Warnings: mildly suggestive content. drinking/alcohol mentions. (mentions of having children.)
[Series: Serenity Street 17] Your boyfriend’s been trying to propose to you all week, but he’s starting to wonder if he should wait until you’ve settled into your new apartment.
[DAY 1, FRIDAY]
Tucked in the deepest crevices of his pocket, the ring weighted heavy. It was hidden in a small green velvet box, waiting for its time to shine on your finger, just like he was waiting for the right moment to present it to you.
The ring seemed to get heavier the more in love he fell – or so he had found. But the timing was never right. But maybe this week he could finally break out of this circle and propose like he’d been daydreaming for so long.
“Wonwoo!” your voice called his attention away from the ring. He hummed and feigned a smile that would soon become genuine. You let out a helpless laugh and pointed to the pile of cardboard boxes waiting in the back of your car. “Aren’t you going to help? What? Am I the only one moving?”
Genre: friends to lovers fluff. a tiny bit of angst.
Word Count: 6.3k
Warnings: mention of a prince insulting the reader's appearance. a lot of waltzing because that's the only dance i know apparently.
[Modern Royalty AU] Every year the Gala of Peace is held to celebrate the peace treaty. Every year you meet him there. Every year you wish you had more time together.
In the span of forty minutes you'd already managed to spill soup on your blue velvet dress and accidentally insult an ambassador's dog. This year's Gala of Peace was a disaster, one that would leave a mental scar that will no doubt haunt your nightmares for the rest of your life. Maybe this was why your grandmother had been so careful about inviting teenagers.
"In my defence," you grumbled over the brim of your lemonade glass, "the dog really does look like a rat."
Wonwoo was lucky he hadn't taken a sip of his drink just when you said it. Otherwise the laugh he snorted out would've been a lot less endearing. "Does it?"
With a solemn nod, you asked, "How was I supposed to know it wasn't one? I mean it had those buggy eyes and a pink nose."
"I think a lot of things can have buggy eyes and pink noses," Wonwoo noted diplomatically. "Lemurs, weasels, hairless cats—"
"Rats," you added thoughtfully, eyes widening just a bit for emphasis.
He adjusted his round spectacles to mask the widening smile. You wished he wasn't so shy about showing it. You'd always thought he had a nice smile — the kind that would make a girl's knees all weak and jelly-like (you being the exception, of course).
"I'm just saying," you shrugged and grimaced at the chafing the movement created between your skin and the rush-job corset you'd been fitted into this morning, "if he didn't want me to mistake his dog for a rat, he should've gotten a dog that actually looks like a dog."
"Are you trying to cause an international incident?" he wondered briefly. "A princess calling her ambassador's dog a rat… The optics of that aren't great."
You offered him a mild glare. "I see you've found the dictionary section of your library."
His lips curved into a wider smile. "You should give it a try. And maybe the public relations section too."
"God forbid a girl has bad eyesight."
"And table manners."
Your gasp was soulful and theatrical, a hand rising to your chest in mock horror. "Are you saying my table manners bother you, my Lord?"
"As a matter of fact, Your Royal Highness," he mocked your act, "they do."
"That is it," you declared just quietly enough to avoid causing any actual international incidents or — worst of all — another war. "Our friendship must come to an end. You have insulted me, my lineage, and the honour of my people. I must ask you to please refrain from ever visiting my kingdom and to please return the books I've borrowed you."
Wonwoo only cackled in response. Scornful looks sent your way made him promptly shut up and turn to the wall to hide his grin. He side-eyed you. "You're the worst."
"You'd be bored without me."
You took a sip of your lemonade. The bubbles had turned flat and all that was left was the despicably sweet taste of sugary lemons. You couldn't wait until you were old enough to drink the royal vineyard's sparkling wine instead of budget lemonade.
"Unfortunately, I'm bored even with you," he mumbled under his breath and glanced at his watch. "Can't believe this thing still has four hours to go."
Your face dropped some more. "You're kidding."
"I wish."
You barely resisted the urge to utter some very unladylike phrases. Your grandmother would have had your head and made you take another semester of Royal Etiquette lessons if you didn't contain yourself.
Instead of risking all that, you forced a smile — it wasn't quite a genuine one. Your nose felt a bit more scrunched, your lips felt more tight, your eyes betrayed no spark of joy. It was as fake as it could get but it was better than another semester with Lady Henrietta.
"I wonder if they would notice if we snuck away," Wonwoo suddenly wondered.
You blinked at him in surprise — such a statement was uncharacteristic of him. The son of a Duke of your neighbouring kingdom, he was the epitome of manners and etiquette. At least that's how you'd always seen him at your annual meetings. You wondered if you were becoming a bad influence.
Clearing your throat, you replied, "I suppose we are not the most relevant guests. My grandmother and your king have more important things to worry about than us, right?"
"Like the ceremonial signing of the peace treaty amendments."
"Like exchanging party favours with foreign nobility."
Wonwoo was silent for a moment, fingers drumming on the stem of his glass as he thought. Suddenly he extended his arm for you to take. "Have you seen the royal library, Your Royal Highness?"
Placing your hand over his forearm, you feigned interest. "Please do show the way, my Lord."
People offered pleasant smiles as you passed them by. Some of them looked just as bored as you felt. But most of them had no excuses to sneak away and find distractions. You had the best excuse of all: you were teenagers.
The library was much bigger than the one you had back home. It was a collection of centuries of wisdom, policies, and culture — your kingdom's meek one hundred years of independence could hardly compete. Shelves upon shelves stretched across a room the size of a proper ordinary house and yet it still made up less than a fifth of the palace.
As the heavy hardwood doors closed behind you, you separate from Wonwoo to browse the shelves. "It's almost exactly the same."
"You've been here before?" he wondered and you were struck by the realisation that you only vaguely knew him. You'd met him when you were just little children, yes, but meeting just once a year for a few hours at a time, usually at tense political events, had left you with no chance to bond.
You plucked a book from the shelf, flipping through the pages as if waiting for something to jump out and pique your interest. "I used to come here every summer when I was kid. My grandmother was convinced I'd marry your crown prince."
"Used to come here?" He had picked up a book as well, open on a page somewhere in the middle. He made great effort to appear more interested in the printed words than in your history. "I take it you don't really come here anymore then?"
"The prince and I…" It was hard to find the words. "We had a falling out of sorts."
"Did he insult your table manners too?"
Your laughter filled the large space. "I wish! He compared me to a toad."
Wonwoo looked up from his book, startled. His jaw fell. "He did?"
"Ugly as a toad is how he described me," you quoted, the memory still fresh in your mind even though three years had passed. "Rest assured, I stomped on his foot and declared I'd never speak to him again. Grandmother wasn't even mad about it."
He watched silently as you grabbed another book and made yourself comfortable in one of the armchairs. As if you were not nobility at all, you slipped off your high heels and folded your feet under you.
A part of him itched to know what you were like outside of royal duties and etiquette. Did you always choose comfort over correct posture? Did you use a proper bookmark or did you just dog-ear your readings? Did you take the prince's words with grace or did you write a scathing review in your journal? Too many questions to fit into the few hours he got with you each year.
As if afraid you'd catch onto his train of thoughts, he made a point to look away, glancing around the library as if he didn't visit it almost every week. He knew this place almost as perfectly as the head librarian did, always eager to read more and more. He'd made it a personal goal to read every book on these shelves, even if it would take him more than a lifetime.
His eyes fell upon a familiar colourful collection of thin books. Before he could think about it further, he found himself asking, "Do you like comic books?"
You glanced up. "Are there any here?"
"A whole bunch."
Without a second of hesitation, you slammed closed the book in your lap. A soft cloud of dust exploded out from between the pages at your action. You let out a sneeze and laughed before putting the book away. "Well, I can't say no to that."
As you spent the rest of your evening reading the comic books, admiring the colourful illustrations and giggling at the dialogue, Wonwoo collected every piece of valuable information. He committed to memory the sound of your laughter, the sparkle in your eye when you wanted to share a quote with him, the way you fidgeted with your ring when the action got more tense. He suspected they'd hold him over for the rest of the year until he'd get to see you again and memorise them all over again.
The Gala of Peace was never hosted in the same place nor the same kingdom two years in a row. This year the honour had fallen upon the palace you called your home, transforming the dusty old ballroom into something out of a dream made up of gold and silk. You could hardly recognise the place when you first stepped in.
This year you had no excuse to hide away. As the daughter of the house, you were just about legally obligated to be present for the entire event. Any plans of sneaking out were squashed before they could fully form, your familiar guards and maids taking note of your every move. You had to be on your best behaviour.
And it seemed so did Wonwoo, clad in his tuxedo and standing by his father's side like a commander waiting for orders.
You stood by the wall, waited for him like you always did. One song passed. Then another. Something like worry began itching under your skin. Usually he was much faster to ask you to dance, hardly waiting for a single melody to start before he was at your ready.
Your red satin dress gleamed under the candelabras, acting like a flame to the moths that the men around you were proving themselves to be. Your jewels sparkled, catching the eyes of the guests. Compliments flowed like champagne but they meant nothing when Wonwoo wouldn't even meet your eyes.
Ten whole dances passed and you'd run out of excuses to reject the invitations of other men. Fighting a sigh of defeat, you finally took the arm of an old general and let him lead you into a waltz, making polite small talk all the way across the floor. When he let you go with a bow and a grandfatherly smile of encouragement, you made up your mind.
Head held high, a smile on your face, you practically marched over to the young son of the duke. He barely seemed to notice.
"Do I mean so little to you, old friend?" you asked him once you'd sidled up to him.
It was as if he'd been startled awake from deep slumber, eyes snapping to yours and clearing for barely a second. "What?"
"I've waited all night for you to ask me to dance," you pointed out and tried to sound more spiteful than concerned. "At this rate, your crown prince might dance with me before you do."
His lips quirked into the smallest smile. "Even though he thinks you look like a toad?"
"Perhaps I'm a charming type of toad," you replied. "Maybe it was a compliment I misjudged."
"Must have been," he told you and you could've sworn he sounded sincere. "You put the rest of the room to shame with your beauty."
Unable to decide if you should thank him or send for a doctor, you blinked before clearing your throat. "So, ask me to a dance then."
"I would." He hesitated. "But I think if I did that, you'd have to carry me off the dance floor before the song ended."
It was only then that you noticed how he really looked. His eyes downcast and heavy, almost foggy, and his face paler than you remembered, dark circles of exhaustion all around his eyes — he looked like he belonged in a hospital bed more than at a political gala.
"Are you okay?" you found yourself asking, your voice so soft you worried he wouldn't hear you.
You went to repeat yourself when he took too long to answer, but he beat you to it with a weak smile and a shrug. "My head hurts so bad I'm almost seeing double. I barely slept last night." He sighed and haphazardly fixed his hair. "I would kill for a nap right about now."
As if to torture him for bothering you with his troubles, the orchestra got louder. Their trombones and violins sounded almost accusatory. The drum sounded like a warning you'd refuse to heed.
"Let's get you something to drink," you offered and took his arm.
You made slow progress through the crowd, Wonwoo swaying a little every other step as if just keeping his balance was taking all the effort he still had in him. Compliments came from left and right, from ambassadors and nobility and journalists alike. You responded with polite smiles and half-hearted replies, but barely looked away from your friend.
After what felt like an hour, you made it over to the make-shift bar on the balcony. It wasn't particularly busy, a sort of an undiscovered oasis away from the noise. Only some guests had found it so far, laughing among themselves as they sipped their martinis and whisky in the fresh air.
You ordered two waters and practically forced Wonwoo to sit down on a bench near the metal railing. He didn't protest at all. Really, he seemed a little amused by the care you were showing him. Gratefully, he took the glass of water and took a long sip. You let yourself feel victorious at the sight.
The sunset reflected off the pond in the garden, shone right into his brown eyes. They seemed caramel-like in this light. It was almost a shame because, like a reflex, your hand lifted higher in front of his face, offering him the shade he craved. The smile he offered in return just about made up for the sore pain in your shoulder as you held your position.
"They're right, you know," he suddenly spoke, eyes trained on something far away in the distance.
Your head tilted in wonder. "About what?"
"You look beautiful tonight," he told you like it was obvious. "Everyone can see it."
"I'm no more beautiful than any other girl here," you argued as if it would make your heart stop fluttering. "It's hard to look unpretty in a ballgown, after all."
"But you're always the most beautiful girl in the room." It sounded like a fact of life. Like he believed every word he said with a conviction that could send men to war. "In every room."
Your heart must have been doing back-flips now. It was racing, it was skipping beats, it was waltzing at twice the speed and messing up the entire ballroom. You were yet to figure out what that foreign feeling was.
Deciding to ignore it altogether, you scoffed. "Your head must hurt more than you let on. Did you hit it somewhere?"
He didn't reply. You didn't pry.
Your arm soon tired of being held up so high. Seeking a place to rest, your palm found its way onto his head. Your fingers acted at their own accord and began fixing the strands of his dark hair, smoothing them three more times than necessary.
His eyes fell closed. You acted like you didn't notice.
His head leaned onto your shoulder, cheek rested against your collarbone. You ignored the curious eyes and pretended this was your normal.
After seven years of galas, you were growing increasingly certain your presence at these events was cursed. If it wasn't a near-international-incident, it was spilling your champagne all over your dress. If it wasn't that, it was twisting your ankle in the middle of la Timide — an old dance your grandmother had dug out from deep in the archives for last year's gala (doubling the curse).
This year was somehow proving to be the most disastrous yet.
"A princess does not just lose her shoe," your mother whispered with all the disappointment in the world. "How did you lose your shoe?!"
You were too busy balancing on one foot and faking smiles to snap back. Maybe it was better that way. Still you managed to find enough mind to reply, "I don't know! I was walking back after the waltz and suddenly it was just gone. Poof!"
"Shoes don't just 'poof!' out of existence!"
"Maybe if they cost upwards of ten thousand dollars, they do." You feigned a pleasant smile. "Modern technology is full of wonders."
Your mother was not amused in the slightest. "Find it before, god forbid, the crown prince asks you to dance."
You were fairly certain he would never do that short of absolute desperation. But you also really did not want to spend the rest of your evening balancing on a single foot — worse yet: on a high heel. You nodded in agreement and began your search.
It was interrupted by a far more amused Jeon Wonwoo. "What did you do this time?"
Your glare could've withered entire gardens. Unfortunately, this man was immune to your anger. "Why do you assume it is my fault?"
"I have my reasons."
"You can take those reasons and shove them up your—" A pointed loud cough reminded you of your place. An old lady offered you a scornful look before walking away as if you had just insulted her entire bloodline. Once again you put on a sweet smile. "I mean, you are wrong to accuse me without proof."
He didn't let up. "But you did do something."
You contemplated turning on your (singular) heel and running away like a maiden in distress. You considered taking off your remaining shoe and hitting him with it.
The unfortunate reality was that you needed help and he was the only person you could trust to be of assistance.
"I…" you started, hesitant. You could feel the heat of embarrassment crawling up your spine, already tickling your cheeks. Your voice came out as a mumble, "I lost my shoe."
Wonwoo blinked. "You what?"
"I lost my shoe," you repeated just a little bit louder. "Okay? I was waltzing with a duke from England. I walked back to my parents. I suddenly only had one shoe. And now I need to find it before someone else asks me to dance and I make a fool out of myself."
The way his face scrunched up was a tell-tale sign of holding back laughter. You supposed you appreciated that he was trying to hide it at least.
"Will you help me find it or are you going to laugh at me like my cousin did?" you asked him, feeling utterly defeated.
"I'll help you, Cinderella." He gave you a sideways glance and smiled wide. "You even have the blue dress to match."
Suddenly you wanted nothing to do with his help. Desperate times call for desperate measures, you reminded yourself and pushed down the urge to tell him off. Through gritted teeth, you thanked him and began your search.
"We definitely walked through here," you told him as you retraced your steps.
"How did you not notice you lost your shoe?" Wonwoo wondered, eyes trained on the floor in search of clues. "Walking with only one shoe can't be comfortable."
"Perhaps I was so taken in by the duke's conversation," you joked, "that I didn't notice my shoe slipping off."
Wonwoo seemed peeved by the idea. "Were you really?"
You just about scoffed. "He breeds English bulldogs as a hobby. That's the single most interesting thing about that man. He might as well be made of cardboard."
He laughed. "I hope you didn't tell him that."
"I barely resisted the urge."
"Did you slip off your shoe hoping it would be an excuse to escape his exhilarating conversation then?"
"If you must know," you stopped in the middle of the room with a defeated sigh and offered him a glare that was barely fiery enough to slowly melt a single snowflake, "I didn't want to seem rude by interrupting his absolutely fascinating monologue about the woes of fabric trade, so when my shoe fell, I thought I'd simply walk back when he was done and pick it up."
His gaze stopped on something. A smirk tugged at his lips. "And you're saying you've been struggling to find it since?"
"This ballroom is so huge I got lost twice," you admitted shamefully and went to keep walking. He stopped you with a hand on your shoulder and rushed forward.
You watched silently as he bent down to pick something off the floor just some ten metres from you. His victorious smile was infectious. He knelt down in front of you, on one knee as if he was about to propose, your gold-embroidered shoe in his hand.
"May I?" he asked as if you had another choice. "My Cinderella?"
Ignoring the curious and scandalised stares of the people passing by, you let him place the shoe back on your foot. He smiled up at you so sweetly. You mirrored his smile, barely able to mask the disbelieving laugh threatening to break out.
You'd think about this moment for months to come.
Few things irked you as much as rumours did. Especially the ones about you. The ones that were certainly not true but no one ever bothered to fact check. The ones that led to inescapable uncomfortable situations you'd soon have awkward nightmares about.
Every year there seemed to be a new rumour to feed the mills. Sometimes it was about your relations with your maids (god forbid a princess has friends outside of nobility!). Sometimes it was about how your dog was the worst trained animal the royal family had ever seen (he was a rescue). This year's hot topic was worse yet.
Somehow some genius gossip peddler had convinced themselves and half of the world that you were searching for a husband. And every time you told them you were not, they found a way to twist your words into meaning "maybe I'll meet him at this year's Gala of Peace."
Now the already dreaded day of the year had arrived and the line of men was equal parts flattering and terrifying. Some dukes, some earls, some ambassadors' sons, a young prime minister of a neighbouring country — it seemed every even somewhat fitting bachelor had heard the rumours and decided to take a chance.
A prince from Spain was demanding a waltz before you could even scan the room for Wonwoo. You could say 'no' to many men but your grandmother would have had you jailed if you dared to reject a foreign prince and jeopardise your kingdom's good relations with theirs. Besides — you tried to reason with yourself — if you really did have to give in and marry someone from your apparently long line of suitors, this one didn't seem like a bad option.
"You are a magnificent dancer," he told you with a smile that had without a doubt broken a thousand hearts.
An easy enough compliment. Something to bridge the gap and pave a way to a romance without a doubt. You allowed yourself to feel a little bit flattered by his words and smooth accent. Then you saw Wonwoo standing there, by the fountain, a frown pulling at his brows.
"You're not terribly bad yourself," you replied before realising there was probably a more polite way you could've worded that. You rushed to correct your little error. "I hope your stay has been pleasant."
Flowery words. The kind the nobility used to create masks. You knew how to use those to your advantage.
The prince smiled a little wider — perhaps your error had gone unnoticed, or perhaps he was amused by it. You hoped for the latter. "It's been wonderful. Your uncle has quite the gallery."
"He's always been a big patron of the arts."
Words flowed without you needing to think much about them. It was just courtesy. You'd been trained for this since the day you were born. By now it was second-nature, something that came so easily that you barely had to pay attention to the conversation.
Your eyes searched for Wonwoo's but when you caught his gaze, he looked away. You could smell a storm brewing.
"I know I am not the most entertaining man in the entire world," the prince suddenly spoke, still smiling bright, "but must you really look at other men when it is me you are dancing with?"
A hot flash of panic coursed through your body. Your widening eyes snapped to his. "I am so terribly sorry if I have insulted you."
He waved off your worries like he had expected nothing more. "I've heard rumours that your heart's already been secured by another. I cannot fault a beautiful lady in love."
"I am not in—" you started to say but he bowed, winked, and left you right there. Right in front of Wonwoo by the fountain. As if it was a conspiracy of some kind. As if he'd read your mind.
You turned to face your old friend. The familiar brown eyes and broad smile. His eyes lacked their usual warmth and his smile barely looked like one at all.
"Had a nice dance, Your Highness?" he asked, his voice tense as if something in him was about to snap. "I don't suppose he proposed yet?"
"Wonwoo…"
"It is none of my business," he told you with a shrug. It was hard to tell if he was saying it for your or his own benefit. "So, looking for a husband, hm?"
Whatever stupor you'd been until this moment, it was broken now. That is the power of a truly bothersome rumour. You rolled your eyes and let out an unladylike groan. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"
Something in his eyes softened. "You're not?"
"I'm not what?"
"Looking for a husband."
Were your eyes deceiving you or did he seem almost hopeful? Or maybe disappointed? Could he be both at once?
You sighed. "I have no interest in finding a husband this year or the next. I barely feel like an adult."
"But you are one."
"Against my better judgement."
He laughed and it felt like everything was almost okay again. "You'll have to find a husband eventually, do you not? Or maybe your kingdom's customs differ from mine."
You didn't even want to think about it yet. Ever since the rumours began, the phrase "find you a husband" seemed to be uttered in your presence at least thirty times a day. It was clear that while there was no truth to the gossip now, it would soon become a self-fulfilling prophecy of some kind. Someone had unwittingly lit a match that reminded your kingdom it was time for a fire.
Another young bachelor was approaching. You could already see him from the corner of your eye: the well-pressed suit, the slicked-back blond hair, the mischievous gleaming blue eyes that spelled trouble. Your hand wrapped around Wonwoo's before you could think more of it.
"You owe me a dance," you said and dragged him onto the dance floor.
Once again he laughed. "I don't recall owing you anything?"
Filled with annoyance, you squeezed your eyes shut and scrunched up your face. Your hands found their familiar places in his hand and on his shoulder, ready for yet another waltz. "It was a figure of speech."
"Ah."
The grin on his face said he was nothing short of amused. Still a hint of disappointment remained in his eyes, hidden behind a cloak of pleasantries. You found yourself desperately wishing to lift his worries.
He glanced around the room and you felt his grip around your waist tighten. "I don't think I've ever been the object of so many men's envy before."
Suddenly you too became aware of all the eyes. They followed your every movement, no doubt taking mental notes and preparing battle plans. The rumours might have been just rumours to you, but it was clear they were something more to the men in the room.
"It's alright." It was as if Wonwoo could sense the worry pooling around you. His voice was gentle, soft, assuring. He leaned forward just enough to whisper, like it was a secret for only the two of you to share, "If I were in their shoes, I would envy me too. Not many men can boast about dancing with the most beautiful girl at the gala."
Your heart was doing that weird thing again. That thing with the flips and skipped beats and the rushing. You were starting to enjoy that feeling.
"Not many men have called me that," you replied, your voice barely heard over the orchestra.
His head tilted to the side, curious. "Then the rest of them are blind fools."
You added those words to your ever-growing list of moments that you never wanted to forget.
There was something incredibly dull about this year's gala. Something was lacking even more than usual — you could read that same thought off of nearly every face in the crowd.
You watched a duchess yawn somewhere in the distance. She down an entire glass of champagne moments later to chase the tiredness away. Barely a minute later she looked like she was fighting a second yawn. You related to her on a level you hadn't thought possible.
Wonwoo seemed just as bored.
"There's not even enough space to dance here," he mused while glancing around.
"It's our oldest palace," you recited the guidebook you'd been forced to learn by heart for this year's gala. "The ballroom was more of a formality than an actual place to hold events. And if they did hold any balls, they were significantly smaller than this one."
He seemed puzzled by the information. "I could've sworn this palace was bigger than your grandmother's."
"All palaces are my grandmother's," you spoke before thinking. It was like muscle memory and you could only curse your overly effective tutors.
Shaking the thought of your head, you looked at him. He looked unfairly handsome in this lighting — it was a revelation you had learnt to come to terms with over the past two years. Some years ago, you would've looked away and searched for something to distract you from the unfamiliar fluttery feeling in your chest.
It had been sometime during your cousin's wedding last summer that you'd first been struck with the realisation that your feelings for Jeon Wonwoo weren't entirely platonic. Or rather, as your cousin had so helpfully put it, they were never platonic to begin with. She'd laughed at your evident mental crisis, joking that you were the only person that didn't know about your feelings for him.
"Even a fool could see you two are in love," she told you and changed your perspective of life forever.
Now you revelled in the knowledge. It was a little secret for you alone to know — granted, everyone around you seemed to know the secret well before you did. You let your eyes rest on the sight of him, gathering little pieces and snippets to memorise and protect. You memorised the glint in his eyes, the curve of his lips, the little imperfections of his skin. Those mental pictures would remain in your memory, slowly wearing away over the year as you'd watch them over and over again.
His eye caught yours. His usual polite smile stretched into something wider, more genuine. "It's rude to stare, Your Highness."
"Maybe so." But what was one more break of etiquette? Just one more error of your manners?
"Do you remember when we were kids?" he suddenly asked. "When the gala was so boring that we snuck away to the library and read comic books all night?"
The memory brought a fond smile to your face. "Your father found us after midnight. I don't think my own parents have ever scolded me so hard."
He laughed. "I wonder if they'd scold you if we snuck away now."
An idea sparked to life. A wave of giddiness washed over you mid-swing of champagne. Barely having time to swallow, you were already grabbing at his sleeve with shining eyes. "Do you want to find out?"
His jaw dropped. Panicked eyes wandered over the room. "You can't be serious."
"This place is huge," you said and tugged him along. "There's a room just for playing billiards. There's two libraries, one for fiction, one for non-fiction. There's an indoor garden and a pool."
"They'll notice we're gone," he argued but made no actual moves to protest your plan, practically floating along as you dragged him towards the door. "We're not little kids anymore."
"No, but it's not like we're particularly important either," you reminded him. "They'll be fine. And it's not like they can be upset if I decide to give my old friend a tour of my ancestral grounds."
He stopped just before you could lead him up the grand staircase in the front hall. Hesitation was written all over him. "No, but they can be upset I'm ruining your chances of getting a proposal."
You frowned. "I told you. I'm not looking for a husband, certainly not here, not tonight."
"But they don't know that." Wonwoo squeezed his eyes shut as if the thought hurt was causing him physical pain. "There are princes and dukes and— They've been watching you all night like hawks, waiting for you to leave my side so they can have a chance. If you gave them a chance, they'd find a way to change your mind and your parents would be happy. You would be happy." He sighed. "I don't want to be the reason you never find a husband."
"You won't." It was a factual answer. Straightforward. Laconic. There was no room for argument. "If I'm to find a husband, it'll be on my own terms, not theirs."
You forced a smile onto your face once more and tugged at his arm. "Now, come on, I bet you can't beat me at a game of billiards, my Lord."
"You can't keep putting it off forever, Your Highness." His smile didn't seem entirely sincere either but the way he said your title did. There was none of the usual humour in his voice. He sounded just like every other nobleman that had ever referred to you. "They're all starting to get restless. Rumours of you looking for a husband have been going around for three years now and you're still denying it's even a possibility. If you don't marry someone soon, you won't find anyone to marry at all."
You knew it. You'd heard that exact lecture just this morning. Your grandmother wanted to secure a lineage all ways it could go. A political alliance would be the ideal option, but you were so far down the succession line that she would've been happy if you just married any man of influence.
The problem was that you didn't want just any man.
"And what's it to you?" you asked, ignoring the way your chest seemed to want to cave in on itself.
Your grip on his sleeve loosened. Slowly, your hand slid down his arm until his fingers caught yours. His hold was so gentle you had to double-check if it was even there.
"I want you to be happy," he told you softly. His hand was starting to slip away.
You didn't let it. Lifting your chin up higher, you feigned confidence.
"Then you should marry me yourself."
It was a demand. You were ordering, pleading, begging.
His eyes widened at your words. "(Y/n)—"
You'd only heard him speak your name a handful of times through your entire life. A small part of you had wondered if he even knew it at all. Now it sounded like he'd kept your name hidden in his chest pocket, close to his heart — a sacred name he wanted to keep to himself.
"I told you I'd marry on my own terms." You stepped down the two steps that were separating you. Leaning close, you whispered, "Have me as your wife or stop wishing I'd marry another — for me, it is you or it is no one. That is my term."
As if you'd broken an age-old spell, his composure broke. A hand rose to caress your cheek. It left a pleasant heat everywhere it touched.
"Do you mean it?" he asked, a stubborn ounce of hesitation still left in him.
You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his. You found yourself wishing you had come to terms with your feelings sooner, had confessed sooner, had kissed him sooner.
"I've loved you since that day at the library," he whispered against your lips, his free hand wrapping around your waist so he could you closer. It was not close enough — you wondered if it ever would be. "Maybe even longer, but it was only then that I realised."
You smiled and kissed him again.
"I don't think there's ever been a day when I didn't love you," you shared your secret. "It just took me a while to realise it."
"I think all of us should be happy,
but I hope you are a little happier than others." - S.Coups
"He's such a big cutie and I wanted CARATs to know that too.
I just wanted him to be exactly who we know him to be." - Woozi
Take care, stay happy and healthy!!
We are waiting patiently for your return, cutie <3
radio host!Choi Seungcheol x radio host!fem!Reader
Word Count: 7.7k
Content Warnings: food and alcohol mentions. adult language and themes. men (and women, but mostly men) being cringey and off-putting. a toxic ex-boyfriend.
[First Time Caller Collab] When the middle-aged mothers calling his show start getting a little too comfortable on the line, Seungcheol finds himself in need of a quick solution to throw them off. He needs a girlfriend. And who better to ask than his one and only public rival working at the same station?
♡ I'M BACKK!! And this fic is part of @studiosvt's First Time Caller collab! Don’t forget to check out the other writers’ works!! ♡
The urge to slap Seungcheol's hand off your waist was overwhelming. If there ever was an award for most self-control exhibited, you should have been shortlisted for it, possibly one of the top three contenders.
Your cheeks hurt from faking smiles all day, your feet were sore, and you were pretty sure your make-up resembled that of a raccoon. Or maybe a clown with heat stroke. As if that wasn't enough, your eyes were actually starting to ache from all the times you had rolled them in the past two hours alone.
Whoever had decided to pair you up with Seungcheol to host the station's annual charity fair needed to get demoted back to desk work (and you weren't only thinking it because it had, in fact, been your dear partner of the day that had suggested this). Why a radio station needed to organise so many social events every year was beyond your comprehension and yet you had drawn the short end of the stick once again.
Seungcheol's fingers pinched your side a little too hard to be a sign of affection. When you turned to glare at him, he offered you a mocking smile that someone further away might have mistaken for an affectionate one. "Why the long face, honey?"
A shiver of disgust ran up your spine and almost made you nauseous. If there wasn't a group of grandmas watching the two of you with the eyes of gossip-hungry eagles, you might have fake gagged just to get your point across. Instead, you were stuck forcing a sugary sweet smile of your own and threatening him under your breath: "Remove your hands or I will break them the next time you try to hold mine."
Perhaps you had lost your edge because Seungcheol only responded with a noise infuriatingly similar to the one he made when someone introduced him to their Pomeranian puppy two hours ago. And then, as if to annoy you even further and test the reliability of your threats, he let his thumb trail up and down across your skin. You racked your brain but couldn't remember agreeing to skin-to-skin contact, so you glared at him some more for good measure.
"I'm serious, Choi," you told him, hand reaching for his to twist one of his fingers backwards just enough for him to get the message.
He hissed in pain and withdrew his hand. Now it was his turn to glare and you only replied with a victorious smile before turning back to the task at hand. Another teenager had strolled to the booth, eager to sign up for the big giveaway (rumour had it that this year's grand prize was a car; you knew better than to trust the rumour mills), and you helped him while Seungcheol tried his hardest to not look like his ego or finger was in pain.
"Be sure to tune in three hours from now to see if you won," you called out after the kid when he handed you the now filled ticket. "May the odds ever be in your favour." (Quoting the Hunger Games was, unfortunately, one of the few joys you still had today).
The teen offered you a wide smile at that — perhaps he had picked up on the reference? Maybe the youth isn't doomed after all? Then, as if the universe had a grudge against you, you watched him reach over to fist pump Seungcheol. There was a certain sparkle in his eyes, his smirk just a little too wolfish. You threw your head back and sighed.
"Here's a tip, oh darling boyfriend of mine," the B-word still felt foreign to your tongue but you supposed it was high time you got used to it; you side-eyed him, "when a random man comes up and treats me like a prize you've somehow won, you should be pissed, not proud."
Seungcheol blinked, not a single coherent thought bouncing around in his peanut shell of a brain. "What do you mean?"
You felt your eyebrows rise and gestured widely. "That kid! He was eyeing me like I'm a piece of meat. And he congratulated you while staring at my tits!"
He shrugged. "I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it."
"Neither did the last twelve guys who did the same, no doubt," you mumbled under your breath and adjusted the stack of blank giveaway tickets with newfound fury.
"Besides," he drawled, leaning his hip against the table, all suave until the flimsy thing nearly toppled over and nulled all of your previous efforts, "why am I not allowed to be proud? You're hot."
There was something in the way he said it that almost made it sound like an insult to your ears. Then again, perhaps you were too filled with hatred to interpret any of his words as anything but deliberate jabs at your person. That's what your friends said anyway when you discussed this scheme with them.
Hastily, Seungcheol fixed and adjusted the table. Further down the lot, someone was laughing — hopefully at him. He made a half-hearted attempt at fixing the stack of tickets; it looked like a proper mess. You sighed and reached to fix it again.
Maybe this whole arrangement was a colossal mistake. Maybe you were in over your head. Maybe your shared hatred was too far down in the dark side to ever be mistaken for adoration even by someone legally blind.
"Because this isn't real," you reminded him now. "Even if I was a prize — which I am not —, you haven't won me. You have nothing to be proud of."
Nothing about this was real, after all. It was all just a big scheme he had come up with in desperation to keep his afternoon show and fat paycheck. And you were the sorry fool who had agreed to it because — as much as it hurt to admit — you, too, were desperate.
In a way, you were different sides of the same dingy copper coin. One needed to get meddling grandmothers and flirty (and definitely not PG-13) mothers off his back. The other needed her ex to take a hint and leave her alone.
And so when Seungcheol came to you one evening after your daily request show — eyes downcast and brows furrowed in dismay after one of the executives threatened to halve his pay if he didn't make his show family friendly again — suggesting an unthinkable scheme, you agreed a little too readily. (Even if you did take a whole week to consider the pros and cons and spent one whole evening getting drunk while ranting to your friends.)
"I know you hate me," he told you back then, two weeks ago, his hair in disarray from tugging on it in frustration, his brown eyes for once full of something other than disgust at the sight of you, "but please pretend to date me."
The whole thing was supposed to be simple and effective. Fake some smiles, talk about each other on your shows, maybe dedicate a song to one another every once in a while, go on a walk during lunch break — easy enough that a toddler could do it. It should have been just the bare minimum to fake a relationship.
At first, you hadn't even thought anyone would actually buy it.
Your rivalry was well-known — two star hosts of the biggest radio station in the country, in a fierce battle for the prime time slots and special events. There were TikTok and Youtube compilations of you trading insults during your respective shows. More than a few gossip magazines had increased their sales by reporting on the "new developments" of your disagreements. The station executives couldn't decide whether they wanted you to tone down or go all in on the rivalry; avoiding questions about a hostile work environment hardly seemed the better option over rapidly increasing ratings.
But apparently the people's longing for a tale of enemies turning lovers was not limited to romantasy novels.
It had taken exactly one walk through a public parking lot on the evening of your first negotiations and suddenly the rumour mills were working overtime. It was utterly ridiculous, and it was also more effective than anything you could have come up with. There were blurry, poorly lit photos in the gossip magazines. There were pop culture specialists spewing video essay after video essay about the thin line between hatred, and body language experts analysing the way your fingers seemed to be reaching for his in one of the fifteen photos "if you just looked closely enough".
Even if your negotiations that night had ended on a negative note, there was no way you could have talked your way out of this supposed relationship. And now here you were, at the annual spring charity fair, hosting the giveaway and the special radio show from a little booth under an ancient oak tree with your biggest foe, putting on the best act of your life.
"You know, no one's going to believe we're actually dating if you look like you'd rather let the ground swallow you whole than be seen beside me," he pointed out with an infuriating smile, leaning closer as if to provoke you some more.
Under different circumstances you might have had to sigh and admit that he was right. But unfortunately for him…
"I think I'd have to slap you for anyone to believe we're not together at this point," you reminded him and nodded towards the gaggle of teenagers taking photos of the two of you, no doubt sharing them on social media with #OTP. You dreaded to think what your mentions would look like by the end of the day. Your phone had already overheated twice from all of the notifications.
Seungcheol's lips stretched into a smirk, his eyebrows waggling. "Didn't take you for the kinky type."
You could think of a kink or two to make him suffer the way he deserved. But alas.
A little girl ran up to the booth, flowers in her dark curly hair. Her lack of height did not deter her from grinning you from over the edge of the table. "Hi."
"Hi," you greeted her and felt your anger melt away just a little. "Did you want to sign up for the giveaway too?"
"No." She shook her head resolutely. "I'm too little for a car."
(You could practically hear the crack in his neck as Seungcheol's head tilted in confusion, his breath coming out in a sigh. He mumbled something vaguely like "why does everyone think it's a car?".)
The little girl didn't respond to questions, only staring up at you earnestly as if you were a Disney princess and she couldn't believe she had actually run into you at this event. You offered a little wave and this one she returned with one of her own. About to give up on making conversation with the tiny fan, you turned to look at what your "boyfriend" was doing, and — like a sleeper agent who had heard the code word — she lit up.
"You guys are so cute together," she declared and it was the loudest she had been all minute. You felt your eyes widen and desperately avoided eye contact, heat crawling up your neck all of a sudden. "My mommy says you used to hate each other."
"Still do," you mumbled under your breath but faked a smile once you were sure you no longer looked like a startled owl.
"I used to think she was insufferable," Seungcheol was happy to tell her and the look in his eyes told you he meant it in the present tense. "Drove me absolutely nuts. Stole my show, you know."
He'd been sure to bring that little tid-bit up every single day. If you weren't deep under cover as his girlfriend, you might have stomped on his foot and reminded him that he only lost the show because he kept flirting with the horny single mothers and grandmothers that called his show. All you had done was possess a bit of talent for hosting radio shows. But your lack of responsibility for his problems did not seem to deter him from blaming you for everything anyway.
The little girl gasped and looked at you like you had just admitted to arson. It was impossible to ignore the urge to defend yourself. "I didn't do it on purpose."
"That's what she likes to tell everyone," Seungcheol didn't let up and you felt his hand reach for your waist again, the familiar irritating warmth back on your skin. Clearly your earlier threats of violence had been of no use. Pulling you closer, he feigned a smile that almost looked smitten. "But I don't mind because now she's mine."
Not that you wanted to be. Not that you had any choice now.
You slapped his hand away as soon as the little girl was out of sight.
The weekly meetings were held every Monday at 10 am sharp. They were the closest thing this establishment had to proper order, complete with a whiteboard on wheels and dried-up markers, charts and slideshows. The manager of the station even put in the effort of replacing his usual colourful sweaters and mismatching bright coloured pants with a proper suit. He even wore a tie.
Most weeks, the topic of conversation was the ratings and the planning of new events. Reminders of radio etiquette. Tips and introductions for new bright-eyed interns. Sometimes the manager just rolled around the open office space on a desk chair and encouraged everyone to reveal their most recent work-related frustrations as if it was a big group therapy session. You used to think those were annoying.
Now you suddenly wished this was one of those sessions instead of whatever the hell it had become today.
The manager had pulled up a slideshow of the recent ratings by the minute. He was analysing the spikes in audiences tuning into the station, his eyes twinkling as possibilities upon possibilities appeared in his mind. Your colleagues were offering knowing smiles and not-so-subtly cranking their necks to look back at you.
You tried to make yourself smaller in your chair, pulling your jacket closer to your body as you side-eyed Seungcheol's form standing proud and happy right next to you (he had insisted staying in close proximity was vital to your scheme's success; you begged to differ). His thigh was close enough to gently sway your chair every time he adjusted his posture, his arms crossed over his chest in a way that had you hoping it was his arms the others were staring at and not your flustered face.
"—and if you look here, it's another spike!" The man in front of the whiteboard was practically vibrating with excitement. You wished radio ratings got you going as much as they did this guy; it would have made your life a lot more tolerable. "And if we play back the broadcast, this is when Seungcheol said he was turning the studio over to his girlfriend. Every time he mentioned her, the ratings went up!"
The social media manager of the station raised her hand, looking back at you with a smirk while she waited for the manager to finish his thought. And when he did and called upon her, she was more than happy to declare: "Our social media mentions spike during Seungcheol's segment as well, especially around those same minutes you pointed out. I think the people really want more Seungcheol and (Y/n)."
You grabbed your pen and scribbled another name into the list of traitors you had started five minutes into the meeting. It held the names of every colleague who was a little too enthusiastic about your new "relationship". Nayeon's name was the newest addition, underlined, with three exclamation points.
"The spring fair broadcast was a complete success as well," the manager continued with even more enthusiasm. At any minute now, he might burst. "The people loved our two star hosts, judging by the ratings. Look at those things!" He was staring at his own slideshow in absolute awe. Somewhere out there a data analysis company was mourning their loss of an enthusiast they didn't know existed. "This is the highest any of our special events have rated in a decade. It's a renaissance of the radio!"
"I'm not sure I'd go that far," Seungcheol mumbled, apparently finally cracking. Were his ears more red than usual?
When the manager looked like he might start crying from hope and excitement, Nayeon stood up to take over the presentation. She clicked a button and a new slide appeared, stuffed from edge to edge to edge with mentions of your name and… Your eyes had to be deceiving you.
You leaned closer just to make sure you weren't hallucinating. "Is that… a ship name?"
Nayeon smiled so bright she could have outshone the sun. "Yes, it is! You guys officially have a ship name! The listeners love you; the whole enemies to lovers thing is really in right now and you are the new face of it."
The chair whined under the weight of you slumping back. Had it been sentient, it might have whimpered at the way your nails sank into the plastic of the arm rests. Seungcheol reached down to pat the back of your hand, unable to hide his victorious smile as he did so. You countered by sinking your nails into the space between his fingers. His hand was promptly removed but the smile remained.
One of the older hosts squinted at the screen and raised her hand. "What does OTP mean?"
"Ah! Great question, Seunghwa." Turns out Nayeon had prepared a whole slide explaining all of the slang related to your newfound suffering. What great joy.
You added another two exclamation marks behind her name and underlined her name once more.
"You know," Seungkwan, one of the three hosts of the morning show, made sure to make eye contact with you as he suggested, "Seungcheol and (Y/n) should host together more often. I bet the ratings would spike to the heavens."
Another name for your traitors' list. You held his gaze as you wrote his name down letter by letter, raising your eyebrow in challenge. He didn't seem very bothered, more engaged in nodding along with Soonyoung who had very enthusiastically joined the conversation to make, more or less, the same point. Finally, he offered you a knowing smirk — one that said he knew your secret — and turned back to the slideshow.
The torture went on for another fifteen minutes. By the time it was done, you were far more exhausted than anyone who had been up for only two hours ever should feel.
As the people dispersed, eager to get back to their daily duties around the office or running errands somewhere else, Seungcheol remained at your side. He acted as a reminder of the mess of a soup the two of you had found yourself in. You couldn't even find the energy to shoo him away or glare at him. And so he stayed, arms still crossed over his chest as he looked over the office space like a guard dog on watch.
Soonyoung seemed to find it an invitation for more commentary, sidling up to the two of you with a warm smile. "You guys are seriously cute together. I always did think you'd make a great couple, but, wow! I mean, wow!" It seemed that even if Seungkwan had spotted a flaw in your begrudging scheme, Soonyoung was none the wiser to any of it. He turned to Seungcheol and patted his shoulder. "The way you talk about her during your shows is just so… I mean, you must be really in love."
"Must be," was all that Seungcheol said but he made no effort to hide his proud grin. Even his chest seemed to puff up a little with every word the morning show host spoke.
You wanted to make fun of him for it when Soonyoung finally walked away. You wanted to tease and bully him for being so full of himself and eager for compliments. Hell, a few brain cells of yours were halfway done coming up with a joke about how he must have only stayed in this spot to gain some more praise, like a puppy showing off his newest trick for some treats. But a jarring thought of another kind startled the jokes right out of your mind.
"You talk about me on your show?"
He startled at the sound of your voice. Then, as fast as he had lost his composure, he got it back and raised a brow. "Of course. That's the whole point. What else am I supposed to talk about when someone calls to request my phone number or asks if I'm planning on starting an OnlyFans?"
There were few things you hated more than admitting that a man was right. Your lips parted in preparation to spew some insults and arguments. Unfortunately, you had no choice but to admit defeat this time and closed your mouth with a huff.
"Exactly," he teased and reached to pat your head. You slapped it away and rolled your chair further away from him with a pointed glare. It only seemed to make him happier. "If you were a good girlfriend, you would listen to my show sometimes."
All of the gold in the world wouldn't have been enough to pay you to do that. That's what you told yourself as you put on your headphones and tuned him out to the sound of your music.
(But when the clock struck 2 pm and the studio door closed behind Seungcheol, your finger lingered over the station's app on your phone. Listening in just once couldn't hurt, right? He would never have to know. It was just for research. Right.)
[You are listening to Words of Wisdom on Station SVT, 171.7 MHz]
"Hello and thank you for calling the Words of Wisdom show. My name's Seungcheol and what can I help you with today?"
"Oh my god, are you Choi Seungcheol?!"
"That's me, ma'am."
"You sound even hotter on the phone."
"… Thank you. I'm sure my girlfriend would agree. So, what can I and your fellow listeners offer you advice on today?"
"…"
"Ma'am?"
The jokes practically wrote themselves. You were but a vehicle by which they presented themselves in this reality. You were a humble servant of jokes at Seungcheol's pride.
Smiling, you leaned against the studio's desk while he packed up his things. "Talked about your girlfriend on your show, did you?"
He barely hummed in response. "Glad you've caught up with the news, sweetheart."
"I just find it funny, you know," you continued regardless, giddy from the opportunity to tease him for once. He always seemed to have the upper hand. It was a glorious moment. Maybe you needed to listen to his shows more often just for more material. "You're just so bad at lying."
Glaring, he looked up from his bag. "At least I'm trying. You've barely mentioned me on your show. Really, you're making me look desperate."
"Are you not?" You blinked at him, full of both innocence and mischief. "I'm just saying."
Lowering your voice to match his, you mocked the way he spoke on the broadcast, perfect down to the deadpan and entirely awkward tone: "I'm sure my girlfriend would agree." You pretended to throw up under the desk. "I hope you’re not applying for an acting job any time soon.”
That seemed to touch a nerve. Seungcheol's arms crossed over his chest again, a defensive stance rather than an arrogant one this time. "Yeah? I'd like to see you do better. Oh wait!" He pursed his lips into a sorry pout. "You don't even mention me on your show."
"You want me to talk about you?" You laughed. "What's there to talk about? Give me a reason to."
"Wow," he deadpanned. "You must be really in love."
"Absolutely smitten, really."
The clock above the door told you the next show was supposed to start in mere seconds. An idea formed in your head as you took your place at the desk, adjusting the large headphones and setting the microphone to your height. The screen displayed a countdown of seconds — somewhere in another room, a poor sound engineering intern had been set in charge of bringing you on air in time.
Seungcheol still remained in the room, fumbling to pack his bag and the notes it contained. There was a red hue to the skin on the back of his neck and ears, his hands shook imperceptibly. It only got worse when you tapped the ON AIR button and started your show.
"Good afternoon, dear listeners. It's time for your favourite show — it's time for Well Wishes. I'm your host for the next hour and a half, so be sure to call in or drop your song requests and well wishes in an email," you went through your introductions with practised grace, not a single syllable stuttered or strained, your eyes on Seungcheol. While speaking, you queued up the first song of your session.
When his gaze, fiery and annoyed and challenging, met yours, you let your smile widen and declared, "To start us off while we wait for your requests, I'm going to play a special song dedicated to my boyfriend. Honey, if you're listening right now, I hope you're driving home safe, love you. Enjoy your favourite song."
If the B-word had felt uncomfortably wrong at the spring fair, it sure didn't sound like it this time. Not to you, not to him, and certainly not to the listeners. It was definitely miles more natural than Seungcheol's strained efforts of referring to you on his own broadcast and he seemed to realise it just the same, his eyes rolling as he flipped you off and trudged out of the studio.
He was almost at the door when Apink's "Mr Chu" started playing. His entire body shuddered, cringing wholeheartedly. The door shut behind him seconds later (but not before he could show you his middle finger one last time).
As peace and Apink filled the studio, you leaned back in your chair, basking in the afternoon sun. Finally victorious. It was the little victories that mattered the most.
It felt like you had achieved your greatest goal, or were at least one large step closer to it, at least. The sun felt warmer and brighter than it had all spring. There was not a single cloud in the bright blue sky, only white birds passing by. Even the cushioning of the chair seemed nicer than usual. It's a miracle what changes a small victory and a happy mood can bring.
You greeted the first caller of the day with a bright smile and all the joy in the world. "What song can I play for you today?"
The universe was on your side. Great music all around, happy people calling your show, lovely greetings in the emails. A part of you started wondering if this was the right day to buy a lottery ticket.
But all good things must come to an end, some sooner than others.
"Hello, thank you for calling Well Wishes," you greeted yet another caller, still high off your win. "Who are we greeting and what are we listening to?"
There was silence for a while. And then you heard a familiar voice. "…(Y/n)?"
It felt as if rain clouds had appeared out of thin air and covered the sun. Dark, stormy clouds full of nothing but heart ache and hail.
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly seeming to swell up. Your body was taken over by an emotion you knew far too well and had hoped to forget.
It shouldn't have been a surprise by this point; Youngjae seemed to call the show every day like clockwork — at least he had until the photos from the parking lot came out. And yet your heart threatened to seize up every time you heard his voice on the broadcast. Once, his voice had brought you warmth and happiness and made you feel so, so in love. Now it only served to remind you of all the things you could have had. If only he hadn't revealed himself to be such an ass hole.
"Hello," you forced yourself to speak. "What can I play for you today?"
"I've missed you," he spoke.
And the cycle repeated again, chewing through the process you had made like it was nothing.
There were few things you hated more than admitting that a man was right. It seemed that you might have won a battle but Seungcheol had the strategy to win the war. You steeled your aching heart. If mentioning your "boyfriend" at every possibility was the solution, you were going to use the hell out of it.
The next time someone requested a love song, you made sure to say it reminded you of Seungcheol and his pretty brown eyes. Whatever it took to fight for the space to let your heart heal. Whatever it took to end the cycle.
But the heart is a fickle thing and it rarely does what you tell it to. You could pretend it was made of steel and cold ice all you wanted, but deep inside it still ached. And the cycle repeated again.
"You talked about me on your show," was the first thing Seungcheol said when you walked into the studio the next day. Clad in an oversized white hoodie that made him look almost huggable, he was spinning around in the chair — your chair — and practically giggling with glee. "And here I thought you were too cool to talk about your boyfriend."
You rolled your eyes and glanced at the clock. "Figured I might as well make use of you."
"Was it because your ex called?" His smile said he knew the answer all too well. "Be honest: if you had to choose between your ex and me…?"
Now he was just fishing for compliments. But you hadn't slept all that well last night and falling into his silly traps felt like the least of your worries. "I'm dating you, aren't I?"
The words came out almost on autopilot while you stared at the chair he had occupied. That nice, comfy chair, practically moulded to fit your bottom from a year of wear. But Seungcheol didn't look like he had any plans of leaving it any time soon. You offered the chair one last contemplative look.
"Don't make me leave," he whined but there was little sincerity in his voice, only teasing, "I'm so comfy."
On another day, you might have grabbed the chair by the arm rests and swung it out the door, relishing in the hollering and cheers of your co-workers. But something had broken within you on the broadcast yesterday.
With a sigh, you walked to the other side of the room and grabbed one of the spare chairs meant for the guests. One of its wheels squeaked every once in a while and another one was clearly slanted from years of abuse. It would have to do.
Seungcheol stared at you, eyes wide and jaw hanging open. There was something like concern in his gaze. He didn't make a sound, didn't even move while you set up for the show, watching you like you were a wild animal he had stumbled upon on a hiking trail.
Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. "What?"
"You're not going to make me leave?" He looked like he was just about ready to banish himself if you just so much as nodded. You shrugged and he slumped in his seat. "Are you okay?"
"I will be," you told him with a sigh and pulled on your headphones, "one day."
He didn't say anything else but he stayed for the entire show. His presence was quiet. You half-expected to get annoyed with anything about him — his breathing, his little chuckles, the tapping of his fingers when a particularly good song came on. But to your surprise, he seemed to have the opposite effect for once.
It was odd. You had grown so used to constantly being irritated by him but now that you were stuck in a small room with him — just the two of you in creaky office chairs and nothing but short phone calls to keep you company —, his presence was comforting instead. A calming paperweight on top of the troubles that were threatening to fly around the room and suffocate you. A familiar character by your side no matter what went on in your life.
"I love that song!" he made sure to shout when a teen called in to request an older R'n'B track. Instead of glaring at him, you found yourself leaning away from the mic so he could lean closer and converse with the youngster. "Kid, you've got great taste. You need to call in more often."
Before you knew it, he was co-hosting, his chair pressed against yours, his hand on the mouse to guide the cursor through the playlists and emails. Between requests, he offered you smiles and glances that looked almost… kind. Warm. Gentle. Like he was trying to comfort you in his own way. And for some god-forsaken reason it actually worked.
You found yourself laughing and smiling and dancing along to songs in your chairs, your hand in his as he twirled you around like a record player. Just for this moment of time, he was not your work rival, not your enemy; he was just an old friend who had showed up when you needed him. And you let yourself get lost in that feeling. A break in the cycle.
It reminded you of the old days — your first months at the station under his guidance. It felt like a different lifetime now, your friendship had turned into a rivalry. This was a glimpse of what might have been if things had been different: if you hadn't been favoured by the executives, if you hadn't earned those high ratings and been awarded your first prime time slot show at his expense.
When a commercial break rolled in, he sighed and tilted his head as he studied you. "I didn't realise that man had that much of a hold on you still."
"Neither did I." And he didn't. He hadn't. But something about his call, about him requesting one of your favourite songs, about his voice sounding so full of love when he said your name — it had messed with your mind. It was a whole day later and you were only just starting to feel like yourself again.
"I think it's just because he hadn't called in a while. When we started, you know," you cleared your throat, "dating… He stopped calling. I thought it was done. Guess he was just taking a break."
He hummed in thought. "Yeah, that explains it. He's an ass hole for that, by the way."
"I don't disagree."
"Good," he smiled, "at least you have standards."
A familiar spark returned to you. Normalcy was returning, bit by bit. You offered him a playful pout. "Not very high ones if I'm dating you."
"Oh!" He gasped and clutched his chest. "My poor, poor heart. How ever will I survive this insult?"
"You can always leave," you reminded him with a helpful motion towards the door.
Seungcheol spun around in his chair. "No chance. I haven't filled my daily 'annoying (Y/n)' quota yet."
"Well, if you won't leave," you nodded towards the computer screens, "at least make yourself useful. Pick our next caller."
He smiled a little to bright when the commercial break ended. A few sentences later, he had the next call ready to go; one click and the familiar static filled your headphones.
"You're live on Well Wishes," you spoke, beating him to the mic with a short laugh. "What are you thinking and what can we play for you today?"
"Oh! (Y/n), I almost thought I called the wrong show," the familiar voice spoke.
Two days in a row. The universe had given you one small victory and decided to match it with an array of bad luck. You glared at the screen displaying the calls — tens of people currently on the line, waiting to get picked, and somehow the stars had aligned to remind you what suffering felt like.
Your one-sided staring contest with the computer screen was broken by the sound of fake gagging from your right side. Seungcheol was cringing and shaking his head and crossing his arms in an X motion as if to ward off an evil spirit. There seemed to be at least one thing the two of you could agree on.
"Sir, state your song choice," he interrupted your ex's soulful monologue. "The line is very, very busy today. I don't think we have the time to listen to your story right now."
Silence in the static. The sweet sound of a victory you hadn't expected. He was speechless and your heart was not aching this time.
Seungcheol smirked.
"Would you look at that," he silently mouthed at you, proud of himself like he had never been before. Out loud, he spoke again, "What song can we play for you?"
The only thing that sounded was the end-of-call tone. Tears of relief welled up in your eyes. You could have cheered and danced in joy.
"Oh, well, that's a shame," Seungcheol continued the broadcast as if he hadn't just intimidated your ex-boyfriend into hanging up on live radio. "Let's pick our next caller. Hopefully they have a good song ready to request."
Perhaps fake dating your enemy wasn't the worst decision you had ever made. Perhaps, you dared to think, it was turning out to be one of the better ones. Even if he was hogging your broadcast.
[You are listening to Words of Wisdom on Station SVT, 171.7 MHz]
"And that was the freshest hit of IU. What a great song. Hm. I see we don't have a lot of callers today, so how about we switch things up just for this one show? This time I am the one in need of advice.
"Say, there's this woman — you know this already; I haven't shut up about her all week, I think—, and we're doing fine— I just saw that concerned email you sent, KnittingRocks69; I promise we haven't broken up— Anyways. Everything's great but I just… feel like I should do better. I don't think I'm all that great at this entire boyfriend-thing. And I'm sure there are many listeners who are in a similar situation. So what can we do to be better boyfriends?
"Feel free to call in with your advice or send it via email. And, oh, we already have our first caller! Hello, what advice do you have for me today?"
Your desk was pink and yellow. It fluttered in the draft blowing in from the window. You were fairly certain it wasn't supposed to do that and you already knew who to blame for this.
"Choi Seungcheol!" you yelled out without even thinking about it for a second. He was the obvious culprit. And the bright grin he wore while pretending to enjoy the late morning view with his cold water was all the proof you needed.
Your glare only served to make him light up more. "Yes, darling?"
Infuriated, you gestured widely while he leisurely approached. "Why is my desk covered in sticky notes?"
Lips pursing into a pout, he contemplated and blinked as if he hadn't even noticed before. The corner of his mouth was twitching. "I figured you decorated it last night."
"Yeah? You thought I got bored after my broadcast and decided to cover the entire surface of my work space with neon sticky notes? That's what happened here?"
"It must have," he told you and this time he didn't even bother to pretend he wasn't smirking. "I only placed, what? Three hundred of these? Four, maybe? The rest of them were already here."
You felt your heart rate rocket as annoyance slowly started to give way to burning rage. A desk covered in paper cuts waiting to happen was never something you wanted to deal with. "Remove them."
"Why?"
"Because I would like to use my desk?" You knew you were playing right into his hand, fulfilling that sick prank-loving streak of his with your reactions. But getting irritated was so much easier than meditating and taking everything in stride. Besides, someone needed to yell at this man every once in a while lest his ego grew too big.
Seungcheol gave your desk another thoughtful look. Then he reached forward. He reached forward and made eye contact with you as he plucked a singular pink note off the desk and held it out for you to take like it was a gift. You snapped it from his fingers and threw it at his face in a crumpled ball. A perfect forehead shot.
"I'm going to go get some water," you told him slowly, eyes on him like a predator ready to pounce on a hare for being in the wrong spot, fingers pointing at the desk stiffly as you brushed past him, "and when I come back, this desk better be empty."
Immediately regret caught up with you and you turned on your heel to glare at him. "Scratch that. I want those sticky notes gone."
"Aw," he pouted and tapped your keyboard like it was a toy, "I already had the perfect place to hide your plant."
Your fingers were itching to grab the collar of his t-shirt and choke him with it. You found yourself stepping closer to him as you reiterated your point: "I didn't mean empty my desk—"
"If you're planning on kissing, could you do it someplace else?" a voice interrupted.
As if someone had poured a bucket of ice cold water over you, you sobered from your anger. Even Seungcheol looked a bit more flustered than usual. As you breathed, your chest just about brushed against his — a clear sign that you had gotten too close.
Your startled eyes met his and— Had there always been so many shades of brown in his eyes? Was that a speck of gold near the edge of his left iris? Had his lips always been so full and tempting? You had never seen him this up close before; that had to be the reason for the sudden thundering of your heart.
The silence stretched, seconds feeling like entire minutes until finally you jerked out his magnetic field, your gaze hardening as you stepped back and crossed your arms over your chest.
"And you did say you wanted the desk empty," Seokmin helpfully provided from his spot right next to your desk just then. He barely looked up from his magazine to offer a smile before turning back to it like he hadn't just provoked you. It seemed the list of traitors had a new member for a multitude of reasons.
"Fine," Seungcheol finally relented under your hardening glare.
Slowly, like a kid trying to get out of chores by doing them poorly, he began removing the notes. One from here, one from there, a third one from a completely different spot. There was no rhyme or reason to his work and it only served to annoy you further. His movements were stiff and almost unnatural as he gathered the notes in his left hand.
Now that he was further away, you could think properly again and the annoyance was back at full force. You rubbed the bridge of your nose, resisting the urge to throw something at him again. "It's going to take you hours at that rate."
The reply you earned started with a dramatic (theatrical, really) sigh. "I know. I'm really such a good boyfriend for sacrificing my time to help you, aren't I?"
"How noble of you."
"I know."
"Truly, I cannot thank you enough for your charitable nature," you deadpanned and walked towards the break room.
You needed space between yourself and this infuriating man. Because he irritated you. Drove you nuts. Made you unable to figure out whether you wanted to punch him or kiss his lips. Because he irritated you. Right. That was it.
There was not a single bone in your body that felt anything like attraction towards this man. When you looked at him just then, it was just pure objective observation. Choi Seungcheol was an attractive man by most standards; you clearly weren't entirely unsusceptible to his charms. None of it was romantic. None of it meant anything.
You gulped a glass of cold water and the world shifted back into place.
There was nothing romantic about the way he had kept you company at your show and scared your ex. Nor about the way he spoke of you on his show. Nor the way he kept you near in public, his arm always casually resting on your waist or hip, his presence a shield against the disbelieving stares of everyone that knew you.
No, you had not almost kissed Seungcheol. You did not want to kiss Seungcheol. The whole fake dating scheme had simply clouded your judgement and blended the boundaries of your hatred.
Satisfied with your conclusion, you smoothed your clothes and fixed your hair before walked back into the office space, fully expecting to find the devil himself still painfully plucking sticky notes off your desk.
Thankfully, he was not there. He was nowhere to be found, in fact. And neither were the three to four hundred sticky notes. Your desk was as clean as it had been when you left it last night.
Not entirely clean, actually, now that you looked at it closer. There was a singular obnoxiously pink note still on the desk. And next to it: a take-away cup from the coffee shop across the street and a paper bag lumpy with pastries, still warm from the oven.
"What's this?" you found yourself asking as you picked up the cup. It smelled like your favourite drink. A cautiously taken short sip confirmed that hypothesis.
You grabbed the note, scoffed in disbelief at the writing on it and stuffed the paper into your drawer.
'Don't let this fool you — I still don't like you much'
No, there was absolutely nothing romantic about any of this.
I can't believe Burning bridges, it's so so so good, I couldn't go to sleep until I finish reading it!!! I love it, I love Seokmin posture with oc after everything went down. Seungcheol had some nerve to be mad about his actions and when oc finally found someone who cared for her, he tried to put the blame on her!!!! I love love love it, it was intense but so so good!!!
And Jihoon with the ring!!! He wants to be married so bad!!! I love how he proposed, even if it went against his plans 🥺🥲
It was amazing!!!
Hiii!!! Thank you for liking my writing!!
Burning Bridges is one of my favourite fics I've ever written, honestly, so seeing it still receive compliments is so so special 🩷🩷
note: it’s mingyu day and i realised i only have one mingyu drabble on this blog. i’ve decided to fix that. enjoy! and happy birthday to mingyu! <3
As much as he would’ve liked to say otherwise, Mingyu was the type of person to fall in love deeply, thoroughly, and intensely. And when he was in love, he wanted to show the world how in love he was.
What was the point of loving someone if he couldn’t stand on his rooftop and scream that his heart was taken by the most wonderful person?
You were the opposite. You didn’t see a point in screaming you were in love – what mattered was that you felt happy and safe and no one had to know that you would do anything for him. All of that was already implied in the way you said “yes” the day he asked you to be his.
Thus you weren’t particularly affectionate or loud about your love for him. You didn’t mind that he seemed to never let go of your hand and that he placed an occasional kiss on your cheek when you were running errands.
This, however, was a problem for Mingyu.
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