the volume slightly, but you can feel Beomgyu’s gaze shift. He’s listening. Really listening.

When the beat fades out, you finally glance at him. His usual smirk is gone, replaced by something unreadable. He stays quiet for a moment, and just when you think he might actually be serious for once, he speaks.

"It’s… not bad," he says, dragging out the words just to be annoying.

You scoff. "Not bad?"

He shrugs, fighting a grin. "I mean, I expected worse. But yeah. It’s solid." You stare at him for a second before shaking your head. Beomgyu finally laughs, a soft, genuine sound, before nudging your chair lightly with his knee. "Come on. Let’s make it better."

You side-eye him. "Since when are you this eager to work?"

He gives you a slow smirk. "Since I found out I have to prove I’m better than you."

You scoff but don’t argue. Instead, you press play again, letting the track fill the studio once more. The beat hums through the speakers, crisp and layered, but something still feels… incomplete. It’s a skeleton, a strong foundation, but it needs something to make it breathe.

Beomgyu’s fingers drum lightly against the desk, following the rhythm. "The bass is solid, but it needs more texture," he muses, his voice slipping into something more thoughtful. "Maybe a reverb on the snare? Just enough to make it feel bigger."

You hum, considering. "That could work." Your hands move quickly, adjusting a few settings, adding the effect he suggested. When you play it back, the subtle change makes a difference. The beat hits deeper, lingers in the air.

Beomgyu tilts his head, listening. "Yeah… that’s better," he mutters, almost to himself. Then he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Alright, now lyrics. What’s the vibe?"

You purse your lips, thinking. "Baekhyun wanted something sexy but with emotional weight. Not just a throwaway club song—something that actually sticks with people."

Beomgyu hums, tilting his head. "So, like… temptation?" You glance at him, curious. He gestures vaguely with his hands. "Something that feels like you shouldn’t be doing it, but you want to anyway. You know, that whole ‘I’m trying to stay away, but I keep coming back’ thing."

You hesitate, but that actually makes sense. Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you type a few rough phrases, trying to capture that idea. "Something like…" you murmur to yourself, voice trailing off as you think.

Beomgyu shifts closer, his shoulder almost brushing yours as he watches your screen. "Try flipping it," he suggests. "Instead of ‘I can’t stay away,’ what if it’s more like ‘I know you don’t want me to stay away’?"

Your fingers pause. You glance at him. His eyes flicker with something unreadable, like he knows exactly what he just did. You scoff lightly, shaking your head. "You would think of it that way."

Beomgyu grins. "What can I say? I like a little push and pull."

Rolling your eyes, you type out the line anyway. And to your annoyance, it works.

From there, the writing flows easier. He throws out ideas, some ridiculous, some brilliant. You counter them, sharpen them, adjust the phrasing. He tests melodies under his breath while you tweak the instrumental to match. The push-and-pull dynamic you usually hate about him actually fuels the process, and before you know it, the bones of the song are coming together.

At some point, Beomgyu gets up and paces the room as he mumbles lyrics under his breath, testing cadences. You watch as he stops, rewinds, repeats lines to himself like he’s working out a puzzle. It’s the most serious you’ve seen him look all day.

And, annoyingly, you find yourself thinking, not for the first time, that Beomgyu is actually really good at this. You shake the thought away. No need to inflate his already massive ego.

Eventually, you both get so lost in the work that time stops mattering.

As Beomgyu stretches, his arms extending above his head, the hem of his hoodie lifts just slightly, revealing a sliver of skin. He lets out a low groan as his back pops, shaking off the hours spent hunched over the desk. You barely register it, too lost in the sound of the track looping softly in the background, but then you catch the way he suddenly stills.

His gaze flickers to the clock on the wall, and his expression shifts. "Holy shit," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s past midnight."

The words barely register at first. Your brain is still swimming in melodies, unfinished lyrics, and the lingering energy of collaboration. But then the weight of time settles in, and you finally blink, pulling yourself back into reality.

You sit up straighter, stretching out your fingers before glancing at the studio door. The hallway beyond is silent. The once-busy building has gone eerily still, the distant hum of conversations and footsteps long gone.

"Shit," you murmur, running a hand through your hair. "Didn’t even notice."

It’s not surprising. This happens sometimes, getting so lost in the process that hours slip by unnoticed. But something about tonight feels different. Maybe it’s the fact that you didn’t just work alone. That, for once, Beomgyu wasn’t just a distraction or an annoyance, but someone who helped.

Beomgyu, meanwhile, is watching you with something unreadable in his eyes. Then, as if snapping back into his usual self, he lets out a small breath and leans against the edge of the desk. His smirk creeps in, lazy and familiar.

"Wanna grab a beer?"

The words are so casual, so effortless, that it takes you a second to process them. You snort, already shaking your head before he can even try to convince you. "Not even if you paid me."

Beomgyu clicks his tongue, feigning deep disappointment, like you just shattered his fragile dreams. "Tsk. Alright, alright. I get it. You’re all work, no fun."

You roll your eyes, but before you can fire back, he leans in slightly. Not close enough to invade your space, but just enough that his voice drops a fraction, almost like he’s sharing a secret.

"I’ve got until the album drops to change your mind."

There’s something about the way he says it. Not teasing, not pushy, just confident, like it’s already a done deal. Like he knows you’ll give in eventually.

You scoff, but the corner of your mouth betrays you, just the tiniest flicker of a smile before you school your expression back into indifference. "Good luck with that," you mutter, standing up and stretching your arms.

Beomgyu watches you for a beat longer before pushing off the desk, stuffing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. He doesn’t say anything else, just hums in amusement as he heads for the door, his posture loose and easy.

And somehow, you already know. He won’t drop it.

The dream was still vivid when you woke up. The melody, the lyrics, everything had felt so real, like the song had already existed somewhere in your mind, just waiting to be found.

You barely remembered throwing on your clothes and rushing out the door, but now you were here, practically jogging through the HYBE hallways, desperate to get the words down before they slipped away.

Your mind was a mess of half-formed ideas and lingering dream logic, but the one thing you knew for certain was that this had to be written today. The only problem? Beomgyu was nowhere to be found.

You’d expected to see him the second you walked into the studio, already lounging in his usual spot, feet up on the desk like he owned the place. But the room was empty. No bags, no coffee cups, no signs of life.

You frowned, pulling out your phone on instinct, but there were no messages. No snarky texts from him, no last-minute updates about being late. Nothing. You tried not to dwell on the fact that it unsettled you. That you were even looking for him in the first place.

Instead, you headed back into the hallway, hoping to run into someone who knew something. That someone turned out to be Taehyun, who was standing near the vending machines, scrolling on his phone. "Hey," you called, walking up to him. "Have you seen Beomgyu?"

Taehyun barely looked up, but the slight smirk on his face told you he’d heard you just fine. "You’re looking for him?"

You folded your arms. "I just need to talk to him about the album."

He hummed, finally glancing up from his phone. "Sure. About the album."

You sighed. "Taehyun—"

"I haven't seen him," he cut in, clearly enjoying this way too much. "And even if I had, I don’t think I’d tell you. This is way too entertaining."

You rolled your eyes. "Unbelievable."

"You could just text him, you know," Taehyun pointed out.

"I could," you admitted, "but I shouldn’t have to."

Taehyun just shrugged, biting back a grin. "Well, if you’re that desperate, good luck."

You groaned, turning on your heel and heading down the hall. Desperate. Right. Beomgyu wasn’t the only person you could talk to about music.

So, instead of wasting time looking for him, you made your way to a different part of the building, where you knew you’d find people who actually showed up to work. Enhypen's break room was surprisingly lively when you walked in.

Heeseung was sitting at the center table, scrolling through his laptop, while Jake and Jungwon were arguing about something (probably a game) on the couch nearby. Sunghoon and Sunoo were by the fridge, debating which energy drink was less likely to kill them, while Jay and Niki were huddled over Jay’s phone, watching a video of some kind.

The moment you stepped inside, seven pairs of eyes turned toward you. "Whoa," Jake said, blinking. "You actually left your studio?"

"She exists outside of work?" Sunoo added, looking genuinely fascinated.

"Crazy, right?" Jay smirked. "I thought she was just a myth."

You sighed, dropping into the chair across from Heeseung. "Hilarious. All of you."

Heeseung closed his laptop, leaning forward with an amused grin. "So, what brings you here?"

The others perked up, too, the room’s energy shifting as they all turned their attention to you. You hesitated for only a second before reaching for your phone, pulling up the rough voice memo you’d recorded half-asleep that morning.

"I had this dream last night," you explained. "It was kind of abstract, but there was this melody, and I woke up with the start of a lyric in my head. It’s not much yet, but—"

"Play it," Jungwon interrupted.

You did. The room fell silent as the low, dreamy hum of your voice filled the space. It was raw, just a melody over soft chords, the words barely formed, but you could already hear the potential in it.

When it ended, there was a beat of silence. "That’s sick," Niki said immediately.

"It sounds kind of nostalgic," Jake added. "Like something that pulls you back to a specific memory, even if you don’t know what memory it is."

Heeseung nodded, thoughtful. "The vocal layering could be really cool if you lean into that hazy, dreamlike feel."

You took mental notes as they spoke, their excitement feeding into your own. Collaborating like this, bouncing ideas off of people who genuinely loved music as much as you did, was one of your favorite things. For the first time that morning, you forgot about Beomgyu entirely. Almost.

Because as the conversation started winding down, you found yourself asking, "By the way… has anyone seen Beomgyu today?"

Heeseung raised an eyebrow. "He’s never here on Thursdays."

That made you pause. "What do you mean?"

"I don’t know the details," he admitted, "but every Thursday, he just… doesn’t show up. It’s like his unofficial off day or something."

You frowned. "And no one questions that?"

Jay shrugged. "He’s Beomgyu. He gets away with a lot."

That was true, but it still felt odd. Beomgyu was everywhere, all the time. It was part of his personality, the way he always had to make himself known, make his presence felt. So, why did he suddenly disappear once a week? And more importantly… Why did you care?

The glow of the computer screen was the only thing illuminating the studio now. You leaned back in your chair, rubbing at your eyes as the melody you’d been playing on loop for the past twenty minutes continued to hum faintly through the speakers.

The demo was coming together, slowly but surely. You had the skeleton of the track—the instrumental was rich, the atmosphere was there, but the lyrics still felt incomplete. No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t quite find the missing piece.

You sighed, stretching your arms above your head before rolling your chair back slightly. The worst part? You knew exactly what was missing.

Beomgyu. You hated that realization.

As much as you wanted to deny it, things just worked when he was around. Ideas flowed easier, the process felt smoother—hell, even when you were annoyed at him, it still fueled the energy in the room. The back-and-forth, the push and pull, it all somehow led to better music.

And today, without him, it felt like dragging a boulder up a hill. You shook your head, refusing to dwell on it. It wasn’t like you needed him. You’d been making music for years before he ever stepped into your life.

Still, as you saved the latest version of the demo and shut your laptop, you couldn't shake the irritation bubbling in your chest. What the hell does he even do on Thursdays?

Pushing the thought away, you grabbed your jacket and slung your bag over your shoulder. You’d been here too long already, and at this point, you weren’t getting anything else done tonight. Just as you stepped out into the hallway, your phone buzzed in your pocket.

[yunjin]: we’re at hyehwa. bring your tired workaholic ass over here [yunjin]: before you ask, yes, yeonjun is here. yes, taehyun is here. and yes, hueningkai is here. no excuses

You exhaled through your nose, the corners of your lips twitching upward despite your exhaustion. Of course they were at Hyehwa, the bar that had somehow become your unofficial meeting spot over the years.

For a moment, you debated going straight home. But then you thought about how much time you’d already spent alone in the studio tonight, trapped in your own head. Maybe you needed a break after all.

The second you stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the bar wrapped around you like a worn-out leather jacket. The dim lighting, the low hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, it was the kind of place that always felt easy, no matter how long the day had been.

And, as expected, your friends were easy to find. Yeonjun was the first one you spotted, lounging in the booth like he had no bones in his body, one arm draped over the back of the seat. Taehyun was sitting next to him, scrolling through his phone, while Hueningkai was across from them, laughing at something Yunjin was saying. There were already a few empty beer bottles on the table, condensation still dripping from them.

You rolled your eyes as you walked over. "You guys started without me."

Hueningkai beamed. "Of course we did. You’re late."

You slid into the seat next to Yunjin, ignoring the way they were all looking at you like you were some rare specimen that had just wandered into the wild. "Yeah, yeah," you muttered, flagging down the bartender for a drink. "I was working."

"We know," Taehyun said, side-eyeing you. "You’ve been working non-stop."

Yunjin leaned in, resting her chin on her hand. "So? How’s the album going?"

You hesitated, drumming your fingers lightly against the table. "It’s… coming together."

Yeonjun squinted at you. "That doesn’t sound convincing."

You sighed. "It’s fine. Just a long day."

Taehyun raised an eyebrow. "A long day or a long day without Beomgyu?"

You froze mid-sip, the beer bottle barely touching your lips before you slowly lowered it back down to the table. "I’m not talking about him right now," you said flatly, setting the bottle down with a quiet clink against the wood. "I’m here to have a drink with my friends, not to analyze my work situation."

Taehyun smirked like he knew exactly what you were doing. Yeonjun raised his hands in surrender, but the knowing look in his eyes was still irritating. Hueningkai, ever the agent of chaos, just grinned.

"Alright, alright," Yunjin said, leaning back. "No Beomgyu talk. But, speaking of things you do need to talk about—" She fixed you with a pointed look. "You’re coming to the HYBE party, right?"

"I'm thinking about it," you corrected, crossing your arms. "I have work to do. I don’t have time to stand around making awkward small talk with industry people who don’t even know my name."

Yunjin groaned, dramatically letting her head fall against the table before snapping back up with renewed determination. "Listen. You spend every waking moment working on this album. You need to breathe. Plus, I’m going."

"And?"

"And that means you have no excuse not to."

You snorted. "That logic is flawed."

"It’s actually foolproof," she argued. "And you know who else is going? Taehyun."

You hesitated, glancing at Taehyun, who only gave you a small shrug like it wasn’t that big of a deal. Maybe it wasn’t. And maybe… just maybe… you were a little tired of feeling like a ghost in this industry.

"…Fine," you muttered.

Yunjin’s face lit up. "Yes!"

"I’m going with you and Taehyun," you clarified. "And if it sucks, I’m leaving early."

"Deal," she grinned, clinking her beer against yours.

As the conversation moved on, you took another sip of your drink, pushing away the nagging thought that had been lingering at the back of your mind. Because you knew exactly who was going to be at that party. And whether you admitted it or not, part of you was already wondering if you'd run into him.

When you woke up, sunlight was already spilling through the curtains, the golden hue casting soft shadows across your room. For a few blissful moments, you lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting yourself exist in the quiet. But the minute your mind fully registered what day it was, that peace shattered. The HYBE party.

You groaned, rubbing a hand over your face. Part of you still wanted to back out. It wasn’t like anyone would really care if you didn’t show up. You weren’t the kind of person people noticed at these events. And yet… you’d already agreed to go.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you padded into the kitchen, still in your oversized sleep shirt, your hair a mess from sleep. To your surprise, Yeonjun was already up, standing by the coffee machine, scrolling through his phone. "You’re awake early," you mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

He glanced up, smiling lazily. "And you look like you got hit by a truck."

You scowled, reaching for a mug. "Thanks."

Yeonjun chuckled and, before you could react, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace. "You looked like you needed it," he murmured against your hair.

For a second, you stiffened, but then you exhaled, letting yourself melt into him, pressing your face against his chest. He was warm, solid, and familiar. The kind of comfort that didn’t need words. "…I don’t know why I feel weird about tonight," you admitted quietly.

Yeonjun didn’t let go, just rubbed small, soothing circles against your back. "You don’t have to go if you don’t want to."

You sighed. "I know. But… maybe I should go. Maybe I need to stop avoiding these things."

He hummed in agreement, waiting a beat before asking, "Beomgyu’s gonna be there, huh?"

You groaned into his shirt. "Why are you like this?"

He laughed, finally pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "Because I know you. And I know that’s part of what’s making you overthink this."

You didn’t deny it. Because as much as you hated to admit it, a small part of you was wondering—if you went, would you run into him? And if you did… then what?

The day dragged on slower than usual, each hour stretching endlessly as you fought to keep your mind occupied. You had promised Yunjin you’d go to her apartment to get ready together. As much as you had hoped the day would pass without the need to confront your nerves, the time had come. The tension in your chest flared up again, and for a split second, you wished you could back out. But you couldn’t.

When you arrived at her apartment, Yunjin was perched at her vanity, still in a robe, mascara wand frozen mid-air as she turned to look at you. "Took you long enough," she teased, a grin pulling at her lips.

On the bed, Taehyun was sprawled out, scrolling through his phone with that signature, mildly unimpressed expression he always wore. "I’ve been trapped here for thirty minutes," he deadpanned. "Save me."

You snorted, already feeling more at ease. This was exactly what you needed, the mindless chatter, the shared chaos of getting ready, and the reminder that not everything in your life had to revolve around late-night studio sessions and a certain annoying producer who lived rent-free in your head.

By the time you were all dressed and out the door, the city lights stretched out in front of you, buzzing with life. The party was already in full swing when you arrived, the familiar pulse of bass-heavy music vibrating through the ground, bodies moving under dim lights, and the haze of cigarette smoke lingering in the air.

Yunjin led the way, slipping effortlessly into the crowd. Taehyun trailed behind with his usual nonchalant vibe, and you… well, you were busy doing exactly what you promised yourself you wouldn’t do: scanning the room for him.

And then, you saw him.

Beomgyu stood near the corner of the room, deep in conversation with Soobin. It was the kind of effortless, laid-back energy that somehow made him stand out in a room full of people trying too hard.

He wasn’t drowning in one of those oversized hoodies he always wore in the studio. No, tonight was different. He had on a simple black button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing just enough of his wrists to make you irrationally annoyed. The fabric clung to him in all the right places, and paired with black jeans and silver rings on his fingers, he looked…

You blinked, irritated at yourself. No. Absolutely not.

But your eyes betrayed you, tracing the way he casually ran a hand through his hair as he laughed at something Soobin said. He looked relaxed, like he belonged in this kind of environment, like he wasn’t the same Beomgyu who spent hours annoying the life out of you in the studio. And worse, he looked… good. But you would literally rather die than admit that out loud.

What you didn’t know was that, from across the room, Beomgyu was watching you just as intently.

He leaned against the wall, drink in hand, nodding absentmindedly as Soobin spoke, but his attention kept slipping, drawn back to the way you moved through the crowd. The way your eyes flickered around the room, pretending not to be looking for him. The way you laughed at something Yunjin said, even though you were clearly trying to hide how uncomfortable you felt being here.

It was unfair, really. How easily you occupied space in his head without even trying.

"Are you even listening to me?" Soobin’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Beomgyu blinked, tearing his gaze away from you. "Huh?"

Soobin sighed, already used to this. "I said, how’s the album coming along? Baekhyun’s been hyping your demos, but you’ve been suspiciously quiet about working with Y/N."

Beomgyu scoffed, taking a sip of his drink. "It’s… fine."

Soobin raised an eyebrow. "Fine?"

Beomgyu hesitated, rolling the glass between his fingers. "She’s annoying," he muttered. "Thinks she knows everything. Always overcomplicates the production and acts like she’s too good to work with me."

Soobin let out a quiet laugh. "Right. And that’s why you’ve been writing the best shit of your career since you two started working together."

Beomgyu shot him a look. "Shut up."

"You like working with her," Soobin said, deadpan.

"I do not," Beomgyu snapped, a little too quickly.

Soobin’s grin only widened. "No? Then why do you keep staring at her like that?"

Beomgyu’s jaw clenched, eyes flickering back to where you stood with Yunjin and Taehyun. You looked good tonight. Too good. And it was pissing him off. Because ever since that stupid studio session where you accidentally made magic together, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you.

The way your mind worked. The way your fingers moved across the keyboard, tweaking melodies until they hit just right. The way you bit your lip when you were focused, completely lost in the sound.

You made him crazy. And maybe that’s exactly why the album was turning out the way it was, raw, sharp, full of tension. It wasn’t just music. It was you. Beomgyu sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She drives me insane."

Soobin smirked. "And here you are saying that you don't like working with her."

Beomgyu glared at him. "I swear to god, Soobin—"

"Come on," Soobin grinned. "You’re just not ready to admit that this whole ‘hating each other’ thing is actually… kind of your thing."

Beomgyu didn’t respond. Because deep down, he knew Soobin was right. And that terrified him.

You weren’t exactly expecting Baekhyun to pull you aside at this party, but here you were, following him through the crowded room as he weaved between people with practiced ease. "Y/N," he started, glancing back at you with a smirk, "I’ve been meaning to introduce you to someone."

You barely had time to ask who before you found yourself face to face with Choi Seungcheol, one of HYBE’s creative directors. He was taller than you expected, dressed in a sleek black suit that somehow made him look more approachable than intimidating.

"Y/N’s producing the new Enhypen album," Baekhyun introduced casually.

Seungcheol’s eyes lit up with recognition as he extended his hand toward you. "Ah, I’ve heard about you. Your demos are impressive."

You shook his hand, hiding the way your stomach flipped at the compliment. "Thank you. I’m… still figuring things out."

"You and everyone else in this company," Seungcheol chuckled. His tone was light, polite, the kind of effortless charm that only someone who’s been in the industry for years could pull off.

The conversation flowed easily from there. Seungcheol asked about your creative process, subtly throwing in references to producers you admired, showing he actually understood what you did. It felt… good. Like for once, someone saw you as more than just “the girl working with Beomgyu.”

Which was exactly when Beomgyu appeared. You didn’t notice him at first, too caught up in whatever Seungcheol was saying, but you felt it. That weird shift in the air when someone’s eyes are on you.

Beomgyu stood just a few feet away. You forced yourself to ignore him, focusing back on Seungcheol, who was mid-sentence about the new creative direction HYBE was taking. But from the corner of your eye, you saw Beomgyu lingering, not quite joining the conversation, but not leaving either.

It was annoying. Typical, actually. You knew exactly what he was doing, standing there, listening, watching. Almost as if he was waiting for the right moment to insert himself. And, of course, he did.

"Y/N," Beomgyu’s voice cut in smoothly, "Baekhyun’s been looking for you."

Your eyes narrowed as you turned to face him. "Funny. I’ve been with Baekhyun for the past ten minutes."

Beomgyu’s lips twitched, but his gaze flickered, just for a second, toward Seungcheol. "Guess he forgot to mention it." There it was. That subtle edge in his voice. Not enough for anyone else to catch, but you knew him too well by now.

Seungcheol seemed unfazed, stepping back slightly as if sensing whatever weird energy was happening between you two. "I’ll let you handle that," he said, offering you a polite smile. "It was great meeting you, Y/N. I’ll keep an eye out for your work."

"Likewise," you replied, hoping your voice didn’t sound as awkward as you felt. Seungcheol disappeared into the crowd, leaving you and Beomgyu standing there in uncomfortable silence. You turned to him, arms crossed. "Really? What was that?"

"What was what?" Beomgyu replied, all fake innocence.

"You’re ridiculous," you muttered, already moving past him.

But before you could disappear into the crowd, you heard him mumble under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch:

"I bet he doesn’t even know what a compressor does."

You stopped dead in your tracks, spinning around to face him. "Oh my god, you’re actually jealous."

Beomgyu blinked. "What? No."

"You totally are."

"I just think," he said, with that infuriating smirk, "that some people like to talk more than they actually create."

You stared at him, half in disbelief, half wanting to strangle him. "Unbelievable," you muttered, turning away again.

"Where are you going?"

"Away from you," you shot back over your shoulder.

But as you pushed through the crowd, your heart was pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the music. And somewhere behind you, Beomgyu stood there, running a hand through his hair, wondering what the hell you’d done to him.

The night pressed on, and you let yourself slip into the chaos of the party.

Yunjin dragged you to the dance floor, her hand wrapped around yours as the bass vibrated through your chest. Taehyun hovered nearby, doing his signature head-bop move with a drink in hand, pretending he was too cool to enjoy himself when, in reality, he was having the time of his life.

You allowed yourself to let go for a bit, letting the music drown out the noise in your head, the pressure of the album, and, most importantly, the fact that Beomgyu was somewhere in this room, probably still brooding after whatever weird stunt he pulled earlier.

But even as you danced, laughed with Yunjin, and stole sips from Taehyun’s drink, you felt it. That annoying awareness of him.

You caught glimpses of him through the crowd, leaning against a wall, talking to Soobin, occasionally scanning the room. And somehow, every time your eyes accidentally met, he’d hold your gaze for just a second too long before looking away, leaving something heavy and unspoken lingering in the air. It was messing with your head.

You slipped out to the smoking area, grateful for the cool night air against your skin. There were a few other people scattered around, some making out against the wall, others huddled in quiet conversations, but you found a spot in the corner, leaning against the railing as you lit a cigarette.

It was a bad habit, one you only fell back into when you were stressed. But tonight, it felt… necessary.

The first inhale burned your lungs in that oddly comforting way, and you let your head fall back, eyes closing for a moment as you exhaled. You barely heard the door creak open behind you, but the familiar voice made you tense instantly.

"Wow. Didn’t peg you as a smoker."

You opened your eyes, already irritated. "Of course, it’s you."

Beomgyu stood a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you with that same infuriating expression he always wore, somewhere between amused and way too pleased with himself. He huffed a quiet laugh, stepping closer until he was leaning against the railing beside you.

"I’m not stalking you," he muttered, eyes flickering to your cigarette. "I just needed air."

"Right," you replied, taking another drag. The silence between you stretched for a moment, surprisingly comfortable. The muffled music from inside bled through the walls, mixed with the distant sounds of traffic from the streets below.

"I didn’t know you smoked," Beomgyu said quietly.

"I don’t," you replied. "Only when I’m overthinking."

He glanced at you. "What are you overthinking about?"

You hesitated, unsure why you were even entertaining this conversation. "The album," you finally said. "And… other things."

Beomgyu hummed, eyes fixed ahead. "Same."

That surprised you. For some reason, you always assumed Beomgyu was immune to self-doubt, that everything came easy to him. But now, standing here under the dim light, he looked tired. Almost like he was carrying the same weight you were.

He grinned, and for a moment, the tension between you softened into something else. Something unfamiliar. You took another drag of your cigarette before handing it to him without a word.

Beomgyu raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You’re sharing with the enemy now?"

"Take it or leave it," you muttered.

He hesitated for half a second before accepting it, bringing it to his lips and inhaling slowly. You hated how attractive that looked. And of course, Beomgyu caught you staring.

"Careful," he said, handing it back to you with a smirk. "If you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start thinking you actually like me."

"God, I regret this already," you groaned, turning away.

But Beomgyu just chuckled, leaning closer until his shoulder brushed against yours. "Too late," he murmured. "You let me in."

You took the cigarette back from Beomgyu, bringing it to your lips again as the cold air pressed against your skin. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The music from inside thumped faintly in the background, but out here, it felt like you were in a completely different world, one that was quieter, slower.

"So," Beomgyu started, breaking the silence, "have you thought more about track five?"

You nearly choked on the smoke. "Are you seriously talking about the album right now?" You turned to him, disbelief written all over your face. "We're at a party."

Beomgyu shrugged. "What, you think I know how to do small talk?" You huffed, half amused, half annoyed. "You were literally talking about work with Seungcheol earlier," he quipped, stealing it from your hand again.

You let him, watching as he took another slow drag before handing it back. You groaned, already regretting letting him stay out here. "Oh my God. Don’t."

"I’m just saying," Beomgyu muttered, gaze fixed on the ground. "He was totally flirting with you."

You rolled your eyes. "He was being polite."

"He called you talented and touched your arm twice," Beomgyu deadpanned. "That's textbook flirting."

You let out a sharp laugh. "Why do you even care?"

Beomgyu hesitated. "I don’t care," he said, a beat too late.

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Sure." Your breath hitched slightly, but you masked it by taking another drag of the cigarette. Beomgyu shifted beside you, leaning his weight against the railing. "You know," you started, voice low, "for someone who allegedly doesn't care, you spend an awful lot of time ruining my conversations."

Beomgyu let out a soft scoff, eyes fixed somewhere ahead. "You looked bored."

"I wasn’t bored."

"You were faking interest," he replied without hesitation. "You do that thing where you tilt your head slightly and nod, but your eyes are already somewhere else."

You blinked, caught off guard. "Didn’t know you analyzed me that much," you muttered.

"I don’t," Beomgyu replied too quickly.

You just hummed in response, taking another slow drag. The distant hum of the party buzzed faintly behind you, but out here, it felt like you’d slipped into some strange, quieter version of reality.

Your eyes flickered to him again, noticing the subtle tension in his posture, the way his fingers tapped against his rings, the same nervous habit you’d seen in the studio when he thought no one was looking.

You hesitated before speaking again. "Why don’t you work on Thursdays?"

Beomgyu stilled. You almost regretted asking, but he didn’t look at you, didn’t deflect like you expected him to. Instead, he let out a slow breath through his nose.

"I visit my mom," he said quietly.

Your breath caught in your throat. "What do you mean?"

"She’s been sick for a while," he added, almost like he was saying it more to himself than to you. "Autoimmune thing. Thursdays are… her day."

Your grip on the cigarette faltered slightly. You hadn’t expected honesty. You turned to him, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, like saying it out loud would make it heavier. "I didn’t know," you said softly.

"Yeah," he replied, almost like he was amused by your reaction. "Why would you?"

You wanted to say something, but words felt too fragile for whatever this was. So you didn’t. You just stood there, feeling that strange shift in the air, the one where he felt less like your annoying rival and more like… You weren’t sure what.

Beomgyu glanced at you then, catching the way you were looking at him. "What?" he asked, almost defensive.

"Nothing," you replied, turning away.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything you’d never noticed about him until now. You pressed the cigarette against the railing, watching the ember die out. The air outside felt heavier than usual, but maybe that was just the way Beomgyu’s presence filled every empty space.

"I should head back," you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

Beomgyu didn’t look at you. He stayed leaning against the railing, gaze fixed on some distant point in the city, jaw tight like he was holding something back.

"Do yourself a favor," he said suddenly, voice low. "Be careful with who you let think they know you."

You frowned, turning to him. "What?"

Beomgyu exhaled slowly, like he already regretted speaking. "These people," he gestured vaguely toward the noise inside. "They’ll act like they want you around. Like they see potential in you. But they don’t actually care. They just want something to say they discovered first."

You blinked, caught off guard. "You think that’s what Seungcheol was doing?"

Beomgyu scoffed, eyes flickering to yours. "I think you’re too naive to notice when people are looking at you for the wrong reasons."

You stared at him, searching for whatever this was, this strange tension that always seemed to surface when the two of you were left alone. But before you could step inside, Beomgyu spoke again.

"I’m serious, Y/N." His voice softened slightly. "You're new to this. You think people in this industry want you to win, but they don't. They want you to be grateful. They want you to be quiet. And the second you stop being useful to them, they’ll move on."

You hesitated, hand hovering over the door handle. "And you?" you asked quietly. "What do you want from me, Beomgyu?"

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, barely above a whisper:

"Nothing."

You turned back, but he was already looking away, like he hadn’t just said something that would stay stuck in your head for weeks. You lingered for half a second before slipping back inside, the noise of the party swallowing you whole.

But somehow, you could still feel him. And that scared you more than anything.

The party felt louder when you stepped back inside, but maybe that was just the ringing in your ears from whatever the hell that conversation with Beomgyu was. You pushed through the crowd, head spinning, eyes searching for familiar faces. Yunjin and Taehyun were by the bar, Yunjin holding a half-finished drink and Taehyun looking like he was ready to disappear from this place an hour ago.

"I’m heading out," you told them.

Yunjin pouted. "Already?"

"I’m… tired." You offered her a weak smile, not really in the mood to explain why your chest felt weird or why Beomgyu’s words kept looping in your head.

Taehyun raised a brow but didn’t question it. "Get home safe."

You nodded, squeezing Yunjin’s arm lightly before slipping away. As you stepped outside, the night air hit you harder than you expected. You pulled out your phone and hesitated for a moment before typing:

[you]: where r u?

It didn’t take Yeonjun long to reply.

[yeonjun]: me and kai just found a sketchy fried chicken place that’s probably violating health codes. u want in?

You smiled.

[you]: can u come pick me up? [yeonjun]: omw.

You waited by the curb, the distant hum of the city filling the silence Beomgyu had left in your head.

When Yeonjun’s car pulled up a few minutes later, you moved toward it, already feeling the tension ease at the thought of greasy food and whatever chaos he and Kai were on tonight. But as you reached for the door handle, your eyes flickered to the side.

There, a few feet away, Beomgyu stood near the entrance, Soobin beside him, waiting for their own ride. You weren’t sure if he saw you first or if he was already looking, but when your eyes met, something heavy passed between you.

His gaze shifted to Yeonjun in the driver’s seat. Then back to you. You stepped into the car, shutting the door behind you.

"Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?" Yeonjun asked as you buckled your seatbelt.

"Nothing," you muttered.

Through the glass, you caught one last glimpse of Beomgyu, standing there with Soobin, hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze still following you as the car pulled away. Something about the way he looked at you sat uncomfortably in your stomach, like he was trying to figure something out but refused to admit he cared enough to.

You turned away, resting your head against the seat.

Beomgyu watched the car disappear down the street, jaw tightening.

Soobin, who’d been standing quietly next to him this whole time, finally spoke, breaking whatever strange daze Beomgyu had fallen into. "So… that guy in the car," he nodded toward the street where Yeonjun’s car had disappeared, "is that her boyfriend?"

Beomgyu’s jaw tensed almost instantly. He felt the muscle in his cheek twitch as he forced himself to keep his expression neutral. "How the hell would I know?" he muttered, too quickly. "It’s not like I’m friends with her."

Soobin let out a short laugh, "Yeah," he said, nodding slowly. "That’s definitely something someone who doesn’t care would say."

Beomgyu didn’t respond. Mostly because he couldn’t. Because Soobin was right. And that fact made something burn in his chest in a way he didn’t know how to handle.

It wasn’t like he cared who you left with. So instead of acknowledging whatever the hell this feeling was, Beomgyu just scoffed, shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jeans. "Whatever," he muttered. "She’s not that interesting anyway."

Soobin snorted. "Yeah, keep telling yourself that."

Beomgyu shot him a glare, but Soobin just grinned, already knowing exactly what was happening. Because it was obvious to everyone but Beomgyu. He wasn’t just annoyed with you. He was already losing. And worse, he didn’t even realize he was playing.

The weekend passed in a blur of chaotic laughter and burnt virtual pizzas. You'd spent most of it holed up in your apartment, playing Overcooked with Yeonjun and Kai. Between screaming at each other in the kitchen and ordering way too much takeout, you actually felt… okay.

It was easy to forget about Beomgyu when you were surrounded by Yeonjun’s easy energy and Kai’s ridiculous commentary. Easy to forget how weird you’d felt after that conversation outside the party. How something about the way Beomgyu looked at you that night had stuck to your skin, refusing to leave.

But now, Monday morning had arrived, dragging you back to reality.

Yeonjun’s car rolled through the streets of Seoul, the city still half-asleep as the sun painted soft light across the buildings. You stared out the window, anxiety already bubbling in your chest at the thought of stepping into that studio again.

"You’re spiraling," Yeonjun said, breaking the silence.

You turned to him with a frown. "I’m not spiraling."

"You are," he replied easily, eyes still on the road. "You always do this before big projects. You convince yourself you're not good enough, overwork yourself to the point of insanity, and then act surprised when you have a breakdown in the bathroom."

"That happened one time," you muttered. Yeonjun shot you a look "Okay, twice," you admitted.

He sighed, softening. "You’re too hard on yourself, Y/N. You’re one of the most talented people I know. You just… need to stop letting other people’s opinions get in your head." You chewed on the inside of your cheek, not fully convinced but too tired to argue. When Yeonjun pulled up in front of the HYBE building, he shifted in his seat to face you. "Don’t let him get to you," he said, like he could read your mind.

Your stomach twisted. "Who said this is about him?"

Yeonjun raised a brow. "You forget I’ve known you since forever. I know how your brain works. You groaned, pushing the door open "Y/N." You paused, turning back to him. Yeonjun leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Go make history."

You smiled despite yourself. "You’re so cringe."

"And you love it."

You rolled your eyes and stepped out of the car, shutting the door behind you.

As Yeonjun drove off, you turned toward the entrance, and immediately froze. Beomgyu stood a few feet away, leaning against the building’s brick wall, cigarette balanced between his fingers. He was watching you, eyes slightly narrowed, hair messy like he’d been here for a while.

You blinked, caught off guard. "Since when do you smoke?" you asked, voice laced with confusion.

Beomgyu brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaling slowly before replying, "Felt like it."

His voice was flat, uninterested, but his eyes lingered on you a second too long. You didn’t know what you were expecting, maybe some cocky remark, some teasing jab about how you were already looking for him first thing in the morning, but this wasn’t that.

Your eyes flickered over him. Messy hair, dark hoodie slightly wrinkled, the usual sharpness in his gaze dulled by something you couldn’t quite place. You weren’t sure if it was exhaustion or irritation or something else entirely, but the longer you looked at him, the more uneasy you felt.

You glanced at the cigarette between his fingers, then back at him. "You know," you started carefully, "when I offered you one at the party, it wasn’t supposed to be, like, an invitation to pick up a habit."

Beomgyu finally looked back at you then, eyes dark, unreadable. "And yet," he said, taking another drag, "here we are."

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. "Beomgyu."

"What?" he muttered, flicking ash onto the pavement.

You hesitated. You didn’t know what you wanted to say, really. That he looked like shit? That something about him felt off, wrong, like a version of him you weren’t used to seeing? That, for some reason, it actually bothered you?

Instead, what came out was: "You shouldn’t."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "You shouldn’t either." You opened your mouth, then shut it. He wasn’t wrong.

A heavy silence settled between you. You weren’t sure how long you stood there, watching the embers at the tip of his cigarette burn down, before he finally crushed it under his shoe.

"You’re gonna be late," he muttered, nodding toward the entrance.

You studied him for a beat longer, but whatever was going on with him, he clearly wasn’t going to tell you. And you weren’t about to push. So, you simply nodded and stepped past him, heading toward the doors.

Beomgyu watched as you stepped inside without another word, your expression unreadable. Something about it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He clicked his lighter open and closed absentmindedly, the metallic snick breaking the early morning quiet. His fingers itched to pull out another cigarette, but he hesitated, staring at the crushed remains of the last one under his shoe.

This wasn’t supposed to bother him. None of this was supposed to bother him.

His eyes drifted toward the spot where Yeonjun’s car had been parked just minutes ago.

He knew who Yeonjun was—everyone did. One of the youngest producers at SM, annoyingly talented, the kind of guy whose name always came up in conversations about industry golden boys. Beomgyu had seen his work before, even respected it in a distant, objective way. But what he hadn’t known was that you and Yeonjun were close.

Beomgyu had never cared to pay attention to your life outside of work. As far as he was concerned, you existed within the walls of HYBE, always one step ahead of him, always in his way. That was just how things were. But now, his brain kept circling back to the sight of you stepping out of Yeonjun’s car, back to the way Yeonjun had leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead like it was second nature.

His grip on the lighter tightened. He didn’t understand it.

It wasn’t like you didn’t have a life outside of the studio. It wasn’t like he expected you to just… exist in the same orbit as him, only crossing paths when necessary. It wasn’t like it bothered him.

Beomgyu scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. What does it matter? It doesn’t. It’s none of my business.

He reached for another cigarette, but before he could light it, his fingers hesitated over the lighter. Instead, with a sharp exhale, he shoved both back into his pocket and pushed himself off the wall. There was work to do.

The pre-chorus had been frustrating you for days, and as much as you hated to admit it, Beomgyu had an ear for this kind of thing, he always knew how to make a build-up feel effortless, how to land the right emotional weight in just a few bars. You could spend another three hours trying to figure it out yourself, or you could go straight to the person who could fix it in ten minutes.

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. The last thing you wanted to do was go to his studio. But you weren’t about to let your own stubbornness slow this project down. So, before you could second-guess yourself, you grabbed your notebook and pushed yourself up from your chair.

When you knocked on the door, there was no immediate response. You hesitated before pushing it open anyway, Beomgyu never cared about formalities, and you weren’t in the mood to wait around.

The room was dimly lit, monitors casting a faint glow against the walls, soundproofing panels muting the outside world. Beomgyu was at his desk, hoodie draped loosely over his frame, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the surface as he stared at his screen.

He didn’t look up when you walked in. "You busy?" you asked.

There was a pause before he finally sighed, dragging his gaze away from the monitor. "What do you want?"

You frowned at his tone, disinterested, distant. "I need a second opinion on the pre-chorus," you said simply. "Something’s off, but I can’t figure out what."

He nodded once, pushing his chair back and gesturing lazily at the extra seat beside him. "Fine. Play it."

You sat down, plugging in your USB and pulling up the track. The moment the instrumental filled the room, you forgot about everything else. Your frustration, his mood, it all faded into the background as you focused on the music.

Beomgyu listened in silence, his expression blank as the pre-chorus built up, then crashed into the chorus. When it ended, he rolled his chair slightly forward, resting his elbow on the desk.

"The chord progression in the build-up is too predictable," he muttered. "You need more tension before the drop, otherwise it just falls flat."

You nodded, adjusting some of the notes. "Like this?"

Beomgyu leaned in slightly, watching the screen. "Move that second chord up a half step. And stretch the last measure—make it drag just a little longer before the hit."

You followed his instructions, layering in the adjustments before playing it back. This time, the build-up carried more weight, pulling in a tension that hadn’t been there before.

You turned to him, and for the first time since you walked in, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes, satisfaction, maybe. But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. "Better," he said simply.

You studied him for a beat, something about his demeanor still nagging at you. Normally, Beomgyu would’ve had more to say—some kind of sarcastic comment about how he had to fix your mess again, or at least a self-satisfied smirk. But instead, he just leaned back in his chair, looking tired.

You debated saying something, asking something, but before you could, he spoke again. "That all?"

It wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t warm either. Just neutral. And for some reason, that made your stomach twist. "…Yeah," you muttered. "That’s all."

You unplugged your USB, pushing your chair back. Beomgyu didn’t say anything else, just turned toward his screen like you had never been there in the first place.

Then, without another word, you turned and walked out. The door shut behind you with a quiet click, leaving Beomgyu alone in the dim glow of his studio, the silence stretching longer than it should have.

You had been in the studio for hours.

The kind of hours that made your back ache from sitting too long, that made the glow of the screen start to blur, that made every melody sound wrong no matter how many times you tweaked it. It just wasn’t clicking today.

You had gone through four different versions of the same verse, rearranged the chord progression twice, even scrapped an entire section just to start over, only to end up in the same place, frustrated and stuck.

You hated this feeling. It wasn’t the kind of creative block where nothing came to you. It was worse. The kind where everything came to you, but nothing sounded right. Nothing felt like it was enough.

By the time you checked the clock, it was already late. Later than you realized. With a heavy sigh, you shut your laptop and rubbed at your temples, willing the tension headache forming behind your eyes to go away. You weren’t going to get anything done like this.

So, you grabbed your bag, checked your phone, and sent Yeonjun a quick text.

[you]: can you pick me up? i’m done for today. [yeonjun]: omw. 10 min.

You exhaled, pocketing your phone before stepping out of the building.

The night air hit you immediately, crisp and cool against your skin. The city was quieter at this hour, the usual rush of people and traffic subdued into a low hum. You stood near the curb, crossing your arms as you waited, letting yourself breathe for what felt like the first time today.

And then, of course, you spotted Beomgyu. You hesitated before walking over, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your jacket. The familiar scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air, curling around the dim glow of the streetlights.

You stared at him, momentarily taken aback. "You shouldn't keep smoking," you said, your tone quieter now.

His fingers twitched slightly around the cigarette, but he didn’t respond right away. Instead, he brought it back to his lips, inhaling like he was trying to make a point, though you weren’t sure if it was to you or to himself. "Look who's talking" he muttered.

You watched him carefully, the way his jaw tensed, the way his shoulders sat just a little heavier than usual. This wasn’t the same Beomgyu who spent half his time annoying you, smirking like he had the whole world figured out.

You hesitated before speaking again. "It wasn’t a good day."

Beomgyu let out a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You exhaled. "I couldn’t get anything to sound right. I swear, the harder I tried, the worse it got."

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, the faint glow of the cigarette flickering between his fingers. "You’re too hard on yourself."

You blinked, turning to him. "What?"

Beomgyu flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette, his expression unreadable. "You think too much. You want everything to be perfect on the first try."

Your brows furrowed slightly. "That’s how it works, though. If it’s not good enough, then I have to keep going until it is."

His lips curled slightly, not a smirk, not a frown. Something in between. "And what if you’re the only one who thinks it’s not good enough?"

You didn’t have an answer to that. Beomgyu didn’t wait for one. He took another slow drag, then exhaled, watching the smoke disappear into the air. You glanced down at your phone, checking the time. Yeonjun would be here soon. Beomgyu, ever observant, noticed.

His voice was colder when he spoke next. "Waiting for your boyfriend to pick you up?"

You blinked, caught completely off guard. "What?"

Beomgyu gestured lazily with his cigarette, his expression unreadable. "That guy. The one who dropped you off this morning."

You stared at him for a second, processing. And then, a laugh bubbled out of you, unexpected and breathy. "Yeonjun?" Beomgyu didn’t react. Just stared at you, like he was waiting for an answer. You shook your head, still half-amused. "He’s not my boyfriend."

Something flickered in his expression, too quick for you to catch. But before you could think too hard about it, a familiar car pulled up to the curb.

Yeonjun honked the horn once, rolling down the window. "Let’s go, loser."

You pushed off the railing, turning back to Beomgyu. "See you tomorrow."

He only nodded, taking another slow drag of his cigarette. And as you walked toward the car, you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered on you a second too long.

Beomgyu's drive home felt longer than usual. Maybe it was because the city was too quiet at this hour, the usual rush of people and traffic reduced to distant hums. Maybe it was because his thoughts had been too loud all day, refusing to settle even now.

Or maybe it was because of you.

Beomgyu clenched his jaw, fingers tightening slightly around the steering wheel. He didn’t like that. Didn’t like the way you lingered in his mind long after you had already left. The way your voice still echoed in his ears, the way your laugh, short, breathy, surprised, had caught him off guard when you realized he thought Yeonjun was your boyfriend.

Why the hell did I even ask that? He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

In the week that followed, something had shifted.

It wasn’t obvious at first, just small things. A missed comment here, a glance avoided there. But as the days passed, it became impossible to ignore. Beomgyu was different.

You had spent so much time fighting him for space, rolling your eyes at his smug remarks, bracing yourself for whatever new way he’d find to get under your skin. And now, suddenly, there was nothing.

No teasing. No playful jabs. No sarcastic smirks across the studio. It wasn’t that he was rude. If anything, he was polite, too polite. The kind of detached professionalism that you had never associated with Beomgyu before. It was driving you insane.

You barely saw him on Tuesday. Which wasn’t uncommon, sometimes, you worked separately, each focused on different aspects of the album. But usually, even on those days, you’d cross paths in the break room, or he’d pop into your studio just to complain about how much better his demos were than yours.

Beomgyu was already in the studio when you arrived on Wednesday morning, sitting at the mixing console with his headphones on, completely absorbed in whatever track he was working on.

You hesitated in the doorway for a second, waiting for him to acknowledge you. He didn’t. Not until you cleared your throat and said, "Morning."

Only then did he glance up, giving you a small nod. "Morning."

That was it. No comment about how tired you looked, no sarcastic Wow, you actually showed up on time?—just morning. You forced yourself to ignore the weird weight in your chest as you sat down and pulled up your own files.

On Thursday, when you arrived at the HYBE building that morning, something about the usual rhythm of your day felt… off.

And then it hit you. Beomgyu wasn’t here. Beomgyu never worked on Thursdays.

The hours passed, your progress slower than usual. By lunchtime, you gave up and went to the break room, hoping food would help clear your head.

Enhypen was already there, sprawled across the couches and chairs like they lived in this building. You slid into a seat next to Jake, barely registering the conversation around you as you scrolled through your phone.

"You good?" Jungwon asked, eyeing you over his drink.

You blinked. "What?"

"You just seem distracted," he said. "More than usual."

You shrugged. "Just a slow day."

Jake nudged your arm. "Maybe you just need to get out of the studio for a bit. Reset your brain."

"Maybe," you muttered.

A pause. Then, before you could stop yourself— "Did Beomgyu eat before he left yesterday?"

The words left your mouth before you even thought about them, and immediately, you regretted it. Heeseung raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"No reason," you said quickly, looking down at your phone. "I just… I know he forgets to eat when he’s working."

Heeseung hummed. "Honestly? I have no idea."

Sunghoon glanced up from his drink. "You could just text him and ask, you know."

You scoffed. "Like I care that much."

Jungwon smirked. "Uh-huh." You ignored them, tapping your fingers against your cup. It wasn’t a big deal. Beomgyu could take care of himself. That’s why, on Friday, you gave up.

If Beomgyu wanted to be distant, then fine. Let him be distant. You weren’t going to sit here and try to figure out why he had suddenly decided to act like you were nothing more than a coworker.

At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. But when you walked into the studio that morning, the first thing you noticed was that his bag was already there. You weren’t sure why that made your shoulders relax slightly.

You ignored the thought as you set your things down, pulling up the demo you had been struggling with all week. Your goal was simple: work, focus, and not let whatever this was with Beomgyu get in your head.

But apparently, he had other plans. Because suddenly, after an entire week of acting like you barely existed, he was everywhere.

The first time he appeared in your studio, you barely reacted. "Hey," he said casually, leaning against the doorframe, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. "Can you listen to something real quick?"

You gave a short nod, sliding your headphones down to your neck as he walked in. He played a section of the track he had been working on, something stripped down, mostly just melody and chords. "It feels empty," he muttered, frowning slightly. "I don’t know if it needs more layering or if I should just change the chord progression entirely."

You listened, trying to focus on the music instead of the fact that this was the most he had spoken to you all week. "It’s fine," you said, keeping your tone neutral. "Just needs a little more texture."

Beomgyu nodded, thoughtful. "You wanna add something?"

You hesitated, fingers hovering over your keyboard. "You don’t need my help."

He shrugged, tilting his head slightly. "Yeah, but you’re good at this part."

You blinked, caught off guard by the compliment. But instead of responding, you just reached for your mouse and started tweaking the mix, ignoring the way he stood behind you, watching.

By lunchtime, you had stopped keeping track of how many times he had walked into your studio.

"Hey, quick question—" "Hey, do you have the latest version of—" "Hey, can I borrow—"

It was endless. At first, you had answered him normally, keeping things short, professional. But the more he did it, the more irritated you became. Not because he was being annoying. But because why now? Why spend an entire week pretending you didn’t exist only to suddenly act like everything was normal? You weren’t going to play along.

So, by the fourth time he showed up at your door, you barely even looked up. "I’m busy," you muttered, clicking through your project files.

Beomgyu blinked. "I didn’t even say anything yet."

"You were going to."

He hesitated, then let out a small chuckle. "Damn. Am I that predictable?"

You didn’t answer, just continued working. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him shift slightly, like he was about to say something.

But instead, he just exhaled and muttered, "Never mind," before walking away. You ignored the strange twist in your stomach and forced yourself to focus on the screen.

You had just finished saving your project when you decided to take a break, stretching your sore muscles before stepping out into the hallway. You weren’t planning on running into anyone, but as soon as you turned the corner, you nearly walked straight into Seungcheol.

"Oh," you said, stepping back slightly. "Sorry."

He smiled, easy and confident. "No need to apologize."

You already knew him, Baekhyun had introduced you two at the HYBE party last week. And while your first meeting had been brief (and rudely interrupted by Beomgyu), you remembered how intently he had listened when you talked about your work.

"You’ve been keeping busy," he mused, crossing his arms. "Baekhyun showed me some of the demos from your sessions. I was impressed."

Something warm settled in your chest. "Really?"

Seungcheol nodded. "You have a good ear. I meant to follow up after the party, but you disappeared before I could."

You huffed a small laugh. "Yeah, sorry about that."

Seungcheol’s gaze stayed steady. "If you ever want to share more of your work, my office is always open. I’d like to hear what else you’re capable of."

It wasn’t an empty offer, you could tell. This was an opportunity. And you weren’t about to waste it. "I’d love that," you said sincerely.

Seungcheol smiled, lingering for just a second longer than necessary before nodding. "I’ll be waiting, then."

And with that, he walked past you, disappearing down the hall.

You barely had a second to process before you felt it, that shift in the air. A presence behind you. You turned slightly, and there he was. Beomgyu was standing just a few feet away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, expression unreadable. Your breath hitched slightly, but you forced yourself to act normal.

Beomgyu's gaze flickered briefly down the hallway where Seungcheol had disappeared. Then, finally, he looked back at you. "You should be careful with him," he said, voice flat.

You frowned. "What?"

Beomgyu tilted his head slightly. "Seungcheol. He doesn’t offer that kind of thing just to anyone."

There was something in his tone, something that wasn’t quite neutral. You crossed your arms. "I know that. He’s creative director. It’s literally his job to look for talent."

Beomgyu scoffed, gaze dark. "Right. Sure."

Your frown deepened. "What’s your problem?"

"Nothing," he muttered, already turning away. "Forget it."

And just like that, he walked past you, heading back to his studio without another word. You stood there, confusion and irritation swirling in your chest. What the hell was that?

So, after that, you had spent the entire day locked in your studio.

It wasn’t intentional at first, you had just wanted to get some uninterrupted work done, to make up for how frustrating this week had been. But one track turned into another, one minor adjustment turned into an hour of tweaking, and before you knew it, the sun had set and most of the building had emptied out.

You barely noticed. At some point, Taehyun had texted asking if you wanted to grab dinner, and you had ignored it, too caught up in your work to even think about food.

It was only when your screen blurred in front of you, exhaustion pressing against your temples, that you finally admitted defeat. You packed up slowly, rubbing at your tired eyes as you stood. The quiet hum of the studio, once comforting, now felt suffocating after being inside for so long. You needed air.

When you opened the door, ready to leave, you nearly tripped over something. A cup. An iced americano, sitting neatly in front of your studio, condensation beading against the plastic.

You stared at it, confused, before noticing the small note taped to the lid. Your brows furrowed as you peeled it off, unfolding the paper between your fingers. The handwriting was messy, slanted, but familiar.

don’t pass out in there

Your lips parted slightly. There was no signature, no indication of who it was from. But you knew. Of course you knew, it was Beomgyu's handwriting.

Your fingers tightened around the note as your heart did something stupid in your chest, something warm, something soft, something you did not want to acknowledge.

Because what the hell was he doing? He had spent the entire week keeping his distance, barely speaking to you, only to suddenly spend the whole day in your space asking for your help. And now this?

You exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the strange feeling settling in your stomach. Maybe this was just some weird attempt at making up for how weird he had been all week. Or maybe he was just screwing with you again, playing some long game you didn’t understand. Or maybe… maybe he just noticed.

Noticed how hard you were working. Noticed that you hadn’t taken a break all day. Noticed you.

You clenched the note tightly before shoving it into your pocket. Your confusion hadn’t gone away. If anything, it had gotten worse. But as you picked up the coffee, taking a slow sip, you realized something else. For the first time all week, Beomgyu had made you smile.

When Saturday morning arrived, you forced yourself to push work aside. No checking mixes, no tweaking arrangements, no thinking about deadlines. Instead, you spent most of the day in the apartment, lounging on the couch while Yeonjun flopped down beside you, mindlessly flipping through TV channels.

"Are you actually not working today?" he asked, stretching his arms above his head.

"I told you I’d take a break," you muttered, though even as you said it, your fingers twitched with the urge to check your email.

Yeonjun narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, but you suck at taking breaks."

You rolled your eyes. "I’m trying."

"You better be," he said, nudging your leg with his foot. "We have a big night ahead."

Ah. Right. The party. You had promised Yunjin and the others that you’d actually go out tonight, no bailing at the last minute, no pretending you were too busy with work.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like going out. It was just that sometimes, after spending all week drained from work, the last thing you wanted was to force yourself to be social.

But tonight, you needed it. So when evening rolled around, you found yourself in front of your closet, sifting through outfits while Yeonjun lounged on your bed, watching with an amused expression.

When you were finally ready, Yeonjun whistled. "Damn. If I didn’t know you, I’d think you actually wanted to impress someone tonight."

You scoffed. "I just want to have fun."

Yeonjun smirked, but thankfully, he didn’t push it. Instead, he just slung an arm around your shoulders as you both headed out.

The place was already packed when you arrived, the bass from the music thrumming through the floors as bodies filled the space. You spotted Yunjin first, standing near the bar with Hueningkai, Taehyun, and a few other familiar faces. She waved excitedly when she saw you, immediately pulling you into a hug.

Yeonjun handed you a drink, and you gladly took it, letting the warmth of alcohol relax your shoulders as you settled into the atmosphere. For the first hour, it was easy. You danced with Yunjin, laughed at Taehyun’s terrible attempts at flirting with someone near the bar, took ridiculous selfies with Hueningkai.

It felt normal. And then, as you were making your way back from the bar with a fresh drink in hand, you saw him.

Beomgyu.

Your steps faltered for half a second before you recovered, eyes flickering over the scene in front of you. He wasn’t alone, he was with Soobin, Heeseung, and Jungwon, all of them gathered near a booth in the corner.

But what caught your attention wasn’t the fact that he was here. It was the fact that he was already drunk. You could tell immediately, the way his smile was looser than usual, the way he leaned slightly against Soobin as he talked, the way his gaze was just a little too unfocused.

And then, as if he could feel you looking, his eyes found yours. For a second, neither of you moved. Then—

A slow, lazy grin spread across his lips. You barely had time to process before he was pushing off the booth, making his way toward you. You braced yourself.

"Look who it is," he drawled, stopping in front of you. His voice was warm, teasing, the opposite of how he had been all week. "Didn’t think I’d see you here."

You raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t think I’d see you here either."

Beomgyu let out a breathy laugh, tilting his head slightly. "Why? You think I just sit in the studio all day?"

You crossed your arms. "You literally do."

"Fair point." He took a sip of whatever drink he was holding before glancing over your shoulder, his gaze flickering toward the group of people you had been with. "You come with Yeonjun?"

You blinked at the question, caught off guard. "Yeah?"

He hummed, expression unreadable. Before you could say anything else, Soobin and Heeseung appeared beside him, greeting you easily. "Hey," Heeseung said, flashing his usual friendly smile. "Didn’t expect to run into you tonight."

You shrugged. "Trying to be social for once."

Soobin chuckled. "That’s new."

Jungwon, who had been hanging back slightly, smirked. "Are you guys gonna fight here, too, or do you save that for work?"

You rolled your eyes. "We don’t fight."

Beomgyu snorted. "Oh, we definitely fight."

The group laughed, and despite yourself, you felt your shoulders relax slightly. This was weird. You weren’t used to seeing Beomgyu like this, loose, relaxed, actually enjoying himself instead of glaring at a screen for hours. For a second, you let yourself take him in.

Beomgyu looked… different. Not in a drastic way, but enough for you to notice. He wasn’t in his usual oversized hoodie or the comfortable, slightly-wrinkled clothes he practically lived in at the studio. Instead, he was wearing a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the fabric slightly unbuttoned at the top, showing just enough skin to be annoying. His silver jewelry caught the dim lighting of the room, glinting slightly as he shifted his drink from one hand to the other.

It suited him way too well. You hated that you noticed that. And then, just as you were about to shake the thought away, his gaze flickered over you.

You weren’t sure what you expected, maybe another cocky remark, another teasing jab, but instead, his eyes moved over your outfit in a way that made your skin prickle with awareness. "You always wear black," he murmured, almost to himself, but his voice was just loud enough for you to catch.

You raised an eyebrow. "What?"

He took another sip of his drink, tilting his head slightly. "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear color."

It wasn’t true, not entirely, but the fact that he had even noticed made something twist in your stomach. "You don’t exactly pay attention to what I wear, Beomgyu," you shot back, crossing your arms.

Beomgyu hummed, his eyes still on you, dark and unreadable. "You think I don’t?"

There was something about the way he said it, something that made your throat go dry. You refused to acknowledge it. Instead, you forced a scoff, shaking your head. "You’re drunk."

"So?" He took another sip, then smirked. "Still got eyes, don’t I?"

And then, just as quickly as it appeared, Beomgyu leaned back, shifting the energy entirely. "Anyway," he drawled, glancing over at the people you had been with earlier, "are you gonna introduce me to your little friend group, or are you scared they’ll like me more than you?"

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden change. "What?"

He gestured vaguely with his drink. "I don’t know half the people you hang out with. Thought I’d be polite and say hi."

You narrowed your eyes. "Since when are you polite?"

Beomgyu tilted his head, studying you like he was trying to figure something out. His smirk wasn’t as sharp now, still there, still insufferable, but softer around the edges, like he was letting himself enjoy this. "Come on," he murmured, leaning in slightly. "Introduce me."

You scoffed. "Why do you even care?"

"Maybe I just wanna see how you talk about me when I’m not around." He grinned, slow and teasing. "Bet you make me sound like a villain."

"You are a villain," you shot back.

"And yet," he mused, taking another sip of his drink, "here you are, still standing here with me instead of running back to your actual friends."

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could, a voice cut in.

"So," Yeonjun mused, stepping up beside you, eyes flickering toward Beomgyu. "You’re the Beomgyu, huh?"

Beomgyu didn’t miss a beat. "And you’re the Yeonjun."

Your stomach dropped. This was not happening.

They stared at each other for a moment, taking the other in. Yeonjun looked relaxed, but his sharp gaze held a flicker of curiosity, like he was trying to decide if Beomgyu was worth his time. Beomgyu, for his part, seemed perfectly at ease, his usual smirk still playing at his lips, shoulders loose, like he found this whole thing amusing.

And then, to your horror, they both grinned. "I’ve heard a lot about you," Yeonjun said, crossing his arms.

"Same," Beomgyu replied. "Didn’t think we’d actually meet like this."

You narrowed your eyes. "You two know each other?"

"Not personally," Yeonjun said, shrugging. "But come on. We work in the same industry. I know his work. He’s good."

Beomgyu smiled, tilting his head. "I know your work too, by the way. Not bad."

Yeonjun raised an eyebrow. "Not bad?"

Beomgyu grinned. "I’d say pretty good, but I don’t wanna inflate your ego this early in the conversation."

Yeonjun laughed. "Fair enough."

You looked between them, deeply suspicious. "Why does it feel like you two are getting along?"

Beomgyu glanced at you. "Why? You want us to fight?"

Yeonjun rolled his eyes. "Relax, Y/N. Not everything has to be a battle."

You huffed, taking another sip of your drink. "So," Beomgyu mused, eyes flickering between you and Yeonjun, "how do you two know each other anyway?"

Yeonjun barely hesitated before answering. "College," he said with a small grin. "We met during our first year and just… clicked. Ended up being inseparable after that. And now, we live together."

Beomgyu’s brows lifted slightly, his expression shifting, not in surprise, not in jealousy, but something closer to genuine interest. "Oh, that’s cool," he said, nodding. "Didn’t expect that, but it makes sense."

You glanced at him, skeptical. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Beomgyu shrugged, looking at you. "I don’t know, I just didn’t really picture you as the roommate type. I figured you’d be one of those people who hates sharing a space with someone."

Yeonjun snorted. "Oh, she definitely does."

You shot him a glare. "I do not."

"Sure," Yeonjun said, amused. "That’s why you leave your headphones on all the time and act like I don’t exist when you’re in work mode."

Beomgyu laughed. "Yeah, that checks out."

You rolled your eyes. "Are you two bonding over making fun of me?"

"Absolutely," Beomgyu said easily.

Yeonjun grinned. "It’s kind of fun."

You groaned, rubbing your temples. Beomgyu ignored you, still focused on Yeonjun. "So what’s it like living with her?"

Yeonjun hummed, considering. "Honestly? Not bad. We’ve got our system. We both get busy with work, so we give each other space, but it’s nice having someone around who actually gets it, you know? Plus, she’s a decent cook."

You scoffed. "Now that is a lie."

"It’s not!" Yeonjun defended. "She has, like, three solid recipes."

Beomgyu laughed. "Okay, now I really need to know what these are."

Yeonjun counted on his fingers. "Kimchi fried rice, pasta, and… something that she refuses to name, but it’s actually good."

Beomgyu turned to you, intrigued. "What’s the mystery dish?"

You crossed your arms. "I’m not telling you."

Yeonjun smirked. "She’s embarrassed because it started as a ‘let’s throw random shit together and see what happens’ meal, but it accidentally turned out good."

Beomgyu grinned. "That’s kind of impressive."

You sighed, shaking your head. "Why are we even talking about this?"

"Because I’m curious," Beomgyu said simply.

You didn’t really have a response to that.

Something about the way he said it, not teasing, not smug, just genuinely interested, made you feel a little off balance. You were used to bickering with him, used to sharp words and playful jabs. But this? Him actually wanting to know about your life? That was new.

And for some reason, it made your stomach flip.

Yeonjun glanced over his shoulder toward the bar, then let out an exaggerated sigh. "Well, as fun as this has been, I gotta go. Yunjin’s waiting on her drink, and if I take too long, she’s gonna start a manhunt."

With a final chuckle, Yeonjun clapped a hand on Beomgyu’s shoulder, shot you a look that was somewhere between good luck and I’m enjoying this way too much, and disappeared into the crowd.

You exhaled, already bracing yourself for whatever Beomgyu was about to say now that you were alone. But instead, "So," he said, turning to you, eyes practically shining. "Did you like the coffee?"

You stilled. You had known it was him the second you saw it, left outside your studio door Friday night, your exact order scribbled on the side of the cup in handwriting you recognized immediately. He hadn’t signed his name, hadn’t said anything, just left it there like some anonymous act of kindness.

You sighed. "It was fine."

"Fine?" he repeated, looking personally offended. "That was good coffee."

You narrowed your eyes. "Why did you even do that?"

He blinked. "Huh?"

"The coffee," you said, crossing your arms. "Why’d you leave it?"

He scoffed, like the answer was obvious. "You were working too much."

You frowned. "And?"

"And," he said, dragging the word out, "I saw you in there, looking half-dead, and figured you needed it." Your lips parted slightly. It was such a simple explanation. No teasing, no ulterior motive, just that. Beomgyu, meanwhile, seemed completely unbothered by your confusion. "I mean, I could’ve let you pass out on your keyboard, but I’m a good person," he said, grinning.

You scoffed. "Sure. That’s why you did it."

"Obviously," he said. Then, with zero hesitation—"Hey, you smoke, right?"

You blinked at the sudden shift. "What?"

"If you wanna go outside for a bit, I’ll come with."

Your brows furrowed. "Why?"

He shrugged, still smiling. "Why not?"

You stared at him, trying to figure out what the hell his angle was here. This was strange. All of this was strange. Beomgyu wasn’t being mean. He wasn’t teasing you just to get under your skin. He wasn’t smirking like he had some grand plan to annoy you. He was just… talking. Open. Chatty. And worst of all, nice. You didn’t trust it one bit. But still, for some reason, you found yourself nodding.

"Fine," you said, already turning toward the exit.

And as the two of you stepped outside, you couldn’t help but feel like you had just agreed to something far more complicated than a smoke break.

The night air was crisp as you stepped outside, the cool breeze biting at your skin. The distant hum of the city filled the silence, car headlights flashing by, conversations drifting from people walking past. Beomgyu fell into step beside you, hands shoved into his pockets, his presence oddly easy despite how complicated he made everything feel.

The two of you had been in sync somehow. You weren’t used to that. With Beomgyu, everything was usually sharp edges and competition, but tonight had been… easy. And now, out here, with no studio walls between you, no music to drown out the noise in your head, you felt like you should say something.

You were still trying to figure out what the hell was up with him tonight when a voice called your name.

“Y/N?”

You turned toward the sound, and your stomach immediately flipped.

Yunho.

The last person you expected to run into tonight.

He was leaning against the railing near the edge of the building, dressed in a fitted black turtleneck and an open wool coat, the kind of outfit that made it impossible to forget just how unfairly good-looking he was.

You two used to hook up a while ago, and you hadn’t seen him in months. Hadn’t spoken since things had fizzled out, no big falling out, no dramatic ending, just… a slow, mutual silence.

You barely had time to react before he was stepping closer, wrapping his arms around you in an easy, confident embrace.

“Been a while,” he murmured, voice warm against your ear.

The hug lingered. A little longer than it should have. Beomgyu hadn’t said a word, but you could feel him there. Standing just a few feet away, watching.

When Yunho finally pulled back, his hands slid down your arms before he let go completely. His gaze flicked past you, landing on Beomgyu, curiosity sparking behind his eyes. He waited, expectant.

You hesitated. Just for a second. “This is Beomgyu,” you said, forcing your voice to stay even. “He's my… coworker.”

The second the word left your mouth, you knew it was the wrong one. You didn’t have to look at Beomgyu to know he heard it loud and clear.

Yunho’s expression didn’t change, if anything, his amusement deepened as he extended a hand toward Beomgyu. “Nice to meet you, man.”

Beomgyu took it, but the shake was brief, impersonal. “Yeah,” he said flatly.

The energy shifted, thickening with something unreadable. You could feel it brewing, creeping into the air like a storm about to break, but Yunho didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t care. Instead, he turned back to you, eyes glinting with something playful. “I was actually heading out, but if I’d known you were here, I would’ve stuck around longer,” he mused, tilting his head. “Maybe next time.”

The words were casual, but the way he said them? Not so much. And Beomgyu caught it. You saw it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers curled slightly in his pocket, the way his shoulders squared just a fraction.

Yunho shot you one last lingering glance before stepping away. “See you around, Y/N.” He turned around, and silence settled between you and Beomgyu, thick and suffocating.

You let out a slow breath, bracing yourself for—what? A sarcastic comment? A joke? Some passive-aggressive remark about your taste in men? Something. Anything.

But Beomgyu just pulled out a cigarette, placed it between his lips, and lit it, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t say a thing. You frowned, watching as he took a slow drag, exhaling a stream of smoke into the cold air.

“Hey,” you said finally, tilting your head at him. “You okay?”

Beomgyu exhaled another lazy puff of smoke, gaze still fixed somewhere off in the distance. “What do you mean?”

Your frown deepened. “You’re suddenly being quiet.”

He let out a humorless chuckle. “And?”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Seriously, what’s your problem?”

“No problem,” he murmured. “Just enjoying my smoke break.”

Something inside you twisted. You took a deep breath, trying to keep your patience. “Beomgyu—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, you know.” He finally glanced at you then, dark eyes half-lidded, his expression unreadable. “That guy,” he said simply. “You don’t have to explain anything about him.”

The words shouldn’t have bothered you. But they did. “Jesus Christ,” you muttered, shaking your head. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good,” he said. And just like that, he looked away again, as if that was the end of the conversation. As if he didn’t care.

And that—finally, finally—pushed you over the edge.

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You’re fucking unbelievable.” Beomgyu didn’t react. Just took another slow drag of his cigarette. That only pissed you off more. “You keep doing this shit,” you snapped, voice rising. “One second you’re nice to me, then you’re cold again. Then you’re pushing my buttons just to get a reaction—what the fuck do you want from me?”

Silence. Beomgyu’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on the cigarette tightened just slightly.

You shook your head, letting out a sharp breath. “I swear, I don’t get you. You act like you hate me, but then you do shit like leave me coffee. You act like you don’t care, and then you get all weird and broody all of the sudden. You make no fucking sense.”

Beomgyu took one last drag before flicking the cigarette onto the ground, grinding it out with his shoe. “I never said I hated you.”

Your breath hitched. It was quiet. Just five words. But something about the way he said them, low and deliberate, made your pulse stutter. His gaze was steady, fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. And suddenly, you realized, this was the first time either of you had ever really talked about it. About whatever this was.

Beomgyu shifted, hands slipping back into his pockets. His voice dropped just slightly, almost like he didn’t want you to hear it. “But you’re right about one thing.”

You swallowed hard. “What?”

He took a step closer. Not much, but enough that you could smell the faint trace of smoke on his clothes, feel the warmth of him even in the cold. “I do like pushing your buttons.” His lips twitched—just barely, just enough to let you know he wasn’t done. He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes flickering with something unreadable. “It’s fun watching you try so hard to pretend you don’t like it.”

And just when you thought that was it, that he was done messing with your head for the night, he added: “But don’t worry.” His voice was light, almost casual. “I don’t care either way. After all, like you said… I’m just your coworker.”

He smirked. Just a flash of teeth, just enough to make your stomach twist. Then he turned on his heel and walked off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, head spinning, caught between wanting to kill him and—

No.

You weren’t even gonna finish that thought.

my masterlist | previous fic | READ PART 2 HERE

author's note: ok so i KNOW this fic got way longer than i originally planned but here we are lmaoo. part 2 is out and really hope you like it!! also, i wanted to have this done in time for beomgyu’s birthday but yeah… that didn’t happen lol. anyway, hope y’all enjoy <3

[taexual]

. . . d e l i r i u m | 4

well, i thought i could resist you, but something in me just can’t help but insist to blur the lines just one last time /// sleep token, dangerous

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: sometimes love and hate exist on opposite ends of the map. other times, on separate floors of the same building.

genre: ex!yeonjun / enemies to lovers au / neighbour au

warnings: slow burn, baaaaad mutual pining & intense yearning, jealous!jjun, somewhat evil!tyun (he has good intentions though), strong language, suggestive themes, detailed descriptions of smoking, excessive drinking, helpless flirting, some angst to spice things up

words: 15k (rip)

[ ! ] this is a sequel to equilibrium

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 4 AM

Yeonjun couldn’t sleep. His head felt like a cutlery drawer, rattling every time he rolled onto his other side, steel scraping steel.

Did it hurt the knives, he wondered at around four in the morning, to brush against other knives?

By six, he must’ve drifted off for a good twenty minutes, until a faint rustling near the windows woke him again. He blinked blearily just in time to catch Violet’s silhouette slipping under the heavy black curtains.

She hopped onto the windowsill and sat down in front of the only window in the flat that actually opened. It didn’t even look it; the frame had been caked in thick layers of white paint. Only the latch gave it away – a tiny brass catch, half-hidden beneath the lower frame in the far left corner, noticeable only by the peeling paint around it.

He hadn’t realised what the latch was for until you pointed it out to him that day on the stairs. Apparently, Violet had watched him work it once and memorised it.

She settled on the sill, her backside shoving the curtains aside. A narrow slit opened—he suspected he might’ve hung the drapes upside down—and through it, Yeonjun could make out the sharp outline of her whiskers against the pale light outside.

He lay still and watched.

With the precision of a surgeon, Violet slipped a paw into the far corner. Her whiskers twitched.

Tap.

Tap tap tap.

Nothing happened for a while.

Yeonjun frowned into the darkness.

Surely, he thought, she didn’t have the strength to move the latch. The thing was stiff even for him some mornings. It might’ve meant that the window had been opening on its own every day, then, or—

The brass catch jerked sideways with a tiny click.

The window frame loosened immediately.

Yeonjun stared.

Violet rose onto her hind legs and pressed her front paws against the bottom of the window, leaning her full weight forward. She was small—plump and very round, yes, but so small. Even if she’d mastered the latch, she shouldn’t have been capable of pushing the window open.

The frame creaked an inch upwards.

“Violet,” Yeonjun warned.

The cat turned, shooting him a look of profound irritation, like a single mother of five on her third consecutive night shift: don’t start with me right now, boy. Then she turned back and kept pushing.

The window scraped open just enough for her to squeeze onto the fire escape. Her back paws scrabbled briefly against the sill before disappearing outside.

Yeonjun stared, unblinking, for another minute.

Honestly, he should’ve used Violet to fight crime. Or rob banks.

Instead, he listened to the faint rhythm of her paws on the metal stairs as she climbed the fire escape towards your flat.

Upstairs, you dreamt that you were driving Reina’s old Honda.

The steering wheel thrummed in your hands as you drove along a narrow, two-lane road. The car rattled at higher speeds, and something in the dashboard buzzed as though you’d trapped a bee behind there somewhere, but it remained reliable as always.

The asphalt glistened; it must’ve rained recently. Now that you thought of it, you could almost smell the moisture in the air.

A bright blue car sped past, overtaking you.

You barely registered it.

Then, a few minutes later, the same blue car appeared again, passing you from the opposite direction.

Sunlight flashed against the windscreen, obscuring the driver’s face. The car was unfamiliar, yet you felt strangely worried that this was the last time you’d see it. You hoped it wouldn’t be.

You lowered the sun visor. Ahead, the road curved sharply left, and the car groaned as you turned the wheel.

For a while, you drove alone.

Soon, you spotted the blue car again. It was parked on the side of the road near a lake to your right, the hazard lights blinking lazily in the sunlight.

You pulled onto the gravel beside it, relieved.

As you stepped out of the Honda, you realised you were suddenly standing in the woods; the roadside was surrounded by trees.

Chestnuts, you thought at first. Then you narrowed your eyes.

Oaks.

You approached the blue car. The driver’s door hung open, but there was no one inside.

As you walked closer to the shore, past the trees, you saw a man sitting on the rocks in the shallows, sleeves rolled to his elbows, staring across the lake. This was the driver, you knew. You had to check on him.

You crept towards him. Your feet—why weren’t you wearing shoes?—slipped on the wet stones. The trees around you vanished.

The man turned—and the sound of something creaking jolted you awake.

Your eyes snapped open to the darkness of your room. For a disorienting moment, the dream clung to you: you could still hear the commotion of Reina’s old car, still smell the rain.

Then you heard Violet squeezing through the narrow opening in the window, right on schedule. She landed silently on the floor and padded toward the living room, careful, as though trying not to wake you.

The bedroom door creaked when her hind leg brushed against it.

Violet froze.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to spook her.

Silence. Then, the quiet patter of her paws fading into the living room.

Sighing, you rolled over, the sheets tangling around your legs. You reached blindly for your phone on the cardboard boxes by the bed. The screen flared to maximum brightness. Groaning, you squeezed one eye shut and tried to enter your PIN; Face ID refused to recognise you in the dim light.

Then you opened both eyes again.

Yeonjun, you realised, had been the driver of the blue car in your dream.

How strange.

You needed to text him, but yesterday’s conversation still lingered somewhere at the back of your mind. Just thinking about talking to him again made you feel like you’d swallowed something dense.

You pushed yourself onto your elbows, inhaled once, and opened his contact.

YOU [6:59 AM] violet’s here she’s welcome to stay but ive got to leave at 4

You’d barely lowered the phone before it buzzed against your palm.

YEONJUN [7 AM] thanks i’ll pick her up before you leave

The cursor blinked at the bottom of the chat on your screen.

You stared at it for a second, then set your phone down beside the pillow and climbed out of bed. A draft blew through the open window. You pushed it shut and headed into the kitchen to refill Violet’s water bowl.

The moment you appeared through the doorway, Violet abandoned her position by the curtains and wound herself around your legs instead, searching for entertainment. Her tail got caught beneath the hem of your pyjama bottoms, hitching the fabric upwards.

You knelt to scratch under her chin. Her purr vibrated against your palm.

“Let’s see if we can get some light in here for you, yeah?” you said, standing again.

Still half-asleep, you filled the bowl and went to the window. The curtains dragged heavily along the rail when you pulled them open.

It was a dreary, overcast morning outside. The building across the street looked even more muted than usual under the grey clouds.

Violet approached the window. She poked it with her nose, puzzled by the lack of sunlight, then glanced back at you.

“S’the best I can do, little one,” you said. “Cloudy day today.”

She replied with a small, resigned meow and turned back towards the window. A moment later, the faint reflections dancing across the glass seem to win her over.

You left her nestled between your flowerpots and started your morning.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 3:45 PM

Fifteen minutes before you needed to leave, you stood in front of the mirror by the bathroom door, holding your breath as you misted setting spray across your face. It smelled oddly of hairspray.

The dress you’d bought for tonight was sleeveless and blue. Beaded detail ran along the slit—it had already left glitter scattered across your thigh.

When you first saw the dress in the shop last week with Reina, it reminded you of the photograph your grandparents kept on the mantelpiece in their living room. In it, your mother was posing with her date before their school dance. She wore a dark blue dress—sleeveless—and had her hair braided half up. She was smiling.

It was your favourite picture of her.

You’d spent the morning thinking about it while you pinned the braided sections of your hair back. The curled ends now rested across your collarbones.

You leaned closer to inspect your mascara and caught the edge of a price tag peeking from the side seam of the dress.

“Shit—”

The doorbell rang.

Startled slightly by the sound, you tightened your fingers around the plastic of the tag and ripped it clean off the seam. The edge nipped your palm. Hissing, you shook your hand once and dropped the tag into the bin by the kitchen island.

Behind you, Violet sat primly on the back of the sofa, licking her paw, as though she, too, was getting ready for Reina and Soobin’s engagement party.

“Got a feeling that’s for you, baby,” you said, nodding towards the door. “Come on.”

Violet chirped and jumped down.

She discovered the hem of your dress just as you opened the door. Her claws snagged in the fabric, catching and releasing the blue material with increasing enthusiasm.

Yeonjun stood on the doorstep.

He opened his mouth—and closed it right after.

All he registered, initially, was the deep blue of your dress. Then the ruched fabric at the waist and the small cutouts on both sides of your midriff.

Then the rest of his thoughts abandoned him to seek employment elsewhere.

You bent down before Violet could shred the hem. She resisted your hands, twisting in place. When you gathered the ends of the dress, she leapt back and wiggled her behind ominously, her pupils blown wide.

“You like the dress, baby?” you murmured, scooping her up before she could launch herself at you. She looked mildly startled at being lifted, but not especially offended. “Come on, then.”

Yeonjun thought he liked the dress.

Although, admittedly, he could’ve slept better if he hadn’t caught a glimpse of your thigh through the slit when you bent down. He suddenly felt as though he ought to sit down and have a bottle of water. Perhaps two bottles.

“Hi,” you said. “You alright?”

Your voice shifted slightly, and he realised that you weren’t speaking to the cat this time.

With all the grace and composure he could muster, he said, “I—uh—it would—I mean, yes. Yeah. I’ll be off, then.”

He pivoted sharply towards the stairwell.

You blinked after him, fingers still running down Violet’s spine.

“And Violet?” you called.

Yeonjun stopped dead.

“Yes!” he said, whirling around before he could fully register the heat climbing up the back of his neck. “Of course. I’ll be off with Violet. I—we will be off together.”

He gathered the cat, careful not to brush your hands in the process. At this point, he was convinced that any skin contact would finish him on the spot.

You stepped back.

He dared a glance at you.

You were looking down now, smoothing the fabric of your dress over your hips.

The sunflowers, he noted, were still on your kitchen island beside you, bright yellow and offensively alive. He stared at them, trying to work out who else could’ve got them for you.

It was still just this one bouquet in any case, as much as it irked him.

He’d got you fourteen.

You were surprised to find him still standing on your doorstep when you looked up.

“Later, then,” you said, a little awkward.

Yeonjun blinked, snapping back to awareness.

“Right,” he said. “Later.”

He escaped down the stairs.

Once the door of your flat clicked shut behind him, he let out a breath that seemed to rattle all the way through him.

Violet meowed in his arms. He could tell she knew he’d embarrassed himself.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he warned as soon as he unlocked his door. He tapped gently between her ears before scratching under her chin. “M’going to have a very, very long night tonight. I need your support.”

Violet, when properly motivated, offered excellent support.

Today, however, she felt strongly motivated to do three things exactly: use her litter box, demolish half a pouch of tuna in her bowl, and fall asleep directly on Yeonjun’s favourite pillow on his bed.

Yeonjun spent a solid hour trying to get her interest back; no luck.

Now he stood alone in his bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror under the bulb overhead. His hands shook as he attempted to tie his tie. The knot collapsed again.

It had been a long time since he’d needed to do this.

The last time, you’d stood in front of him. You’d been wearing blue too, though the colour had been lighter then. Your fingers had been warm against his throat as you fixed the tie for him, tightening the knot with one precise tug. He remembered the concentration on your face, the brush of your knuckles under his jaw.

He stared at his reflection for another moment.

Had that been the beginning of the end, then? Dinner with his parents, his crashed car. Had he given you even one happy memory in those last few days?

He yanked his tie off and threw it onto the counter beside the sink.

Fuck it, then.

He’d go without one.

What did it matter anyway?

He’d show up at the restaurant, congratulate Soobin and Reina, smile when appropriate. Then he’d drink until he couldn’t recognise himself in any mirror anymore.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 7:30 PM

By the time Yeonjun arrived at the restaurant, everyone else was already there.

If he’d stopped to think about it, he might’ve found the sight endearing: the entire group of friends, formed years ago in university auditoriums and dormitories, still turning up for one another like this. Some of the other guests, he recognised, Soobin had known since kindergarten.

It was loud and very crowded here.

His mind was elsewhere.

He bumped into Soobin’s parents right by the door; his mother had earrings the size of small planets. They wanted to know how his family was doing.

“Fine, I expect,” he said, and walked off before they could ask what he meant. He hoped they’d assume he was drunk.

The restaurant had been decorated in excess, not unlike a royal wedding: white and gold everywhere, with balloons on the ceiling, on the walls, and stuck to the back of Kai’s head as Taehyun attempted to explain that hairspray was supposed to reduce static. There were enough flowers here that Yeonjun had heard Beomgyu sneezing from the street outside.

He saw you right away.

You stood near the main table in the centre of the room in your blue dress, one arm wrapped loosely around Reina’s shoulders. Nara stood opposite you, gesticulating wildly as she spoke, her bracelets flashing under the lights.

Then Soobin arrived and leaned over to murmur something into Reina’s ear. She laughed and pulled back from you with a quick wave.

Smiling softly, you turned to watch them go.

Yeonjun stared at that smile right up until he tripped over a loose ribbon trailing from the enormous banner stretched across the wall: REINA and SOOBIN 2027.

“Sorry,” he muttered to the approaching waiter, who bent to fix the ribbon.

On instinct, Yeonjun grabbed two champagne flutes from the tray in the waiter’s hands. Without hesitation, he downed the first one, dropped it back on the tray, and set off towards you and Nara with the second still in hand.

He figured he’d come up with something intelligent to say on the walk over.

Unfortunately, the walk was very short.

“Hi,” was the best he could do. “Where’re the betrothed?”

Nara, deducing the question wasn’t meant for her, took a sip of her champagne.

You turned towards him.

His hair was slicked back, but several dark strands had already escaped the gel and fallen over his forehead. He wore a black suit with a white shirt underneath. The buttons were golden.

Your gaze dropped, uninvited, to the exposed line of his neck. He wasn’t wearing a tie.

“Appetiser emergency,” you said, turning back ahead. “Something’s wrong with the salmon.”

“Ah,” Yeonjun said.

You were almost exactly his height in your heels. He became acutely aware of having a throat.

He wondered if he knew any fun facts about salmon. It wasn’t naturally pink; would that help the conversation? Also, was salmon the fish that could leap two meters out of water or was that—oh God, he was dying.

“W-wanted to apologise for being late,” he added, “but guess that’ll have to wait, then.”

“Hmm.” Nara smiled into her glass. “Bold of you to assume they even noticed you weren’t here.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

Yeonjun glanced at you and smiled despite the jab.

Good choice, then, not going with the salmon facts.

“Still,” he said, draining the rest of his champagne in one gulp. “S’rude of me. D’you need me to get you another drink?”

You didn’t immediately process the offer. Nara tilted her head meaningfully towards the empty flute in your hand, a knowing grin on her lips.

“Oh.” You rotated the stem of the glass between your fingers. “No. I’ve got it.”

You smiled at Nara and stepped away towards the bar.

It took Yeonjun a few seconds to realise you meant you’d go and get another drink right this instant, and not in a moment. He watched you walk away and tried to decide what a decent waiting time was before he could casually turn up next to you again.

Nara asked him something.

He didn’t hear a word and answered with a noncommittal grunt.

Guests crowded around him, and Nara, bored now, walked away to join them, momentarily blocking his view. He lost sight of you.

Just as something uneasy began to tighten in his stomach, he spotted your blue dress again near the bar by the far wall.

“You’re here!”

Yeonjun flinched at the clap on his shoulder and turned around.

Soobin and Reina stood behind him, both already flushed from champagne, their eyes sparkling. Reflections from the hanging lights flickered in Reina’s golden earrings every time she moved her head. Soobin, noticeably, couldn’t look away from her pink dress for more than two seconds at a time.

Just looking at them made Yeonjun remember how to smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, giving them each a nod. “Congratulations, guys. The place looks beautiful.”

Over the last year, Reina had stopped looking at him like she might one day strangle him with her bare hands. For a while, she hadn’t looked at him at all.

Tonight, she smiled and lifted her glass slightly in acknowledgement.

“Thanks, man,” Soobin replied, smacking his shoulder again.

Yeonjun nodded awkwardly. He wanted to offer a more heartfelt sentiment for the occasion, but couldn’t stop thinking about salmon.

“You find the drinks alright?” Soobin asked.

Automatically, Yeonjun glanced towards the bar.

You were still there.

“Not yet,” he said, slipping the empty flute behind his back. “Thought I’d get one now, actually.”

“Of course,” Soobin said easily. The room was delightfully fuzzy around him. He loved champagne. “Enjoy yourself.”

Nodding again, Yeonjun disappeared back into the moving crowd.

Reina watched him leave, the corner of her mouth twitching.

She’d seen you by the bar.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 8 PM

As the first round of appetisers began circulating through the restaurant—small, buttery things topped with salmon and herbs that you and Reina had taste-tested earlier that afternoon—people drifted back to their tables.

Conversations mellowed into an expectant hum; the instrumental music on the speakers quieted.

It was time for the toasts.

Naturally, this took ages.

Everyone here had known each other too long to tell a short story. Every memory required context, three unrelated anecdotes, and at least one interruption from another table.

Reina and Soobin’s parents being here tempered some of the wilder tales, although not by much. Reina’s father, already out of his jacket, cheeks rosy from champagne, laughed louder than anyone in the room whenever someone started implying things they probably shouldn’t have.

Your personal favourite remained Beomgyu’s passionate retelling of how Reina had, over time, replaced Soobin for him.

It had started innocently enough: he’d go over to Soobin and Yeonjun’s to use their PlayStation for a few hours. Soobin usually joined him. Then, one time, Reina appeared in the doorway of Soobin’s bedroom, wincing. She had better things to do than watch them play, but Soobin was getting demolished, and she thought it reflected poorly on her. She took over the controller and proceeded to beat Beomgyu three times in a row before she got bored and left again.

“That,” Beomgyu said, hand pressed to his chest, “deeply impressed me.”

His champagne flute became part of the story. He mimicked Soobin’s aim and sloshed the drink across the tablecloth. Gestured at Reina again and nearly sent the whole glass flying.

The more people laughed, the louder he spoke.

“I’ve decided,” he concluded finally, “that I prefer playing against Rei. Least she can make a jump without respawning ten times.”

Another wave of laughter drowned out Soobin’s indignant yelps of protest. Reina leaned against his shoulder, hiding her laughter in the crook of his neck.

Beomgyu raised his glass higher.

“Anyway,” he announced, “can’t wait for your wedding. Cheers!”

Glasses rose around the restaurant, followed by applause. Soobin reached instinctively for Reina’s hand. The smile on her face beside him was bright enough to light up the whole building.

The warmth from their table radiated through the restaurant, settling into conversations as the evening wore on and people splintered into smaller groups.

Reina’s mother eventually settled down beside Taehyun at his table—she seemed to have adopted him the moment he’d brought her a fresh glass of champagne; her third one tonight. Her husband had suggested a two-glass limit. She suggested it was time for her husband to go home.

Across the room, Yeonjun leaned back, one arm draped over the back of his chair, and observed your conversation with Beomgyu a few tables away—for about a minute. Then he counted to three, finished the rest of his champagne, and rose to his feet.

Beomgyu, meanwhile, had taken it upon himself to revisit Taehyun’s earlier statement about static and hairspray. He rubbed a white balloon vigorously against the back of his head while he explained the theory.

His hair was beginning to lift.

“I believe you,” you said, already smiling despite yourself. “But, uh—you’re not worried this will ruin your hairstyle?”

“No, no, look.” He rubbed harder, oblivious to the strands floating upward around his ears. “I’m saying hairspray creates resist—”

“All that electricity can’t be good for you.”

You felt Yeonjun sit down beside you before you turned your head. He held another champagne flute in his hand.

Something inside you relaxed at the sight of him. Then this instinctive reaction set your teeth on edge.

“Lightning’s going to get you,” Yeonjun added, nodding towards Beomgyu’s hair. “How’re you going to make it to Nara’s birthday party next week, then?”

Beomgyu lowered the balloon slowly.

“This has got nothing to do with lightning,” he said. Then, less confidently: “Has it?”

Distracted by his growing concern, he missed the look you gave Yeonjun.

“No,” you said, unable to stop yourself from playing along. “It’s not raining right now anyway.”

“It’s not—but when it rains?” Beomgyu smoothed one side of his hair back down. Perhaps, he thought, he hadn’t used enough hairspray.

“Then we’ll be able to use you,” Yeonjun said, “to tell if there’s going to be thunder.”

Beomgyu frowned and turned back to you again.

“’Cause your hair will stand up,” you explained, gesturing at his head, “like a lightning rod of sorts.”

Yeonjun snickered quietly into his drink.

Realisation dawned on Beomgyu’s face.

He fixed you both with his most practised glare, scoffed, and pushed himself up from his chair.

“You guys think I’m five years old,” he said, pointing at you, then at Yeonjun, “don’t you?”

You failed to resist a smile.

“You look it,” Yeonjun replied, lifting his glass. “S’a compliment, really.”

Beomgyu hummed. Then, suspiciously solemn, he stepped around the table and leaned in before Yeonjun could react. Static crackled through the air as he rubbed the balloon against the back of Yeonjun’s head with ferocious enthusiasm.

“Oi! What—”

He ducked under Yeonjun’s outstretched hands, cackling, and darted into the crowd.

Grimacing, Yeonjun peeled the balloon away from his hair. A few strands remained standing upright.

“What a little shit,” he muttered.

When he looked up, you were already gone from your seat.

He pressed his lips together.

He sat there for a moment, balloon in hand, listening to the noises in the restaurant: the scrape of chairs, the laughter dissolving into the low rhythm of music. The balloons drifted by his feet whenever the kitchen doors swung open.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

He couldn’t just sit here with this fucking balloon.

Near the main table, Soobin’s mother swayed to the music with both of Reina’s parents. The two women giggled loudly, clearly already tipsy. Soobin’s father joined them, balancing a tray of drinks in one hand.

Yeonjun watched them for a moment without really seeing them.

Then he spotted a passing waiter and stood. He traded his empty flute for a full one—then reconsidered his current circumstances and took the whole tray instead.

The champagne was dry and unremarkable, but it did the job. He guzzled half the glass and fell back into the crowd.

A few minutes later, he found you again.

This time, you were talking to Kai in the warm light near the kitchen doors.

A little tipsy and very conversational, Kai spoke with his entire body. Champagne kept sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his glass every time his hands flew up, the restaurant lights catching the bubbles.

Currently, he was filling you in on everything you’d missed at university while you were in New York.

“I thought he left because he got a better offer somewhere,” you said, raising one eyebrow.

“No.” Kai shook his head hard enough to splash champagne onto the cuff of his shirt. He didn’t notice. “No, no. He was sleeping with two undergrads at the same time, and they found out about each other.”

Your second eyebrow rose to join the first. “And then?”

“And then,” he continued, thrilled, “the undergrads teamed up and went straight to the Board together. Told them everything, brought screenshots. And now he’s fired.”

You chuckled, rotating the champagne flute in your hands.

“Nice,” you said. “Love it when women collaborate.”

“We should’ve seen it coming, honestly,” he said, sipping from his half-empty glass. “Something was always off with his classes. Serves him right for being such a rigid—”

“Serves whom right?”

By now, you’d half-expected Yeonjun. You didn’t bother turning around.

He stopped beside you anyway, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him against your arm. He tipped his head back and emptied the champagne in his glass in one swallow. He’d left the tray on the table behind him and glanced over his shoulder to make sure it was still there.

“Professor Johnson,” Kai told him. “He got fired.”

Yeonjun had absolutely no memory of a Professor Johnson.

Honestly, five glasses in, he was starting to have no memory of what he was even here for.

“No way,” he said. “What’d he do?”

Kai, buzzing at the opportunity to retell the story, started from the very beginning.

You listened for approximately two seconds, up until you had to duck away from Kai’s gestures. Then, lips pursed to fight back your laughter, you finished your champagne and left Yeonjun to endure the story alone.

And endure it he did, nodding at appropriate moments—more or less—while simultaneously scanning the restaurant for you. Kai’s hands grew increasingly more animated beside him.

There.

You’d joined a group of girls near the windows. Yeonjun didn’t recognise any of them, but you clearly did; laughter softened your features as you leaned towards one of them. The blue of your dress shimmered in the light every time you moved. The entire restaurant seemed to swim around it.

Kai noticed Yeonjun’s wandering attention mid-sentence.

He followed Yeonjun’s gaze across the restaurant, hand already reaching to drag him back into the conversation—until he spotted you near the windows and stopped.

Abandoning his efforts to resume the story, Kai walked off in search of more champagne before Yeonjun drained the place dry.

Yeonjun barely noticed him leave.

You were still laughing, which was good. He wanted you to keep doing that. Wanted the music on the speakers to quiet down, too, so he could hear you better. He also wanted—

Taehyun appeared beside you. He slipped smoothly into the conversation, apologised to the girls surrounding you, then leaned in to whisper something in your ear.

Yeonjun decided, immediately, that he needed something stronger than champagne.

By the time he crossed the restaurant towards you, a glass of whiskey in hand, Taehyun was already grinning.

Earlier in the evening, he’d been too busy charming Reina’s mother to pay much attention to anything else. Now, however, Reina’s parents were gathering their coats near the door, and Taehyun had redirected his energy into the next most exciting thing: tracking Yeonjun’s every move.

“It’s you again,” Taehyun said, raising his soju shot in greeting.

You glanced at Yeonjun. He met your gaze head-on and held it for an entire half-second.

“It’s me again,” he said.

“Have you had anything to eat?” Taehyun asked, eyeing the glass in Yeonjun’s hands. “Or just the drinks, then?”

“Just the drinks, then.”

“I see.”

Yeonjun swayed faintly where he stood. You turned your face so he wouldn’t see the smile threatening your lips.

“We were just talking about you, you know,” Taehyun added.

Yeonjun turned his whole body towards you. The golden light from the lamps carved dramatic shadows along his cheeks.

“Were you?” he asked.

“We were,” you said. “Noticed you’re very sociable tonight.”

The implication reached him about a second late. You watched him narrow his eyes, then take another sip.

“Guess I am, then,” he said.

“Any reason for that?”

He shrugged. Then shrugged again.

“My best friend’s engaged,” he said finally. “M’happy.”

You glanced at Taehyun just in time to catch the grin he was trying to hide by swallowing his soju. He placed the empty shot glass on the table next to him and turned back to Yeonjun.

He’d already noticed that every time you drifted into another conversation somewhere in the restaurant, Yeonjun reappeared minutes later with a fresh drink in his hand.

Naturally, Taehyun figured, this called for a small social experiment.

“Hm.” He stepped back to look you over with exaggerated consideration. “Have I told you you look stunning in that dress?”

Your eyebrows lifted.

Beside you, Yeonjun finished the rest of his whiskey in one alarming gulp. Ice knocked against the glass when he lowered it again.

“You haven’t,” you replied. “Thank you.”

Something in your dry tone amused Taehyun very much.

He decided to expand the scope of his experiment.

“Have you seen the photographer?” he asked, glancing around the restaurant. A few groups of people had started loose, tipsy dancing circles between the tables.

“I haven’t.”

You didn’t follow his gaze, which made Taehyun’s smile widen immediately.

Clueless, Yeonjun turned around. He had seen the photographer earlier—hard not to; the man had an aggressively white suit. Looked like a bishop in a game of human chess. Or the pope. Did popes wear white?

Salmon! Salmon was naturally white.

Before Yeonjun could point out the photographer with the salmon suit, Taehyun reached for your hand.

“We should take a picture together,” Taehyun announced, pulling you gently towards him.

You resisted instinctively, your heels dragging against the floor tiles. “Haven’t we already?”

“Not just the two of us.”

Your expression flattened immediately.

Taehyun, emboldened further, slid his free hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew his phone.

“Yeonjun,” he said pleasantly, holding it out. “Would you mind?”

A strange moment passed.

Yeonjun looked at the phone.

Then at Taehyun.

Then, finally, at Taehyun’s hand still wrapped loosely around your wrist.

The bustling restaurant seemed to fade around him. Someone dropped something near the kitchen; it sounded like a knife or a fork.

Slowly, Yeonjun accepted the phone.

Taehyun was surprised; he’d been convinced this would be enough. Back in grad school, Yeonjun would’ve combusted by now.

Alright, then.

Interesting.

Taehyun dropped his hand to your waist.

Yeonjun stared at the screen of Taehyun’s phone as though he’d never encountered such technology before. After a second, he set his empty glass down on the windowsill behind him.

Taehyun stepped beside you. Warmth pressed along your side as he nudged you even nearer.

“What are you doing?” you muttered under your breath.

“Trying to see something,” he whispered back. Up close, his breath smelled distinctly of soju, although it was hard to tell whether he was already drunk or still on the way.

Meanwhile, Yeonjun finally unlocked the phone. The screen tilted in his hand, the restaurant lights smearing across the glass until the apps blurred together.

He opened the email and stared, perplexed, at the writing on the screen. What the fuck was DHL and why—

This wasn’t right.

Finally, he found the camera.

He stepped back until the windowsill pressed against his hip and raised the phone, deliberately not looking at either of you.

Taehyun smiled at once. Pinned to his side by the weight of his arm around your waist, you managed something polite enough to pass for a smile, too.

Yeonjun took one picture.

Then another.

Then several more in quick succession, his thumb tapping faster each time.

You hadn’t realised how rigid you were until the muscles in your upper back started to burn. Taehyun, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease beside you.

The moment he started snickering, unable to hold it in any longer, you stepped away and fixed him with a disapproving look.

You had long suspected that prolonged exposure to Beomgyu had caused permanent damage to his brain. The two of them rubbed off on each other in all the worst ways sometimes.

Taehyun’s smile didn’t so much as twitch as he took the phone back from Yeonjun. “Thanks!”

He swiped through the photos until he reached the first one with you in it and exhaled dramatically. He no longer worked at the theatre, but he’d clearly retained the flair for performance.

“Ah.” He sighed. “We look good together.”

Lips pursed, you glanced down at his phone.

The overhead lights glinted off the screen. You lifted a hand to block the glare, your shoulder brushing against his.

“Although,” Taehyun added just as you leaned in, “you do look a bit like a police sketch. I mean that respectfully.”

You snorted, pinching the screen to zoom in on your faces. Your eyes were completely lifeless in the picture.

“No, yeah,” you said, “I look like I’m wanted in twenty-five countr—”

“You look beautiful,” Yeonjun said.

Taehyun’s head shot up, victorious.

Slowly, you looked up, too.

Yeonjun still stood by the windows, one hand absently twisting the golden ribbon tied around the white curtain. The restaurant tables reflected on the glass behind him.

He was looking at you.

For a moment, you couldn’t seem to do anything but look back.

Taehyun grinned.

“Do you two want a picture together?” he asked, very pleased with himself.

You dropped your gaze first. “That won’t be—”

“Yes,” Yeonjun said.

Taehyun’s smile spread.

“Alright,” he said, stepping back and gesturing between the two of you with his phone. “Go on, then.”

You glanced at him, contemplated briefly what life in prison would be like, then turned to Yeonjun. He shifted to one side, making room for you next to him.

You didn’t move.

“Come on,” Taehyun urged. “Haven’t got all day.”

“No?” You cut him a look. “You can go, then.”

He plastered on a kind smile.

“I’d rather stay,” he said. “Go on now, come on. It’s just a picture. Or is something the matter?”

You pressed your lips together and turned away.

The dull sound of your platform heels against the tiles seemed unnaturally loud as you crossed the space towards Yeonjun. By the time you stopped next to him, your heart had climbed so high into your throat that you couldn’t swallow.

Taehyun raised his phone. On his screen, you and Yeonjun looked like you were two presidential candidates forced to stand next to each other before an important debate.

“Wow.” He tsked. “This is extremely awkward.”

You scoffed, your thoughts tripping over fifteen different retorts.

Yeonjun cleared his throat next to you.

“I, personally,” he said, one eye blinking slower than the other, “think s’nice.”

Taehyun openly beamed. He was having the time of his life here tonight. Soobin and Reina should get engaged every day.

“I like the sound of that,” he said, taking a step closer. “Just—here. Let me help.”

He caught Yeonjun by the elbow and nudged him closer to you with enough force to make him stumble half a step. Then, laughing under his breath, he pried your wrist from your resistance and placed your hand against Yeonjun’s chest.

You couldn’t breathe.

“There,” Taehyun said, stepping back to admire his work. “Much better. Now closer.”

You moved perhaps half an inch.

Taehyun shook his head.

“Closer,” he repeated. And then, closer, closer, closer—three more times, until you could feel Yeonjun’s heartbeat against your own.

His cologne curled around you, the same one, reminiscent of citrus and wood. Of cold air. Of late-night drives in the rain. Low-lit kitchens and quiet music on the speakers.

“Smile now,” Taehyun instructed.

You tried.

The shutter clicked—once, twice. Then twice more.

You were painfully aware of every point of contact between you and Yeonjun: the warmth beneath your hand, the sound of his breath, the thumping inside your chest and right against it.

Finally, Taehyun lowered his phone.

You took a step back, hands automatically reaching for the zipper of your dress just to have something solid to hold. Cold air prickled across your arms.

Taehyun had already started flicking through the photos, his head cocked to one side as he studied each one. You moved back to his side.

No one spoke for a minute.

The pictures were awful.

They looked like they’d been taken years ago, sometime in university, even, before the distance and the silence and all that came after. They looked like nothing had happened at all. You could not look away.

Beside you, Taehyun glanced up from the screen.

Up until now, this had all been a laugh: push Yeonjun’s buttons here, see how red his ears get there. But now Yeonjun was standing by the window, looking at you and not the pictures, and Taehyun realised there was something here that he hadn’t accounted for.

He glanced back down at the pictures. At the way Yeonjun had angled himself toward you in every frame. The way your fingers rested easily over the white line of his shirt.

For months, Taehyun remembered, every time he’d tried to bring Yeonjun up around you, you shut it down straight away.

I don’t know what you’re on about.

We were just joking.

Nothing really happened.

Right, then.

People who meant nothing to each other did not fall back together that easily.

“Great,” you said finally. The slit of your dress pulled slightly against your thigh as you took a step back. You glanced quickly towards the bar. “Um—great pictures.”

Taehyun looked up at you.

His experiment, he thought, could give you one more push.

“Yeah?” he said lightly. “‘Cause we can have a re-do.”

You turned back to him. “No. This is good.”

“Hm.” He swiped through the pictures again, smiling. “Are these your first photos together?”

Yeonjun quietly shook his head.

Taehyun didn’t notice and glanced back up at you, expectant.

You cleared your throat. “No.”

He nodded, scrolling further back to the earlier photos of you and him.

“Well,” he said. “I reckon ours turned out better anyway.”

Your expression relaxed just a little.

“We look natural,” he continued, zooming in. Your eyes, he noted, hadn’t looked this empty with Yeonjun. He continued anyway, “and comfortable. Like we actually enjoy spending time together.”

By the window, Yeonjun visibly stiffened.

You clicked your tongue. “M’not enjoying spending time with you right now.”

“No?” Taehyun’s tone remained innocent. “Would you prefer I left you two alone, then?”

“Actually—”

“Yeonjun?” Taehyun finished, turning his head towards him.

“Yes,” Yeonjun said. “I would.”

Aha, Taehyun thought.

Just a bit more now, he was sure.

“Oh,” he said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “Don’t mind me, then.” He flashed you a grin, all teeth and vice and everything nice. “I was just having such a nice time catching up with you. We should do it more often.”

“We saw each other on Thursday,” you said.

“And yet I already suffer tremendously.” He reached for your hand again. “Maybe we should—”

“Excuse me.” Yeonjun stepped forward abruptly, forcing you and Taehyun apart. “I need to use the restroom.”

He lingered between you for a heartbeat, his thoughts spinning and tripping over one another. Then he kept walking.

Your perfume still swam around him. Your hand had been on his chest less than five minutes ago. The space between you and Taehyun—

He needed a minute before his nervous system gave up on him for good.

You watched him disappear through the restroom doors. Beside you, Taehyun made a strangled sound suspiciously close to a laugh.

You turned slowly towards him. “You little snake.”

Taehyun exploded with all the amusement he’d been holding back, one hand comically braced against his stomach. His shoulders shook hard enough that nearby people started glancing over.

“You should see your face,” he wheezed. “I nearly—”

“What’re you trying to do here?”

Still spluttering, he managed to straighten up.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “Just celebrating.”

Before you could question him further, he sighed happily and leaned in to press a quick kiss to your cheek—purely to annoy you one last time.

It worked.

“Taehyun.”

Laughing again, he sauntered towards the rest of your friends.

At some point during the evening, the floral centrepiece on the main table had been replaced by an unstable tower of jelly shots—Soobin, Reina, Nara, and Beomgyu were currently involved in a fiercely competitive game of jelly shot Jenga (JJ, as Beomgyu called it three rounds ago and now refused to call it anything else).

Judging by the alarming redness of Soobin’s cheeks, Reina was currently winning.

Taehyun arrived just in time to watch her slide another shot from the middle row. The structure held.

She threw both arms into the air so abruptly that she nearly sent Soobin tumbling into the table.

“Yes!” she shouted.

“I’m a little scared of you,” Nara said.

Laughing, Reina caught Soobin by the front of his jacket and pulled him into a kiss that he accepted with immediate enthusiasm.

He looked a little dazed when she pulled away, thrilled by her victory and their engagement and all their friends being here. He leaned back into the table dreamily.

“Bin—” Nara’s voice died in a high-pitched squeal as Soobin’s sleeve brushed the side of the middle row.

The tower collapsed at once, shot glasses staining the formerly white tablecloth in beautiful shades of the rainbow. Screeches rang around the table: Soobin—it wasn’t my fault—SOOBIN—I DIDN’T MEAN TO—

Beomgyu was doubled over with laughter as he tried to salvage the bottom row. Taehyun assisted him by dutifully swallowing every shot he was handed.

Before anyone could recruit you into helping rebuild the disaster, you turned away, walking towards the coat rack. You rummaged through your handbag until your fingers found your cigarettes; the cardboard pack was slightly crushed at one corner. You grabbed it, found your lighter, and slipped towards the back exit.

Outside, the evening air was cool against your bare arms.

The alley beside the restaurant smelled of damp brick and smoke. Headlights swept past the opening of the street. Somewhere further down the block, a group of teenage boys shouted loudly at one another.

You inhaled deeply and held the cold in your lungs for a moment. Then you opened the pack of Camels.

It was New York that had reminded you of the old habit.

Everyone there seemed to smoke socially: outside bars, museums, small European restaurants (the performative ones, with dreadful lighting and cocktails that nearly put you in debt, and the genuine ones, with great food and small windows).

You’d grown fond of standing outside with strangers, white smoke curling through the conversations, sharing lighters, borrowing cigarettes. It gave your hands something to do and, more importantly, it provided a great excuse to leave any room.

Yeonjun did not know about this habit.

When he finally left the restroom—after splashing cold water on his face and staring at himself in the mirror for a minute—his eyes automatically began searching the restaurant for blue.

Nothing.

He scanned the room again.

Still nothing.

Concern prickled through him as he grabbed another whiskey from the bar and started circling the restaurant in search of a familiar face. Someone had to have seen you.

Glittering dresses, glasses of champagne, and those endless fucking balloons all blurred past him.

Finally, he spotted Kai by the windows.

Unfortunately for Yeonjun, Kai had already been briefed on Taehyun’s ongoing social experiment and had decided, out of scientific curiosity, to become complicit.

“She left,” Kai said. “With Taehyun, I think.”

In reality, Kai knew, Taehyun was getting a new tray of jelly shots with Beomgyu, hoping to rebuild their tower.

Yeonjun, of course, did not know this.

“Yes,” Kai said in response to his gobsmacked expression. “Like two minutes ago, maybe.”

Yeonjun scanned the restaurant a third time, faster now.

You definitely weren’t here.

And neither was Taehyun.

Something heavy dropped straight through his stomach.

“Right,” he muttered. “I’ve got to go.”

Kai watched, fascinated, as Yeonjun abruptly turned and crossed the restaurant. Still clutching his whiskey glass, he barged past groups of people and disappeared through the back exit.

That was very interesting.

Taehyun, Kai thought, sipping his champagne, was going to enjoy hearing that the breaking point for Yeonjun had apparently been the mere possibility of you leaving the party with someone else.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 10 PM

Yeonjun found you the moment he shoved through the steel door.

The metal slammed against the wall hard enough to make you jump. Your cigarette nearly slipped from your fingers, scattering ash across your hand and the wet concrete at your feet.

You looked up.

Yeonjun stood beneath the flickering exit sign. It tinted his face a sickly green. His chest rose and fell beneath the open collar of his shirt, a little too fast. His hair had started coming loose; several dark strands now hung over his forehead.

For a second, he simply stared at you. The frigid air had slapped some clarity back into him, though not enough to undo the whiskey.

This, he concluded, was the smoking area, then.

“Y-you’re not here with—” He stopped himself with a long exhale. “Okay.”

You stared back at him, completely thrown.

Slowly, Yeonjun reached back and pulled the door shut behind him. The noise from the restaurant dulled immediately, leaving only the hiss of tyres somewhere beyond the alley and the quiet electric buzz of the exit sign.

He moved away from the door and leaned his back against the wall opposite you. The whiskey glass in his hand trembled slightly, the ice tapping against the edge.

His gaze dropped to the cigarette between your fingers; your second one.

“Didn’t know you still smoked,” he said, patting distractedly at his chest until his fingers found the inside pocket of his jacket.

You chose not to question why he’d followed you out here.

“I don’t,” you replied, bringing the cigarette to your lips.

He smiled. “Yeah?”

You exhaled toward the alley. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” he said, pulling out the crumpled red package of Marlboro from his pocket. “I do.”

He planted a cigarette between his lips and nodded towards the lighter you were still clutching in your hand. He had his own, but he couldn’t care less for it right now.

You flicked the lighter open.

Yeonjun leaned forward and misjudged the distance completely. He stumbled half a step closer, ending up nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with you against the wall. Whiskey sloshed dangerously in his glass. You took a cautious step aside.

“Sorry,” he murmured around the cigarette. “You mind?”

You held the flame up to him.

This time, he leaned in carefully. The cigarette tip glowed orange in the dark, briefly illuminating the soft curve of his mouth. His cheeks hollowed as he took a drag.

You lowered the lighter and looked away.

“Smart idea,” you said, nodding towards the glass in his hand, “bringing your drink here.”

He followed your gaze downwards as if he’d forgotten he still had the whiskey with him.

“Yeah. Oh—” He glanced back at you. “You want some?”

You hesitated for only a second. “Dry throat.”

He held the glass out immediately.

You took a large swig. The whiskey burned harshly going down, but settled warm in your stomach.

“Thanks,” you said, handing the glass back.

His hand curled around it without looking, fingers grazing yours as he steadied the cigarette against the rim and took another drag. His lips brushed the edge of the glass.

Smoke drifted from his mouth in a thin silver stream, dissolving into the dark.

You only realised you’d been staring when your heart forgot its rhythm.

Turning away, you crossed one arm over your waist and lifted the cigarette again. Smoke filtered down into your lungs, calm and almost soothing.

“You should drink more,” Yeonjun said, staring absently into his glass.

“Yeah?” you said. “As much as you did tonight?”

A tired smirk pulled at the corner of his lips.

He wasn’t going to defend himself. He felt one prolonged blink away from falling asleep against the wall.

For a while, the two of you stood in silence while the smoke drifted upward between you before dissipating into the cold night air. The brick wall was rough and chilly against your shoulders, but you didn’t move.

You weren’t standing nearly as close to Yeonjun as you had in front of Taehyun’s camera, but this was somehow worse. As if without the proof of his heartbeat against yours, you couldn’t be sure he was actually here.

“Taehyun was being an idiot back there, you know,” you found yourself saying. “He didn’t mean anything.”

Yeonjun exhaled smoke slowly through his mouth.

“I know,” he said.

You glanced at him again, taking in the exhaustion on his face. The night seemed to hang off his shoulders.

“What’s going on with you, then?” you asked.

He huffed out a small laugh.

“Several things,” he said, turning his head towards you. “I’m a machine. Got loads of ongoing processes and—”

“Yeonjun.” Your voice softened. “Be real right now.”

The smile faded from his face. “I am real.”

“So, what’s the matter with you? What’s with inserting yourself into every conversation I’m having?”

He scoffed, his shoulders tightening against the wall.

“What?” he said. “I can’t talk to people now?”

“You can,” you said evenly. “Why’s it always the same people I’m talking to, though?”

He took another drag from his cigarette and tipped his head back against the wall. His gaze wandered towards the narrow strip of night sky visible above the alley as he exhaled the smoke. No stars tonight; too many streetlights drowned them out.

“Just happened that way,” he said. “The restaurant’s smaller than it looks.”

“Right.”

You turned away from him and brought the cigarette back to your lips. The paper crackled as it burned.

“Did your grandad get you those sunflowers?” Yeonjun asked.

You blew out the smoke. “What?”

“The sunflowers you’ve got at home.” His eyes stayed fixed on the sky. “Are they from your grandad?”

Your brows pulled together. “Where is this coming from?”

“Just—just answer the question.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Are they from your grandad?”

You exhaled through your nose, smoke trailing with your breath. You didn’t know when he’d noticed the sunflowers.

“They are,” you said.

He dropped his gaze back to the pavement. “Okay.”

You stared at his hands for a second. His fingers relaxed around the glass.

“So nothing’s going on with you, then,” you said, tapping ash onto the pavement. “Just acting crazy for no reason.”

He scoffed around the cigarette, teeth sinking briefly into the filter.

“Well, why should I tell you if something was going on?” he said. “You don’t want to talk to me.”

“That—” You watched his hand tighten around the glass again. “Is that the problem?”

“I don’t know,” he said. Ash fell from the end of his cigarette in grey flakes, dropping over the toes of his loafers. “I’ve got too many problems to keep track of them all.”

“What—”

“I’ve decided,” he cut in, pushing himself off the wall, “I’m going to go back to the party now.”

You watched him stub out the cigarette against the bricks behind him. It hissed faintly as it died.

This was starting to feel surreal.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “And do what?”

He tossed the filter into the bin by the door.

The smile on his face was crooked and a little mean when he looked back at you. You knew it well.

“Well,” he said, stopping in front of you, “that’s none of your business now, is it?”

“It wouldn’t be,” you said through a stream of smoke, “if you weren’t interrupting every conversation I tried to have tonight.”

“M’not interrupting,” he said. “Just joining. S’called mingling.”

You scoffed. “You’re not mingling.”

“Yeah, I am,” he said, and the whiskey finally showed its face in the sluggish click of his tongue against his teeth. “And you don’t get to have a problem with it, because you don’t want me.”

Your fingers froze around the cigarette.

Yeonjun leaned heavily back against the wall beside you, as if the effort of the words had drained whatever energy he had left. He lifted the whiskey and took a long sip. It was mostly melted ice now.

You turned to face him fully. “What—what does that even mean?”

“It means m’going to go,” he said, but didn’t budge. His eyes flicked briefly towards the door beside him before snapping back to you. “Oh—or would you rather I wait, so you can go back first? Just in case, yeah? Have to be safe.”

You pressed your lips together tightly enough that your teeth clicked.

“We’re doing this shit now?” you said.

He shrugged. “Guess we are.”

Slowly, you dropped your cigarette onto the pavement and crushed it beneath your heel before tossing the remains into the bin. You brushed your palms together.

“Okay.” You met his eyes. “You can go back first. Just don’t make tonight worse for yourself than it already is.”

“Oh, worse, yeah.” He shifted, shoulder resting against the wall, angled towards you. “How d’you reckon I could make it worse?”

You clicked your tongue and crossed your arms over your chest.

“If you have to ask that,” you said, “then you clearly already know.”

A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. He knew you wouldn’t answer him properly.

He took another sip from his glass.

“No, actually,” he said. Everything inside him was burning. “S’the whole point of asking a question. It implies not knowing the answer.”

“Okay, wise-ass. How much have you had to drink tonight?”

He turned his head, grinning. “If you have to ask that, then you clearly already know.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away from him. “I see we’re still twelve.”

“Thirteen and a half now,” he replied. “Been over a year since we were last out together.”

The tightness in your chest spread lower, frigid along your spine.

“Has it?” you said.

He glanced at you without lifting his head from the wall. “I’m offended you wouldn’t remember.”

“Why would I remember a bet we had for two weeks?”

His gaze dropped to the whiskey glass hanging loosely from his hand. The green light from the exit sign shimmered weakly across the surface, catching on the half-melted ice cubes.

For a moment, he just watched them swirl.

Then, quieter:

“Was that all there was, then?”

The silence that followed landed like a weight on your shoulders. It took you a moment to realise there wasn’t anyone else around to answer him for you.

“You said so,” you replied, tightening your grip around yourself.

Yeonjun sniffled.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said—out loud, for the first time.

You scoffed so quickly, it nearly startled him.

“Yeah?” you said. “Did that only take you a year and a half to figure out, then?”

“No.” His voice dropped. “I knew I didn’t mean it the moment I said it.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

You asked the question, but your body was already preparing to leave. Your weight shifted, one knee bent slightly. Your eyes darted towards the door once, then once more.

Yeonjun wished he’d drunk more so he wouldn’t have noticed.

“Are you going to let me explain properly,” he asked, “or do you just want a quick answer so you can keep hating me?”

You watched him for a long moment after that: the darkness in his eyes, the tight set of his jaw, the mess of his hair. Your hands dropped to your sides.

He didn’t know, then, that there was very little he could say that would actually make you hate him.

You looked away towards the mouth of the alley and waited for a car to drive by so you could breathe again.

“I don’t hate you,” you said.

Yeonjun let out a slow breath. He wasn’t hearing you.

“Sure feels like you do,” he mumbled.

Above you, the exit sign seemed to buzz louder.

“I wish I did,” you said.

Yeonjun looked up.

The alcohol must’ve dissolved whatever sense he still possessed, because your words seemed to hit him hard enough to knock his heartbeat into a painfully familiar rhythm.

Now he heard you.

“W-what does that mean, then?” he asked.

You shook your head once. “Means you should go back in. Mingle.”

“No.”

He pushed himself off the wall too quickly and had to steady his balance before he lowered the whiskey glass carefully onto the pavement. Then he took a step closer.

“Explain,” he said. “You don’t hate me?”

You straightened instinctively against the wall, startled by the proximity.

“No,” you said.

“Why not?”

He suspected that might have been a stupid question. And still, his eyes moved slowly between yours, searching your face for the answer. There was nothing secretive left in him tonight; he’d drowned his restraint in the whiskey.

He wanted to know what he was to you now.

Wanted to be close to you.

Wanted you.

“Hating you,” you said, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “would mean I care about you.”

Yeonjun felt his stomach twist.

He’d heard you say this before: in the dark of his wardrobe room, surrounded by hangers of his clothes and hardly able to take a breath.

“Right,” he murmured, and the darkness in his eyes seemed to grow. “You don’t care.”

The alley around you suddenly felt much too small.

“Right,” you echoed.

“Mm.” He nodded once, eyes still fixed on yours. “Still want to jump out of a window every time I open my mouth, yeah?”

Your breath caught at the question. You could almost feel the plywood backing of his wardrobe against your spine again. Could almost smell the old wood.

“Sometimes,” you said.

His lips twitched.

“Sometimes,” he repeated. A slow smile touched his lips. “That’s better. I like that you’re honest.”

“Mhmm. I’ve never lied to you.”

Surprise flashed in his eyes. You were handing his words back to him.

He remembered you calling him performative for saying that to you back then. Remembered the quiet night and the way you refused to look at him, no matter how much he’d wanted you to. Remembered how desperately he’d hoped you’d believe him then. How desperately he hoped for it now.

The whiskey churned in his stomach.

He moved half a step closer before he realised he was doing it.

“You’re lying to me right now,” he said quietly.

You could hear your pulse in your ears. “I’m not.”

“You are.” He was close enough for your vision to blur around him. “You do care.”

Shivers raced down your spine, so sudden that they almost hurt.

Yeonjun waited. He needed you to admit that you cared. Needed proof that what you said wasn’t true.

You needed it to be true.

When you didn’t speak, he raised one hand. His fingers brushed the ends of your hair, cautious in case you’d shove him away. The touch was light enough that you barely felt it, yet every nerve ending inside you seemed to focus there anyway.

Gently, he swept your hair over your shoulder, exposing the side of your neck to the cool night air.

He really liked your hair tonight.

Really liked that the rest of the alleyway swirled around him, but you stayed completely still.

“S’why you’re out here now,” he murmured. “Asking me what’s the matter with me.” He pulled back just enough to look at your face again. “Because you care.”

“I care,” you replied, breathless, “about the way you’re making us look in front of everyone.”

He tilted his head slightly. “And how am I making us look?”

“Bad.”

“Mm.” He leaned closer again. The toes of his shoes nudged the platform of your heels. “Why?”

His fingertips brushed your face before you could answer, a little cold and feather-light against your skin. Your shoulders pressed harder against the wall behind you.

You didn’t speak.

“Why am I making us look bad, love?” he repeated softly.

Your lungs tightened around the next breath.

Then his palm settled fully against the side of your face, devastatingly familiar.

Your eyes closed before you meant them to.

His thumb brushed over your cheek.

You blinked your eyes open again.

“You’re making it look,” you whispered, “like there’s something here.”

“Hmm.” He was close enough now that the warmth of every word reached your skin before the meaning did. “And there’s nothing here, yeah?”

There was nothing here: every inhale brought his chest against yours. Every exhale brought his mouth closer.

You squeezed your eyes shut again and took a breath.

The alleyway wrapped around you. Cars drifted by on the street. The exit sign pulsed loudly overhead. His cologne clung to the smoke in the air.

It was cold here.

The bricks were rough against your spine.

Before your mind could catch up to you, you pushed yourself off the wall and kissed him.

Yeonjun exhaled against your mouth, nearly choking as he caught your lips between his. His hand tightened at your jaw, still soft, but firm enough to hold you there. To tell you, wordlessly and desperately, not to pull away too soon.

His lips were soft and faintly bitter with smoke.

It was new, this taste of him. You didn’t like not knowing it.

Your hands caught instinctively in the lapels of his jacket, fingers tightening in the fabric as his shoulders loosened under your touch. He sighed against your mouth, emptying his lungs completely so he could breathe you in instead.

Your gloss was still sweet, still tasting faintly of cherry.

He hoped it would haunt him forever.

He tilted your head back to deepen the kiss—so slowly that you felt every moment of it: the parting of his lips, the slight tremor when you pulled closer.

Your fingers found the back of his neck and slid upwards into the strands of his hair. He made a small sound when you tugged lightly.

It went straight through you.

His other hand slid down to your waist, pulling you away from the wall and into him until your balance disappeared into the kiss. Your grip on his jacket tightened; your breath sped up.

“D’you care about me?” he murmured against your lips.

Your response came as a muffled breath, fingers tightening in his hair.

“Tell me,” he whispered, the words barely coherent. “Tell me you care.”

“I care.”

The kiss changed at once; his mouth moved against yours faster, rough with want. It stole the breath straight from your lungs.

His grip tightened around you. He could feel the texture of your dress against his palm, could feel the heat of your skin when his fingers brushed the cutouts on the sides of your waist.

He broke the kiss with a sharp, helpless gasp.

He was so fucking drunk.

“Fuck,” he whispered. His forehead dropped against yours. His lungs felt hollow, but his chest—his chest was so full. “Fuck, fuck, fu—”

“I’m sorry—”

“No.” Both of his hands framed your face instantly. “Fuck, baby, no—” He pressed his lips to yours again. “No.” And again. “Not sorry.” And again. “Not sorry at all.”

Each kiss seemed to carry something different: regret and relief, questions he wanted to ask you, promises you wouldn’t let him make.

You were drowning in the warmth of his mouth, in the solid press of his chest against yours. In the unbearable ease with which your body remembered him.

The tension softened, but your mouths still lingered together in small, quiet touches.

One more kiss.

Another.

A pause that should’ve been the end of it.

Then one more kiss anyway.

And another—

When you finally pulled apart, neither of you could breathe properly.

Yeonjun stayed close enough for the taste of his whiskey to linger on your tongue. Close enough that, if you leaned forward even slightly, you could kiss him again.

“That—” You reached up to wipe your smudged gloss from the corner of his lips with your thumb. He wished you’d left it there. “T-that shouldn’t have happened.”

Something painful flickered in his eyes.

He smiled, but that only made him look sadder.

Slowly, he stepped back. His hands slid down your arms, fingers lingering on your skin for a moment longer before falling away.

“Of course,” he said.

“I mean it.”

“I know you do, love.”

He took another step back and turned away, dragging a hand across his face as he tried to pull himself back together. You watched the line of his shoulders for a minute, your lungs unconsciously syncing to the rhythm of his breathing.

Then you dropped your gaze to the pavement instead. There were cigarette burn stains across the concrete, dark little circles.

“I-I’m going to go,” you said. “And we—we shouldn’t talk again tonight.”

He didn’t move.

A car drove past the alley.

You swallowed hard. “I need verbal agreement from you.”

Yeonjun shut his eyes.

You’d always recovered faster than him. Always been better at drawing lines and standing behind them.

“We won’t talk again tonight,” he said at last, still facing away from you.

The alley felt unstable around him now. If he looked back, if he saw your face again, he knew he’d drag you against him and start this all over again.

“Okay.” You pushed yourself off the wall. “That’s good.”

You moved silently enough that he barely heard you cross to the door. The hinges creaked when you pulled it open.

“I missed this, though,” he said before he could stop himself.

The door stopped moving.

Yeonjun didn’t turn, but he felt you freeze behind him all the same.

He pictured you standing in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, eyes lowered, fighting the same expression you’d worn yesterday in the stairwell.

That would haunt him forever, too.

“Don’t,” you whispered. It was a plea. “I—I’m going.”

The door shut behind you.

Yeonjun took a long, shuddering breath. He dug his lighter from his back pocket. It was nearly empty.

He needed another two cigarettes before he could force himself to go back inside.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 11:30 PM

Soon, people began to leave the party in small groups, lingering in the doorway of the restaurant with jackets slung over their arms, hugging each other goodbye three times before actually parting. Laughter kept spilling out onto the pavement. Every few minutes, someone suggested, ‘one more for the road, yeah?’

You and Yeonjun were both still here.

Since coming back inside, neither of you had looked directly at the other.

Yeonjun, who had technically honoured his promise not to speak to you again tonight, kept checking the time on his phone to see exactly when tonight would finally be over.

Most of the pleasant whiskey buzz had already started wearing off. Now he was left with a dull headache pressing at the back of his skull.

While Reina and Soobin stood near the entrance, thanking people for coming, you quietly began tidying the remnants of the evening so they’d have less to deal with later.

Before long, Taehyun and Nara showed up to help.

The three of you moved easily around each other through the half-empty restaurant, stacking scattered plates, gathering abandoned champagne flutes, rescuing forgotten handbags and suspicious flash drives from underneath tables.

Every now and then, one of you would laugh at something, and the other two would soon join in.

The sound irritated Yeonjun instantly.

He wanted to be part of it.

He stood near the back of the room with a half-empty whiskey glass and spent nearly a full minute debating whether helping you clean would count as breaking the agreement between you.

Eventually, he decided it wouldn’t, as long as he didn’t speak.

Twenty more minutes until midnight.

“We used to stay out until four in the morning at least,” Nara remarked as Yeonjun silently took a stack of empty plates from her hands. “Is this us getting old?”

“It’s not,” Soobin called from the doorway. He clapped one of his old school friends on the shoulder before turning back inside. “The restaurant has working hours, s’all.”

“And you didn’t think about the after-party?” Nara asked.

“I think they did,” Taehyun cut in before Soobin could answer. “We’re just not invited.”

Behind you, Reina succumbed to giggles, leaning against Soobin’s shoulder while he fought to suppress his grin. She swayed lightly in her heels.

Seventeen more minutes, Yeonjun thought. And he can make a comment, too.

Beomgyu and Kai returned from the restroom and were dispatched, at once, to stack chairs while the rest of you finished clearing the dishes.

Finally, after apologising to the exhausted staff for staying late, all eight of you stepped outside. A few of the guests were still here. Apparently, there weren’t enough taxis in the city for everyone.

Phones glowed across the pavement. Somewhere farther down the street, a man argued with an Uber driver in a language you didn’t recognise, but seemed to understand perfectly. His hands flailed wildly in the direction of the intersection up ahead.

Reina and Soobin had planned in advance and ordered a taxi half an hour ago.

It arrived first.

The two of them climbed into it to raucous applause and dramatic cheers from the pavement, as if they were off for their honeymoon rather than just heading home. Fully committing to the performance, Reina rolled down the window and gave everyone a graceful royal wave.

You laughed.

They looked radiant tonight. You couldn’t stop watching them.

A few steps away, Yeonjun couldn’t stop watching you.

Another five minutes later, an Uber rolled across the street, the headlights washing everyone’s jackets silver-white for a moment.

You checked the license plate against your phone and reached for the back door.

“Bye!” Taehyun called after you.

“Text me when you get home,” Nara added automatically. Despite all her complaints about the night ending, she sounded ready to curl up and fall asleep right there on the curb.

You gave them both a wave and ducked into the backseat.

The sight of your hand disappearing behind the edge of the door made something inside Yeonjun drop hard enough to leave him briefly weightless.

All he remembered was taking a breath.

“Hello,” you said to the driver, reaching back to pull the door shut—only for it to jerk backwards.

Yeonjun climbed into the backseat, nudging you to a side, and slammed the door shut.

You stared at him. “W-what the f—”

“105 Dove Road,” he told the driver. “Thank you.”

Then, as though none of this was remotely unhinged behaviour, he turned towards the window and gave someone outside the restaurant a lazy little wave. Nara was visibly staring.

The Uber driver watched Yeonjun through the rear-view mirror for a very long second.

“Miss,” he said cautiously, his eyes shifting towards you, “is that the right address?”

Your surprise doubled at his question. Not many men bothered to check in with a woman when another man answered for her.

You glanced sideways at Yeonjun’s expectant, utterly unashamed eyes.

Sighing, you scooched across the backseat towards the opposite window and gave the driver an apologetic nod. It wasn’t his fault Yeonjun was insane.

“Yes,” you said. “He’s my neighbour.”

“Okay.” The driver shrugged easily. “Just making sure.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

He nodded and carefully backed away from the curb, manoeuvring around another Uber that Nara was currently attempting to climb into while still laughing at something Bemgyu was saying through the open door. He was pointing directly at your car.

Behind them, Kai had his phone out and seemed to be taking pictures of you.

This was great.

For a moment, you considered blocking everyone in your contacts.

As the Uber slid into dwindling Saturday night traffic, Yeonjun closed his eyes and sank deeper into the seat, letting his head fall back against the headrest. You kept your eyes fixed on the window instead of him, watching the streets smear past in streaks of neon.

He hummed beside you. “Warm here.”

You gritted your teeth.

“What did I tell you we wouldn’t do again?” you asked, trying not to let your voice carry to the front of the car.

Yeonjun gathered his hands on his lap. “We wouldn’t talk tonight.”

“Right,” you said. “And what are we doing?”

He cracked one eye open.

Ignoring the slow spin of his surroundings, he dug his phone out of his pocket and heaved it as though it weighed several kilograms. The screen lit his face with a ghostly glow.

“It’s technically tomorrow,” he mumbled, holding the phone vaguely in your direction.

His lockscreen showed 12:12 AM.

His arm dropped again, head thunking softly against the seat. You stared at him for a second.

“I’m starting to think you really are unwell,” you informed him.

A faint smile appeared on the corner of his lips. “We live in the same building.”

“That is not why you got into my car.”

Yeonjun opened his eyes and slowly rolled his head towards you.

“No?” he said softly. “Tell me why, then.”

Clenching your jaw, you looked back out the window. Further away from the city centre, most of the shops had gone dark. A pair of drunk men stumbled past a deli with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

“You wanted everyone to see it.” Irritation sharpened your voice. You wished you’d drunk more tonight. “Wanted to send everyone some message. Like you’re marking your fucking territ—”

“No,” he said, eyes sliding shut again. “S’actually because you said we shouldn’t talk again tonight. And then we didn’t, even though you were right there, and now I feel a little bit like m’dying. S’all.”

A violent shiver snaked down your spine.

“That’s your future hangover,” you said.

“No.” His lips twitched slightly. “S’just you.”

He heard you draw a sharp breath and opened his eyes to find that you’d closed yours.

When you eventually looked back at him and found him already watching you, you still didn’t speak.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I can’t—I shouldn’t be saying shit like this. S’not your fault we ended up here anyway. I’m the one who fucked up and—”

“Yeonjun.”

It didn’t sound like a demand for him to stop speaking.

He didn’t know what it sounded like.

“I—” He swallowed and dragged a hand roughly down his face. The tips of his fingers felt like ice against his cheeks. “Right now, I’m really drunk.”

He paused, then frowned.

That wasn’t right. He’d developed a solid alcohol tolerance over the last year, but he’d transcended even that tonight. He seemed to have acquired some sort of higher spiritual condition now, available only to those courageous enough to drink their weight in liquor.

His head felt detachable.

Oh—a bit like Eeyore’s tail, he remembered. He’d had a plushie as a kid. The Velcro on the tail had worn out, and he constantly worried he’d drop it in some shop and lose it forever.

A fresh wave of horror washed over him – what, then, if that happened to his head?

“You’ve been drunk the whole night,” you said when he didn’t add anything else.

He shook his head weakly against the headrest—it hadn’t detached yet, thank God—but didn’t say anything else.

Outside, the city darkened further. The pavements emptied street by street. The Uber passed cafés with shuttered windows, dark office buildings, and lonely bus stops bathed in the cold glow of streetlights.

Yeonjun watched your reflection in the glass of the window.

Even in this state, he could tell that the conversation was ending again, and there was no promise of it starting again tomorrow. Or the day after.

Actually, maybe the real conversation between you had ended a long time ago. Maybe it ended that day in grad school.

Everything since then had just been coincidence, like you said.

Just circumstances.

And Violet.

God, he missed Violet.

She was probably sprawled across the middle of his bed by now. She’d probably try to suffocate him in his sleep later for abandoning her all evening, and to be fair, he thought he deserved it.

“I…” He hesitated, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth. “C-could you stay for a minute after we get back? I want to talk to you.”

The shadows across your face shifted in the passing streetlights.

“Think we’ve talked enough for one night,” you said.

“Please.”

You continued to watch the city rush past the window.

Quietly, you found yourself thinking of your dream again. Thinking of the way the blue car—was that Yeonjun’s dead Nissan?—had kept passing you on the road. How relieved you’d felt to see it again.

You thought you knew better than to believe in dreams.

Carefully, you turned your gaze to the floor of the car. You could see Yeonjun in your peripheral vision, leaning back against the seat. He was still watching you.

“Fine,” you said at last.

You didn’t know if you knew better.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 30, 2026. 12:45 AM

When the driver finally stopped outside your building, you made sure to leave a significantly larger tip than you’d planned—partly because he’d treated you like an actual human being, but mostly because he’d been forced to listen to two people spiral for about half an hour, and no one deserved that on a Saturday night.

Yeonjun climbed out first.

You followed more slowly, smoothing your dress once your heels hit the pavement. The night air was damp against your skin, cool enough to sting where your pulse still raced. You were very tired.

For a moment after the door shut, the two of you stood beneath the streetlights and watched the Uber disappear down the street.

The silence that followed felt old.

It reminded you of grad school again. Of the long nights outside your building with Yeonjun standing near the entrance, his hands buried in his pockets, while neither of you looked for a reason to say goodbye.

You remembered not wanting to disturb Reina by bringing him upstairs. Remembered how, even then, wanting him that much had felt unsafe.

You wondered whether one day you’d stop remembering.

“Look,” Yeonjun started with a ragged sigh. “Maybe I did get into that car with you to send a message.”

Your gaze flicked to him.

“But not to them,” he added. “To you.”

Wind moved through the empty street, stirring the birch trees lining the pavement. Their leaves whispered overhead.

You knew you shouldn’t ask the next question.

You’d spent over a year closing those doors inside you, stacking anger against them. Pride against them. Grief. Anything to keep them from opening again.

But some exhausted part of you seemed to have quietly resigned itself to the fact that this was going to hurt regardless of whether they opened or not.

“What message?” you asked.

Yeonjun stared at the cracks in the pavement under his loafers. There was still some ash on the left one.

“I don’t want to not talk to you anymore,” he said, digging his nails into his palm to force the street to steady around him. “Or only run into you in the lobby sometimes. Or just—just be a neighbour to you. I c—I can’t do that with you.”

You felt heat flare under your skin: at the back of your neck and on the side of your face and across your lips. Everywhere he’d touched you tonight, as though he’d left invisible marks that he could trigger just with his voice.

They burned at the thought that you wouldn’t talk anymore.

That you would only run into each other sometimes.

That you would only be neighbours.

“I can’t do that with you, either,” you said, turning your gaze towards the dark building across the street. Only a few windows still glowed.

Yeonjun watched you, holding his breath.

Hope was a very dangerous thing to hand him; he didn’t know how to hold it.

“So what does that mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, fingers clutching the fabric of your dress. “Maybe it means we shouldn’t talk at all anymore.”

He shook his head, stubborn even drunk. The street tilted around him and bent backwards. He stumbled slightly and caught himself against the nearest lamppost, his shoes clattering against the metal.

“No,” he said. “That—that can’t be what it means.”

He looked pale under the feeble yellow of the streetlight. Looked like he’d stay here until he became part of the lamppost.

“Why not?” you said.

He steadied himself against the pole, fingers tightening around the freezing metal. “Because it’s you and me.”

“So?”

“So we’ve always been talking.”

Your gaze drifted down to the base of the lamppost. “Much good it’s done us.”

Horribly, he realised that was true.

He had nothing concrete to offer you to prove that talking to him was worth the effort.

He’d failed to prove to you he was a good boyfriend back in grad school. Failed to tell you what mattered when it mattered. Failed at everything he’d tried.

And he’d never taken himself for much of an optimist, yet, despite all of that, he still stood here, in the cold, with tired eyes and whiskey for blood, his shoulders slumped beneath his suit jacket, looking at you like he still intended to get everything right this time.

It was you.

It had always been you.

He knew he’d carry that around with him for the rest of his life, whether you wanted him to or not.

“That can—everything can change,” he said.

He couldn’t tell whether the nausea twisting his guts came from the alcohol or the look in your eyes. Maybe both.

“It shouldn’t,” you said.

“Why not?”

“Because it—” You stopped yourself with a sharp exhale and looked down at the stubborn grass forcing its way through the cracks in the pavement. When you spoke again, your voice had gone quieter. “We can’t do this again, I told you. I’m sorry about what happened toni—”

“No.” The force of his interruption snapped your gaze back to him. “Don’t apologise for anything that happened tonight.”

You held his gaze for a second before looking away again. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“I wanted you to.”

The more he spoke, the less you seemed to move.

He let go of the lamppost, but didn’t dare step closer.

“That doesn’t make it better,” you said.

“Why not?”

You shook your head. The pins in your hair had started digging into your scalp, and every tiny movement hurt. You didn’t have many more why nots left in you.

“We can’t do that again,” you said.

“But we—we’re not doing that again,” he argued. “It’s different now.”

“It’s not, though. It’s still us. Nothing’s different.”

“But you won’t even let me talk to you.” Agitation sharpened his words now; he’d stopped trying to soften them. “So how can you know that?”

Your fingers pressed into fists. “We’ve talked enou—”

“No, we haven’t! We never talked about what we were—what we were doin—”

“Well, whose fault is that, then?” Your voice cracked through the empty street. You looked at him with eyes bright enough to burn. “I wanted to talk to you! I fucking—I tried to talk to you. Back in grad school, I tried. Twice. Both times, you walked away without explaining shit. ‘Things were happening.’” You scoffed. “Fuck that. Now you want to talk? Now, over a year later, you want to fucking talk?”

“I want to explain why it took so long,” he said quickly. “I—”

“No,” you cut through him. “No, we’re not doing that. You think it—think I’m fine, yeah? Said I’d forget about you. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve never been bothered by people leaving, right? Like water off my back, every single time.” Your chest shuddered as you tried to take a breath. “We—no. No, that’s it. I—I’m not doing that again with you. I can’t.”

You turned away from him.

Yeonjun stared at the back of your dress in silence. The vivid blue looked lighter beneath the streetlights. He watched the fabric shift with each wild breath you tried to tame.

He hadn’t been thinking about your mother when he’d walked away in grad school. He’d been thinking about his own.

And it hit him, finally, that you had cared about him far more deeply than he’d ever allowed himself to believe. And he had hurt you far worse than he’d understood.

He should’ve known.

He should’ve fucking known.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

A muscle jumped faintly beneath your shoulder blades. “Go home, Jun.”

The nickname knocked against him with frightening force.

“It’s cold,” you added. “You need to sleep this off.”

Yeonjun closed his eyes. He’d already got used to the dizziness and the nausea. The real problem now was the sharp pressure around his heart.

Maybe he’d drunk enough to damage something important. Or maybe it was the broken pieces, finding new ways to break again.

“I’m—I really am sorry,” he whispered.

“I know.”

You still didn’t turn around.

He didn’t move.

“Go inside, Yeonjun,” you said again. “S’cold.”

There was a slight shudder in your voice that seemed to trail down your whole body.

Swallowing, Yeonjun shrugged out of his jacket. The cold hit him instantly through the thin white shirt beneath, but he barely reacted.

He walked towards you, keeping his gaze ahead to ignore the dizzying sway of the pavement beneath him. Taking a deep breath, he lowered the jacket over your shoulders, the fabric still warm from the heat of his body.

Your breath caught in your throat all over again.

His hands rested on your shoulders for a second. Then he stepped back.

Immediately, you were swathed in him again: smoke, whiskey, the bergamot of his cologne, even traces of your own perfume. You gathered the collar of the jacket tightly in your hand and finally turned towards the building.

The doors groaned as you pulled them open. You glanced back at him, waiting.

Yeonjun lowered his gaze and gave a small nod before following you into the lobby.

Then he took the lift.

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𝗒𝖾𝗈𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗇 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 ﹕ 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗒 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 ﹕ 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 ﹕ 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖺 / 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗌 / 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽 ﹕ 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 + 𝖻𝗈𝗈𝗄: ‘𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌’

𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 ﹕ 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍 ﹕ 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍

… 𝖠 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗀𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁. 𝖭𝖾𝗐 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾, 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗌, 𝖺 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍. 𝖳𝗁𝗋𝖾𝖾 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾. 𝖨𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗈𝖿 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒’𝗏𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾’𝗌 𝖸𝖾𝗈𝗇𝗃𝗎𝗇. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗍 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝖾, 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝖽𝖾.

𝖩𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗈𝗇 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗒 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍, 𝗉𝗎𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝖺𝖼𝗁 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗇, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗋𝗒, 𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾. 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐𝗅𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗀𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗀𝗈.

𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌’𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍

© 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟨 𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖻𝗅𝗎. 𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝖱𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖱𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽

[dawngyu]

₊ ˚ ⊹ ིྀ 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒

pairing: soulmate idol choi beomgyu x soulmate fem!reader

Sitting at parties surrounded by lovers, a silent third wheel at movie nights, the friend holding the camera at weddings, your hands are always alone in the spaces where others are full. Were you an error in the grand scheme? An anomaly? A glitch in the unforgiving script? Or maybe, he simply doesn’t really… exist. That’s how you ended up here, standing beside your korean-pop-obsessed friend who practically dragged you out and swore you’d love the show. It all became a blur when your eyes met his. He’s on stage, gripping the mic impossibly still, staring down back at you like he feels it too. He shouldn’t be real.

warnings: red-string au, strangers to lovers, reader is two years older, normal society norms, waiting, anxiety, doubts, sasaengs, insecurities, hasty decisions, drunk-in-love beomgyu. pov switching. everything written is a work of fiction. let me know if I missed anything.

smut-warnings: MDNI, explicit-descriptions, missionary, fingering, oral!fem receiving, dom beomgyu.

wc: 20k — playlist.

notes: REPUBLISHED. fighting both my delulu and my demons while writing this. 😭 so glad to be part of this beautiful event.

1/5 part of the valentine event with talented moas! see the full masterlist here.

If fate promised you something so certain, how could you not long for it?

Since childhood, you’ve heard the stories. The way people speak in hushed voices, weaving fate into riddles, how somewhere out there, it's waiting—a single red string, unseen until the exact moment it’s meant to appear.

The rules are simple: the second your eyes meet theirs, a delicate crimson thread will wrap and tug around your ring finger, stretching across, tied to the one who is destined to love you.

You watched it happen to everyone else. From playground giggles in elementary school to whispered confessions in high school hallways, to late-night talks in college dorm rooms. You listened as your friends spoke about finding their own soulmates, the feeling, the pull, the process. It's everywhere. In the way, your parents fit together like pages of the same story. On the way your younger sister, still so new to the world found her match.

When you’re told your whole life that destiny is waiting for you, how could you not ache for it?

The universe doesn’t make mistakes. And yet, your hands remained... stringless.

And now you wonder if it did, with you.

"One, two, three, smile!" You press the shutter, capturing the way they look at each other. You lower the camera, but they don’t even notice. They’re too caught up in their own little world, whispering sentences only they’ll ever understand. They laugh, eyes soft, bodies leaning in just a little closer.

How does love do that? How does it make someone shine like they’re carrying sunlight beneath their skin? Like just standing beside the right person is enough to set them alight?

And why, no matter how long you wait, does that light never seem to find you?

There are days you curse it—this cruel design, this aching uncertain certainty. You tell yourself it would be easier not to know, to live without the quiet hope that somewhere, someone is meant to find you, or that fate had already written your name beside someone else’s.

And then there are days you fear it.

What if they don’t want to find you? What if that’s why you’re still alone? What if they got it wrong, skipped over your name, and he simply… doesn’t exist?

You're an anomaly. A glitch in the well-made script.

You lost count of how many times you wished it was never made this way. That love shouldn’t be a promise. Yet in the deepest hours of the night, you found yourself; gasping, trembling, and sobbing to your palms. The feeling of—

How can you miss someone you've never met?

You want to reach for a hand you’ve never held. You long for a voice you’ve never heard, a scent you’ve never breathed, a shadow you’ve never chased. And more than anything, you wish you had a name to whisper, to give you hope.

You swallow, forcing a smile as you turn back to the couple. "Congratulations," you say, "It’s a beautiful wedding."

"Thank you, Y/N!" Ha-rin squeals, practically glowing as she steps forward to hug you. "And thank you for being our photographer. I know you must be busy."

"You’re welcome," you reply, adjusting your camera strap. "It’s what I do, after all."

Ju-won steps in then, reaching for Ha-rin’s hand like he can’t stand even a moment of space between them. "Thank you, Y/N," he says, his eyes never straying far from his wife.

They were your high school classmates. You remember the day they met; first year, first morning, when their eyes met across the classroom, and just like that, the red string appeared. They grew together, from awkward introductions to effortless friendship, and now, here they were, husband and wife.

A picture of everything the universe had promised them.

Ju-won leans in, pressing a kiss to Ha-rin’s cheek like it’s the first time, like they haven’t spent years by each other’s side. The look in their eyes is so easy, so full of love, that you have to look away.

You can't look.

"Uh, I’ll get some drinks," you say, forcing a smile that feels as out of place as you do. You don’t wait for a response. You just turn, your heels clicking against the polished floor, head spinning as you try to count how many weddings you’ve attended this year.

Or no. You’ve lost count.

Everyone you grew up with; your friends, your classmates have already found their soulmates. Most are married now, some already raising children.

Your heels dig into your feet with each hurried step, but you don’t slow down. You just keep moving, past everyone. You know exactly where you’ll end up. The same place you always do.

Alone at the sidelines.

You grab a drink, bringing it to your lips a little too quickly, hoping the cool burn will settle the unease twisting in your stomach.

"Hey! It’s been a while!" A voice cuts calls out, familiar but not familiar enough. You turn to see a girl skidding towards you, her face vaguely recognizable. A former classmate? A clubmate? Someone who once sat next to you in a lecture hall?

"How have you been?" she asks, taking a drink for herself.

"I’m fine, thanks," you reply, forcing an easy nod before taking another sip.

A second passes, and then another girl joins the conversation, breathless with laughter. "Beom-seok finally let me go," she teases, tilting her head toward the man across the room, her soulmate. "The guy’s obsessed."

"Of course he is," the first girl grins. "He’s your soulmate." She swirls her drink before adding, "Mine just got back from overseas. He’ll see me tomorrow once he’s in the city." And there it is again, circling back to the same topic, the one you can never take part in. You nod, offering a small smile, pretending to listen.

Because what is there to say when everyone else has something you don’t?

"Y/N?" Your name pulls you out of your thoughts.

"Huh?"

"Did you meet yours yet?" The question hits like a slow, squeezing ache in your chest.

"No," you say, reaching for another drink. It's embarrassing that everyone knows you're empty. "I haven't."

"That's… weird, right?" The first girl tilts her head, genuinely puzzled. "I mean, we sat through those lectures together. Didn’t the studies say most people find their soulmate before twenty-five? That’s what the records say."

There’s no malice in her voice, just matter-of-fact. Like she’s pointing out a statistic, saying out what’s already been made painfully clear to you. It’s the same tired reminder, the same unspoken question: what’s wrong with you?

You’re used to it by now.

"Yeah," you say, unwilling to argue. What’s the point? Your mind slips back to those reckless high school days; the days when older girls, too cool and too cruel, mocked you for not having a soulmate. You remember snapping back, pretending their words didn’t sting.

Later, the tears came on the bus ride home, carving rivers down your cheeks as you sob. Strangers offered tissues, soft words, awkward kindness, but none of it could stitch you back together. You remember your mother's words after seeing her home. To stop them from hurting you, you have to accept all of yourself.

But how do you accept the whole of you, when it doesn’t even feel like you have all of you?

From the corner of your eye, you catch the second girl nudging her. "Don’t mind her, Y/N," she says quickly. "She doesn’t always think before she talks." Then, after a beat, she adds, "Have you tried dating in the meantime? You know, while you're waiting?"

You blink at her, taken aback.

"I mean, it's not like it’s cheating, right? Since you haven’t met them yet."

You set your drink down, your fingers suddenly cold. "Why are you suggesting something you wouldn’t even do?" Your voice is calm, but it makes her shift uncomfortably. "Or did you? Does your soulmate know?"

Neither of them speaks. Guilt in their expressions. You don’t wait for an answer. You're done for tonight.

It’s time to go.

You turn away, not bothering to look back. No one needs you here, your part is done. Your role here is over. You pull out your phone, quickly typing out a polite apology to the bride before slipping it back into your pocket.

The drive home is silent, and the buzz of the engine is the only company you have. Your hands grip the wheel a little too tightly, your thoughts drifting despite your best efforts to keep them at bay. When you finally reach your small apartment, you step out, clutching yet another wedding souvenir in one hand a meaningless token of a night that wasn’t yours to celebrate.

You lock the door behind you and lean against it blinking, exhaling shakily. "I guess today wasn’t the day either," you murmur to no one in particular, wiping away the single tear that managed to escape. "What's taking you so long?"

No matter how often you whispered this question, it never hurt any less.

"What's taking you so long?"

Beomgyu groans from under the covers, trying to burrow deeper into the warmth of his bed. The sudden tug of his blanket makes him blindly reach out, attempting to grab it back. "You shi—"

"Beomgyu, you're the last one. We're all almost ready to go," Soobin says, adjusting his belt in the mirror. "Look at this little child."

Beomgyu stretches with a dramatic yawn. "I'm up, I'm up," he mumbles, sitting up sluggishly and blinking against the light. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, feet landing on the bedside table. Soobin shakes his head but doesn't stick around, his job is done. Beomgyu is finally awake.

Minutes later, Beomgyu trudges into the living room, hair a mess, voice still deep with sleep. "Are we eating there?"

The entire room turns to look at him.

"You woke up late, and that’s the first thing you care about?" Yeonjun teases, shaking his head with a laugh.

"Well, I didn’t eat last night," Beomgyu grumbles.

"Oh?"

"Liar," the maknae pipes up from the couch, casually applying lip balm. "You literally snuck out to eat."

"You snitch," Beomgyu gasps, feigning betrayal. "I didn’t raise you to turn on me like this!"

"You? Raise me?" Kai scoffs. "Soobin hyung’s the one who raised me, what are you talking about?"

Soobin smirks and chucks Beomgyu’s towel straight at his face. "Exactly. Now go shower, you idiot."

Laughter erupts around the room as Beomgyu groans, trudging toward the bathroom. "Shower quick, hyung," Taehyun calls out.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

Beomgyu’s slightly damp hair clings to the back of his neck. He hadn’t had time to dry it properly before they rushed out of the dorm, there was no room for delays today. A broadcast for their comeback. Another promotion. His stylist would handle it in the green room anyway.

They pile into the van, the usual quiet settling over them. Despite being fully dressed and ready, exhaustion hangs heavy. One by one, his members drift off, heads resting against windows, bodies slumped in their seats. Only Kai remains awake, lost in his own world, music pulsing through his earphones. The maknae was so engrossed on his phone, obviously texting with a small smile on his face.

Beomgyu sighs, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, his breath slightly fogging up the window. Today would be a long day. Rehearsals, performances, a challenge video, taping. He missed this. He missed MOAs. The rush of the stage. The high of performing. And then—

Oh.

The van slows at a red light, and his gaze drifts absentmindedly to the sidewalk. His chest tightens.

A couple walks by, laughing, hands intertwined, completely lost in their own world. The way they move together, effortlessly in sync. In love. Content. Happy. He stares longer than he should.

He can't look away.

His throat feels tight as the van lurches forward again, pulling him out of his thoughts. He blinks hard, shifting in his seat. The image stayed, pressed into the back of his mind.

All four of his members had already found theirs—their soulmates. The one they could lean on when the world became too loud. Beomgyu was happy for them, of course, he was. He remember how he was when Kai blushed when he met his soulmate recently, right after his 23rd birthday.

Everyone teased the maknae relentlessly for weeks.

Beomgyu had been too busy his whole life, training since he was just a kid, running full speed toward a dream. His mind is busy to the point he sometimes forgets it. He does not mean to. It's just that—he never let himself dwell on it for too long. Pushing it aside became second nature, the same way he’d forget to eat when he was too busy, too distracted.

But every year, without fail, when the room dimmed and his birthday candles are in front of him, his wish was always the same.

His soulmate.

It didn’t matter how many years passed or how much he achieved in life—when the glow of those tiny flames danced in his eyes, it was the only thing his heart whispered.

Beomgyu exhales shakily, his fingers curling into his hoodie. a quiet sigh slipping from his pouting lips.

Where are you?

The stark white walls of the hospital room loom over, mocking your awkwardness.

"There's nothing wrong with you, dear," the woman in front of you says, her lab coat lending a sense of authority to her words. Her voice is gentle, reassuring, but it barely soothes the unease twisting in your chest. "Soulmates do tend to find each other early, statistically speaking. But that’s just a pattern, not a guarantee."

You swallow hard. The lump in your throat stays put. "Is there… any chance this is a mistake?" Your voice is quieter than you intend, fragile in a way you hate. "That someone could go their whole life without one? That—" you hesitate, your chest tightening, "that I’m just… meant to be alone?"

Something flickers across her face, pity maybe. You’re not sure. "I’ll look into it, I promise," she says after a moment. "I know twenty-six feels late, and I know it’s frustrating. But trust in destiny a little longer. If you want, I can also recommend a therapist. I know the pressure can get to you."

Her words are meant to be comforting. They only make the weight in your chest heavier. You shake your head, managing a quiet “thank you” before slipping out of the room, the door clicking shut behind you.

“How was it?” Da-hee’s voice reaches you before you even look up. She’s already on her feet, eyes scanning your face, searching for an answer. “What did they say?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before.” You sigh, walking past her. “I told you I should not do this.”

She huffs, crossing her arms as she falls into step beside you. “You never tried it,”

Your best friend doesn’t argue anymore, following you to the counter in silence. The cashier barely looks up as they say, “That consultation is $120 total, plus taxes, bringing it to $145.86. Card or cash?”

You catch Da-hee reaching for her wallet, but you gently push her hand away. “Don’t,” you murmur. “This was for me.”

You hand over your card. A quick swipe, a faint beep. And just like that, you’re down nearly $150 with nothing to show for it but a sinking feeling in your stomach.

That much money for a consultation. A conversation. No treatment, no tests, nothing tangible. Soulmate doctors are expensive. Too expensive. And health insurance? Useless. They don’t cover something as rare, as unquantifiable, as soulmate problems.

Because to them, it’s not a real sickness, proving that you are—once again—the outlier.

Perfect.

“Come on,” you say, nudging your still-guilty-looking friend. She follows you out of the hospital, quiet and pouting.

At the car, she pulls open the driver’s side door. “Let me at least drive?” she offers, voice softer now.

You chuckle at her persistence, shaking your head before tossing her the keys. “Okay.” Sliding into the passenger seat, you reach for the radio, as she pulls out of the parking lot.

"Let's hang out at your place," Da-hee says, and she grins as she sees you nod your head.

Music played softly through the speakers, blending with the casual flow of conversation. The air is light, and easy until your car rolls past a towering black building.

HYBE.

Funeral wreaths. Trucks. Massive banners.

Your brows furrow as you take it in, the sight so jarring that it silences you for a beat. The road ahead clogs with slowed traffic, people lingering to gawk at the scene.

“What the fuck?” Da-hee mutters, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter, eyes darting across the scene. The traffic slows as more people crane their necks to look. You do the same, stomach twisting at the sheer scale of it. "This is insane."

“What’s going on?” you ask, still trying to piece together the meaning behind it all.

She exhales, lips pressing into a thin line. “Lee Heeseung. An idol,” she starts. “News got out that he recently went out with his soulmate.” Her voice dips, sadness flickering across her face. “And now… now, people want him out of the group.”

Your stomach twists. “What?”

You strain to read the bold, angry messages plastered across the banners:

GET LEE HEESEUNG OUT OF HYBE.

APOLOGIZE, LEE HEESEUNG.

EXPLAIN THIS, LEE HEESEUNG.

ENHYPEN IS NOW ONLY SIX.

IDOLS WITH SOULMATES ARE NOT IDOLS.

The messages feel suffocating, each one worse than the last. Then you see it—one of the trucks, its LED screen flashing an image like a public execution.

A man, young and striking, caught mid-laughter as he eats ramen with a girl beside him. She’s smiling too, her expression warm, content. The matching caps on their heads make them look like any ordinary couple, but the grainy, long-lens quality of the photo gives it away. Someone had been watching. Someone had been waiting to expose them.

Your stomach turns.

“It’s worse when so many fans are… young,” Da-hee murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. “Most of them are stringless.” She says the last word carefully like she doesn’t want to offend you.

But you almost hear what she isn’t saying.

Stringless people can’t understand the soulmate bond. And when it comes to idols, that misunderstanding twists into darker. As insane as it sounds, they feel entitled. Possessive. Like their devotion should be enough. Like an idol’s life—who they love, who they belong to—should be theirs to control.

It’s the only explanation, isn’t it?

The car inches forward, and your eyes drift back to the scene outside. Security guards push against the surging crowd, their faces strained. The banners wave wildly, like battle flags in a war meant to punish.

You swallow hard. “I don’t get it.” You don’t know him. You don't need to know him to know the injustice of it. “Why treat him like he committed some kind of crime? He’s meant to have someone. He’s a person, not—” You gesture vaguely at the protest, frustration bubbling up. “Not their property.”

Da-hee sighs. “That’s why idols who are caught with their soulmates, especially the ones who confirm it, get cancelled. Fans turn on them. They lose everything.” She shakes her head, voice laced with exhaustion and resignation. “It’s sad that they have to hide it.”

The thought of society hating someone just for loving who they’re meant to love makes your chest feel tight. How could something meant to be beautiful turn into this?

You guess your own situation isn’t the only cruel, unfair thing in this world.

The two of you make it back to your apartment, settling in for a movie with a bowl of popcorn between you. The glow of the TV flickers across the room, a comfortable silence stretching between you, until Da-hee suddenly squeals, nearly knocking the popcorn over in the process.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, shoving the popcorn bowl off her lap as she scrambles to her feet. “OH MY GOD.” She starts stomping in place.

You glance at her, unimpressed. “I want to wipe that ridiculous grin off your face.”

She just giggles and shoves her phone in front of you. “Joon bought me VVIP tickets. I’m going to die.” She pumps a fist in the air, bouncing on her toes like a kid who just won the lottery. “And there’s two. He can’t go, oh my god. Please, please, I am begging you to come with me. It’s next week! That sneaky bastard didn’t even tell me he bought them ages ago.”

You hesitate, already feeling the excuse forming on your tongue. “I don’t think—”

“Come on, Y/N.” She grabs your arm, shaking it dramatically. “Look at me. I have a soulmate, and I still thirst over Tomorrow X Together.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “That’s a long-ass name.”

“They’re my babies,” she says, clutching her chest like she’s been personally blessed by the gods. “You’ll love the show, I promise. And maybe, you’ll be like me. While you wait for your soulmate, it’s harmless to fangirl a little. OMG, what if you become a MOA? That’s my dream. Imagine us going to cafés with photocards, buying merch, collecting albums—”

“Okay, first of all, they are grown men. Not babies.” you cut in before she spirals. You know from experience that once she starts talking about her fangirl life, she never stops. “Anyways, okay, I’ll go. But don’t expect anything.”

Da-hee lets out another excited squeal before launching herself at you, wrapping her arms around your neck and squeezing way too tight.

“You won’t regret this!”

You already do.

It was your turn to trail behind Da-hee like a lost puppy, weaving through the sea of fans decked out in carefully coordinated outfits. Everyone is well dressed. So prepared. Keychains and accessories dangled from their bags, the sound of clinking metal filling the air.

"Look at them," Da-hee suddenly stopped, pulling out her phone. You followed her gaze to the massive banner hanging outside the arena.

TOMORROW X TOGETHER

They... didn’t look bad.

"My husbands," Da-hee sighed dreamily spinning turning to you with wide eyes. "Let's take a selfie!"

Before you could protest, she yanked you in, holding her phone high. The two of you posed, her grinning ear to ear, you looking like a reluctant daughter humoring her overexcited mom.

At the ticketing section, an attendant handed you both event wristbands and ID laces. You're about to shove yours into your pocket, but Da-hee looped it around your neck like a medal.

“So you don’t lose it,” she said firmly.

You sighed, adjusting the strap as you followed her toward a merch booth. Fans swarmed the display, eyes gleaming as they scanned the shelves stacked with albums, shirts, and accessories.

"Everyone's so hyped," you muttered, glancing around. "I can see a lot of Da-hees here."

"Of course they are," Da-hee said ignoring your last comment with a dramatic sway of her hand. She skimmed the display. "This comeback is a masterpiece."

You frowned. "What are we even doing here?"

"You need a picket." She says. "And don’t even think about saying no. I’m still heartbroken you refused the lightstick, so at least take this. We’re gonna be right at the barricades, you can’t just stand there empty-handed. Pick one."

You groaned, "Fine."

Your eyes sweep over the options, scanning each face printed on the glossy boards. You won’t say it out loud—not yet—but you’ll admit it now. They’re all… ridiculously handsome.

And one of them stands out.

Soft brown eyes. A small, almost knowing smile. Something about his face makes your breath hitch. "Uh..."

Da-hee leans in, brow furrowing. "What are you picking? Wait. Are you okay? Why are you so red—"

"I'm not," You quickly pointed at the picket, avoiding her stare like your life depended on it. "This one."

A slow, mischievous grin spreads across her face. "Oh-ho." She turns to the waiting merch seller, smiling some more.

"One Beomgyu, please."

You followed her once again.

You didn’t have much of a choice. But this time, your steps felt… lighter. Movements are less reluctant than when you first arrived.

You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the way the heat had finally eased, the golden glow of late afternoon settling over the pavement. Maybe it was the way MOAs—total strangers—smiled at you like you belonged, their warmth making you feel strangely at ease. Maybe it was the fact of not hearing the word soulmate even once. That you don't feel the odd one out.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the picket you now held carefully in your hands.

You didn’t know how it happened. How you went from teasing Da-hee about her obsession to clutching a piece of laminated paper like it meant something. But the more you looked around, the more you understood.

It wasn’t just about the idols printed on banners or the music playing faintly in the background. But also, it was about them. These people who glowed with excitement, who found joy in simply being here, in loving unapologetically.

You were sceptical of it at first, seeing the front of HYBE last week. The protest. But just like everything, you saw it. The good side of being a fan. How they shined, not only because of who they adored, but because of how they adored. How happy they were to love, and to share that love with everyone around them.

And somehow, standing here among them, you felt a little brighter, too.

"Where are we going now?"

"MOAZONE," Da-hee answers without hesitation, pulling you toward yet another booth. The concert doors won’t open for another thirty minutes, but she’s on a mission. The funny thing is, she doesn’t really need to drag you anymore. Something has settled in your bones. You’re going to see this through, stay until the last song fades. And maybe, you’ll find yourself here again next time.

"It’s a booth where you can pull a concert-exclusive photocard," she explains further, eyes shining with excitement.

You nod, letting her lead the way. The line is long. When it’s finally Da-hee’s turn, she gasps, then squeals so loudly people around her chuckle. "Yeonjun!" she cries, clutching the card to her chest like it’s the most precious thing in the world. "I got him!"

Then, it’s your turn.

A row of face-down cards is laid out before you. You don’t think too hard about it, you just point to one.

The staff hands it over, and when you flip it, your breath catches.

"You got Beomgyu?!" Da-hee shrieks, bouncing on her toes beside you. You barely hear her. Because there he is.

Elbow propped up, chin resting on his hand, that same small, knowing smile—only this time, it’s wider.

Fucking hell.

Da-hee grabs your arm, shaking you. "Girl, you are officially a Beomgyu magnet. I'm unfriending you if don't start liking them,"

Beomgyu.

Beomgyu. His name loops in your mind, over and over. And for some reason, it fits. His name suits him.

You tried your best not to break a smile. "Come on,"

If you had told yourself a year ago that you’d be here, crammed into a packed venue, surrounded by screaming teenagers—you would’ve laughed. Hard.

And yet, here you are, laughing. Not at the absurdity of it, but with it. Caught up in the moment with Da-hee, the crowd’s energy vibrates as hundreds of voices chant their names.

“It’s soundcheck first,” Da-hee leans in, her voice barely cutting through the noise. “Then the main concert.”

You nod, still grinning. “Okay.”

Then, the opening notes of a song play through the speakers. The crowd erupts. “Oh my god!” Da-hee shrieks, “It’s Deja Vu!”

The five of them step onto the stage. It’s a blur; lights flashing, voices screaming. Your heart pounds against your ribs as the music swells, wrapping around you like something alive.

It’s beautiful.

A tall man—easily the tallest—moves toward your section, waving with an easy smile, deep dimples carving into his soft-looking cheeks. It reminds you of bread. The warmth of it is infectious, and before you even realise it, you're waving back, grinning at someone whose name you didn’t even know this morning.

Then, the song begins to wind down. And that’s when you see him.

Beomgyu.

His steps are slower than the others, like he’s taking his time, scanning the crowd with careful eyes. You tell yourself not to look. Not when he gets closer. Not when that strange, restless nervousness twists in your stomach. You clench your fists and stare at the ground. Why?

Why does this feel so overwhelming?

Around you, voices grew. The energy shifts, and you know it’s only a matter of time before you give in. You look up, unsure.

The mic is at his lips, his voice singing into the melody—until suddenly, he stops.

All because his eyes meet yours.

Everything else fades. The crowd, the shake of Da-hee beside you, even the music that was supposed to be loud. All that’s left is the pull; a red thread stretching between, searing itself into your vision, blinding in its intensity, demanding to be seen.

On stage, he stands impossibly still, his fingers gripping the mic like he sees it too.

It can't be real.

“We're trending again,” Taehyun says, flopping onto Beomgyu’s hotel bed with a sigh. “What the hell?”

Beomgyu leans back against the headboard, “How much time do we have?”

Taehyun checks his watch. “Practice is in… oh. Hours.” He exhales, shaking his head in awe. “This is actually happening. A sold-out stadium, Beomgyu. Can you believe that? Remember that tiny, run-down building we used to train in? The cracked floorboards, the growing mushrooms?” He laughs, eyes distant.

“When Yeonjun used to sneak his soulmate in, trying to show off like he was already famous? As a trainee. And now—now, we’re here.”

Beomgyu snorts. “In that practice room, too. I still don’t know how his soulmate put up with that. Or how Yeonjun didn’t get kicked out.”

“Yeah. They just couldn’t let go of each other.” Taehyun laughs, shaking his head. “And I don't think Big Hit will let go of him too."

It had been one of the first rules drilled into them during training, no soulmates. No... searching. And if they already had one? They had to tell them. Have the conversation. An agreement that would turn everything into a secret.

Soulmates were inevitable, unstoppable. Beomgyu still remembers the contract in his hands, the way he read every word over and over, heart pounding. As if somewhere in the fine print, there was a clause that might hurt his soulmate. In the end, he signed.

If he ever found his soulmate, no one could know. Not until everything was over. In other words, disbandment.

"I'm missing her like crazy these days."

Beomgyu doesn’t respond right away. He just shrugs, tossing things out of his suitcase; a hoodie, a toothbrush, whatever his hands find first. He had noticed how restless Taehyun had been, the way he kept his phone glued to his hands, typing, hesitating, typing again. But what was there to say? What could he do about it?

The others were good at pretending. Hiding. The quiet hotel meetups, the stolen hours between schedules. But if Beomgyu was being honest, he could count on both hands the number of times any of the four had actually been with their soulmates since debut.

The fear of getting caught kept them all in line. Not just by the company, but by the fans. The horror stories weren’t just industry rumours—some were ancient, some recent.

If this doesn’t work out, I don’t know if I can take it. Taehyun had said that once. This career was everything. He wasn’t going to risk it. He wasn't ready. And Beomgyu understood. Everyone understood. He could already picture the protest trucks outside the company building if anyone ever slipped up.

"You heard anything from Heeseung?" Taehyun asks, his voice careful, his fingers tightening around his phone. Beomgyu knows him well enough to catch the shift—the way his mind drifts, went from missing his soulmate to remembering the latest scandal in their world.

Heeseung, the newest idol thrown into the fire.

He, who got caught with his soulmate.

"Yeah," Beomgyu says, swallowing. "He's okay, but… his soulmate is taking the worst of it."

Taehyun stills. The thought of his own soulmate being dragged into something like that starts to burn at the back of his mind. What if it were her?

"Hey, don't overthink it," Beomgyu says because he sees it. He sees it in all of them. The quiet way they carry it, that they aren’t supposed to want. In their world, the idea that you should be free with your soulmate is just that—an idea. Or maybe worse. A peril.

A risk too big to take.

He remembers Soobin crying once, blaming himself for wanting this life—this job. And how, in the end, the only person who could calm him down was his soulmate. The same person the company treated like a liability. Yet, the only one with the power to bring their leader back to himself.

The irony.

He also remembers the night he sat with his dad, asking him how he knew Mom was his. He had tilted his head, recounting their encounter, before he said one thing that stuck with him.

"Before I even saw the string, I knew… it was her."

Beomgyu used to cringe at that. Now, he wonders if he'll ever get the chance to feel it.

“Did you see everyone? Insane.” Yeonjun says, eyes wide as they sit in the salon-like chairs. “They’ve been out there since last night.”

Kai glances at him as much as he can without moving his head, his makeup artist carefully blending eyeshadow. “Yeah, I saw them. MOAs are bundled up out there, and it’s freezing. It's worrying me.”

"I feel like I'm about to throw up. I'm nervous,"

Playing a stadium—a sold-out one, this is the dream. The one every trainee chases, the one Beomgyu used to stare at the ceiling imagining, too afraid to believe it could ever be real. And yet, here it is.

His mind pulls him back to the past. The long nights, the aching muscles, the quiet sobs muffled into his pillow. The moments of doubt, the voices—his own, the other's—telling him he wasn’t enough. He remembers how hard they worked. How hard he worked. How many times they shared one meal because they couldn't afford another one. And still, somehow, they held on.

He knows he earned this, and fought for it with everything he had. But standing here now, bathed in the price of it all, it still doesn’t feel real. He stares at his hands once his stylist is done with his eyes. There’s something else tugging at him, a strange feeling that’s been lurking since morning.

What it is, he can’t quite say.

Beomgyu's eyes sweep over the big space. The kind of big that makes his head spin if he thinks about it too much. In a few hours, this place will be much packed. He’s been on stages just like this, under lights just as bright but somehow, it still knocks the wind out of him.

It's soundcheck. He likes it because, with the lights up, he can actually see everyone. It was one of the rare moments he could see faces. He likes it as much as the offline fan signs. They move through the set, running back and forth across the stage, but his feet keep pulling him toward one side, like an instinct.

Beomgyu likes looking at MOAs. It feels good. Familiar, almost. Sometimes, he even recognizes a face— it was a feeling like a reminder of home, a classmate from school, someone he’d seen before. And then there’s the simple joy of it all. The way someone’s face brightens up because of him. It never gets old. It never stops making him happy, too.

But then, he notices one weird thing.

It’s strange. He’s right here. He could understand if you were looking at another member, fans have their favourites after all. But you’re not looking at anyone.

You're staring at the floor?

You’re not looking at all.

He tilts his head, trying to see better—to get a curious glimpse, and suddenly, his whole world shifts. His heart slams to a stop. It’s so sudden, so overwhelming, he almost stumbles forward, yanking him toward the barricade. "What?"

And then you move, as if you heard his thoughts.

Just the slightest turn of your head, your face lifting, eyes locking onto his. He stops breathing. His fingers go numb around the mic. Everything slows, softens, blurs at the edges until there’s nothing but this moment. Just the two of you, staring.

The closeness of Beomgyu makes the crowd shift, bodies pressing closer but you don’t move. You just stand there—still, steady—while the rest of the world shifts around you.

Like the last grain of sand in an hourglass, holding on as everything else rushes past.

He swears he would’ve stayed like that forever; frozen, staring, lost if not for the firm hand on his shoulder. A small tug. He blinks, the spell breaking just enough for reality to slip back in.

"Beomgyu? What's wrong?" Soobin. His leader gives him a look of worry and urgency, and that’s when he hears it, the music. He closes his agape lips, and clears his throat. The song is still playing. Right. He’s supposed to be—

But then his gaze flickers back to you.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. You’re just so so pretty. That’s all. Maybe it was your eyes or your hair or the way you did it. It was just fucking cute. It doesn’t mean anything. And—

His breath falters. He sees it.

He hadn’t noticed before. He had been too busy looking at you. Too caught up in the moment that he missed it entirely. Something all of the members have. Something Beomgyu had waited for his whole life.

The thread.

Thin, and so impossibly red. A string stretched between, glowing faintly under the stage lights. He looks down at his hand—at his ring finger— it's tied there. His eyes trace its path. To you. His chest tightens.

"Before I even saw the string, I knew… it was her."

Soulmate.

You’re his. After everything—after all this time—

He finally found you.

The dressing room is a blur of movement, stylists rushing, last-minute adjustments being made, and voices overlapping but he just sits there. Staring at the floor.

He’s dressed. He’s ready. He should be used to this by now, the pre-show jitters, the nervous energy that always sits in his chest before he steps on stage. But his soulmate is out there. Somewhere in the crowd. And the thought grips him so tight it almost hurts. What if he never sees you again? What if you’re gone before he can find you?

Your face lingers in his mind, vivid and haunting. The way the lights hit your dress, the way you looked at him—it knocked the breath right out of his lungs. He was completely unprepared for it. You were so beautiful that he almost forgot what he was doing.

He’s never been shaken like that before. Not in his personal life. Not as an idol. Not in school, at the company, on stage, meeting seniors, at award shows, never.

Waiting for the music queue, he finally lifts his head.

Muscle memory takes over. His body knows what to do. He’s trained for this, conditioned for it. Every movement, every note, every expression—it’s muscle memory now. His instincts take over before his thoughts can catch up. This is his life. His career. The one thing he chose, out of everything he could have been. How many people in the world get to do this? To stand under those lights, to hear thousands of voices calling his name, to live a dream most wouldn’t even dare to chase?

Would he trade it all, just to see you again?

His feet move before he can stop them, despite his thoughts, his heart pulls him stronger toward your section. It's a force beyond his control. When he finally sees you again, it feels like a miracle. You’re still near the barricade, still close enough that he doesn’t have to search.

He keeps up, waves, and makes faces—things for MOAs, things he’s done a thousand times before. But his mind isn’t on them. It’s on you. And you’re just standing there again, frozen in place like you don’t trust yourself to move.

He waves again, but this time, it’s for you. Directly. You tilt your head, hesitant, and then—an unsure wave back. It’s so small, so subtle, but it makes him smile. His grin spreads before he can think twice.

Got you, beautiful.

He pumps his fist in an exaggerated show of triumph, like he just won a game only the two of you are playing. He watches as your eyes go wide, and if the lights weren’t so blinding, he swears he’d see the warmth rising to your cheeks. He fists his hand, trying to hold back from reaching out to you.

He crouches, and the fans around you surge forward, eager to be seen, but you don’t move. And then, he sees it—your eyes kept flickering downward, tracing the thread again and again, like you were making sure.

Yet you see it perfectly too.

You smile—small, hesitant, like you’re not sure this is really happening. Then, as if on impulse, you lift your hand, forming a careful, uncertain hand heart.

He doesn’t even wait a second before returning it.

His eagerness made you laugh. A breathless, disbelieving kind of laugh. He can’t hear it, not over the noise of the crowd, but he sees it in the way your shoulders shake, the way your eyes crease at the corners. His chest aches.

You're even more beautiful when you laugh.

He tosses a few kisses out into the air, but he gives his last kiss, the last one to you. You hesitate for only a second before sending one back. His response is instant—dramatic, ridiculous—clutching his chest like you’ve just shot him straight through the heart. He stumbles back, clutches at his clothes, so completely gone for you.

It’s meant to be a joke, but it isn’t.

Because you do have his heart, don’t you? And the strangest thing is, he doesn’t even know your name. Has never heard your voice. But right now, none of that matters. Maybe he’d stay here forever if he could, but the next song cut through the air, pulling him back to the present. His feet move, leading him away, away from you.

Before he joins the centre, just for a second, he looks back. A second to meet your eyes again, to make sure you're watching him.

And you are.

"Hyung," he breathes out.

Soobin turns, both of them standing still as stylists tug their sweat-drenched shirts off, replacing them with fresh ones.

But Beomgyu isn’t thinking about the show anymore.

He’s looking at Soobin. Waiting. Searching for the right way to ask without anyone else catching on. He doesn’t want them to hear. Doesn’t want them to know.

Not yet.

Soobin frowns slightly. “What? You've been looking distracted since earlier. Are you okay?”

“Your soulmate…” His eyes flicker down. He hesitates, searching for the right words. The right way to say this. "At—Tokyo? How did you…?"

He doesn’t need to finish the thought. How can the older forget the only time he managed to sneak his soulmate backstage? Soobin stares at Beomgyu. The latter's face is practically screaming his questions. How did you do it? How did you get them backstage? How did you make it happen?

Beomgyu has to see you. In front of him. Next to him. Because what if you disappear? What if he lets this slip through his fingers, and suddenly, you’re just gone? And what if this is his only chance?

The room moves around him—zippers, voices, fabric rustling—but all he can hear is his own ragged breathing. He moves his eyes. And there, watching him is their leader who knows him better than anyone, with that equally knowing look on his face.

"Let's talk. Just the two of us."

Beomgyu is your soulmate.

The boys just disappeared backstage, their song still ringing in your ears, but your hands won’t stop shaking. Your chest is tight, your throat burns, and there’s a sting at the corners of your eyes.

You're not a mistake. He’s here. He saw you.

His eyes, his smile. The way he moves, the faint dimple that appears when he does. The thought is too much, it makes your knees weak, and forces you to grip the barricade to keep yourself upright.

"Girl, I swear Beomgyu kept looking over here," Da-hee says, nudging you, completely oblivious to the storm unraveling in your chest. Then she catches sight of your face, at your trembling fingers, at the way you can’t seem to catch your breath.

“Y/N?” Her voice softens. “What’s wrong?”

The words leave your lips before you can even think. "I saw my soulmate."

Your voice shakes, barely above a whisper, but Da-hee hears it. Her eyes go wide. "Wait, what? Oh my god—where is he? Is he a MOA? Is he—”

She doesn’t even get to finish the thought before she freezes.

It clicks.

Then, slowly, her face shifts, from confusion to shock to absolute disbelief. The finding out, then the realising. She stares at you, her mouth slightly open, her hands hovering in the air like she doesn’t know what to do with them.

“Oh my fucking god.” Her hands fly to her mouth, like she needs to physically stop herself from screaming. Then she grabs her hair, like that’s going to help her process this.

“Is he—is Beomgyu—” She cuts herself off, whisper-shouting now, eyes darting toward the stage, toward the place where he just was. “Is that why he kept coming back over here?”

Her grip tightens on your arm, searching your face, waiting for you to confirm what she already knows. But you can’t say anything. All you can give is a small nod.

Minutes pass. The music swells and fades, song after song drifting through the speakers.

Da-hee stays by your side, rubbing soothing circles on your back, whispering reassurances you can’t fully process. At some point, you catch her sniffling into her hands, wiping away her own tears.

Sixteen years.

Sixteen years of friendship, of growing up together, of knowing each other better than anyone else ever could. She’s seen every version of you—the messy, the broken, the parts of you even you struggled to accept. She’s cried with you, cried for you, carried your grief like it was her own. Even after finding her own soulmate, she never left you behind. Never made you feel like you were missing something, like you were less.

And now—now she’s the reason you’re here.

She’s the reason you met him.

You think of every birthday candle she ever closed her eyes for, every whispered wish she made on your behalf, because she believed that if two people wished for the same thing, the universe had to listen.

And maybe she was right.

It doesn’t matter if he never speaks to you. If the lights were too bright, if the crowd was too big, if he never even saw the thread at all.

It doesn’t matter. Because you saw it.

And that means you were never a mistake. Never some error in the grand design.

He exists.

Da-hee squeezes your hands, grounding you as a woman in staff uniform approaches. Her eyes lock onto yours, scanning your face, your outfit—like she’s confirming, making sure. Then, she stops directly in front of you. “We need to check some information on your tickets.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. You’re not stupid. You know what this is. You know they wouldn’t say it outright, not here, not in front of all these people.

“I—I have a friend with me,”

The staff member hesitates, studying you for a beat too long. Then she nods. “She can come with you, but she’ll have to wait in the holding room.”

You turn to Da-hee, and she’s already looking at you, her eyes wide and glassy. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then she forces a wobbly smile.

Let's go.

You’re going to meet Beomgyu.

The walk was terrifying. Your hands clench tighter with every step, nails digging into your palms, but it does nothing to steady you. Every passing glance burns into your skin, people sneaking curious glances; staff members, crew, people who know exactly why you’re here.

Da-hee had to stay behind in the outer lounge. Now, it’s just you and the staff member leading you deeper into the backstage hallways. The air is thick, suffocating, and you force yourself to breathe through it.

Then she stops. A white door stands in front of you. Dressing Room is printed neatly on a sign, but the words blur as your mind spins.

She knocks. Opens it.

Panic rushes in. What if he doesn’t want this? What if he only let you come here to reject you—to tell you, to your face, that even if the universe says you’re meant to be, he doesn’t want you? What if—

The thought vanishes the second you see him.

Beomgyu.

He’s mid-step, like he’s been pacing. He removes his hands from his face, his eyes widening just slightly before he clears his throat. “Come in,” he says, voice softer than you expected. It’s meant for the staff member, but his gaze never left yours.

The staff steps aside, gesturing for you to enter. Heat crawls up your neck as you force yourself to move, hyper-aware of the way he’s watching every step.

“You have 60 minutes, Beomgyu,” she says before closing the door behind you.

Beomgyu stares at you, and you stare back.

For a moment, neither of you move. Just standing there, eyes locked, as if the world has paused just for this. To anyone else, it might look awkward, but you can't look away as he does.

Your eyes traces over his face, bare and fresh like he just washed up. The soft curve of his cheekbones, the freckles and moles scattered like constellations, proof that the universe took its time with him. Perfect in a way that makes your chest ache.

He blinks, and your eyes catch on his lashes; delicate, dark, fluttering against his skin like something out of a dream.

How can someone be made this perfect?

The question lodges itself in your throat, and before you can stop it, your vision blurs. Tears threaten to spill, but you blink them away. You don’t even know if he wants this yet—

"What’s your name?" Beomgyu asks, his voice quieter than he expected. He watches the way you blink, the slight parting of your lips like you hadn’t expected him to speak first.

His hands curl into fists at his sides. The urge to reach out—to cup your face, to feel your skin—is overwhelming. But he holds himself back.

Beomgyu has never considered himself the kind of person to take the first step. But not this. Not with you. He wants to start a conversation, anything—to get you talking, to hear your voice, to know you.

"Y/N." The sound of your voice stills him. It settles in his chest, not as something new, but as something he swears he’s always known, like a song he’s heard in a dream, waiting to be remembered. His lips twitch into a small, almost dazed smile.

Your voice is so pretty, he thinks. So pretty that it hurts.

He repeats your name, slower this time, rolling it over his tongue like he’s memorizing the way it feels to say it. And when you smile, just the faintest curve of your lips, his own smile widens into a grin.

"So, uh, hi?" Beomgyu says, and it pulls a laugh from you. His heart stumbles over itself at the sound, warmth blooming in his chest. It’s ridiculous, really, how easily you affect him.

"Did you come here alone?" he asks, trying to steady himself.

"I was with a friend," you say, and his eyes flicker, just for a second to your lips before settling back on yours. "She’s outside."

"Hm." Beomgyu nods slowly, as if letting the thought settle. Then, slowly, he reaches out—his palm open, facing up, an unspoken invitation for you to give your hand out.

Your breath catches. Hesitation flickers for just a moment before you place your hand in his. Beomgyu feels warmth creep up his neck the second your skin meets, a flush he hopes you don’t notice. His fingers curl gently around yours, testing the weight of your hand in his own.

"Come on," he says, his voice softer now. He tugs you forward—careful, gentle, afraid he's hurt you in any way if he pulls too hard. "You should sit. You must be tired from standing out there."

"I could say the same," you murmur as you both sink into the couch. Beomgyu turns slightly toward you, his knee brushing yours, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. His thumb traces absentminded circles against your skin. "You danced and ran around the stage all night," you add, tilting your head at him.

He chuckles, the sound low and a little breathless. Your eyes drift around the room; clothing racks, scattered bags, the quiet remnants of a space that had been buzzing with energy just minutes ago.

"Yeah, I was pretty tired," he admits. Then, after a pause, softer this time, when you look at him again, he’s already staring. "But not anymore."

Beomgyu takes in everything; your lips, the way the light catches in your eyes, the soft of your hand in his. He doesn’t even think before he speaks, before the thought that’s been looping in his head since he first saw you finally slips past his lips.

"God, you're so beautiful."

Beomgyu watches as your cheeks flush, the warmth creeping up your skin like the slow bloom of dawn. He knew, you were his soulmate. Fates stitched together long before this moment, yet nothing could have prepared him for the way you looked right now. He never imagined that watching you blush under his words would feel this intoxicating.

"You’re the one who’s beautiful," you murmur, barely above a whisper. The words feel foreign on your tongue, yet true in a way that unsettles you. You clear your throat, trying to mask the way your heart stumbles over itself, but Beomgyu only tightens his grip on your hand.

You wonder how you even got here. This morning, you woke up with no idea that by evening, you'd be sitting across from your soulmate, flirting like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He chuckles—Beomgyu has heard the word beautiful more times than he can count. It’s been thrown at him in passing, whispered through screams from fans, printed in glossy magazines. But somehow, from your lips, it sounds different.

The next few minutes passed in easy conversation. Beomgyu had already pieced together bits of your life, you were only here because Da-hee dragged you along—he’d been hoping to meet her too, if only to thank her.

He knew you worked a corporate job, that photography was your escape. That you were two years older than him, a fact that he immediately latched onto, whispering noona in a teasing lilt just to see the way you’d roll your eyes laugh and swat his arm. But the truth was, he didn’t want to call you that. It was your name he wanted to say. He felt like he’d already spent a lifetime missing it, and now that he knew it, he never wanted to stop saying it.

You had learned things about him, too. That he’d loved music since he was a kid, that he picked up a guitar before he fully understood its chords. That he was cast as a trainee before he even hit the climax of his teenage years, and that six years had passed since he debuted. Things you could have easily searched online, or you could have read every article, and watched every interview, but nothing made your heart flutter quite like the way he told his own story.

The contrast between your lives was undeniable. Maybe that’s why it took so long for fate to push you toward each other.

While you were drowning in homework, he was in a practice room, chasing a dream. While you sat through lectures and worried about exams, he was in a studio, recording songs that would echo through stadiums. While you cried over a failed job interview, he stayed up until dawn, running through choreography again and again until his legs gave out. Your society, were parallel lines moving in different directions.

But sitting here, watching him scrunch his nose in laughter, none of that seemed to matter. Two people from different worlds, felt like it had faded into one, just by being next to each other.

He hadn’t once let go of your hand for the past hour.

"No, I just—I didn’t know where else to put it, so I stuck it there." You fumble for an excuse, cheeks burning as Beomgyu grins at you. He had spotted the photocard of him tucked into the back of your phone case, and he hadn’t let it go since.

“And it was random,” you add quickly, feeling your face heat up. “You have to randomly pick it.”

The truth is, Beomgyu knows. He knows it was a random selection. He knows you’re flustered. And he loves it. Loves the way you try to explain yourself, loves hearing you ramble, loves the way your face heats up under his stare. And to be honest, if it had been another member’s face staring back at him, no matter how petty it sounded, he also knows he wouldn’t have been too thrilled about it.

He’s in deep.

"Beomgyu, it's time to go." The same staff member says, pulling you both back to reality. You didn't even hear the doors opening. Her eyes flicker to your joined hands for a second, but she doesn’t say anything, just turns and steps outside.

You glance at Beomgyu, and he’s pouting. "We’re flying to Japan tomorrow morning, Y/N."

"Oh." The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. You just met your soulmate, and by morning, he’d be gone. "Okay."

You stand up, expecting him to do the same, but he doesn’t move. Your hands dangle between you because he still hasn’t let go. "Beomgyu?"

"I’ll see you as soon as I get back, okay?" His voice is softer now, like he’s trying to find the right words. His gaze lingers on you, unreadable for a moment, before he finally stands. He squeezes your hands gently. "It won’t be too long."

"Alright… we have each other's numbers, so… text me."

"Just know your phone might be buzzing non-stop,"

"Got it." You roll your eyes, smiling. "I’ll survive."

"And wear warm clothes, it’s winter."

"You too."

"Eat on time."

"You’re the one doing concerts. I should be the one saying that."

He ignores your deflection, pressing on. "Sleep well. Lock your doors properly. You live alone, so it’s dangerous. Don’t go out too late. And if you do, call me, okay? Actually, I’d prefer if you didn’t go out too late at all. Please—make sure you don’t—"

He doesn’t get to finish. Before he can say another word, you reach up, sliding your arms around the back of his neck, pulling him into a hug. His words cut off instantly, replaced by a soft inhale—like he hadn’t breathed since he started speaking. Your heart squuezes over itself at his endless concern, spreading through your chest. Blinking rapidly, trying to push away the tears threatening to spill.

For the first time tonight, Beomgyu lets go of your hand, only to wrap both arms around you, one firm around your waist, the other reaching up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.

"I’ll see you soon, Beomgyu," you murmur.

You feel him tilt his head slightly before pressing a fleeting, warm kiss to your temple. "I’ll see you soon."

Elevators terrify you. It scares you because it feels like everything could come crashing down at any second. Why would you trust something that rises so quickly, too fast?

It can't last, doesn't it?

You feel him snuggle to you more, and you chuckle, pressed against him, his scent, his arms around you, holding you safely—his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, as if whispering that the fall you fear will never come.

Elevators terrified you.

You wish you could have captured Da-hee’s face when she saw you walking over with Beomgyu beside you, his hand resting firmly on your back. Her eyes widened, mouth slightly agape, before she shot you a knowing look.

Beomgyu offered her a quick thanks, the paper bag with your heels swinging from your hands, and you stood there in the fresh pair of sneakers he’d somehow found in your size because he wanted to. His eyes met yours for just a second longer before he turned to leave.

The second you stepped into the parking lot, Da-hee lost it. She let out a squeal so loud you had to clamp a hand over her mouth, laughing as she practically vibrated with excitement. "What just happened?!" she whispered against your palm, her eyes sparkling.

That night, as soon as you got home, your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.

It took only a second before answering.

It was awkward at first, neither of you really knowing what to say but before you knew it, you were talking about everything and nothing, voices laced with exhaustion but neither willing to hang up first. He was leaving in a few hours, and you had to be the one to convince him to sleep, reminding him—more than once—that he had a flight to catch.

You had just curled up in your blankets when your phone buzzed again. Dozy, you reached for it, thumb swiping across the screen.

Choi Beomgyu I’m sorry for making you wait. I promise we’ll make up for all the time we lost. Sleep well, beautiful.

Even as sleep pulled you under, the smile on your lips never faded.

You wake up to the relentless ringing of your doorbell. A groan slips past your lips as you burrow deeper into your blankets. It’s Sunday. No work. No alarms. Just sleep—at least, that was the plan.

The doorbell rings again.

With an exaggerated sigh, you drag yourself out of bed, doing the bare minimum to look somewhat presentable. Your hair is probably a mess, your face still puffy from sleep, but you don’t care. Whoever decided to disturb your well-earned rest better have a damn good reason.

You glance at the clock on your way out. Oh. It’s not even early—it’s almost 1 PM.

Squinting against the bright light as you crack the door open, you’re met with a sight that instantly wakes you up. A delivery man stands there, arms full, holding the biggest bouquet of red roses you’ve ever seen. The sheer number of petals is overwhelming, a deep sea of crimson spilling over the edges of his grasp.

"What—" Your brain struggles to catch up, and then it clicks. Beomgyu. He asked for your address yesterday.

"Y/N?" The man confirms, struggling under the bouquet.

Your eyes widen. "Damn, just how many are in there?"

"Three hundred and fifteen roses," he says, barely holding onto the mass of flowers. "Please sign here."

Three hundred and fifteen. You’re smiling as you take the pen from him.

You stumble slightly, still half-dazed as you carefully set the massive bouquet down, trying not to crush a single petal. Your fingers tremble as you reach for the small card nestled between the roses, your heart already beating a little too fast.

315 months of not being with you. This won’t make up for it, but I hope it makes you happy.

You inhale sharply. Your chest tightens. 315 months. He counted. Beomgyu counted the exact number of months you’ve been alive—how does he even think like this? Tears prick at your eyes before you can stop them. He’s ridiculous. He’s thoughtful in a way that completely undoes you.

Before you even realise what you’re doing, you’re running. Not walking, running. Because suddenly, every second without hearing his voice feels like a second wasted.

Your fingers fumble as you dial his number, pressing the phone to your ear. It barely rings once before the line clicks open—like he had been waiting for this call all along. “Beomgyu—” your voice comes out uneven, breathless.

He chuckles softly, “So… I take it you liked it?”

It’s already 3 PM.

Somehow, you lost track of time, carefully splitting the bundle into smaller arrangements, placing them in vases around your apartment. Now, your living room and kitchen are drenched in the scent of roses, not that you’re complaining.

Beomgyu had stayed on the phone with you the entire time, talking about his morning, his voice in the background as you worked. That is, until someone called for him on the other end, reminding him he had things to do.

You sighed when the call ended. It's sunday, and his sunday is like the worst day of your week. And you're here, resting.

Now, fresh out of the shower, droplets of water still clung to your skin as you stepped onto the cool tile. A shiver ran down your spine as you grabbed a towel, pressing it to your face, inhaling the soft, familiar scent of fabric softener.

Dressed in cozy clothes, you curled up on the couch, remote in one hand, a bowl of yogurt and berries resting on your lap. Television played softly as you mindlessly scrolled through channels, enjoying the quiet.

Until your phone buzzed. You unlocked it, eyes immediately landing on the message.

Nut-job Da-hee. Girl! He's extra glowy today!! OMG <link>

You tapped the link, expecting a video to pop up, but instead, it directed you to download an app. You went along with it, quickly signing in and typing out a cheeky username.

The video loaded, Soobin and Beomgyu in a hotel room. A small table sat near the camera, cluttered with food containers and drinks. Beomgyu was on the bed, lounging comfortably but still close enough to be part of the frame.

And Da-hee wasn’t exaggerating, he looked good. The black shirt fit him just right, his dark hair falling effortlessly, lips tinted a soft pink. A phone in hand, completely unaware of just how stunning he looked.

An idea sparked in your mind.

"It's not barley tea, MOA," Beomgyu laughs, shaking his head as Soobin insists otherwise. No matter how many times their leader repeats himself, the comments keep flooding in, doubting him.

"Choi Beomgyu really traumatized you, huh?" he teases, eyes crinkling with amusement.

"What do you mean?" Beomgyu argues, but Soobin is already moving on, reading a new comment aloud. "Barley tea is healthy,"

Just then, Beomgyu’s phone buzzes. He glances down at the screen.

My Y/N Live?

His back immediately straightens. Shit. You’re watching? He’s about to type out a response when another message pops up.

You look handsome.

Beomgyu presses a hand over his mouth, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. He wants to—

"Beomgyu, MOAs are asking what you're doing," Soobin interrupts, his eyes full of silent curiosity.

"Nothing," Beomgyu says too quickly. "Kai sent a meme." He shifts closer to the camera, Soobin right beside him. With his phone in his hands, he types a message, fully aware that Soobin is peeking at his screen. They probably look ridiculous, both of them staring down at their phones while thousands of people watch.

You're watching?

A few seconds pass before your reply pops up.

Yes.

Beomgyu inhales, trying to focus as Soobin keeps talking. His fingers move instinctively.

I'm shy.

Why? You look good.

A pause. Then another message.

Wait, stop looking at your phone. Let MOA see you? Username: 315flowersmyass.

Beomgyu chokes on a laugh. His lips curl up as he locks his phone and holds it up to the camera, as if to prove he’s done. As if to prove that he followed your words.

"So cute," he sings, the words slipping out without thought. The chat erupts, MOAs spamming hearts and messages.

Then he catches it.

315flowersmyass kekekeke -

His grin stretches wider. He closes his face on the screen. "Hi, MOA." He giggles.

This—this is cute. He’s always enjoyed going live, but now he knows you’re watching, he discovers a love for it he never even knew was possible.

The live eventually comes to an end. As soon as it does, Soobin turns to Beomgyu with a knowing smile. "I'm happy you finally found her," he says simply. Beomgyu doesn’t respond right away—just smiles, warmth spreading through his chest. Then his phone buzzes.

He checks it, and the moment he does, a gasp slips past his lips.

It’s a picture. You.

A snack is held near your face, your expression relaxed. You’re in cozy clothes, looking effortlessly beautiful, breathtaking. The picture made Beomgyu wish he could fly back to you right there and then. Over his shoulder, Soobin leans in. "Is that her?" he asks, then grins. "She's pretty."

Beomgyu doesn’t look away from his phone as his lips curl into a smile.

"She is," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"She’s here."

Ji-an’s voice pulls you from your focus. She’s standing beside your desk, phone pressed to her ear, while you scan last week’s finance report. Your eyes flick over the spreadsheet, catching an error in a formula, but before you can fix it, Ji-an calls your name. "Y/N, there’s a delivery for you. They’re at the door."

"Oh," you murmur, pushing your reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. Contacts felt like too much trouble today. "Thanks."

As you stand, a familiar warmth spreads through your chest. Outside, the delivery man hands you a bouquet—this time, white roses.

You peek at the note while walking back, the click of your heels filling the space. Your way back to your desk by the window. The skyline stretches endlessly beyond the glass, a vast expanse of city lights and open sky.

Ow! I fell! Fell for you~

—bg <3

A laugh escapes before you can stop it, he's so silly. One of the things you realised recently.

"That's the fourth bouquet this month, Y/N," Ji-an muses, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "I know you just met your soulmate, but flowers every week? That’s next-level sweet. I’m jealous, mine isn't really a flowers kind of person."

You return her smile, "Yeah, he's the sweetest."

It’s been a month since you met Beomgyu. A single day, that’s all you had together. And yet, in the weeks that followed, he never let distance become an excuse. Even with his tour in full swing, miles stretching endlessly between you, he still found ways to reach you. A call in the middle of the night. A voice note filled with sleepy laughter. And these flowers—his way of saying, I'm here. I'm coming back to you soon.

Ji-an leans against your desk, eyes glinting with curiosity. "So… when do we get to meet him?" she asks, wiggling her brows. "You know the drill, everyone meets everyone’s soulmate. It’s basically tradition. At least one or two quick bond drinks a year, right?"

The playful edge in her voice makes your stomach twist. Because as much as you want to laugh along, to pretend that everything is as simple as it should be… you know the truth.

They can’t meet him. Your friends, your family, none of them can. Maybe not now. Maybe not ever. You don’t even know when you will see him again.

You swallow, forcing down the sudden tightness in your throat. The warmth you felt just moments ago, thinking about him, is now laced with something heavier.

"He's—he's busy," you say, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. You glance at the bouquet on your desk, fingers tracing the petals as if they hold an answer you don’t have. "Maybe next time."

The day finally ends, and you’re grateful Ji-an didn’t push for more.

You clutch the bouquet a little tighter as you step into the elevator, the faint scent of roses lingering in the air. By the time you make it to the parking lot, exhaustion weighs on you but then you remember.

You forgot to send a text. Pulling out your phone, you type: I’m heading home now.

The message sends, and a small smile tugs at your lips. Beomgyu is probably fast asleep by now, lost in a time zone opposite yours. He won’t see it for hours, but you text him anyway, because you can already hear his voice in your head, playful and pouty. You forgot to tell me again, he’d whine. Can you please let me know?

You’ve learned a lot from him in such a short time. How simple it is to make someone feel remembered. How easy it is to reach out. How even in the busiest moments, there’s always a second to say, I haven’t forgotten you.

Because that’s what he’s been doing for you all along.

You slip your phone back into your pocket, ready to head to your car when someone stops you. Your steps slow, brows knitting together as your scan lands on a girl, sitting right on the hood of your car.

Your car. She’s perched there like she belongs, fingers idly tracing patterns against the metal.

"Hey," you call out, keeping your voice even. "It’s not really polite to sit on someone else’s car, sweetheart."

Her head lifts, eyes locking onto yours with disdain, "Don't sweetheart me, you slut."

The venom in her words knocks the air from your lungs. Your breath catches, shock flashing through you as she stands. She’s young. Much younger than you.

"Excuse me?"

"Are you fucking deaf?" she snaps.

Your instincts flare, this isn’t normal. You take a step back, "Leave. Now. Before I call the police."

But she doesn’t move. Instead, she tilts her head, and smirked. "You’re Beomgyu’s soulmate, aren’t you?"

Your body locks up. How does she know? Your fingers tighten around the stems of the flowers, the thorns pressing into your palm. You want to speak, to deny, to do something, but the words won’t come.

Because you know, whatever you say next could make this worse.

She clicks her tongue, taking a slow step toward you. "Do this while I’m still being nice," she says, voice eerily light. "Stay away from him. Or I’ll destroy everything." She tilts her head again, a slow blink. "I’d rather see him ruined than with you, unnie."

She steps past you then, her shoulder knocking into yours just hard enough to make you stumble back. Your hands cold, heart hammering against your ribs. She doesn’t look back. Not until she’s a few feet away.

"Don’t think I won’t do it," she murmurs. "Just think about how I knew. Your name. Your workplace. Your parking spot."

She smiles, "Don’t test me."

I’m heading home now.

Beomgyu rubs the sleep from his eyes, his fingers fumbling for his phone the moment he wakes up. Checking for your messages has become second nature, his first instinct before he even fully shakes off sleep.

The corners of his lips curl into a soft smile as he reads your text. You remembered.

God, he misses you.

When he gets back, he’s not letting you out of his sight. He’ll beg his company if he has to, anything to steal just a little more time with you. He wants to spoil you, to show up with flowers every single day just to see that shy smile of yours. He’d buy you things you didn’t even know you needed, take pictures of you at every chance, make playlists for you, drag you into late-night game sessions just to hear you laugh and call him ridiculous. Love is effort. That’s what his parents always told him. He’d give it, all of it.

Maybe one day, he’d convince you to visit Daegu with him. Introduce you to his family, let his mom fuss over you, watch his brother tease him relentlessly. And Toto… Would you like Toto?

The thought makes him chuckle as he taps your contact and presses call. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. His smile falters.

Then, voicemail.

His brows knit together. He tries again. Straight to voicemail. The phone feels heavier in his hand now.

It’s the first time you haven’t picked up.

He’s in the van now. It’s been hours.

Beomgyu grips his phone, scrolling through his notifications, eyes darting to every new alert. His heart lifts for a second, only to sink just as fast when he realizes it’s not you. The screen dims in his hands, but he doesn’t put it down. He can’t.

"You still haven’t heard from her?" Soobin asked. He’s the only one still awake, eyes heavy but observant. Beomgyu hadn’t meant to make it obvious, but he’s never been good at hiding things, not to his members.

"No," Beomgyu mutters, shaking his head. His throat feels tight. "We always talk before she falls asleep."

Soobin exhales, tilting his head back against the seat. "She probably crashed as soon as she got home. Long day, maybe?" He keeps his tone easy, reassuring. "Just focus on later's concert. She’ll probably be awake by then."

Beomgyu nods, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. You’re right. Thanks, hyung."

Soobin claps a hand on his back. "Don't think about it too much."

Beomgyu did his best to push thoughts of you aside during the concert. He smiled, he sang, he danced—gave everything to the stage like he always did. But the second he was backstage, drenched in sweat and breathless from the high of performing, his hands were already reaching for his phone.

Still nothing.

Back at the hotel, Soobin and Yeonjun made sure he ate. He forced down a few bites, just enough to keep them from worrying. Now, fresh from a shower, exhaustion settles deep in his bones. His muscles ache, the weight of the night pressing down on him, but sleep won’t come.

His phone sits beside him on the bed. You’re probably asleep. He tells himself that. He should leave it alone.

But knowing doesn’t stop him from pressing call. It rings.

Once. Twice.

He’s about to give up when the line clicks.

“H-Hello?” Beomgyu stutters, his voice unsteady. No response. His heart pounds as he pulls the phone away, checking the screen just to be sure. The call is still connected. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Beomgyu.” The way you say his name makes his breath catch.

“Are you okay? I’ve been—”

“Beomgyu.” You cut him off again, your voice softer this time. “Yeah, I’m… okay.” He hears you take a shaky breath. “I’ve just been thinking for the past couple of hours, and…” His grip on the phone tightens.

"What is it?"

“Maybe we should lie low for a bit? You’re busy, and you’re at the peak of your career.” A pause. “It’s not that I’m going away,” you add quickly, “I’m your soulmate, after all.” The last part is barely a whisper.

Beomgyu shoots up from where he’s sitting, running a hand through his hair, fingers pulling at the strands. He feels cold all over. His pulse pounds in his ears.

“Where is this coming from?” His voice is raw, edged dangerously close to panic. “What happened, Y/N?”

“Nothing, really,” you say too quickly. “It just… crossed my mind.” There’s a pause. A beat of silence that feels like a lifetime. “It’s late there. It’s 2 AM. Please sleep.”

His chest tightens. “Are you breaking up with me?” The words feel foreign in his mouth. His voice drops to a whisper. “Do you not want me? Do you not want this?”

“Beomgyu, please.” You voice wavers. “Our fate is certain. But right now… I just feel like it’s not working.” You exhale slowly. “You should sleep, okay? Let’s talk again… soon.”

And then the line goes dead.

Beomgyu stares at his screen, his fingers frozen, his mind racing to process what just happened. His chest caves in, breath shaky as he stumbles back onto the bed. And then he breaks.

His hands cover his face, shoulders trembling as it all crashes down on him. He had a feeling when you didn't answer his call. A whisper of doubt, an inkling of fear.

And now, it’s real.

4 AM, and Beomgyu still hasn’t slept. His eyes burn from exhaustion, but his mind won’t shut off. He’s been texting you, calling you over and over, but every attempt goes straight to voicemail. At some point, your phone must have died, or worse, you turned it off.

He lies on the stiff hotel bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s unfamiliar. Cold. But then again, when was the last time anything in his life felt familiar? Felt like home?

His phone dings.

He scrambles for it, heartbeat hammering, but before he can check the notification, an unknown number flashes across the screen. It’s stupid to answer an unknown call at this hour. Their managers had given them talks about it. But something—something in his gut—tells him to pick up.

“Hello?” His voice is hoarse.

“Beomgyu.” A pause. Then— “It’s Da-hee,”

His breath catches.

“She’s going to be angry if she finds out I called you,” Da-hee says, voice hushed, urgent. “But I can’t just sit back and watch this happen. Just listen to me. I’m going to tell you everything—from the start.”

"Please."

"Don’t think I won’t do it," she murmurs. "Just think about how I knew. Your name. Your workplace. Your parking spot."

She smiles, "Don’t test me."

You take another sip of whiskey, curled up on the couch, knees drawn to your chest. The tears won’t stop. No matter how many times you wipe them away, they keep coming, slipping down your cheeks, burning just as much as the liquor sliding down your throat.

Your thoughts won’t stop either.

Beomgyu.

He has everything; his dream, his career, a future so bright it could swallow you whole. He has the world at his feet. And you? You’re just… you. Not worth the risk. Not worth the detour. Maybe this was always how it was supposed to be. Maybe that’s why your paths were never meant to cross in the first place. You saw the consequence, felt it when you passed the Hybe building, that heavy reminder of the impossible divide between your worlds.

It should be enough. Enough that you got to know him, enough that he even knows your name. Enough that you get to see him on a screen. It should be enough.

But is it?

“Fuck,” you choke out, voice breaking. You press the heel of your palm against your eyes, as if that could stop the ache. “Just when I finally saw you… What a joke.” You shake your head, wiping your face with the sleeve of your sweater. “The universe is a fucking idiot for ever thinking we were meant to be.”

You take another drink, and it burns.

“Y/N.”

You blink up, vision swimming, to see Da-hee standing in the doorway, concern etched across her face.

“I’ve been ringing your doorbell,” she says, stepping closer. “I used the spare key, why are you crying?”

You don’t respond. You just stare at her, eyes glassy, cheeks wet. She moves toward you, eyes flickering to the near-empty glass in your hand. You’ve been drinking for hours. You already called in sick to work, there’s no way you could function like this.

"Oh, honey," She sighs, reaches for the glass, and you don’t fight it. You let it go. "What happened?"

“Fate is already taking back what it let me borrow.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but Da-hee hears it. She your holds your hand.

“What are you talking about?” she asks. “Explain.”

You swallow hard. Your throat feels tight, like every word is fighting to stay buried. But you force them out.

“A sasaeng,” you murmur, watching as Da-hee’s eyes widen in alarm. “She found out about me. She knows everything, Da-hee. Where I live, where I work, my family—everything.” You suck in a shaky breath, blinking back fresh tears. “And the worst of it, she fucking said she’s going to ruin Beomgyu.”

The moment the words leave your lips, your resolve shatters. You cry like a child finally breaking after being scolded in front of everyone, holding it all in until no one’s around to see. Da-hee pulled you into her arms as you sobbed. You cling to her, hands fisting her sweater. “I have to let him go,” you choke out. “I can’t do this to him. To them. They don’t deserve this.”

Da-hee pulls back, her hands firm on your shoulders. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “You don’t have to do this alone. We can go to the police. We can tell Beomgyu—”

“And then what?” you cut in, voice hollow. “What can they really do? Stop her from telling the world? Keep every single person quiet? Even if she gets caught, the damage will already be done.”

Da-hee doesn’t answer. She just sinks onto the couch beside you, eyes shining with unshed tears, because she knows you well. She knows you too well, knows that the emotional version of you wouldn’t be able to hear her, not right now. Not until the sobs quiet down and the pain in your chest eases just a little. So, she just holds you.

Your phone screen lights up between you. Another call.

Beomgyu. He’s still calling. Still trying.

"I don’t think it’s best to answer it right now—"

But you don’t listen to Da-hee’s warning. Your fingers tremble as they hover over the screen. You have to end this. Now. While you still have the strength. Because deep down, you know—

If you wake up tomorrow, you might not be able to let him go.

“H-Hello?” He stutters on the other line, his voice unsteady. Your breath catches in your throat. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

Everything. Everything is wrong.

“Beomgyu.”

I miss you. How can I go on without you?

“Are you okay? I’ve been—”

“Beomgyu.” You cut him off again, your voice softer this time. “Yeah, I’m… okay.” You take a shaky breath. “I’ve just been thinking for the past couple of hours, and…” You hesitate.

I’m not okay. I’ve been thinking about you, only you, and how my existence could ruin everything you’ve worked for.

"What?" His inhale is sharp, laced with the beginnings of panic.

“Maybe we should lie low for a bit? You’re busy, and you’re at the peak of your career.” You pause, fingers trembling. “It’s not that I’m going away,” you add quickly, desperate to believe your own words. “I’m your soulmate, after all.” The last part is barely a whisper.

I should be replaceable. And I shouldn’t be your priority. You press a hand to your mouth, as if you can keep the words from spilling out, keep the truth from bleeding through.

“Where is this coming from? What happened, Y/N?”

My heart is breaking. And you’re too far away to hold it together.

“Nothing, really,” you say too quickly. “It just… crossed my mind.” You pause, swallowing. “It’s late there. It’s 2 AM. Please sleep.”

Please sleep. And forget about me.

“Are you breaking up with me? Do you not want me? Do you not want this?”

I want you more than anything. That’s why I have to do this. If I can save you from losing everything, I’ll do it. Even if it means losing you.

“Beomgyu, please.” You voice wavers. “Our fate is certain. But right now… I just feel like it’s not working.” You exhale slowly. “You should sleep, okay? Let’s talk again… soon.”

You press the end button.

The sobs rip through you, shaking your whole body and stealing the air from your lungs. You curl in on yourself, pressing your fist to your mouth, as if that could stop the sound, as if that could stop the pain. How can love be this cruel? How can the same thing that made you feel so alive now leave you feeling so hollow?

But this is for him. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer, like a desperate attempt to make it hurt less.

You’ll do this for him. Even if it destroys you.

Da-hee wipes at her eyes sniffling as she looks at you, curled up in the fetal position, your body tense like you’re bracing for impact even in sleep. She managed to get you into bed, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

She’d do anything for you.

Carefully, she tiptoes to the bedside table and picks up your phone. Her heart pounds. If anyone’s watching me, I’ll beg for forgiveness later. But right now, you come first.

She types in your usual password. 8888. Incorrect. She frowns, thinking. You changed it? Then, almost without realizing it, her fingers move on their own. 0313. The screen unlocks.

Beomgyu’s birthday.

Da-hee lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You idiot,” she whispers, shaking her head. “You love him so much, and yet you’re willing to walk away. How can you be this selfless?”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she scrolls through your contacts, searching for his name. Her thumb hovers over it for only a second before she types his number on her own phone.

You’ll be furious. You might never forgive her. But if there’s even the slightest chance this stops you from making the biggest mistake of your life, she’ll take that risk.

Someone has to tell him the things that you can’t.

The line connects, and Da-hee inhales. “She’s going to be angry if she finds out I called you, but I can’t just sit back and watch this happen. Just listen to me. I’m going to tell you everything—from the start.”

She’ll prepare her apology later but more than that, she hopes Beomgyu will fight for you.

"I want to go home." Beomgyu’s voice is firm, but his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. His manager looks up from his laptop, brows furrowing.

The door bursts open. Soobin stumbles in, slightly out of breath—he must’ve run after him. Beomgyu doesn’t care.

Beomgyu already knows everything—Da-hee told him. Every sickening detail. And now, standing here, he has no idea how to fix this. No idol has ever come out of this unscathed. But none of that matters right now. His only priority is getting to you.

His manager sighs, already exasperated. “You’re flying back home in a few days, Beomgyu.”

“No,” he says, jaw tightening. “I mean now. I need a few days. To rest. To handle something personal.”

“You know your schedule is packed—”

“Then move everything,” Beomgyu interrupts sharply. He feels Soobin’s hand on his shoulder, hears his name spoken softly, but he shrugs it off. No one is stopping him from getting to you.

His manager sighs again, firmer this time. “We can’t do that.”

“You won’t even try?” His voice wavers between frustration and desperation. “You won’t even let the management know?”

“We can’t make last-minute changes like this.”

Beomgyu lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Of course.” He clenches his fists. All his life, he’s done everything they asked. Pushed through exhaustion, smiled through sickness, showed up even when his body begged him to stop. “I won’t follow you on this,” he says, voice steady. “I can’t do this. Not this time. If you won’t let me go, I’ll still leave.”

“Beomgyu, let’s talk about this when you’re calm,” Soobin says gently, patting Beomgyu’s back. “Please.”

Beomgyu turns to him, his eyes dark with frustration. “I love MOAs, hyung. I love all of you. They gave me everything.” His voice wavers, but he pushes through. “But Y/N… she is my everything.” His breath hitches. He can't even explain it properly. How badly he needs you. “You’re lucky. All of you. Your soulmates—"

“So this is about your soulmate?” The manager exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Don’t you see? She’s making you choose between her and your career.”

“No.” Beomgyu’s voice breaks, his chest tightens, and the lump in his throat is unbearable. “She’s not making me choose. She’s already choosing for me.” His next breath is shaky. “She’s leaving. Can you let your own soulmate leave?”

The room falls silent. Soobin watches him, stunned. He’d never seen Beomgyu like this before—this angry, this desperate. And the question stings the older.

Beomgyu turns away, blinking rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. Explaining further is useless. He’s already said everything that matters. Nothing is going to stop him now. When he steps into the hallway, he sees Yeonjun standing there, leaning against the wall.

He’s been listening the whole time.

Yeonjun immediately reaches out, tugging at his arm. “Yah, Choi Beomgyu, come on,” he says quietly. “Let’s talk with everyone.” Beomgyu exhales shakily. If there's anyone he owes an explanation. It's them. His brothers.

So Beomgyu told them everything.

About the sasaeng. About the threats. About how you were walking away to protect him. About how he refused to let that happen. And just like he knew they would, the four of them listened—not as bandmates, not as colleagues, but as brothers.

No one understood him better than they did.

They didn’t tell him to reconsider. They didn’t tell him to stay. Instead, they held onto him, arms wrapped tight, as if they could shield him from the storm that was already brewing. They prayed—not for him to change his mind, but for the world to understand.

Kai was the first to break. His voice barely above a whisper, “Is it really worth it… if the world doesn’t want us to have soulmates?”

It shattered something in all of them.

Beomgyu didn’t answer, not with words. Because what kind of world was it, where love had to be hidden? Where choosing your own heart felt like a betrayal?

With the help of his members, he managed to slip through the cracks, securing a last-minute flight. Now, as he sat on the plane, adjusting his mask, pulling his cap low, he caught his own reflection in the window.

Maybe it was time. Time to stop pretending. Time to stop hiding.

Because an idol in love isn’t supposed to be shameful. Because having a soulmate shouldn’t be treated like a scandal. Because loving you would never make him love his dream any less.

He just had to believe in MOAs. In the people who gave him everything. What he has with them, he treasures so much that the thought of baring his heart isn’t impossible.

And he would.

Completely.

He would trade it all, just to see you again.

The pounding in your head hasn’t let up, a dull, relentless throb that even the hot shower couldn’t wash away. You pop an aspirin, sighing as you press your fingertips against your temples, willing the ache—and everything else—to disappear.

Then the doorbell rings. Right. The food.

Dragging your feet toward the door, you barely think as you swing it open, then freeze.

Choi Beomgyu.

His face bare, a backpack slung over his shoulder. A car idles in your driveway, but you barely process it. Your eyes lock onto the messy strands of blonde peeking out from under his hoodie, his gaze searching yours. He looks at you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

“Y/N—” The door slams shut in his face before he can say another word.

Your breath stumbles. Your pulse pounds. The damp strands of your hair cling to your neck as you press your back against the door, fingers gripping the handle like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Shit. He fucking looks good with his new dyed hair— wait. Don't think about that. What is he doing here?

“I’m parked out front,” his voice comes through the door, muffled but you hear it. “I just want to talk.” A shaky inhale. Then softer, “Baby, I’m here. When you’re ready, just open the door.”

His footsteps retreat.

You start pacing, your heart ricocheting against your ribs. He’s here. He came all this way. After everything you stupidly said. You hurt him yet—

The doorbell rings again.

You yank it open, “Wait, my ass—”

“Chinese takeout for Y/N?” The delivery guy blinks at you, holding up the bag.

“Oh.” You blush, embarrassed. You fumble for your wallet, signing the receipt with shaky hands. Your eyes keep drifting past him, toward the car still parked in front of your house.

Just like what he said. He's there.

The hours slip away unnoticed, morning fading seamlessly into afternoon. Every time you steal a glance through the curtain, he’s still there. Evening creeps in as you start making dinner. Without thinking, you plate portions for two. Your hands hesitate over the dishes, your heart heavy. When you check the clock, it’s 8 p.m. He’s been outside for twelve hours—silent, waiting.

Just like he promised. He never knocked again. Twelve hours. Your hands tremble as you turn off the stove. He must’ve just come from another gruelling day, looking like he’d stepped off a plane after hours in the air; rumpled, drained, and still without rest.

Why did you let him wait this long?

You don’t stop to think anymore. You grab your keys, shove your feet into your slippers, and head straight for his car, blinking back the tears that blur your vision.

He must see you coming because before you even reach him, the car door swings open.

And there he is.

His hoodie is pushed back now, his hair slightly dishevelled like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times. His face is drawn, exhausted. His eyes red-rimmed, heavy, like he’s been crying for hours. You swallow the lump in your throat.

“Come inside,” Your voice cracks, but you don’t stop. You just turn around and head back toward the door. You don’t have to look back to know he’s following.

He steps inside, his tall frame filling the space as you quietly shut the door behind him. Your apartment looks small with him around. When you turn, your eyes meet, "Beomgyu—"

You barely get his name out before he’s on you. He can't stop himself anymore. It’s how you looked outside, so effortless—your hair pinned up, the simplicity of your everyday clothes, and yet, you somehow seemed untouchable. He envisions a life with you, a routine, your soft smile waiting for him when he comes home, you looking like something angelic, his hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, his body heat searing through your clothes. His lips crash into yours; hungry, desperate, like he’s been starved for you. His mouth moves against yours, claiming, taking.

His fingers thread through your hair, tilting your head back as his tongue slides against yours. His hands roam down, gripping, pulling, making sure you feel every bit of him. He grabs your wrists, lifting them, wrapping your arms around his neck as his lips move to your jaw, then to your neck, his breath ragged as he nips your sensitive skin. "I missed you," he murmurs. Another kiss—hotter, deeper, his body pressing your back against the wall. "I got fucking scared you'd never open the door."

His movements were hurried, frantic, as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. In one swift motion, he lifted you, his steps unsteady as he carried you to the bedroom. Your bedroom. The air felt heavy as he laid you down on the mattress.

"I get it. I know you don’t mean it—that you really believe this is for the best." His voice softens, almost breaking. He presses his crotch to yours, eyes seeking yours. "But did it ever cross your mind what I want? What I think is best for me? For us?"

“I'm sorry,” you said weakly, your hands clutching at his shirt, your voice trembling as much as your resolve.

"I'll always forgive you." His hands moved to your shoulders, then slid down to your waist, pulling you to him. He grinds desperately to you. You never knew that lips could talk without uttering a word as he captures your lips again and again. "Because your words could never hurt me as much as your leaving does."

You surrendered to his touch, your body softening beneath him. Your hands gripped his shoulders for balance as he pressed you deeper into the mattress, which groaned under your shifting weight. You reached for Beomgyu’s lips, catching him off guard as you kissed him with everything you had, tongues colliding in a heated frenzy. His hand slid between your thighs, cupping your middle and sending a shiver through you. But even in the haze of his taste, a heavy guilt settled in your chest. "Gyu,"

"I need you, baby. Or I'll go crazy." His breaths were ragged, syncing with your every moan as his tongue tangled with yours. Your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer, urging him on. His body pressed against yours, grinding to yours, while his hands roamed over your skin, igniting every nerve he touched. His lips trailed downward, leaving soft kisses that melted into your flesh, a path leading straight to your core.

He stripped you of every barrier, leaving you bare under his gaze. His eyes shimmered with adoration and awe as they traced your body. You hadn’t realized how powerless you were against him until your legs parted, welcoming him. He's on top of you, looked at you like you were sacred, like you were his entire world.

Beomgyu's eyes never left yours as his fingers found your hand, seeking the place where the string was tied. The red thread appears, and he lifts it to his lips. A kiss featherlight and reverent, pressed against the place where destiny tied you to him.

“It's going to be okay…” he whispered between kisses, his voice breaking in a way that made your heart ache. Tears pricked your eyes because you wanted to believe him. You needed to believe him. His hands explored further, his fingers shakily reaching for your clit, pinching softly then roughly rubbing, coaxing sounds from your lips that you didn’t know you were capable of.

"I'll fix it for us, for you." He looks at you, wanting to see every expression you make. He’s going to fuck you until you cum all over his dick and then he’ll do it again. Until you won't be able to think about leaving him anymore. He goes down further, kisses down and the smell of you is divine.

His face hovers and with his fingers he spreads you apart. He swallows—salivating. He sticks his tongue out, lightly licking your clit. You taste so—He buries his face in, tongue inside, hands on your hips. "Shit, you were really gonna leave me? And I was gonna miss this?" He groans, lapping up, sucking the arousal out of you. He moves up, nose bumping on your clit then he suckles more. His cock throbs with every taste of you, the way you melt against his mouth driving him insane. He feels you slick against his chin, but he doesn’t stop—doesn’t leave a single inch of you untouched by his warm, greedy mouth. It was as if your body had been crafted for his lips alone, flesh and heat meant to be devoured at his leisure.

When you tug hard on his hair, he groans against you, finally pulling back. His lips glisten as he moves up your body. He crashes his mouth onto yours, the kiss deep and hungry, and you taste yourself on his tongue—messy, desperate, a mix of him and you, blurring the lines between who’s devouring who.

“I love you,” he murmured as he positioned himself, slowly sliding into you. A low, guttural sound escaped him as he felt you, tight and warm, pulling him deeper. He's sure he'll come right there and then. His face buried itself in the curve of your neck, and his words spilled out—"I'm sorry it took this long."

"You feel so so good, don't ask me to stop, please." His touch was gentle even as his thrusts inside you grew more desperate. He cradled your head, kissed away your tears, and pressed his lips to your cheek. “I’m in love with you, Y/N,"

“I love you,” you replied, capturing his lips in a desperate kiss as you both unravelled together, bodies trembling in unison. Your thighs clenched tightly around his waist.

"Beomgyu, I— It was selfish of me—" You whispered his name and it made tears well up in his eyes. His hand gently pushed the damp strands of hair from your face, and he pressed tender kisses along your cheeks, your temple, and your jaw.

“Shh, no,” he whispered, pulling you against his chest, holding you like he was afraid you’d slip away. His lips brushed the crown of your head. "None of this is your fault," he murmurs. "But you have to trust me now."

All the horrors inside you dissolve with every kiss he presses to your skin, each one stripping away the fear, the doubt, the self-imposed distance. He kisses you like he’s rewriting everything, like he knows exactly where every shattered piece of you belongs. As if he’s memorized the map of your ruin and decided, you were always meant to be whole.

And you let him.

Because now, in his arms, with his lips claiming yours over and over, only pulls away when breathing becomes a necessity, his forehead pressing against yours for a fleeting second before his mouth finds yours again, as if letting go for too long might break him, you realise the truth—it was foolish of you to think that pushing him away would solve it all.

It was foolish to ever believe you could ever live without him.

Waking up with Beomgyu’s arm draped over your bare waist felt like something out of a dream.

The second you tried to slip away, he pulled you right back in, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a sleepy rough hum. His grip was loose but unwilling, like even in sleep, he couldn’t bear to let you go. He filled your morning with lazy kisses, tangled limbs, and muffled laughter, his fingers tracing over your bare skin.

You could live a lifetime like this and still never believe it was real.

Now, you sit at your vanity, dressed for work, fastening an earring as Beomgyu, fresh from the shower, tugs on a clean hoodie. He catches your eye in the mirror and grins as he walks over. “What are you doing baby? Dolled up and all.”

“Drying my hair,” you say, “I’m actually early today. Da-hee is dropping by later too, by the way.”

“Okay. I’ll drive you.” He leans down, eyes flickering to the hairdryer on the desk. He picks it up, flipping it on. “I know how to do this.”

You give him a skeptical look. “Oh, really?”

“Uh-huh. I could probably do your makeup too.” He presses a teasing kiss to your cheek, making you giggle.

The warmth of the dryer was against your scalp as he carefully runs his fingers through your hair, drying it with surprising patience. His touch lingers even after the dryer clicks off, his fingers gently gathering strands of your hair.

“I used to braid my mom’s hair when I was younger,” he murmurs. “I want to do yours too.” You nod, watching him through the mirror, watching the way he looks at you with so much quiet devotion it nearly steals your breath. "It will be an honour to do this every day for you, you know."

And just like that, you fall in love all over again.

You sit in the passenger seat, your hair loosely braided—the proof that he wasn’t just bluffing. His fingers lace with yours as he drives, his thumb idly tracing circles against your skin. Every time the car slows at a red light, he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “I love you,”

He grins, that same cheeky, heart-stopping smile. "Love you more," he replies.

You let out a quiet breath, leaning your head against the window, watching the world blur past. But then, out of the corner of your eye—you see it.

And your breath catches in your throat.

Rain Lilies.

Flowers that shine the brightest in the wake of the storm.

It looks out of place. You remembered last night’s rain. It had come down in furious sheets, drowning the streets, washing everything away. The pavement is still slick, puddles reflecting the grey morning sky. And yet—there it is.

Small. Alive.

In the middle of a city that never stops, where people rush past without a second glance, too busy to care about a thing so insignificant, so easily overlooked—it stands, untouched. A quiet defiance against the cruelty that tried to take it.

It looks out of place, and it's beautiful.

If something this fragile can survive and still bloom, maybe, just maybe, so can you.

"Hyung!" Beomgyu’s laughter rings through the air as he runs straight into his brother’s arms. They embrace, laughing like they’re kids again, the older one attempting to lift him off the ground. Behind them, his parents rush to catch up, smiles stretched wide across their faces. The house, with its endless stretch of green, looks like out of a memory—soft, a paradise.

Beomgyu turns to you then, his hand resting gently on your back. His eyes soft when he speaks.

"Mom, Dad," he says, "This is Y/N."

You bow politely, but before you can even rise fully, his mother pulls you into a hug. "I’ve wanted to meet you for so long, dear," she murmurs against your shoulder.

When Beomgyu’s father steps forward, you feel your chest tighten. He smiles, and for a second, it’s like looking at Beomgyu in the years to come. His hug is just as warm, just as safe.

Lunch is a blur of laughter and stories, of hands brushing, of Beomgyu sneaking glances at you when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His parents laugh along with your stories—the one about meeting his sweet members, and how Da-hee had begged to meet them in person. You describe her pale face, wide-eyed and on the verge of fainting the entire time, and how Beomgyu grew irritated every time Yeonjun jokingly flirted with you, insisting he should be your favorite.

But it’s the story of Beomgyu meeting your family last week that really gets them, how he’d been so polite, yet adorably nervous, his hands fidgeting in his lap as he tried to make the right impression.

His mom grins, her eyes bright with excitement. “I’ll have to meet them soon,” she says, already making plans in her head, as if you’ve always been part of the family. At some point, Beomgyu tells them you’ll be staying for the week. They are overjoyed, and Toto, takes an instant liking to you.

Beomgyu sits on the porch, it's evening now.

This deck—he’s spent years here—on this very step, staring out at the world, wondering when he’d find you. Wondering if he ever would.

His fingers tighten around the handwritten letter on his phone screen, the words waiting to be sent out into the world. His heart pounds. What if they don’t understand? What if this changes everything? What if—

Laughter drifts from inside the house, yours mixing with his mom’s, his brother’s. It was the only assurance he'd ever need.

He exhales sharply, thumb hovering for only a second longer before he clicks post. It loads. He doesn’t watch. Just locks his phone and sets it aside as the front door creaks open.

"You’re trying to escape me, cookie?" Your voice is playful, arms crossing as you step toward him. Beomgyu only grins, shaking his head at the nickname his father gave him. He slips an arm around your shoulders as soon as you sit down, pulling you while he presses kisses on the side of your head.

"Never," His fingers find yours, a new habit of his, thumb caressing over your ring finger. His thoughts slip to the diamond ring hidden in his dorm, the one he bought after a week of meeting you. He just needs to find the right moment, the right words. Because even now, after everything, you still make him nervous. The way his heart races when you walk into a room, how everything seems to stop for a moment when you look his way.

He meets your smile with one of his own. Would he ever be this lucky in another life? To find you, to love you, not by destiny’s design, not by some divine script, but by choice?

Even without a soulmate mark, even without fate—

It would always be you.

Maybe in another world, the sky is burning, the world is ending, an apocalypse, and he still falls in love with you. Maybe in another life, he is a man undone, a husband who shatters more than he mends, but even then, he would spend eternity piecing himself back together just to be worthy of you.

Beomgyu knows this much: no matter the lifetime, no matter the universe, he will love you. Again and again, without hesitation, without end. As if loving you is written into the very fabric of his existence.

His fingers graze your cheek, and you lean into him like you were always meant to, like the universe has been bringing you back to him for centuries. Your smile reaches your eyes, soft and certain. His missing piece. The better half of him.

Beomgyu looks at you, and to him, you are something that comes after the rain—the hush of the earth reborn, the golden light breaking through the clouds, the promise that even the chaos was worth it.

He can’t help himself. Not when you’re looking at him like that. Not when your smile is the only thing he ever wants to see.

So he leans in.

The phone sits forgotten, lighting up with messages—teary words, heartfelt congratulations, the world calling for him. But none of it matters.

Because right now, you are in his arms. Right now, he is kissing the soft of your addicting lips. And right now, that is all that ever was, all that ever is, all that ever will be.

𝒯𝐻𝐸 𝐸𝒩𝒟.

[taexual]

. . . d e l i r i u m | 1

i try my best to ignore what you’re saying, i’ve got your words written on my skin /// normandie, enough

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: sometimes love and hate exist on opposite ends of the map. other times, on separate floors of the same building.

genre: ex!yeonjun / enemies to lovers au

warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, flirting and bickering (we’re sooooo back), strong language, some angst, kinda mean!reader but she obviously has her reasons

words: 8.8k

[ ! ] this is a sequel to equilibrium

masterlist

✦ • ─── AUGUST 15, 2026. 5:30 PM

It was a cloudy day, not uncommon for mid-August. Your grandfather used to say that clouds shielded you from the worst of the heat, but today they felt more like a lid, trapping the cold in. You wore three layers and a loose scarf, but the chill still crept in, nosing at your collarbones and pricking your wrists the entire walk home.

Shivering, you heaved the door of your building open.

“No, Grandad, the washing machine,” you said, shifting the phone to your other ear. “I haven’t got a dishwasher.”

“Right,” your grandfather replied, voice crackling faintly on the line. “So what’s the matter?”

The lobby was warm, dim, and smelled faintly of aged pipes. It always reminded you of your grandparents’ basement.

“It’s making this—I don’t know, this glugging sound when it drains,” you said. “And—”

Something heavy clattered overhead. You glanced up. Hurried footsteps followed several floors above, forcing the entire stairwell to creak.

Deciding to wait out the commotion, you stopped near the row of grey letterboxes.

“And there was a small puddle behind the washer when I checked later,” you went on, lowering your voice so it wouldn’t echo around the lobby. “Not sure if it’s really from that, because my sink’s been clogging, too, so—”

Your grandfather’s heavy sigh cut you off. You sucked your lips in.

“I told you, my child,” he said, “it’s an old building with terrible plumbing. I told you to find something better.”

You’d tried.

For an entire month, after you returned from New York, you’d walked through flats smelling of bleach, or with four layers of peeling wallpaper, or no electrical sockets—sometimes even no electricity. You learned, quickly enough, that ‘affordable’ was a euphemism for ‘probably shouldn’t be lived in.’

This building seemed to be the best there was. And it was charming, really, despite being so old. There was an air of elegance here: from the narrow, rounded stairwell to the high ceilings and tiny balconies that let the afternoon light cast a golden glow over your living room and kitchen.

Sure, the lift had trapped you on your very first day, and you’d spent a good hour staring at the blinking lights, convinced you’d die here. But you hadn’t! That had to count for something.

“It’s really not that bad,” you said, flipping open your letterbox. It was empty. “Just the washer’s acting up, really. And I didn’t overload it this time, I swear.”

Another dull thud landed somewhere above you, followed by a slow scrape of something heavy being dragged across the floor.

“Could be the hose came loose,” your grandfather said. You forced your attention back to the call. “Or the drain’s backing up. Did you check the hose at the back?”

The noises upstairs ceased.

Assuming that your neighbours had finally gone home, you began to climb up to the sixth floor.

“I mean, I looked at it,” you said, unzipping your jacket. “It’s, uh—it’s definitely there.”

Silence answered. You could picture your grandfather pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes screwed shut.

“Did you try feeling it?” he asked.

“No,” you admitted. “I was scared it would fall apart if I touched it.”

“Mm. Any water near it now?”

“I’m not home yet.” Your breath began to shorten, the stairwell air warm and heavy with dust. “But this morning, there was that puddle. Not very big, but the last time I used the washer was a few nights ago, so I don’t—”

“Mhmm,” he cut in. “Could mean there’s a slow leak.”

You could tell from his voice that he’d entered his professional mode. He could repair anything: pipes, shelves, radiators, old bikes. Sometimes he even repaired things that weren’t broken yet, just in case they were thinking about it.

“Okay,” you said, dread seeping into your voice. You hadn’t met your downstairs neighbours yet; you would’ve preferred not to drown them.

“It shouldn’t be anything serious,” your grandfather added, sensing the direction your thoughts had taken.

“Right,” you said. “That’s usually what people say right before the whole building floods or—”

You stopped short in surprise.

The fifth-floor landing was buried in cardboard boxes, every wall lined with uneven towers. Some were excessively taped, others gaped open, revealing scraps of fabric or the edges of plates inside. The door to your right stood ajar.

Clearly, someone was moving in.

“Don’t worry,” your grandfather said. You heard him moving about on the other end; his glasses clicked as he set them down. “I’ll pop round next weekend.”

“No, Grandad. You don’t have to—”

His dismissive cough interrupted you.

“Nonsense.” Another cough followed, rougher this time. He’d been doing that more often lately, ever since his flower shop filled with autumn deliveries. “I want to see my little girl. And I’ve business in the city anyway, so don’t fuss. Try not to run the washer in the meantime, alright?”

Carefully side-stepping past the stacks, you clutched your phone tighter. The boxes smelled pleasantly of paper—old books, even—and reminded you of the days you’d spent at the library. Your shoulder clipped one by accident, and the entire tower wobbled.

Holding your breath, you reached out to stabilise the topmost box. It felt unreasonably heavy.

“I-I’ll try,” you said into the phone. “I’ve only got one pair of clean socks left, though.”

Your grandfather gave a low snort that broke into another cough. “Wear them mismatched. No one will notice.”

“Hmm.”

Another small box lay on its side at the foot of the stairs in front of you. Its contents had spilt across the landing: buttons, combs, a handful of empty plastic cases that shifted in the stairwell draught.

“You sure it isn’t anything serious?” you asked, nudging the box upright with your boot and crouching to gather what had scattered so it wasn’t in your way.

“Doesn’t sound like it, sweetheart,” your grandfather said. “Probably just the hose. Maybe we’ll need a new clamp, nothing big.”

Your attention wavered.

As you pushed the box, the loose bits shifted, revealing a patch of yellow beneath. You stared at it for a moment. Then, you pushed the clutter aside with the tips of your fingers.

A small plush giraffe lay at the bottom.

The fabric was worn, one of the ossicones slightly crooked. Despite the sad state of it, the beady eyes caught the light from the small stairwell window and looked almost alive.

You could not understand what you were looking at.

“Promise you won’t try to sort it yourself,” your grandfather continued, his voice indistinct now. “I’ll handle it when I get there. Alright?”

Your fingers lingered against the edge of the box.

Your mind flashed back to Madagascar—and to the twin toy, the hippo, that you kept in a similar box at the bottom of your wardrobe. A box that also held an old woollen scarf with golden initials stitched in the corner. You hadn’t opened it in months.

“I—mhmm,” you said, the sound automatic. “Yeah. I promise.”

You buried the giraffe back under the clutter.

It wasn’t anything. Just a toy from the zoo, the sort shops sold by the dozen. The sort every child had.

This had to be a young family moving in, then. That made sense. Lots of boxes.

“Uh—thanks, Grandad,” you said into the phone. “I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon, sweetheart.”

You ended the call and slipped your phone into your jacket pocket. Steadying yourself with a hand against the wall, you sidestepped the boxes on the stairs. The labels caught your eye, scrawled in hurried, uneven handwriting: KITCHEN (probably), KITCHEN (definitely), and BEDROOM (I guess).

Your lips twitched.

Then you heard a soft, tentative meow.

Surprised, you turned your head. Between the stacks stood a white cat with black and brown patches speckled across its back and nose. Another darker splotch sat over one blue eye, drawing it into a permanent squint.

The little creature was sneaking out of the open flat, its tail high up like a question mark. It fixed its bright eyes on you and meowed again.

Your heart softened at once.

“Hello,” you said, stepping back on the landing and dropping into a squat. You held out your hand, palm open.

The cat strode forward. Its whiskers twitched as it inspected your fingers. Satisfied, it leaned in and pressed its fuzzy face into your palm, eyes narrowing in approval.

Your chest swelled with a disproportionate sense of accomplishment.

“Hi, baby,” you said. “Do you live here?”

The cat answered with another small meow and padded closer. You let your hand glide down the curve of its neck, fingers sinking into the warm fur.

“You’re very beautiful,” you said. It made a pleased sound and circled your legs. You chuckled under your breath. “Do your people know you’re out here on your own?”

The cat gave a questioning chirp. Your hand continued its idle path along its neck as your gaze drifted to the open flat. The doorway offered very little; just the shadows of a dim corridor, the windows inside obscured by a dark drape.

The cat meowed again, sharper this time, demanding your full attention.

You smiled and gave it one last slow stroke.

“I’d love to stay and chat,” you said, “but I’ve got to get home. My washer might be causing a flood as we speak.”

The cat blinked at you, a little offended. She’d let you pet her; surely, she’d earned a reward?

“I’ll have something sweet for you the next time I see you, yeah?” you said.

It meowed impatiently in response.

You chuckled again. “Oh, I’m sorry. But, see, I didn’t know you’d be here. I’ll be prepared next time.”

You straightened, casting a final glance at the open doorway. You considered knocking to inform them that their cat was here. Then reconsidered, once you remembered the box with the giraffe.

They probably knew the cat was here anyway.

You dropped your hands to your sides and took a step back. The cat slipped off your foot and made another slow circuit around your legs, deliberately brushing its tail against your jeans and leaving behind a scatter of white fur. Then, with an easy spring, it hopped onto one of the boxes.

“Bye, little one,” you said, glancing back as you stepped over another box. “Don’t go wandering off too far, okay?”

The cat raised a paw for a languid lick, but paused, suddenly, at the sound of your lock clicking upstairs, its little head tilting in curiosity.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 15, 2026. 6 PM

Thankfully, the puddle behind the washing machine had not reappeared. You mopped the floor again anyway, just in case, then crouched to unplug it. The standby light died immediately.

You stood still for a moment, listening, but nothing dripped. Good.

In your bedroom, the laundry basket sat full to the brim, clothes already spilling over its sides. In your attempts not to overload the washing machine, you’d only been able to wash a few shirts and the occasional pair of pants in one go. It barely made a difference.

You nudged the basket with your foot, trying to shove it back into the corner by the wardrobe. It refused to move.

You supposed you could’ve done your washing at Reina’s. She’d offered more than once, including at your late lunch today. But now that she lived with Soobin, turning up with a week’s worth of laundry felt too intrusive, even if neither of them would say so.

You’d manage.

You walked over to your desk. Books and papers covered every bit of it; you never seemed to keep it tidy. You lingered at the edge for a moment, your mind wandering.

You felt a wild instinct to reach for the old box inside your wardrobe and check the contents. Check if the hippo was still there. The scarf. Check if they’d changed in any way over the last—

No.

You wouldn’t check.

Clearing your throat, you started rearranging the books on your desk to fit your laptop.

Monday would be your first day back at university, starting doctoral seminars and working as a teaching assistant for Professor Lee. He’d already emailed you a reading list that, at first glance, felt like a joke. It was monstrous. You’d made it through half of it over the summer. You hoped to finish the other half tonight, so you could have the rest of the weekend off.

You did not finish the other half tonight.

You finished one book, your notes in the margins blurring as the hours passed. Your concentration diminished, too.

It was nearing eleven o’clock. Enough now.

You’d built a good routine in New York—after sleeping for three hours a night the first month—and you were determined to stick to it, even on Saturdays.

So, despite the August night pressing against your windows and tempting you toward the balcony for an evening sit, you began your evening routine: face cream, hand cream. Enough lip serum to feel indecent. Then, some light reading.

You settled into bed, propped up your pillows, and opened your current book—by a Norwegian author who could spend three pages describing the exact behaviour of a lawn sprinkler. You found you rather enjoyed it.

You’d just started Chapter Eleven when the first thump came from below.

It rose through the floorboards and sounded like a wardrobe or a hefty table being knocked over.

You stilled, listening.

Another thump followed, duller, but heavier. It could’ve been hammering, judging by the frustrated huff that came right after, but it sounded too uneven. The echo resembled something repeatedly falling or deliberately being dropped.

You blinked at your book and shuffled under the duvet to get more comfortable.

This had to be the new neighbours downstairs. You felt for them, just a little. Moving always came with a racket. Two months ago, you’d walked around, apologising for the noise, too.

Determined to ignore the next series of thumps, you turned the page in your book.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 16, 2026. 11 PM

The noises returned on Sunday.

You heard faint, intermittent knocks throughout the day, but they were easy to forget in daytime. Earpods helped. Professor Lee’s mind-numbing reading list did, too.

You hoped they would quiet down by the evening.

They did not.

In fact, as you settled into bed, the thumping increased. You were half-convinced this was deliberate—as if the neighbours had waited for you to get ready to sleep before bringing out the entire toolbox.

The thumps grew more insistent, too. Each strike landed louder, closer together, as though they were trying to tunnel through their ceiling and into your flat.

You sat in bed, staring at the spine of your book, and wondered why the rest of the building wasn’t reacting. The woman downstairs was certainly home; she rarely wasn’t. She’d welcomed you with a warm smile when you moved in, and then, upon seeing you a second time, commented on your footsteps on the stairs: Dear God, you would think you wanted to wake up the whole building. You weren’t particularly eager to see that warm smile again.

Surely she should have heard this.

You waited.

Ten more minutes stretched by. Then twenty.

The pounding grew more insistent, each blow sending a flat shudder up through the structure of the building and into your bedframe. Even your windows seemed to tremble.

You didn’t know what specific brand of idiots the new neighbours were. But, on the off chance that they ran a cult and hosted loud, sacrificial rituals, you decided not to go down and knock on their door this close to midnight.

You’d have to talk to them in the morning.

Exhaling, you set your book down and pulled out your earplugs from the drawer by the bed.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 17, 2026. 6:45 AM

You fell asleep to the thudding on Sunday night, and it woke you again on Monday morning. The earplugs had fallen out at some point while you slept, so now the sounds felt even more invasive. They seemed to clatter in your brain.

Groaning, you yanked your duvet off and swung your legs out of bed before you could think better of it.

It was time to meet the new neighbours.

You shrugged your hot pink robe over your pyjamas and slid your feet into your slippers. And, just to be safe, you grabbed your can of pepper spray from your handbag in the corridor.

Finally, keys in hand, you stepped out into the stairwell. The click of your lock was swallowed by another series of thuds. Now that your flat wasn’t muffling it, the noise hit with full ferocity. You felt it reverberate through your entire spine.

Irritated anew, you moved towards the stairs—then flinched, suddenly, when a door swung open behind you.

Your neighbour, Mr Jung, was squinting sheepishly into the gloom of the stairwell through the gap in his door. He was in his seventies and usually carried a sturdy umbrella with him, regardless of the weather. You were surprised he didn’t have one now; it was shaping up to be another cloudy day outside.

“Good morning,” you said. There was a breeze against your cheeks from the sudden draught.

“Good morning, dear,” Mr Jung replied, poking his head out and immediately pulling back once another thump followed. “Dreadful noise. Is it coming from downstairs?”

You glanced down through the small gap in the railing. “I think so. I was just about to check myself.”

“Oh. Good, good,” he said, keeping a tight grip on his door handle. He seemed a little frightened by the noise. “Perhaps something’s the matter. They’ve been at it all night.”

It hadn’t occurred to you that anything could be the matter; you’d just assumed the people downstairs were being right twats.

But perhaps they did need help. You were going to come over there and offer some. Grab that hammer they seemed to be using and try knocking them on the—

“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” you said, a little less certain now. “Hopefully they’re just not thinking about the time.”

“Yes, of course,” Mr Jung replied, nodding and slowly closing the door. You could still catch his soft mumbling before the lock clicked, “bless you for checking, dear. Bless you for checking.”

Nodding awkwardly to yourself, you finally started down the stairs.

The fifth-floor landing had been cleared of the boxes; only scuffed arcs across the linoleum remained, leading straight to the door. You followed them, guided by the thin spill of light through the narrow windows.

You knocked.

The thudding inside answered you, sharp enough to jolt through your arm. You recoiled from the door.

Clearly, then, these people had set their minds on never sleeping and wrecking their entire flat. Perhaps you should have called the police instead.

Another series of thumps.

The walls vibrated around you.

There was no time to wait for the police.

Jaw tight, you knocked again, harder this time, putting your elbow into it and letting the sound thunder through the stairwell.

Still nothing.

The window glass to your left caught your reflection as you pulled back: your robe was uneven, hands balled into fists, hair dishevelled. Your feet felt cold inside the slippers.

You were convinced you were going to get a criminal record today.

You raised your fist again, prepared to knock a third time, to tear the door down if you had to—

The door opened.

The shadows in the stairwell shifted at the new source of light. You squinted, momentarily blinded.

A silhouette stood in the doorway, holding a rolling pin.

You would have recognised him in complete darkness.

In a massive crowd.

In a hazy, mid-morning dream.

Half-asleep and half-awake.

Yeonjun.

Your hand stilled mid-air. You forgot the noises altogether. Forgot the early hour and your cold feet.

He stood in front of you in an oversized white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar askew. Light from inside the flat framed him, catching on the rolling pin in his hand and turning it briefly golden. His black hair, longer than you remembered, fell in a frustrated heap over his forehead. There were beads of sweat on his temples.

For longer than was reasonable at this hour, the two of you simply stared at each other.

Then Yeonjun finally found his voice: “W-what are you doing here?”

It took you another moment to remember the noises. Your hand instinctively checked your robe pocket for the pepper spray. It was there. You briefly considered using it and bolting, but decided to be an adult.

“I came to—could you be quieter?” you said. “You—you were hammering.”

You gestured vaguely at his rolling pin, then frowned. You wondered whether it was the culprit for the noise or his weapon of choice in response to your aggressive knocking.

Deciding not to question it—there were, clearly, more pressing questions, including, but not limited to, what the fuck—you cleared your throat and looked back at his wide eyes.

“You do it at night, too,” you said.

Understanding flickered across Yeonjun’s face, followed quickly by something like embarrassment. He didn’t know what he’d thought had brought you here—fate, perhaps—but he hadn’t considered his rolling pin.

In retrospect, this probably also explained why his next-door neighbour glared at him when he ran into her yesterday morning.

“Oh, I was—I’m sorry,” he said, glancing at his hands. His lips twisted to a side as he spoke, bashful. “I was trying to get the window to stay open, it’s—it’s stuck. And then I was struggling with my—I didn’t realise it was so loud.” He blinked at you, swaying lightly in the doorway. “Why are you here? I—I mean, you live here? On your own?”

He did not like these questions.

In fact, he was realising he was terrible at questions. Perhaps he should’ve just stared at you for another minute; that might’ve expressed his thoughts better.

“I do,” you said, your expression shockingly blank. “On my own.”

“Oh. Well, uh—I also live here. On my own. Well, sort of.”

You continued to stare at each other.

Yeonjun was particularly interested in your robe. He couldn’t remember ever seeing you in something this bright. Your hands were clenched by your sides—this, he was more familiar with. There was a silver bracelet on your wrist, the small pendants catching the light from his flat.

You noticed his gaze wandering down your robe, but your eyes did not dare move below his shoulders. They caught on to everything at once: the glint of light in his eyes, his earrings (he’d got new ones, you noticed), the faint lines on his lips, dry at the edges, the movement of his throat when he swallowed.

You wondered what it meant, him sort of living here on his own. Perhaps he had a part-time roommate.

Then you understood what he meant.

A white cat with black and brown spots wriggled between his legs and padded forward. It came to rest on the threshold and looked up at you.

You watched its fur catch the light from the flat, each strand briefly outlined. Your thoughts scattered before they could settle into words.

“That’s your cat?” you tried.

“Violet,” Yeonjun said.

“Th—” You blinked up at him. “Violet.”

The name pulled you back at once: to the late nights, the cooking, and the stories about cows.

You didn’t know if he remembered, or if your Violet had anything to do with his. Your hands felt frozen regardless.

“Yeah,” he said, nudging the cat gently with the side of his foot. “Go on, Vi. Back inside. S’late.”

The cat, as most cats would, refused and stayed planted on the threshold, her tail curled around her paws. Her blue eyes flicked between the two of you with mild interest.

You were half-convinced you’d sleepwalked into this situation.

It seemed sensible to try to sleepwalk out of it.

“I’m going to go,” you said, taking a step back.

Yeonjun looked up, his eyes even wider now. “W-where?”

You lifted your chin. “Home.”

“Right.” He hesitated. “Where is home?”

“Uh—” You turned your head towards the stairs, then back to him. “Just upstairs.”

“Oh.”

Another quiet moment passed between you.

Violet broke it with a soft mewl as she stretched, her front paws reaching toward your slippers. Whatever interest she’d had in the situation was fading now that you were leaving.

“Try to keep it down, please,” you added. Your gaze remained unfocused. You wondered how your legs were meant to get you upstairs.

“I will, yeah,” Yeonjun said, his gaze fixed on your grip on the bannister. “I—I’m sorry.”

You nodded and climbed, slowly, up the steps. Your slippers brushed against the wood, too quiet to make any proper noise.

Yeonjun listened anyway and stayed on his doorstep until your lock clicked upstairs. Then he nudged Violet back inside and closed his own door.

Your flat was quiet.

The living room curtains stirred, irritated to be disturbed this early. The oven clock glowed from the kitchen. You couldn’t recognise the numbers.

For a minute, you stared at your floor tiles without really seeing them.

Then you went to get a glass.

Filled it with water from the tap.

Finished it all in one big gulp.

You rinsed the glass, set it back in the cupboard above the sink, and turned around to stare at your floor for another minute.

You realised you were not doing so well.

Mechanically, you started the coffee machine and pulled out your phone. You tapped open Reina’s contact, then hesitated.

This didn’t feel much like a text conversation, but calling felt too dramatic. Not to mention, Reina had the evening shift today; she wouldn’t have gone to sleep before 3 AM. You didn’t want to wake her.

You decided on a voice message.

You perched the phone on the kitchen counter next to the whirring coffee machine and pressed record.

“So,” you began, pacing the length of the flat, back and forth from the kitchen island to the sofa in the living room, “apparently, I’ve got new neighbours downstairs—and this will be a great story, by the way, so maybe sit down. So, the neighbours have been hammering something for two nights straight now, right? So I just went down to ask them to quiet down. In hindsight, I should’ve just called the police, but—anyway.”

Your hand sliced absently through the air, clipping the edge of your monstera by the window. One of its leaves trembled, offended.

“So, I went down,” you continued, a little short of breath, “and, despite the circumstances, I hoped it’d be a very apologetic young woman opening the door, explaining that her husband had no sense of time or shame. Then we would’ve laughed about useless men, maybe grabbed a coffee.” You scoffed, shaking your head at the floor. “Instead, Yeonjun opened the door. Yeah—no, I’ll repeat that in case you thought you misheard. Yeonjun.”

The coffee machine switched off behind you. The smell of warm milk wafted into the room.

You took a deep breath and tried to lower your shoulders. Relax your jaw.

“So he’s moving in downstairs, then,” you said, returning to the kitchen. “That’s fucking splendid. Even got a cat—Violet, by the way! That’s her name. Love everything about that.”

You reached for your mug and took a sip without thinking. It promptly scalded the roof of your mouth.

“Ah, shit—” You yanked the mug away and set it down, exhaling carefully through your mouth. “Fuck. Anyway. D-don’t know why he named her that. If he did.”

You leaned back against the island, its dark marble edge pressing into your lower back. Your mouth stung when you ran your tongue over the back of your teeth.

“Don’t think I can fully process this, to be honest,” you said. “It’s been so long. And it’s so—it’s insane. We graduated with him twice, and still, he’s here. Just—just won’t fucking leave. Maybe next time you come over, we should stage an exorcism just to be safe.”

You picked up the mug again, cautious now, and blew across the surface. The coffee rippled, then stilled.

“Anyway,” you said. “I’ll be off now. If Yeonjun shows up at my meeting, too, I’ll assume this is deliberate and react accordingly. Check police stations if I don’t text back. Love you. Bye.”

You ended the recording. It sent at once, a little tick popping up beneath it. For all its flaws, the building had excellent wi-fi.

You watched your reflection on the screen of your phone.

That fucking giraffe should’ve been a warning.

And your grandfather had been right, too. You should’ve looked for a better place.

Finally, you tucked your phone into the only pocket of your pyjama bottoms and carried your coffee to the bedroom, so you could drink it while you got ready.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 17, 2026. 11:35 AM

Reina’s reply came just as you were leaving Professor Lee’s office. Your head was still swimming with his instructions, half of them already slipping away. He spoke like he was being chased down a corridor with machine guns, and you only had one keyboard to keep up.

Ignoring the insistent buzzing of your phone, you drifted toward the staff room for another cup of coffee and a comfortable chair.

Thankfully, the room was empty. Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, settling across the dark panels on the walls—quite a lot like the ones at your old reading room at the library. You missed it sometimes.

You opened a cupboard and took out a mug with the university logo. The edge by the handle was chipped. You checked the water level in the coffee machine and turned it on.

At a table by the window, you finally unlocked your phone.

REINA [11:35 AM] BABE OH MY GOD SHIT THINK NARA CURSED YOU IN UNDERGRAD?? WHEN SHE SAID YOU TWO WERE MEANT TO BE????

Scoffing, you tapped the keyboard, but her messages kept arriving, tumbling over one another in capital letters and violent question marks.

After another minute, they slowed.

REINA [11:42 AM] ALSO??? he named his cat after your cow??? ok that’s kinda cute

You stared at the last messages for a second.

Then the coffee machine powered off, steam rising from your mug. The room began to smell of something sweet and slightly burnt.

Cute, then.

Why not.

You rose, collected your coffee, and slumped back at the table.

YOU [11:43 AM] i think insane is the word for it

Three dots popped up as Reina typed.

You turned to look out the window on your right. The Languages building stood where it always had, at the far end of campus, partially hidden by the library. The Social Sciences building was just across the street, a small wind turbine spinning on the roof. The paths and the trees and even the clouds were all the same.

Nothing had changed out there while you were gone. It was absurd to expect it to.

Your phone vibrated again, sharp against the tabletop.

REINA [11:44 AM] hate to mention this but you’re talking about him like he’s still our insufferable classmate…..

You cleared your throat in an old, defensive reflex.

YOU [11:44 AM] isn’t he?

Reina’s response came in a second:

REINA [11:44 AM] thought he fell into the ex-boyfriend category but you tell me

A defiant retort pricked at the back of your throat. You swallowed it down.

Over the past year, you’d worked hard to dismantle the bet in your mind. By now, those two weeks in grad school were just a sequence of blurry, meaningless fragments of your life. They caught up to you at night, but left you alone in the morning. You could almost live with them now.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard of your phone for a second, then moved.

YOU [11:46 AM] he’s my neighbour now, apparently

The sunlight had shifted, and the glare from the Social Sciences building windows flashed directly into your eyes. You lifted yourself from your chair and tugged the blinds down.

Your phone buzzed just as you sat back down.

REINA [11:47 AM] my offer to take him out back still stands

A small smile pulled at your lips.

You lifted your mug and took a careful sip. The coffee was too sweet here, always was. You might have to start bringing your own capsules.

YOU [11:47 AM] thinking about it

You set your phone down and pulled your laptop from your bag, along with one of the books you’d brought from home. A pen rolled out from between the pages. You snatched it just before it reached the edge of the table.

Your phone lit up again.

REINA [11:48 AM] or… maybe he can help you with your plumbing :)

You pressed your lips together.

YOU [11:48 AM] he can help by moving out :)

Not waiting for her response, you pushed your phone aside, opened your laptop, and found Professor Lee’s reading list. Then you picked up your book and began to read.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 17, 2026. 4 PM

You ran into Yeonjun again that afternoon.

He stood by the letterboxes in the lobby, a parcel tucked under one arm, his other hand struggling to get the key out of a stubborn lock. When the front door shut behind you, he looked up.

He wore a ragged leather jacket and black jeans, and looked like he was either coming back from somewhere or going to ruin your entire day. His hair was brushed back, save for one strand that threatened to fall across his forehead. You hoped it wouldn’t.

“Hi,” he said.

You slowed, but didn’t stop. “Hi.”

“I—um.” He finally got his key out. “I-I feel like I should clarify that I didn’t stalk you here. I didn’t even know you were back.”

You stopped in the centre of the lobby, maintaining a solid two metres of space between you. You were very aware of the weight of your jacket on your shoulders.

“But you knew I’d left?” you asked.

“Uh—well.” He dragged a hand through his hair. The strand fell into his eyes. You turned away at once. “Yeah. I’d heard.”

You forced yourself to nod. Suppose the two of you had enough friends in common for that to make sense.

“Right.” You shifted your weight. “Well, it—it’s fine. I didn’t think you stalked me.”

“Okay. Good,” he said, gaze darting restlessly at the floor, then to the stairs behind you. “‘Cause I didn’t. Honest. I’d spent ages looking for a place, but no one allowed pets, and I couldn’t just leave Violet. So I—”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”

He closed his mouth.

His left wrist, never fully healed, throbbed again. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, his shoulders drawing in slightly. The edge of his parcel bent under his arm.

“Right,” he said, nodding once. Then once more for good measure. “Yeah.”

You turned back to the stairs. “I, uh—I’ve got to get going.”

“Sure, yeah.” He nodded again. He seemed unable to stop. “Me too.”

You responded with a small dip of your head and made your way towards the stairwell before your pulse could gather any more misplaced enthusiasm.

Yeonjun moved at the same time.

You paused at the foot of the stairs.

The lift loomed in your peripheral vision. It was unreliable, no doubt about it, but it was efficient when it worked. You’d only have to endure thirty seconds with Yeonjun in the lift, maybe less. If he took the stairs with you, however, you’d be stuck with him for a good couple of minutes.

You weighed your options.

No, you decided. You couldn’t risk it with the lift. You had no interest in discovering what it’d do if given a second chance.

You started up the stairs.

Behind you, there was a small shuffle of movement.

“You’re not taking the lift?” Yeonjun called out.

The sound of his voice lifted the hairs at the back of your neck.

“No,” you replied, glancing back despite yourself.

He stood by the lift, looking at the stairs and evidently performing serious calculations in his head.

Then he looked up.

You turned away before your eyes could meet.

A second later, the lift doors buzzed open. By the time you reached the next landing, it had begun its rattling climb. You adjusted your speed so you wouldn’t run into Yeonjun just as he got off on the fifth floor.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 18, 2026. 4 PM

The next day, on a Tuesday as grey as the rest of the week, Yeonjun was in the lobby again.

This time, he was at the letterboxes with a handful of envelopes, turning them over, reading and re-reading the addresses. There was a chain on his jeans, with a vaguely heart-shaped pendant on one of the links. It reminded you of something you did not want to remember.

He glanced up when you walked in. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

There was nothing else to say. You hadn’t heard any noises from his flat last night or this morning.

You drifted towards the noticeboard, hoping he’d leave first, sparing you the gamble of choosing between the stairs and the lift again.

Your eyes skimmed the adverts: a concert next week (a band called Rated Riot in the photo), an Italian language tutor offering classes for kids aged five through sixteen (no photo), a missing dog (a dark brown dachshund named Alfred that didn’t look like he wanted much to be found), and a preposterous number of ‘flat wanted’ notices.

Yeonjun continued to rustle the envelopes behind you. There wasn’t much to read on them.

You scanned the adverts for the second time. Then the third.

Yeonjun was still here.

Perhaps, you thought, you’d go out searching for Alfred. Couldn’t have gone far, dachshunds did not have particularly long legs.

Fuck it.

Turning away, you headed for the stairs, bounding up two at a time.

A moment later, the lift doors opened behind you.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 19, 2026. 4 PM

On Wednesday, Yeonjun beat you to it.

He arrived at the building from the parking lot just as you crossed the street. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and waited. When you reached him, he gracefully stepped aside and nodded his head in acknowledgement.

You gave him a curt nod and swept past without breaking stride, headed straight for the stairwell. A strong whiff of your perfume—still floral—made him shut his eyes for a second. He did not stop at the letterboxes today.

You took the stairs.

He took the lift.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 20, 2026. 4 PM

By Thursday, you were convinced this was a plot.

You pushed through the front door at precisely four in the afternoon, as you always did. The old door hinges whined, the wood frame creaked along. The lobby smelled of the same dust and overheated pipes.

And Yeonjun stood by the letterboxes.

You halted just inside the doorway, a strange clenching in your chest. Then you let go of the door. It slammed shut with enough force to fling your hair across your face.

Yeonjun flinched. “Hi—”

“Do you honestly not have a better time to pick up your mail?”

“I—” He blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I honestly do not. Wh—?”

“Because I never run into any of my other neighbours.” Your hands lifted of their own accord, fingers twitching as you pointed at him. “Just you.”

“Do you, uh—do you want to run into your other neighbours?”

He still looked mildly startled, his lips rounded into an uncertain pout, and you had to begrudgingly admit to yourself that you might’ve overshot.

You’d only meant to ask him a question.

This had the feel of an ambush.

“I do, actually,” you said, steadying your voice. Your gaze lowered to the small wooden table by the noticeboard. “I haven’t met many neighbours. Would be good to know someone if I needed to borrow something. Sugar. Or eggs.”

“You could borrow some from me, then.”

Your eyes squeezed shut for a second. He’d taken you straight back to grad school, with just this one unthinking offer.

“No,” you said. “I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” he asked, as if this was a wholly reasonable question.

He’d driven you home before, he reasoned. Picked you up, too. Stayed over and stayed out with you. He could lend you some sugar now. A few eggs.

“Because I don’t want to.” You fixed your backpack. The strap dug into your collarbone. “Just as I don’t want to keep running into you here every single afternoon.”

He hummed, following after you as you crossed the lobby. His right hand fiddled with the zipper of his jacket, dragging it up a centimetre, then back down again.

“Would you rather run into me some other time?” he asked.

Your hand closed around the bannister. “I’d rather not run into you at all.”

Yeonjun, who had always considered red lights mere suggestions, found himself smiling.

“That’s a very rude way to treat your neighbours,” he said. “No wonder you haven’t met many. They’re probably avoiding you.”

Your grip tightened on the railing.

This was a challenge, no doubt. The Devil himself, tempting you to surrender to the old rhythm and see what happened.

You did not want to see what happened.

Drawing a breath, you started to climb. Your dark brown leather jacket rustled under your backpack.

Behind you, Yeonjun lingered for a moment, contemplating.

This hadn’t gone so bad, really.

He followed you into the stairwell.

You turned at the first landing. “What are you doing?”

“Hm?” He looked up, perfectly innocent if not for the faint lift at the corners of his lips. “Going home. Why?”

“You always take the lift.”

“Well,” he said, continuing up, towards you, “I quite like the stairs, too.”

You let out a short, reflexive laugh. “Do you?”

He reached the turn and joined you on the landing. One of his hands glided along the bannister, mirroring yours, but not drifting close enough to touch.

“I do,” he said. “Why?”

You didn’t answer.

You could tell he wanted you to admit you remembered the way he used to dawdle behind you, muttering curses and prayers as he dragged himself up to your flat.

You’d decided you wouldn’t remember. And you were quite good at doing what you decided.

Undeterred, Yeonjun followed you up the stairs. He was quite good at undoing everything you decided.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

You fixed the backpack strap on your shoulder. “Sure. I love questions.”

He grinned at your dry tone. “Is the reason you don’t take the lift because you think you’ll get stuck?”

You shrugged, though he couldn’t fully see it from below. “Yes. Already did once.”

“Hmm.” He nodded, even though you couldn’t see him, either. “That sucks. M’not a big fan of this lift, either, actually.”

“Got stuck, too?”

“Not yet.” His footsteps softened and slowed. Without meaning to, you found yourself slowing, too. “But I’m sure it’ll come.”

You realised how easily his voice carried up the stairwell, and couldn’t help remembering all that he’d wanted you to remember, after all. There was no hitch in his breath where there used to be.

It unsettled you, this small change. This quiet proof that he’d continued to live his life without you.

You turned your gaze back ahead without replying.

The stairwell warmed up as you climbed. The air pressed in, thick, dusty, and eager to wrap around your neck.

You slipped off your backpack and shrugged out of your jacket.

Yeonjun looked up at that. “Hot?”

“Mm.” You draped the jacket over your arm, then fixed your backpack. “Never any air here.”

“Yeah?” he said, glancing around as if he could physically check his surroundings for air. “I’m sort of used to it. My flat doesn’t get much air, either.”

“Try a window.”

His grin returned. He wasn’t in control of it anymore.

“See, I did try,” he said. “But then I got scolded.”

You pursed your lips. “Shouldn’t have tried at midnight, then.”

“Righ—”

“There’s a latch at the bottom of the frame,” you added. “Have you tried that?”

He frowned. “At the—at the bottom of which frame?”

“The fire escape window,” you said. You’d struggled with it when you first moved in, too. “The rest don’t open.”

“Oh.” His eyebrows rose in recognition. He’d seen a latch, but left it alone. The last time he’d touched something at his flat that he wasn’t sure about, he couldn’t turn the water off in his bath for half an hour. “I haven’t tried that.”

“Well.” You shrugged. He saw it this time. “There you go.”

“Hmm.” He climbed a step closer, drawing the zipper of his jacket up again. “Probably would’ve found a better place if I’d known only one of the windows actually opens.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He released the zipper. “Hm?”

“Find a better place.”

He glanced back down at the steps, letting the sound of their creaking fill the stairwell for a moment.

“I mean, I tried,” he said. “Looked at everything in the city, probably. One place was decent, but smelled like a crime scene—just air freshener and bleach in every room. Maybe washing-up liquid, too—there was this lemon scent—anyway. There was also a flat with one electrical outlet for three rooms. Actually, that one wasn’t so bad. I nearly applied.”

Your fingers tightened into the edges of your jacket. You had a suspicion that the two of you had been circling the same flats.

“What stopped you?” you asked.

“Violet didn’t like it.”

You snorted.

“They didn’t like her, either, actually,” he continued. “Said they welcome pets, but implied we’d both get evicted if Violet left the flat at any point.”

“Hmm.” You shot him a glance as you rounded the stairwell. He was smiling. “So, you ended up here.”

“So I ended up here,” he echoed. “Where the windows are sealed shut. Feels a bit like a psych ward, if I’m honest.”

Your lips threatened to stretch further before you caught yourself and turned away.

You’d joked with him before about ending up in an institution. Felt like you had, after all, come to think of it.

“Least the flats aren’t that bad,” you said, deliberately not thinking of your washing machine or the odd, dark brown stain on the kitchen floor.

“Yeah,” Yeonjun agreed. “M’sure yours is better than mine, though, love.”

Your stomach lurched. Your jacket slipped from your grasp. You caught it before it could fall, reaching for the bannister with your other hand.

“Don’t call me that.”

Yeonjun looked up, surprised. He probably shouldn’t have been; you’d always drawn your boundaries cleanly enough. He supposed he hadn’t expected one here.

“You mind?” he asked.

“I do,” you said.

He tapped the railing with his index and middle fingers. “What should I call you, then?”

“Don’t call me anything.”

His lips twitched. He tried to fight it, but lost to the old habits anyway.

“Alright, Don’t Call Me Anything,” he said. “S’got a nice ring to it, too.”

You groaned and immediately regretted it. His smile widened at the sound, encouraged.

You should have expected it. He’d been like this for as long as you’ve known him.

Hi, I’m Yeonjun.

Hi. I’m actually waiting for someone here.

That’s an unusual name, Actually Waiting For Someone Here. Got any nicknames?

For years, following that first meeting on the grey sofa in the university basement, Reina had asked you why you kept rising to his taunts. Why you granted him the satisfaction.

Being on a different continent made it easy to believe that you’d outgrown that. That you didn’t care to match him word for word anymore.

You were surprised to discover you still cared.

“I thought,” you said, turning back to the stairs, “the deal was we wouldn’t speak again if I won the bet.”

Behind you, Yeonjun stalled for half a step.

He realised he’d classified the bet as something imaginary in his head. A dream he’d had, perhaps.

“That,” he said, quieter now, “was a long time ago.”

“Didn’t realise there was an expiration date on that.”

Your footsteps rang louder now, the sound folding back on itself in the narrow stairwell.

“There wasn’t,” he said, more cautious. “Guess I didn’t think you’d still hold me to it.”

“Right.” You hummed. “Why would you?”

He didn’t have much to say to that.

You were relieved to return to the heavy, uncomfortable silence. You preferred it significantly to heavy, uncomfortable conversation.

Wordlessly, you passed his flat on the fifth floor and continued up. You heard his lock click behind you just as you slipped your hand into your pocket for your own keys.

“Vi—!”

The call cracked up the stairwell. A flash of white crossed your peripheral vision and landed neatly by your feet, just outside your flat.

Violet.

She looked up at you, her blue eyes bright and expectant, and meowed. She was asking for your opinion on what she’d just done (good?) and wondering about the sweets you’d promised her a few days ago (where?).

“Hi,” you said, the word softening on its way out.

You crouched and offered her your hand. The cat leaned in, her nose damp against your skin, and pressed her face into your palm.

“You enjoy running away from home, don’t you?” you murmured, scratching under her chin.

She answered by nuzzling closer. Her fur felt absurdly soft beneath your fingers, her whiskers stiff as plastic against your thumb.

Footsteps approached.

You didn’t look up.

Yeonjun halted in the stairwell. He’d noticed the invisible barrier you kept around yourself and didn’t dare cross it.

Violet, for her part, had no such reservations. She nudged your hand, guiding it down the length of her spine.

Smiling, you followed her cue and scratched along the curve of her back.

“Uh—I’m sorry about her,” Yeonjun said. “She’s got a mind of her own. She and I will have a word about that later.”

You glanced at him briefly, then returned your attention to the cat. She purred louder, unimpressed by the threat in his voice. Her tail curled around your knees.

“She’s fine,” you said. “Keeps an eye on things.”

Yeonjun watched as Violet settled fully under your palm and fixed him with a smug stare. He scoffed under his breath.

“S’enough,” he said, “don’t you think, Vi?”

The cat meowed and licked her nose. For a second, Yeonjun thought she was sticking her tongue out at him, the little brat.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Let’s go home.”

Violet lifted her head to glance up at you, seemingly weighing her options. You drew your hand back, almost reluctantly.

She lingered for another moment, meowed thoughtfully, then stepped down towards Yeonjun, her paws quiet against the floor.

“Did you name her?” you heard yourself ask as you straightened. Your backpack threw your balance off a little.

Yeonjun didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the cat as she wound around his ankles, tail brushing his calves.

“No,” he said finally. “Someone at the shelter did. I went in looking to adopt, and this one just walked up and sat on my lap, like she was the one adopting me. I asked the woman there what her name was. She said Violet.”

Violet flicked him a look at the mention of her name.

“It, uh—” Yeonjun glanced back at you. “It felt like a sign. So I took her home.”

Your fingers tightened around your keys, their edges digging into your palm. “What sign?”

The answer to the question hung in the air.

Yeonjun could tell from the tight set of your shoulders that you did not want him to admit he remembered your cow.

“You know what sign,” he said.

You lowered your gaze to Violet before his words could nudge something they shouldn’t have even touched.

The cat sat by his feet and watched you.

“Well.” You pulled the jacket off your arm and gripped it by the collar. “She’s lovely.”

Yeonjun noticed the soft way you spoke about her. He moved before he could think about it and lifted Violet into his arms—to prolong the conversation for a minute more.

Violet didn’t mind being used for this purpose and folded into him without protest.

“Yeah, she’s great,” he said, scratching behind her ear. She gave a satisfied rumble. “Bites sometimes, though. And she’s a bit mean.” His eyes flicked to you for a second, a smile playing at the edges of his lips. “Reminds me a lot of someone.”

Your eyebrows lifted before you could stop them, eyes narrowing at the glint in his gaze.

“Mm.” Your tongue traced your lower lip. “Going to use her to prove a point and return her to the shelter after two weeks, then, yeah?”

The smile on his face faltered—for just a second. He smoothed over it quickly, but the glint in his eyes was gone.

“No,” he said, dropping his gaze to the stairs. “I know better now.”

You swallowed and reached for the handle of your door. The metal was cold under your palm.

“Right,” you said. “Well. Good luck with her.”

Yeonjun adjusted his grip on Violet. Understanding the conversation had ended, he nodded and turned back towards the stairs. The cat draped a paw over his arm, stretching towards the railing, her tail flicking lazily against his jacket.

You realised you were watching them leave and looked away. Pushing the key into the lock, you paused again.

“And, um,” you called out, “try not to linger in the lobby, would you?”

Yeonjun froze mid-step and looked at you over his shoulder. Your eyes locked for two long seconds.

Then he grinned, light and easy again, and continued down.

You knew he would linger.

prequel ○ next (coming soon)

taglist:

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thank you for reading!!♡♡

[run2min]

SUBMARINE CBG

choi beomgyu x reader

warnings: none really, tried to be whimsical with my writing style, sort of based on submarine (the vibe not necessarily the plot), beom and reader are still in school for the plot, didn’t post a fic for big man’s b-day so take this. This fic is my child, please love her.

wc: 2k

suggested listening

There’s a very specific kind of silence that follows you around.

Not the heavy kind. Not the sad kind either. Just the sort that sits beside you like it knows you’re thinking too much and doesn’t want to interrupt.

You notice it most on the walk to college.

The pavement is always slightly damp, even when it hasn’t rained, and your headphones never sit quite right over your ears. You keep one side off anyway, just in case something interesting happens, though nothing ever does. You tell yourself you like it that way. Predictable. Controlled.

You think you look like the kind of person who has something going on internally. You hope you do, at least. Otherwise, all the staring out of windows would be a bit embarrassing.

That’s when you first really notice him.

Choi Beomgyu isn’t new. He’s been in your classes for months. He’s quiet in a way that isn’t shy, just uninterested. Like everything happening is slightly beneath him, but not in a rude way. More like he’s watching a different film entirely.

You decide, almost instantly, that he is interesting.

Which is inconvenient.

You start keeping a mental log.

Day one: he taps his pen against his desk exactly five times before answering a question.

Day two: he laughs at something the teacher says that isn’t funny.

Day three: he doesn’t show up at all, and you spend an unreasonable amount of time wondering why.

You tell yourself it’s observational. Detached. Like you’re studying a character for a film. Something very Submarine, introspective, slightly pretentious, but in a charming way.

You are not obsessed.

You’re just, paying attention.

You’ve always liked the idea of things more than the reality of them. You like imagining conversations more than having them. Like constructing versions of people in your head that are easier to understand, easier to predict. Safer.

You build a version of him, too.

Quiet but thoughtful. Detached but secretly observant. The kind of person who would understand you without needing things explained.

It’s a comforting idea.

Which is why it’s slightly inconvenient when reality interrupts it.

It happens properly on a Tuesday.

Of course it does. Tuesdays are always slightly off.

You’re sitting outside during lunch, picking at food you weren’t hungry for in the first place, when he sits down next to you without asking. Not close enough to be familiar, not far enough to be accidental.

You don’t look at him straight away. That would be too obvious.

He speaks first.

“You always sit here.”

It’s not a question.

You nod anyway. “You always don’t.”

There’s a pause. You can feel it stretching, like a rubber band about to snap or settle.

Then he laughs. Not loudly. Just enough.

“I like watching people before I talk to them.”

You turn your head then, properly, because that feels significant.

“Me too,” you say, even though you’re not sure if that’s true or if you just want it to be.

It doesn’t become something obvious.

Not right away.

There’s no instant shift, no clear moment where things change from nothing into something. Just small, almost unnoticeable adjustments.

He starts sitting near you sometimes.

Not every day. Never consistently.

Just enough that you start to expect it.

Just enough that you notice when he doesn’t.

You talk, occasionally.

About things that don’t matter.

About things that do, but only in vague, half-formed ways that don’t require too much vulnerability.

You tell him things you don’t usually say out loud.

Like how you think people are always pretending a little bit.

Like how you worry you’re forgettable.

He shrugs, like the answer is obvious. “You’re not.”

You don’t ask how he knows.

Beomgyu is difficult to understand.

Not in a mysterious, romantic way.

In a frustrating one.

He disappears. Not dramatically. No explanation, no warning. Just gone. For a day, sometimes two. Once, almost a week.

When he comes back, he acts like nothing happened.

Like the absence wasn’t noticeable.

Like you didn’t spend those days feeling slightly unsteady, like something had been removed without your permission.

You don’t ask.

You tell yourself you don’t have the right to.

But the questions sit there anyway, heavy and persistent.

One night, your phone lights up at 2:13am.

are you awake

You stare at it for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you reply.

yeah

You wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Nothing.

The next day, he talks to you like usual.

No mention of it.

No explanation.

You consider bringing it up.

You don’t.

You hate how much it bothers you.

You hate that you were waiting.

You start narrating things in your head.

You think this is the part where it becomes something.

Though you’re not sure what “something” is.

It shifts on a cold evening at a bus stop.

The kind of cold that settles into your bones, slow and stubborn.

You’re sitting next to him, hands tucked into your sleeves, watching your breath fog faintly in the air.

He’s leaning back, eyes half-closed, like he’s listening to something distant.

“You ever feel like you’re waiting for your life to begin?” you ask.

He’s quiet for a moment.

Then, “I think it already did, we just missed it,”

You let out a small, humourless laugh. “That’s reassuring.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

You glance at him.

There’s something in his expression, something tired, something you don’t fully understand.

Before you can think too much about it, he reaches out and tugs your sleeve down over your hand.

It’s such a small gesture.

Barely anything.

But it feels like everything at once.

“You look cold,” he says.

Like that explains it.

Like that’s all it is.

You don’t realise how much he’s affected you until it starts hurting.

Not sharply. Not all at once. Just gradually.

In the spaces where he isn’t.

In the way your mood shifts depending on whether he’s there or not.

In the way you start second-guessing everything you say, everything you do, like you’re trying to maintain something fragile that could disappear at any moment.

You don’t like it.

You don’t know how to stop it.

You think you might like him.

Which is, again, inconvenient.

“You think too much.”

He says it casually, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t land exactly where it hurts.

You look at him. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he says. “You make things bigger than they are.”

There’s something about that, something dismissive, even if he doesn’t mean it that way, that makes your chest tighten.

“Sorry,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

His expression shifts immediately.

“That’s not what I-” He exhales. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug, even though it feels wrong. “It’s fine.”

It’s not.

You both know it’s not.

But neither of you pushes it further.

It shifts on a day that feels completely ordinary.

Grey sky. Too much homework. Someone laughing too loudly down the corridor.

You’re walking together, not talking, when he suddenly says, “You still think too much.”

You blink. “That’s not news.”

He stops walking. You don’t, at first, so you end up a step ahead before turning back.

“I like it,” he adds, quickly, like it matters that you know that.

Something about the way he says it, careful, almost makes your chest feel tight.

“You don’t seem like you like much,” you say.

He looks at you for a second longer than usual.

“I like you.”

Oh.

Oh.

You weren’t prepared for that.

Not like this. Not without build-up or music or something to signal that this was the moment.

Your brain does that thing where it tries to turn everything into a narrative.

You think this is the part where everything changes.

“That’s not funny,” you say, because it feels safer than anything else.

“I’m not joking.”

You search his expression for something, hesitation, uncertainty, anything that makes this easier to process.

You don’t find it.

“That doesn’t make sense,” you say.

“Why not?”

Because you disappear.

Because you confuse me.

Because I don’t know where I stand with you, ever.

You don’t say any of that.

Instead, “It’s just, sudden.”

He nods slightly. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“But it’s not wrong.”

You wish that fixed things. You wish that made everything clear and stable and easy.

It doesn’t.

If anything, it makes it worse.

Because now there’s something real there. Something that matters.

And it still feels like it could disappear at any moment.

Being with him feels like trying to hold onto something you can’t fully grasp.

Sometimes he’s there, fully, completely, in a way that makes everything else fade slightly into the background.

He listens. He notices things.

He says your name like it means something.

And then other times, he’s distant again.

Not cold.

Not cruel.

Just elsewhere. Like there’s a part of him you’ll never quite reach.

You start to wonder if you imagined it.

Not the moments themselves.

But the meaning behind them.

You replay conversations in your head, looking for proof.

Looking for something solid.

You don’t find it.

It happens on another ordinary day.

Grey sky. Too many thoughts. Not enough space for them.

You’re sitting together, but not really together. There’s a gap, small, but noticeable.

You’re tired of it.

Of the guessing.

Of the waiting.

Of feeling like you’re holding something he keeps letting slip through his hands.

“Why do you disappear?”

You don’t plan to ask it.

It just comes out.

He goes still.

For a second, you think he won’t answer.

Then he exhales, slow.

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“I know.”

There’s something different in his voice this time.

Not closed off. Just careful.

You wait.

For once, you don’t fill the silence.

“I don’t know how to stay,” he says eventually.

It’s quiet. Almost lost in the space between you.

You blink. “What?”

He looks at you then, properly.

“I like you,” he says again, softer this time. “That part’s easy. I just-” He hesitates. “I don’t know how to be consistent. Or good at it.”

You don’t say anything right away.

Because that.

That you understand.

More than you want to.

“You don’t get to just disappear and expect me to be okay with it,” you say finally.

“I know.”

“I need something stable. Or at least honest.”

“I can do honest.”

There’s no hesitation this time.

No distance.

Just that.

And somehow, it feels more solid than anything else he’s given you.

It’s not perfect after that.

It doesn’t suddenly become easy or clear or simple.

He still struggles.

You still overthink.

There are still pauses, still moments where things feel uncertain.

But they’re different now.

Because when he pulls away, he tells you.

When he doesn’t reply, he explains.

Not always immediately. Not always perfectly.

But he tries.

One evening, you’re back at the bus stop.

Same cold air. Same quiet.

But it feels different now.

Less like something you’re trapped in. More like something you’re choosing to stay in.

He’s sitting beside you, shoulder just barely touching yours.

“You still think we missed it?” you ask.

He glances at you.

“No.”

You raise an eyebrow. “No?”

“I think we’re just slower than everyone else.”

You huff a quiet laugh.

“That’s one way to put it.”

He nudges your sleeve down over your hand again, the same small gesture as before.

But this time, it doesn’t feel uncertain.

It feels familiar.

“I’m trying,” he says.

You look at him.

You believe him.

“I know.”

😁

[taexual]

– delirium | CYJ | announcement

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: sometimes love and hate exist on opposite ends of the map. other times, on separate floors of the same building.

genre: enemies to lovers au / exes to lovers au / more to come

warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, strong language, highly suggestive themes, drinking and smoking, relentless bickering and flirting, characters lowkey lying to themselves, and the usual culprits: smut, angst & fluff

[ ! ] this is a sequel to equilibrium

coming soon

taglist will stay the same ♡