Synopsis: Your story time Twitter thread of how your grandparents thought you were dating Richard Madden becomes viral and you get the chance to meet the man himself.
Bonus Content 1 & Bonus Content 2
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
One shot 1
One shot 2
Headcanon 1
One shot 3
Headcanon 2
Savior (completed)
(Ikaris x Reader)
Cover by the lovely @mentallyscreamingsincebirth
Synopsis: Ikaris has felt a hum for millennia and he's never questioned it, until he found the source
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6*
Part 7
Part 8*
Part 9
Part 10*
One-shot: Dear Diary
One-shot: Family Matters
One-shot: Soar
The Accidental Princess (completed)
(Prince Kit x Reader)
Synopsis: A contract has been found, after twenty years, bearing your name and the Prince Kit's... bound in matrimony.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: choi seungcheol x f.reader (the mc had a past crush on wonwoo)
𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: coming soon
When it comes to your friend group it’s clear you’re in an extremely different tax bracket. Things get complicated when you drunkenly marry Seungcheol after he tells you he wants to take care of you.
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞(𝐬): friends to lovers, smut, romance, angst
𝐚𝐮(𝐬): nonidol au, married in Vegas au
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 13.5k
𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cheol is like crazy rich and likes to spend his money on the mc, drinking, blacking out, cussing, lots of emotions, and being confused about feelings.
𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: soft dom choel, multiple sex scenes, consensual drunk sex, unprotected sex, sex in the shower, fooling around in the bath, clit play, breast/nipple play, fingering, multiple positions, creampie, big dick seungcheol, dirty talk, nicknames: pinky, baby, sweetheart (hers) cheol (his)
𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 18+
𝐚𝐧: if you would like to be tagged please fill out this form.
PREVIEW
There are times when you realize that you and your friend group are in different tax brackets. All of the boys in your friend group have different types of jobs. Soonyoung owns a dance studio, Joshua is a producer, Jeonghan and Mingyu works at Seungcheol‘s company he started up when he was twenty. Wonwoo works a tech job with Minghao. Then there is you, you work as a freelance writer. A struggling freelance writer at that.
When the money is good for you things are great, but recently you can't find work to save your life. You’ve had to dip into your savings to get by. It’s safe to say things recently have been quite tough for you.
Sitting in Seungcheol's expensive penthouse with a beautiful view of the city, you’re sitting next to Wonwoo listening to the rest of the boys go on about what the plan should be for Seungcheol's upcoming birthday. He’s turning thirty and the boys have been talking about the possibility of a trip to celebrate.
“I say we just commit to finally doing a group Vegas trip.” Jeonghan chimed in. Him and Soonyoung have been trying to plan a Vegas trip for years at this point.
“Really Vegas?” Minghao seems unamused by this idea.
“That could be fun. Could you guys all swing, missing some work for this?” Seungcheol asked.
“I mean technically you're mine and Jeonghan's boss.” Mingyu laughs.
All the boys agree to go other than Wonwoo, who is traveling for a work trip that week. When they all turn your attention to you, you wish you could disappear. There is absolutely no way you can afford a trip right now. It’s been over a month since you had a job. You shouldn’t be doing anything lavish.
“I probably shouldn’t travel. I’m trying to lock down a few jobs.”
Seungcheol's eyes lock on yours and he stares at you intently. He’s always had this ability to easily read you. Setting his beer on the counter, he reaches for his phone in his pocket. You watch as he starts typing away on his keyboard.
Your phone buzzes and you instantly know he’s texting you.
From cheol 🍒: just go on the trip.
From pinky: I wish I could, but money is tight with the lack of jobs I’m getting.
From cheol 🍒: literally just agree to going and I’ll pay your way. You won’t have to worry about anything. I’ll give you a credit card and you can swipe away and pretend the money is coming from a magical account.
From pinky: that’s insane.
He sets his phone down and gives you a smile across the room. “Okay let’s figure out who is rooming with who. Jeonghan and Shua together. Hao and Mingyu, and then Soonyoung and Pinky.”
“I thought Pinky didn’t agree.” Joshua chimes in. It used to embarrass you, that your nickname refers to the time the wind blew your skirt up and flashed all the boys your pink panties. It’s been over ten years now and the nickname doesn’t faze you anymore.
“Pinky is going. Right?” He gives you a look letting you know you can’t say no.
“I’ll go—“ You know this is an absolutely insane idea.
“Good luck. Let me know how this goes.” Wonwoo laughed beside you.
i’m being so fr when i say that if he’s not ur bias, he’s ur number one bias wrecker and if u try and tell me that he’s neither, ur actually lying right to my face ???
at age fifteen, you’re betrothed to a prince named jeonghan. at age twenty-five, you’re set to marry him. so when your father gives you a chance to find love all on your own, you immediately take it. now if only jeonghan would stop fucking sabotaging every relationship you’re trying to get into.
★ FEATURING; jeonghan x reader
★ WORD COUNT; 21k words
★ TAGS; princess!reader, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, betrayal (not frm jh), angst, minor character death, blood and violence, smut (MINORS DNI)
★ NOTES; two years... it took me TWO YEARS to write this and post it AJAHDSFJSHFDGDF i am sorry? SO DEEPLY SORRY!?!?!? but that aside, this probably only starts to get more jeonghan-centric at the 10k word mark... OUGH..... i needed to do a lot of worldbuilding AHAHAHAHA BUT I PROMISEE it's for good reason!
this is part of the it’s complicated series.
PART ONE. PART TWO.
★ SMUT TAGS; vaginal fingering, making out in places where you shouldn't, semi-public sex (that's it for this part unfortunately...)
Your life changed forever on a Tuesday morning.
As a princess, your days were dictated by a perfectly curated schedule. Every hour accounted for, every moment neatly placed in a grid of expectations and duty. It should have felt restrictive for most girls your age. But not for you. You liked the structure. The routine gave your life shape and purpose. You didn’t have to wonder what the day might hold or scramble to meet your obligations. All that was required of you was to show up, shoulders squared, chin high, and play your part in the ever-charming production of royal daughterhood.
Mondays and Wednesdays were for lessons with your private tutor—arithmetic, magical history, the foundations of politics and diplomacy. Tuesdays and Thursdays belonged to physical training. Fencing and archery were your common favorites. Fridays were reserved for etiquette, where you were taught about flawless posture, graceful curtsies, and a hundred ways to say no without ever using the word. Meanwhile, weekends were for socializing, when nobles from Ancarra and beyond paraded their heirs and fortunes before the court like trinkets at market.
On this particular Tuesday, Changkyun’s form was sloppy—left shoulder too low, footwork too eager—and you exploited it mercilessly, driving him back across the mat with a flurry of perfectly timed lunges. He faltered on his retreat, lost his balance, and went down with a sharp oof before the tip of your foil points just shy of his collarbone.
You didn’t smirk, but it took effort.
Flat on his back, your fencing partner let out a groan and flung an arm over his eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with Master Yesung. He’s turned you into a menace.”
“I’ve always been a menace,” you tell him, withdrawing your foil with a flick. “You’re just slow today.”
From the far end of the training hall, a low, throaty rumble of approval rolled across the floor like distant thunder. You glanced over your shoulder to find Reya lounging on the polished stone, tail twitching like he’s amused with your victory. The massive white tiger regarded you with half-lidded pride, resting his chin on his paws like the king he thinks he is.
Changkyun gave Reya a wary glance. “He still hates me.”
“He hates everyone,” you replied fondly. “Except me.”
You didn’t say the rest: that Reya is more than a pet. That you hadn’t tamed him—you found him, half-starved and snared by a hunter’s trap in the snowfields. That when your magic surfaced and it turned out you weren’t a fire-wielder, or a stormcaller like the other gifted scions of noble houses but simply a girl who could speak to animals: everyone acted like you’d been cursed with the art of babysitting.
That is not real magic, they said. It will never be useful in court.
So you honed your body instead.
Foil. Footwork. Form. You mastered it all, until no one dared question your worth out loud. And maybe Changkyun is the only person who ever looked at you without that shadow of disappointment on everyone’s faces when they thought you wouldn’t notice.
Your fingers brushed as you help him to his feet, and your heart lifts—
—just as Royal Advisor Siwon clears his throat.
The sound snapped through the air like a blade cracking on steel. You and Changkyun jump apart.
“Your Grace,” Siwon said, bowing deeply. His silver-rimmed spectacles gleam in the sunlight. “The king requests your presence. Immediately.”
You blinked. “I’m in the middle of training.”
“I’m afraid this takes precedence, Princess,” he told you with the faintest edge of regret in his tone. He’s always been considerate of your feelings. “The matter is… personal.”
Your stomach twisted at that.
Moments later, you pulled off your gloves, tucking them under your arm beside your training foil. Reya got up from his corner with a huff as he padded silently toward you, his presence at your heel like a silent question.
“I’ll return,” you told Changkyun, though you’re not sure you will.
The halls of the Castle of Ancarra were quiet at this hour, but never truly still.
Morning sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, spilling pools of color across the floor dancing faintly over the stone as if the palace itself breathed. The scent of blooming flowers drifted in through open archways from the garden courtyards beyond, clinging to the walls like perfume. Somewhere distant, you heard the faint hum of magic wards being tuned by the royal mages, that soft shimmering sound like glass being struck gently by wind.
You, on the other hand, smelled like sweat.
Each step echoed a little too loudly as you padded down the eastern corridor. Beside you, Siwon walked with his usual glacial calm, every inch the model of a court advisor. Reya prowled silently behind you, massive white paws silent against marble. His fur rippled like snowdrifts in motion, and his blue eyes tracked every passing flicker of movement with the lazy wariness of a predator who knew he had nothing to fear.
You squinted up at Siwon, who maintained his pace without so much as glancing at you. “You know, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to assume I’m dying.”
“I assure you, Your Grace,” he replied without inflection, “you are not.”
“Then I’m being exiled.”
“Also incorrect.”
“Then what is it?”
He gave a patient sigh, the kind adults always gave when they thought you were being childish. (You were fifteen, not five, but that never seemed to matter.) “It is not my place to say.”
You groaned. “That’s what you always say.”
“Because it is always true.”
“Can you at least tell me if I’m going to like it?”
“Some might consider it an honor.”
“...Will you make me one of those snowman figures with your frost magic to shut me up?”
Siwon glanced at you, startled but amused. “I thought you already outgrew those, Princess.”
You huffed, and Reya let out a rumble behind you—his version of agreement, no doubt. You didn’t like the way this was heading. Siwon’s face gave nothing away, as usual, and there’s no way to break through his defenses.
Rounding the corner near the west wing stairwell, you nearly collided with one of the younger palace maids, who let out a startled yelp and nearly dropped her stack of linens.
“Oh! Princess!” she gasped, eyes wide as saucers. “You’re still in your fencing kit?”
You look at her bizarrely. “Yes? It’s fencing day?”
Regardless, she looked horrified. “Your hair is all—your tunic—oh dear, you’re soaked. I-I’ll have the other attendants prepare a bath immediately. Do you want rosewater or lavender? I can call for your blue silks, or maybe—”
“She won’t have time for that,” Siwon interrupted mildly, stepping forward. “Her Highness is expected in the king’s study at once.”
The maid faltered. “Oh. I see. O-Of course.”
You offered a weak smile. “It’s fine. My father’s seen worse. Remember when Reya broke into the aviary and I spent half a council meeting covered in goose feathers? This can’t be worse than that.”
Behind you, your tiger gave a low, pleased chuff. You could feel his smugness. The maid tried to laugh politely but gave up halfway through. She curtsied and retreated with all the urgency of someone fleeing a burning room.
You scratched behind Reya’s ear absently as you continued walking with Siwon. “You’d think they’ve never seen sweat before.”
“You are a princess, Your Grace,” Siwon said. “The ideal princess does not perspire. She glows.”
“I’ll be sure to glow after I’m dead.”
Siwon did not react.
Which, of course, was the worst reaction of all.
He reached the grand oak door at the end of the corridor and knocked twice with the back of his hand, the sound deep and final before opening the door.
“After you, Princess,” Siwon said, and you stepped across the threshold, sweat-streaked and bracing yourself for the sentence that would ruin the rest of your youth.
The scent of ink and parchment greeted you first.
Not the cloying perfume of court scrolls but something plainer. Vellum stacked in rows, ink dried in the well, candle wax crusted in yellow pools on the old wooden desk. A fire smoldered low in the hearth, casting long shadows over the high shelves. A half-eaten plate of bread and cheese sat untouched near the window, forgotten beside a ledger the size of a paving stone.
Your father sat behind the desk, hunched over a thick sheaf of correspondence, pen stilled in his hand.
The King of Ancarra was not a large man, not like the kings in your history books who towered over battlefields in gleaming armor. He was wiry, silver streaking his dark hair while the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened not by age but by long nights and hard decisions. He looked up when you entered, and the tiredness in his face softened.
“Bug,” he said, smiling gently. “You’re here.”
As Siwon left you two your own devices, you bowed because you were expected to. But when you straightened, you didn’t hide the concern in your face. Not even that old, endearing nickname could dispel your unease.
“You look awful.”
He barked a tired laugh and set the pen aside. “Thank you, sweetling. That’s what every man longs to hear from his daughter.”
You stepped forward, Reya padding behind you with the faintest growl of warning. He never liked this room. Maybe it reminded him of confinement, or maybe he just hated the smell of parchment.
“You’re still doing all the ledgers by hand,” you said, eyeing the mountain of work.
Your father didn’t deny it. “Who else would?” His smile was wry. “The ministers mean well, but they’d outsource my soul if I let them. I trust my own hand better.”
You bit your lip. He’d always been like this—stubborn in his solitude, steadfast in his refusal to lean on others. Ever since your mother died, he’d carried everything himself. That day was etched into your life, even though you weren’t old enough to remember it. You were told she passed giving birth to you. That her last words were your name. Your father never married again, never even considered it.
Part of you always wondered if that was loyalty, or guilt.
You moved to stand beside him, your sweat-streaked fencing gear looking very out of place in the quiet glow of his study. “You could have waited for me to change.”
He gave a soft hum. “Didn’t want to waste time. I know how long it takes for you to pick a ribbon for your hair.”
You gave him a playful glare.
And then, his expression changed—just slightly. The weariness didn’t fade, but something settled in beside it. A sort of gravity you’d seen only a handful of times in your life.
He gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit. There’s something I need to tell you.”
The hairs at the back of your neck prickled, but you do as you’re told. Reya let out another disgruntled noise as he curled at your feet, frost blue eyes squared on your father. Shortly after sitting down, you folded your hands and straightened your spine like you’d been taught.
“Is something wrong?” you asked.
“...You’ve grown,” Your father’s fingers brushed across the parchment before him, as if searching for the words inside it instead of in his own mind. “Fifteen now. Three years left until you’re given the Dawning Crown.”
That doesn’t quite answer your question.
The Dawning Ceremony was a rite of passage for every member of Ancarran royalty. On your eighteenth birthday, the veil of childhood would be lifted. You’d stand before the court in ceremonial robes, swear your oaths beneath the kingdom’s banner, and receive the Dawning Crown—a silver circlet that marked your right to advise the throne, to lead, to inherit.
But something told you that wasn’t what the king summoned you for today.
“Yes,” you said warily. “What of it?”
Your father looked up at you then. His eyes—tired, kind, and quietly burdened—searched your face as if trying to memorize it before he said something you wouldn’t forgive.
“I’ve arranged a betrothal for you.”
Silence dropped between you like a stone into water, and it rippled in your chest. You blinked, as if you’d misheard. “What?”
“A betrothal,” he repeated gently. “To Prince Jeonghan of Seraphia. The engagement will be announced before the year’s end. You’ll be married once you both come of age.”
Your throat went dry as you sat there stiffly, the rest of your body frozen while your brain scrambled to catch up. Outside, you could hear the distant flutter of birdsong through the windows, absurdly cheerful for the moment. Reya stirred at your feet, sensing your shock.
“But…” You swallowed. “I thought I would— I thought I’d be able to choose.”
Your father’s face flickered with regret, but his voice was firm. “I did what I had to, bug. This alliance is necessary. Seraphia’s port routes feed half our inland trade. And their King trusts Jeonghan to succeed him one day. He’s… he’s a good boy.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried not to make a sound like a dying bird.
Jeonghan.
You remembered him only in flashes. A diplomatic visit when you were thirteen. A boy with moonlight hair and a smile made of silk and sunshine. All the noble daughters swooned while he bowed and kissed their hands like something out of a storybook.
But you saw it.
You saw the glint of amusement in his eyes when he flattered people just to watch them squirm. The flick of his wrist when he’d “accidentally” stepped on your dress train. The way he’d offered you a honeyed tart, only for you to discover it was filled with chili paste. Your lips had burned for hours.
You scowled. “I would’ve preferred his brother. Joshua at least has a soul.”
The king’s sigh was long and worn, as though he’d rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in his head and never found a version where it didn’t end with you furious.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” he said quietly. “But it’s what’s best. For the kingdom.”
You could feel the pressure in your chest start to swell—tight and hot and helpless. You shoved back from your chair, the legs scraping loudly against the polished floor. Reya’s ears flicked at the sound.
“So that’s it?” you demanded. “You marry me off to another kingdom and hope I forget everything I wanted? What about Ancarra? Who do you expect to rule when you’re gone, if I’m stuck in the next kingdom over with a husband I didn’t choose?”
Your voice rang louder than you meant it to, but once it started, it wouldn’t stop.
“Father, I’ve trained my whole life to help you. I’m learning about the laws, the politics, the treaties. I’ve fought and studied and bent over backwards to prove I’m not some fragile little girl just because my magic doesn’t shoot lightning out of my hands!” you sniffled, barely breathing with how much your throat feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. “And now you’re saying it’s all just... for decoration?”
Your father closed his eyes.
For a moment, the silence returned. Not heavy like before, but much more somber.
“You think I don’t want you here?” he asked, and your heart cracked at the roughness in his voice. “You think I haven’t dreamed of the day I’d see you on the throne beside me, crowned and proud, finally free to shape this kingdom with your own hands?”
The king stood behind his desk, and the gesture felt too slow for the weight of what he carried.
“You’ll still rule Ancarra in my place one day, bug,” he said, his voice low with weariness. “But I’ve seen the parts of you that mirror the worst of me. The way you shoulder everything on your own. The way you keep others at a distance, offering only what’s required and nothing more. I know that kind of loneliness. I’ve lived it. And I wouldn’t wish it on you.”
He looked at you then, and the weight behind his gaze was heavier than any crown.
“I’m not trying to chain you to another kingdom. I just want you to have someone by your side. Someone who sees you not as a sovereign, or a symbol, but as a woman. As a queen who doesn’t have to stand alone.”
You turned away, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the anger from spilling out again. Just minutes ago, you’d been silently fretting over your father’s terrible habit of grinding himself into the ground—and now he was saying you were the same. That you’d inherited his loneliness like it was part of your bloodline.
Reya brushed against your side, his fur warm and solid as a low huff vibrated in his chest. You’re not alone, he said. I’m still here.
But the comfort didn’t dull the sting. It didn’t make the room feel any less like a cage.
“Please, bug,” he said softly, reaching across the desk to take your hands in his. His grip was warm, steady, and just a little too gentle. “I need you to trust me. Just for now.”
You looked at him—at the sleepless shadows beneath his eyes, the ink smudged into the creases of his fingers, the quiet burden he carried alone because he never let anyone close enough to share it. Your chest ached.
You nodded, once. “Just for now.”
Life went on, as it always did.
Your schedule remained unchanged—lessons, training, etiquette, more training. The castle walls stayed the same shade of honeyed stone, and the banners still rippled with the wind in Ancarran silver. No one treated you differently, but that was the worst part. The servants still curtsied, the guards still bowed, and Siwon still handed you your briefing scrolls with quiet efficiency. As if nothing had changed. As if your future hadn’t just been carved into stone.
But when you walked through the halls, people looked at you a little longer. Nobles smiled a little too kindly. Maids paused mid-task to whisper behind their hands.
Reya sensed the shift, too. He stayed closer than usual, his great striped head brushing your elbow when you walked, his breath warm at your back when you slept. His presence grounded you, but not even he could quiet the nervous churn in your stomach as the ceremonial dinner approached.
The Seraphian royal family arrived two days after the harvest moon. Their procession was the usual fanfare—banners and courtiers, guards in gilded armor, a fleet of pearl-dappled carriages led by plumed steeds. You watched it unfold from the balcony with arms crossed, ignoring the way your heart drummed harder when you spotted Jeonghan stepping out in gold-trimmed robes, his hair ink-black and tied back with a silken cord.
It used to be much lighter, didn’t it? Though there were always rumors about the eldest Seraphian prince—that he changed his hair as often as his wardrobe, either by spellcraft or cosmetics. You weren’t sure which unnerved you more.
The ceremonial dinner was held that evening in the Grand Marbled Hall. Candles glittered in every chandelier. The finest cutlery had been polished to mirror-shine. You were seated at the right of your father; Jeonghan sat directly across from you, grinning like this was all terribly funny.
For the sake of appearances, you were perfect. Pleasant and regal as you should be. You smiled when prompted, clinked your glass when toasts were made, and managed not to stab anyone with your fork. But once dessert had been cleared and the nobles began drifting into smaller pockets of conversation, you stepped away from the main table.
And, of course, Jeonghan followed.
“You’re brooding,” he said, appearing at your side like a shadow. “It’s a charming look on you, truly. Very mysterious, but also very tragic.”
“I’m resisting the urge to toss you into the fountain,” you said coolly, still upset over Reya being barred from the ceremonial dinner. Siwon claimed your tiger would terrify half the guests into fleeing back to their homelands, but honestly? That’s exactly where you want Jeonghan to be.
All of a sudden, Joshua materialized behind him with a sigh. “Brother, maybe you shouldn’t antagonize your future wife during the first dinner.”
The older boy raised an innocent brow. “I’m simply trying to get to know her better. It’s called bonding.”
“It’s called being a smug little shit,” you muttered, turning to Joshua. “Remind me again why they didn’t marry you off instead?”
“Because I’m only thirteen, Princess,” Joshua said with a rueful smile. “And unlike Jeonghan, I can’t talk my way out of anything. Or into it.”
Jeonghan pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”
This was what your interactions looked like for the next few years.
Time wore on in polished routines and reluctant familiarity. Your lessons deepened. You traded your fencing foil with a sword. Your council briefings grew longer. And through it all, the shape of your future loomed larger, carved into every careful glance from the court, every politely worded expectation.
Jeonghan visited often enough to fulfill duty, but never more than that. He was cordial in public, infuriating in private. He knew just how to smile at the other noble girls, how to offer a compliment sweet enough to make them blush. But never you.
You weren’t sure when it started to bother you.
He didn’t try to charm you. Didn’t send letters. Didn’t hover by your side during banquets or take your hand when music played. Instead, he teased you, irritated you, challenged you. When you dueled with the court trainers, he’d lean against a post with a smug grin and critique your footwork. When you won a mock debate in strategy lessons, he’d ask if you were aiming for tyrant or empress.
He wasn’t cruel. Just… completely uninterested.
And so, you mirrored him. Distant, cool, and unimpressed.
It was easier that way. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you preferred it like this—that it was better if neither of you cared. That way, when the Dawning Ceremony finally arrived, and the court crowned you with silver and called you queen-to-be, you wouldn’t look for him in the crowd. You wouldn’t hope he was watching. Wouldn’t wonder if he saw more than just a political pawn.
You were eighteen now. The veil of childhood had been lifted. The Dawning Crown gleamed in your reflection like a weight you’d only begun to feel.
The door creaked open behind you. Your stylists fell silent at once—one still halfway through pinning the final clasp on your ceremonial mantle. When they turned and caught sight of who had entered, they dipped into low bows, murmuring deferentially before excusing themselves in a flurry of silks and whispered footsteps.
You met your father’s reflection in the mirror.
He looked tired. Always did, these days. The strain of kingship lived in the soft slump of his shoulders, in the silver threading through his dark hair. But tonight, he wore a quiet pride that almost softened it.
“I still remember when you used to run barefoot through the garden, covered in dirt and insisting you’d seen a dragon in the clouds,” he said, his voice low and fond. “And now look at you.”
You turned to face him fully. The ceremonial robes felt heavier under his gaze—woven from Ancarran silver and river-blue silk, embroidered with threads that shimmered like starlight. The Dawning Crown had been nestled into your hair not ten minutes ago, and already it felt like a permanent weight.
“You’ve grown into a fine heir,” he went on. “The court respects you. The people speak your name with hope. I have no doubt you’ll rule even better than I did.”
The words landed gently, like feathers instead of stones, but you only offered a small nod. “Is that all, or did you come to deliver another surprise engagement?”
He huffed a laugh. “Not today.”
A shape lingered in the hall behind him. You turned toward the figure, and felt your spine straighten when he stepped inside. You recognized him immediately.
Lord Kwon Soonyoung of the River Quarter. Young for a noble, but sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and endlessly frustrating to the older lords who couldn’t keep up. He spoke boldly during court sessions, often to your quiet amusement. Not because he was reckless, but because his suggestions made sense. Because they weren’t rooted in pride or greed or tradition-for-tradition’s sake.
You could tolerate Soonyoung.
More importantly, Reya mirrored the same sentiment. Your beast stirred at your side but made no noise. His tail thumped once against the floor, and when Soonyoung reached out, Reya allowed him to touch his head—without biting or growling or snarling.
You blinked. “He never lets anyone do that. Not even the king.”
Soonyoung smiled faintly. “I bring very expensive jerky to council meetings.”
Your father gave a dry cough that might’ve been a laugh. “I thought it was time you had an advisor of your own,” he said, shifting his weight. “Someone who understands your vision. Who won’t cower, but won’t sabotage you either. You’ll still have access to the council, of course. But from now on, Lord Kwon will report directly to you.”
You glanced back at Soonyoung, one brow arching.
He inclined his head solemnly. “If you’ll have me.”
And despite the crown digging into your temples, despite the pressure mounting outside those palace doors, you found yourself almost relieved for once.
The kingdom held its breath as the sun dipped low behind the peaks of Ancarra, casting long shadows across the capital. From the grand plaza to the marble steps of the palace, thousands had gathered to watch you rise.
The Dawning Crown sat heavy atop your head—woven silver and moonstones, forged centuries ago for this moment. You wore it like you wore the future: unshaking, though it pressed against your every thought.
You stepped forward beneath the carved arch of the Grand Marbled Hall, every bell in the capital chiming at once. Your people stood below. Nobles flanked the raised pavilion. The wind caught your cape and made you look more like a figure from myth than flesh and blood.
Jeonghan, of course, was in the very front of the crowd, cloaked in Seraphian white and gold. His black hair fell loose tonight, ribbon tied lazily at the nape of his neck, and his expression is half amused, half something else. He didn’t look proud. He didn’t even look solemn. That damn prince simply looked like he was waiting for something only he knew the shape of.
You tore your gaze from him as the High Chancellor stepped forward.
His voice carried through the twilight air: blessing your name, your bloodline, your title. You bowed your head at the proper moment.
When it was your turn to speak, you found your voice more easily than expected. You spoke not just as a daughter, but as a queen-in-waiting. You spoke of duty, and legacy, and of your people—of Ancarra’s strength. The crowd answered with a roar.
And just like that, it was over. The stars blinked to life overhead. The music would begin soon. So would the toasts, the dancing, and the procession of noble flatterers lining up to be seen. But first—you slipped from the velvet crush of the crowd and found Soonyoung waiting just off the ceremonial steps, where the torchlight flickered low and Reya prowled like a sentinel in the dark.
He stiffened when he saw your expression. “Princess?”
You pulled him aside, away from the footmen and ladies-in-waiting, and met his eyes.
“You’re my advisor now,” you said, voice low but steady.
He nodded.
“Then this is your first task,” you whispered. “If you cannot stop my betrothal to Jeonghan… delay it. Months, years—I don’t care. Just buy me time. As much as you can.”
Soonyoung blinked. “And if they ask questions?”
“They won’t.” You stepped closer. “Because you’ll be clever. And because no one—not the council, not the court, not even my father—can know that it was me who told you.”
Your advisor hesitated only a moment longer.
Then he smiled, something sharp and wolfish. “Consider it done.”
Years passed like storms over open fields—loud, relentless, and gone before you could catch your breath.
Your title grew heavier with each passing season. Every month brought new scrolls to sign, new decisions to weigh, new nobles testing your patience and pretending not to. But by your side, always, was Soonyoung.
He proved himself more than just a quick wit and a clever tongue. He was tactful when you were tired, bold when you hesitated, and disarmingly good at navigating court politics without letting it twist him. Most importantly, he did as you asked: he stalled. And stalled. And stalled.
Soonyoung often cited economic instability. He sowed polite doubt about timing. He suggested further diplomatic exchanges. And every time the matter of the betrothal crept to the surface, he found a way to push it back under without leaving fingerprints. For that, you trusted him more than most.
Still, no amount of clever maneuvering could keep Jeonghan away.
The Seraphian prince was a constant thorn in your side. Not overtly cruel but sharp enough to get under your skin. He made biting comments over tea with the council. Danced merely once at galas, and always with just you, even if his smile never reached his eyes. He acted the perfect prince in public, all grace and golden formality, but in private he still found delight in teasing your temper and smirking when it frayed.
And you matched him, blow for blow. It was the only way you knew to survive it.
You tried everything else. You proposed policy changes that would jeopardize the alliance. You drafted appeals to dissolve the arrangement. You whispered to other members of court, trying to find a crack in the centuries-old yet unspoken agreement binding Ancarra and Seraphia. But the betrothal endured, untouched, like some ancient curse carved into stone.
You were set to marry each other once you both turned twenty-five, and not even Soonyoung could circumvent the inevitable for longer than he already had.
On the eve of your twenty-fourth name day, you couldn’t bear it any longer.
You found your father in the observatory, where he often retreated these days, away from court noise and council bickering. He looked older now—softer around the eyes, silver threading his entire beard—but still steady, still listening.
“I’ve done everything you asked,” you told him, voice low but urgent. “I’ve honored the engagement. I’ve strengthened our kingdom. I’ve waited. But please…” Your hands clenched at your sides. “Please let me find love on my own. Not in a treaty. Not in an obligation.”
The king looked up at you, quiet for a long moment. And in that silence, your heart thudded so loudly you feared he could hear the break in it.
Your father didn’t answer right away. He looked at you for a long time, like he was peering through the layers of duty you wore like armor—past the queen-in-waiting, down to the little girl who used to trail behind him with ink on her sleeves and admiration in her eyes.
Then finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair, wearier than you’d ever seen him.
“If you must,” he said softly. “Then choose. But do it wisely.”
And just like that, the floodgates opened.
Soonyoung, ever your loyal accomplice, was the first to act. But your father’s advisor, Siwon, was ten steps ahead. Between them a list was compiled: eligible bachelors from noble families across the continent. Men with good standing, decent lineage, tolerable personalities. A thick folder of names, portraits, court records, and correspondences appeared on your desk within the week.
“You asked for love,” Soonyoung reminded you, lifting an eyebrow. “Not obscurity. We still have to make it look… proper somehow.”
You stared down at the endless sea of faces, all of them smiling too politely. The illusion of choice wrapped in silk and gold. It wasn’t exactly what you’d hoped for, but it was something—a sliver of agency in a life that rarely allowed any.
Near the end of the list, a familiar face stopped you cold.
Im Changkyun.
The boy who used to spar with you in the training yard until both your arms gave out. The only one who never pulled his strikes. Who called you “lightfoot” just to get under your skin and laughed when you beat him anyway. He’d left court years ago to pursue something abroad for a few years—you hadn’t heard from him since.
You held his portrait a moment longer than the others.
He looked older now, jaw sharper, eyes steadier. But something in his expression was the same: direct, unafraid. You set the image aside, just slightly, like a card at the top of a deck.
“Considering him?” Soonyoung asked, not even trying to hide the curiosity.
You didn’t answer. Not really. Just tapped the edge of the page and muttered, “He’s not terrible.”
Several days later, you invited Changkyun to the castle.
The back gardens were quiet this time of day—just enough sunlight spilling through the high hedgerows to illuminate the walking path in pale gold. The magnolias were in bloom, their wide petals fluttering in the breeze like fallen silk. You waited near the old stone bench beneath the olive tree, Reya sprawled lazily in the grass at your feet like he didn’t weigh as much as a small carriage.
Siwon and Soonyoung lingered at the archway entrance, trying and failing not to look like posted guards. You’d already told them three times that Reya was protection enough—and given the way the striped beast flicked his tail with bored menace, you were fairly confident no one would get within lunging range without permission.
Still, you appreciated their presence. Just as you appreciated the way the household staff had been strictly instructed, sworn to silence, and double-compensated for their discretion.
No one from Seraphia could know.
You heard footsteps before you saw him—light, careful, and familiar. When Changkyun emerged from the vine-draped path, the first thing you noticed was how tall he’d gotten. His frame was broader, shoulders squared. His hair was longer now too, tied back against his nape.
But then he grinned, and you knew it was still him.
“Well,” he said, stepping into the clearing with a casual ease that made Reya lift his head. “Some things don’t change.”
You quirked an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Your taste in terrifying pets.” He nodded at your tiger. “Still looks like he wants to eat me.”
Reya snorted through his nose. You weren’t entirely sure it wasn’t a laugh. “He does. But only a little.”
Changkyun bowed low, more mockery than formality, then straightened and met your eyes. “Your Highness.”
“Don’t,” you said, voice softer than you expected. “Not here.”
His expression eased. “Alright, Lightfoot then.”
You nodded despite the jab, the name fitting better in his mouth than you remembered. And for a moment, standing there in the hush of a secret meeting surrounded by the scent of olive and magnolia, you felt like a girl again. A little reckless. A little hopeful.
“So,” Changkyun said, glancing past you to where the advisors waited in careful silence. “Am I here for tea, or a political inquisition?”
You smirked. “That depends on whether you’re still terrible at fencing.”
“Oh no,” he groaned. “You’re going to beat me again, aren’t you?”
“If you’re lucky,” you said, turning to lead the way deeper into the garden. “If you’re not, Reya will.”
And Reya, as if understanding perfectly, bared his teeth in a lazy grin.
You walked side by side with Changkyun through the garden path, Reya ambling behind like a silent chaperone. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable, just tentative. It had been years, after all. He’d grown into his frame the way trees settle into their roots—steady, grounded, and unpretentious.
You stopped at the far end of the gardens beneath a low-limbed willow, leaves swaying like curtains in the wind. When you turned to face him, the words tangled briefly on your tongue.
Changkyun tilted his head. “You’re fidgeting.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he said, grinning. “Same way you used to before you asked to borrow my practice foil. Or when you were about to do something reckless.”
You huffed, cheeks warming. “I’m not here to be reckless. I’m being strategic.”
“Same thing, in your case.”
You gave him a look, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll be frank with you.”
“That’s new.” He raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.
You ignored him. “You’re here because I’m… looking.”
His expression shifted—curious, but not alarmed. “Looking? For what?”
“A husband,” you said quickly, like yanking a bandage off. “Someone suitable enough that my council and court will approve. Someone who could make this kingdom feel less like a cage, and—” You stopped, biting the inside of your cheek. “Someone I could maybe stand.”
Changkyun blinked, taken aback for a moment, then leaned in slightly. “But… aren’t you already betrothed?”
You stilled before carefully saying, “It’s complicated.”
He looked at you for a long moment. Not pressing, not even judging, but he did take a moment to read between the lines.
“Right,” he said finally, with a nod. “Complicated.”
You were grateful he didn’t pry further.
Hmph, you thought. If Jeonghan were this thoughtful, I wouldn’t have a problem with it.
You immediately wanted to punch yourself. What? No. No. Why in the world—? You shook the thought off like water from your hands. Ridiculous. Completely and utterly—
“I’m flattered,” Changkyun said gently, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. “Really. It means a lot that you’d even consider me.” His eyes dimmed just a little. “But I can’t.”
Your heart paused. “Can’t…?”
He nodded, almost apologetically. “There’s someone else. We’ve been together a while now. She’s not from a noble house, so it was never going to be public, but… we’re expecting a baby in the spring.”
It hit you like a brick wall of mortification. “Oh, gods—Changkyun, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put you in a—”
“No, no,” he said, holding up a hand. “I know you didn’t. You never would have tried if you did. I’m honored you thought of me, but I’ve already made my choice.”
You took a step back, mortified beyond belief. “I just tried to poach a taken man.”
“With a pregnant partner,” he added with a teasing grin. “A bold move, even for you.”
“Stop laughing,” you hissed, trying to suppress the heat crawling up your neck. “This is a diplomatic disaster.”
And of course, when you turned to stalk back to the garden entrance, you saw them—Soonyoung and Siwon, standing just where you left them, whispering like schoolboys and failing horribly at hiding their laughter.
“You both knew, didn’t you?” you growled.
Siwon cleared his throat and looked up at the sky. Soonyoung offered a helpful shrug. “We just wanted to see how long it would take for you to find out.”
“You’re both fired.”
“You’ve said that four times this month,” Soonyoung said cheerfully.
“And it gets less believable every time,” Siwon added.
Behind you, Changkyun laughed again. Reya huffed. You tried very hard not to fling yourself into the hedge and disappear.
You went back to the drawing board with a vengeance.
The wall of your study, once reserved for regional maps and grain forecasts, was now a collage of organized chaos. Pinned parchments fluttered in the breeze from the open window—portraits, lineage charts, summaries of estates and personalities. It looked less like a matchmaking effort and more like a war room. Reya had taken to curling up just outside your door, wisely avoiding the flurry of thrown quills and muttered curses.
Siwon and Soonyoung stood to one side, arms crossed like generals surveying a battlefield. They were your most loyal—yet infuriatingly conniving—advisors, offering unfiltered commentary with the energy of drunk gossip mongers.
“Lord Hwan?” Siwon suggested, tapping one parchment with a silver quill.
“Too stiff,” you replied without a hitch. “He talks like he’s trying to sell me on an insurance scheme every time he opens his mouth.”
“What about the Crown Viscount’s second son?” Soonyoung asked. “Handsome. Educated. Keeps birds.”
“He also believes women shouldn’t sit in council chambers. Next.”
After a while, the portraits dwindled down to just a few names that hadn’t been immediately dismissed. Among them, a new face caught your eye—a boyish nobleman from the southern coast. You remembered him. Soft-eyed but sharp-tongued. He has an earring glinting in his official portrait, a reputation for charity work, and biting courtroom wit.
“Boo Seungkwan,” Siwon said, noticing your gaze. “Heir to the wine barons of Chasan.”
“Isn’t he the one who screamed at the High Treasurer for misappropriating village taxes last winter?” you asked, intrigued. “
Soonyoung grinned. “The very one. Rumor has it the Treasurer nearly cried.”
You plucked Seungkwan’s page from the wall. “I like him.”
“He’s a bit dramatic,” Siwon offered.
“He’s principled,” you corrected, pinning the portrait near the top of the selection board. “And I’ve had enough of spineless men. Give me someone who isn’t afraid to raise his voice when something’s wrong.”
“He also sings,” Soonyoung added helpfully.
“Even better.”
You three stood there a moment, gazing up at the organized chaos—your court of candidates, your silent rebellion. It could be the most brilliant plan in the world, or the one that precedes its impending doom, but you’re more than willing to take a gamble.
It didn’t take long for you to make the journey to Chasan.
You traveled in an unmarked carriage with Soonyoung at your side, no royal banners or official escorts. Siwon had protested—loudly, thoroughly, and with increasing despair—but your father, ever the silent observer of your misery, gave his blessing with one condition: Keep a low profile.
Chasan was warm with early spring, the hills rolling green and gold beneath a sun that glinted off the distant sea. When your carriage pulled up to the modest but elegant estate of the Boo family, no one rushed to greet you. No horns. No footmen. Just a confused stable boy blinking at you like you’d ridden in on a cloud.
You glanced at Soonyoung, who raised an eyebrow.
“Guess no one told them the queen-to-be was dropping by.”
“I did write in the letter that I’d come in person,” you muttered.
One of the household servants scurried out after some frantic internal shouting. “Our deepest apologies, Your Highness, Sir Boo is in the lower vineyards at the moment. We… we weren’t expecting you so soon.”
“It’s fine,” you said, already stepping down from the carriage. “We’ll find him ourselves.”
Soonyoung caught up, eyes scanning the gentle sprawl of grapevines that stretched toward the southern slope. “Maybe you’ll get to see what he’s like in the wild,” he joked.
You shot him a look.
The two of you wandered down narrow earthen paths between sun-dappled vines, boots crunching softly over tilled soil. A few workers paused to bow, but no one made a fuss. Chasan was humble in the way that made you ache a little. No gold plating, no marble archways. Just earth, sky, and the scent of crushed grape skins in the wind.
“There,” Soonyoung whispered, grabbing your elbow and pulling you behind one of the taller vine trellises. You followed his gaze and stopped short.
Boo Seungkwan was farther down the row, partially shielded by the grapes, one hand still gloved in working leathers. He was laughing, light and warm, as he leaned close to the young servant boy in front of him.
And then, without hesitation, he kissed him.
Not a scandalous kiss. Not a stolen one either. But soft, sure, and heartbreakingly tender.
You stared, your heart thudding with a strange sort of… sorrow. Or maybe guilt. You hadn’t meant to intrude. You hadn’t expected this.
Soonyoung gently nudged your arm. “Guess we’ll be checking him off the wall.”
You swallowed and turned away, careful not to make a sound as you whispered, “Let’s go. He deserves to enjoy this moment without a royal shadow looming over it.”
Neither of you spoke again until you were halfway back to the estate, the quiet breeze tugging gently at your cloak.
“…Siwon is never going to stop laughing about this,” Soonyoung said at last.
You sighed. “I know.”
That crushing defeat hit you harder than you thought.
You didn’t speak to anyone for days. Not after Seungkwan. Not after Soonyoung tactfully burned the last of the correspondence in your fireplace while Siwon wordlessly updated the registry of Unviable Matches with a heavy sigh.
Maybe this was your fate. Maybe it had always been. Maybe you were foolish to think you could outrun the gods' ink when the story had already been carved in gold. Betrothed at fifteen. Crowned at eighteen. Wed to Jeonghan by—
You didn’t let yourself think the year aloud.
Your advisors, mercifully, didn’t try to coax you out of your misery. No jokes. No teasing. No “we’ll find another” or “what about this one.” Just silence and quiet presence.
Siwon left your tea in the mornings and your scrolls at dusk. Soonyoung started keeping his sarcasm locked behind his teeth. Even Reya laid his massive head across your lap while you read, his usual restlessness tempered as if he, too, knew your storm was not one that could be barked away.
You went through the motions. Court duties. Decrees. Oversight reviews. But your spirit dragged its heels, worn and brittle. And after nearly a week of going nowhere, you couldn’t take the stillness anymore.
So you left.
No guards or carriages. Only a cloak over your shoulders and Reya at your side, his striped form padding silently beside you as you stepped out into the humming heart of the capital.
The city had always been your balm. Cobblestone streets. Songbirds in the eaves. Familiar chatter from vendors and weavers calling out their wares. The people greeted you with warmth, not fanfare. They knew Reya by sight now—knew his name, even—and parted for him without fear. Children ran up to scratch his ears. Old women offered you candied dates or weathered blessings.
You wandered further through the market square, slowing as a tapestry caught your eye. It looks new, strung between two wooden posts—its threads shimmering silver in the sunlight. A dragon this time, coiled mid-roar and stitched with care and pride.
Before you could move on, a small hand tugged at the hem of your cloak. You looked down to find a boy, no older than ten, staring up at you with wide, serious eyes. In his hands, he held a delicate ring of daisies and chamomile.
“It’s a crown, Your Highness,” he said shyly, holding it out like a secret. “Not the fancy kind, but it feels nice to wear.”
You crouched to his height, gently taking the floral gift with both hands. “Then it’s perfect,” you whispered. “Thank you.”
Thank the stars you hadn’t worn your Dawning Crown. It would’ve felt like mockery now. You slipped the flower ring over your head and straightened. The child beamed. Reya gave a gentle huff of approval, as if to say: See? You still matter to the people.
You exhaled slowly and looked over the rooftops where the palace glittered far above the city.
You weren’t ready to give up yet.
After purchasing some trinkets to bring home to your father and your lousy advisors, your footsteps take you further beyond the market. The flower crown sat a little lopsided on your head, but you made no move to fix it as you settled onto the edge of the city square’s old stone fountain.
Reya laid down beside you with a content grunt, his chin resting on his massive paws as his tail flicked idly across the cobblestones. A warm breeze blew, catching the scent of fresh bread and sun-warmed stone. Pigeons cooed and strutted about the square like they owned it.
One of them hopped closer, cocking its head.
“Well?” you asked it. “I don’t have food but you get conversation. Fair trade?”
The pigeon blinked, unimpressed. You’re not who usually feeds us. Where’s that baker girl with a soft voice and flaky biscuits?
“Hm. She’s got better treats and a softer voice,” you laugh. “You birds have standards.”
Another pigeon joined the first, eyeing Reya suspiciously. Why do you always drag around that oversized tiger? He looks like he eats things like us for fun.
Reya rumbled low in his throat without lifting his head. Keep talking, feathers. I haven’t had lunch.
The pigeons flapped backward in alarm, cooing indignantly.
Savage! Barbarian! You wouldn’t dare—
“Ignore him,” you said, stifling a smile. “He likes pretending he’s scarier than he is.”
Reya huffed again, this time clearly offended.
One pigeon scoffed. He nearly ate Shotaro the last time you were here.
“And Shotaro tried to steal his jerky. Actions have consequences.”
You sat there for a few more minutes, chuckling quietly at the birds' gossip—half of it nonsense, half of it accurate enough to be alarming—until you heard a voice behind you. Gentle and familiar in a distant, unexpected way.
“May I join you, Your Highness?”
You turned your head, and nearly gasped.
Standing just beyond the sun-dappled edge of the fountain was a boy you hadn’t seen in years. No—not a boy anymore. He was taller now, broader at the shoulders, his dark hair falling just past his collar. Instead of court finery, he wore a pared-down version of Renxing armor: travel-worn, softened at the edges, the pauldrons stripped away and the gold embroidery dulled by dust and sunlight.
You blinked, almost laughing from the sheer surprise of it all. “Minghao! Stars, it is you.”
“It’s good to see you again, Princess.” He caught your hands when you reached out—steady and familiar.
But before the moment could settle, Reya let out a low growl, rising onto all fours. His ears are pinned back, blue eyes locked on your old friend with unmistakable suspicion.
“Oh, stop that,” you said, stepping in to soothe him with a hand on his head. “Reya, Hao’s a friend. Not lunch.”
Something’s wrong, he growled, muscles coiled beneath your touch. He smells like fire and blood.
You hesitated, fingers buried in Reya’s thick ruff as his growl faded to a low, vibrating hum. His tail didn’t flick, his gaze didn’t waver.
Fire and blood…
Minghao probably did smell like both, even if you couldn’t catch the whiff. Maybe in the way old battlefields did. Burnt magic clung to his clothes like smoke. His hands bore the marks of sword work, knuckles darkened with bruises that hadn't fully healed. Still, he was a fire elemental. And the general of the Renxing army. What else was he supposed to smell like? Roses?
But hostile as he was, Reya had never reacted like this before.
You gave his ear a scratch, more for your comfort than his. “He’s just being dramatic,” you said lightly. “Doesn’t like surprises. Or anyone who’s taller than me.”
Minghao smiled. “I could kneel, if that helps.”
“Don’t tempt him.”
He chuckled, stepping closer with a graceful ease that didn’t match the war-weathered armor. “Did he say anything interesting?”
“No,” you lied smoothly, straightening up. “Just a lot of growling and wounded pride. Why? Worried he’s giving away secrets?”
“Only curious,” he said, voice soft. “It’s not every day a celestial tiger growls at me like I kicked his favorite moonstone.”
“You did once steal a peach tart from my plate. He never forgot.”
“I regret nothing.”
You looked him over, still stunned. The years had sculpted him into something sharp and striking. There’s a faint scar curving along his forearm, and the unmistakable presence of someone used to command. But his eyes… his eyes were exactly the same.
“I didn’t even know Renxing was sending delegates.”
“Technically, soldiers,” Minghao amended. “My father offered support in fortifying your kingdom’s defenses. He sent me and a small contingent to assist in training.”
“That’s the official reason, isn’t it?” you teased.
He chuckled. “You’ve grown sharper.”
“And you haven’t changed at all,” you interject with a beaming smile. “Do you still carry that lopsided bow you used to train me with?”
Minghao grinned. “I retired it years ago. But I remember those lessons well. You nearly took out my eye once.”
“It was one time,” you said, rolling your eyes. “And you moved too close to the target!”
Reya, however, didn’t find this reunion nearly as delightful. He rose behind you, placing himself between Minghao and your side with a deliberate flick of his tail.
You gave him a dry look. “He taught me archery, Reya. If he meant to hurt me, he’s had a ten-year head start.”
“I must’ve offended him in a past life.” Minghao chuckled, giving a short, respectful bow towards the tiger.
“He just doesn’t like being left out of things,” you said, motioning for Minghao to sit with you by the fountain again. Some of the pigeons scattered as Reya circled, settling beside you with an annoyed huff. You pretended not to notice the way he kept one sapphire eye trained squarely on your old friend.
“It’s strange,” you said, watching the breeze stir the trees across the square. “I feel like I should’ve known you were coming. Or that I would’ve felt it somehow. We used to be glued to the hip during all those summer visits.”
“We were children,” Minghao replied gently. “But I remember it, too. I was glad when my father chose me to come here. I hoped I’d see you again.”
You flushed, just a little. “Well… you have. And I’m glad. Really.”
“I’ll be staying at the castle with the soldiers,” he told you. “We begin drills in a few days. Until then, I thought I’d take a walk through the city. See what’s changed.”
You grinned, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Not much. The pigeons are still rude.”
A few feet away, one of them let out a coarse squawk. You’re the one talking to birds like a madwoman. Can’t even find a husband.
You lobbed a pebble at it. “You eat garbage.”
Minghao watched in silent amusement as you finished your not-so-private argument with the town’s most opinionated pigeons. When you finally noticed his expression, you offered a sheepish grin.
“I missed this,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging up.
You raised a brow. “The pigeons?”
“You,” he said, laughing softly. “You’ve always had a… unique way of handling the world.”
“You say that like it’s a flaw.”
“It’s not.” His gaze lingered, warm and thoughtful. “It’s just—very you.”
Reya let out another displeased noise. But you were too caught up in the moment to notice the way his muscles stayed coiled beneath his striped coat, the faint bristle in his fur. He didn’t like this reunion.
But you? You were just happy to see an old friend.
Back at the castle, preparations for your guest had moved quickly. One of the east-facing guest rooms—typically reserved for visiting dignitaries—was swept, polished, and perfumed with lavender water. Minghao’s soldiers were escorted to the royal barracks, where Ancarrian efficiency met them with warm cloaks, strong cider, and a welcome that was formal but kind.
By morning, the dining hall was bathed in golden light, sunlight spilling through the tall arched windows. The table had been set with a surprisingly casual spread: flaky breads still warm from the oven, crisp autumn pears, spiced porridge, and thick cream served in polished stoneware.
You were already there, hunched slightly over a steaming cup of tea, still groggy but determined not to show it. Reya was helping himself to whatever lavish breakfast the castle chefs had laid out for him, utterly absorbed in his bowl. From the way his ears twitched with contentment, your tiger was clearly pleased. You only looked up from your own food when you caught the quiet rhythm of approaching boots.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” Minghao said, bowing first to your father, then offering you a softer nod. “Princess.”
“You’re early,” you replied, smiling into your cup but it drops the moment Reya starts baring his teeth at your friend again. “Reya. Knock it off.”
Your father chuckled. “He tells me his men were stretching at dawn on the south field. Quite the commander.”
“Discipline is second nature in Renxing,” Minghao said, lowering himself into the seat next to yours with smooth, princely ease. “Though I’ll admit—your lands make it easier. Crisp air. Clear skies. Even my men look taller here.”
“Flatterer,” your father said, grinning. “Careful, or you’ll find yourself a permanent guest.”
“That would be no punishment,” Minghao said, his eyes catching yours for the briefest moment, light with mischief.
You bit back a laugh and nudged the basket of pastries toward him. “Try the honeyed ones. They’re dangerous enough to make you not want to leave.”
He did, and the way his face lit up made you grin. “You weren’t exaggerating.”
Across the room, Soonyoung and Siwon stood with the servants near the door, their posture still and unreadable—save for the way Soonyoung’s brow lifted slightly when you leaned in, listening to something Minghao murmured beneath his breath.
You talked like it had been days, not years. He spoke of Renxing’s northern reaches—wild coasts and glass-shelled beetles that migrated through frozen rivers. Of teaching a recruit to read by bribing him with hawthorn sweets, only for the boy to repay him in river crabs. Your father listened with gentle amusement, but it was you who laughed the most
And then, without warning, the thought crept in like smoke curling under a door.
What if it were him?
The match with Jeonghan had been sealed long ago, your fate marked in ink and crown and ritual before you could even attend council meetings officially. But what if it hadn’t? What if you hadn’t spent your whole life dodging destiny like it was a creature waiting to pounce?
What if love was simple?
A shared pastry. A soft story. Warm hands over tea and morning sun.
You looked at Minghao again—his easy smile, the grace in his posture, the power quiet and controlled beneath the silks and steel. And in that stolen, treacherous heartbeat, you let yourself wonder.
What if it had been him instead?
Before your thoughts could wander dangerously, however, your quiet meal was interrupted.
You noticed the change before you heard it. A flicker of movement by the door. A servant, breathless and wide-eyed, darted toward Soonyoung and Siwon. She was whispering something too fast for you to catch.
Minghao was still speaking beside you, animated as he described a night march through an ancient canyon in northern Renxing where their footsteps echoed like ghosts trapped in a glass cage. His voice was smooth and warm, and you wanted to listen, truly you did—but your gaze kept slipping back to the door.
Soonyoung’s arms were folded now. Siwon murmured something in return to the servant, nodded once, then approached the table with the quiet stride of someone who only ever brought important news. The king glanced up at the shift in mood, and you followed his gaze as Siwon stopped just behind your chair and bent slightly at the waist.
“Your Highness,” he said softly, his eyes flicking toward you, “Prince Jeonghan of Seraphia has just arrived. He’s asked to speak with the princess at her earliest convenience.”
There was a beat of stillness.
Minghao’s story paused mid-sentence. He looked toward Siwon with faint curiosity, but said nothing. Your father gave only a slight nod, an order to let him join breakfast, and returned to his tea as if this were a perfectly ordinary disruption. But your hand, still resting near the plate of fruit, curled into a quiet fist.
Moments later, the doors opened with their usual hush, but somehow it felt louder this time. Jeonghan stepped in, haloed in sunlight through the high windows. He was still draped in Seraphian silks, still unfairly beautiful.
His hair was brown now, swept back with a soft curl falling over his brow in a way that seemed carefully unintentional. He moved with that same effortless poise you had grown up watching and (grudgingly) admiring.
Minghao, ever-so gracious, stood as Jeonghan approached, offering a nod before shifting seats to the other side of the long table. It left the space beside you open intentionally.
Jeonghan slid into the empty chair like he’d belonged there all along. “Good morning,” he greeted, his voice dipped in velvet, his smile almost disarmingly warm. “I apologize for the surprise visit. I was in one of my moods and thought—why not go see my future wife?”
You gave him a withering look, but it faltered when he leaned in just slightly and added, “Joshua sends his regards. He’s recently been engaged himself, you know.”
“Oh?” the king said, lifting a brow. “Congratulations are in order.”
“Yes,” Jeonghan said with a calm nod. “The daughter of one of our royal mages. She isn’t of noble blood, but she’s well-versed in magic and negotiations. My brother’s always had a soft spot for strategists.”
“Sounds like he inherited that from someone,” Minghao said mildly.
You raised a brow. Jeonghan only smiled, utterly unbothered. “Hardly. I prefer my companions predictable. Less likely to start a war over breakfast.”
A chuckle moved around the table.
Then Minghao tilted his head and said, almost idly, “And he’s not using magic, still?”
Jeonghan blinked. “Pardon?”
“Joshua,” Minghao clarified with a small smile. “Both of you, actually. Last I heard, neither of the Seraphian princes had taken up their birthright. The royal bloodline in Seraphia is known for its strength in enchantment, no? And yet you keep it buried, still?”
You stiffened a little. Not in shock, but because the question came from nowhere. Your spoon hovered above your tea. Magic was always a strange subject between nations. But the abstention of Seraphia’s recent royalty was somewhat a hot topic among the surrounding kingdoms—Ancarra included.
Minghao, for his part, was infamous across empires as a fire elemental prodigy. The youngest to command a regiment of war mages in Renxing’s history. His aura carried that same warmth now, flickering low like a hearth. Reya, beside your chair, shifted uneasily. His icy blue eyes fixed on the man across from him like a second set of judgment.
Jeonghan’s gaze didn’t waver. “Our magic is not the crown’s priority. Seraphia thrives through diplomacy, not flames.”
Minghao leaned back, folding his hands. “A shame, really. I always wondered what it would look like—royal Seraphian magic unleashed.”
You didn’t miss the slight tension in Jeonghan’s jaw.
And that, more than anything, gnawed at the back of your mind as Minghao took another sip of tea. You sat there in your seat with perfect posture and a polite smile, but the thought slipped into your skull like a splinter.
You’ve never seen Jeonghan use magic.
Never seen him spark even a flicker of it. Never caught a rumor, never heard a whisper. Not even from the palace gossip mill, which had happily speculated about the color of his undershirts once and still hadn’t shut up about the time he laughed too hard at a coronation toast.
And you would’ve asked. You should’ve asked.
But that would’ve required speaking to him longer than a required greeting, longer than the bare-minimum exchange you both had perfected over the years—smiles for the court, ice behind closed doors. You found out about Joshua’s affinity by accident, really. He’d once stopped to admire a hedge maze in your gardens, and when he touched a dying stalk, it bloomed again beneath his hand. Simple and gentle, much like the boy himself.
But Jeonghan?
Nothing.
No elemental surge. No runic marks. No rumors of illusions, or voicecraft, or even basic wards. Either he had nothing—or he was hiding something so carefully, so deliberately, that no one had been able to name it.
And now Minghao was here, a walking blaze of power, and Jeonghan was smiling like none of it even mattered. You reached for your teacup, mostly to keep your hands busy.
You didn’t like mysteries. Especially not when they sit beside you, pretending to be harmless.
The silence stretched just long enough to begin tasting uncomfortable. Minghao’s smile didn’t falter. Jeonghan’s posture remained infuriatingly elegant, but you could tell—if only because you’ve spent years learning how to read him—that he’s ready to change the subject.
It’s your father who spared him the effort.
He cleared his throat and gently set his goblet down. “And how long will you be staying with us this time, Prince Jeonghan?”
You turned slightly toward the head of the table, grateful for the break in tension. Jeonghan flicked his eyes toward the king and answered smoothly, “Just a few days, Your Highness. I was passing through the border en-route from the east and thought it best to pay a visit.”
“An unannounced visit,” Soonyoung muttered under his breath from his post by the door. Siwon nudged him with an elbow.
The king chuckled, brushing past the remark. “It is always a pleasure, no matter how sudden.” Then he glanced toward you. “Perhaps you and my daughter might walk the gardens this afternoon? The roses have finally bloomed this year.”
You almost choked on your tea.
Jeonghan nodded with a faint, serene smile. “Of course. It would be an honor.”
Your spoon clinked against porcelain just a little too hard. Reya emitted a low growl from under the table, whether in protest of the plan or of Minghao’s lingering presence, you can’t tell.
Minghao, to his credit, simply sips his tea again. But his gaze flicks to you, then to Jeonghan, curious. Assessing.
And for the first time in a long while, you can’t tell which prince unsettles you more.
You didn’t get far from the dining hall before your hand shot out to catch Soonyoung by the sleeve, dragging him into the shadowed archway beside one of the tapestry alcoves. Siwon followed of his own accord, arms folded neatly behind his back, expression already knowing.
“I’m asking this plainly,” you whispered, eyes flicking back toward the corridor. “Are we absolutely certain Jeonghan doesn’t know what we’ve been up to?”
Soonyoung blinked. “As in the matchmaking campaign?”
You stared at him.
“Right, yes, that,” he amended. “Then no. I mean yes. As in, he doesn’t know. I’m almost sure of it.”
“Almost?”
Soonyoung’s smile twitched. “Prince Jeonghan is… difficult to read. Cheerful as he is, he doesn’t quite let anyone be privy to his intentions.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “What if he’s just biding his time? Waiting until I’m alone before springing some awful, ‘You’ve dishonored our families’ speech and demanding we set the wedding date?”
“Princess,” Siwon said gently, “he’s had nearly a decade to pull such a stunt. And he hasn’t. Don’t start doubting the quiet now.”
You glanced up at him, voice lower. “But what if Minghao's presence stirred something? What if he sensed it, somehow—that I’m searching for someone else?”
Siwon regarded you with the patience of a man who had outwaited a thousand royal tantrums and twice as many council disputes. “Prince Jeonghan is many things. But petty is not one of them. He’d confront you if he had suspicions, not toy with them.”
“Not petty, huh?” you muttered, “I’m not so sure about that…”
Soonyoung scratched the back of his neck. “We did keep the search quiet, Princess. Every servant sworn to secrecy, every meeting arranged through as discreetly as possible. If Prince Jeonghan knows, he’s clairvoyant. Or just very, very nosy.”
You sighed and pressed a hand to your forehead. “This whole morning felt cursed. Reya was uneasy the whole time. I—gods above, I liked being with Minghao again. That’s the worst of it. I liked it, and Jeonghan probably sensed that.”
“So?” Soonyoung said, baffled. “You’re allowed to entertain visiting nobility, especially if they’re your friends. Prince Jeonghan doesn’t own your breakfast companions.”
“But he’s my betrothed!”
“In title only.”
Your shoulders sagged, and you gripped the edge of the column beside you. “I felt like I’d been playing a game I didn’t know the rules of. And everyone else was holding cards I’d never seen.”
Siwon’s gaze softened. “That is the nature of court.”
A sigh escaped your lips. “I’m supposed to walk the gardens with him soon.”
“Try not to trip into the koi pond again,” the older advisor added.
“That was once,” you scowled. “And it was raining.”
Soonyoung grinned. “Still your most graceful fall.”
You shook your head and pushed away from the column. “Pray for me.”
“I’ll light a candle,” Siwon said dryly.
“I’ll start digging a moat,” Soonyoung chirped.
You waved them off and stepped back into the corridor, spine straightening with every step. Whatever awaited you in the garden, you would meet it with dignity.
The royal gardens stretched out before you, awash in morning light where sunlight filtered through the trees that swayed with the breeze. You walked slowly along the mosaic path, hands clasped loosely before you, Reya trotting a few steps ahead. He hadn’t growled once—not even when Jeonghan fell into step beside you like a ghost slipping from a dream.
“It’s been some time since we walked here,” Jeonghan said plainly.
You didn’t meet his eyes. “Has it?”
“I suppose not that long,” he amended with a soft chuckle. “But long enough to miss the scent of the roses. Your gardeners have always done them justice.”
You glanced toward the flower bed just ahead—wide as a banquet table and brimming with tangled stems of roses. Their leaves are a lush, lacquered green, buds curled tightly on the branches like secrets not yet told. A few bold blooms had already unfurled—deep crimson, velvet-soft, catching the morning light like drops of spilled wine.
“They’re late in blooming this season,” you murmured.
“Maybe they’re waiting for a sign,” he said. “Something worth blooming for.”
You didn’t respond. There was always something slippery about him—how his compliments wore the face of riddles, how his tone was too gentle to grasp without suspicion. You didn’t trust softness when it came from him. Not when you’d spent half your life bracing against it.
Still, he continued beside you, hands tucked behind his back in perfect princely grace. His eyes scanned the gardens, the trees, the rooftops just beyond the horizon.
“I heard your father’s invited Renxing to join our military councils,” he mused.
You stiffened, just slightly. “He has. Their soldiers arrived yesterday.”
“And Minghao is their prince and general?” Jeonghan added lightly, almost amused.
That makes you pause. “You’ve met?”
“A long time ago,” he said. “I doubt he’d remember it, but he does seem aware enough of my existence to want to pick a fight with me .”
You huffed. “You make it easy for anyone to want to pick a fight with you.”
Jeonghan didn’t deny it—just offered a knowing smile, the kind that curled at one corner of his mouth and made you want to both slap it off and stare a little longer. You walked in silence for a few steps. The wind stirred the trees again, rustling petals onto the stone path, and somewhere nearby, water trickled over the lip of a marble fountain.
Then he said, almost offhandedly, “He likes to speak first. Draw lines before anyone else has a chance to set the terms.”
You glanced sideways at him. “You mean Minghao?”
Jeonghan nodded. “He’s clever. Knows exactly where to place a cut for the deepest bruise.”
“Well, he’s a general. He’s trained for that.”
“He’s also a prince,” your fiancé pointed out, tone light but edged. “Which makes it harder to tell when the blade’s diplomatic.”
You didn’t answer. Not because he was wrong, but because you were surprised he noticed. Still, Jeonghan wasn’t looking at you. His gaze wandered, serene and distant, as if this was just another quiet stroll instead of a conversation tensed on the knife-edge of politics.
“For what it’s worth,” he added after a moment, “I’ve never liked men who think precision is the same as power.”
That caught your attention.
You studied him for a beat longer. His posture, as always, was deceptively relaxed—too smooth, too practiced. But something had shifted. Maybe it was the way he said it, or the fact that Reya brushed gently against his side as he passed, tail flicking once before moving on. Jeonghan looked down at the beast, a faint smile twitching at his lips.
“He’s warming up to me.”
You scoffed. “He’s tolerant, at best.”
He tilted his head with a lazy smile. “Still better than hostile.”
It was. You hated that you agreed.
Days drift by in a hush. You expect tension, expect something grand to stir. After all, two foreign princes now share your roof, both with their own legacies, their own shadows trailing behind them. And yet, the palace breathes as if nothing has changed. No great disruptions, no clashing tides.
The soldiers in the barracks adjust to the presence of Renxing’s warriors with the wary politeness of men trained to kill side by side, and the kitchen staff still sends up too many pastries at tea. Minghao spends most of his days in the training yards or reviewing your kingdom’s defenses with the captains. He is gracious when he joins you at court, always with a smooth word or charming smile. Reya still watches him like a hawk from afar—but the tension has settled into a sort of cold awareness, like two great cats pacing the edge of each other’s territory.
Jeonghan, on the other hand, has made it his personal mission to haunt your every quiet moment.
He never speaks of the conversation in the garden again, but you can feel it hanging in the air whenever he appears. You pass him in the corridor, and he gives you a smile. You leave the solarium early, and he’s somehow in the hall just outside, pretending to admire a tapestry. You ask the cooks to surprise you with something new for breakfast, and he comments idly at the table that you’ve always liked tart things with honey.
It’s maddening.
By Thursday, you’ve had enough.
You marched down to the archery range before breakfast, bow in hand, and jaw set with razor-tight focus. You haven’t had time for this in weeks, and it shows in the tension of your shoulders, the crackle in your spine. You notch your arrow, draw back your arm, exhale—
“Good morning, Your Grace!”
You startled a little too dramatically. The arrow sailed in a wide arc and landed somewhere in the hedges with an unceremonious thwack.
You spun around to find Jeonghan standing at the edge of the range, hands clasped like he’s arrived for a morning stroll. Beside him was Soonyoung, who gave you a guilty, wide-eyed look before mouthing I’m sorry and quickly stepping out of the line of fire.
Your voice came low and clipped. “Are you following me?”
Jeonghan only lifted a brow. “Why, of course not. I was merely enjoying the views that the Ancarran castle has to offer. As your future consort in alliance, I should know the corners of your kingdom, don’t you think?”
Soonyoung took one careful step back, and from his perch under the nearby tree, Reya let out a snort that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Jeonghan didn’t even bother making himself look like he didn’t purposely startle you at all.
You sighed and retrieved another arrow. Next time, you’ll aim for him.
You notched another arrow, shoulders tight with barely restrained irritation. Behind you, Jeonghan and Soonyoung settled onto the bench near the range like they have every right to be there. Which, technically they do, but that didn’t stop your fingers from twitching with the urge to send an arrow through the wood beside Jeonghan’s ear.
Another shot—closer to the bullseye this time. Still not enough to stop your pulse from thrumming too fast.
“You’re good,” Jeonghan said, his tone easy and observational, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Shua and I weren’t trained like this in Seraphia. As you know, our court prefers diplomacy and dance over daggers and bows.”
You didn’t turn, but you heard the amusement laced through his voice. Soonyoung gave a small, sympathetic shrug from beside him. “It’s true. I once saw him faint at the sight of blood.”
“Exaggeration,” Jeonghan replied airily. “I merely swooned with elegance.”
You let out a slow exhale, notched another arrow, and fired. This one landed square in the center of the target. You heard a low whistle from your advisor and—more infuriatingly—a small, approving hum from Jeonghan.
“It’s rather convenient,” the prince mused, crossing one ankle over the other. “My future queen being so fearsome with a bow. I daresay I won’t need to lift a finger. You’ll protect me, won’t you, Princess?”
The arrow you’d just pulled from the quiver snaps between your fingers.
“If I protect you,” you said coolly, “it’s only because I don’t trust anyone else to finish the job of ending your miserable existence cleanly.”
Soonyoung looked away, coughing suspiciously into his sleeve.
But Jeonghan? He beamed like you handed him a bouquet. “How romantic,” he sighed, resting his chin on his hand as if admiring a painting. “You do know how to make a consort feel cherished, after all.”
Your heart pounded, and it’s not from the archery.
The morning was clear the day Jeonghan left.
A soft breeze combed through the courtyard where his carriage waited, draped in the white-gold sigils of Seraphia. The horses pawed the cobblestones impatiently, as if mirroring the mood of the man they wait for—restless and infuriating to the very end.
You stood beside your father beneath the marble archway, cloaked in the formal grays of a diplomatic farewell. The king’s voice was kind when he spoke to Jeonghan, and your fiancé was all grace and bows and eloquent farewells. Even Minghao lingered beside you with an inscrutable smile, hands behind his back like a soldier at ease. You’re aware of the others watching too—Siwon and Soonyoung among the entourage, the guards, the servants—all witnesses to this perfectly polite departure.
It’s nearly done.
But then Jeonghan stepped forward to take your hand in his. He kissed it, gently and reverently, all according to protocol. And then he leaned in too close for comfort.
“I look forward,” the prince murmured into your ear, warm breath brushing your skin, “to the next time I get to ruin your aim.”
You jerked back before the blush could spread to your ears, willing your face into a mask of court-trained calm. Every lesson you endured under the glare of etiquette tutors saved you in that moment—your shoulders straight, your smile pleasant, your tone as composed as a glacier.
“Have a safe journey, Prince Jeonghan,” you said, eyes narrowed in the most ladylike way possible. “Do try not to miss me.”
His smile could set cities alight.
“Oh,” Jeonghan began, stepping back toward his carriage, “I intend to do exactly that.”
You resisted the violent urge to throw something at his head.
He’s gone before you could reply, the carriage wheels rolling across the stones like the closing of a storybook chapter.
Only, you suspected—no, you knew—he’ll be back soon.
By the time Jeonghan vanished beyond the gates, you'd already gathered Siwon and Soonyoung in the war room—not for military strategy, but something far more treacherous:
Court-approved matchmaking.
“We’re at a consensus then,” you said, tapping your finger once against the map of Ancarra. “Prince Minghao is not a viable option. Even if I wanted to—”
“Which you actually do,” Soonyoung cut in with a pointed look.
“Even if I did,” you repeated with force, “it would be a diplomatic nightmare. Calling off an engagement with Seraphia for the prince of Renxing? We’d be lucky if we only lost trade ports and not entire border towns.”
Siwon chuckled. “I’m surprised you’re willing to pick the task up again, Princess. You looked… quite dejected after your trip to the Boo Estate.”
You had to pin Soonyoung down with a glare to keep your advisor from saying anything that will raise your blood pressure to dangerous levels. “Failure is part of the journey to true love. Hasn’t anyone told you that, Siwon?”
Your father’s advisor hummed, his spectacled gaze skimming the interior list of nobility you’d had scribes compile over the past few weeks. “So the suitor needs to be from Ancarra. Someone who can cause enough gossip, enough scandal, enough public affection to make it plausible you fell wildly in love and couldn’t help yourself.”
Soonyoung grinned. “Which means we need a boy you could realistically kiss in public without gagging. Oh, and someone that won’t run when Reya so much as growls at them.”
You glared at him. “You’re on thin ice.”
Your advisor raised his hands in defense. “What? I’m just saying—you do tend to scowl at most men like they’ve insulted your bloodline. Same goes for your beast.”
Siwon, ever the calmer tactician, cleared his throat. “We’ll approach this with structure. Let’s narrow the list to eligible bachelors who meet the following criteria: loyal to the crown, reasonably attractive, tolerable by Reya, and—preferably—already a little in love with you.”
You tapped your fingers again, faster this time. “It doesn’t need to be a real romance. Just enough of a performance to convince Seraphia the engagement fell apart because of me, not them. If I’m the reckless one, Jeonghan saves face. Everyone’s happy.”
Soonyoung leaned back, arms behind his head. “You really think Prince Jeonghan cares about saving face?”
“…No,” you admitted, remembering the smirk he wore as his carriage departed. “But Seraphia might. And the court definitely will.”
“Then we manufacture a heartbreak,” Siwon said simply. “We choose someone charismatic, familiar, close to the palace—enough that no one questions why you spent time together. You’ll laugh too loud at the gardens. Leave flowers in his rooms. Maybe even—gods forgive us—write a poem.”
Soonyoung winced. “That’s low.”
“All is fair in love and politics,” you muttered. “Or at least, in fabricated love.”
You glanced out the window, where the sun slipped behind the edge of the tower, casting long shadows across the floor. Jeonghan was gone, and your future hung on the next name you circled with ink and lied through your teeth about.
War you could prepare for. But this? This was treasonous theater. And it didn’t help that the world kept sending you warning signs left and right.
It began with Lord Doyoung of the northern territories—a bookish type with a gentle voice and decent bone structure. You think, Yes, this one might do. But the very morning he’s due to arrive in the capital, his carriage overturned on a clear road with no other travelers. His horse? Spooked by a pigeon. A pigeon wearing what the guards swear was a tiny gold ribbon.
Suspicious.
Then there’s Jaehyun, a second-born noble who helped manage his family’s glasswork business. Intelligent, considerate, and crucially uninterested in politics. You traveled discreetly to a manor on the coast to meet him. However, the moment you arrived, he was gone. Apparently left the day before to pursue an urgent pilgrimage after receiving a mysterious letter from a "reputable Seraphian monastery" asking for his divine insight.
But the worst, the true collapse of your sanity, came when you tried to court a commoner. A sweet, curly-haired apprentice scribe from the capital. You met by accident—he dropped his stack of scrolls, Reya frightened the life out of him, and you ended up laughing like someone in a romance novel. You arranged to meet him again secretly by the statue of the winged lion after dusk.
And guess who’s already there?
Jeonghan leaned against the base of the winged lion like it was a throne carved just for him. The dusk painted him in gold and shadow, and he looked utterly at home—one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded loosely, a single wildflower tucked behind his ear like he’d stolen it from a love-sick dream.
“You’re early,” he said lazily, as if he’d been waiting minutes rather than hours. “I almost thought you weren’t coming.”
You stopped dead. “You’re not him.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I’m certainly better-looking.”
“You—” You took a sharp breath, rage tightening behind your eyes. “Where is he?”
Jeonghan tilted his head. “The apprentice? I believe he’s having a lovely evening at home. His mother made delicious stew, and he felt it’d be rude to miss it. Or so the note said.”
You stared. “You intercepted him?”
Your fiancé smiled, all teeth and wicked charm. “Technically? I intercepted the opportunity. You never said this was an exclusive audition.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he said, stepping into the moonlight, that damn wildflower still tucked behind his ear, “you keep trying to replace me with men who don’t know the difference between a sword hilt and a dinner spoon. Truly, you wound me, Your Grace”
You didn’t realize your fists were clenched until your nails dug crescent moons into your palms.
Your fists were clenched so tightly your arms shook, your breath short and ragged. The statue's winged shadow barely concealed you from the open square, where lanterns were being lit one by one, their warm glow spreading like a slow-burning fire.
And Jeonghan just stood there.
Mocking you with that unbearable calm, his eyes full of all the things you hadn’t said in ten years. The flower behind his ear was ridiculous. His shirt collar was crooked. His entire existence was meant to push you to the edge of insanity.
“You’re infuriating,” you snapped.
He smirked. “Then stop chasing ghosts and—”
You didn’t let him finish.
Your hand fisted his lapel and pulled hard, slamming your mouth against his before your brain caught up with your body. It wasn’t soft or sweet or measured, but raw, full of teeth and fury and years of words swallowed down in silence. You’d meant to shove him, maybe slap him. But somehow, your lips found his instead.
And the worst part—the truly damning part—was how good it felt.
The warmth of his mouth. The way he froze for the barest second, then exhaled against you like he’d been holding his breath for a lifetime. And then he kissed you back.
Jeonghan didn’t just return it. He answered it.
His hands slipped to your waist, slow but sure, like he’d dreamed of this and was finally awake. He kissed like he knew every inch of your stubbornness, every sharp edge, and loved the way you cut him open. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your face, deepening the kiss—and it became something molten, dangerous, entirely public.
Somewhere behind you, Reya snarled like a warning. You weren’t alone. The statue’s shadow didn’t hide the way Jeonghan’s hand curved around your hip, the flush in your cheeks, the hunger in the space between your mouths.
You tore away first, panting and wide-eyed as your heart thundered in your ribcage. Jeonghan looked at you all while swiping that tongue of his across his bottom lip.
“Was that part of the act?” he asked softly, lips still red, voice dangerously close to tender.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because if you spoke, you might admit it wasn’t the kiss that terrified you.
It was how long you’d wanted it.
By unspoken agreement, neither of you addressed the kiss behind the statue. Not in words, anyway. But everything afterwards shifted.
Jeonghan began appearing in Ancarra with alarming regularity—always with a perfectly valid excuse. Delivering letters from Seraphia. Attending diplomatic luncheons. Touring agricultural reforms that absolutely did not require a prince’s attention. And every time he stepped through the gates with that lazy smile, your blood pressure spiked.
He was still insufferable. Still poking at you like a child with a stick and a beehive.
“You missed me,” he’d say, voice low in the hallway.
“I was hoping you’d gotten arrested,” you’d reply without looking at him.
“You dreamed about me again.”
“Reya dreamed about biting you. I just watched.”
But no amount of sarcasm could undo the heat that had settled between you like a splinter you couldn’t dig out. And while your verbal battles raged on, your bodies fell into an entirely different rhythm—one of breathless tension and stolen moments.
A quick kiss when no one was looking. A lingering touch at your waist beneath the pretense of helping you onto a horse. A late-night visit to the library that ended with your back pressed against the cold wall of a forgotten corridor, his mouth hot against your throat.
You hated him.
You hated how good he was at knowing when to push you. You hated how you let him.
One day, Jeonghan found you in the west wing solarium—alone, for once, dressed in something plain for the heat. The moment he stepped through the arched doorway, you already knew he was going to do something reckless.
You tried to keep your tone sharp. “Don’t even think about it.”
“I wasn’t,” he said innocently, approaching anyway. “I was remembering how you kissed me first.”
“I kissed you to shut you up.”
“Well,” he murmured, stepping behind you, brushing your hair aside to press a kiss just below your ear, “it didn’t work.”
You didn’t stop him when his hand slid beneath the hem of your dress, fingers trailing up your thigh with infuriating patience. You should’ve. You always told yourself you should’ve. But instead, you exhaled through your teeth and leaned back into him, fists clenching the edge of the table as he teased his way higher—his touch maddeningly sure, maddeningly soft.
And when his fingers finally slid inside you, you didn’t even pretend to resist.
Because for all the years of distance, all the fire and anger and scarred memory between you, Jeonghan still knew exactly where to find the weak spot beneath your armor.
“You’re shaking,” the prince murmured against the shell of your ear, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Didn't know you could be so delicate.”
“I will break your nose,” you hissed, breath catching as his fingers curled just right. “Shut up and get it over with.”
He chuckled. “You say that like I’m doing this for me.”
“Gods, I hate you.”
“You don’t sound very convincing.”
You bit down hard on your lip to stop the moan rising in your throat. His hand moved with a maddening rhythm—confident and precise, like he’d learned you in secret. Maybe he had. Maybe Jeonghan had always known how to find the cracks in your walls, the fault lines in your resolve.
Your knees nearly buckled when he dragged his thumb over your aching clit. The spot that made your vision flicker, made your breath stutter.
He caught you before you fell.
“Oh,” your fiancé said with mock sympathy. “Is this where the princess begs?”
You turned your head, eyes glittering with fury and heat. “You’re so lucky I’m unarmed.”
“Am I?” He dipped his head to kiss the corner of your jaw. “Because right now, I feel like the one being conquered.”
You made a sound—part growl, part gasp—as the pleasure crested higher. You hated how easy it was for him to pull you under, hated how your body betrayed you, trembling at his touch even as your mouth spat venom.
But gods, it felt good.
It felt like revenge, like surrender, like twelve years of wanting something you swore you’d never let yourself need. He played your body like an instrument only he knew how to tune—drawing out every gasp, every tremor, until the fire in your gut finally, finally broke.
You clutched the table edge like a lifeline, moaning his name as each wave of your orgasm shuddered through you. You felt sticky and unclean, and Jeonghan thought it to be a good idea to smear the mess he’s made of your cunt across your inner thighs.
As if to mock you even further, he leaned in, lips brushing your cheek as he whispered, “You’re going to think about this tonight. When you’re all alone.”
You whipped around and shoved him—half-heartedly, breathlessly.
“Get out before I feed you to Reya.”
Jeonghan grinned, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your knuckles like a knight, of all things. “I’ll come back when you miss me.”
“I never do.”
He was already gone by the time you realized your legs still hadn’t stopped trembling.
Thankfully, Jeonghan left before lunch. That meant you could change your ruined dress and have a meal in the peace and quiet you deserved after that daunting encounter in the solarium.
You sat between your father and Minghao in the smaller sunlit dining chamber—the one reserved for informal meals and less scrutiny. Sunlight poured through the windows, glinting off the crystal decanters and catching in the honey glaze of the roast pheasant. The servants came and went like shadows. Minghao poured you some tea without asking, which you would have appreciated, if you weren’t so wrapped up in your own mind.
“So,” Minghao says casually, “how’s the treason?”
You glanced sideways at him, feigning ignorance. “Treason?”
He smiled. “You’ve had that look on your face since you walked in. Like someone who just burned a letter and buried the ashes under a rose bush.”
Before you can answer, it began.
The birds.
You heard them before you saw them—three magpies nestled like gossiping witches along the arched windowsill. One of them fluffed her feathers and gasps, loud in your skull.
She was scandalous with a man just this morning!
Your eyes widened. No one else reacts. Of course they don’t. Only you can hear them.
Back in that room again, another coos. Pressed up to him like a heat-starved mare—
I told you, the third interrupts with a huff, she’s betrothed to him. It’s legal. The king said so. Even if she climbed that prince like a ladder, it would still be state-sanctioned.”
You nearly choked on your tea.
Your father paused mid-sentence. “Something wrong, bug?”
You covered your mouth with your napkin, glaring furiously at the birds. One of them winked.
“Just… feeling a little hot,” you muttered.
Oblivious to your internal unraveling, thye king picks up his fork and says, “We should start finalizing your name-day celebration soon. Twenty-five is a milestone.”
“I vote we skip it,” you said darkly, eyeing the window again. The birds have not left.
Minghao hummed. “You’ll have to get used to celebrations. Especially now that your wedding with Prince Jeonghan is not far behind.”
You hesitated just long enough for him to notice.
“...Unless it’s not happening?” the general asked jokingly.
You didn’t know how to explain it. How every time Jeonghan visits, he kisses you like he wants to ruin you. How your body remembers the curve of his smile before your mind catches up. How you tell yourself it’s a temporary madness—just lust, just unfinished business, just war-born tension—but your hands keep betraying you anyway.
And now the damn magpies were singing it to the skies.
She moaned his name! one of them cackles, beak open wide. She gripped his hair like—
“Excuse me,” you said sharply, standing up so fast your chair skitters back. “I need some air.”
Your father looked mildly concerned. Minghao raised an eyebrow.
“Should I send someone with you?”
“Only if they can shoot birds,” you mutter, already turning toward the hall, cheeks blazing.
Behind you, you heard one final chirp:
Reckless princess. She’ll marry that boy or die trying.
The weeks leading up to your twenty-fifth name-day blur into a storm of brocade, guest lists, and mental breakdowns.
What was once meant to be a modest royal banquet has spiraled into a full-blown spectacle at your father’s behest. The ballroom has been draped in gold silks and strung with imported glass lanterns, and couriers from neighboring kingdoms have arrived daily, bearing gilded gifts and stomach-turning compliments. You’ve had to write nearly a hundred invitations by hand—because of course you did, since your father insisted that nothing but your own pen would do for a celebration of this scale.
Four gowns. Four. In one night. Each more elaborate than the last, all designed by different tailors to reflect “the four faces of the princess.” (Whatever that means.)
And looming behind the lace and laughter and godforsaken gemstone embroidery is the other event everyone is whispering about: your wedding.
To Jeonghan.
You tried to keep a mental list of reasons to loathe him, just to stay anchored. He’s insufferable. He flirts with everything that looks his way. He laughs when you’re mad. He kisses like he owns the air you breathe and gets away with everything because his face is tragically symmetrical.
And worst of all?
You’ve started to imagine what it would be like to marry him and not hate it.
The very thought sent you into a tailspin of self-loathing and denial. But no matter how many times you told yourself you didn’t want this, something traitorous inside you fluttered every time he looked at you with those unreadable eyes and said your name like he’s always known it.
By the time your name-day arrived, you’re equal parts exhausted and vibrating with tension. The maids were still pinning the final layers of your first gown—a deep rose silk trimmed with silver thread—when someone knocked at your chamber doors.
“Princess?” one of the guards called. “Prince Jeonghan and Prince Joshua request to see you.”
You nearly groaned aloud, but waved them in. “Fine. But if they mess up a single pin, I’m going to skewer them with it.”
The door opened, and the two Seraphian princes entered like they own the place—Jeonghan with his usual amused swagger, and Joshua with a more subdued grace you haven’t seen in months.
You didn’t rise from your seat as your maids were still halfway through adjusting the fall of your sleeves. but you did narrow your eyes when Jeonghan swept in with a smirk and a flourish. The new color of his hair wasn’t lost on you either—deep burgundy red. You still had no idea how he changed its color like the seasons.
“Happy birthday, Your Grace,” Joshua greeted warmly, offering a polite half-bow.
“Thank you,” you replied, eyes softening. “It’s good to see you again. I thought you’d be too busy planning your own wedding.”
Joshua’s smile flickered, but he was quick to recover. “Ah. Well. Some things are in motion, others… less so.”
You raised a brow. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”
“It’s complicated,” he said, then adds with a small laugh, “But I’ve learned from Jeonghan not to overshare.”
His brother leaned against the wall with a lazy smile. “I’m an excellent role model.”
You snorted. “You’re a warning sign carved into a cliff face.”
Before either man could reply, a footman appears in the doorway, whispering something in Joshua’s ear. The younger prince bowed again before excusing himself, promising to speak with you again before the night is over.
And then it’s just you and him.
Jeonghan eyed the gown you’re still being pinned into with a mock-solemn look. “Do I get to see all four today, or is this one the final form?”
“Don’t act like you care,” you quipped, trying very hard not to shift under his gaze.
“Oh, I care. I’ve always loved watching you suffer.”
“Wonderful. Then you’ll enjoy what happens next,” you told him coolly, gesturing for the maids to step back. “Because if you’re going to keep staring at me like that, I’m going to assume you came here to be mauled.”
As if on cue, Reya let out a rumble of noise from where he was being pampered by one of the braver palace maids. Ferocious as he was, he always did getting his nails clipped, and wearing his favorite collar if the occasion permits.
Jeonghan closed the distance between you with infuriating calm, eyes never leaving yours as he flashed a wicked grin. “You look beautiful when you threaten me.”
Your pulse did that annoying thing it always did when he looked at you like that—like you were something worth chasing, even when you were bristling with knives. You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly dislodged one of the Dawning Crown pinned into your hair.
“And you look like a scandal waiting to happen.”
His grin widened. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Before you could come up with something scathing in return, Reya padded over, nails clicking softly on the polished floor, his gleaming coat freshly brushed, a ridiculous silk bow tied around his collar. He stopped beside Jeonghan and huffed, as if unimpressed with the theatrics.
Jeonghan crouched smoothly to scratch behind Reya’s ears. “Ah, my true supporter arrives. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from her wrath.”
Reya growled, just faintly.
You smirked. “He’s siding with me, clearly.”
“I’m wounded,” Jeonghan said, rising with mock offense. “Betrayed by beauty and beast alike.”
Then he extended his arm to you. “Shall we?”
You stared at it for a beat, suspicious. But Reya nudged your leg gently with his snout, and you sighed, slipping your hand into Jeonghan’s. “Fine. But if either of you embarrass me tonight, I’m feeding you to each other.”
“Romantic and resourceful,” Jeonghan said with a wink. “You’ll make an excellent queen.”
You didn’t dignify that with a response. But as you walked down the corridor, Reya flanking your other side like a silent shadow, the three of you looked like a tableau of something unspoken and inevitable.
The ballroom was a gleaming vision of excess: golden drapes spilling from vaulted ceilings, glass lanterns casting slow-dancing light over a sea of jewel-toned silks and polished marble. An orchestra played on a raised dais, their melody light and sweet, but charged with the weight of spectacle.
You stood beneath the tallest chandelier, Reya sitting loyally at your side despite the sea of legs and perfumes swirling around him. The first toast had long since passed. You’d curtsied, smiled, and performed your gracious-lady routine so many times your cheeks hurt. And then the master of ceremonies called your name.
A hush fell.
Your father approached with a dignity that made your throat tighten. He was dressed in deep blue, embroidered with your kingdom’s sigil, and he extended a gloved hand with gentle formality. You placed yours in it, and let him lead you into the center of the floor. The music swelled.
Your first dance had been rehearsed, of course—weeks of steps and spins and graceful nods. But when he whispered, “You’ve grown into someone I’m proud to call my heir,” you missed a beat. His voice was low, almost shy. “And I know… it’s time to let my little girl go.”
You blinked hard, eyes stinging. “Father…”
“I asked too much of you, bug. Pushing this match before you were ready.” He exhaled, voice heavy but warm. “But Jeonghan… for all his faults, he’s steady in the ways that matter. If you’ve come to accept him, then maybe I wasn’t entirely wrong to hope.”
You didn’t correct him. You couldn’t. Not when he was looking at you like that—like someone trying to make peace with the things he had broken, and still dared to believe he hadn’t ruined everything.
The dance ended in soft applause, and you embraced him tightly before slipping away into the crowd. You barely had time to exhale before another hand reached for yours.
Minghao.
He wore black trimmed with crimson thread, Renxing’s crest gleaming like bloodied gold on his shoulder. His touch was precise, his posture perfect, but his eyes held a steadiness that grounded you. Your heart warmed even further.
“I’ve never liked these things,” he murmured as he led you into the dance. “The court politics. The pageantry. Celebrations of this caliber are rare in Renxing.”
You gave him a dry smile. “And yet you came anyway.”
“I came because I’m loyal to the alliance between our two kingdoms,” he said simply. “And to you.”
That steadiness—his quiet presence, his unwavering calm—had always comforted you. Minghao was the shield between Ancarra and the unknown. For months, his men had trained your country’s footsoldiers and honed them into formidable warriors. You felt safe with him, the way one does with stone walls and drawn blades.
But then he added, almost as an afterthought, “It’s a beautiful kingdom. Shame what war does to beautiful things.”
You glanced at Minghao, frowning faintly. “We’re not at war.”
“No,” the general said, still smiling. “Not yet.”
The song ended, and he bowed with courtly precision. You blinked after him uneasily. But there was no time to dwell—another partner was approaching.
Of course, it had to be him.
Jeonghan offered his hand with a dramatic flourish, his red hair far too striking to ignore. “May I steal the final dance of the night?”
“Only if you promise not to talk,” you muttered, taking it.
He did not promise. Of course not. He pulled you in with the confidence of a man who knew every beat of your rhythm, every angle of your resistance. His hand rested lightly on your waist, the other guiding you effortlessly into the waltz’s pattern.
“You cried,” he said smugly.
“I did not.”
“You almost cried.”
You glared up at him. “If I did, it was because I had to dance with you.”
His grin softened, just slightly, something real shining through the mischief. “You’re beautiful. Not just the dress. You. I thought you should hear that without a punchline attached.”
You blinked.
It unsettled you more than his teasing ever had.
The song slowed, spiraling toward its final note. For a moment, your fiancé held you still, one breath closer than necessary. The world spun in candlelight and cello strings around you, and you hated the way something in you leaned toward him instead of away.
“I won’t always be an enemy, you know,” he said quietly.
“I know,” you replied, just as quiet. “That’s what makes you dangerous.”
After the dances, your stomach practically growled in protest.
Dinner was winding down into a soft haze of candlelight and velvet laughter. The tables glittered with the remains of a decadent feast—glazed meats, sugared fruits, wine-stained napkins folded like petals. Reya lay at your feet, gnawing contentedly on a thick strip of jerky, a gift from Soonyoung (via the royal kitchens, of course). Every so often, his tail thumped against the marble with a low rhythm, as if to remind the room that he was still on guard.
You barely had time to sit between greetings, pulled into conversations and compliments from all sides. There was Yeri, a childhood friend turned court mage, who gave you a vial of bottled starlight as a name-day gift. And Seulgi, the clever young ambassador from the coastal isles, who kept trying to guess which gown was your favorite. You laughed freely for the first time all night, warmed by the company, the flicker of candles, the slow-blooming sense that maybe everything might be all right.
Until it wasn’t.
Near the center of the ballroom, Jeonghan stood facing Minghao. It looked almost casual, but only on the surface.
Then Jeonghan said, loudly enough for the conversation to die around you, “Tell me something, General. How many times have you tried to kill your own father and emperor now? Was it three?”
Minghao’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a bold accusation to make in public, Seraphian.”
You stood up from your seat, heart jumping to your throat. Minghao stepped forward, his voice still even, but you could hear the warning beneath it. “I serve Renxing with my blood. My father knows this.”
“Does he?” Jeonghan tilted his head. “Or did you send his last stand-in home in pieces, too? Or was that an ‘accident’ like the rest?”
A cold, electric silence followed.
“I’ve seen the way you linger at the map of Ancarra when no one’s looking,” Jeonghan added. “The way your men move when no orders are given. You’re not here to serve the alliance. You’re here to watch it rot.”
Minghao’s hand twitched. Just a flicker. Just enough to make Reya growl.
You shoved back your chair and moved, fast. “Jeonghan, stop—”
Too late.
“I should’ve cut your tongue out the moment I knew what you were,” Minghao hissed.
“And I should’ve told her what you are days ago,” Jeonghan snarled, and without waiting for another word, he punched him. The impact rang through the ballroom like a crack of thunder.
Minghao didn’t fall. Of course he didn’t. But his head jerked back, his lip split—and when he turned back, he looked every bit the general people feared. Cold and murderous. You stepped between them before another blow could land.
“Enough!” you said, chest heaving. “This is a royal banquet. On my name-day. You will not spill blood here.”
Reya pressed his flank to yours, snarling low. Behind you, guards surged forward—but no one dared act before you gave permission. Jeonghan wiped his knuckles on a napkin. “You should tell your father. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter. The truth always shows eventually.”
Minghao didn’t speak. But his silence was louder than anything. And just like that, the celebration fractured. Not with a scream, not with blood—but with the breaking of something deeper.
Trust.
It was several hours past midnight when you heard three gentle but firm knocks on the door to your bedchambers.
Annoyed, you stared at the collection of unopened gifts stacked high on your vanity. From delicacies imported from neighboring kingdoms to the most expensive cosmetics in all of Ancarra, your guests had certainly spared no expense in trying to curry your favor. But not even their lavish presents could dispel the pure vexation that had made your blood boil the entire evening.
You didn’t bother to answer the door. Instead, you swept yourself into the plush seat tucked beneath the dresser mirror. There was only one half wit currently residing in the castle brave enough to disturb you in the dead of night, and with how miserably tonight’s festivities had gone, you were in no mood to extend your hospitality to anyone—least of all Seraphia’s exasperating, insufferable, scheming—
“Isn’t it a little too late to be testing out swatches, Your Grace?”
You tried to ignore him. The way his silken dress shirt dangled half untucked from his trousers. The self-satisfied look on his face when he noticed you fumbling with the cherry red rouge you’d been applying to your lips.
But try as you might, you couldn’t ignore Jeonghan when he reached a hand in front of you, nimble fingers wiping off the excess color you’d accidentally tinted just a few millimeters past your lip line.
Not when his smoldering stare held yours captive in the image reflected in your gilded mirror. Not when you couldn’t even find it in yourself to resist when he gently grabbed your chin and forced your gaze to marvel at the man himself.
“Sulking again, Princess?” Jeonghan sneered, and you wanted to hate him for it, but you couldn’t. “I saved you from a man charged with treason three times in a single decade. Why are you pouting at me like I took away the love of your life?”
“Because you’ve made it your life’s purpose to make my life miserable,” you snapped, lacing each word with venom. “Minghao isn’t a traitor. If he was, he wouldn’t become the general of the Renxing army. He wouldn’t even be daring enough to live in our castle for months.”
He sighed, sounding almost sympathetic—but you’d long seen past the ruse. “Poor little thing, still being played like a fool all because you abhor the idea of one day becoming my wife. Tell me, didn’t you find it odd, how persistent he was in pursuing a woman who’s already spoken for?”
“Minghao is not pursuing me, and I am not spoken for,” you hissed, trying not to crumble from the way his thumb dabbed lightly at your lower lip. “Not by you. Not by anyone. Father gave me a choice—”
“Yes, of course. Everyone knows the story of the Ancarran Princess chained to a troublesome foreigner. So troublesome that she had to beg on her knees just to get the king to reconsider,” Jeonghan cooed, his face inching closer to yours.
“But as it turns out, all the other men you’re trying your damnedest to replace me with are even worse fiends than I.”
Your lungs burned as if they’d been set aflame, and Jeonghan was merely fanning the fire. “You’re despicable.”
“And you, Your Grace, are far too gullible,” he chuckled, each breath searing against your skin. “I’d say just give it up and surrender, but you’ve been fighting me since we were children. Ending our relationship in such a boring way wouldn’t make for a good story, now would it?”
You remembered something Soonyoung once told you in passing: how Jeonghan loved deeper than anyone expected. He loved his homeland. He loved his family. He loved his people. And with how tirelessly he kept pulling you back into this engagement, anyone would assume he loved you too.
But how were you supposed to believe that someone like him was capable of love when all he did was thrive off your misery?
“This new rouge you’re testing,” he murmured, as if he hadn’t just stomped on your last nerve. “It’s the kind that takes days to remove once it dries, isn’t it?”
“In what way does that concern you?” you gritted out.
The despicable prince simply hummed. “Oh, nothing. I’m just curious about its actual longevity.”
Your heart practically stuttered to a stop when he closed the distance between you—only a hair’s breadth separating your mouth from his. You didn’t know how it happened, but your fingers were suddenly coiled in the fabric of his shirt. Searching for purchase. For solid ground.
But you should have known better than to anchor yourself to someone as volatile as Jeonghan.
“If someone were to ruin it in the next ten seconds,” he whispered, his voice all heat and danger, “would you be even more furious than you are now? Or would it have the opposite effect? Would you finally melt into their arms? Would you let them tear all your defenses asunder?”
Your pulse roared in your ears, and suddenly, you couldn’t remember how to breathe. His intense gaze pinned you in place no matter how badly you wanted to flee. The scent of expensive champagne lingered on his lips, and to your horror, you found yourself craving a taste.
But you couldn’t. You couldn’t want that. You couldn’t want him.
This was the man who had made your life a waking nightmare for as long as you could remember. The man you’d be cursed to sit beside in the throne room if you didn’t act soon.
You knew these facts perfectly well, and yet…
A scream ripped through the corridor, sharp and blood-chilling.
Jeonghan snapped his head toward the door. The sound of shouts followed, heavy footsteps, the unmistakable ring of steel against steel.
“What was that?” you breathed, your voice brittle with disbelief.
Jeonghan was already on his feet, eyes narrowing as he reached for the dagger he always kept hidden inside his coat. “Trouble,” he said grimly. “Exactly the kind I warned your father about.”
Another cry echoed down the hall—this one closer.
Then the door burst open.
A castle guard staggered inside, crimson soaking the front of his uniform. His mouth opened, a desperate warning hanging on his tongue, but it was too late. A blade sliced across his back, and he fell with a gasp. Behind him came two men clad in obsidian armor trimmed in blood-red. Their faces were obscured by masks, but the crest etched into their chests was unmistakable.
Renxing.
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Jeonghan swore violently and grabbed your wrist. “We have to go. Now.”
He yanked you into motion. Your bare feet slapped against the cold stone floor as he led you out the side passage and into the corridor beyond. Chaos bloomed all around you. Servants scattered, guards fell, and the dark-clad invaders moved with deadly precision through the castle.
“Jeonghan—what is happening?” you gasped, stumbling to keep up with him as he veered toward the grand stairwell.
He didn’t look back. “The Renxing Empire. Minghao. He’s making his move.”
“No,” you said, heart lurching. “No, he wouldn’t—he’s still here, he’s been living here—”
“He’s been watching you. Learning the gives in your defenses. Counting how long it takes for your soldiers to mobilize.” Jeonghan’s voice was hard as steel. “And now he’s using it all against you.”
Around the corner, a blur of motion caught your eye.
Reya came barreling through the hall—his snow-white maw stained crimson. He pounced with his teeth bared, knocking one of the Renxing soldiers clean off his feet, and with a snarl, clamped his jaws around his neck.
You let out a cry. “Reya!”
The tiger lifted his head, ears twitching, and bounded back to you, fur bristling, blue eyes alight with fury. Jeonghan cursed under his breath.
“I knew it,” he spat. “I knew that bastard wasn’t here to play diplomat.”
He grabbed your hand, fingers firm and unyielding. “We have to find the king. Now.”
The three of you sprinted through the castle, Reya leading the charge with a guttural roar. The corridors grew slick with blood. Familiar faces—servants, guards, nobles—lay scattered and motionless. The once-gleaming halls of your home were being razed from the inside out. When you finally reached the king’s bedchambers, the massive oak doors were already ajar. The scent hit you first—metallic and thick. Then you saw him.
Your father lay slumped over the edge of his bed, blood soaking through his embroidered robes, pooling beneath his lifeless hand. And standing above him, eyes cool and unrepentant, was Minghao.
His sword dripped with red.
You stumbled backward in disbelief. “No…”
Jeonghan stepped in front of you, shielding you instinctively. “So this was your grand plan, was it?” he growled, tone deadly. “Cozy up to the Ancarran throne and strike the moment our backs are turned.”
Minghao didn’t even flinch. “You were never naïve, Jeonghan. That was always your problem. But the princess…” His gaze flicked to you, unreadable. “She wanted so badly to believe in goodness. It made her easy to control.”
Your heart shattered. “Why?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “Why do this?”
“Because peace is a lie,” Minghao said, voice cold and resolute. “Ancarra has grown weak. Soft. You live behind silk curtains and delude yourselves with choices you were never truly free to make.”
He stepped forward, sword still glinting in the torchlight. “I came to study my enemy. And now I’ve buried your king. The only thing left to do… is take the rest.”
Jeonghan snarled and drew his blade. And behind him, Reya let out a thunderous roar, low and full of rage. You stood paralyzed between the past and the future, your kingdom falling apart in front of you—betrayed by one you’d defended, protected by the one you’d hated. Your hands shook at your sides. Jeonghan wasn’t a warrior, he’d said it himself. You were unarmed too, but even with your weapons, your down spiral into grief would make it impossible to wield.
A sudden blast of cold tore through the chamber—sharp as shattered glass, singing with elemental fury. The air cracked as a jagged beam of frost magic erupted from the doorway, striking toward Minghao with blistering speed.
He parried it without hesitation, raising his palm as searing fire spiraled out from his fingers. The two magics collided midair, frost and flame meeting in a violent, hissing explosion that shook the floor beneath your feet and bathed the room in blinding steam. You staggered back, stunned—not by the impact, but by the magic itself.
You knew that spell. You’d seen it only a handful of times, in hushed moments of practice behind closed doors. Only one person cast frost magic that way.
Siwon.
The king’s most trusted advisor, robes singed at the edges, his eyes blazing not with panic but with purpose. He emerged from the ruined entrance, frost still crackling at his fingertips.
“There’s no time,” Siwon said, voice hoarse but commanding. “You have to go. The southern gates have already been breached—Soonyoung and Prince Joshua are waiting with a carriage at the old postern tunnel.”
“No,” you gasped, still frozen in place. “I’m not leaving him. I can’t—”
“Princess,” Siwon cut in, harsher now. “The king is gone.”
You shook your head, the burn in your throat rising with each breath. Your eyes remained fixed on your father’s body—his crown toppled, his blood soaking the carpet your mother once chose. It felt impossible. It felt wrong to leave him here alone. But Reya had already made her decision. With a deep growl, your tiger stepped forward, nudging your side with his enormous head. His low whine was almost mournful as he lowered himself to the ground, offering you his back.
“Reya…” you whispered.
He growled again, firmer this time, nudging you harder. And then—miraculously—he allowed Jeonghan to climb on behind you, his tail lashing with urgency. Jeonghan didn’t question it.
“Let’s go,” he said, gripping your waist as Reya tensed beneath you, muscles bunching like coiled springs.
“Don’t let him take the throne,” you whispered to Siwon, your throat raw.
He gave a single nod, eyes heavy with something far more complicated than grief.
And then Reya bolted.
You clung to her as she raced down the blood-soaked halls of the royal wing, Jeonghan’s arms around you, the wind screaming in your ears. Behind you, the flames of Minghao’s betrayal burned hotter than ever, and you knew this was only the beginning.
The wind had long since dulled into a low, steady whistle as Reya carried you through the winding woods beyond the outer citadel. The scent of smoke clung to your skin. The copper taste of blood still lingered at the back of your throat. But you felt none of it. Not until his paws hit the forest floor and slowed, the ground beneath him trembling slightly with the echo of distant explosions. The rendezvous point was just ahead—a small ridge overlooking the secret passage that led to the waiting carriage below.
Reya knelt again.
You slid off his back slowly, your knees buckling the moment they touched the ground. You didn’t cry out. Didn’t speak. Just curled your fingers in the dirt and stared at them like they didn’t belong to you. Jeonghan dismounted after you, quiet for once. He took a step forward, maybe to say something, maybe to steady you—but you turned away, shoulders trembling with the weight of everything you’d tried to keep inside.
The tears came then. Finally. Hot and merciless, carving tracks down your cheeks as a sob tore itself from your throat. “I should have known,” you whispered. “He was here for months. And I didn’t see it. I trusted him. I trusted—”
Your voice cracked, the image of your father’s lifeless body flashing in your mind’s eye again. “He told me I had a choice. And I chose wrong.”
“You didn’t choose wrong.” Jeonghan knelt beside you, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His teasing smile was gone. All that remained in his eyes was something gentler. “You chose to believe someone could be better than the world made him. That’s not a flaw, Your Grace. That’s who you are. It’s why people love you.”
“But the kingdom—my father—Siwon—”
You shook your head, overwhelmed with memories of Siwon making ice sculptures for you in secret, of your father lifting you into the air when you were small, telling you that Ancarra would someday be yours. That all the land the sun could touch was worth protecting.
“I was supposed to protect them,” you said, voice raw. “And I couldn’t.”
A rustle in the trees cut the air like a blade. Then another. And another. Jeonghan rose to his feet instantly, hand going to his waist where his blade was sheathed. You scrambled up behind him, Reya growling low in her throat as shadows stepped out from the dark.
Renxing soldiers.
Half a dozen at least, clad in black and red, their armor glinting beneath the moonlight.
“Well, well,” one sneered. “The little princess, right where we want her.”
“You think you’re getting out of this alive?” another added. “You let your kingdom fall from within. You let us in. And now you want to run? After everything?”
Their words twisted in your gut like poison. You didn’t speak. But beside you, Jeonghan went terrifyingly still. And then—you saw it. A glint in his eyes, sharp and inhuman. Something reptilian. Slitted pupils. A golden gleam, cold and ancient. It vanished a second later, but it made your breath hitch.
Before you could question it, Reya stepped forward, positioning himself between you and the soldiers. His tail lashed. His fur bristled. But most startling of all—
Go.
Your eyes widened. Reya never spoke like this—rarely ever with such clarity. But his voice rang clearly in your head, steady and resolute. I’ll hold them off.
“No,” you gasped aloud. “Reya, no—”
He turned his massive head toward you briefly, his frost blue eyes impossibly calm.
Ancarra will never die as long as you live.
Then he charged.
“Reya!!” you cried, arm outstretched, but Jeonghan grabbed you from behind.
“We have to go,” he said firmly—though you knew he hadn’t heard a word your tiger said. Somehow, he still understood.
You stumbled after him, barely able to breathe, heart threatening to break clean in half—but you ran. You ran, tears blurring your vision, Reya’s roar behind you echoing in your bones as you and Jeonghan raced for the ridge where Soonyoung and Joshua were waiting.
You didn’t look back.
Because looking back would break you beyond repair.
PART ONE. PART TWO.
⟢ end notes: oh mein gott... after two years, i finally put this baby out of my system and into existence. HELLOOOOO lovely people of caratblr, i missed you also terribly!!!!! this story has been camping in the back of my mind the entire time i was gone, and i'm so happy to finally get to share it with you! the entire thing is 40k in total, and i've been told tumblr gets EXXXTRA cranky if i even dare to dump everything in one go, so here we are, chopped into two parts :( i will probablee have the next part up next week just to keep you guys on your toes heh. i hope you liked reading this as much as i loved writing it. i miss jeonghan so terribly, and this fic got me to blow off that steam SIGHHH.
summary: when you're caught in a simple lie, the best solution? dig in your heels and stick to your guns until everything inevitably goes wrong and everyone gets hurt
or, a serial dater and a pessimist fake a relationship in the vain hope that nothing will go wrong
genre: fluff, angst, non-idol au, lawyer au, coworkers to lovers??? friends to lovers???? fake dating!!!!!
warnings: drinking, food, arguing, refusal to acknowledge feelings, two kisses, whatever is going on with Wonwoo, suggestive jokes (courtesy of Wonwoo)
full wc: 38k (varying per chapter)
a/n: i am so so excited to announce that the first chapter will be dropping a week from today, February 14! i haven't decided what (if there will be) specific time so. sorry <3
status: complete!
also special shoutout to @chocolatemilk139 for helping me with the chapter titles :)
want to join the taglist? send an ask or comment!
star’s masterlist
teaser!
1. The Mistake
2. What Happens in the Closet...
3. f=m(a) (Friends Make Anger Issues)
4. The Benefits of Being Stuck in an Enclosed Space (Again)
After being assigned a fashion show for your big senior project, you set off to find volunteers to make it successful. However, when you meet Choi Seungcheol and his unfriendly clique through your volunteers, you realize they’re an unwanted package deal you can’t escape from. Can you handle Seungcheol's obnoxious friends, and can he handle your brash behavior?
🍒 Pairing: businessMajor!Seungcheol x fashionMajor!Reader (afab)
🍒 Rating/Genres/AUs: M(18+); Slice of life (!!!), slow burn, drama, fluff, angst, smut; Unrequited enemies to lovers (lol), strangers to lovers, college au
🍒 General Major Warnings for Series: reader has she/her pronouns (referred to as girl, miss), reader dresses really feminine, reader is not nice, character outfit descriptors, reader wears seungcheol’s clothes, parent/family issues (marital problems), bullying, cursing [refer to specific chapters for more]
🍒 Total Word Count: ~76,568 😆
🍒 Betas: Sarah (@love-strike), Indi (@playmetheclassics), Kelly (@here4kpopfics), Freya (@angelwoozi) 🥰
🍒 Graphic Credits: All banners and story dividers in this series were created by me. Please ask to use.
pretty please couple tag ^-^
pretty please masterpost | seventeen masterlist | main masterlist
“After being assigned a fashion show for your big senior project, you set off to find volunteers to make it successful. However, when you meet Choi Seungcheol and his unfriendly clique through your volunteers, you realize they’re an unwanted package deal you can’t escape from. Can you handle Seungcheol’s obnoxious friends, and can he handle your brash behavior?”
🍒 Pairing: businessMajor!Seungcheol x fashionMajor!Reader (f)
🍒 Rating/Genres/AUs: M(18+); Slice of life (!!!), slow burn, drama, fluff, angst, smut; Unrequited enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers, college au
🍒 Warnings: General tws + the big talk 🫣, mentions of slut-shaming and degradation (not in bed) -> plz lmk if im missing any! | [Smut warnings] protected sex, oral (f.), multiple orgasms, fingering, cum play, cum swallowing
🍒 WC: 12.6k
🍒 Betas: Sarah, Indi, Kelly, Freya 😻
🍒 Author’s Note: It's always so exciting and saddening when a series ends! It's been over a month since this series started! Special appreciation and thanks to those who have given me feedback and/or were here from the beginning! I really enjoy reading your reactions and analysis!
As I said before, this is the longest fic I've ever written, so this fic holds a special place in my heart for that reason alone. Anyway, thank you again (no this won't be the last time I say it!). Please enjoy the last chapter of "pretty please (stay with me)" 🥹❣️
also read here: AO3 | Wattpad
seventeen masterlist | main masterlist
previous chapter \\ series masterpost // the end
You haven’t stood still in the past hour—buzzing around to everyone in the dressing room to make sure everything is being executed correctly. From last-minute wardrobe alterations to doing makeup and hair touches, you’ve been moving non-stop. Overseeing a fashion show is not easy, or maybe you’re just overthinking the tiniest details.
You aren’t getting a second chance at this, so you want to reduce the possibility of mistakes.
“Everything looks great; take a rest,” Mingyu tells you gently.
You glance up from your clipboard, having printed your to-do list and notes prior. Mingyu stands next to you with a kind smile. Your eyes scan him briefly. You reach forward to fix his outfit for the nth time, but he carefully grabs your wrists.
“It looks fine,” he chuckles.
“Exactly. It looks fine. I need it to be perfect,” you huff.
“You have twenty minutes before the show starts. Let’s go get some fresh air,” he says.
Despite your several headshakes, Mingyu pulls you out of the dressing room and toward the lobby.
“…doing here?”
“You weren’t answering my text or calls. I’d figure you’d be here.”
“We should talk another time.”
You strain your hearing when the voices register in your head. Mingyu glances at you and slows in his steps. From how clear their voices are, you figure Hajun and Seungcheol are around the corner.
“Let’s go out the other way,” Mingyu says, stepping in the other direction. You put a hand on his arm to stop him. You’re too curious to not eavesdrop.
“I’ll be quick,” you hear Hajun say.
Seungcheol sighs. “I already told you over the phone that I didn’t want to be around you when you’re being disrespectful.”
“I know, I know,” she says. “I’m sorry I said all those things to her. I just…I just wanted to look out for you.”
You have no doubt who she’s talking about. If she wants to apologize, she should apologize to you.
“I appreciate the thought, but I’m fine. She’s fine. She’s not as bad as you think,” Seungcheol replies.
“I think you’re just too kind, Cheollie,” she says. “She’s not very nice. She’s not been a good influence on you.”
“That grade wasn’t because of her,” he reasons as if he knows what she’s referring to.
Your eyebrows scrunch at that. What is he talking about? What grade?
“No? Then why have you been so distracted in class? Or why do you show up exhausted?”
“Those have all been my choices, though,” Seungcheol argues.
“Perhaps, but does she know the world doesn’t revolve around her? She should be considerate and stop being so clingy,” Hajun explains.
Maybe if you viewed her neutrally, you would think she genuinely has his best interest at heart. But with how she’s treated you, it’s difficult to believe that.
Mingyu tugs on your arm gently.
“You have ten minutes until showtime,” he whispers in your ear.
You close your eyes, listening to Hajun give more reasons for why you aren’t fit for Seungcheol. You want to stay and hear it all. You want to know if he will keep defending you. However, you’re not about to let all your hard work go to waste.
You nod, tearing yourself away and striding back to the room. You roll your shoulders back, head held high as you channel your attention on doing another round of adjustments.
When it’s three minutes until the show, you discreetly peep your head around the curtains. The theatre is packed, mostly with faces you don’t know. Though on one side, you can see your dad and sister. On the other side, are your new friends. Though the one person you are hoping to see isn’t there.
Seungcheol’s seat is empty.
You know he’s here. You hate how your mind starts forming negative thoughts. Perhaps Hajun has succeeded in making him hate you. Maybe he left with her.
You move away from the curtains and stare at the floor. There’s a tightening in your chest that’s a painful discomfort. After the argument, you were prepared not to see him here. Yet after the brief conversation and learning he had still gotten tickets, hope had risen. Even if it was just a sliver, you wanted to believe you could go back to where you were. Part of you even wished you were blissfully ignorant of his assumptions of you—even though they’re wrong and a “joke” to him.
You have the sudden urge to stand him up tomorrow. You don’t want to see him knowing he was here for you but left with her. However, you need to stop running away. You know you will be happier in the future if you have closure.
Before you can take another glance at the audience, Dr. Lim’s voice sounds.
“Alright, everyone, you’ve all been working hard this semester, and I’m very proud of you all,” he starts, “Remember, you’ll all give a quick introduction of your collection, and then once all your models have walked, you’ll give a final statement.”
You feel a hand on your arm. You turn to see Dae beside you. She’s smiling at you, wiggling your arm as if to say, “We did it!”
You offer a small one, trying to focus on the show again. Too much is going through your mind, and you need to narrow it down.
“You look nervous,” Dae whispers in your ear while Dr. Lim keeps speaking.
“I am, a little,” you answer.
“Don’t worry, I am too. At least we’re done, though. Well, we will be in a few hours,” she giggles.
“Okay, everyone is free to watch from anywhere backstage except for the person on deck. If you’re next, you must be here and ready to go. Everyone ready?”
You nod along with the rest of your class.
“Great, George, you’re first. Siwon, you’re on deck. Don’t forget your order, everyone!”
With that, people start moving. Dae guides you to a corner backstage that has a decent view. It’s angled so you can see your family more than your friends. You crane your neck to check the seats again. This time, two seats are missing. Jeonghan isn’t there anymore. Odd.
“Good evening, all,” Dr. Lim greets as he walks onto the stage. There’s faint music playing in the background, and your heart starts to race knowing there’s no going back now.
“Thank you for coming to support our designers. I am eager to show you the student’s work. Please keep in mind that each student was in charge of their theme, hair, makeup, music, lighting, promotion, and of course, their clothes,” he explains.
“There won’t be an intermission as the show is rather short, so if you need to go, please exit quietly. With that, also please turn off your cellular devices. Now that I’ve rambled long enough, let’s get started!”
The audience claps as the lights dim. You and Dae watch your peers conduct their shows, both commenting on them quietly every so often. The themes range from specific colors, to movies, to holidays. Although you don’t like most of your classmates, it’s nice to see the variety of art being presented. Soon, it’s yours and Dae’s turn. You wish each other good luck before tending to your models.
You’re on deck, going down the line of your models as you listen to Dae’s introduction.
“Hello everyone, I’m Dae, and my collection is titled, ‘Limitless’.”
You smile when you hear a few familiar hollers. You’re glad she befriended all your new friends too.
“My theme is space as I want to learn and grow endlessly. Although our space is dark, I want to be one of the stars that shine.”
Dae’s voice fades out as you continue your inspection.
“Take deep breaths,” Mingyu says when you approach him. You reach up and shift a few pieces of his outfit. He stands still as you do so.
“Thanks,” you murmur. “No funny business out there, okay?”
Mingyu smiles. “Of course. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Good, because I know where you live,” you threaten. It’s meant to be told jokingly, but you both know you’re serious.
“Always so charming,” he laughs.
“So I’ve been told,” you smile and pat his chest. “Thanks for agreeing to do this, Mingyu.”
“I could never say no to showing off my handsome features,” he replies, tilting his chin up with confidence.
“Maybe I should have asked Jeonghan instead,” you tease.
Mingyu scoffs playfully, opening his mouth to reply but stops when Dr. Lim appears.
“Yn, ready?”
You face him and nod. “I’m good to go.”
“Excellent,” he pauses, “It was nice having you in class again. I’m wishing you a bright future. You have talent, and I’m excited to see what you do with it.”
“Thank you, Dr. Lim,” you reply. He gives you a grin before leaving again.
Mingyu’s thumbs raise in encouragement when you glance at him. The small smile you offer fails to hide your nervousness.
“People are going to love your designs,” Mingyu reassures. “Now, go get yourself ready.”
“R-right,” you say.
You make your way to the front of your model’s line as you hear Dae give her ending speech. You want to listen to what she’s saying, but you’re too anxious. You glance at yourself in the mirror that is situated backstage, quickly adjusting the outfit you made yourself.
It’s all red—not because of Seungcheol, you tell yourself, but because you needed to match the fabric Jeonghan had bought you—with the top being covered in rhinestones and fading out. The dress hugs your torso and then flares into a flowy bottom with a slit. Over your neck and shoulder blades is red lace that is attached to the fabric Jeonghan got you, giving you a cape that pools on the floor a little. The space between your dress and the cape shows enough skin to be sexy but not overly so to be inappropriate for a school event.
Although the fabric was meant to be used for one of your model’s outfits, it wasn’t the blue you wanted, and you had already switched your design after Tori took the original from you. You had already planned to make your own dress for the event but hadn’t decided on the design. Since you didn’t want Jeonghan’s fabric to go to waste, you created a design based on it—using your original idea meant for the blue fabric but tweaking it.
Applause erupts, cueing you that you are next. Although you aren’t able to watch Dae’s show, you know Seoah is recording, upon your request, so you can watch it later.
Dae walks backstage as Dr. Lim goes to introduce you.
Dae is beaming, eyes crinkling and mouth open in utter happiness. She goes to you and wraps her arms around you.
“What a rush! That was so fun,” she gushes. “You’re going to do great.”
You return the hug quickly. Her energy bleeds into yours, and your heart races with nervousness. After years of being a spectator of the show, it’s finally your turn to be a participant. You feel all your years at the university have led to this moment.
“Please welcome Yn,” Dr. Lim says.
Dae gives you an encouraging pat on the back before she steps away. You take a moment to inhale a deep breath, rolling back your shoulders and stepping out onto the stage.
The stage lights are blinding, making it difficult to see out into the entire crowd. You take the mic from your professor and curl your fingers around the object a little tighter than you should. Your eyes dart across unfamiliar faces as your eyes try to adjust to the lights.
“Good evening. My name is Yn, and my collection is titled, ‘Pinwheel’,” you start, voice wavering to show how anxious you are. As you take a quick second to recollect yourself, your eyes snag on a face you’re keen to see.
Seungcheol.
He didn’t leave.
Normally, you would question why he took so long to be seated, but you’re too jittery with the show. You don’t have the energy. Rather you focus on his eyes. They watch you fondly. His hair is pushed from his face like he put some product in it. You feel honored he dressed up for you.
He tilts his head and stretches his lips into a reassuring smile. Although it makes your heart pump quicker, it also gives you the push you need to continue.
“You’ll see an array of colors and designs that represent the four elements—air, water, earth, and fire. I wanted to try different styles that still coordinated together in some way. I hope you all enjoy,” you continue.
The crowd applauds, and amongst the noise, you can make out a few hollers from your friends. It eases your nervousness as you walk off stage. The lights adjust, and the track Jihoon created begins to play.
You motion for the first model to begin walking. You stay in the same spot as your volunteers ascend the runway. You fall into a rhythm as you time your models. When it comes to Mingyu, you expect him to sneak in a joke. However, his face is set in stone and is serious. You smile softly and lightly touch his arm to signal him.
You glance beyond the curtain to watch him for a second. As Mingyu promised, he doesn’t do anything to ruin your show. If you didn’t know he was a photography major, you would suspect he was an actual model. A goofy part of your brain wonders if he practiced his walk in his apartment.
Two models left and then everyone will do one more walk. That’s all you have left. Despite the already short time of your portion of the show, it feels a lot shorter. Everything has been going well so far. No models slip, your outfits stay intact, and there aren't any technical difficulties.
You appear in front of the audience again as your models finish their last trip around the stage. Your models stay on the stage, allowing the audience to associate the designs with the designer.
“As you’ve heard many times tonight, thank you for coming. This project was challenging, but the reward was worth it. If you have any questions about my collection, please don’t hesitate to ask me after the show. Thank you,” you conclude, giving a bow.
Each clap from the audience chips away at the weight on your shoulders. You can breathe easier knowing that that is it. The project you’ve been waiting to do since before your freshman year has finally come and gone. And gone well nonetheless.
You watch as your friends and family stand, big smiles on all their faces. Although they all mean a lot to you, you can’t help but look for Seungcheol out of all of them.
He stands tall, hands clapping together, with a huge grin on his handsome face. His eyes shine with pride, and you can feel that familiar warmth spreading across your chest again. It feels like you’ve just given your first fashion show as a big-name designer, but in reality, it’s simply a senior project. Seungcheol makes it feel more than it is. And that makes you feel all the more confident.
There are only three more students after you. You and Dae go back to you where you were originally seated, this time accompanied by Mingyu—now dressed in his own clothes. As the show ends, all the students file onto the stage.
“It was a joy to witness the progression of the student’s works. Thank you for another successful show. Seniors, you should all be proud of your work,” Dr. Lim pauses to glance at you all. “Please enjoy the refreshments in the lobby. You’re welcome to mingle and network for at least another hour. Now, please give another round of applause for our talented students.”
The sound fills your chest with a bittersweet feeling as you take your final bow.
“Your designs were gorgeous!” Seoah exclaims when she finds you in the lobby. She runs into you, wrapping her arms around you in a tight hug. Your father comes next, joining in a three-way embrace.
“You did amazing, sweetheart,” he compliments. Your heart is swelling from their kind words. They have seen some of your past designs, but this is different. Even though it’s a school production, it’s still the biggest fashion show you’ve ever been a part of.
“I need you to make me that green one! The one that looked like it was made of leaves and vines. That was my favorite. You get to keep your clothes, right?” Seoah speaks quickly in excitement.
You laugh softly, nodding. “I’m afraid family relations only grant you a five-percent discount.”
“What?” she huffs. “I should get it for free for being the best sister.”
“You’re my only sister,” you argue.
“Which makes me more special!”
“Alright, girls. We can arrange a business deal at home. I’m going to take Seoah to get some ice cream. We’ll see you later,” your father says. You give them each a last hug before waving them goodbye.
You don’t even get a minute break before you feel arms wrap around you.
“I told you you would do great!”
Soonyoung’s loud voice rings in your ear, causing you to flinch. He tears himself from you with a big smile. Your friends gather around in a semicircle, all showering you with praises and words of encouragement. However, like before, one face is missing from the crowd.
“Even though I just met you this semester, I’m proud of you,” Yejun says. You thank him before watching as he leaves to go to Dae. He’s more her friend than yours, but you’re still grateful for his words.
“Does Mingyu get to keep his outfit?” Vernon questions.
You shake your head.
“Good,” Seungkwan chimes in. “He doesn’t deserve such nice clothes.”
“Hey!” Mingyu gasps, offended.
“Excuse me?” an unfamiliar voice interrupts your crowd. All heads turn to see an older woman, dressed professionally. “Yn, right?”
You turn away from your friends to greet the stranger. “Yes, hello.”
“My name’s Park Quinn. I work for a local agency and wanted to give you my contact information. I loved your collection,” she says.
Your eyes widen. “Oh, that’d be great.”
You take the card she gives you.
“I don’t want to take time away from your friends, so please contact me whenever you can. We can try to arrange something if you’re interested.”
You nod, trying not to seem too enthusiastic and eager at the proposal.
“Of course. Thank you, Ms. Park.”
She smiles and then turns away. Before you can dive back into your friend’s bickering, which you can hear faintly in the background, more people come up to greet you. Many of whom you don’t know. Some are prospective students; others are more recruiters.
You’re talking to different people for what feels like ages before the crowd finally slows down. Your friends left a few minutes ago, telling you they’ll arrange a time you can all hang out.
You’re backstage to gather your belongings and clothes when there’s a soft knock on the open door.
“I’m almost done,” you announce, figuring it’s Dr. Lim coming to tell you to hurry so he can lock the theatre.
“Take your time, Cherry.”
Your hands pause in reaching for a garment bag, gaze whizzing to see the person.
Seungcheol stands in the doorway with a small bouquet of flowers. They’re a mix of reds, pinks, and greens. It’s beautiful.
Too nervous about the show earlier, you finally take in his attire. He’s wearing an all-black suit, the undershirt being a turtleneck. You saw his new hairstyle while on stage, but it still surprises you to see it up close.
He looks stunning.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, a little shocked to see him.
He smiles, walking farther into the room. “I wanted to give you these.”
He holds out the bouquet. You stare at it a little too long because Seungcheol starts to chuckle.
“Not the ones you like?” he teases. He begins to set them down on a nearby table, but you stop him. You take it in your free hand, the other occupied with other items.
“They’re pretty,” you reassure. “Thank you.”
He grins when you finally accept them. In exchange, he grabs your belongings from you. You tilt the flowers to your face, breathing in their fresh smell and grinning slightly.
“Your collection was incredible,” he says.
“You think so?” you hum, eyes glancing at the clothes which are hanging in bags.
“The best out there.”
You smile. “You sound a little biased, Seungcheol.”
“Maybe,” he shrugs, “but I’m sure I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
Silence fills the room as you both stare at each other. His eyes drift to your body. You feel a little shy, and the need to fill the silence grows. You want to ask what took him so long to come into the theatre, but that would mean you were actively looking for him. It would also mean Hajun would most likely be mentioned if he decided to go into detail. That topic could wait until tomorrow. You’re enjoying being able to talk to him like you used to, albeit a little more consciously.
“D-do you like it?” you ask in lieu.
Seungcheol’s eyes move back to yours.
“You made this?” he asks, gesturing to your dress.
You nod.
“You’re very talented,” he praises. “Though that was evident earlier… You look beautiful, Yn.”
Something about hearing your real name from his mouth has the compliment’s meaning more impactful.
“I do?” you ask, shifting your weight.
“I’ve never heard you so doubtful before,” he observes with a gentle grin. “First about your designs, and now about your looks.”
He reaches out to you, and for a split second, you think he’s going to caress your face. Instead, he grazes his fingers over the cape’s fabric.
“You do look pretty,” he hums. His eyes scan the material, gaze softening as if recalling something bittersweet.
“Jeonghan bought it for me,” you state. You’re not sure why you disclose that information. Why does it matter to Seungcheol if Jeonghan gifted the fabric to you? He probably doesn’t care. The air just felt too suffocating to stay silent.
“That’s nice of him,” he mutters before pulling away. Maybe you’re imagining it, but he sounds more monotone than before.
“Y-yeah.”
Another pause.
“Actually, I should probably change out of it. Do you mind?” you ask. You expect him to make a joke of “having seen it all already,” but he doesn’t.
“Oh, yeah. Of c-course,” he answers, turning around.
You wait a few seconds to ensure he isn’t going to peek before finding your bag with your spare clothes. The dress you don is too long to wear outside. You don’t want it to get snagged on anything; plus, you’ll probably get your foot tangled in the fabric in the car later.
You quickly change into a simple dress and sneakers, stuffing your red dress in another garment bag.
“Okay, I’m done,” you announce.
Seungcheol turns slowly. He takes in your new outfit, and if you didn’t squirm and look away, you would’ve spotted the little smile on his lips.
“Do you need help cleaning up?” he asks, glancing around the room. It’s mostly empty. You just need to carry the clothes back to your car.
“You don’t have to stay. Thank you for the flowers,” you say.
“Well, I’m not letting you walk to your car alone,” he replies.
“I’ll be fine. The campus is well-lit.”
Seungcheol eyes you, mouth pursing to tell you he doesn’t care.
You sigh and hold out the bouquet, knowing he isn’t going to leave. “Hold these.”
He does so and watches as you drape the garment bags over a table. You start to dissemble the clothing rack.
“I could’ve done that,” Seungcheol says.
“I’m sure you’re capable, but it’s quicker if I do it. I know how to take it apart,” you reason. You place the pieces in the bag they came in, zipping it and placing the strap on your shoulder.
“Let me,” Seungcheol offers.
“I don’t know,” you say slowly, stepping away. “You look awfully pretty holding those flowers.”
And he does.
His dark clothes and hair contrasting with the bright colors of the flowers, create a pleasing sight.
Upon hearing your teasing tone, he grins. “You look prettier with them, so take them.”
He holds out the object, but you shake your head. You hang the clothes over your arms despite his second protest.
“I need a good view on our walk to my car,” you explain and start to move to the door. He follows reluctantly.
Somehow along the journey, you end up swapping items anyway. You now hold the bouquet, unable to stop taking several whiffs. You can’t remember if you’ve ever gotten flowers before. Maybe one or two, but never a whole bouquet.
Seungcheol packs your car carefully, ensuring he doesn’t accidentally destroy any of your outfits. They’re all protected in bags, but that doesn’t make them invincible.
“Are we still meeting tomorrow?” he asks when you’re seated in your car; your window is rolled down to talk to him. He has one hand resting on the roof of your car as he peers in.
“If you’re still willing to,” you reply.
“I am,” he answers.
“Okay.”
A pause.
“Will you text me when you get home?” he asks.
“You don’t need—”
“Or I can tail you. It’s your choice, Cherry.”
You exhale audibly.
“I’ll text you,” you decide.
He smiles. “I thought so.”
He stands up to leave, telling you a goodbye you barely register as you debate something in your head.
“Wait, Ch-Seungcheol,” you call and peek your head out.
He pauses in his steps to look back.
“Will you… text me when you get home, too?” you ask hesitantly. The question shouldn’t make you nervous, but it does. Maybe because it’s a hint that you still care about him.
The corner of Seungcheol’s mouth rises, a gentle chuckle escaping into the night.
“Yes.”
The simple word has you reflecting your own grin, giving him a final wave as he walks to his car, which is easily visible due to the nearly-empty lot. You wait for him to get into his vehicle before you leave.
You [10:48 PM]: Home.
Choi Seungcheol [10:56 PM]: good
You [10:57 PM]: Are you texting and driving, or are you home as well?
Choi Seungcheol [10:57 PM]: home (:
You [10:58 PM]: Did you forget to tell me?
Choi Seungcheol [10:59 PM]: no i just got home
You [10:59 PM]: Okay.
You [10: 59 PM]: Thank you for coming and for the flowers.
Choi Seungcheol [11:00 PM]: u dont need to thank me. i enjoyed it
You [11:01 PM]: Still… Goodnight, Seungcheol.
Choi Seungcheol [11:01 PM]: sweet dreams cherry
The trek to Seungcheol’s apartment door is grave.
As much as you try to push away the last memories you had here, they’re difficult to ignore. Each step makes the feelings resurface. You just wish this visit won’t end in the same way. His words from that day still sting, but you’re tired of staying in the past. The short interaction with him last night reminds you of how nice it is to be around him when you aren’t fending off his business friends. It spurs the hope you once felt that you could somehow make it work with him.
Seungcheol had messaged you earlier that something had come up and asked to meet at his apartment instead of the café. You were hesitant at first, but he reassured you he wasn’t going to offer a ride. It’s a bit silly that the decision is based on whether he is driving you, but you feel more comfortable knowing you don’t have to rely on him if things go awry.
Seungcheol opens the door with a kind smile.
“Come in,” he greets, stepping to the side.
You move past him and take off your shoes while he shuts and locks the door.
“I’m sorry about the change in plans, I—”
Your scream has him halting.
You hastily push yourself behind Seungcheol, shoving your back against the wall and clutching his shirt roughly.
The abrupt yank on his clothes has Seungcheol stumbling backward. His hands come up to steady himself on the wall, trying not to crush you.
You hold him close to your body as a shield.
“Get it away! Please, Cheol! Make it leave!” you yelp frantically.
“W-what? What’s wrong?!” Seungcheol asks, completely startled by your sudden outburst. He tries to turn to face you, but your strong grip on his shirt limits his range of motion. “It’s only… Oh.”
Seungcheol laughs.
A chorus of “ha’s” that has you hitting his back in frustration.
“Cheol!” you whine when a loud woof sounds in the room.
“I didn’t know you were scared of dogs,” he muses.
In front of Seungcheol is a big, furry dog. The breed is unknown to you, but that’s the least of your worries. You truly don’t give a fuck. You just need it gone.
“Well, I am, so make it go away!” you cry and give his muscular back another thud.
“Okay, okay. Let go, Cherry,” he chuckles. You slowly release him, keeping your body one with the wall.
“Come on, Cho, let’s give Cherry some space,” he says cheerfully to the dog; the pitch is higher than before. Why does the beast get to hear that tone from him?
“It’s staring at me,” you huff, eyes on the animal carefully.
“He’s just interested in you,” Seungcheol chuckles, hand rubbing the dog’s head. He moves away and tries to call the dog to him, but it doesn't listen.
Another yelp comes from your lips when it starts to walk toward you again. Seungcheol kneels down and holds onto its chest instead, almost as if he’s hugging it.
“Go to my bedroom; I’ll be there in a second,” he instructs kindly.
“It’s going to chase me,” you say.
He laughs softly. “I’m holding onto him. You’re safe.”
“Are you sure?” you ask cautiously.
“Yes. Go on,” he smiles encouragingly, nodding in the direction of his room.
Slowly, you push away from the wall. You stay a good distance from the beast in Seungcheol’s arms. As if it wants to tease you, it barks at you. That lights a fire under your ass that makes you break out into a sprint.
You shut his door in a hurry.
You step away from the entry in case the dog decides to knock it down. As you unwind, your eyes scan his room. Nothing has really changed—not that it should’ve. While his bathroom door is ajar, his closet is on full display. You don’t think anything of it, but then your eyes catch on to something red. He has red in his closet, so the color isn’t what intrigues you. What catches your attention is that it’s a dress.
A red dress in Seungcheol’s closet.
You shouldn’t be touching his stuff without his permission, but your hand reaches out on its own. You carefully graze your fingers over the material. The silk is smooth under your touch. It feels good against your skin.
There’s a bag hanging off the hanger. You should stop while you can—snooping never ends well for anyone. Yet, that doesn’t halt your hands from removing the bag and peering inside. It’s empty except for a receipt.
You figure it’s for the dress; however, the name of the place at the top isn’t a clothing store.
It’s a fabric store.
Seungcheol’s door suddenly opens, jolting you from your spot, paper still in hand.
“Are you okay? I would’ve put him in another room if I had known you were scar—”
His eyes fall onto your hand. They grow slightly, and he stands still.
You take the moment to look back at it, scanning the item to try to figure out what it’s for. Before you can examine it for long, it’s pulled from your grasp.
“What’s that for?” you ask as he stuffs it in the pocket of his jeans.
“Nothing. Why are you looking through my stuff?” he questions back. His tone isn’t unkind, but it’s not as cordial as it was before.
You can lie about it, but it was in a bag you deliberately opened. Unless he forgot where he put it, he would know the truth.
“I was curious,” you answer truthfully.
“It’s not polite to look through people’s things,” he scolds and walks to his closet door. He starts to shut it, but you can’t move past the mysterious dress.
“Are you seeing someone?” you wonder. There’s something sharp prodding your heart at the possibility. Perhaps it shouldn’t matter. Maybe you’re just here to mend a broken platonic friendship rather than a romantic one. You were never his to begin with, but something breaks in your chest at the idea of the opportunity being taken from you.
Suddenly, “Are you dating Hajun?”
All those times you pushed him away… Were you pushing him into her arms instead? Is that why he never let go of her? But he didn’t sound like her boyfriend in the theatre’s lobby.
Seungcheol finishes shutting his closet door before he focuses on you. His eyes dance across your face for a moment. You can’t tell what he’s thinking.
“What makes you think that?” he asks. He moves to sit on the bed, patting the space beside him, but you shake your head. You don’t want to be close to him right now.
“The dress,” you trail off, “in your closet.”
He releases a dispirited exhale.
“It’s not hers,” he says.
The grip around your heart loosens an inch but still holds on tightly.
“Hana’s?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Let’s resolve our other issues before we get into another, okay?” he suggests.
Your eyebrows furrow. “So, the dress would cause another issue?”
“Hasn’t it already?” he sighs. “You weren’t meant to see that.”
You scoff, arms crossing. “I would’ve never guessed.”
Seungcheol frowns at your sarcasm.
“We can talk about it later.”
“Why dance around the topic? Just tell me if you’re seeing someone,” you argue.
“Why?” he replies, eyebrow quirking.
“Because—” I want to know if there’s a chance for us. “—that would explain the dress.”
“Just dro—”
“What’s the big deal?”
“It’s—”
“Just tell me.”
“Cherry,” Seungcheol groans.
“Yes or no. It’s simple.”
“No.”
“No, you’re not dating, or no, you don’t want to answer me?”
“No, I’m not dating anyone.”
You narrow your eyes at him. Some relief floods in your chest, but there’s still something odd about the wardrobe addition.
“Then—”
“It’s yours,” he finally huffs out, irritation laced in his tone.
That shuts you up successfully.
“It’s for you,” he sighs, voice softer, and stands up. “Or, it was for you.”
He pulls open his closet and takes the garment off its hanger. He grabs one of your hands and places the item in it. Before you can get a proper grip on it, Seungcheol lets go which forces you to clutch it quickly.
“Wha-What do you mean? I-I didn’t leave this here. I’ve never worn this. I—”
Seungcheol shakes his head. “It’s new. I got it before… before our fight. It was supposed to be a surprise for you.”
Your eyes drift to the dress in your hands, lifting it up to see it better. It’s nothing too flashy, but it’s still beautiful with its simplicity.
That pang in your heart comes back but for a different reason.
“You’re not just saying this as an excuse, right?” you ask, the thought bubbling in your mind.
He gently takes the dress from you, laying it out on one side of the bed while guiding you to the other. He sits you down.
“No,” he answers. “I’m telling you the truth. It’s yours if you want it—no strings attached. If not, I can donate it.”
Your eyes move back to the clothing item.
“Why did you get it for me?” you ask and look at him.
Seungcheol rakes a hand through his hair, ears turning a light pink. “I was going to ask you on a date.”
“Y-you were?” you stammer, eyes wide. You’ve always wondered if what he told you while you were crying in his arms was true or if it was all just said in the heat of the moment. Your heart races knowing he meant them. He really did like you then.
“And I was going to ask you to wear this,” he explains, eyes moving from yours.
You continue to stare at him, flabbergasted. His plan was sweet, and part of you feels bad for having ruined it. Though, that wasn’t entirely your fault.
You’re not sure how to respond. You feel utterly honored that he got you a dress for your potential first date with him. However, you don’t know where you stand right now. Unresolved issues still hang in the air.
“Let’s talk about something else, then get back to this, alright?” he tries again.
This time, you nod.
“I know I already apologized, but I truly am sorry for what I said here last time,” he begins.
“Were you really just joking?” you wonder.
“It was a mix, honestly. I was a little shocked at the thought of you never having sex before.”
You frown but try to keep your emotions in control. “Why?”
“Because I’ve heard you’ve gotten around.” He winces as the words come out. You glance in your lap for a second, grabbing the hem of your skirt to play with it.
“From who?”
You aren’t too surprised to hear this information. You have plenty of “enemies” on campus. One of them was bound to start rumors. Hell, you have a few exes that go to the university, so they could’ve spread false information too.
“Several people,” he speaks softly so he doesn’t hurt your feelings. “I actually knew about you before we met at Jeonghan’s.”
“Really?” you question and look at him again.
“Yeah, but I heard about you a lot more when Hajun and Hana realized who you were,” he explains. “I guess their words stuck without me knowing.”
Your lips dip down. “Did you believe them?”
You hold your breath as you wait for his reply. You already have a feeling Hajun and Hana have talked enough shit about you to fill two whole toilets, but their opinion of you isn’t the one that matters.
Seungcheol sighs, gaze drifting from you and then away.
“I’ve never seen you act the way they described, so not completely,” he answers.
“Not completely?” you repeat.
“There was always that thought in the back of my head… Wondering if you just wanted to sleep with me.”
A scoff. “You thought that even when I kept pushing you away at the start?”
“Maybe you were playing hard to get,” he attempts to reason.
“No, I was genuinely annoyed,” you say.
“Ouch,” he frowns.
“Also, need I remind you that you were the one that kept approaching me?” you add.
Seungcheol leans back on one hand, the other running through his hair again.
“I know,” he says. “I think I just heard Hajun and Hana talk so much that the thought was just always there because of them. I never saw the person I heard about… Well, you weren’t always nice, which I also heard.”
You roll your eyes, not truly irritated at his last comment since it isn’t entirely false. “I’m not one to play along if I don’t like you.”
“I’m aware,” he answers, a small smile on his lips.
“Why did you stay friends with them when they said bad things about me?” you question next.
“Like I said that day, I had known them a long time, and we were in a project together.”
You recall his reasoning, but you still want to ask. “That’s it?”
“Why do you think I did it?”
“Because you agreed with their views on me,” then you mutter, “or maybe because you liked Hajun.”
Seungcheol’s eyebrows angle downward. “I’ve never felt anything romantic toward Hajun, and I didn’t believe them.”
“Did it not bother you when they said that stuff?” you ask.
“It did. I really did tell them to stop when you weren’t around,” he answers. “It’s not easy to let go of people you’ve known for years.”
“I beg to differ,” you huff.
“Would you ditch Dae if she spoke badly about me constantly?” he questions.
You tilt your head. “That would mean I have to care about you a lot.”
“Don’t you?” he teases lightly, leaning toward you.
You smile small. “More than her? No.”
“Breaking my heart, Cherry,” he chuckles and pulls away. He inhales deeply and then continues. “I was hoping something would change, and you would all get along.”
“I told you it would never have worked out,” you reply.
“Wishful thinking,” he shrugs.
You nod, moving your gaze again. An important question lingers in your mind. You want to ask, but you’re truly nervous about his answer. At one point, you would’ve found a way for it to work, but now, you don’t know if you can.
“Ask me,” Seungcheol coaxes softly. You glance at him, wondering how he knows you have a question for him.
He chuckles. “I know there’s more running in that pretty head of yours.”
Taking a deep breath, you nod.
“Are you still talking to them?”
He was just talking to Hajun yesterday, so you aren’t going to be surprised if he says yes.
“No, I’m not,” he answers sternly.
That shocks you more.
“Y-you’re not?”
He chuckles, shaking his head.
“I realized I care about you more than I do them,” he says, echoing your earlier words. “I choose you. I’ve always chosen you in the end—even if it didn’t feel like it.“
You’re on the edge of inwardly celebrating. It’s relieving to finally hear he has cut ties with the people who made your life miserable.
“I-I saw you… I mean, I heard you yesterday with Hajun at the theatre,” you confess.
It’s his turn for his eyes to open bigger. “Nothing happened between us.”
“What was she talking about with your grades?” you ask, recalling how she used that against you.
Seungcheol rubs his temples. “I just got a low test score. It really isn’t a big deal.”
“Because of me?” You frown.
“No,” he’s quick to reassure, “it had nothing to do with you.”
“But Hajun said—”
“She was just finding excuses for me not to be there,” he explains. “Her words didn’t mean anything. I’ve gotten low grades before.”
“She seemed serious,” you argue.
“Because she was,” he sighs.
“Do you really think she was looking out for you?”
Seungcheol rubs at the back of his neck. “Sort of, but I also think she was exaggerating things to make you seem worse.”
“I’m sorry if I distracted you from your studies. I should’ve left you alone,” you apologize, averting your gaze.
Seungcheol reaches out to grab one of your hands. You look at him when you feel his touch.
“Even if you tried, I would’ve kept bugging you,” he replies. His words make you feel a little better, but you still feel guilty despite him saying it isn’t your fault.
“Why would you have?” you ask.
He smiles kindly, eyes softening at the thought of his reply.
“Because I liked you and wanted to get to know you more.”
Your face heats at his words, or maybe it’s because your body is tingling with his skin against yours. Regardless, you feel the butterflies awaken in your stomach.
“Do you—do you still,” you trail off, feeling anxious at the question.
“Do I what?” he presses gently. His thumb glides against the top of your hand.
You stare at his floor when you continue slowly, “Do you still like me?”
There’s a moment of silence before you feel his fingers against your chin. He guides you to look at him; he’s staring at you as if he cherishes and adores you.
It’s the same look he had when he was watching both of your friends at the restaurant. It’s difficult to believe he’s giving that gaze to you now.
You can’t tear your eyes from him.
“I like you very much,” he declares confidently.
Your mouth twitches as you try to suppress your smile, but it’s pointless. Your lips stretch until they hurt.
Seungcheol mimics your grin. “Do you like me?”
At one point, you would’ve profusely denied it. You’ve been pushing away those tempting thoughts for so long that you can’t do it anymore. There is something about Seungcheol that you can’t shake off.
It could be the way he always holds the door open for you. It could be that he always takes care of you—carrying you so you won’t hurt your feet, offering his home when you need it, holding your belongings so you have to lift as few fingers as possible. Or perhaps it could be the way he makes you feel like your head is in the clouds.
You always thought you’d want a partner who you didn’t constantly argue with, but you found the light bantering between you two entertaining. Sure, it does get under your skin at times, but you never stay truly mad at him.
Seungcheol makes you feel special. He makes you feel wanted.
He makes you feel loved.
So, with the smile still etched on your face, you answer, “Yes. I like you.”
Seungcheol’s eyes go from quarter moons to waxing crescents. Small wrinkles form as his mouth widens to a gummy smile. The happiness on his face has your heart skipping.
“May I kiss you?” he asks, eyes hopeful.
You nod without hesitation. “Please.”
Seungcheol’s lips still have the same effect as before. It takes your breath away and makes you giddy.
He moves a hand to the back of your neck, pulling you closer until you are nearly on his lap. The position doesn’t offer you much balance since you’re trying not to knee him in the jewels.
You start to pull away when you feel your body slipping off the edge of the mattress.
“Wait, Cheol—” you try to warn, but it’s too late.
You tumble to the floor, dragging him with you.
You both land with a thump as you’re pulled from each other.
Seungcheol’s booming laugh echoes in his room, causing your own stomach to hurt from giggling.
“Are you okay?” he asks between breaths while sitting up. You stand from the floor, straightening out your clothes. He follows you up.
“Yeah,” you reply. “You?”
“I’m fine,” he reassures.
You jump when the dog outside barks at the noise. Seungcheol smiles at you and reaches out to give you a comforting pat.
“Relax, Cherry. Cho isn’t going to hurt you. He’s a big baby,” Seungcheol soothes.
“It didn’t look like one,” you huff, recalling the size of the animal.
Seungcheol guides you back to the bed.
“Do you have any more questions for me?” he asks, easing back into the somber conversation.
You pause as you think. When nothing comes up, you shake your head.
“Do you?” you offer.
“Three,” he answers.
You breathe slowly, preparing yourself for them. “Okay, what’s your first?”
“What else did Hajun tell you by the restroom?” he wonders.
“Oh,” you mumble, not expecting that. You go back to that memory in your head. “A-are you sure you want to know?”
Seungcheol's face grows serious, head nodding curtly.
“She said you left me because I was a slut. She told me you said I was the ‘worst fuck you’ve ever had,’ and she called me worthless,” you pause as Seungcheol’s jaw clenches and eyes narrow. If you weren’t talking about someone else, you would be worried to see such an intense stare.
“She said you were trying to get rid of me, and the only way you could do that was to sleep with me… Since you know, I just need ‘something between my legs to be satisfied’.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Usually, it doesn’t bother you, but combined with his stare makes you shift uncomfortably.
“I didn’t say any of that. I hope you know that. She made that up,” he says, expression easing when he speaks to you. “I wasn’t even going to say anything, but she kept wondering why you weren’t around. I just told her we had a falling out, and that’s it.”
From the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice, you believe him.
“I believe you,” you voice aloud.
His once-tensed shoulders relax at your words. “I never wanted you to leave. I never wanted to hurt you. You’re not any of the names she called you.”
“Thanks,” you murmur. Although you’ve been trying to ignore Hajun’s words the past few days, you feel better knowing Seungcheol’s true feelings.
“I’m still sorry,” he says.
“I know. I forgive you,” you respond, hand resting on his thigh.
“You don’t have to. I know what I said was disgusting and rude.”
“It was,” you concur, “but I’m willing to forgive you because I don’t think you mean what you said.”
And now he won’t have those toxic people whispering lies in his ears.
“I don’t,” he repeats. “I think people are intimidated by your confidence. You know what you want, and you know your identity, while some people don’t. It scares them, so they take it out on you. They’re jealous of you.”
“It sounds like you're buttering my biscuits, Mr. Choi,” you hum as you listen to him analyze the people who dislike you.
“I’m just being honest,” he says, a slight frown on his lips.
“I appreciate it,” you reply more earnestly. You’re grateful he confirmed he didn’t think those negative thoughts about you. You feel you can circle around the topic for hours, so you ask for the second question.
“Do you like Jeonghan?” Seungcheol asks.
That takes you by surprise. “No, why do you ask?”
You almost laugh at the idea of dating Jeonghan, but you refrain from it. You don’t want Seungcheol to think his question is stupid even if it is.
“You two just seem close,” he says.
“I tolerate him more,” you explain. “I only like you. Now, next question.”
“Wait, I want to make sure you don’t like hi—Hmph!”
Your lips meet his to stop his sentence. He melts quickly against your mouth, a hand reaching out to your waist. You pull away before it can go any further.
“I would never kiss Jeonghan like that,” you smile.
Seungcheol grimaces at the image you put in his head. “That doesn’t mean you don’t like him.”
“So, I would like that fool, but not kiss him?” you wonder. “Okay. Then I like you, but we can’t kiss anymore.”
“What?” he asks, startled.
“If I can like Jeonghan and not kiss him, then I can like you and not kiss you.”
The corner of Seungcheol’s mouth pushes down. His lips purse slightly when he speaks, “Alright, I get it. I believe you. Kiss me.”
“No,” you say defiantly.
“If you like me, then you’ll kiss me,” he explains.
“But you just said—”
“I lied. You have to kiss the people you like,” he corrects quickly, leaning toward you.
“Is that so?” you ask, a mischievous smirk forming on your lips.
Not having a good feeling with the look on your face, Seungcheol sulks, “You only like me, so that means you can only kiss me.”
You smile at hearing his dragged-out words.
“Is that the rule?” you tease.
“Yes,” he huffs.
“Then I guess I can kiss you,” you say. However, you don’t move from your spot.
Seungcheol fusses, “Now, baby.”
“Oh,” you giggle. “Fine.”
You move in closer, smiling when he meets you halfway. The kiss doesn’t last long as you pull away to ask for his third question.
His tongue darts across his bottom lip as he stares at you. His gaze is solemn, and you mentally prepare yourself for what he has to ask.
“It hurt me to know I caused you pain,” he starts slowly. “I never wanted you to think I believed the rumors about you, but I guess they had an effect on me that I wasn’t conscious of. I regretted everything I told you that day the second it came from my mouth. I was so desperate to fix my mistakes that I didn’t take the moment to think.”
You watch him intently. Each word is taken in with great care, trying to push aside the initial feelings of anger and hurt to hear him objectively.
“I know I made a mistake by keeping them my friends for so long. I just wanted things to work out, and I wanted you all to see the good in each other. I know that sounds a little cliché, but it’s true… Maybe I just didn’t want to choose between you all,” he pauses to take a breath.
“Though, most of all, I wanted to know you more. Despite not having the best first impression, I realized quickly you weren’t what people made you out to be. Along the way, I started to see you as more than a friend, but I had trouble finding the right moment to see things through. Then I fucked it up, and I didn’t think I could fix it… but you’re here now. And we’ve talked things through.”
You nod to show you understand what he’s saying.
“So, where do we stand?” he finally asks.
“I’m sure we could go around each other for days, but I’m ready to move on. I was fully prepared to never talk to you again, but I couldn’t,” you stop gradually, not sure if you want to disclose your next thoughts.
“You couldn’t talk to me?” he asks, confused.
Sighing, “No. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
“Oh,” he replies, a small smile on his lips.
“Don’t get too happy now. They weren’t all good thoughts.”
“I know,” his smile faltering, “but there were some good ones?”
“Yeah… There were good ones too,” you reply softly.
Seungcheol takes your hands in his, shuffling closer.
“What were they about?” he ponders.
You squeeze his hands. “Your smile.”
At your answer, his lips begin to lift again.
“How you held me,” you continue.
Seungcheol takes that as an invitation to push you back against his pillows. You smile, raising your arms to wrap around his neck as he presses his body against yours. One of his hands snakes under your back while the other rests on the mattress so he doesn’t squish you completely.
“How you kissed me,” you whisper.
The man above you grins wider, pecking your lips tenderly. You chase his lips, and he grants you a lingering kiss before pulling away.
“And most importantly, how you made me feel.”
Seungcheol rubs your back gently. “And how did I make you feel?”
“Like I was yours,” you murmur as your face warms at the confession.
“Will you be mine? Officially?” he asks, gaze darting back and forth between your eyes.
You wonder if he can feel your racing heart against his chest.
“Yes,” you say. “Officially.”
He chuckles, pressing his mouth on yours as if to really make it official.
Your mouths move languidly. You can feel his hair fall around your face, tickling your cheeks. Smiling, you tuck the strands behind his ears and then keep your palms cupping his cheeks.
When you adjust a leg to wrap around his lower back, he moves the hand under you to rub your bare thigh—exposed by your skirt. His hand trails up and down your skin for a moment until it goes lower. He grabs your ass, massaging it over your panties. His lips slip from yours to kiss along your jawline until he finds your neck. You have no doubt that you’ll end up having to hide a purple mark later.
Both your clothes are off in a matter of seconds. Seungcheol’s hands move across your body, exploring each bump and crevice as if it’s his first time. However, you’re no different. You feel like you’ve touched every part of him, yet you still want more.
Your soft moans fill the room when he scatters kisses down your body before latching his mouth on your clit. His hair quickly becomes tangled as you grab it. Your hips roll against his face, chest rising and falling as you get closer to your high.
His fingers accompany his mouth, pumping and scissoring in your wet hole. His raspy voice sounds sexy as he praises you when you come, but his moans are sexier. His eyes are hooded, drinking up everything you give him until you lax on his mattress.
You don’t even realize he put away your new red dress and slipped on a condom until a dip in the bed catches your attention. Your vision is coming back to you gradually. Seeing Seungcheol with messy hair and his lower face covered in your juices has you pouncing on him.
His laughter rings out, grabbing your face and slotting his mouth against yours while you straddle him. You don’t care that you can taste yourself on his tongue. You just need him to fill you.
You slide your dripping folds along his thick length, making sure it’s coated so he can sink into you easily. And easy it is.
Both your sighs and strangled moans permeate his room. You stare down at him, mouth open as you move your hips. His brows meet; he’s trying to control his breathing. Each drag of his cock against your walls feels heavenly. Although the pace is similar to the first time, it feels different. There’s more meaning with every circle and rock of your hips. Maybe you’re making it up all in your head, but when Seungcheol pulls you down on top of him to hold you as he begins to thrust his hips up, you know you aren’t.
The way he kisses you tells you he feels the same.
There’s less desperation in his movements now. You don’t have to worry about this being the last time. You don’t have to worry about him hooking up with another person. He isn’t available to anyone anymore. He’s loyal. He’s kind.
He’s yours.
Your legs press against his sides, a loud cry tearing from your throat as he pushes you over the edge. Your walls flutter around his cock that’s still gliding inside you.
“Just for me,” he pants. “You’re just for me.”
You nod, spewing a variation of agreements as you cling to him. Your body rubs against his while he keeps thrusting up. Mewls fall from your mouth as you start to become overstimulated.
Seungcheol coos in your ear, telling you he’s close and that you’re a good girl for letting him use you for his pleasure. His hips stutter each time you clench your walls around him.
By the time Seungcheol pulls out, you are a moaning mess. He flips you over, pulls off the condom, then comes onto your stomach and breasts. You’re sure the sight arouses Seungcheol as he fixates on your body.
His fingers run through his seed, spreading it more across your skin. His tongue darts out against your breast. You watch as he trails the wet muscle along your skin, his cum gathering on it until it’s full. Before you understand what he’s doing, he brings his mouth to yours. You open your mouth, greedily drinking what he’s giving to you. You don’t even stop to think how filthy the act is.
Even though you can tell Seungcheol is spent, he still cleans you with a damp towel before snuggling back in bed. You both fall into slumber a few minutes after.
You wake to a sudden cold breeze.
Whining in your sleep, you roll over to snuggle closer to Seungcheol; however, you’re met with empty space. You peel your eyes open reluctantly, leaning up on an elbow to see where he is.
Seungcheol sits on the edge of the bed with a sweatshirt and sweatpants over his body.
You crawl closer until he’s in arm's reach.
“Where are you going?” you murmur as you snake your arms around his wide frame.
He jolts at your abrupt touch but quickly relaxes once he realizes it’s you. He places his arms over yours, craning his neck to see you.
He pecks your lips. “I have to go walk Cho.”
“Can’t it wait?” you ask.
“He,” Seungcheol corrects, to which you roll your eyes. “And unless you want to clean his pee or poop, then no.”
He carefully pulls your arms from around him and stands, leaving you shivering as the cold air hits your bare body.
Seungcheol pauses by the bed when his eyes see your naked torso.
“You do make it hard to leave, though,” he sighs.
You smile and put a hand out for him to grab. He does, and you instantly tug him back onto the bed.
You kiss him quickly, bringing his hands to your chest, covering them so he can’t move away.
“Stay,” you say between kisses.
“Baby,” he protests while squeezing your breasts. His lips purse every time you lean in for another kiss. You grin in hopes you’re convincing him.
“I have,” a kiss, “to go,” a second kiss, “walk the dog.”
You finally stop your torrent of smooches to pout at him.
He chuckles at your expression. “You’re welcome to join.”
“I rather not get mauled,” you scoff and try to pull him closer, but he resists you this time.
“Why are you scared of them?” he wonders.
“I got attacked by one as a kid, and they never are friendly to me.”
“My poor baby,” he coos as he brushes your cheek. “Don’t worry, Cho is really sweet. Why don’t you meet him? Let him sniff you and then I’ll go walk him quickly.”
You shake your head frantically. “I don’t want it—him anywhere near me.”
“I promise you’ll be fine, but I understand. Maybe another time, okay?” he replies.
You nod and let your arms fall when he pushes off the bed.
“I’ll just be a few minutes,” he informs while walking to the door.
“Okay,” you mutter and pull the covers over your body. He smiles at you before pushing open the door. Your body freezes when you see black fur at the entrance.
“Hey, sweet boy,” Seungcheol greets the animal happily. He stops the dog from coming inside the room, giving him a few pats and ruffles of the fur before easing him backward. “No, she’s not ready to say hi yet. Come on, let’s go out. You wanna go for a walk?”
Your body relaxes at hearing Seungcheol’s light voice. You’ve never heard it before, and you realize there’s still more to learn about the man.
The door shuts softly. The last thing you see is the dog jumping excitedly as he runs out of view. You hear Seungcheol laugh.
It dawns on you that you don’t know when he got the animal. He definitely wasn’t here the last time you were here. Does this mean you’ll have to stop coming to his apartment now? He spoke highly of the dog, and you trusted Seungcheol to keep you safe, but animals can be unpredictable. Still, you can tell how much Seungcheol likes him.
As instructed, Seungcheol comes back ten minutes later.
“So, how much did you miss me?” he teases while raking a hand through his hair. He takes off his sweatshirt, giving your eyes something to stare at as he walks toward you.
You stop him when he begins to climb into the bed. “Wait.”
“Did something happen while I was gone?” he questions, playfulness replaced with concern.
“No, I just,” you breathe in slowly, “I’d like to meet your dog.”
His eyes grow. “There’s no pressure to do so.”
“I don’t want to be run off by your dog anytime I come here,” you grumble. “Just a quick sniff; that’s all he gets.”
Seungcheol laughs and raises a hand to rub circles against your back. “I forgot to tell you that Cho isn’t mine. My brother had an emergency and needed me to look after him for a few days.”
“Oh,” you hum.
“So, you want to come back here?” he asks, recalling that part of your sentence.
“If you want me here,” you bashfully answer.
He leans down to kiss your forehead, easing your nerves.
“You can come over whenever you want,” he offers. “I would prefer it actually.”
“Why?”
You expect a sweet response, but instead, he just smirks and says, “Because I need someone to clean the place.”
You scoff, smacking at his chest and rolling your eyes.
“Kidding, kidding,” he laughs. He grabs your hand when you go to hit him again. He tugs you closer for a playful kiss, nipping at your bottom lip. “Do you still want to meet Cho?”
“Are you sure he won’t bite off my hand?” you ask.
“I’m sure,” he replies confidently.
Hesitantly, you nod. “Okay then.”
Seungcheol smiles and leaves you with a kiss on the cheek. Like before, the dog greets Seungcheol as soon as the door opens. His tail is wagging, and his mouth is open as he breathes.
“Cherry wants to say hello,” he tells the dog, slowly guiding the animal closer to the bed. Your body is rigid, and you clutch the sheets to your chest. You just hope this isn’t going to be your end.
“Sit,” Seungcheol commands. You watch as Cho does so.
“Okay, hold out your hand, palm down. Yes, just like that. Breathe, baby, it’s okay,” Seungcheol instructs you softly. You glance away but quickly look back. Maybe you can pull your hand away quickly enough before he chomps.
The dog leans his head close, nose wiggling as he sniffs your hand. The few seconds it takes feels like half an hour. Suddenly, the dog’s tongue sticks out. The act coats your hand in slobber, and you screech as you tug your hand to your chest hastily, thinking he bit you.
“It’s okay, Cherry. You’re okay,” Seungcheol soothes you, sitting on the bed. He puts the dog between his legs as he rubs your arm softly. You pull your hand back, sighing with relief when you see it still intact.
“Cho just licked you,” Seungcheol explains.
“S-sorry,” you say, eyes searching for the dog. He sits staring up at Seungcheol with his tail wagging. The pet isn’t lunging at Seungcheol or nibbling off his flesh.
“It’s okay. You did good, baby,” Seungcheol praises, giving you a kiss on the cheek as a reward. “I’m going to take him out, okay?”
You place a hand on his arm. “Has he ever bit you?”
Seungcheol glances at Cho and shakes his head. He gives the pup a loving head rub. “He’s just a big baby. He’s well-behaved. He’s even good with kids.”
“Has he ever bit your brother?”
“I don’t believe so,” he replies.
You peer down at Cho once more. You’re still scared of him, but seeing how much he likes being around Seungcheol, you feel a little bad kicking him out again; especially, since he doesn’t have anybody out there to keep him company.
“H-he can stay if he doesn’t come close to me,” you say cautiously.
“He’ll be fine out, it’s okay,” Seungcheol reassures.
“I trust what you say about him. He seems… okay.”
Seungcheol grins, slowly letting the dog go before climbing into bed. “He is.”
The dog stands, shakes out his fur, and then does something that has you clutching onto Seungcheol. Cho jumps on the bed.
“Oh god, he’s going to eat me,” you cry. Seungcheol wraps an arm around your body, pulling you close. He rubs your arm tenderly.
“No, he’s not,” he laughs. You watch as the dog walks around himself once before plopping down. Luckily, he’s on Seungcheol’s side. Cho rests his head on the bed, watching you both. His tail wags a little, but not as much as before.
“He just wanted to sleep up here. Is that okay?” Seungcheol asks you.
“You let him up here?” you question, knowing some people don’t like their pets on their beds.
Seungcheol shrugs. “The covers are dirty anyway. Might as well let him have a comfy place to nap. Speaking of, do you want to stay the night?”
“That’d be nice,” you smile at him.
You reach for the purse you brought when you first ran from Cho. You tap on your phone to see it’s nearly four in the evening. You didn’t realize how long it’s been since you arrived at eleven.
“Unfortunately, I’m not the best cook, so we may have to do takeout,” Seungcheol says shyly.
You giggle, sending a quick message to your sister that you won’t be home tonight.
“I can cook,” you offer.
Seungcheol looks at you sadly, hand coming up to rub at his neck. “Actually, I only have ramen. I haven’t gotten groceries yet.”
“Oh. I like ramen,” you reply and put your phone down once Seoah replies. Your phone keeps buzzing as she tries to get more information from you, but you simply put the device on Do Not Disturb and place it back in your bag.
“I wanted to treat you to something better than ramen,” Seungcheol says. There’s a faint frown on his lips.
“I don’t mind,” you reassure. “Now, can we sleep a little longer?”
You carefully guide Seungcheol down until his back hits the mattress. After pulling the covers over the both of you, you snuggle against his body.
“I guess I don’t have a choice,” he chuckles as he lets you lay him down. He holds you close, eyes staring at the ceiling as he rubs your back.
“Hm.” You close your eyes, letting the gentle rise and fall of his chest hypnotize you.
“Baby?” Seungcheol asks. You’re on the verge of sleep, but you hum again to let him know you heard him.
“Will you go on a date with me?”
You smile, forcing your eyes open to peer at him. “Can I still wear the dress you got me?”
“You can wear whatever you want, Cherry.”
“Can I pick out an outfit for you, too?” you ask.
“While you have great fashion sense, I’m not sure—” he stops when you begin to plead with your eyes.
“Fuck,” he curses more to himself.
“Please, Cheol?” you ask, voice soft and lips pouting.
“You know I’ll eventually become immune to this, right?” he grumbles.
The way he words it makes it seem like you’ll be around long enough for that possibility to occur. You nuzzle closer at the thought.
“Maybe, but right now you’re not,” you smile wickedly. “What do you say?”
“Fine, alright,” he caves.
You lean up, giving him a big kiss as a thank you. He hums against your mouth. You feel his hands go south, but you quickly stop him.
“It’s sleepy time, not sexy time,” you scold light-heartedly when you pull away.
Seungcheol sighs dramatically but yields. “Hurry and sleep then.”
“You’re not going to run away, are you?” You narrow your eyes.
“Never,” Seungcheol smiles down at you.
Your gaze lingers on his eyes, quickly scanning his face. Finally, you let your mind wander freely. You let yourself indulge in how comfortable you feel around him. You don’t have to ignore those illusions you had produced, nor do you have to convince yourself that you only see him as a friend. You can fulfill those fantasies little by little. You don’t have to hide from your emotions. You already feel lighter at letting go of those conflicting thoughts.
Although Seungcheol jokes about keeping you around to clean, you wind up doing it without being asked. You suppose he knows you won’t be able to handle the clutter.
You’re picking up his discarded jeans when something flutters to the floor when you do so. You bend down to grab it.
It’s the receipt from earlier.
While Seungcheol is in the bathroom, you finally have the chance to examine it.
You notice the fabric store name, having only been there a few times since it isn’t local. Your eyes trail down to the item's name. Although it’s a shortened version of the name, you know what it is.
That brat.
The sound of the bathroom door opening has your eyes snapping up and hand lowering to your side.
“Why did Jeonghan lie to me?” you ask him before he can take two full steps.
Seungcheol looks at you, head tilting and eyebrows knitting.
“What did he lie about?” he questions.
“He didn’t buy that fabric for me,” you scoff and hold out the receipt. “You did.”
Seungcheol’s gaze drops to the paper in your hand. He releases a small exhale.
“It’s not a big deal,” he replies.
“You always say that,” you huff. Your eyes fall back to the receipt, glancing at the price. That makes more sense as to how Jeonghan got it.
“Because it’s true,” he says. He moves to stand in front of you. He carefully takes the receipt from your hand. “I just wanted to give you something you wanted.”
“Why? How’d you even know?”
He folds the paper as he answers, “Dae mentioned it at dinner that one time and Jeonghan told me about it.”
“You didn’t answer the first part,” you call out.
He chuckles softly. “That’s because it should be obvious. It’s because I liked you… I still do.”
“You can like me without buying me expensive things,” you reason.
“I know,” he says. His eyes fall down to the sweater that you wear—it’s his. Your legs are bare and have ankle socks on. “But I still wanted to. So, deal with it, Cherry.”
He gives you a smile before walking away and into the living room. You follow, still weary of Cho and huddling against Seungcheol if he gets too close.
“Hey, wait, you didn’t tell me why Jeonghan lied to me.”
Seungcheol takes two glasses from a cabinet and then shuffles to the fridge. “I asked him to.”
“You? He didn’t steal it or something?” Although you know Jeonghan likes to con others, he isn’t one to steal. Yet, you still want to ask since the whole situation puzzles you.
He laughs, filling the cups with ice as he replies, “No, he’s not like that. I wanted you to have it before the show, but I knew you wouldn’t take it after our fight.”
“You let me think he got it for me,” you state; your lips begin to dip down as you ponder on the thought.
You remember feeling so thankful to Jeonghan for getting it for you. There’s a pang of guilt knowing you were thanking the wrong person. You finally understand the look on Jeonghan’s face when he gifted it to you.
Seungcheol sets the glasses on the counter, grabbing your chin gently to make you look at him. His fingers are chilly, but they feel good against your warm skin.
“I’m just glad you used it, baby,” he says kindly. He lets go of your chin with a smile.
“Cheol,” you call, a hand reaching out for his bicep. He pauses in turning back to the fridge.
Once he is staring at you, you speak, “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry it wasn’t the blue you wanted. It was out of stock, and it would’ve taken too long to ship,” he explains.
You shake your head. “It was perfect. I liked the red more.”
Seungcheol smiles, though one side is lifted as if it’s a borderline smirk.
“I did too. Red looks good on you,” he compliments. One that takes you back to that cursed poetry lounge night. It was the first time he called you Cherry, and you called him Cheol. The first time you were alone with him for longer than fifteen minutes. The first time your body reacted in ways that went beyond the line of friendship.
“So I’ve been told,” you murmur.
“Have you?” he teases. “Whoever said that must be really smart.”
“Yeah, sure—” you begin, only to jump and knock into Seungcheol when Cho unexpectedly rubs his nose against your leg.
Seungcheol’s laugh doesn’t drown out the sound of your thudding heart in your ears, but at least it offers some (annoying) comfort. Cho is going to take some getting used to.
previous chapter \\ series masterpost // the end
A/N: Although the series is over, I would love to continue writing this couple in the future! Please look forward to some bonus scenes... Perhaps from Cheol's POV? My ask box is open for any questions or comments about this series! Thank you for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😭 omg *trying not to freak out that it's over* (also wattpad says this fic's read time is 6 hours and 11 minutes LOLOLOLOL... nice 😅 but if you're a slow reader like me, that time is prob way more haha. this being said, ty for ur time while reading!)
For my “shy/silent” readers, I’ve created a feedback form where you can share your thoughts on my fics in a more anonymous and private way. ^-^
"After being assigned a fashion show for your big senior project, you set off to find volunteers to make it successful. However, when you meet Choi Seungcheol and his unfriendly clique through your volunteers, you realize they’re an unwanted package deal you can’t escape from. Can you handle Seungcheol's obnoxious friends, and can he handle your brash behavior?"
🍒 Pairing: businessMajor!Seungcheol x fashionMajor!Reader (f)
🍒 Rating/Genres/AUs: M(18+); Slice of life (!!!), slow burn, drama, fluff, angst; Unrequited enemies to lovers (lol), strangers to lovers, college au
🍒 Warnings: [general tw (won't be repeated in the other chapters)] reader has she/her pronouns (referred to as girl, miss), reader dresses really feminine, reader is not nice, character outfit descriptors, parent/family issues (marital problems), bullying | [chapter tw] “joke” that implies prostitution in a negative way, near car accident (rear end), brief mention of death thru a joke
🍒 WC: 14.8k
🍒 Betas: Huge shout out to my bae, @love-strike, for being with me throughout this whole process, for listening to me whine, for helping me brainstorm majors for OT13, and for being so supportive! tysm 😭 And thank you to @playmetheclassics, @here4kpopfics, @angelwoozi for also beta'ing this series! ty for your time and for your sweet feedback! i really cherish everyone's efforts and brains hehe 🥰💖 i understand this was not an easy task to take on.
🍒 Author's Note: HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY TO THE LOML, CHOI SEUNGCHEOL!!!!!!!!! 🎂♥️ I started this fic in September 2022 and contemplated even publishing it multiple times. I think this will be the first fic I've worked on for so long and published. Also, this is the longest fic I've ever written, so that's exciting! It was supposed to be one long one-shot, but I ended up writing way too much for a one-shot LOL. I'm really proud of myself for powering through and not abandoning it, as I've done in the past. I also wrote this all in past tense and spontaneously decided to change it to present 😪 Anyway, please enjoy the start of this couple's journey 😁
also read here: AO3 | Wattpad
seventeen masterlist | main masterlist
previous chapter \\ series masterpost // next chapter
When people say good students are those who arrive on time, you find it hard not to scoff. Professors should care more about how hard-working one is rather than if they show up on the dot.
Of course, you do try to make it on time, but can you really leave your house looking less than perfect? Absolutely not. Plus, the first fifteen minutes usually consist of professors getting set up for their classes, so you don’t feel like you are missing anything of importance.
Today is no different.
Ten minutes past the official class time, you stroll inside the room. Students are seated where they normally sit, some are on their phones, and others are trying to finish some last-minute homework assignments. It’s a fairly small class, and being in your senior year means everyone knows each other well. Although, most of the people in your class think ill of you and don’t talk to you.
At first, you thought it was a pity, but in the end, you realized you didn’t want to befriend those who would only talk shit behind your back. This is what you figured they did since they were never discreet when they exchanged whispers with their eyes glued to you.
Luckily, you have at least one friend in the class. Quality over quantity, right?
“Right on time,” your friend, Dae, says with a sly smile when she spots you.
You chuckle and slide into the seat next to her. “Class started fifteen minutes ago.”
“It did, but you’re right on time for you,” she explains with a knowing grin.
“Guess I need to be more late from now on,” you tease as you take out your iPad.
The device is a holy grail to you. Majoring in fashion design means all your ideas and creations over the past few years are stored there. When you don’t have it, it’s stored in secret in your house. Maybe that’s a little excessive, but losing it would feel like losing a part of yourself. After all, art creations always include a part of the creator. The device almost feels like it’s an extension of yourself—something too personal for others to peek at.
Dae rolls her eyes. “Or you could come on time. That would be different.”
“Why would I? The first fifteen minutes are worthless,” you huff and open your notes.
“I wouldn’t quite say that,” Dae answers, sliding a piece of paper over. You glance down at it.
Prepare for the annual Senior Fashion Show! Students are to create their own fashion show with a theme of their choice. The show will be toward the end of the semester in the Main Theatre (official times and dates TBD). The project will count for 80% of your grade as this will require you to use all the skills you’ve acquired as a student. When creating your show, be sure to be mindful of the following…
“This was handed out at the beginning of class. Seems like we’re going to have to work with students from outside our department,” Dae comments after she gives you a few minutes to read everything.
So, this is it.
Every senior majoring in fashion design is required to participate. You attended every fashion show hosted during your time as a student here. You were always left in awe, motivated to be a student that would leave behind a name for themselves at the college. You want to inspire the next seniors just as the ones inspired you before.
While this assignment has your body giddy with excitement, there is a part you are dreading.
People skills are not your forte.
Not because you feel awkward talking to new people, but because the conversations always end unpleasantly. Sometimes with back-handed compliments, insults, or them trying to scold you. You hope that won’t be the case while recruiting volunteers.
“So, do we have the class period to start getting things together?” you question once you finish skimming through the instructions again. You’re responsible for a lot more elements than you anticipated. You need lighting, music, a theme, backstage helpers, hair and makeup artists, an advertiser, and most importantly, models. This is when you wish you had a large network. Though, every friend you tried to make didn’t end up lasting. Dae is the only person who has stuck by your side.
“Yup,” she replies. “We’ll be doing mini assignments throughout the semester to help us prepare. I think it’s just a way for Dr. Lim to give us grades so he doesn’t get in trouble.”
“Probably,” you sigh. You are already feeling stressed. Quickly, you scribble down a list of to-do’s in your notes.
“Do you have a theme in mind already?” Dae asks after a moment.
“No, do you?” you wonder.
Dae sits back in her chair, pen resting between her fingers. “I was thinking about something with space? Maybe my main colors will be blue, purple, and black.”
“Oh? Isn’t that what you’ve been doing, though? Don’t you want to try something different?”
Although the question is harmless, the tone of your voice must have rubbed Dae the wrong way. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then looks at you again.
“Think of it as branding, okay? Why does it bother you so much?” she wonders with a frown. Realizing your mistake, you inhale slowly.
“It doesn’t. I didn’t mean to sound rude. I’m sure your stage will do well,” you reply, forcing a small smile on your lips.
“No ‘sorry’?” Dae asks despite knowing it isn’t part of your favorite vocabulary.
You narrow your eyes at her. “Nope. Just don’t be so defensive next time.”
“You’re insufferable,” Dae answers. “One day, you will be sorry for your behavior.”
Shrugging, you say, “There’s always a chance, but maybe if the world wasn’t so insecure, saying sorry wouldn’t be so wanted.”
Dae exhales disapprovingly at your thought process, displeased with your reply. “Well, for now, maybe try to be more empathetic?”
“I have bigger things to worry about right now. For instance,” you start, a finger at the top of your to-do list, “I’ve got to find someone who can provide me with music.”
Fuck, it’s too loud in here.
The sounds of different instruments being played at once, all emitting different tunes, have a migraine bubbling in your head.
You make a beeline to the professor who is sitting in the corner. She is an older lady, evident by her wrinkles and gray hair. Yet, her features are soft, and the smile she gives you makes you feel at ease.
“Hello, miss, can I assist you?” she asks when you’re in hearing range.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I was hoping you could help me with an assignment?” you wonder and offer her a kind smile, hoping she won’t shoo you away immediately.
“Ah, it’s alright. They’re just practicing for an upcoming assignment today. What is it you need, dear?”
“Who would you consider your best student? Is there a way you can get me in contact with them?”
The professor’s eyes widen slightly at the question. She didn’t expect that. Nevertheless, her gaze rises to scan the classroom.
“There,” she points as discreetly as she can. You follow her finger, which lands on a blonde-haired guy tuning his guitar. “Lee Jihoon. He’s the most talented student I’ve ever had.”
“This semester?” you ask out of curiosity.
The professor shakes her head. “Ever.”
You can’t stop the small disbelieving huff that escapes you. The best student ever? You aren’t sure how long she’s been teaching, but you doubt out of all her time, he is the best. He looks too young.
“Now, now, don’t judge a book by its cover,” she scolds gently. You have to force yourself not to roll your eyes at the phrase. You’ve heard it too many times that its meaning lost its effect on you.
“What makes him your best student?” you question, sight going back to the man who is oblivious to your stare. He sits next to another student who also has a guitar. They seem to be friends from the way they are laughing together.
“His work is versatile and very good. I’m positive he will be the perfect person for your project.” The way she speaks about him makes you believe her. There was no waver to her voice, and her eyes hold a fondness in them you know one can’t replicate if not genuine.
“How long until they have their assignment due?” you wonder, realizing you may have to wait until the class ends before you could talk to him.
The professor smiles. “I’ll let them have five more minutes so you can introduce yourself.”
Internally, you sigh in relief. You’re grateful you don’t have to wait.
“Thank you,” you say before strolling to the man.
As you near, his friend glances up. He’s mid-sentence when he spots you, eyes growing slightly at the sight of you. You’re used to getting looks like that. Your fashion is always dressier than the average college student's. People just aren’t used to it.
“Hi,” the brunette friend says. He has prince-like features, and you almost consider asking him to be one of your models. You give him a small grin out of politeness before turning to the whole reason you came over.
“Lee Jihoon?” you ask.
Jihoon’s mouth parts slightly in surprise. “Uh, y-yeah. Do I know you?”
“No. My name’s Yn. I have a project in a class and need someone to provide music for me. You won’t get paid, but any extra experience is always good, right?” you greet, not wanting to dance around the subject. After all, this is only the first of many on your to-do list.
“What major are you in?” he wonders, brows knitted in confusion.
“Fashion design,” you answer.
Jihoon is silent for a moment. “And how did you find me?”
This guy is more difficult than you wished. You just need him to say yes.
“I asked for the best student, and you were recommended. So, what do you say? Will you help me?”
Jihoon gives you a small smile, but something about it rubs you wrong. “Sorry, my plate is a little full right now—”
“Do you need money? I can give you some afterward.”
You try not to sound desperate. Lee Jihoon is not the only music major—this is obvious by the amount of noise you hear in the background.
But you never settle for less than the best.
You have been looking forward to this project since your college tour here.
“It’s not that,” Jihoon chuckles awkwardly. “I have other assignments I have to practice for, but I’m sure there will be someone else to help you. There’s a lot of talented students her—”
“But they’re not the best,” you interrupt. What else can you offer him that will make him say yes?
“Well, being the best is subjective,” Jihoon counters, voice light so you know he doesn’t mean it rudely.
You open your mouth to bargain with him more, but his friend leans into his ear. The noise from the other instruments behind you makes it hard to hear what they are saying.
Patience is something you rarely have. The longer you stand there waiting, the more annoyed you get.
“Look, you have almost a full semester to get a song done by then. I’m sure you can find some tim—”
“Fine,” Jihoon grumbles as he shoves his friend away. “I’ll do it.”
“Oh,” you pause. You are fully prepared to go down the mental list of how helping you will help him in return. One that will be complete bullshit, but if it gets him to say yes, then so be it. Luckily, you don’t have to.
“Great!” you say.
You aren’t going to give him time to back out, so you quickly retrieve a business card you had made from your purse. It’s easier to exchange contact information, and you never know when you may run into someone important. Being in an artistic field means competition. You always need to have an eye out for something, or someone, that will help you get your name out there.
“Here’s my number. Please contact me before the day ends.”
Jihoon takes the card and examines it. “Got it. What kind of music will you need?”
“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll let you know,” you reply. He nods in response.
“I look forward to hearing your music. I’ll talk to you later then,” you say.
You have half a heart to wish them both luck on their assignment, but part of you is a little petty that Jihoon put you through some trouble. Instead, you give them a wave before turning on your heel.
As you’re leaving, you hear a loud sigh followed by a laugh from behind you.
“Shut up, Shua,” Jihoon groans before the professor calls everyone’s attention.
Music, check. Now, what’s next?
As you make your way down the hallway, you stumble across Dae. She is surrounded by two other male students, none of whom you know. You don’t plan to greet her since she seems busy, but the sound of your heels clicking against the tile catches her attention.
“Yn!” she calls out cheerfully.
You halt in your tracks, turning to see her smiling at you. She gestures for you to come over, so you do.
“Hey,” you say to her.
“How’s your project going?” she asks.
“I got someone to help me with music,” you reply, then glance behind her to see the two guys staring at you. Dae follows your gaze and makes a small “oh!”
“Is that all? Do you have anyone for advertising or graphics?” Dae wonders, her voice seemingly excited.
“I don’t,” you answer hesitantly. Her eagerness has you worried.
“Perfect!” she exclaims, then turns to the others. “This is Yejun and Jeonghan. They’re both advertising majors. Yejun agreed to help me with my project, but Jeonghan,” she pauses to address the man. He has blonde hair that goes past his eyes. His soft features are handsome and almost angelic.
“Jeonghan, would you mind helping my friend with hers? She’s super talented.”
Jeonghan glances at you, but before he can say anything, you ask him, “What are your skills? Do you have some work I could see first?”
Jeonghan looks taken aback. “O-oh, I don’t have a portfolio yet, sorry.”
“Ah, that’s fine,” you say before looking at Dae. “Thanks for trying to help me, but I’ll find someone else.”
Dae’s eyes narrow at you. “Come on, Yn. Jeonghan is really good!”
“Didn’t you just meet him?” you question and try to stop the scoff that threatens to escape.
“Well, yes, but Yejun has been my friend for a while, and I’ve seen his work. Yejun and Jeonghan have worked together as well, and their creations are unique!”
You inhale deeply, eyes roaming from your friend to Jeonghan. He offers you a smile.
“What your friend said,” Jeonghan replies with a small chuckle.
“Trust me on this,” Dae says. “Jeonghan won’t disappoint you.”
You don’t feel at ease agreeing to someone blindly. Dae’s definition of “really good” could be different from yours. Although her work is good, you feel your standards are way above hers. You had planned to ask for the best student for each assigned task, so having been offered a random helper with no proof of their credentials is unnerving.
Granted, you haven’t heard Jihoon’s work, but you were sold on the way the professor spoke about him. Dae, on the other hand, is not a professor and could be biased as Yejun is her friend. Though, you still have a lot more positions to fill, and you need to do so soon.
Sighing, “Fine. You can work with me.”
From the way you word your sentence, it’s almost as if Jeonghan is supposed to jump up and down with glee. He doesn’t.
You grab another business card from your purse and hand it to Jeonghan. He takes it slowly.
“Just so you know, I have the right to replace you with someone else if I see your work isn’t fit,” you warn as Jeonghan slips the card into his pocket.
His eyes lock on yours. “That won’t be necessary,” he answers, not bothered by your comment.
“Oh?” you wonder and quirk an eyebrow up.
“Hm. You also need graphics, right? I have a person for that as well,” Jeonghan says.
“I haven’t seen their work yet—”
“You’re not very trusting, huh?” Jeonghan observes with a laugh. You shift your weight on one hip, not liking the way he is trying to tell you about your personality when he doesn't know you.
“I just know what I want, and I won’t settle,” you answer sharply.
Dae huffs next to you and gives you a gentle shove, indicating you to ease up. That isn’t going to happen.
Jeonghan doesn’t reply and instead takes out his phone. His fingers dance around the screen for a minute before he turns the device for you to see. On the screen is an Instagram account with various posts of different art and graphic pieces. Your eyes drift to the username. by_xuminghao_o. His art is impressive and definitely not an amateur like you half expected.
“So, about not settling,” Jeonghan trails off, a hint of a cocky smirk on his lips.
“I expect you both to contact me before the day ends,” is all you respond with.
Jeonghan pockets his phone and nods. He seems content with your answer even though you don’t confess the art meets your standards.
“All good then?” Dae asks, glancing between you two.
“We’re good,” Jeonghan replies and gives you another smile of his—one you are starting to hate seeing. There is just something about it that seems like he knows more things than you in a cocky, condescending way.
Yejun glances at his watch and then nudges Jeonghan.
“Thanks, ladies, but we have a class to attend. Nice to meet you, Yn,” Yejun says.
You hum in response while turning away from them. Dae says her goodbyes, watching as they leave before putting her focus on you.
“Do you have to be so picky?” she sighs.
“As I said, I know what I want. I’ve waited to do this project for years. It has to be perfect,” you explain and pull out your iPad. You check off music and advertising from your to-do list. Graphics aren’t listed, but you figure it will be a nice addition.
“I understand, but—”
“Just focus on your project, and I’ll focus on mine, okay?” you interrupt. You don’t feel like hearing her lecture you for a second time today.
“Alright,” Dae answers. “I’ll see you around,” she says, walking away before you can say anything else.
With her back turned, you roll your eyes at her attitude. It has your mood lowering, and you conclude you’re done with human interaction for now. You carefully place your iPad back in your bag, then make a beeline to the parking lot, ready to go home to figure out a theme for your show.
Home is somewhere you don’t enjoy being.
It always has this melancholy cloud looming over you. You can never seem to get rid of it completely. Even on the good days, it lingers in the corner of the room, always threatening to float above you. You doubt it will ever dissipate.
Your back is against the headboard of your bed, your iPad resting against your legs that are pulled to your chest. The music playing is too low for your liking, but you know if it’s any louder, your father will scold you for the high volume. Sometimes you will raise it just to get him to talk to you. Though today is not one of those days. You want to be left alone for once, which isn't usually too hard to do unless your sister needs attention. Like now.
“Today is the last day. Pleaseeee, Yn!” your sister whines at the foot of your bed. Her small body is bouncing with desperation and eagerness.
Reluctantly, you flicker your gaze up at her. The slight scowl on your face doesn’t seem to faze her… Probably because she’s seen it so much.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” you exasperate, gesturing to your iPad.
Seoah frowns. “When are you not? Come on! It’ll take, like, ten minutes. I’ve been looking forward to getting a Fallin’ Flower frap for months! You know it’s a seasonal drink.”
“Didn’t Dad say you couldn’t have any more sweets?” you say and peer down at your iPad again. You’re in the middle of brainstorming themes for your show. There are various words within bubbles, each connected with a line.
“I’ll just get a small,” she explains. When you don’t move, she walks around the bed to stand next to you. Her voice becomes softer, sadder. “You said you would take me. Dad can’t.”
“That was before I got assigned this project. It’s my—”
“Senior project that you’ve been looking forward to since your freshman year, yeah, I got it,” she responds, reciting what you’ve told her before.
You finally look at her once more. “I’ll take you for the next seasonal drinks, okay? They’re probably better anyway.”
“But I really want a Fallin’ Flower,” Seoah pouts.
“Next year,” you offer and return your attention to your homework.
“Yn—”
“Next year,” you repeat firmly without looking up.
Seoah pauses in her begging. You think she’s going to continue, but you hear the soft padding of her feet as she moves.
“Oh, Seoah?” you call out, glancing up.
She pauses by your door and looks up with some hope in her eyes.
“Don’t forget to shut the door all the way.”
“Right,” she mutters slowly, then leaves the room. You wait until you hear the door click close prior to getting back to work.
You sit on your bed the remainder of the day, only getting up to cook dinner for your father and sister. Your eyes feel strained and your body weak, but the sooner you pick a theme, the sooner you can get started.
It’s days like these when your body is mentally and physically exhausted, that you miss your mom. You try not to think too much about her as it only makes the gloomy cloud above your head darker.
Is she happier? Surely, she is. She is living her dream as a traveling journalist. Sometimes you will see her adventures if you peep at her social media. It’s self-torture to do so, but curiosity gets the best of you. You hope one day you’ll have the willpower to block all her accounts.
At this point, you’re having the same conversation you have with yourself once a month. It never ends the way you want.
Inhaling deeply, you finish plating all the food before calling your family for dinner. While your father eats in his office, needing to continue his work, you and your sister eat in silence in the dining room.
Maybe one day things will change, but for now, you’ll have to settle with this.
You are about to knock on the door a second time when no one answers it. You have allotted only an hour for this meeting, so the longer you wait outside, the more you grow impatient. You have set mini-deadlines throughout the semester to ensure you will complete this assignment in a timely manner. You just hope your recruitees aren't going to slow you down.
Suddenly, the door is yanked open. Jeonghan stands on the other side, hair a little damp and a few wet spots on his shirt.
“Sorry about that,” he says hastily. “I thought I could shower quicker.”
“I told you eleven o’clock,” you scold. Jeonghan simply smiles.
“Never hurts to give people some wiggle room. Plus, aren’t you the early one?” Jeonghan leans back to view something. He looks at you after a few seconds. “It’s only three minutes past.”
“Early is on time,” you say as if that is an obvious life choice. Although you’re never really on time for classes, you reason that to be because the first fifteen minutes are a waste of time. This, on the other hand, is not. “Invite me in?”
Jeonghan moves aside and lets you enter. His apartment is tidy for the most part. It seems as if he had started to clean up but gave up toward the end.
“Where’s Minghao?” you wonder when you saw you were the only one here. He’s supposed to be here with Jeonghan, so you can all go over the advertising designs.
“He called and said he hit some traffic. Have a seat anywhere; I’m going to grab my laptop,” he instructs before jogging to another room. Shaking your head in disappointment, you glance around again.
Spotting his couch, you walk over and make yourself comfortable. You take out your iPad and open what you have so far—color ideas, font ideas, and a few mock-up fashion designs. It has been two weeks since you last saw Jeonghan. The majority of your tasks have already been assigned to people, but you still have to find a few more models.
“Alright, so, what’s the theme?” Jeonghan asks when he comes back. He sits down next to you, causing you to bounce slightly from his weight.
You angle your screen, so he can see it easier. “I decided on the four elements—water, ice, air, and earth. The title right now is Pinwheel.”
“This gives us multiple color options,” Jeonghan examines. “Maybe we could have five designs. One for each element and then one with all of them? That would give you a variety of exposure and make the audience feel they’re not looking at the same promo material every time.”
You sit still as you ponder his suggestion. “You don’t think people will get confused seeing different designs?”
“We can make it all tie in some way. You have your own logo, as I saw on your card. We can use that and the same fonts.”
“Okay,” you say slowly. “That sounds—”
A knock on the door stops you.
“Ah, that must be Minghao. Do you mind getting that? I’m going to get my notepad, so I can try to sketch some layouts.”
You nod, setting your iPad down next to his laptop, then walking to the entrance.
“You’re late,” you groan while you pull open the door.
“Oh? Am I?” the person says with a little playful smile on his lips.
Although you’ve never met Minghao, you have seen pictures of him on his Instagram. You expected to see a head of blue hair, but you are greeted with black. Instead of a narrow face, his is slightly wider. He wears an oversized white shirt, jeans, and a colorful necklace. He looks like every other college student. Sure, he’s more handsome than the average, but not by much. Behind him are two women and one man.
“Can I help you?” you exhale a disheartened sigh when you conclude it isn’t Minghao. Meaning, he’s even later than you wished for.
The guy chuckles. “I doubt it, but Jeonghan can. Is he here?”
His voice is slightly deep. You may have found him soothing to listen to if it wasn't for his irksome words.
“He’s busy right now. You can come back in an hour, though,” you instruct and start to close the door. You don’t need any distractions.
The man sticks his foot out to stop you, causing you to exhale annoyed when you can’t get rid of him. You open the door slightly again.
“Just tell him I’m here,” he says, his teasing tone not so visible anymore but still light enough to not sound too rude.
“And who are you?” you question apathetically.
“Jesus,” someone hisses behind him before shouting, “Jeonghan, come here!”
Your eyes gaze past the man to see a woman with short-length dark hair. She eyes you haughtily, hand on the man’s forearm as if she were to push him away. Though she never does. She takes in your attire, and you once again get a look of judgment at your choice of dress. Your white dress paired with a same-colored, opened button down and beaded chain around your hips is apparently not her style.
“What’s going on?” Jeonghan asks behind you. Reluctantly, you move aside so he can see. “Oh, Seungcheol! Right. One second. Come on in. I’ll get those papers for you.”
“Actually, do they need to come in? They’re not staying long,” you say quickly before any of them can move.
“Relax, princess, he’s just being friendly. You know, like when someone is kind, thoughtful, and considerate?” the girl questions as if you’re dumb and makes her way inside despite you standing close to the door. It forces you to move over.
Her friends follow along. Three of them stand in the living room, while the second guy sits at the kitchen bar before pulling out his phone. You watch them with a fire inside your chest. Not only are Jeonghan and Minghao late, you now have to deal with this obstacle.
Just as you’re shutting the door, you see a glimpse of blue down the hall. Finally.
“You’re late,” you repeat, but to the correct person this time.
“I know, I’m sorry! Oh, are they helping too?” Minghao says, pausing at the entry when he sees the group of people inside.
“No. Get in,” you huff and point a finger in the apartment. Minghao enters without a fight.
“Hao!” the second girl exclaims with a smile.
Great. Do they all know each other?
“Hi, Hana,” Minghao greets with a gentle grin.
“What are you doing here?” Hana wonders.
“I’m helping Yn with her project,” he answers and gestures to you while you shut the door.
Hana looks your way, and you can see the distaste in her expression; however, she doesn’t say anything.
Jeonghan walks out of his room with a folder in his hand. “I hope this is what you need,” he tells the first man—Seungcheol, you presume.
Seungcheol smiles and takes it from him. He flips open the folder, doing a quick glance through the papers inside.
“Looks great,” he says. “Thanks for getting these for me.”
“Of course,” Jeonghan replies.
“Hannie, do you want to come to Shining Diamond with us this weekend?” the first girl asks, tilting her head in a way that appears as if she’s begging for a yes.
“Ah, this weekend?” he hesitates. “I have a test on Monday I was going to study for.”
“A few hours won’t hurt you,” she replies.
“Alright, Hajun, but only for an hour or so,” Jeonghan says with a not-so-stern voice.
“Great! Minghao, do you want to come, too?” Hajun asks.
Minghao shrugs. “I’ve got nothing else, so sure.”
Hajun grins widely. Her eyes go past Minghao to see you standing in the corner, your arms crossed and eyes staring daggers at everyone.
She doesn’t say anything, but her look tells you you aren’t invited. As if you are silently begging to join. The thought makes you scoff quietly.
“Cool. You all scheduled your weekends,” you start and walk back to the couch. You turn briefly to Seungcheol, who is eyeing you already. “And you got your things. Can we please continue?”
Your gaze shifts to Jeonghan at your question. He offers you an apologetic look before nodding.
“I’ll see you all this weekend. You can text me the time,” he says while walking to the door.
“We can decide that now,” Hana suggests.
“Or over text like Jeonghan said,” you interject. She narrows her eyes at you.
“Be patient. It’ll only take a few minutes,” she replies.
A few minutes, my ass.
“I’d rather you use those minutes to walk out the door.” You give her a faux smile.
“Have some respect,” Hajun scolds.
You laugh though you don’t find any of this humorous. “What a hypocrite. How about you respect people’s times?”
“I did tell Yn I’d help her,” Jeonghan cuts in sheepishly and opens the door to hint at them to leave. “I’ll text you all later, or you guys can come back in a bit.”
Seungcheol’s gaze lingers on yours as he walks toward the door. Your eyes catch on his as he makes his way into your line of sight. His stare has an unsettling feeling form in your stomach, and you contemplate asking what his problem is. Before you can, he turns to Jeonghan.
“Thanks again,” he says as he lifts the folder.
“No problem. Talk to you later,” Jeonghan replies.
All his friends have filed out except for the one male who hasn’t said a word. He glances at you. You expect to receive another jab about who knows what. Instead, he gestures at your body.
“Nice chains,” he compliments with a smile.
Your eyes widen slightly as you glance down briefly at your outfit. That was certainly unexpected. “Uh, thanks.”
“Come on, Vernon!” Hana yells from the doorway. Vernon gives you a thumbs up, which is uncanny given the situation, then follows his friends out the door.
Once they leave, you narrow your gaze at Jeonghan and Minghao. They’re quick to apologize again and start asking questions about your project before you can lecture them. Lucky for them, your hour is almost up, so there isn't enough time to do that anyway.
Weeks go by with you working nonstop on your project. Annoyingly, you also realize that the majority of the people you recruited to help all know each other. It usually isn’t something to be irritated by, but each time they run into each other, they usually end up making small talk that you have to break up. They can do that on their time, not yours. Even more frustrating is that this so-called Seungcheol and his groupies know them all as well. Their reactions to seeing you are always the same—ones of displeasure. Though the feeling is mutual.
You learn they are all business majors, except for Vernon. Well, he was a business major, but he plans to switch to something else. You can’t blame him. If all the business majors act revolting, you would leave that department as well.
Seungcheol… He isn’t as bad.
You have only ever hung out with him by himself for less than five minutes. Those conversations spur when you’re both left alone after one of your “mutual friends,” because none of these people are your actual friends, abandon you both. The conversations are awkward and never hold any weight. He doesn’t throw snide remarks at you, but his presence still makes you uneasy with the possibility. You’re normally the first to leave because of that. Maybe if he didn’t have those obnoxious friends, you could tolerate him more. You can’t help but associate him with them though. You simply want to get away from them, even if that includes him. Not that you are craving his presence anyway. You barely know him and aren’t interested in changing that.
“Those are looking awesome so far!” Dae exclaims when she peers over your shoulder to see your sketches.
You smile at her and set your iPad down on the table. The weather outside is perfect, given the cool breezes in the heat. It eases your mind, and you feel more creative being in a new environment.
“Thanks, how are yours coming along?” you question and wait for her to angle her own iPad to you. On the screen are various designs, each with a hint of purple or blue.
“Those are neat,” you compliment.
“Yeah?” she says and beams at you. “What about this one? I think the shoulder looks a little weird.”
You reach over, using two fingers to zoom in on the screen to examine it.
“Maybe just lower this,” you gesture on the screen, careful as to not move the screen on accident. “You could take this part out too and make it asymmetrical.”
Dae hums, lips pursed in thought. “I’ll try it. I guess I won’t really know until it’s on someone.”
You nod in agreement before focusing on your designs again. After a while, Dae excuses herself from your homework session. She had planned to meet with one of her helpers. You bid her a quick goodbye.
Ten minutes pass when you see someone standing in front of your table, blocking your sunlight. Your eyes rise to see who it is.
“Hi,” Seungcheol greets.
You straighten your posture upon seeing him. He wears a basic navy suit that fits him well. To your surprise, it actually looks decent on him. Your eyes dart around him to see if any of his friends came.
“Just me this time,” he answers the question in your head.
“What is it you need?” you ask blankly.
“Must I need something?” he retorts.
You suppress the eye roll you want to give him. “Well, I’m sure you didn’t come here to tell me about your day.”
“I can if you want,” he responds, then to your utter dread, he sits down across from you. From the position he is sitting at, the breeze is blowing his hair forward and into his face. He raises a hand to push it back, but it’s no use.
“You can spare me. Tell me what you want and go,” you instruct. This is the first time he has approached you—and alone, for that matter. You don’t want to make it a regular thing.
“Always straight to the point,” he chuckles.
“I just don’t like my time being wasted,” you explain.
“So, I’m wasting your time now?” His eyebrow quirks up.
“Should I spell it out for you?” you scoff. It should be obvious that you don’t feel like talking to him.
“You can try, but do you know how to spell it?” he stares at you through the hair on his face. Even though you can’t see him clearly, you can tell he has a challenging gleam in his eyes.
“At this point, I think you just came to bother me,” you sulk.
He smirks at you. “I didn’t, but it is a little fun to see your feathers ruffled.”
“They’re perfectly content being unruffled.”
Seungcheol chuckles at your response. He pushes his hair back, but this time he rests his hand against his head, keeping his hair in place. His elbow is propped on the table while his other arm lays flat on the surface.
All the times you have seen him, his hair has covered part of his forehead. Now, it’s all exposed, and you feel you can see him. Maybe it’s because he’s donning a suit for once, but he looks almost… handsome like this—dressed formally with a small glint in his eyes and his lips spread in a gentle smile.
“Where’s the fun in that?” he replies. “I think you need to have more fun.”
Well, he was handsome until he opened his mouth.
“I don’t need a stranger telling me how to live my life,” you say.
“A stranger? I would think we’re at least acquaintances,” he frowns.
“You only see me because your friends are helping me. Speaking of, is that why you’re here? Does it have anything to do with one of them?”
Seungcheol bites his bottom lip, and you can’t stop your eyes from lowering to his mouth.
“Maybe,” he answers slowly. Your eyes snap back to his when he speaks. He gives you a knowing smile that has you shifting in your seat. You had only looked at his lips because he brought attention to them. Nothing more.
“Are we playing twenty questions?” you groan, finally unleashing the eye roll you have been trying not to do.
“We can,” Seungcheol says with a shrug. “You asked three already—more if you start from the time I sat down.”
Exhaling a deep breath, you put your forehead on the hand that’s propped on the table. The conversation is slowly draining your energy. The need to be alone becomes stronger with each second.
“Seungcheol,” you warn. You are not about to play a guessing game with this man. “Please.”
“Oh, so that word is in your vocabulary.”
“Yes. Would you like me to use it in a sentence?” you question, pitch raised as if you’re talking to a toddler. You lift your head to glare at him.
“Sure,” he smirks and leans forward. He still holds his hair back and this time, you can really see the way he is goading you.
“Please fuck off,” you grin widely. Your head tilts to the side as you push your arms together to act overly cute.
“Please make me,” he counters. The smirk he wears is still plastered on his lips.
“If we weren’t in public, I would,” you say, voice returning to normal as you relax your body—the cute act over.
“Oh? How?” he chuckles. From the way he looks at you, you know his mind has gone elsewhere.
You push at the arm that is stretched across the table. “Because I would rather not get caught for murder, you pervert.”
Seungcheol laughs and sits back, letting his hair fall back into his eyes. It’s the first time you notice he has dimples. Your first impression is that they are cute, but you quickly recall who they belonged to and shove that thought from your mind.
“Seokmin wanted to let you know he lost your card,” he finally discloses. “Asked if you could give him another.”
“If he lost a simple card, is he really reliable?” you sigh as you grab another from your purse.
“The good news is those stage lights are so big, he won’t be able to lose those,” he says, taking the card from your hand.
“Thankfully,” you mutter. “I hope you’re better than Seokmin at not losing things.”
“I’ll get this to him, don’t worry,” he replies and puts the card in his suit jacket. You want to ask why he is wearing that, but that will mean you will prolong this conversation. Fortunately for you, he starts to stand up before you succumb to the temptation.
“Thanks for the talk,” he says as if you had a choice. “I’ll see you around.”
You would have doubted that, but you know that won’t be true.
The second time Seungcheol approaches you by himself is a few days later when he catches you exiting a building he is approaching.
“Don’t tell me someone else lost my card as well,” you say after he calls your name. You readjust your bag on your shoulder as you wait for his response.
“About that,” he starts sheepishly.
You put your weight on one hip and cross your arms, and set your mouth in a straight line. You wait for him to tell you who is the perpetrator.
“I may have left your card in my suit jacket when I washed it.”
Well, that explains why you haven’t received a message from Seokmin yet.
“Seriously, Seungcheol?” you exasperate.
“I didn’t do it on purpose!” he says, lips pouting and eyebrows angled.
Shaking your head, you retrieve another card. You make a mental note to restock later as you are running out.
Seungcheol reaches out to grab it from you, but you quickly pull back.
“Put this in your bag,” you instruct.
You slowly give him the card and watch as he slings his bag around to his front. He makes a show of unzipping one of the front pockets and sliding it inside.
“Done,” he says, acting like he should be rewarded for doing as he was told.
“Good. Is that all?” you wonder. You’ve just finished your last class of the day, and all you want to do is climb into bed.
“Yes.”
Seeing no need to continue the conversation, you start walking in the direction of the parking lot.
“Great. Bye, Seungcheol,” you say over your shoulder.
“Hey, wait,” he says quickly, walking briskly to be by your side. “We’re going in the same direction.”
You peer up at him momentarily. “That doesn’t mean we have to walk together.”
“You said before we’re strangers. This would help us not be that anymore,” he shrugs casually.
“I never said I wanted that,” you reply flatly.
“It might benefit us since we’ll have to see each other a lot.”
“Is that so?” you sigh sadly.
Seungcheol smiles at you before shoving his hands in his pockets. “You did ask my friends to help you.”
“Well, if I knew you were a package deal, I wouldn’t have.”
“Come on. I’m not that bad.”
Sighing, you slow your steps to look at him better. He stops next to you, awaiting your response. His gaze is hopeful, but you’re not sure why.
“I’ll agree if you leave me alone,” you finally say.
Seungcheol’s lips dip in a frown. “I’ll get you to admit it one day.”
He starts to walk again before you can reply. Now is your chance to let him get a few feet from you. You have the opportunity to finally end this conversation you’ve been dreading. Though, for some strange reason, your feet quickly move on their own accord.
Seungcheol’s steps are small, and you catch up with him easily. Neither of you says a word, but you can see a hint of a smile on his lips.
Instead of parting ways once you reach the parking lot, he follows you to your car. Something about it being dangerous for you to walk to it alone, even though it’s light out.
“Yn?” he says to catch your attention when you open your door. You turn and give a small “hm?” in response.
“My friends and I plan to go to this poetry lounge in two weeks. Would you want to come?” he asks. You aren’t sure why he appears to be anxious.
The shock you feel must be evident on your face because Seungcheol’s apprehensive expression relaxes into a gentle smile.
“Business friends or our ‘mutual ones’?” The idea doesn't sound so bad if you are hanging out with the people who are helping you. Although you have your issues with them, they aren’t that bad to be around if you’re being honest.
“Business.”
That’s not what you want to hear.
“Do your friends know you’re asking me this?”
Seungcheol shakes his head. “No, but I don’t need their permission. What do you say?”
You can’t recall being invited to a night out with someone other than Dae. If you were to go out without Dae, it would be with your family or for a class assignment. To be invited to a place by Seungcheol, out of all people, catches you off guard.
Despite having an opportunity for a different change of pace, you answer, “No.”
“No?” he asks, perplexed.
“Your friends don’t like me, Seungcheol,” you explain matter-of-factly through a sigh, leaning against your open door.
“They just like to tease you. I’ll talk to them before,” he explains.
Tease is a funny way to describe it, you think.
“I don’t need you fighting my battles,” you answer, referring to the latter part of his reply.
“Still. I want you to enjoy yourself. You’ve probably been glued to that project of yours. Step away for a bit,” he reasons.
He isn’t wrong. Your focus has solely been on the project. Of course, you have other classes, but you aren’t putting as much effort into them as you are this one.
“I’ll pick you up and pay for any expenses,” he offers. The more he talks, the more taken aback you are. You figured he’d drop the offer once you rejected him. From every interaction you’ve had with these “friends,” it never ends well. You doubt this will be any different. Regardless, something in you feels a little… honored he is so adamant about getting you to come.
Thus, hesitantly, “Fine.”
Seungcheol’s face breaks out in a grin. “Okay. I can give you my number, so you can text me your address.”
He starts to pull out his phone, but you stop him.
“No need,” you say. At Seungcheol’s confused expression, you continued with a faint smile, “You have my card.”
His mouth opens briefly in realization before the corners are pulled up.
“One step ahead, I see,” he teases, pulling it out to inspect it as if confirming your number is there. You suppose he may think you’re lying to get out of going.
“I’ll text you then,” he concludes and places the card back.
“Alright,” you say, shifting your weight. You aren’t sure if he wants to say anything else. Why are you giving him the time to? You have already given him enough of it.
Sensing your readiness to leave, he waves as he slowly takes steps backward. “Drive safely, Yn.”
“You too, Seungcheol.”
You climb into your car’s seat, turn on the engine, and watch as he makes his way through the maze of cars until he is out of sight.
That Friday comes sooner than you would’ve liked.
Throughout the times you had met with your “friends,” you had bumped into Seungcheol one-third of the time. Sometimes, you were left alone with him again. Each interaction you had with him became easier the more you talked to him.
Dare you to admit; his presence wasn’t actually teeth-gritting anymore? At least when he was alone, you didn’t have to deal with his business friends. Despite him not usually laughing at their jokes, he never really stepped in to stop them teasing you at first. Maybe only a few times when he felt things got too heated. He wasn’t your best friend, but part of you did hope he would’ve said something.
Each time he didn’t, you felt your disappointment rise. He apologized on their behalf constantly, but his apology meant nothing when they kept insulting you. However, lately, he has been stepping in sooner. Although you didn’t want him fighting your battles initially, some things you couldn’t do alone. One thing you and his business friends had in common was that no one really knew where the sudden change of attitude came from. For once, you didn’t complain, though.
You’re tempted to cancel this outing, but talking to Seungcheol a few days ago made you realize he was a little more excited than he was letting on. The reason is unknown to you—maybe he really likes poetry lounges—but you’d feel slightly guilty if you ditch last minute.
It’s not like you haven’t been out on a Friday night with people, yet your heart is beating rapidly in your chest. You have changed about six times, exchanging your accessories with each outfit. Normally, you would dress up more, but these aren’t your friends you’re about to hang out with. They are Seungcheol’s—business majors who think skirts more than two inches above the knees mean you’re a slut. Though, you can’t figure out why that matters. You never dress with the thoughts of others. If you want to wear something that day, even if it’s “over-the-top” for some, you wear it. So, why are you in such a fashion dilemma now?
In the end, you settle for a simple, spaghetti-strapped red dress that is slightly bunched on the sides with strings that are tied in bows. You pair it with a small, heart-shaped purse and white heels. There isn’t any bling in your outfit, which is unusual for you. The accessories you wear are minimal and small. They are a matching cherry set you were gifted by your mother on your 12th birthday. Although it’s been years since you received them, they’re still wearable and delicate enough not to call much attention—unlike some of your other accessories.
You reach for a white fur jacket only to stop when your fingers graze it. Your eyes travel to yourself in the mirror as you debate on wearing it. The jacket will be too much, you conclude.
The buzzing of your phone catches your attention. It’s Seungcheol telling you he’s five minutes away. After stuffing your phone in your purse, you quickly apply red lipstick and toss it in your purse for later touch-ups.
When your phone buzzes again, you hurry to your front door. Your family is home, and you don’t want Seungcheol to meet them. Life at home isn’t ideal, and the only person who has a hint of what is going on is Dae. You doubt Seungcheol will find that out from one quick meeting, but you don’t want to risk it.
You throw your door open, ready to meet him at his car. Instead, he stands in front of you with a hand raised. He takes a step back in surprise. His eyes glide down your body quickly, but you’re too concerned about your family coming to notice.
“Oh, hey,” he greets. “I was just about to knock.”
Before any of your family can intervene, you close the door and start your way down the porch steps. Seungcheol follows you.
“You didn’t have to. I can make my way to your car by myself,” you answer. Although you’ve never been in his car before, you’ve seen it around. Plus, it’s the only unknown vehicle near your home.
You stand next to the passenger door and wait for him to unlock it, arms wrapped around your body when the chilly weather hits you.
“You sure you don’t want a jacket?” he asks when he notices you didn’t bring one.
“It didn’t go with my outfit,” you explain. It’s a lie. The coat did go with your fit, but you didn’t feel like disclosing the fashion crisis you had gone through.
Seungcheol chuckles. “So, you’re going to freeze instead?”
“It’s not that cold,” you lie again.
“It’ll get colder later, though,” he explains and comes closer to you. You step aside when he is a few inches from you. You press your arms tighter around you, eyes averting from his because of his close proximity. The small distance has you wanting to squirm away, but your feet can’t move. He peers at you with a small smile while he reaches behind you.
“My lady,” he murmurs when he pulls the door open and gestures for you to get inside.
“How chivalrous,” you reply after you force your nervousness away. You carefully slide inside his car, situating yourself comfortably in the seat.
Seungcheol waits to ensure you have all your limbs inside before shutting the door. As he walks around to the other side, your eyes scan his car. The seats are leather, and the interior has higher tech than you thought it would. It is a nice car—not overly luxurious, but enough to show it isn’t cheap. It makes you wonder how much it costs.
“You warm enough?” Seungcheol questions after he gets in and buckles.
“Yeah,” you reply quietly, hands resting awkwardly in your lap. The heat from the vents aids in your goosebumps disappearing.
Your mind is already wondering what to expect tonight. You know his friends aren’t fond of you. At least most of them. That guy, Vernon, seems nice enough. He is the quiet one in the group; however, you did notice he has his own quirks that make him unique. You foresee yourself hanging out with him most tonight. But even then, you don’t feel too great about going.
The longer you sit in Seungcheol’s car, the more you regret agreeing to this.
He stares at you for a moment; brows knitted together slightly. You feel uncanny acting so meek, and Seungcheol can't help but notice.
Silence consumes the small area for a few seconds until Seungcheol says, “Seatbelt.”
You look at him confused, then realize he is talking to you. Of course he is, who else?
“Right,” you mumble, quickly pulling the belt over your body.
“You don’t have to come, you know?” he says with one hand on the steering wheel while the other is on the gear stick.
You sigh and gesture to the road ahead. “Let’s just get going. I’ve got stuff to do after.”
It isn’t completely a lie. You still have to work on bringing your designs to life for the show, but it isn’t like you are behind schedule that you need to do that tonight. You just know you might actually back out if you ponder on leaving more.
Seungcheol bites his bottom lip, averting his focus to the road. He doesn’t reply and obliges to your request by shifting the car into drive.
During the ride, your gaze drifts to Seungcheol. He is relaxed in his seat. One arm stretches to hold the wheel while his other rests on his thigh. One which is clad in a pair of light-washed jeans with a black belt between the jean loops. He wears a white shirt tucked in and a black jacket.
You peer forward slightly to read what his shirt says. Propriety of Balenciaga? The Balenciaga? You don’t think he’s wealthy enough to afford one of those shirts. Perhaps it was a gift or a knock-off brand? Maybe he thrifted it… Though, Seungcheol doesn’t seem like the thrifting type.
“Do you need this?” he asks, breaking you out of your thoughts. He’s holding his jacket open to show you what he means. You must’ve been staring too much.
“No, I’m okay,” you say and turn your attention away quickly. “I just didn’t realize you wore glasses.”
Although the comment is true, you need something to say before he questions why you truly are staring at him. You had noticed the spectacles earlier but didn’t feel like mentioning them.
Seungcheol laughs lightly, “Actually, I don’t. I just thought I’d try to improve my fashion. What do you say, did it work?”
He glances at you after stopping at a traffic light; his mouth quirks up in a teasing smile. You turn toward him and scan his face quickly. They do look good on him, but you aren’t going to tell him that.
“They certainly did something, but whether that effect is good or bad is a secret,” you reply, looking away again.
“I’ll take that as you not wanting to admit they look nice on me,” Seungcheol says and continues driving at the green light.
“I think they’d look better on someone else,” you answer. Though, you don’t believe what you said. Something about the glasses on him has you wanting to stare at him more. They fit his face well and make him appear more attractive. You don’t want to sit on that thought for much longer.
“Is that so? Here,” he says, pulling them off his face. The glasses come into your view, and you stare at him, puzzled.
When you don’t take them, he adds, “They won’t bite.”
You roll your eyes at his comment and finally grab them from his grasp. You pull down his sun visor to look at yourself. After sliding on the spectacles, you turn your head from side to side to see the different angles.
“I think I was right. They do look better on someone else,” you tease and face him as you shut the visor. Seungcheol turns to you at your reply.
His eyes wander across your face, a hint of a smile appearing on his lips.
“Maybe I’ll have to agree with you this one time,” he says. His stare lingers on yours so much that it has you shifting in your seat. When you avert your gaze, your eyes widen.
“Cheol!” you shout as he was about to rear-end another car. Instinctively, he shoots an arm out across your chest that has your back pressing firmly against the seat. The sudden act causes you to reach up and grab onto his arm tightly.
The car screeches as it comes to a sudden halt. Luckily in time to not hit the other car.
You both sit still, breathing intensified at the near accident. After a few seconds, Seungcheol retracts his arm. It’s then you realize you’re still holding onto him. Your eyes dart to his forearm and frown when you see small crescent shapes indented in his skin.
“Sorry,” you say sheepishly.
Seungcheol’s focus is ahead of him but glances at you in confusion at your apology. “What?”
You quickly gesture to his forearm. When he sees the marks, he rubs a hand over them absentmindedly. “It’s fine. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Are you?” you reply, heart rate slowing down to normal.
“I’m alright. Sorry. I guess I shouldn’t make you play dress up in the car.”
“No, it was my fault.”
Seungcheol eases on the gas pedal when the light turns green, keeping a safe distance from the car in front. He remains quiet for a while to ensure you are both safe.
“Are you sure you’re okay? First, you apologize, and now something is your fault?” he jokes.
You don’t remember what you said a few minutes ago, so it takes a while for you to comprehend what he is saying. “Shut up,” is all you can respond with in the end.
Seungcheol laughs but doesn’t pester you about it any longer.
“Oh, you can take these back,” you say and tug off the reason for almost hitting another car.
“Thanks,” he mumbles as he slides the glasses back on his face.
You nestle yourself back in the seat again and glance out the window. As the buildings pass, it dawns on you that you’ve never called him Cheol. The thought of using a nickname for him has your body tingle with an unknown feeling. It’s strange. You aren’t the first to call him that, but you aren’t that close to him to start using nicknames. Annoyingly, you spend the remainder of the car ride fretting about how he felt toward you shortening his name.
Did he even notice? If he did, did he like it? Had you crossed a line?
When he parks, you become acutely aware of everyone’s attire. Many wear jeans or tights with a plain shirt and jacket. A few have on skirts or dresses, but they are more t-shirt dresses or plain skater skirts, if anything. Plus, they are accompanied by tights because of the weather. No one has as much skin showing as you do.
The sinking feeling of not belonging consumes you. You can’t remember the last time you felt this way, and that alone has you questioning yourself even more.
“I’m too dressed for this, aren’t I?” you think out loud.
Seungcheol turns off the car, eyes raking your body again. Though this time, you’re aware of it. You tug down the bottom of your dress at his stare. It’s not like it’s predatory, but it still has your nerves skyrocketing.
“Since when did you care about what others thought of your outfit?” he wonders. The question has you sighing, momentarily closing your eyes as you remind yourself you dress for you, not for others’ approval.
“Right,” you swallow harshly and sling your purse over your shoulder—mentally throwing away the negative thoughts too. “Let’s just go.”
With that, you open his car door and step out.
“Yn wait—” you hear Seungcheol call out right as you shut the door.
Your hair is immediately pushed from your face as the wind blows past. It makes your body shiver, and for a split second, you wish you took up Seungcheol’s offer to grab a jacket when you were at your house.
Seungcheol’s car beeps as it locks before he stands in front of you. His broad body blocks the wind, and you feel your own ease from feeling a tad warmer.
“I’m sorry if that came off rude,” he apologizes softly. “I think you look great.”
You look at him, face void of emotion. You don’t believe him, but you don’t want to argue. At least not standing in this weather.
“Okay,” you reply. “We need to go meet your friends.”
You take a step forward, thinking it will get him to start walking toward the building, but he doesn’t budge. You only decrease the distance between you two.
“I mean it,” he whispers.
Goosebumps are forming on your exposed skin the longer you stay out. You blame the cold weather for them, but something in your chest tightens at the way Seungcheol is speaking to you.
“I think red is your color,” he pauses. “You should wear it more, Cherry.”
Your head tilts at his last word. “Cherry?”
The corner of his mouth raises at hearing it from your lips. Slowly, he brings a hand to your face. You stand still as you stare at him with wide eyes. His hand brushes past your cheek before he grazes his fingertips along your ear.
“It suits you,” he murmurs, eyes moving away from yours.
You follow his gaze and realize he has been looking at your cherry-charmed earrings. His eyes then flicker to the matching cherry-charmed necklace resting below your bare collarbones. You’re not sure if he means the color suits you or if the nickname he just made suits you. Either way, you’re surprised at his words.
Suddenly, the weather doesn't feel as chilly anymore. Your body heats quickly at his comment, or maybe it’s from how close he is to you. Nevertheless, you need to distract yourself from this warm, odd feeling bubbling in your chest.
You clear your throat and step back. His hand lowers steadily.
“I’ll think about it,” you reply more confidently and clearly.
Seungcheol takes the hint and moves aside, hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. He nods his head in the direction of the building, and you start walking toward it. Your pace is slightly faster than his, but you don’t mind not walking next to him. If anything, you need distance from him anyway.
The moment you open the door to the lounge, the heat from inside greets you in full force. You step inside and are welcomed by a worker. He is young, maybe a few years younger than you. He gives you a friendly smile.
“Hi, are you wanting to be seated, or are you with a group already?”
“With a group,” you reply. The worker nods.
“Do you need help locating them?”
You shake your head as the jingle of the door opening sounds behind you. Seungcheol stops behind you. His hand comes to hover over your lower back, not really touching you, but close enough to feel the heat radiate from his hand onto your skin. It has you shuffling away.
“They’re over there,” he says. You peer up to see where he is gesturing. Fair enough, you see his friends at a table toward the back of the building. There are five of them, all smiling at each other. You can spot a few familiar faces—one of them being Vernon. You feel a little at ease knowing he made it here.
“Thanks,” you murmur to the worker before making your way to the table. The closer you get to the table, the slower your steps become. You’re used to keeping your chin high in situations you aren’t completely comfortable in. The whole “fake it until you make it” is on repeat in your head.
Yet the saying is not encouraging you much right now.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?” Seungcheol asks when he catches up to you. You don’t realize you had stopped a few feet from the table.
“No,” you say. You aren’t mad at him; you just need some space from him for now. You don’t like how you aren’t in control of your emotions when you’re around him. “I’m going to freshen up in the bathroom.”
Seungcheol eyes you for a second before nodding. You make your way to the bathroom, but right before you enter, you can hear the welcoming echoes coming from his table of friends. All of them sound cheerful and excited to see him. You don’t expect any of them to look forward to your presence, yet you feel a little disappointed when no one brings up your name—in a positive way.
After using the restroom and washing your hands, you stand in front of the mirror with your hands lingering under the warm water. Your eyes roam your face and body, taking in your appearance. Compared to your normal fashion, you really did dress down. You sigh when you realize you’re circling back to the same issue.
You retract your hands from the faucet and grab a few towels to dry them.
It doesn’t matter if you’re overly dressed. You usually are and don’t care. You look great. You should feel confident in your fit.
You gently tug the dress down before turning in front of the mirror.
You look fine. You look nice.
As you reapply your lipstick, you keep repeating compliments and reassuring phrases in your head.
They’re going to look at you funny. You are going to ignore them.
“That’s right,” you sigh to yourself as you toss the lipstick back into your purse.
Suddenly, your phone starts to vibrate. You pull it out to see Dae’s name appear across the top. You eagerly answer her call.
“Hey babe,” Dae’s voice comes from the other line. “How’s it going?”
“I’m ready to go home,” you say with a small huff.
“Damn, that horrible? Is he treating you badly?” Dae questions. You had told her about Seungcheol’s invitation when you got home that day. She was shocked, but ultimately supportive of you going.
You shake your head despite her not being able to see you. “No, he’s been fine. I just,” you pause. Although you have your ups and downs with Dae, she has stayed with you when no one else has. You don’t disclose your troubles often, wanting people to not see that side of you, but you’re feeling too low that you can’t stop the confession from coming out.
“I’m way overdressed for this place. Everyone’s in jeans or tights. I don’t belong here,” you say.
Dae sighs sadly. “Jeans are boring. I think I only own a pair,” she answers, trying to make you smile. “Just remember, if you were to die right now, would you want your last outfit to be something boring?”
“No,” you answer slowly.
“Exactly. These are people who are used to looking plain. They’re probably jealous you’re outdressing them. Don’t let them get to you, Yn. I’m sure you look beautiful.”
Your shoulders ease at her words. “Thanks, Dae.”
“No need. If they had the talent to dress themselves better, they would.”
You let her words sink in, but the reassurance doesn’t last long.
“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, beginning to pace the small area in the bathroom.
“It’s good for you to be around people from outside our department. It’ll make you more open-minded,” she encourages. “Plus, Seungcheol isn’t as bad as he seemed, huh?”
There is a teasing tone to her voice that you don’t like.
“One outing with him doesn’t mean he’s my friend,” you argue.
Dae giggles. “No, but it’s a start. Do you like him?”
“No!” you answer quickly.
“I was just asking in general. Not ‘like’ as in crushing on him,” she explains nonchalantly, but you can hear her smile.
“He’s,” you pause as you try to think of a word to describe him, “he’s been alright.”
“Well, I better let you get back to him then. I just wanted to check in,” Dae answers.
“Thanks. I appreciate it,” you say.
“Remember, you don’t need their approval. You never have, and you never will. People want the confidence you have.”
“I’m not feeling too confident right now,” you mumble.
“That’s because you’re overthinking. Chin up, okay?”
Sighing, you reply. “Okay.”
“Good. Talk to you later!”
“Yeah,” you say before hanging up.
Taking one last look at yourself, you roll your shoulders back and exit the bathroom.
Seungcheol is sitting in the middle of Hajun and someone you don’t know. His eyes lift to meet yours when he hears the sound of your heels.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks.
Nodding, your eyes roam for a spot to sit.
“You knew you were just going to a poetry lounge, right? Not the runway,” Hajun comments with a small scoff.
Your eyes move to look at her, and you quirk an eyebrow. She wears leggings with a graphic tee. Her discarded jacket is slung over the back of her chair. “Are you sure you know that, as well? Or did you think you were just going back to your bed?”
“This is how normal people dress,” she replies.
“Relax, Hajun,” a voice you don’t know sounds. You direct your attention to them.
The guy has black hair that is parted on the side to expose his forehead. His eyes are narrow, and even though he has a soft appearance now, you’re sure his gaze can be fierce when needed.
“People don’t need to dress up for special occasions,” he says.
You’re taken aback by his comment. Seungcheol’s friends have always questioned your wardrobe, so for this new “friend” to not agree with Hajun is surprising.
“No, they don’t, but you gotta’ admit she’s a little overdone huh, Soonyoung?” Hajun replies.
“Hajun,” Seungcheol interjects, giving her a pointed look.
“I understand not everyone knows how to dress. It’s okay, though. I can offer my services if you need some help,” you comment, half tempted to reach in your bag to get a business card. Although you aren’t on campus, you never know when you’ll run into someone who will make a good connection, so you keep them with you wherever you go.
“Services?” Hajun laughs and rests her crossed arms on the table. “And what ‘services’ are you offering? Because from the looks of it, I can tell exactly what you offer. Sorry, I’m not interested.”
Her eyes roam your body once more, indicating that the way you are dressed, means your services consist of paying to be with people in bed.
“I don’t think those services would help you anyway. Your rotting attitude is enough to repel anyone. Though I guess some people are willing to lower their standards when they’re desperate,” you counter.
“You’re such a—” she starts.
“Can we talk?” Seungcheol asks Hajun quickly, but he doesn’t give her the option to answer because he takes her hand and pulls her away from the group.
The table is silent for a few seconds before Soonyoung speaks up again.
“Don’t pay any mind to her. It’s nice to meet you. You must be Yn?” He smiles at you, slightly bowing at you.
“Correct,” you say, trying to not show how irritated you feel.
“Come sit,” he offers, pulling up a chair so you’re sat between him and Vernon. You thank him before sitting in the chair. You sit your purse in your lap as conversations begin to spark again.
Their voices become background noise as your gaze drifts to Seungcheol and Hajun in the corner. They stand close to each other and are in a deep conversation—clearly about you. Seungcheol has his back to you, so you can’t see his expression, but you can see Hajun’s. Her lips are in a frown, her expression not as sassy as before.
Though her pouting seems forced, her bottom lip a little too far stuck out. Soon enough, she rolls her eyes, an expression similar to how it was earlier. Her eyes then move from him to you over his shoulder. When she catches your gaze, she smiles and raises a challenging eyebrow. However, her gaze doesn’t last long because Seungcheol’s hand comes up and guides her eyes back to him. Even though his hand isn’t touching her completely, she leans into his touch. The act has you stilling.
“Yn?” Vernon questions, tearing you from your thoughts. You don’t realize you’re clutching your purse until your focus goes to Vernon. You ease your grip and raise an eyebrow.
“Soonyoung was asking what your major was,” Vernon explains.
“Oh,” you say, glancing around the table. It appears the others are in their own conversation.
You look at the man to your left. He gives you a reassuring smile that tells you he is patient. “I’m studying fashion design. Are you in business, too?”
Soonyoung shakes his head with a laugh. “I could never. I’m a dance major.”
“Wow, that sounds nice,” you say. “Aren’t your career choices limited with that, though?”
“A little,” Soonyoung replies honestly. He doesn’t seem offended by the question. Maybe he gets it a lot. “But it makes me happy. I can always teach or maybe even become a dancer in a well-known group.”
You hum, understanding his words.
“Isn’t fashion design limited, too?” Vernon asks.
“Clothes are everywhere. I can do a lot with it.”
“But not everyone will wear your clothes,” Hana says, having finally heard your discussion.
“There will always be someone,” you argue, confident in your work. It may be a slow start, but you believe in your designs.
She laughs. “Who? Your mother?”
Your eyes narrow at the mention of your mom, and Hana is quick to notice the change in attitude. Instead of letting go of the topic, she continues.
“Ooh, trouble at home? See? I knew the ‘Great Yn’ isn’t as perfect as she seems,” Hana says. What makes her think you are so “great” is unknown to you, but you aren’t surprised to guess people have made up a persona for you.
“Stop, Hana,” Vernon says, but it has no effect.
“Oh, so we were right?” Hajun’s voice comes from above. You glance up to see she and Seungcheol have returned. It appears their little chat did nothing to keep Hajun from being a bitch.
“Seems so,” Hana says with a smile. “Care to share with the class what kind of mommy issues you have?”
“No wonder she dresses like that,” Doyun, another one of Seungcheol’s alleged friends, adds. “She’s not getting attention at home. I guess Daddy isn’t there either?”
“That’s enough,” Seungcheol scolds them all.
Your eyes are darting from everyone at the table. Their stares are akin to shrink rays, making you feel tiny and minuscule. You know when you aren’t welcomed, and there’s no reason to stay listening to this. You want to snap back, end the conversation with your own last words, but nothing comes to mind.
In lieu, you push your chair back and stand up. Your hands twitch with the temptation to dump their food all over them, but you just want to get out as soon as possible.
You waste no time careening for the exit.
Seungcheol calls your name; you ignore it. The worker from before sees you, telling you goodbye, but you couldn't care less and push past the door before he can finish his sentence.
Your breath gets caught in your throat at the sudden breeze that slams into you. Instantly, your arms wrap around you once more. You glance around and see a bus stop down the street. You don’t care that it’s the other way from Seungcheol’s car. You hurry to the station, not sure when the next bus will come.
The bus stop isn’t deserted despite the cold weather. The area must be busy all the time since the sidewalks are littered with more people than you expect. All the seats at the stop are taken, yet you still shuffle under the shelter in hopes to get away from some of the breeze.
You are shaking, and your teeth are chattering. It’s impossible to force your body to stop since you need to generate heat somehow. You probably look like a pathetic naked chihuahua in winter.
You take out your phone, open up a browser, and search for bus times. Thankfully, there’s one coming in three minutes in the direction you need. The thought of taking the bus is not pleasurable. You hate the idea of your skin touching something so many others have touched. It feels unsanitary.
Accidentally leaning back against the wall while you silently groan has you jumping at the cold material touching your bare skin. Your jolt catches the attention of an older woman who is sitting near you.
“Aren’t you freezing, child?” she asks as she stares at your attire—or lack of.
“I’ll be fine soon,” you say, not really in the mood for talking.
“Where is your coat? Did you not know the weather was going to be cold?” she continues.
Utterly done with all the people-talk tonight, you hiss, “Focus on yourself. I’ll focus on me.”
She seems startled at your outburst. Her already crossed arms tighten as she turns away from you. Her muttered “bitch” doesn’t go unnoticed, but you don’t say anything about it. There’s no point in arguing with a stranger.
The sound of the bus calls your attention, and you mentally thank the universe for the great timing. After people leave and all the new patrons enter, you finally take a step up the bus’ steps. Before you can climb all the way, you hear your name being called. You look past the bus doors to see Seungcheol running toward you.
Just what you need.
You disregard him and step farther up the steps of the bus.
The bus driver looks expectantly at you, and it dawns on you that you need to provide payment before you can board fully.
“Card?” you wonder. The bus driver nods and gestures to a device to the right.
As you unzip your purse, you feel a hand grip your arm.
“Where are you going?” Seungcheol asks, slightly breathless. His hair is disheveled from running, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“Home, idiot,” you huff and pull your arm out of his grasp so you can retrieve your card.
“Just come with me. We can talk somewhere else,” he pleads, a hand stopping your movements again.
“I’m not going anywhere with you, Seungcheol,” you hiss. “Now, let go of me.”
He hesitates but slowly releases your arm. He doesn’t leave, though. “I’ll take you home. You don’t need to take the bus. Come on.”
“Go with him or get on! We have places to be,” a passenger exclaims, clearly annoyed with your drama.
You raise your head to the person, narrowing your eyes in a glare that tells them to pipe down. It has no effect on them. They shoot a fierce look back.
“I know you don’t want to take the bus,” Seungcheol comments quietly.
He’s right. Not only do you not want to sit next to a lady whose arms are filled with shopping bags—the only available seat—you really don’t want to add time to your trip home.
Seungcheol reaches out again and carefully takes your hand in his. This time, you don’t fight him as he guides you off the bus. Once you’re both off, the bus doors shut and begin its trip down the road.
You watch it silently, not knowing Seungcheol is discarding his jacket until you feel the warm material cover your shoulders. Your eyes snap back to him as if remembering who you’re with.
“I’m sorry they said all that stuff. I told them not to do that tonight,” he says remorsefully.
“Oh, so you’ll let them talk shit about me another day?” you chide and start walking away from him. Thankfully for Seungcheol, it’s in the direction of his car.
“No, that’s not what I meant,” he replies as he hurries to catch up, which doesn’t take much effort as you aren’t walking too fast due to your cold, stiff legs.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll do that whenever they want to. They wouldn’t be the first,” you scoff.
“It doesn’t make it right regardless,” he says. You halt in your steps, causing Seungcheol to stop and turn to look at you.
“I talk shit about people behind their backs, too. Does that make me a bad person?” you question. Perhaps if he sees you as one he’ll leave you alone.
He exhales a deep breath. “Let’s just get in the car, okay?”
“You can admit it,” you challenge and walk closer to him. “Does talking shit about someone make me a bad person, Seungcheol?”
He stares down at you, soft gaze turning dark with annoyance.
“To the car, Yn,” he demands slowly just in case you won’t understand; his tone is sharp in a way you haven’t heard before. You don’t let that scare you away. Maybe if you weren’t so fired up, you would have been a little intimidated.
You laugh darkly and roll your eyes at his command. “You want me to sit next? Bark, too?”
“Now, you’re just being dramatic.”
Dramatic, he says.
“Woof?” you reply, dramatically giving him the best puppy-dog eyes you can muster.
Seungcheol’s jaw clenches at your response—not pleased with your sarcasm. However, instead of replying in an annoyed tone, he takes a step forward. His head draws closer to your face to ensure your eyes are glued to his.
“Wanna be a good girl and go to the car, Cherry?” he murmurs lowly, an eyebrow quirking up for a second.
His sudden change in tone has you stiffening. You want to bite back—figuratively or literately… you aren’t sure yet—but you can’t even remember what you are mad about in the first place.
“Hm?” he croons when you don't reply quickly.
Rather than a sarcastic reply, you simply grumble, “whatever,” before pushing past him to get to his car.
You stand next to the passenger side like before, waiting for him to unlock it. Seungcheol comes beside you and swiftly unlocks the vehicle. Although you aren’t arguing at the moment, you can sense some irritation lingering from him.
You get the feeling he'll always hold the door open no matter how annoyed he is with you.
You feel suffocated.
The air in the car is too hot. The weight of his jacket has you overheating. The tension is unbearable.
Seungcheol keeps his eyes on the road, not throwing you a single glance as he drives. Every once in a while he will tighten his hold on the steering wheel. One time you even catch the way his muscles flex at the motion—now exposed from not wearing his jacket. You never realized how fit he is. This isn’t the first time you have seen him sleeveless, but you just never stared long enough to notice. Or if you did, you simply didn’t care. Regardless, you notice now, and you have to force your eyes away before he catches you staring.
You want to ask for music so you don’t have to sit in this insufferable silence, but your mouth feels dry. You decide to just deal with the quietness, shifting in the seat so you’re facing the window more. Your eyes drift close as you let the hum of the car distract you.
Seungcheol’s jacket is snuggled around you, and his woodsy cologne fills your senses. It’s pleasant, and you don’t mind if you smell more of it in the future.
By the time you arrive home, you are on the verge of sleep. You stumble out of the car and shut the door without saying a word to Seungcheol. You expect him to drive off, but the sound of his tires moving never comes. Instead, you hear his car door opening and closing.
“You don’t have to walk me to the door,” you say while you glance behind you. Seungcheol is following you languidly.
“No, I don’t,” he says and pauses at the bottom of your porch steps. He places a foot on the first step while a hand holds onto the rail. You have your keys out, ready to slide them into the keyhole when you speak.
“Then don’t,” you reply sternly.
He chuckles lowly but doesn’t say anything about it.
“You can go now,” you say when he doesn't move.
“You have something of mine.”
Puzzled, you stare at him for a second. Seungcheol gestures to your body, and you quickly remember you’re wearing his jacket. You tug it off and toss it to him. He grabs it from the air with ease. The loss of heat makes you wish he didn’t say anything.
“Goodnight, Cherry,” he murmurs as soon as you click open your door. You step inside before turning to face him.
The nickname you used earlier forms on your tongue, yet you can’t find the courage to say it consciously.
“Night,” you answer, then shut the door before either of you can say anything else.
With your head bowed, you turn the lock slowly while you exhale deeply. His nickname falls from your lips under your breath—unable to keep the desire at bay.
previous chapter \\ series masterpost // next chapter
A/N: Can't believe the first chapter is actually published 😭 I sat and stared at this for a few before hitting "post" because I'm so anxious! dfl;kbjdvs. Please feel free to share your thoughts on it so far!
For my “shy/silent” readers, I’ve created a feedback form where you can share your thoughts on my fics in a more anonymous and private way. ^-^
❀ Pairing: Jaeger Pilot!Lee Jihoon x Jaeger Pilot! f.reader
❀ Summary: It’s a known fact Lee Jihoon is one of the best pilots the jaeger Program has. The only problem? He can’t keep a co-pilot to save his life. He thinks you’ll just be another Ranger in the rotation, but you are an unpleasant surprise.
❀ Word Count: 23,373
❀ Genre: Pacific Rim AU, Forced Proximity, Annoyed to Lovers
❀ Type: Smut, Angst
❀ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.
❀ Warnings: Jihoon is a bit of an asshole, action/fighting scenes, brief descriptions of blood, mentions of offscreen deaths, brief mentions of sick parents, brief mention of having no family, sexual tension, explicit language, A Lot of Pacific Rim Techincal Terms But They’re Explained, terrible humor, a hint of angst, brief depictions of Jihoon being insecure about his childhood, sexually explicit content including nipple play, biting, a total of one (1) spank, oral (f. receiving), the slightest hint of voyeurism mentioned, unprotected sex (don’t do this), multiple orgasms, a lot of spit and cum, cum eating, vaginal fingering, a lot of biting, Jihoon is emotionally constipated and then lets it all out lmfaoooo
❀ A/N: HERE SHE IS. This story takes place in the Pacific Rim universe but you definitely do not have to watch the movie to enjoy it - I’m pretty sure I explain everything in terms of how it works but if something is confusing, please tell me and I will adjust! I hope you enjoy this Jihoon who has been the apple of my eye for like almost three months now. STAY TUNED FOR MY SECOND FIC IN THIS UNIVERSE SHARING CHAN AND WYLIE'S STORY :)
❀ A/N 2: SPECIAL THANKS TO @daechwitatamic for not only collaborating with me on our little corner of the internet, but beta reading this giant piece and constantly motivating me while writing it. I could not be anywhere without you I love u
❀ Also in this Universe: Cherry Bomb by @daechwitatamic
❀ Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All members of Seventeen are faces and name claims for stories. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios. Moreover, none of my works accurately reflect, represent or take a stance on the nuances of Korean culture, cities, people etc. Seventeen members are not Seventeen culturally, intellectually, physically, or representationally in my stories, and should be considered name and face stand-ins for made up characters.
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Jihoon doesn’t flinch when Xander throws his helmet against the wall. The crash is loud, but the reinforced material doesn’t crack under the force of the concrete. It clatters to the floor while Jihoon tucks his helmet under his right arm. Sweat drips down the side of his neck and down his back, but he can’t get to it while in his Drivesuit.
Just add it to his list of inconveniences.
Everyone in the room freezes as Xander storms toward the command center and right for the Marshall in charge, his steps thunderous against the metal floor. Instead of following him, Jihoon leans against the doorframe, watching the way his co-pilot rages, imagining steam coming out of his ears.
“I can’t fucking pilot with him,” Xander screams, stabbing an accusatory finger in Jihoon’s direction. “I refuse to do it. Reassign me.”
Eyes drift toward Jihoon. He ignores them, watching as Xander stops at the command post where both the Marshall and the LOCCENT Mission Controller who just walked them through their kaiju fight stand. Both of them stare at Xander, who is red in the face, chest heaving.
It’s a bit of an overreaction, especially for a team who just dispatched a Category Four kaiju. But it doesn’t matter. Xander isn’t Jihoon’s first co-pilot and he won’t be his last. They rarely last long, a cycle of Rangers who cannot stand to work with him for more than a few fights. Jihoon examines the scratches on his suit, thinking that he needs to get it buffed while the Marshall deliberates how to answer Xander’s demands.
“Ranger-”
Xander cuts off the Marshall. Bold, if you ask Jihoon. “I’ll leave the fucking program if that’s what I have to do. I won’t pilot with him anymore, I don’t care that we can drift. He won’t trust me, he won’t give up the reins and he refuses to let me in. He’s arrogant and pig headed!”
“Pig headed,” Jihoon mutters to himself. “That’s new.”
The Marshall sighs heavily, eyes drifting toward Jihoon, who is still leaning against the doorframe. He lifts a single shoulder in a shrug, unsure what the Marshall expected. Pinching the bridge of his nose, the Marshall asks Xander to follow him, gesturing toward the door at the back of the command center that leads into offices.
Silence blankets the room at their departure. At least, as silent as it can get in the jaeger hub. The beeping of machinery and radar is a constant sound under the hum of machinery and the awkward cough of one of the workers in the room. Jihoon raises his brows as if to ask someone to say something. No one does and he nods, dismissing himself.
Laughter trails up the stairs followed by loud steps. He looks down to see Chan and Wylie coming up the stairwell, cheeks flushed and hairlines sweaty from their battle with Dreadfury only minutes earlier. Their team had the assist on the kill, and though they hadn’t landed the final blow, their constant offense had given Jihoon and his partner the time they needed to figure out how to move in.
Chan sees Jihoon and raises a questioning brow, pausing in the stairs. “Lose your co-pilot?” he asks, looking Jihoon up and down.
“How’d you guess?”
“Standard,” Chan and Wylie say at the same time.
They do that a lot, so in sync that despite the fact that they’re two different people, sometimes Jihoon feels like he’s talking to one. Wylie is a little shorter than Chan, but just as furious in personality and attitude. She leans against Chan, cocking her head to the side. It’s not a conscious movement but an instinct, her body naturally attaching to her co-pilot’s. Jihoon knows that level of closeness well.
“Think they’ll just finally get rid of you?”
“Nope.”
“Standard,” they both say in unison again. It’s Chan who says, “Must be nice to get away with murder, Woozi.” He continues up the stairs, clapping Jihoon on the shoulder as he goes. Wylie trails behind him, shooting Jihoon a grin. “One day you’re gonna end up on your ass.”
“That’s fine. You’ll both take me in, right?”
Both of their voices meld as they howl in laughter, passing him and going into the command center, yelling “Nope!”
Despite their teasing, Jihoon smiles. He’s known the pair for years and despite their ability to get under his skin, he’s fond of them. They’re good jaeger pilots, scrappy as they come and vicious in the field. Unlike Jihoon, they’ve piloted their jaeger together from the start, syncing like twin flames and sticking to one another.
It helps that they grew up together, of course. And that they’re in a relationship, one heart, one soul.
Sighing, Jihoon jogs down the rest of the stairs, tired and sore. He needs a shower, food and a fucking nap. He and Xander had been pulling extra shifts, the kaiju activity having increased with the bad weather. He suspects it was also in an attempt to get Jihoon to bond with Xander more and get him to open up, but that hadn’t happened.
That’s the problem with piloting with Jihoon. The more time people spend with him, the less they can stomach the way he resists them in the mental bridge that connects co-pilots. It isn’t that he’s afraid for them to see what’s in his head - they haven’t earned a right to his privacy.
Privacy is important to him.
Murmurs ripple through the cafeteria as he enters, rolling his head to the side to try and workout the kink that is formed there. He glances around and fights the urge to roll his eyes. Word spreads fast when you’re secluded in the Shatterdome with nothing but fucking ocean and giant monsters around you.
As usual, he ignores the stares and whispering. He catches Soonyoung’s eye from afar and shrugs when his friend gives him a questioning glance, earning an eye roll. Not for the first time, Jihoon finds himself wondering why someone like Soonyoung or Wonwoo can’t be his partner.
Drift compatibility.
He knows that’s the answer, but he’ll never stop wishing that pairing jaeger pilots together was a little easier. So many factors go into making people drift compatible and yet he’s yet to find a partner he can tolerate - or tolerate him in return. If it were as easy as picking his friends, he’d have settled with someone long ago.
Brushing away the thought, he heads to his room. It doesn’t matter what he wants. If wishes were horses, everyone would be a rider. He’s pretty sure that one of his former co-pilots had said that - in regard to Jihoon being impossible to work with, of course.
The dark and quiet of his room brings the peace Jihoon craves. He feels the tension melt from his shoulders. He suddenly realizes how tired he is, feeling like parchment stretched too thin over a rough surface. He peels himself out of his clothes methodically, welcoming the chill of the room against his sweaty skin.
He trails to the shower, tossing his clothes in the hamper as he does. Leaving the lights on so it’s only the dull orange glow over his bed, he turns on the shower as hot as it will go. It takes a second, but soon steam is filling the room, choking him as he slides under the stream of water, sighing as the heat of it burns away any lingering frustration for the day.
Tomorrow, he’ll have a new partner. It’s a simple fact and a routine he is familiar with. That’s fine with him - they can keep assigning people to him until they find someone competent. Jihoon isn’t going anywhere.
He has nowhere else to go anyway.
-
“I need you to do me a favor,” Kira says before you can finish stepping out of the jaeger. The Marshall of the Sydney Shatterdome looks deadly serious. You scoff under the helmet, reaching up to unclasp it and shuck it off. Fresh air fills your lungs. It’s hot and tastes like metal in the jaeger bay, but it’s familiar. “And I need an answer quickly.”
“Ever heard of foreplay?” you grunt, helping Maya out of the giant mech behind you. She shoots you a thankful grin, taking off her helmet. Her face is flushed pink, hairline sweaty. “You really just dive in dry, huh?”
“You know my cousin is a Marshall of a Shatterdome overseas?”
You pause. “Yeah.”
“They’re asking for a skilled pilot to pair with one of their Rangers. They sent over the drift profile and you’re the only pilot we have that’s a match.” You frown and she holds out a hand to stop your protest, a crease in her mouth. “Just look over the report and the profile I sent you, alright?”
“I mean, my answer is no. I’m fine here.”
“You are. You’re one of our best teams,” Kira says earnestly, her dark eyes flicking between you and Maya. “But respectfully, your value is needed elsewhere. There isn’t enough activity here to keep a veteran of your status on shift, Blue.”
You feel a flicker of uncertainty. Rarely does Kira use your nickname. It’s too familiar for a military commander of her status, and though you’ve considered her a friend for years, she never uses your nickname on shift. Unless she really needs something from you.
Licking your lips, you hesitate to answer. You don’t want to say she’s right about your skillset and risk insulting your coworkers and other pilots in the jaeger Program, but it’s an accurate statement. The Shatterdome you report to is old - one of the first built in the beginning. But kaiju activity is mostly unpredictable, shifting with the tides. You barely get them once a month anymore, and there are too many pilots who need the practice.
You don’t.
You glance at Maya and she offers a soft smile. “Hey, I didn’t think you’d be my co-pilot forever. Hoped, maybe. But I didn't expect it.”
“Oh come on, I’m with you for life, Maya.”
“Romantic.” Maya’s gaze softens. “Marshall has a point, though. We’re a little… slow here.”
It makes a pang go through your heart. Maya has been your co-pilot since your mother passed away, and though you didn’t go through the Ranger training program with her, she’s the perfect balance to you. You like having her around, and the thought of changing pilots just because someone wants your experience is… unideal.
Sensing your unease, Maya reaches out and touches your forearm, squeezing over the metal of your Drivesuit. Her smile is soft. Knowing. Like she knew that being in the drift with you wasn’t forever, and she’s already saying bye.
“Look,” Kira sighs, bringing your attention back to her. “My cousin really needs a skilled pilot and someone who is a leader and isn’t afraid of working with veteran pilots. They get more activity, and they need someone sharp. Skilled. Strong.”
“I mean, I’ll look over the papers.”
“Thank you.” She steps away. “I need to know by the end of the day, though.”
“Jesus Christ, Marshall. End of the day is in like two hours.”
Her smile is firm. “I know.”
Waving her off, you leave your jaeger behind, Maya trailing after you. She peppers you with encouragement as you walk, steps heavy on the metal catwalk. You don’t respond right away, thoughts trying to catch up with being thrown an offer immediately after slamming a monster back into the depth of the ocean just minutes ago.
You don’t have to ask why you. Drift compatibility alone is important enough to move jaeger pilots around the world from Shatterdome to Shatterdome in order to make the best pairs possible. There aren’t a ton of pilots - especially among the younger ones - at your base that are compatible with you.
Stubborn, Kira had always said. Finding an equally dominant co-pilot that meshes with you is difficult. You suspect that if you were not extremely talented at what you do and a veteran at your base, they might have moved you to an advisory position a long time ago.
Advising is not for you, though. The grind of metal and the heat of the fight is where you thrive, letting your mind go empty, entirely driven by instinct. Instinct was the reason you were so good at fighting kaiju. Your mom had always said you had the instinct of a warrior, and after putting down as many monsters to protect humanity’s coasts, you had to agree.
Maya immediately goes to the shower once you reach your shared room. You dive onto the bottom bunk, snatching the tablet sitting on your night stand. Your eyes squint from the brightness, sensitive in the dim room. Clicking through your emails, you find the reporting and profile from Kira and open it, information unfurling before you.
“Huh,” You muse, raising your brows as Lee Jihoon appears on your screen. “I know your name.”
His profile is impeccable - and so is his skill. Chewing on your lip, you throw yourself onto your cot and flip through all of the materials provided on your potential co-pilot. Veteran Ranger. Highly skilled in combat. Top of his class in the academy.
Clicking on the attachments, you watch the attached videos. There’s clips from his fights in and out of the suit. You find yourself hypnotized by his fighting style. There is a beauty to it, but it’s absolutely lethal. Efficient. There are no extra flourishes, no showmanship. Lee Jihoon fights to kill.
“So why do you need me?” you mutter to yourself, pulling up his past partners. The list is extensive, stretching back to multiple co-pilots over weeks at a time. “Jesus christ. You do not play nice.”
He must not, at least. Half of the pilots assigned to him are only barely compatible. You know it takes more than just matching fight styles, but based on the history glowing at you from the screen, Jihoon’s Marshall was doing anything they could to keep him, even if it meant pairing him with someone who was scoring as low as 54% compatible.
Pulling up your side-by-side analysis, you whistle. 98% was a good fucking number. You’d only ever had 90% with your mom, and she was genetically linked to you. Still, with as many partners as Jihoon has had in the past year alone, you don’t know that it’s worth it, even if his base has more kaiju activity and looks to be in need of veteran fighters.
Sighing, you close the tablet and throw it on the pillow. Resting your head against the metal wall, you close your eyes, thinking. You’re happy where you’re at. You’re a leader here, and you like Maya as your partner. She’s young and eager to learn - and you like your jaeger. Shadow Stalker is a good suit, though a little older.
Biting your lip, you grab the tablet again, opening the jaeger details on Jihoon’s profile. Newer model. Built for endurance. Equipped with multiple blades, suited for pilots who prefer sword-style fighting. She’s painted gray-blue like the deepest part of a storm - blue like your mother’s first jaeger, which makes you grin.
Storm Breaker. It’s a good name for a jaeger and it matches the profile. She’s built to withstand the brutal waves of the deep ocean and the onslaught of a high-category kaiju. Your interest is piqued, curious about Storm Breaker and her brutal pilot.
Closing the tablet again, you stare into the distance, thinking. “What’s your deal, Lee Jihoon?”
-
Jihoon hates sparring with Chan almost as much as he hates sparring with Wylie. Chan doesn’t scratch at Jihoon like a feral cat like Wylie might, but he does bite, which is exactly what he does when he can’t get out of Jihoon’s hold.
“You fucker,” Jihoon hisses, letting him go. Chan slips out of Jihoon’s grasp and rolls to his feet a few feet away, crouched low and ready to go again. Despite years of being a jaeger pilot, Chan nor his co-pilot have fallen out of their scrapy upbringings, fighting like two street orphans. “What, are you going to bite a kaiju if you can?”
“Of course not. I just don’t like losing to you.”
“Too bad.” Jihoon straightens and lifts his fists, planting his feet firmly. Sweat slicks the back of his neck, wispy pieces of hair escaping his hair tie and sticking to damp skin. “No more biting.”
“No promises.”
Somewhere behind him, Jihoon hears Minghao shriek. “She bit me!”
Scratch that. Maybe Wylie does bite.
Chan comes at Jihoon again. He’s a good fighter and he’s ruthless. It’s one of Jihoon’s favorite things about him. But there’s always an opening, always a moment between fluid movements that reveals itself that Jihoon can take advantage of.
He does exactly that, going on the defense, watching and waiting for the moment. When it reveals itself, Jihoon strikes lightning fast, catching Chan in the chest hard and taking him down to the ground. Jihoon feels the wind leave Chan’s lungs as he coughs hard, head smacking the mat.
Behind them, Jihoon hears the collective wince. Chan is dazed for a second, groaning underneath Jihoon’s hand pressed to his chest. He can feel the hammering of Chan’s heart, a little faster than his own. When it’s clear Chan isn’t going to claw at him, Jihoon stands and offers him a hand.
With a heaving sigh, Chan takes it. Jihoon claps him on the back, grinning as Chan tries to catch his breath, rubbing the back of his head. “That hurt.”
“Oops.” Chan looks over Jihoon’s shoulder and grins, causing him to turn around and follow the younger’s gaze. Wylie sweeps her feet under Mingho’s, knocking him to the mat. She pounces like a creature from hell before he can react, pinning him down. “Well, at least one of us didn’t get our ass beat today.”
“Stop biting, Dino,” Jihoon says as they trail off the mat, a warning. Chan has the decency to look chagrined, bowing slightly to his superior. Jihoon adores the kid, but he will not serve as a chew toy.
Grabbing a water, Jihoon sits down on the floor with Seungkwan, Soonyoung and Seokmin as Junhui and Minghao trade places. Minghao is nursing a scratch on his neck from Wylie’s nails, muttering about her being a demon straight from hell as he sits. Wylie gives her new opponent a wicked grin, taking her place on the mat and beckoning Junhui toward her. Jihoon shakes his head, gulping down water and leaning back on his hands.
“Fresh blood,” Soonyoung notes, gesturing toward the training room entrance as the Marshall leads a group of people in. “They’re holding trials for the two new mark fives tomorrow. Wanna go?”
“No.”
Soonyoung laughs. “Come on, they might be looking for another partner for you too.”
“Don’t care.”
“You can’t keep going through partners, man.”
Jihoon doesn’t react, eyes scanning the group of cadets. They all look fresh-faced and in awe as they’re led around the mats, wide eyes glued to the sparring pilots as they go. His eyes settle on you, though, pausing.
You don’t have the same awestruck wonder as the other cadets, trailing behind them as your eyes scan the structure, the fighters and the equipment around you. Calculating. Critical. You’re a little older than the other cadets too - not in looks but in aura, chin lifted, gaze sharp. Experienced.
Soonyoung follows Jihoon’s line of sight and straightens. “Woah. Who is that?”
“My new drift partner,” Seokmin sighs dreamily. Soonyoung and Seungkwan smack him at the same time, offended. They’re one of the few triple pilot groups, operating a massive piece of machinery made for slaughtering and hammering down on high-grade kaiju. “What? Look at her!”
“You shouldn’t fuck your co-pilot,” Seungkwan mutters. “Look what happened to Seungcheol and Cherry. She’s still at that training facility in Alaska. Didn’t come back after their drift glitched.”
A collective hum goes through them. All of them recall that situation, but no one says a thing. The weight of Cherry’s absence sits heavy on them - even Jihoon misses her a little.
“I don’t know,” Soonyoung notes cryptically, eyeing Wylie. She’s managed to get Junhui off his feet, slamming him down with a rattle of mat and springs, pinning him with a savage growl. Wylie Coyote indeed, Jihoon thinks, smirking. “Seems to work for Wylie just fine. God, look at Chan, he literally has heart eyes. Disgusting.”
It’s true. The pilot in question sits at the edge of the mat, elbows resting on top of his knees as he watches his girlfriend with his mouth open, lips upturned a little. His eyes are dazed, focused on Wylie as she holds onto a thrashing Junhui. There’s so much love in his gaze that Jihoon averts his eyes, worried he’s observing something sacred and private.
“Not everyone is like them,” Seungkwan shoots back. “They share a brain cell.”
“We’re literally drift partners. We basically do the same thing.”
“And yet I don’t want to fuck you, Hoshi.”
Soonyoung cocks his head to the side. “You know, that brings up a valid question-”
“No,” the other three say at the same time, cutting him off before he can get going.
Still, Seungkwan’s point is valid. The drift is something that is so intimate that it isn’t uncommon for copilots to have a romance or some sort of tension. The neural handshake makes you become one, unable to hide anything. It is inviting someone else into your head to see everything you see, everything you have seen. Memories, feelings, thoughts - nothing is yours anymore.
Jihoon hides it all from his co-pilots. He knows he’s not supposed to - openness and being honest and true with your partner makes for a better drift. But the intimacy of the connection makes him uncomfortable, and he’s not ready for anyone to see him - really see him.
So he hides in the drift. Knows how to bring nothing to it, to give only the parts of himself he has to in order for his partner to fight alongside him. Jihoon gives nothing more. And they don’t need it, frankly.
The Marshall leads the new recruits back out of the room. He watches you go, wondering what your deal is. As though you sense his eyes on you, your eyes flicker over to his, catching his gaze. He’s unsure why, but he pauses, the room stilling for a split second. Then you’re grinning wickedly, vanishing from the room.
He brushes it off and turns his eyes back to his friends.
-
Lee Jihoon is prettier in person. You don’t know why it’s the first thing you notice as you watch him walk across the training center. He’s dressed in fitted cargo pants and a racing jacket over a t-shirt, emphasizing his broad shoulders. His hair is bleached and pinned into a low bun, some of his bangs hanging in his dark eyes. He doesn't notice you watching him as he nears an empty mat, shedding the jacket.
He’s compact. Small, but toned, muscles rippling as he begins to go through a series of stretches. You know he’s a good fighter from your observations the day before. Everything about him screams efficiency. You can’t put your thumb on it, but the way he carries himself is methodical.
Lee Jihoon is the perfect jaeger pilot on paper.
It’s the partners that he has a problem with. He’s had eight co-pilots in the last year alone, which is more than anyone has the right to. Before that, he managed to keep someone for six months before they requested a transfer to a different location.
You sense Jihoon’s gaze, realizing he’s picked up on your staring. His expression is as neutral as it was yesterday, as though he has zero interest in whoever you are. He must not - he turns away and gets back to what he was doing, the moment passing without fanfare.
Everyone in the room is paired with their pilots, going through fight sequences. You watch the different pairs, noting those who exhibit high-drift compatibility and others who are still learning. You note how many talented pilots this base has, likely due to the high activity.
As though the thought summons the very creatures from the depths of the ocean, an alarm goes off. You don’t flinch, used to the kaiju alert system. It had gone off the day before, though. You look up at the screen as it flashes the names of the pilots on duty, calling them to report to the drop bridge.
A few shouts of good luck draw your attention to the center of the room where two of the younger pilots head out. You’d seen them sparring earlier, so in time with one another that you weren’t sure where one began and one ended. The man looks at the girl and gives her a smile so full of love that you look away, startled at its intensity.
While romantic connections between pilots aren’t totally uncommon, you’re not used to it. Most of the Rangers at your old base were family members and childhood friends, connection deep and intimate but not like that. You wonder what it must be like, if it makes love any easier to be that deeply connected.
“So are you my new co-pilot?” a soft voice startles you and you turn to see that Jihoon has snuck up on you. His eyes are darker in person, entirely consuming as he looks down at you with a cocked head. His blonde hair sticks to his forehead, pale skin covered in a sheen of sweat. “You must be, right?”
“What makes you think that?”
“You’re not a cadet. And you’ve been watching me for the better part of two hours.”
You shrug. “You can learn a lot from watching veterans.”
“You could at least offer to spar to see if we’re any good together.”
“You mean to see if I’m good enough for you.” He lifts a shoulder, not disagreeing with you. Wiping your palms on your knees, you stand up. Even though he’s small, you’re still a little shorter than him, nearly eye level. You stick your hand out, giving him your name. “But you can call me Blue.”
Instead of taking your hand, he nods and turns on his heel, striding back to the mat he occupied earlier. You stand and stare at the newly vacated spot, hand held out in the air. “Alright,” you mutter to yourself, dropping your hand and going after him.
Eyes follow you. You can feel them as you trail after him, watching his smooth, even gait. Everything about Jihoon is refined and controlled, even down to the minute expressions as he steps onto the mat and turns to face you. Sliding your shoes off, you join him, feeling the spring beneath your step and the softness of the floor.
Jihoon heads to a rack of bo staffs, picking one up and tossing it to you. You snatch it, spinning it lightly to test the weight. The balance is near perfect, a slight weight to the left side. You adjust accordingly, grip firm. Jihoon does the same, spinning his staff and rolling his shoulders.
“Who were those pilots called to make the drop?” you ask, conversational.
“Dino and Wylie.”
“Good pilots?”
He takes his stance. “Excellent. They’re terrors. It won’t be a problem for them. Are you right handed or left handed?”
“Ambidextrous.”
“Good.”
You don’t know why, but his assessing gaze bothers you suddenly. Like you know that even though you know you’re an excellent fighter, it still won’t be enough for him. The thought that you’ve lost before you even begun pricks a nerve and you strike first.
It’s immediately obvious why you’re compatible. Jihoon knows your next move before you know what it is. You feel him move like an instinct, imagining his attack and defense before it happens. It isn’t a fight, but a dialogue, two skilled fighters communicating in a pattern only familiar to them.
Sweat slicks the back of your neck and back. You barely register it, losing yourself in the rhythm of Jihoon’s movements. The sound of the training gym fades to the background and you barely hear the crack of your staffs as they meet over and over again. You hardly see him, vision fading to a narrow point of instinct.
This is how you fight. Muscle memory, driven by intuition.
Your intuition tells you that you’re perfectly matched, fighting style so similar that it’s hard to get a hit in - you won’t get a hit in, too in sync with him to out maneuver him.
So you deviate.
Instead of dodging a smack to the ribs, you let him hit you. His surprise is so apparent that he breaks his concentration and you strike, foot sweeping behind his ankle and pulling, knocking him from his feet. Jihoon goes down hard, breath leaving his lungs as you pounce, pinning him.
For a second, it’s just the two of you. His heart pounds, chest heaving in time with yours. Even your breaths are evenly matched, a tempo that is deeper than most human understanding. Drift compatible. You feel it the same way you feel the spark of his skin even through the fabric of his shirt. You’re so aware of it that you don’t hear what he says at first, his mouth moving but no sounds coming out.
“What?”
“That doesn’t count,” he asserts. “I hit you first. The fight is over after that.”
You frown. “The fight doesn’t end until there’s a killing blow. A swipe to the ribs wouldn’t do it.”
“That isn’t how that works.”
“There are no rules of engagement in the ocean.”
He scowls. “There are basic principles to fighting. You lose when you get hit first.”
“Do you lose when a kaiju hits you first? Or do you keep fighting?”
Jihoon huffs underneath you, shaking his head. You’ve still got him pinned, your palm pressed to his chest and your knee planted in his stomach. He glances away from you and you become aware that everyone has stopped to watch the two of you spar.
And you’re still on top of him.
Clearing your throat, you climb off of him smoothly. You offer a hand to help him up but he doesn’t take it, getting up on his own. He’s flushed, cheeks tinged peak and mouth twisted in frustration. You watch him as he gives the room around you a cutting glance, making everyone immediately turn back to what they were doing.
Jihoon puts his staff back and you watch him. He looks minorly irritated on the surface, but you can see it rippling deeper than that. He’s unsettled and it makes you grin.
“This won’t work,” Jihoon says as he turns back to you, crossing his arms over his chest. You ignore the way his biceps flex and blink at him in confusion. “You can’t be my partner.”
“What? We’re compatible. That was one of the best fighting flows I’ve ever had.”
“We’re too different in principle.”
That gets a frown from you. “I don’t think so at all. You let your instinct guide you. So do I.”
“You deviate.”
“I let the natural dialogue of the fight lead me.”
You let silence fall between you. You can see why so many other pilots had issues with him. Jihoon approaches every statement as though it is the absolute truth, a fact that cannot be disproven. He speaks with the authority of someone who knows he’s right often, and frequently goes unchallenged.
Instead of letting him get a rise out of you, you switch topics. “Are you hungry?”
He pauses. “What?”
“What part of the question didn’t you understand? Are you hungry?”
Jihoon is perplexed. You’re sure that by now, mostly people have visibly grown upset with the combative dialogue. You don’t mind much, watching as he thinks on your question. You take the opportunity to appreciate the gentle slope of his nose up close, the delicate curve of his mouth, the contrast of feminine and masculine features that make an exquisite face.
Then Jihoon unfolds his arms and walks past you. You turn to follow him but he says over his shoulder, “I don’t want to have lunch with you. We’re not friends.”
There’s no room for argument in the way that he says it. You watch him as he leaves, never once turning back.
-
You are vexing.
There isn’t another word to describe you. Jihoon hasn’t the slightest idea how you’ve managed to so thoroughly irritate him at your first encounter, but he can’t stop thinking about how frustrated he is when he slams his tray down on the table.
It’s a little early for lunch, mostly engineers and staff going on shift soon filling the room to eat quickly. The giant clock above the entryway to the cafeteria resets and Jihoon relaxes a little, confirming that Chan and Wylie are fine. He knew they would be - a Category Two kaiju is nothing for a pair like them.
Jihoon finds himself thinking of you. Of what you must be able to do in a jaeger.
Curious, Jihoon looks up your name. It rings a bell - you were pretty renowned at your homebase. Clicking through videos, he sets his phone on the table as he eats, eyes glued to the screen. Your drops are easily accessible to him, clicking through them as he eats.
There is something hypnotizing the way you and your old co-pilot Maya Veliz fight. You’re efficient and without flashy moves, which he can appreciate. But there’s a speed at which you make decisions and take risks that has him shaking his head.
Yet, there is something vaguely familiar. He pauses his meal to watch closer, realizing what it is. There is a brutality to your fighting that he recognizes in himself, a need to kill. You fight to win, willing to take a little damage if it means you can deal the final blow.
The thought unsettles him. Your fighting style is so similar to his that he would be lying if he tried to say otherwise. There is logic and calculation to your moves, but then there’s always that deviation. That random blip in your pattern that is unexpected and dangerous.
“Will watching my drop footage make you like me more?”
Your voice startles him. He drops his fork and it clatters against the table, loud in the soft din of the cafeteria. You’re leaning over him, a smirk on your face and a devilish glint dancing in your eyes as you look at his phone screen where you successfully put down a kaiju.
“Deathclaw wasn’t very impressive. It was pretty small. My mom and I took out Umbraxis my first year, though.”
Jihoon snatches his phone and locks the screen, putting it face down. He scowls down, feeling his heart flip a little. Your scent drifts over to him at your proximity, a mix of amber and jasmine. It’s already familiar to him, having caught the scent when you pinned him down earlier, hand pressed to his heart-
You sit across from him and he looks up at you. His mind goes blank, staring as you unwrap your silverware picking up a fork to stab a piece of chicken and pop it into your mouth. You hum happily, totally unaware - or maybe unbothered - at his increasing irritation.
“Tell me about your jaeger,” you demand - not ask. Your eyes find his, two pools of curiosity that have his tongue heavy, words sticky. “I want to know all about her.”
“You’re not going to make the drop with me.”
The curve of your mouth is wicked. “Tell me anyway.”
For a few minutes, Jihoon doesn’t answer. He waits to see if the silence will push you away or make you anxious. It doesn’t seem to. You keep eating without saying anything else, occasionally glancing at him with a cocked brow as if to suggest you have all the time in the world.
“She was re-outfitted two years ago,” Jihoon says slowly. He doesn’t know why he’s answering you at all, but he continues, “Mark-5 now with the new outfitted tech - she’s still nuclear-driven to avoid any EMP attacks. Outfitted with GD6 steel-obsidian chain swords on each arm, but there are also smaller, detachable blades for hand-to-hand fighting, along with some projectiles. She’s also got a lightning strike powered by the nuclear-core but it can only be used once, and only as a last resort. It obliterates local wildlife in the water.”
“What’s the suspension look like?”
“Gyro-stabilizers to stay fluid when fighting and L-10 locks on all of the joints to strap in and withstand damage. She’s built to take a lot of blunt-force and melee attacks, but she’s top heavy if she loses footing.”
“Have you only been in Storm Breaker?”
He nods. “Since my first drop.”
“She’s beautifully built.”
Jihoon doesn’t respond. It does bring him a small sense of pride to know that you admire the jaeger he fights in, but he doesn’t thank you. He suspects you notice but doesn't say anything, which surprises him. You seem like the stubborn type who doesn't like to back down from a fight, and yet multiple times this morning you’ve conceded to him, refusing to get upset.
It bothers him. He can’t tell if it’s because you’re a people pleaser or if you think you're gentle-parenting him, and he doesn’t like it either way.
So he doesn’t talk to you. He lets the conversation die there, despite sensing your amusement from across the table. He feels the grip on his fork increase, metal biting into his palms as he tries to ignore you. He can smell the jasmine and amber of your perfume, which makes him feel more insane, and he can’t help but steal glances at you and dart his eyes away.
You’re pretty. He’s had attractive co-pilots before. That’s not new, nor has it ever bothered him. Something about you draws the eye, though. He thinks it’s the aura of confidence you give off, effortlessly comfortable in your skin and your situation, despite Jihoon not making it any easier on you.
“Hi,” The raspy voice interrupts Jihoon’s thoughts and he looks up as Wylie slams her tray down on the table. She’s sweaty, freshly peeled from her Drivesuite and offering a hand to you as she gives her full name. “You can call me Wylie, though. Everyone does. Are you Woozi’s new co-pilot?”
“Yes,” you answer at the same time Jihoon says no. “Though I didn’t know that was the name he preferred.”
Wylie shoots him a sly grin and sits down next to him. He curses and scoots over, the younger girl nearly on top of him as she leans her elbows on the table. “He doesn’t prefer it, which is why it stuck. He's a very cranky cat, but he’s nice once you get to know him.”
Jihoon scowls, turning to her. “Did I invite you to sit down with us?”
“No.”
That’s it. That’s the end of her statement. Jihoon watches as she settles happily, opening chocolate milk and chugging it back like it’s water. Jihoon cringes and readies to lob an insult her way when he’s interrupted again, another tray slamming down next to hers.
Closing his eyes, Jihoon summons all the gods he doesn’t believe in to give him the god damn patience. Chan is wearing a shit-eating grin as he leans across the table, offering his hand in the same, chipper manner his partner had moments before.
“I’m Chan. But you can call me Dino.”
“Why Dino?”
“I step on everyone.”
You raise your brows, amused, eyes flickering to Wylie. Sensing your question, Wylie says around a mouthful of mac and cheese, “Like Wylie Coyote because I’m a menace who doesn’t stop attacking.”
“How was your drop?”
“Easy,” they say in unison.
Jihoon focuses on his plate, feeling grouchy. They start to talk like he’s not even there, and though that is typically how conversations go around him, he’s suddenly bothered by it. Especially when you seem so smug that at least someone likes you.
He wants to tell you they don’t count. Chan is one of the nicest people in the Shatterdome and will talk to anyone, if they give him the time of day. Wylie isn’t exactly nice but she’s in love with Chan and is happy to be nice to anyone who is being nice to him. The pair are relatively easy to win over.
It only gets worse for him when Soonyoung and the others start sitting down. Everyone seems eager to ask you questions, a new shiny toy for his friends to play with. He chews on the corner of his lip, feeling stormy in the corner of the table as Seokmin peppers you with questions and exclamations at your answers.
A shift in tension makes Jihoon look up. Seungcheol sits down at the table slowly, as though trying not to be a distraction or catch any attention. He’s three seats away from Wylie and out of her eyeshot, but Wylie is a born predator, sensing him like a hunter. Her eyes cut over to Seungcheol and she bristles, shooting up to her feet to grab her tray and storm off.
Chan sighs, muttering a brief apology before grabbing his things and going after her. Jihoon glances at Seungcheol, watching the way his jaw ticks at the interaction. Surprisingly, you don’t ask any questions. You lean over to Soonyoung and ask him about some of their earlier fights, shifting the energy at the table from tense to light in a second.
Seungcheol relaxes, and though he doesn’t introduce himself, he’s not unkind to you. Jihoon feels a pang for the pilot, knowing that the last year has been difficult for him. Cherry left Seungcheol adrift without a partner, and he’s been unable to find someone to replace her.
He thinks about offering you to Seungcheol as an alternative.
Jihoon does learn a little bit about you while listening to everyone talk, though. You've only had two co-pilots in your life where Jihoon has lost count. He wonders what growing up piloting with a parent feels like, and though you smile as you talk about growing up working with your mom, there’s a tightness to your mouth, a look in your eye that he can’t place.
Feeling his gaze, your eyes shift to him. Jihoon realizes he’s been staring at you. He stands and leaves the table abruptly, Seokmin’s voice apologizing on his behalf drifting after him.
Thankfully, you don’t follow him. He dumps his tray and leaves it in the discarded pile for the cafeteria staff and immediately begins the climb to the command bridge where the Marshall’s office is. His thoughts race but go nowhere at the same time, an echochamber that he can’t untangle.
Before Jihoon can knock on the entrance to the Marshall’s office, the military commander looks up and waves Jihoon in. “I was about to call for you. Shut the door, please.”
Jihoon does so without comment and sits down. He glances around the office, distracting himself as the Marshall finishes what he was working on. The office is orderly and tidy, every ounce the professional and uptight officer that sits in front of Jihoon, leaning back in the seat to sigh heavily and level Jihoon with a stare.
Before Jihoon can open his mouth to list all of the reasons you shouldn’t be his pilot, the Marshall speaks. “You’re on probation.”
“I - what?”
“For the next three months, if you lose your co-pilot, you will be reassigned to administrative work or to a new Shatterdome.”
Jihoon opens his mouth. Closes it. The weight of the Marshall’s words don’t quite sink in, though Jihoon can tell they’re heavy. Real. “We’ve given you plenty of chances to effectively remain a pilot for Storm Breaker, but the board feels as though the trade off has become an issue.”
“The trade off?”
“You’re costing us money. And cadets. People want to train where they can potentially see themselves become a pilot. When we have open spots and jaegers coming up on retirement, it bolsters recruitment.” The Marshall levels him with a tired stare. “But when we have a pilot who no one can partner with, it puts us in a bind to send cadets where they will fit elsewhere.”
“Look - “
“No you look, Lee. You’ve been a pilot here for six years. That’s considered a veteran in this field. But the higher ups grow tired of even veterans when they’ve been unmanageable for the last two of those six years.”
Heat flashes up the side of Jihoon’s neck, equal parts embarrassed and angry. He’d been the first in his class to suit up, selected as Haneul’s co-pilot to fill in for their partner that had retired. Jihoon remembers how proud - and nervous - he was and how easy it had been to partner with Haneul.
He didn’t have that anymore, the safety net of the only parental figure he’d ever known gone.
“The pilots you’ve paired me with have no business being in a jaeger,” Jihoon says matter of factly. “I don’t respect them.”
“Well good thing we’ve given you someone to respect.”
Jihoon shakes his head. “I can’t fight with her.”
“You can and you will. Your drift compatibility is 98% and you have similar fighting style and come from similar machines. You’ll start Conn-pod training tomorrow.”
“Don’t make me partner with her. I don’t like her.”
The Marshall stands. “One day you might learn that if you give people a chance, you’d like what you find.”
“Marshall-”
“That’s all, Ranger.”
The air feels heavy as Jihoon leaves the Marshall’s office. He stops on the command deck, his eyes flickering over to the windows. The glass is floor to ceiling all the way around, giving the tower a 360-degree view of the pacific ocean. Blue stretches out as far as the eye can see, backdropped by the shining silver of the city.
Boats bob on the water, shifting back and forth on the dark surface. Air teams go back and forth, working in the aftermath of Chan and Wylie’s successful kaiju destruction. Jihoon can see the toxicity on the surface of the water, an oil slick that he knows the exact pungent smell of.
Trailing to an observation window, he stares with unseeing eyes. How many times had he stood up here and provided commentary to his friends during a fight? He didn’t frequent the command deck, but sometimes it gave him perspective. Or he was a little worried about his friends, especially when they were taking on higher category kaiju.
Jihoon chews on the side of his lip. He’s talked Wylie and Chan through plenty of bouts before. He remembers sharply the terror of the fight that had changed all of their lives over a year ago, watching as the hull of Fang Striker was breached, the screams of terror as Wylie took a talon to the stomach, nearly killing her. The aftermath of Chan’s grief.
A chill breaks out over his arms. Jihoon knows he isn’t cut out to sit through something like that again, to try and get a panicking pilot to focus and get to safety. He’s not made for an advisory role. Not built to watch pilots come and go, completely operating out of his control.
Death is easier to process in the heat of battle. It gives him an excuse to be distracted, to hide from the immediate pain of losing a pilot during a fight because he’s too busy protecting himself, protecting the city. He’s not made to watch it from afar and take the full weight of it.
Turning away from the window, Jihoon descends back down to the ground floor.
Probation period. Three months of having to stomach you or he’s out. Flexing his fingers, he heads to his room, needing the silence. If Jihoon is going to do this, he knows he needs to keep himself in line. Can’t push you away like he has the others.
And he hates you for it.
-
Music bleeds through the metal door out into the hall. You wonder how any of the neighboring rooms let him get away with it. Then again, Lee Jihoon seems like someone most jaeger pilots don’t go toe-to-toe with often, if they can help it. At least it’s classical music, the swelling sound of Mozart sweeping into the hallway as you open the door, propping it with your hip to haul the box in your arms through.
Jihoon’s eyes snap open immediately. He’s lounging on the bottom bunk of the bed in the far corner of the room, face lit by the glow of the muted screen in the corner showing the rain and ocean spray beating against the Shatterdome. Nothing disturbs the seas at the moment, though you wonder in a hotspot like this how long that will last.
A scowl twists his mouth. You let the door shut behind you, setting the box down on the media table by the doorway. “Mozart?” you ask, arching a brow. He glares at you, sitting up from where he had been lounging with his hands tucked behind his head. “A bit cliche, don’t you think?”
“What do you know about music?”
“Enough to know that someone with balanced compositions that orchestrate total control and logic in its make is… not surprising for you.” He blinks in surprise. “I like Tchaikovsky. There’s something more mercurial to his compositions.”
“Tchaikovsky was inspired by Mozart.”
“I didn’t say one was better than the other.” You smirk. “You don’t like differences of opinion, do you?”
“I always value opinions. Some more than others.”
“Mhmm. Where can I put my things?”
Jihoon closes his eyes and lays back on the bed. His blonde hair is undone, fanning around him in a silvery-white halo. “The trash chute, preferably.”
“Wherever I want, got it.”
He ignores you. You suppress a laugh and move into the room proper. It’s small, filled with only the essentials to house two people to eat, sleep, and shower. A small kitchenette sits to your left, hidden in darkness with all of the lights off. You spot a shelf filled with dry goods - mostly protein bars - and coffee. There is a sad excuse for a sitting area with a tiny table and two chairs next to the TV screen, a bunk bed with a wardrobe next to it, and a tiny bathroom.
Cozy.
Pulling open the wardrobe, you see that there’s room for your things. You shoot Jihoon a sidelong glance. He certainly hadn’t moved his things over to take over the full wardrobe after his last pilot left. You wonder if he’s just used to being unable to use the full space or if he had made room for you.
You doubt it’s the latter.
Ave Verum Corpus plays in the background as you unpack the tiny box that is your life. You hum along, shutting the wardrobe and padding over to the bathroom. Jihoon could be asleep for all you know, but you suspect he’s not. When you glance over at him after shutting the medicine cabinet, you see his foot tapping to the beat of the music.
“What other kind of music do you like?” His foot stops tapping at your question.
Turning off the bathroom light, you move to the door to break down the cardboard box you brought your things in. Jihoon doesn’t answer at first, his frame rigid with tension, as though he had forgotten you were there until you spoke. You suppose that’s entirely possible, if not a little unlikely.
Just when you think he’s not going to answer, he mutters, “I like ballads.”
“Romantic.” He frowns but doesn’t say anything further. “What’s your favorite one? Or artist?”
“Go play twenty questions with someone else. I’m not interested.”
“I’m going to find out anyway.” He opens his eyes then. They’re dark, pupils blown as his face twitches in an almost snarl. “It is an inevitable fact that we will have to drift. I recommend making peace with that now.”
“I’m going to bed,” he announces, flopping over on his side and crossing his arms.
You let Jihoon be mean. It does you no good to fight with him when you eventually need him on your side, and you can sympathize with him to a degree. He didn’t choose you as his pilot and he’s backed into a corner, a do or die situation that he can’t back out of. The only way is forward and it’s against his will.
As he pretends to sleep, you occupy yourself on the top bunk with your tablet, sliding headphones over your ears so he doesn’t bitch you out. Flicking through online channels, you familiarize yourself with your fellow jaeger pilots at the Shatterdome, watching fight footage and interviews.
You come across a set of popular pilots, only one of them familiar to you. You recognize the man from dinner earlier - he had sat down and the tension around the table had increased tenfold. Wylie had immediately clocked his presence and stormed off, Chan trailing behind her with an apologetic look.
Tapping on their information, you hum in interest to yourself. Seungcheol. You recognize the name, vaguely. He piloted Duellona Fury with his copilot, a woman you don’t recognize but that has a bright smile. They make a good team, totally in sync and feeding off each other’s energy. You wonder where she is now, assuming she’s the source of the tension between Wylie and Seungcheol.
You wonder what you and Jihoon will be like as drift partners. So far he seems to hate you, but he does tolerate you. It’s a start, if not ideal. You won’t start drifting right away - not for real anyway. Practicing combat drills and learning more about one another is the first step to any partnership, followed by practice drifts.
In the drift, there’s no room for hatred or enmity. Trust is paramount, but almost as important is respect. Respect for what you see in the thoughts and feelings of your partner, respect that they’re good at what they do and that they’re the best person for the job, respect that they are your equal. Too many partners get lost in trying to save the other, losing sight of being equally capable or feeling like they know better.
Jihoon doesn’t seem capable of that. Not right now, anyway. It doesn’t matter, though. You’re his only option to stay in the jaeger program, and though he hasn’t said anything about it, you’re pretty sure he knows.
“Can you shut the tablet off?” Jihoon grunts from below. You sigh heavily, tucking it to your chest. “The glow is fucking bright.”
“The TV is also glowing, Jihoon.”
“Yeah, so your tablet adds to the general light in the room.”
“Close your eyes.”
“It isn’t helping. Go under your covers.”
Closing your eyes and taking a deep breath in, you lock the tablet and shove it under your pillow. “Better?”
“Yes.”
Weather the storm, you think to yourself. Jihoon is angry and capricious, but it’s more to do with his situation than it is to do with you. And despite his snappy nature, there are flashes of him willing to work with you by answering questions, albeit with attitude.
You can do this. You can make Lee Jihoon like you. Maybe even respect you.
-
You are not a morning person. Lee Jihoon, however, is a morning person. Which is why it takes everything inside of you not to launch your pillow at him when you hear the classical music wake you from sleep in the morning, making you lift your heavy head to look around the room, vision blurry.
Heat from a fresh shower drifts from the bathroom only a short distance away. You stare in confusion, blinking rapidly as Jihoon walks out of the bathroom. He’s brushing his teeth furiously with one hand, looking at his phone with the other, blue light making him look like a phantom in the dim light.
And he’s dressed in nothing but a towel slung low on his waist, making you nearly go catatonic.
It’s not like you haven’t seen a body before - it’s just a body, and soon enough, you’ll be in his head. It’s important to get any weirdness out of the way because in the drift, you’ll bare everything. But for some reason the image of his small, compact body scrambles your brain this early in the morning.
Jihoon is built like a weapon, all sleek lines and hard muscles. He stands in the kitchen, setting down his phone as he opens cabinets and starts to make coffee, toothbrush still in his mouth. The muscles in his back flex as he moves, skin pale and smooth as the moon.
“Are you a coffee person?” he asks, because he knows you’re awake. Of course he does. You don’t answer for a moment, stuck between eyeing the narrow taper of his hips and the question that implies he’s willing to make you coffee. He turns, arching a brow at you. “Now you shut up?”
That brings a scowl to your face. “Yes, I drink coffee.”
“Great.”
He goes back to what he was doing, ignoring you entirely. Dragging your eyes away from him, feeling flushed and overwarm, you throw the covers back, scrambling from the top bunk. You land with a soft huff, feeling the chill of the concrete floor as you dart to the wardrobe to pull out clothes.
“What time is it?”
“You have eyes, look at the TV.”
Got it, you think. He’ll make coffee for you but not do something as simple as answer what time it is. You do look at the TV, seeing the darkened feed of the churning ocean breaking against the walls of the Shatterdome. There are multiple camera angles, weather radar and Dome messages that break up the screen into sections. The time is in the top corner, flashing 5:13 am.
“Ji, it is five in the morning.”
“Five-thirteen. And don’t call me Ji. I’m not your buddy.”
Taking a deep breath, you mutter curses under your breath. “I’m going to shower.”
As expected, you get no response.
The great thing about living in a billion dollar buildinding with hundreds of people is that there’s no shortage of hot water. You’re grateful as the steam fills the room, hot water making your coiled muscles melt the second you step under the shower. You let the frustration from the morning fade away, the rush of the water and the feel of it sluicing down your back-
A loud knock on the door breaks your reverie. You hear it open. Jihoon grunts, “I wasn’t done brushing my teeth. I need the sink.”
“Then use the sink.”
Jihoon shuffles into the bathroom. You hear the faucet turn on and you go back to tilting your head backward under the stream of water, ignoring the sound of him going about his morning routine. In a way, it’s sort of peaceful, the sounds of him softly opening and closing cabinets and the clinking of jars against the counter soft in the background.
He’s back in the kitchen by the time you’re out of the shower and wrapped in a towel. You venture out into the main room in kind, deciding that if he is going to walk around in nothing but a towel, so will you. He barely gives you a glance from his bottom bunk, lounging around in low-slung sweats with no shirt, blonde hair splayed on his pillow. You ignore him in favor of the lone mug of coffee sitting in the kitchen steaming.
Gripping it and bringing it up, you let the ceramic warm you from your palms upward, inhaling before taking a tentative sip. It’s bitter but it helps you wake up. You glance at Jihoon from over the lip of the cup. He scrolls on a tablet mindlessly, as though he’s forgotten you’re there.
Neither one of you speaks as you finish your coffee. Turning to the sink, you start washing the cup out. You notice his used mug sitting in the bottom of the sink and pick it up, wash it and put it in the drying rack next to yours without thinking about it before returning to the bathroom to dress fully.
Once dressed and out of the bathroom, it’s almost six. Jihoon is bent over by the door, his boot on the coffee table as he laces it. Now fully dressed, his long hair is pulled back in a bun, a few silver whisps escaping and falling across his face. Again, you’re struck by how beautiful he is for a moment.
He straightens and looks at you, raising his brows. Instead of answering him, you hurry to the wardrobe, pulling out your boots to slide them on and head to breakfast. You half expect him to leave you behind, but to your surprise, he lingers with the door open, dark eyes clocking your every movement. As soon as you’re done tying laces, he’s out the door and charging again, leaving you to scramble behind him.
Silence follows you into the cafeteria, which has the quiet atmosphere of an early morning. Workers and pilots ending their shifts sit at the table, scarfing down breakfast for dinner. Early shift workers hurry to grab a bite before heading off to the different parts of the Shatterdome. It’s not nearly as loud as lunch or dinner, but the soft din is inviting as you go through the line, following your new co-pilot wordlessly.
None of the friendly faces from yesterday are in the cafeteria, so the two of you sit alone. Jihoon is methodical as he sets up his breakfast, each move calculated and precise. He eats the same way, finishing something entirely before moving on to the next time.
His obsession with organization and control is almost fascinating, if not a little worrying. Instead of asking about it, you eat in silence, humming delightedly at the cheesy hashbrowns made available that morning. He casts you a single annoyed glance when he notices you enjoying your meal.
Breakfast goes without a fight, though. Glancing at the large clock above the entrance to the cafeteria, you realize you only have a few minutes left before your day of training starts. Jihoon seems to be on the same wavelength, pulling out his phone to scroll through your schedule.
“Meditation first,” he murmurs. He shoves his phone in his pocket and stands without preamble. “Do you think you can manage meditation?”
“Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but we haven’t spoken for over an hour.”
Confusion crosses his face, quickly followed by astonishment. He hadn’t realized that most of your morning has been spent in silence. His brows pull together, mouth turning slightly as he works over your words. It seems to make him unhappy. He narrows his eyes and his mouth twists before he turns and marches away from the table, leaving you behind.
Mouth quirking, you follow quickly, not wanting to lose your way to wherever it is you’re supposed to report to. He walks faster this time, determined to keep you moving and on your toes. Wherever the studio designated to you for the morning feels like it’s halfway around the world. Jihoon leads you down a series of halls and stairs, never slowing his pace once.
By the time you get to a small, soundproof room, your calves are burning.
“You need conditioning,” he mutters, noticing the way you’re a little out of breath.
“You basically just took me on a light jog,” you protest. “I think it’s fair to be a little winded this early in the morning.”
“It doesn’t matter what time it is. What will you do if we make the drop at four in the morning?”
Jihoon doesn’t wait for you to answer. Instead, he goes to the middle of the room and sits down on the floor, and crosses his legs. Instead of taking his bait and picking a fight with him, you sigh and stride into the room. He positions himself, ready for you to sit in front of him. Instead, you circle around him, sitting down behind him.
“What are you doing?” he asks, twisting toward you.
“Meditating. Turn back around so we can be back-to-back.”
“What? Why?”
“Just trust me.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, try. It’s easier to feel your breaths and your heartbeat this way. Plus, there's less pressure if you don’t have to look directly at me.”
“Thank god for that,” he mutters.
You roll your eyes at the barb but grin when Jihoon listens, twisting back around to face the front. He lets you settle against him, the warmth from his back melting into yours. He is rigid, his spine solid as it digs into yours for a second. You lick your lips, feeling electricity shiver down you at the contact, like there’s a spark.
The hum of the air condition is the only sound in the room. You close your eyes, leaning into Jihoon so that you fit flush together. You match your breaths with his, feeling your breathing slow down. Your heart slows to, like it’s trying to let him catch up, both of you melting into the same rhythm.
Behind you, Jihoon relaxes. The back of his head rests against yours, both of you leaning into the touch, becoming the equal opposing force holding the other up.
Balance is imperative in co-pilots. Jihoon needed to bring to the fight what you lacked and vice versa, the two of you making something whole, something complete. It’s a balance that’s not easily achieved, and though you’d always been a good pair with your mother and then maya, you know instinctively that it’s nothing compared to Jihoon’s counterbalance.
A timer goes off in the room, startling you with how quickly time has passed. You blink your eyes rapidly, letting the room swim back into focus. For a second, neither one of you moves, content to lean against the other until Jihoon seems to realize he’s still pressed against you. He scrambles to his feet unexpectedly and you fall backward, losing his counterweight immediately.
Thunking against the floor, you glare up at him. He smirks, looking down at you as he wipes dust from the back of his pants. “You should never let a co-pilot fall,” you huff, hauling yourself to your feet.
“Good thing we’re not really co-pilots.”
“Yet,” you supply. You get up, stretching and feeling your joints pop. “Even you can’t deny that it was a great first meditation session.”
“Let’s go. We have sparring.”
-
Jihoon doesn’t like you.
He doesn’t like you, but he has to admit you are a perfect fit for him. You are loud where he is quiet, you make light when he remains serious, and you deviate when he’s planned. Yet somehow, you manage to mesh with him in your training, the perfect opposite force to him.
For the most part, you leave him alone. He can tell you’ve figured out when to bite back and when to eat your words. It’s become a game to him, throwing insults your way to watch whether you’ll riposte back or swallow your pride.
The amount of times you swallow your pride impresses him, unfortunately. His original assessment that you are unpredictable and uncontrolled was wrong. He can see the way you actively meet his cold winter with warm summer, trying to melt him.
He doesn't like giving you credit for your control, but he does so begrudgingly.
Worst of all, he realizes that it’s not you he dislikes. It’s his situation, it’s knowing that you’re his lifeline and he has to accept you, and it’s knowing that despite his initial dislike, you’re a mirror that he can’t look away from. It doesn’t help that you live two feet away from him at all times, occupying every moment of his life just a reach-of-a-hand away.
Training is tiring. It feels like he’s a rookie all over again, going through the exercises as the two of you learn to fight together, moving through meditation sessions, sparring, talking sessions - which don't really involve a lot of talking on his part as much as yours - and drop simulations.
Drop simulations are the most exhausting for him. You bring everything to the drift. It’s nearly overwhelming at first how much you’re willing to show him. From the moment the mental bridge connects the two of you through the simulation software, Jihoon is shocked at the way you lay yourself bare. You hide nothing from him, letting him roam around your thoughts at his leisure.
He feels everything you’ve ever felt. Elation when you make your first real drop with your first co-pilot, your mom. Sore ribs after a particularly difficult sparring match when you were a teeager in the training program. Pride when you finish the top of your training program. Terror when a fight goes awry and your mother overwhelms you in the drift, taking the full neural load of the jaeger to protect you. Rage at her doing so.
“What happened here?” he finds himself asking, sticking near the memory.
He thinks you won’t answer him, but of course you do. Unlike him, you’re open for the taking. “The hull was breached in my first year of fighting. My mother panicked because it was on my side of the jaeger and she tried to take on the neural load.”
Jihoon says nothing. Piloting a jaeger alone overwhelms the nervous system and the brain, which is why each jaeger has two pilots in the first place. It can be done, but the risk for damage is always present. He senses where your conversation is going.
“We only piloted together for three more years after that. She was starting to struggle to make the drift, so we paused to get her examined. They discovered lesions on her brain and linked it to the damage from that day she tried to pilot alone.”
“She wanted to protect you.”
“She did, but it doesn’t make up for what she did. I was her equal, not someone she was supposed to protect.” You look at him and he looks at you, surrounded by your memories in the drift. “I am deserving of treated like an equal.”
He understands what you’re really saying, that he should treat you like an equal too. Instead of responding, he busies himself with studying other parts of you that you let him have.
There is a melody to your mind that he enjoys, though he’ll never tell you so. The more you drift together, the more Jihoon realizes that you are exactly like a Tchaikovsky piece. There is an organized chaos to you, a mathematical formula that is logical and measurable, but that deviates from the norm once in a while.
Every drift, you remain open to him, your thoughts for the taking. You don’t even hide the moments you’ve thought of him - both in occasional attraction and irritation. Irritation at him bringing nothing to drift, opening no part of himself to you. Irritation when he’s mean to you. Hesitant fondness when he does something nice. Confused attraction when he walks around in just a towel.
Water sluices down his back. Jihoon’s thoughts are still foggy from three weeks of nothing but practice and drills. He also finds it harder to sleep sometimes in the room, his dreams filled with the scent of your amber and jasmine and the lively sound of Tchaikovsky acting as the soundtrack to his dreams.
You’re still asleep when he exits the bathroom. He’s made sure to turn the light off before opening the door, steam billowing out after him. He scoops headphones from the nightstand as he heads to the kitchen, towel snug around his waist. He pops the earbuds in, the sound of Mozart starting his morning as he begins to make coffee.
Jihoon has quickly learned that the longer he lets you sleep in the morning, the less whiny you are when you wake up. Instead of playing his music out loud, he lets you sleep until he’s made two cups of coffee, adding a spoonful of brown sugar and milk to yours. He sets it on the table and walks back to the bathroom, one of the requiem pieces carrying him through his routine.
On the way to the bathroom, he stops by your bunk. He hesitates for a second, drinking you in as you sleep. Nestled in that top bunk is the only place you’re as peaceful as you are in the drift. Your features are smoothed out as you slumber, mouth open a little, drool sticky on the corner of your mouth. Jihoon’s lips twitch a little and he shakes his head before reaching out to tap the ankle hanging off your bed. You mumble in response.
“Get up,” he says gruffly. “You’ve slept long enough.”
He returns to the bathroom and shuts the door to get fully dressed. He knows you’ll be standing in the kitchen looking dazed and confused sipping coffee until he comes out and frees the bathroom for you to shower.
The alarm for a kaiju alert goes off. He hears it blaring over his music and he pulls the earbuds out, opening the door half dressed in just pants as he looks at the screen flashing red. A Category Four kaiju has been sighted in the bay. His heart skips, knowing that Cat-4 kaiju are dangerous even for the most skilled pilots at the Dome.
Assignments flash across the screen. Solar Saber and Fang Striker have been summoned to drop. Nervousness flutters in Jihoon’s stomach. He snatches a shirt and yanks it over his head, moving quickly around the room to grab boots.
“What are you doing?” you ask, leaning off the counter.
“Heading to the command deck. Come or don’t.”
“I’ll come.”
You dump your coffee in the sink, jumping to action as you peel off your pajama pants, searching for cargos. Jihoon hardly realizes you’re changing in front of him - he’s seen it all in your head anyway - as he laces his boots. He doesn’t know why, but he starts to explain himself, “Dino and Wylie have a… history with Cat-4 kaiju.”
“You want to be an extra set of eyes and ears.” He nods at the accurate assessment. “Got it. Run me through Solar Saber drop stats if you know them.”
Jihoon does. He fires off what he knows about the team. Their stats are fine, but a Category Four kaiju is new for them. They have a good jaeger. It’s on the newer side, nuclear powered with plasma cannons and a massive plasma sword that burns brighter than the sun, earning the machine its name. It’s piloted by a set of twins, which produce some of the best drifts in the jaeger program.
But there’s a nervousness in Jihoon’s stomach that he can’t place. Everytime his friends drop, he knows they’ll be okay - but he also knows the level of danger. Perhaps it’s because of Chan and Wylie’s accident last year or because they’re dropping with a team Jihoon doesn’t trust, but he suddenly wants to tell the Marshall to let Storm Breaker do the drop.
A hand brings him out of his thoughts. Your gaze is as calm as the surface of a lake, piercing. “We’re ready, if we need to be.”
Of course you know what he’s thinking. Despite his best efforts, you seem particularly good at stitching the tiny threads that escape through Jihoon’s wall of ice.
You drop your hand and grab the room keys, heading toward the door with top speed. His arm is warm where your fingers were a moment ago, burning like a brand. He shakes it off as he follows you out, both of you jogging up to the top level of the Shatterdome to observe.
Crew races around the dome. Jihoon sees Seungkwan and Vernon rushing up the stairs to the command deck. He follows suit, you quick on his heels. People fill the room, talking over one another as they shout into headsets and screens flash different camera angles.
The Marshall stands in the center of it all behind the LOCCENT Mission Controller who will walk the pilots through the fight. Jihoon doesn’t recognize the man giving them instructions, but he joins the wall of people standing behind him to observe the screens, taking a place next to Vernon and Seungkwan.
You glance at Vernon and back to Jihoon, a question in your gaze. “This is Vernon,” Jihoon says in response. “He’s currently a jumphawk pilot. Could be a jaeger pilot if he could figure out the drift but he’s too screwy up top.”
“Thanks, man.”
“You can call me Blue,” you offer. Your eyes drift to the screens. “Friends of the pilots out there?”
“Wylie is one of my best friends.”
Instead of telling him something like they’ll be alright or offering words of comfort, all you do is nod. Jihoon respects that. Anything comforting would be a potential lie and useless in a world of blood and metal, salt and fire.
The entire room falls into a steady cadence. Jihoon crosses his arms as he focuses on the screen. He’s mutely aware that you’re standing so close to him he can feel the heat of your arm, hands shoved in your pockets as you watch the screens, brows furrowed in concentration.
On screen, Solar Saber churns the water toward a towering kaiju in the bay. The creature is straight out of a nightmare, a barbed tail whipping across the surface of the ocean, misting water as it does. From what Jihoon can tell, it’s got four legs, each equipped with long talons. Rows and rows of teeth reveal itself as the kaiju opens its mouth and roars, the vibration from the sound so deep that it vibrates underneath his feet.
“I don’t like that tail,” Vernon mutters next to Jihoon.
“It’s like a manticore.” Jihoon glances at you. You’re not looking at them, but your head is tilted in curiosity as you point to the screen. “Four legs, a curved tail with a barb. The webbing around its neck suggests it might have a frill.”
“Strike teams, confirm positions,” the LOCCENT controller says into the mic.
“Fang Striker in position two miles north of kaiju and Solar Saber.” It’s Wylie’s raspy voice that crackles over the shared radiowave with the jaeger teams. “Perimeter is set.”
“Solar Saber ready to engage,” a female voice comes over the speaker. Jihoon recognizes it as one of the twin co-pilots, Jezzi.
“Permission to engage.”
As Solar Saber engages with the kaiju, the command deck goes quiet. People guiding the helicopters and ground teams speak softly into their mics, a level of tense calm washing over as everyone watches the fight ensue.
Solar Saber is beautiful to watch fight. The armor is painted radiant gold and the glow of the sword is magnificent against the stormy waters as it slashes at the kaiju. Jezzi and her sister Yaz are calm throughout their bout, their voices clear and communicative as the kaiju batters them.
“Cut off the tail,” you mutter under your breath. “It’s going to-”
Jihoon sees what you do as soon as you say it. While trying to kill the kaiju with a direct blow, Solar Saber has forgotten about the tail. The tip of the tail shivers, reminding Jihoon of a cat ready to strike, and it does. One moment, Solar Saber and the kaiju are locked in a wrestling match. Next, the tail is hammering the hull of the jaeger, striking over and over again like a scorpion.
Chaos explodes on the screens. Jihoon holds his breath as red flashes across the screens as the tail breaches the hull of Solar Saber. A tingle settles over him, the buzz of nerves as he watches Solar Saber take a knee, ocean water surging around the jaeger as the kaiju’s tail continues to hammer the jaeger’s head open.
Jihoon grabs the LOCCENT Controller’s chair and yanks him backward out of the way, jamming his finger against the button to speak. “Don’t let it force you under the waterline,” he barks. “Cut off that tail, Solar Saber. If it forces you down, you’re going to take on water and drown.”
“The right panel is damaged from acid from the tail,” Jezzi yells over the comes. “Sword arm cannot engage.”
“Then disengage, Solar Saber. Do not let it force you down another knee.”
Yaz screams back something incomprehensible over the comms. The left arm of Solar Saber lurches, reaching for the kaiju’s tail. It catches, yanking at the appendage hard. The kaiju screams as the tail breaks where Solar Saber has it gripped. The kaiju frenzies, screaming wildly as frills - just like you’d predicted - shake to life by its head, vibrating back and forth in a threat display as its dismembered tail whips back and forth, spraying ichor.
“Fang Striker engaging,” Chan’s voice comes over the comms.
It’s the Marshall who answers. “Fang Striker, hold the perimeter.”
“Fuck the peremiter,” Wylie seethes.
The Marshall turns to you and Jihoon. “We’re ready,” Jihoon says at the same time as you.
A string of curses leaves Marshall’s mouth. “Fang Striker, assist Solar Saber with the intent to disengage. Storm Breaker dropping in ten.”
Heart hammering, Jihoon turns to follow you out of the command center, footsteps like thunder as you sprint to the jaeger bay. He doesn’t even think twice about dropping with you, any reservations about you vanishing as the fighting instinct takes over.
You’re an entirely different person when you step onto the catwalk, your team already scrambling with pieces of your Drivesuit. There is an eerie calm about you. You meet his gaze head on as your team fits armored pieces of Drivesuit onto your arms. Jihoon sees himself reflected so clearly that he’s startled.
“What?” you ask, sensing the bewilderment.
“Show me what you’re made of,” he says simply.
Your mouth curves in a wicked grin and you nod once, understanding.
Storm Breaker is beautiful. The fondness for her sweeps over him as he steps into the cockpit. The screens come to life, casting blue and red glow all over as he steps into the Conn-pod. He sheds any reservations he has as the team helps him connect. You’re only a few feet away, stepping into the left side of the Conn-pod.
Jihoon’s world shifts to screens and canned voices in his headset as the shield of his helmet closes. It’s Seungkwan he hears over comms saying, “Engaging pilot to pilot connection protocol sequence.”
“Do the pilots always take over the LOCCENT Controller’s here?” you muse, just to Jihoon.
His lips twitch. “What can I say? Seungkwan knows I’m a control freak.”
“Engaging neural handshake in three… two… one…”
The world around him goes mute for a moment. Jihoon’s vision flashes white for a second. He feels you then, your thoughts and feelings becoming his. They’re not overwhelming though. He feels focus and determination from you with an undercurrent of ferocity. All of your memories and other feelings are there too, but they exist in the background. You’re a seasoned pilot, Jihoon doesn’t have to worry about you chasing the rabbit and falling down a hole of memories.
“Neural handshake holding and strong,” Seungkwan calls. “Initiating drop in three… two… one…”
Jihoon’s stomach flies into his throat as he falls away from the world. The world is nothing but freefall for a few seconds. He feels the thrill that shoots through you and smiles - he can’t help it. Bending at the knee, he braces for impact. You do the same, and the cockpit lands on the jaeger’s mainframe with a metallic clang.
“Calibrating right hemisphere,” Jihoon announces, feeling the machine start to power to life. “Calibrated.”
You repeat on the left side, the full machine powered on and ready with both hemispheres locked in.
“Storm Breaker ready to pursue,” Jihoon says. He looks up at the screen where Fang Striker is engaging the kaiju. Outside of Storm Breaker, he might feel his heart race with panic. Solar Saber is overturned and he has no idea if the pilots are inside of it as it takes on water. “Two miles out from contact.”
“Pursue.”
Your first step as a team is perfect. Fluid. Jihoon knew it would be. He hates to admit that he was wrong, but he knows it is. There is a thread of satisfaction bleeding over from you as Storm Breaker charges into the ocean, water rising rapidly around the waist.
Ocean water slams against Storm Breaker’s chest as you charge toward the fighting. Fang Striker’s comms are patched in, but Wylie and Chan are silent as they rip at the kaiju, pulling at one of its wings that it unfolded from its back. Fang Striker looks tiny against the hulking mass of the monster, but its team is doing what it does best, savaging the creature a little at a time.
“Storm Breaker half a mile out,” you announce, voice like steel. “Ready to engage.”
“Engage at your discretion.”
“Storm Breaker,” Chan says over comms. “Try and restrain this motherfucker. We’ve got a loose plate in its armor to exploit but it keeps shaking us off.”
“Heard.”
As if hearing Chan, the kaiju flings Fang Striker off. Fang Striker’s red body crashes into the ocean, Wylie cursing the kaiju straight to hell and about fifty other foul places.
Storm Breaker engages, both you and Jihoon plunging into the fight. The kaiju swipes at you but you both duck together, dodging the swing as you punch hard from the left in tandem. You knock it hard, it’s head snapping to the side. As a team, you use the opening to wrap the right arm around the kaiju’s neck, squeezing it toward Storm Breaker’s chest in a headlock.
Stabilizers and locks click into place. He grits his teeth, as though feeling the actual strength it takes as the kaiju roars and claws at Storm Breaker, trying to free itself from the headlock. Together, you put the left arm around it, adding to the force to keep the kaiju from slipping from your grip.
Clawed blows hammer down on Storm Breaker. Neither of you gives way, tightening your grip on the creature and ignoring the way the talons scratch against the hull. Storm Breaker is built to withstand, and neither one of you flinches as furious blows rain down on you, fists hammering.
“It looks like that kaiju is playing you like a bongo,” Wylie’s voice comes over comms. “Hey Woozi, do you feel like it’s composing one of those songs you like?”
“Oh sure,” he shoots back. “Take your time, Wylie. It’s not like it’s trying to crack us like an egg.”
“Ugh,” you sigh. “Don’t talk about food. I didn’t eat breakfast. Hey Seungkwan, can you ask Joshua to save me some hash browns? He’s always at the cafeteria first.”
Jihoon rolls his eyes. “You’re all insane. Any day now, Fang Striker.”
Fang Striker appears from the sky like a creature from hell, a red streak of death as it falls. They land on the kaiju’s back, the force of the landing vibrating through Storm Breaker’s frame. The kaiju tries to twist in Storm Breaker’s arms, but you and Jihoon tighten even further. Fang Striker’s sword glints in the sunlight as it unsheathes.
“Don’t stab us,” you say at the same exact time that Jihoon has the thought.
They almost do. Fang Striker buries the sword through the back of the kaiju, the tip of the blade peaking through its chest, almost scraping against Storm Breaker’s stomach. The monster thrashes wildly for a few minutes, clawing at Storm Breaker’s hull. Fang Striker hits the release on their sword, leaving it embedded in the kaiju’s back to stand and fire into the kaiju with plasma cannons.
Jihoon feels the tremor of the shots land. There’s a final kick from the kaiju before it slumps, putting all of its deadweight on Storm Breaker. In unison, you and Jihoon throw the creature off of you. It lands with a crash, water surging around the creature as its weight drags it down before buoyancy pulls it back up.
Storm Breaker straightens, standing in the open water with a battered Fang Striker a couple of yards away. Panting, Jihoon looks across the Conn-pod where you’re already looking at him, shield on your helmet up as you grin at him. There is unguarded happiness there, nearly as bright as the sun that glints off Storm Breaker’s helm.
“So,” you ask the group. “Can we get hashbrowns now?”
Jihoon realizes at that moment he doesn’t dislike you at all.
-
“Would you slow down?” Jihoon asks, setting his tray down next to you roughly. He plops in the seat next to you, giving you a severe side eye. “You’re going to throw up the second you hit the treadmill eating that fast.”
“I want to get more bacon before they run out,” you whine. “They won’t make more once it’s gone.”
Uncovering the top of his tray, Jihoon reveals a heap of bacon slices. You oggle as he sets it between the two of you, shaking his head and scoffing. “Yeah,” he huffs. “I know. I brought more, so slow down.”
Affection for your co-pilot warms you. The affection is certainly one-sided, but you don’t mind. In the four months you’ve been co-piloting with Jihoon, he still hasn’t opened up to you.
Despite having made the drop five times together, Jihoon still brings almost nothing to the drift. You catch pieces of him, tiny snippets of memories or emotions or thoughts as you become one. You slowly use them to fit together the pieces of the Jihoon puzzle you’ve been working on every day.
It helps that you live in such close proximity, too. Jihoon’s habits speak far more for them than his words ever could. Like the way he wakes up at the same exact time every day and tries to be asleep at the same time every night, or the way he meticulously cleans your shared living space every Sunday, or the way he starts every sparring session with the same eight-stretch sequence.
He still doesn’t talk about him in your time slotted for getting to know one another. It’s not therapy exactly, but every pilot team has designated time daily to talk things out. To work through things that are bothering them, or to talk about themselves. The more pilots know one another, the better they fight.
You know virtually nothing about Jihoon. He doesn’t talk about himself during sessions, so you talk for him. You tell him about your childhood, about piloting with your mom, about how much you miss Maya. He eventually starts asking questions. Provides responses.
“We’re on the drop schedule tomorrow,” Jihoon notes, flicking through his tablet on the table next to him. “It’s graveyard shift. Do you want me to ask Mingyu and Wonwoo to switch to the day shift?”
“Nah, I’ll be fine.”
He gives you a critical look. “You’re awful in the mornings.”
“Not when I’m fighting.” You snatch more bacon. “Would you rather me or Mingyu in a jaeger at two in the morning?”
“Point taken.” Both of you know the only person more miserable than you in the morning is Kim Mingyu. Jihoon nudges you with your elbow and gestures to the bacon. “Finish up. We have to workout soon.”
“Ugh.”
He smirks. “Cardio day.”
“Ji, no.”
He ignores the nickname. “So much running.”
Now you know he’s doing it on purpose. There are few things in your training schedule that bring Jihoon joy like torturing you during scheduled workouts. He had started slating them each day, determined to harden your conditioning despite the fact that you’re already in decent shape.
Decent is a word in his vocabulary. He only expects perfection and even then, you’re pretty sure it’s unattainable. Still, you finish your breakfast and let him lead you to the gym, peppering him with whining and protests the entire way. He ignores them with a placid smile, hands linked behind his back as he walks.
When you get to the gym, there are other pilots and workers using their free time to exercise. There’s only a single treadmill open, which Jihoon gets on easily. You start to edge your way toward yoga mats with the intention of not working out at all when he leans over to look at the time on the treadmill next to him.
“You’ve been on it for an hour,” he grunts at some boy who looks like a cadet. “Off you go.”
The cadet scrambles off, almost forgetting to turn the treadmill off before he does. He bows in respect before shooting off like a frightened school of fish. Jihoon turns to you, grinning as he pats the machine. “For you.”
“Thanks,” you deadpan. “Just what I’ve always wanted.”
Jihoon’s grin only grows when you step onto the treadmill as he leans over the rail and turns it on, pressing the incline and speed buttons until you’re walking at a warm up pace. Which, for Jihoon, is a solid jog.
As you jog, you fish out headphones from your pocket. You pop them in your ears, careful not to trip as the sound of classical fills your ears. You’ve taken to using Jihoon’s playlists, despite originally making fun of him for it. You find that it distracts you more than you thought it would, and it helps that you feel like a character in a fantasy movie running to an epic soundtrack.
You’ve adopted a lot of things that Jihoon does. It happens naturally, especially the more you drift. You find yourself putting on Mozart instead of Tchaikovsky or taking your coffee black on accident or scolding others in the training room for not being precise and perfect.
Ghost Drifting is what some call it. You don’t think you’re quite there yet, being that Jihoon still hides half of himself away. But sometimes, even outside of the drift, you feel him in your mind like a phantom presence.
After your workout, you go through the same day you have everyday: meditate back to back, sparring, and your talking session, which mostly consists of you both sitting next to one another looking over your drop footage and noting areas for improvement.
Jihoon’s shoulder is pressed against yours, his eyes focused on the tablet in your hands, tracking the slowed down movement of the video. He taps the screen, pointing to the right side of the jaeger that he pilots. “I was a bit slow here.”
“It’s not your reaction time, you’d never punch that slow. That’s the arm that took damage two fights ago against Razorbill. Let’s talk to the J-Tech team and see if there’s a delay in the receptor. It might be a split second off.” He snorts and you glance sidelong at him. “What?”
“You don’t think I’d punch slow?”
“No.”
Jihoon raises his brows. You can feel his surprise at your seriousness to his question. He obviously expected you to turn it into a harmless jab, but you mean it when you say, “Your reaction time has been perfect for the last sixteen drops you’ve made. If there’s a delay, it’s the machinery. Not you.”
He looks away from you, nodding once. The tips of his ears are red and he mutters, “Thanks.”
Instead of pressing the matter like you want to, you smile and hit play again, both of you focusing on the screen once more to talk through the remainder of your allotted bonding time.
In your room, Jihoon turns on the speakers, the sound of Pas de Deux from the Nutcracker floods the room. You pause by the wardrobe where you’re shucking your boots off, gazing at Jihoon as he moves into the kitchen silently, taking out two mugs, a box of peppermint tea and a kettle.
He doesn’t feel your eyes on him, going about making tea for the both of you. He hums along to the song - you don’t know when he became so familiar with it, his movements comfortable. Practiced. Relaxed. A swell of affection overtakes you, realizing you don’t know when he started making you tea. Or putting on Tchaikovsky for you. Or not biting at you every two seconds.
Sensing your gaze, he turns to look at you over his shoulder. You turn away from him, busying yourself with your boots to spare him from making an excuse as to why he’s making you tea. Because you’ll know he’ll give one, provide you with some sort of excuse that it isn’t a favor or because you’re friends, but rather something like the tea bags are too large for one or I have to boil the water anyway.
When you’re done changing for bed, he’s standing next to you, mug extended. He doesn’t look at you, instead finding interest in the cameras outside the Shatterdome. You take the mug from him and say nothing, knowing he’d rather you not thank him.
Mug in hand, you climb carefully into the top bunk, crossing your legs as you nestle the mug next to you, pulling out your tablet to read. He gets into bed without a word, both of you existing in comfortable silence, just like Jihoon prefers.
-
Alarms wrench you from sleep. You’re thrown forward in your bed, red flashing on the TV as the kaiju alert system wails. You wipe sleep from your face as you haul yourself over the edge of the bunk, landing next to Jihoon who is pulling off his sweats in favor of cargo pants as quickly as he can. You feel dizzy and off balance as you do the same, shoving one foot in your pants and hopping on one leg as your foot catches while trying to shove in the other.
Jihoon grabs you by the elbow, holding you steady as you shove your foot through the leg of your pants and shoot him a grateful look. He nods, letting you go to finish zipping his pants and digging around for a shirt. He can’t seem to find one, cursing under his breath as he roots around. You toss him one of yours instead, grabbing a pair of socks and throwing yourself onto his bunk to yank them on, quickly followed by shoes.
“Fuck,” Jihoon mutters as he looks up at the screen, the red painting him in hellish light. “We’ve got a Cat-4. They’re dropping Emperor’s Mandate and Fang Striker with us.”
“Dino and Wylie weren’t even on rotation.”
“They’re not making the same mistake they did with Solar Saber.” He pulls out a tablet, squinting against the glow. “We're the last line of defense. Hao and Jun will take point with Fang Striker.”
“Got it. Let’s go.”
You take off at a jog, easily keeping pace with one another as you go. There are jaeger teams moving about the building getting ready, the alarms still sounding as you navigate to the jaeger bay. Your team is already there and ready to fit you into Drivesuits, sliding each piece of armor on with practiced care.
Jihoon catches your eyes from where he stands across from you, letting a team member slide his hand into a metal glove. His eyes are dark as the stormy sea outside, a bottomless well that you can’t seem to dive down into, but want to. His lips twitch a little and he gives you a nod, which you’ve come to understand is Jihoon for I trust you.
Screens blink to life as you enter the Conn-Pod. Closing the front shield of your helmet, you immediately turn on open comms, listening as the Marshall and LOCCENT Controller on duty - you think it’s Nainsi - talking Minghao and Junhui through their neural handshake.
The spine of your Drivesuit connects to the Conn-pod, your heads up display coming to life. You feel the metal whirring and clicking into place, rotating your shoulders and flexing your fingers as your jaeger team finishes connecting Jihoon to the Conn-pod before exciting and shutting the door firmly.
“Storm Breaker ready to drop,” Jihoon announces.
“Engaging pilot to pilot connection protocol sequence,” Nainsi answers. “Engaging neural handshake in three… two… one…”
It’s like jumping off a cliff into freezing cold water. You feel the flash of cold, vision going white for a split second before you feel Jihoon’s calm flow through you. He’s steady like an icy river, his thoughts, feelings and emotions hidden down in their dark depth where they can’t bother either of you.
You’re like rapids, rushing thoughts and feelings, pouring everything through the drift at him. He takes it in stride, used to the white-capped rush of information he gets from you each time you connect. Jihoon adjusts easily, already hitting buttons on his screen as images from your day flash through your mind - including you watching him make you tea in the kitchen.
Jihoon says nothing about that. He says nothing about the gentle wave of your embarrassment either as Nainsi says, “Neural handshake strong and holding.”
Chan’s voice crackles through comms. “Fang Striker on standby for neural handshake.”
“Copy. Storm Breaker prepare for drop in three… two… one.”
Dropping feels like falling through the core of the earth. For a few moments, it’s a flightless feeling as you fall through the Shatterdome. Then you land, knees absorbing impact as the head of the jaeger falls into the neck socket, locking in.
“Calibrating right side,” Jihoon announces. “Calibrated.”
“Calibrating left side. Calibrated. Ready to engage.”
Nainsi confirms calibration and directs, “Storm Breaker, take north point defense two miles from the shoreline. Hold that line. Fang Striker, engaging in pilot to pilot connection protocol sequence in three… two… one.”
You tune out the rest of Fang Striker’s drop as you and Jihoon behind to charge into the bay. The windshield in front of you immediately froths with sea salt and wind, battering down on the jaeger as the night sea surges against Storm Breaker’s legs. You cut through the water like a knife, carving your way toward the defense line as the jumphawk team flies into place.
“Five minutes until surface breach.”
“Oh! Hi, Vernon,” you chirp.
“Sup?”
“Would kill for a coffee right now. And like, a bagel. Or hashbrowns?”
Vernon groans. “Mood.”
Jihoon snorts but says nothing. Minghao’s voice comes over the comms, soft and cool. “Blue, everytime I drop with you you’re talking about food.”
“Have you considered that Ji doesn't feed me?”
“So it’s Ji now, huh?”
“Don’t get her started,” Jihoon grunts at Minghao’s teasing. “One mile out from the line of defense.”
Chan joins the conversation, voice chipper. “Fang Striker ready to pursue. Also, good morning everyone!”
Everyone groans in misery collectively instead of greeting him back. Wylie’s voice cracks like a whip as she spits out, “Be nice to him.”
Everyone greets Chan after that. Jihoon shakes his head, amused. “Fang Striker, escort Emperor’s Mandate to engage. Four minutes until surface breach.”
Black ocean ripples outward in front of Storm Breaker as you move. You near the defense line, the city lights like a sea of stars at Storm Breaker’s back. Air support circles overhead, monitoring kaiju activity and helping with positioning. You see the spotlights glinting on the surface, waiting for a kaiju to surface.
To the east of your position, Fang Striker and Emperor’s Mandate cut through the water. Fang Striker’s red paint is violent against the night, but her build is small next to the towering white fury of Minghao and Junhui’s jaeger.
“Storm Breaker in position,” Jihoon calls. You both stop moving, your jaeger coming to a standstill as the water sloshes around your waist.
“Standby, Storm Breaker. Kaiju breach in one minute.”
“Emperor’s Mandate and Fang Striker in position. Ready to engage.”
“Engage at your discretion.”
Comms go silent as the strike team waits for the kaiju to appear. It’s the calm before the storm, the silence pregnant with tension. You feel a tentative brush of Jihoon’s thoughts against you. You turn and glance at him, surprised.
Jihoon is watching you with a stormy expression, thoughtful. “You thinking about letting me in that big ass head of yours?” You tease, just in your personal comms.
He smirks and shakes his head, breaking eye contact to look out the front of Storm Breakers cockpit. “Not a chance.”
It’s a lie. You know it's a lie because you feel it is as sure as you feel your own glittering satisfaction that he’s thinking about it. That Jihoon is considering opening the door for you, even a fraction.
Your satisfaction only lasts a second as the kaiju breaches the surface in front of Emperor’s Mandate and Fang Striker. You watch in strained silence as the jumphawk team begins reporting what they can about the makeup of the kaiju.
Emperor’s Mandate engages immediately, their metal saber chain shooting from the right arm and punching through the shoulder of the kaiju. An electromagnetic pulse goes down the chain and it goes taught like a sword as Junhui slices upward, attempting to sever the kaiju’s arm.
The kaiju lands a hard punch to Emperor’s Mandate in the middle, sending them backward into the ocean as the chain-turned-sword pulls out as they fall. Fang Striker is there before the kaiju can attack again, charging and tackling the kaiju at the waist. She’s not built for heavy fighting, but Chan and Wylie are vicious, clawing at the kaiju with their metal claws.
“Fang Striker, roll!” Minghao orders. Fang Stricker does, using the kaiju as weight to rock themselves over and under the creature, vanishing beneath the water’s surface as Emperor’s Mandate lands a punch to the kaiju’s back with a plasmacaster, turning the night blue as the sparks flare. “Push and we’ll pull.”
Salt spray mists the windshield as you and Jihoon watch in silence. The kaiju is a massive, hulking beast with spikes down its spine and a nasty club tail that catches Fang Striker in the knees, taking her down. The two jaeger teams work in flawless tandem, punching when the other ducks, tackling with the other falls.
In a way, it’s beautiful to watch the fury of what a jaeger can do. Your lips twitch upward as the fight starts to go their way, Emperor’s Mandate severing the leg of the monster as Fang Striker pounces on it, sinking both clawed hands into its shoulder blades and tearing through its hide.
“Storm Breaker-” Vernon’s panicked voice gets cut off as your world turns upside down.
You feel yourself slam against the restraints of the Conn-pod connecting you to the jaeger. A surprised shriek escapes you as you flip head-over-feet in Storm Breaker, crashing into the ocean with a violent slam. A kaiju raises itself from the water, rearing its head like a cobra as it shrieks, the sound shaking the entire hull.
“What the fuck?” Jihoon screams over comms. Storm Breaker rolls as the kaiju strikes like a snake, barely missing you as it hits empty water. “Where the fuck did that come from?”
“There was no reading!” Vernon yells back. “The signature appeared a half second before it attacked like it had some sort of stealth mode!”
“Kaiju don’t have fucking stealth mode, Vernon!”
“Maybe it got an iOS update man, I don’t know!”
There’s no time to care about why or how a kaiju isn’t appearing on the reporting team’s screen. Whatever level it is, it’s fast. You and Jihoon get to your feet just as it strikes again, fangs striking at the windshield. It doesn’t crack, but the sound of kaiju bone against the glass isn’t promising.
Storm Breaker stumbles back a few steps before regaining footing. You both strike with your right fist, slamming into the neck area of the beast as it winds up to strike again. It looks like a massive cobra, coils and coils of kaiju body gathering each time it tries.
A shudder vibrates through the jaeger as the punch lands, sending the kaiju back several hundred yards. You don’t give it a moment to recover, both of you charging as you equip short swords perfect for close-combat fighting and slicing.
“I think it’s too fast to pick up a reading,” you shout over comms. “It moves so quickly!”
Fighting is a careful rhythm. You and Jihoon find it immediately, tuning out the sound of the other fight as you zero in on your target. It doesn’t matter that the kaiju took you by surprise, it doesn’t matter that Jihoon still hasn’t let you in, it doesn’t matter that somewhere, you have other friends in just as much danger.
What matters is this. The feeling of rage that flows from Jihoon - or maybe it’s you - as you both savagely plunge a sword in the serpent body of your enemy. What matters is the way you and Jihoon flow, two rivers with the same curves and dips, sliding around the kaiju as you strike again, spraying ichor into the sea.
Storm Breaker’s sword extends from the right arm, reflecting the city lights briefly before you cut sideways. The blade slides clean through like a knife through paper. You and Jihoon both scream savagely in unison as the head flies separate from the body, sailing in the air for a moment before crashing into the surface as blood spurts from the main body.
It flails for a moment longer before crashing under ocean froth and water. Victory surges through you and you look across the Conn-pod where Jihoon is grinning at you, stars in his eyes. You feel a moment of elation, laughter bubbling to your lips as Nainsi recalls you to the Dome, Emperor’s Mandate and Fang Striker standing victorious.
“That’s kill number six?” Jihoon asks, voice delighted. “We’re on a fucking roll.”
“I guess I’m not so bad a co-pilot after all, right?” He rolls his eyes but you get the feeling the tips of his ears have turned red. “Come on, Ji. Tell me I’m a good co-pilot.”
“No way.”
“Come onnnn.”
He levels a look at you, dark eyes churning. He licks his lips, opening and closing his mouth before he finally murmurs, “Can I show you instead?”
The left foot of Storm Breaker is yanked from under you. You go down screaming, feeling the impact of the seafloor as you go down in the shallows hard. Pain shoots up your left arm as you slam against the restraints keeping you attached to the Conn-pod. Lights flash in your heads up display and a sensor starts going off, the left arm of the jaeger going dead as it loses connection.
Jihoon is screaming your name over comms as you grit your teeth, and gather your bearings. You suck in a sharp breath as you both scramble to get Storm Breaker on her feet. “Left arms gone cold,” Jihoon yells over comms. You manage to get Storm Breaker to her feet as you both throw out your right arm, bracing for impact as the kaiju’s head strikes again. “It grew back two fucking heads!”
“Fang Striker pursuing!” It’s Chan voice over the comms. “Three miles out from contact.”
One of the heads strikes at the helm again, knocking into Storm Breaker hard. Your world rocks as you shove with the full force of the right side of the jaeger, thrusters turning on as you launch the kaiju and its twin heads backward.
“How the fuck do we kill this thing?” you screech, charging toward the creature as it slides through the water, coiling to strike again. “If we cut off its head again, it’s just going to grow another.”
“Stab it through the head? I don’t fucking know!”
Snatches of panic and anger and concern seize you for a split second, it feels like your own but you realize it’s not, Jihoon’s feelings bleeding into you like a fresh wound as you strike at the kaiju again. Its tail loops around the left leg again and Jihoon’s worry spikes, so raw and unfamiliar that when he lifts his foot, you don’t lift yours.
Storm Breaker stalls, filled with mechanic screeching as the two of you clash in the drift in a moment of indecision. A storm of emotions batters down on you. Your lungs squeeze as you feel yourself torn away from the fight and into Jihoon’s memories, each one flitting by so fast you can barely resonate with them.
A little boy bullied by bigger kids. A woman being torn out of a home screaming in the hand of a kaiju. The sound of Mozart drowning out the screams of destruction. Young Jihoon crying in his room alone, nursing bruised ribs and knees. Teenage Jihoon fighting back. A man named Haneul that has seen all of Jihoon’s scars.
“... out of alignment!”
Words crash through you as you feel a tremor go through Storm Breaker. Jihoon’s thoughts are like a hurricane tearing at your foundation.
Hatred when he meets you for the first time. Pride when he makes his first successful drop. Grief when Haneul retired. Resentment when he’s reassigned to a new pilot.
Jihoon screams your name but you are drowning in him. Jihoon’s emotional dam has broken and years worth of who he is comes out in a torrent.
Jihoon joins the pilot program because he wants to get away from the home. The smell of books and oil lanterns. Greasy fingers and fumes. A blue mat rushing up to meet him as he falls.
“Emperor’s Mandate two miles out. Preparing to engage!”
Bitter coffee. Celebrating Haneul’s birthday. The sting of Chan biting him mid spar. Pretending he didn’t hate his childhood. Hiding the scared little boy behind a controlled exterior.
“She’s chasing the rabbit!”
Chasing the rabbit. You hear the word and vaguely realize you’ve fallen down the rabbit hole of Jihoon’s memories and emotions, completely unused to them in a space where you’re connected intimately. You try to gather your bearings, shutting down the images flashing across your mind that don’t belong to you as Storm Breaker gets rocked again.
“Shit,” Jihoon swears. “Blue, come on. Come back to me. I’m sorry. Don’t chase my memories!”
A kite against a blue sky. Two paper boats on a lake. Your smile as you hang upside down off the bunk bed. Soonyoung giving Jihoon a birthday cake. Wylie in a hospital bed. Jeonghan and Joshua accepting pilots of the year.
“I’m sorry,” Jihoon whispers, both in your mind and outloud. “Come back.”
You can do this. You can withstand the storm of Jihoon’s consciousness. You shake him out of your head, sorting out your thoughts and his. It’s nearly impossible to understand where you end and he begins, but you manage to hold back the wake of his uncontrolled consciousness.
Blinking, you come back to the present. There are lights and warnings going off as Storm Breaker takes another strike from the kaiju. Fang Striker is taking on its other head, the kaiju splitting focus between two jaeger teams as it tries to split open the top of your jaeger. Wylie and Chan are yelling in comms and Emperor’s Mandate is in pursuit to help you disengage.
The left arm of your jaeger is still cold, totally disconnected from the rest of the machinery. You run through a list of fighting options with one arm down. The right side of the jaeger is fitted with a sword, explosive and a plasma caster in the first of the hand. But the jaeger overall-
“Light it up,” you tell Jihoon. His relief crashing into you like a tidal wave. He understands what you want to do immediately. You feel his agreement rather than see it as you both start to tap controls on your control panels. “Fang Striker, prepare for lighting strike!”
“Fry this motherfucker!” Wylie screams. “I fucking hate snakes!”
The nuclear reactor at the core of your jaeger starts to charge. From the top down, your jaeger begins to power down, lights flickering out and screens going dead. Your heart hammers as the kaiju slams into the head of the jaeger over and over again, trying to crack the helm wide open. Storm Breaker takes the savage blows as all but the nuclear core shuts off.
A low hum begins to sound at the heart of the machine. You feel the vibration tingle in your spine as all of the energy flow focuses in the center of the jaeger, slowly charging and pulling electricity from everywhere else. It’s a slow process, the kaiju beating down on you as the core winds up.
“Fuck,” Jihoon swears at a particularly harsh strike. “This fucking bitch!”
“We’ve got it,” you tell him. You look across the Conn-pod at him, his face pale behind the shield of his helmet. “She’s not going to break, Ji.”
You feel your words resonate in him. His affection is startling. He hides nothing from you now, every thought he’s ever had of you, every moment his eyes lingered on you too, every second he realized he didn’t dislike you at all - it’s all there for you to see. His soul laid bare.
“She’s ready!” Your smile is like the sun. “Light her up!”
Jihoon hits a button on his panel and the air turns to static. A ripple of energy passes through you, only lasting a split second before a bolt of white lightning explodes from the center of the jaeger. The world turns white, forcing you to shield your eyes as you hear the crack of deafening thunder.
Ears ringing, you lower your hand as the light fades, blue sparks of electricity zapping across the ocean in a mile-wide radius. Smoking, the kaiju falls backwards, ocean spraying up on either side as it hits the surface of the sea. You can barely hear Fang Striker over the sound of the high-pitched whine in your ears.
You wait, but the kaiju doesn’t rise again. The jumphawk team circles above, waiting for another kaiju signature, but none comes.
Sagging in your Conn-pod, you glance over at Jihoon. “Does that count as one or two kills? I’m so fucking over monster fighting today. I want a goddamn grilled cheese.”
-
Jihoon is a wreck. Not only does he visibly hover near your medical bed as the attending medic tends to your arm, ensuring it’s not broken, but you can still feel him like he’s attached to you in the drift. His concern is touching, but there’s also anger there. Not at you but at himself, boiling under the surface of his newfound worry.
“So she’ll be okay?” he clarifies again, looking at the doctor with a hard stare. The man tending to your arm looks nervous under the sharp gaze of a jaeger pilot. “You’re sure it’s not broken? It better not be broken.”
“Jihoon,” you say gently. He crosses his arms over his chest, not taking his eyes off the doctor as he stares him down. “I’m fine. It’s just some bruising.”
“Just some bruising. Your arm practically fell off.”
“It did not. Let the doctor finish, Ji.”
He softens, turning to sit on an empty cot as he sulks. You watch him with muted amusement. His bottom lip juts out slightly, put out by you not letting him baby you. Cute, you think.
Thankfully, the arm isn’t damaged. You’d bruised it pretty severely when Storm Breaker went down and you slammed against your restraints, but otherwise you’re unharmed. Some pain meds, ice and rest should do the trick, so you and Jihoon leave the medical bay with the doctor’s advice in hand and Jihoon muttering under his breath.
Back in your room, Jihoon sits you on his bottom bunk to examine the arm himself, holding you carefully as though he can break you at any moment. You let him have this, watching as his eyebrows crease and mouth twists while he rotates your arm delicately.
He has pretty hands. You’ve always thought so, but now you watch his slender fingers brush over your sore arm with care, feeling a shiver threaten the base of your spine.
“You should ask for a reassignment.” Jihoon’s words land like a brick. You look up at him, eyes flashing with confusion. “I nearly killed you today. It was unprofessional and shameful as your co-pilot to knock you out of alignment like that. You don’t deserve that.”
“It happens, Jihoon. Fighting in a jaeger isn’t always perfect.”
“Well I am. And today I wasn’t. Request a new pilot, the Marshall will understand. People don’t last with me, it’ll be no risk to you.”
“I’m not requesting a new pilot. You’re who I want to drift with.”
He starts to pace. “Why? I’m obviously still that scared little boy who used to hide in his room alone.”
Even without having felt his emotions in the drift, Jihoon makes so much more sense to you now. You reach out to him, taking him by the arms to stop his pacing. He won’t look at you, averting his eyes elsewhere. Your heart squeezes knowing that the reason Jihoon kept you out is because he didn’t want you to see who he was before he was the controlled, perfect jaeger pilot.
“You’re not, Jihoon.” You squeeze his arm to emphasize your words. “But even if you were, I trust that little boy too. He was empathetic and kind.” Jihoon glances at you, unsure. “Don’t run away from me now that you’ve let me in. I’ve seen you and I still want you. Unless you don’t want me.”
“Of course I do.”
“It’s hard to tell with you, you know?”
His gaze drops down to your mouth. “I’ll show you, then.”
Without another word, Jihoon grabs you by the waist and pulls you to him fully. Your arms slip around his neck, holding onto him for balance as he crashes his mouth to yours. His lips are warm and soft in contrast to the ferocity he kisses you with, fingers digging into your hips, mouth hungry.
You meet him with equal fervor, fingers tangling in the long hair at the nape of his neck. He grunts when your nails scratch against his scalp, biting into your lower lip. He presses his tongue to the seam of your mouth and you let him in, sighing as his tongue brushes against yours, eager to taste you.
Kissing Jihoon is like standing in the eye of a storm. He’s brutal and calm, sharp and soft. His heart beats against yours, his chest heaving when he pulls away from your mouth to press wet kisses to the shape of your jaw and down your throat.
One of Jihoon’s hands slides up your back, fingers dancing along your spine until he reaches the base of your neck. He grabs you firmly, pulling your head back to give him better access to the softness of your throat. You let out a breathy sound and he groans low in his throat.
“Don’t make that sound,” he whispers, biting your neck gently and chasing the sting with his tongue. “I’ll fucking crumble.”
“So crumble.”
“Fuck.”
Jihoon starts pushing you backward, your steps a tangle of feet. It might be the most uncoordinated the two of you have ever been, caught up in the heat of each other’s mouths as he kisses you feverishly again. It’s messy and spit-slicked, making you light headed. Your knees hit his bottom bunk and you crash backward, Jihoon on top of you.
Your hands seek the warmth of his skin, sliding under the hem of his shirt over his flexing stomach to his firm chest. He lets you rake your nails across him as he settles on top of you, his hands planted on either side of your head and a knee slotted between your legs.
Having him this close is everything. Months of not being able to have him entirely or the way you want has made you ravenous for him. You pull at his shirt, nipping at his lip and whining. He laughs darkly, leaning up from you to grab the back of his shirt and pull it up over his head.
He lets you do what you want, content to let you run your fingers over the ridges of his stomach, the narrow shape of his waist, the firmness of his chest. He dives back down to attach his mouth to your collarbone, pulling the neckline of your shirt out of the way for access.
“Just take it off,” you complain, shivering as he continues his assault.
“Mmmf - difficult.”
This is not the composed Jihoon you’re used to. This is the raw, unedited version of him you’ve been begging to see. This is the storm letting loose because he knows you can take it - want to take it.
Jihoon does get tired of your shirt, growling as he grabs it firmly and tears it up and over your head. You laugh as he does, loving the way he scowls and presses you back down, biting your jaw as he does. He palms your tits over your bra, pinching your nipples through the fabric. You squeal and arch into him, head pressing into the mattress.
“Don’t laugh at me,” he huffs, mouth trailing butterfly-soft kisses toward your chest.
“Sensitive?” you jest, dropping a hand between your bodies to press against the front of his pants. He hisses, hips twitching as you press against his cock. You grin wickedly as he pants raggedly against your skin, letting you squeeze him. “Yeah, you are.”
Jihoon drags his knee up the bed, pressing between your legs. A bolt of pleasure surges through you and you whimper, making him smirk against your chest. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
He drops a hand down to your waist, squeezing. “Didn’t sound like nothing. Come on,” he urges. “You know you want to.”
So you do. You roll your hips forward, pressing your clothed cunt against his thigh. The layers of clothes block too much of the sensation and you press harder, desperate for stimulation. A whine drips from your mouth as you grow frustrated. You feel the curve of Jihoon’s smile against the curve of your left breast as he places a wet kiss there.
“Having a hard time?”
“Jihoon.”
One hand stays fixed on your hips, urging you to continue to grind into him despite it not being enough. The other slides up your front, his fingers light as feathers. He hooks a finger in the cup of your bra and pulls downward. He drags his mouth downward, giving your nipple a playful flick with his tongue.
“Jihoon.”
He hums thoughtfully, circling your pert bud with his tongue. A tremor goes through you and you squeeze your eyes shut. He closes his mouth on you and sucks gently, making you gasp. You continue to roll your hips into him as he scrapes his teeth against you gently.
Cool air hits your spit-slicked chest as he kisses sloppily over to your other breast, repeating his ministrations. It feels so good you feel like you’re going to lose your mind. His skin is hot against yours and you’re desperate to feel more of him, hands pulling at his shoulders as he sucks wet marks into your chest.
“More,” you whisper. “God, please more.”
He knows what you mean when you say more because of course he does. He rids you of your bra entirely, throwing it somewhere else in the room. He works the buttons on your pants next, deft fingers moving quickly before tugging them down your thighs. He lets you pull his cargos down and throw them, but it’s as far as you get before he’s lavishing attention to your tits again.
“Try now,” he pants.
His knee is pressed right against the apex of your thighs. You don’t care that he can feel the damp cloth against his skin. You slow grind on his knee, feeling the pressure infinitely better with just a thin layer of underwear between you. A sigh of relief escapes you and he grunts, pleased as you keep going, thighs shaking.
You could drown in him and not care. He smells like spearmint and soap, his hair soft as silk as it slides between your fingers. He gives a sound of approval everytime you card your hands through his hair, especially when he gives you a sharp bite and you tug.
A tingle settles in the depth of your stomach. You feel like you could almost come this way, getting off with just his leg between your thighs and his mouth sucking greedily at your tits. You feel yourself tighten, hips pressing further but it’s not quite enough.
He reads you like a book. Jihoon slides his knee back and replaces it with his hand, fingers delicately pressing against your clit. It makes you see stars, going rigid in his grasp as he gently circles it a few times before dragging his fingers back down to press at your core through your underwear.
“So god damn wet,” he lets go of your nipple with a pop. He hooks a finger through your underwear and pulls them to the side, his knuckles brushing your sticky folds. “So pretty for me.”
His compliment makes you shy. You hide your face behind your hands and he laughs darkly, letting you. He’s already seen all of you in the drift, but this is different. More personal. Real.
The press of a finger into your cunt is slow and maddening. You immediately want more, desperate for it. He doesn’t give it to you right away, taking his time as he busies his mouth with your chest and neck, content to finger fuck you at a leisurely pace.
When he hooks his finger and presses right into that soft spot, you seize up. He grins, finding exactly what he was looking for. His mouth catches yours again, a tangle of tongue and teeth as he presses another finger in. You squirm against the mattresses, pinned under his weight. The heel of his hand presses into your clit, adding pressure as he strokes your front walls rhythmically.
You’re greedy for him. You suck his tongue into your mouth and he moans, letting you do what you want. The wet squelch of his hand between your legs only spurs you on, his name dripping from your lips in a whine as you cling to him, feeling the start of your orgasm.
Jihoon knows it’s coming. His pace is more intent and he shuffles up the bed to get a better angle. Your toes curl and you writhe against the sheets, feeling the way they stick to your balmy skin as he works you closer and closer to an orgasm.
He presses a soft kiss under your ear, chaste compared to the mess he makes of your cunt. “Come on,” his voice is husky and gentle. “Let go for me.”
It’s his for me that sends you over the edge. Your legs squeeze around his hand but he keeps at it, pressing tender kisses to your collarbones as you twitch under his touch. Your orgasm starts to wane and turn into overstimulation, your panting turning into whimpering, nails digging into the back of his neck, unsure if you’re trying to push him away or keep him there.
Jihoon retracts his hand slowly. You feel the way you drip down the curve of your ass as you pant, staring up at the bottom of your bunk trying to gulp down air. He nudges his nose against your jaw, bringing your attention back to the present as his dark eyes look up at you.
Your voice comes out rough from use. “Want you.”
The corner of his mouth lifts and he nods, lifting himself off you to let you peel your underwear the rest of the way down as he works his briefs down his thighs. You let out a squeak when you look up to see him using the cum on his fingers to stroke himself, head tilted back a little, eyes heavy.
“What?” he murmurs, dropping his gaze down to you. His eyes are fucked out just from getting you off and it drives you insane, this visual of him blotchy with warmth, hair sticking to his forehead.
“You’re so hot,” you blurt and he pauses, raising a brow at you. “Don’t stop.”
“You like when I touch myself in front of you?” You nod, chewing on your lip as you stare. He grins and starts stroking himself slowly again, squeezing his flushed tip as he does, beads of precum dripping over the edge. “I’ll give you a show later. If I don’t fuck you in the next five minutes I will nut in my hand.”
“I mean, I wouldn’t hate it.”
“Oh? You want me to cum in my hand instead of that pretty pussy?” You purse your lips, staring back at him with a pout. “Didn’t think so.” He laughs and shuffles on his knees toward you, shaking his head and groaning when your legs fall open automatically for him, revealing the mess he’s made. “Can’t believe I made myself wait for this.”
“How stupid of you.”
Your stomach flutters when Jihoon lowers himself, cockhead pressing at your entrance. You ache for him - in more ways than one. Jihoon feels it too, hanging his head and letting his hair cascade around his face like a silvery halo as he slowly presses in.
His name falls from your mouth as you gasp, feeling the pressure of him as he sinks into your cunt slowly. You feel full and overwhelmed and perfect all at once, a myriad of feelings peppering your senses until he’s fully sheathed to the hilt.
Jihoon’s breathing is ragged for a moment as you clench around him, throbbing. He sucks in air sharply between his teeth, one hand going to your hip to press you into the mattress while the other lands next to your head, bearing his weight.
“Thank you for waiting for me.” You almost don’t hear him when he says it, his voice so soft. “When you didn’t have to.”
Your arms loop around his neck, pulling him closer. His nose brushes against yours and you feel your adoration for him grow. “Of course I did. You were meant for me.”
Prompted by your words, he nods and pulls his hips back slowly. The glide is easy with how wet you are. He thrusts back in with a hard snap, stealing your breath. The ability to string together coherent words vanishes as Jihoon sets a punctuated space.
“Fuck,” you whisper.
Fuck is right. Jihoon angles his hips perfectly, kissing your spot with each thrust with a deadly precision you’ve only seen in battle. Of course he fucks like he fights with absolute accuracy, driving you right toward an orgasm within a few minutes. Your fingers tangle in your hair, mouth pressed against his forehead where it rests against you.
His hand slides from your hips to your thigh, slipping under it and hiking it upward. It deepens the angle and you let out a loud sound, unable to catch your breath as sparks fly behind your eyelids.
“Holy shit, like that.” You’re a mess under him and he knows it, driving his hips faster as you continue to fall apart. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”
“Yeah?” he asks, almost taunting. “Gonna come like this?”
“Yes, please don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t. He keeps going, driving you to the edge until you’re coming around him with enough force to knock heads with him. He mumbles something that sound like ouch but you’re too far gone, squeezing the fucking life out of him as you come before going boneless.
Jihoon pulls out and flips you, your world spinning as you land face first in his pillows. They smell like him and you love it, sliding your hands up to grip at the pillows as he drags your knees up, ass toward him. Sweat slicks your back and you try to take in a few ragged breaths, turning your head to the side to watch him sidelong.
His dark eyes dip to your ass and he curses, shifting backward so that he can lean down, hands prying your thighs apart to make way for his tongue as it slides up your pussy.
“Oh shit,” you wheeze.
He practically purrs against you, tongue licking slowly back and forth. The grip on his pillows tightens, one of your hands shooting back to grab his hair, holding him to you. He laughs, the vibration going straight through you as he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking over it.
“I love when you pull my hair,” he admits, panting as he takes a breath.
His tongue dives back in, pressing against your clenching hole. It is maddening the way he works you with his mouth. You feel like you’re coasting to another high. He knows exactly what to do, knows when to slow down, knows when to speed up. Jihoon has had access to you for months and it shows, navigating your body like it’s second nature to him.
“I’m gonna come again.” It comes out as a whine, fingers twisting in his locks. “Shit.”
“So come again.”
You do. It’s not as hard as the first one but it’s just as good, your orgasm shivering through you. Warmth floods you and you bite into his pillow, muting the loud sound that spills from your lips.
Jihoon doesn’t give you a second to recover before he’s up on his knees and pushing back into you. His hand cracks across your ass and you let out a startled yelp, earning laughter from both of you. Spent and delirious, your hand finds purchase on his wrist, holding on to him as he fucks you fast and hard.
He lets go of where he holds your hip to lace your fingers instead, pressing your linked fingers against the curve of your ass as he drills his hips forward. Somehow the hand holding is more intimate, your throat screwing shut as Jihoon chases after his own high.
With a muted murmur of your name, he comes. His thrusts turn messy, each press of his hips against your ass met with a wet sound. You don’t even care about the slick running down your legs, absolutely spent and sweaty and tired and a little in love with the man behind you.
Slowly, he lets go of your hand. You drop your arm to the mattress, suddenly aware of the ache in your shoulder at the angle. Instead of pulling out, Jihoon leans forward, pressing his sweaty chest to your back, mouth brushing softly against your shoulders.
“Thank you.”
You’re so close to sleep that you barely register what he’s saying. “For what?”
“Withstanding the storm,” he laughs. “Withstanding me and waiting me out.”
“You’re worth it.”
“I hope so. I want to be.”
With care, he detangles himself from you. You make a pitiful sound and he tuts at you, rolling you over on your back so that he can see your face. His eyes swim with more affection than you’ve ever seen, kick starting your heart. You lift a hand and tuck his bangs behind his ear, fingers lingering to brush across his cheek.
“So I’m kind of like your Storm Breaker, right?”
He groans. “Don’t start.”
“What? You literally just said I withstood the storm or whatever.”
“Come on, we’re showering.”
“No way, I am not moving right now.”
“You are not sleeping covered in cum.”
“Ji,” you whine.
He grins and kisses your head, getting out of bed. “Come on then, storm breaker. Withstand me a little more.”
-
Also in this Universe: Cherry Bomb by @daechwitatamic
