lyre

A pretty world made for us

[caratchronicles]

lyre | compsci major | '07 girlie | intj | avid listener of music | reader and occasional writer | fashion and business enthusiast

hello! welcome to my blog💗

artists i love : seventeen, katseye, lana del rey

a safe space for rants, discussions and opinions but please keep it respectful<3

inbox is open for thoughts, asks, feedbacks and requests!

link to my other blog where i post non-fandom works : @lyrewrites

[livmarauder]

LOVE LETTER : A 200 Follower Event

“Stories create community, enable us to see through the eyes of other people, and open us to the claims of others.” ~ Peter Forbes

WELCOME TO LOVE LETTER! A 200 Follower Event by @livmarauder and @orbitondgtl where we made our friends fill up a silly little form and dedicated some cute, crack, angsty or spicy fics to them based on the answers they gave! This is a love letter to all our moots (that has since grown exponentially after this form was filled a month or two ago) and to caratblr for being an amazing place for us to be creative~! We hope you enjoy the stories <3

(ps: members and who they were assigned to was decided through a wheel spin!)

── ⋆⋅☆ LOVE LETTER #1 ☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆˚✿TITLE: The Wedding Game ⋆˚✿PAIRING: wedding photographer!seokmin x wedding planner!reader ⋆˚✿SYNOPSIS: There is nothing so dangerously thrilling like walking the line of love and hate, especially at weddings. You and Seokmin are addicted to it. ⋆˚✿WARNINGS: slight sexual content (making out and stuff, but no smut!)

ᯓ★ A Love Letter to @aeristudios ᯓ★ Delivered by: @orbitondgtl on 20th July

READ HERE

── ⋆⋅☆ LOVE LETTER #2 ☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆˚✿TITLE: Do Hate The Player ⋆˚✿PAIRING: rival e-sports player!wonwoo x rival e-sports player! fem!reader ⋆˚✿SYNOPSIS: Everyone knows Wonwoo as the most nonchalant member of the notable e-sports team — "GAM3BO1", however, they also know that Wonwoo only loses his cool with a particular hotshot member of the e-sports team, 'ST4RL1GHT'. You. When a variety game show brings the two teams together and expects you two to work together, there may be more to this rivalry that meets the normal viewer's eye. ⋆˚✿WARNINGS: swearing, reader is really competitive, some mean comments thrown here and there, everyone else on their team is lowkey (highkey) done with their shit

ᯓ★ A Love Letter to @jakedustry ᯓ★ Delivered by: @livmarauder on 23rd July

READ HERE

── ⋆⋅☆ LOVE LETTER #3 ☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆˚✿TITLE: Idiots At Work ⋆˚✿PAIRING: coworker!seungcheol x reader ⋆˚✿SYNOPSIS: A heavy snowstorm + a blackout = the solution to your growing feelings for the ever so charming and popular, Seungcheol. ⋆˚✿WARNINGS: none, it's fluffy and cute

ᯓ★ A Love Letter to @gent1es3xy ᯓ★ Delivered by: @orbitondgtl on 27th July

READ HERE

── ⋆⋅☆ LOVE LETTER #4 ☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆˚✿TITLE: Under The Skin ⋆˚✿PAIRING: boyfriend! idol!jihoon x girlfriend! non-idol! fem!reader ⋆˚✿SYNOPSIS: Jihoon has never been good with emotions. Everyone know that he pours that into his life's work with Seventeen and you aren't the exception. When he starts working late and neglecting you for their newest comeback, your secret relationship starts to take a toll on you and all the negative thoughts start to swarm which makes you wonder if this relationship was ever worth it in the first place. ⋆˚✿WARNINGS: SMUT, Angst, negative thoughts, self-doubt, jihoon being a little oblivious, stressed working environment, (more to be added)

ᯓ★ A Love Letter to @cherry-zip ᯓ★ Delivered by: @livmarauder on 30th July

READ HERE

── ⋆⋅☆ LOVE LETTER #5 ☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆˚✿TITLE: Brain Less ⋆˚✿PAIRING: college student! bf!chan x college student! gf!reader ⋆˚✿SYNOPSIS: Chan is in desperate need of a distraction. You have the perfect solution to his problem. ⋆˚✿WARNINGS: SMUT (more to be added)

ᯓ★ A Love Letter to @luvrung ᯓ★ Delivered by: @orbitondgtl on 3rd August

READ HERE

── ⋆⋅☆ LOVE LETTER #6 ☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆˚✿TITLE: Lost In Translation ⋆˚✿PAIRING: idol!soonyoung x backup dancer! fem!reader ⋆˚✿SYNOPSIS: Hoshi's known for having one of the best stage presences in k-pop history with how confident he was and how much aura he holds on stage. Kwon Soonyoung on the other hand, is the complete opposite when he tries to talk to you, one of Minghao's dancer friends. When he finally works up the courage to, he realizes you can only understand Chinese and everyone begins to wonder how far his crush on you will take him, including himself. ⋆˚✿WARNINGS: soonyoung being nervous, minghao being a little shit, (more to be added)

ᯓ★ A Love Letter to @duhnuuuuwritesᯓ★ Delivered by: @livmarauder on 6th August

READ HERE

── ⋆⋅☆ LOVE LETTER #7 ☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆˚✿TITLE: My Husband Is A Loser ⋆˚✿PAIRING: husband!seungkwan x wife!reader ⋆˚✿SYNOPSIS: You love Seugnkwan in all his silly and annoying glory. Sometimes you just need to get back at him. ⋆˚✿WARNINGS: none, but I will be very funny in this

ᯓ★ A Love Letter to @cherrypickedxoᯓ★ Delivered by: @orbitondgtl on 10th August

READ HERE

── ⋆⋅☆ LOVE LETTER #8 ☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆˚✿TITLE: Subliminal ⋆˚✿PAIRING: brother's best friend! fwb!joshua x fwb! fem!reader ⋆˚✿SYNOPSIS: Joshua Hong is known as the campus heartbreaker, once you get into bed with him or catch feelings for him, you are doomed. When you end up doing both and your brother finds out, you end your partnership with him before you meet your impending doom. However, it seems like Joshua has other plans in mind because he can't seem to let you go without a fight. ⋆˚✿WARNINGS: none, it's fluffy and cute

ᯓ★ A Love Letter to @mellowgyu ᯓ★ Delivered by: @livmarauder on 13th August

READ HERE

── ⋆⋅☆ LOVE LETTER #9 ☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆˚✿TITLE: Food For Thought ⋆˚✿PAIRING: best friend!mingyu x chef!reader ⋆˚✿SYNOPSIS: Your usual food date with your best friend leads to a night you'll never forget. ⋆˚✿WARNINGS: SMUT (more to be added)

ᯓ★ A Love Letter to @cherrymayzᯓ★ Delivered by: @orbitondgtl on 17th August

READ HERE

── ⋆⋅☆ LOVE LETTER #10 ☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆˚✿TITLE: Iridescence ⋆˚✿PAIRING: boyfriend!jeonghan x girlfriend! fem!reader ⋆˚✿SYNOPSIS: Jeonghan's always known that he wanted to marry you. It was as if it was written in the stars. However, when the day finally arrives to ask you to be his forever, everything that can go wrong, goes wrong. ⋆˚✿WARNINGS: swearing and making out! loads of panicking (more to bed added)

ᯓ★ A Love Letter to @hopecutieᯓ★ Delivered by: @livmarauder on 20th August

READ HERE

── ⋆⋅☆ LOVE LETTER #11 ☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆˚✿TITLE: Bubble Pop Electric ⋆˚✿PAIRING: coworker!seungcheol x reader ⋆˚✿SYNOPSIS: You have Minghao wrapped around your finger and he proves to you how much he loves it over and over again ⋆˚✿WARNINGS: SMUT! (more to be added)

ᯓ★ A Love Letter to @gentleisaᯓ★ Delivered by: @orbitondgtl on 24th August

READ HERE

── ⋆⋅☆ LOVE LETTER #12 ☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆˚✿TITLE: MIA ⋆˚✿PAIRING: childhood best friend! idol!vernon x rockstar! fem!reader ⋆˚✿SYNOPSIS: Seventeen thinks Vernon might be a bit delusional sometimes, because why was he talking about you, a world renown rockstar as if he personally knew you? Even worse, why does he think he's dating you?! ⋆˚✿WARNINGS: none! a lot of crack humour, the guys "bullying" vernon, swearing, guy's being stupid (more to be added)

ᯓ★ A Love Letter to @mylovesstuffs ᯓ★ Delivered by: @livmarauder on 27th August

READ HERE

── ⋆⋅☆ LOVE LETTER #13 ☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆˚✿TITLE: The Chronicles of a Girl Dad ⋆˚✿PAIRING: husband! idol!jun x wife! non-idol! fem!reader ⋆˚✿SYNOPSIS: Jun didn't think fatherhood would look like this... especially with him dressed as a pretty princess with blue eyeshadow and a tiara to a picnic that his daughters wanted. ⋆˚✿WARNINGS: none! loads of fluff and reader making fun of jun!

ᯓ★ A Love Letter to @nerdycheolᯓ★ Delivered by: @orbitondgtl & @livmarauder on 31st August

READ HERE

©livmarauder2026 & ©orbitondgtl If you would like to be tagged for this, do comment down below! All fics are 18+, despite whether there is r-rated content or not, which means blogs without age or age indicators will not be tagged!

[caratchronicles]

so cute!!

[stllmnstr]

all that glitters — part three.

pairing: park jongseong x f reader

genre: academic rivals to lovers, rich jay au, university au, angst, slow burn

part three word count: 22k

warnings: angst, depictions of terminal illness, scenes that occur in hospitals, use of the american (usa) health system (aka receiving medical care is expensive), swearing, slowwwww burn, kissing

playlist: this is me trying / cardigan / mirrorball- taylor swift / yellow - coldplay / BIRDS OF A FEATHER - billie eilish / safety net - ariana grande / garden (say it like dat) - sza

note: AW I am so sad/happy/excited to be finishing this fic and putting it out into the universe. This is one of the longest stories I've released to date, and I have so much love for it. It was my first time writing for Jay, and I had the best time getting to characterize him and bring this story to life using him as inspo. His personality is so endearing to me and he's so ridiculously handsome in a very classic way. Sigh. As always, I hope you enjoy!! This fic has been a long time in the making, and I hope this ending was worth the wait. If you have thoughts/comments/screams, I'd love to hear them! Happy reading ♡

part one | part two

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Park Jongseong is everything you hate. Spoiled, entitled, and the heir to a top conglomerate in the business world you’ve been fighting tooth and nail to break into. You can’t even begin to count how many sleepless nights, skipped meals, and personal desires you’ve sacrificed just for a seat at the table he was born sitting at.

But when a piece of news in your third year of university pulls your world out from under your feet, everything starts to change. Including your feelings towards the one person you thought you’d always loathe.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

The beach house is quiet when you wake. The first rays of sunlight beam through your bedside window. The waves look softer in morning light, somehow even more peaceful than the prior evening. 

And Jay…

Somewhere between dreams and reality, you found your resolve. You’re not sure what this new sense of closeness is, where exactly it comes from. You’re sure it’s just because the two of you are truly alone for the first time. 

Besides, it’s not like it necessarily means anything. You’re sure Jay is just one of those people who lets his affection be known through touch, through closeness. He did tell you he wants to be friends, after all. You’re sure that’s what all of this must be. 

But the longer you look at it, the more your stomach begins to sink. Because friendship doesn’t account for a lot of things. Namely, the way he held you last night. The way he looked at you. 

Shaking your head, you force yourself out of bed. It’s no use mulling over it now. You’re not operating under any illusions. 

It doesn’t matter how sharp his jawline is or how nice it feels to rest your head in that space between his shoulder and neck. 

You’re sick. Your future is, in generous terms, uncertain. It wouldn’t be fair, to either you or him, to let things shift too much. To let them progress towards what they teetered on dangerously last night. 

Padding gently down the stairs, you realize you were the first one to wake. Good. That will give you some time to set your resolve, to plan for how you’ll go about maintaining space for the rest of your time together. 

You only have one more day here, after all. You’ll sleep at the beach house again tonight and then drive back to the hospital early tomorrow afternoon. You can survive another day, another evening. 

And then, upon your return, reality will do what it always done, and maintaining a comfortable distance will feel natural again.  

Yawning through a stretch as you enter the kitchen, you suppose you can start evening the playing field by returning favors. You’ll make breakfast today. An undergraduate degree built mostly on ready meals hasn’t exactly made you the best chef, but your family owns a restaurant. You can manage eggs, at least. 

Rifling through the cupboards for a frying pan, a small, nondescript notebook tucked away in the corner of the kitchen counter catches your eye. Drawing closer, you realize it’s his. Jay’s. The planner he always carries around with him everywhere. 

You bite at the small smile that appears on your lips without your permission. It’s easy to imagine him drafting your itinerary with the same intense focus he uses to write out his study schedules. 

You shake your head gently and then turn, about to move on, when a small slip of paper poking out from underneath the planner catches your eye. 

It’s folded and mostly obscured by the notebook on top of it, but you swear you can make out a few letters.

And, stranger still, you swear they align perfectly with the last few letters in your name.

You shouldn’t look. You really shouldn’t. If nothing else, it’s an invasion of privacy. You wouldn’t want him poking around through your planner, after all. 

He already did it one by accident, you think as you remember the way his gaze narrowed in focus when you mistakenly handed him your bucket list instead of a napkin at the charity gala. And the consequences of that have been nothing if not far reaching. 

Still, curiosity eats at you. It’s your name, after all. Or at least you think it is. 

Glancing quietly over your shoulder just to make sure he hasn’t somehow silently materialized since your internal struggle began, you confirm that you’re alone in the kitchen. And then you reach for that small, folded piece of paper.

Unfolding it slowly, you scan it from top to bottom. You were right, you realize. It is your name at the top. Glazing over it, this time with a more discerning gaze, your eyes widen with every uncovered line.

It’s a list. Penned in his neat, even handwriting, it details all of the medicines you’re currently taking, as well as every pharmacy within a twenty-mile radius of the beach house and their current stock of it. 

Beneath it, he’s written out every nearby hospital, along with their capacity to handle illnesses of your nature and their directors’ personal contact information. 

Below is yet another list. This one is of symptoms that Hana and Doctor Kim must have told him to keep an eye on. Confusion, dizziness, shortness of breath, fatigue, headaches. 

Both of them also left him with their personal phone numbers. 

Silently, breath shallow, you fold the paper back and tuck it back beneath the planner where you found it, heart thumping traitorously in your chest. 

Again, you’re forced to confront it head-on — he cares. Enough to plan this trip, enough to face your resistance and your excuses a thousand times over, enough to research pharmacies and hospitals and medication side effects. 

It’s not altruistic. It’s not for his own benefit. He cares about you. In writing, out loud, and in the way he’s always gentle when he reaches for you. 

You think, then, for the first time, of just how much his life has changed since your diagnosis, too. After all, you used to just be someone that sat behind him in lecture halls. Someone that made an irritating point to argue with everything he said. 

Now, he’s at the hospital more frequently than his own classes. He’s paying for your medical care. He’s asking doctors and nurses how to best take care of you, and he’s here, at a beach house on the coast, because you dreamed of seeing it one day. 

You never wanted to add anyone, much less Jay, to the ever-growing list of people you owe an unpayable debt to. 

But every memory, every piece of evidence at just how inextricably intertwined you’ve become, feels like a rock sinking in your gut. 

When, or perhaps if the universe takes pity on you, if this all ends in flames, you’re suddenly terrified of just how deeply he’ll be affected. 

His care is genuine, of that much you’re sure. You don’t want him to suffer any more than he has to when the time comes to say goodbye.

You’re so wrapped up in your sudden spiraling that you don’t notice when the scent of cooking turns pungent, when the eggs start to turn from golden-brown to coal black. 

But Jay does. Startling you from your thoughts, he raises an eyebrow at you from the edge of the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he says, calmly. There’s a hint of sleepiness that still clings to his words. 

“Good morning,” you return once you shake your startle, hardly able to meet his eye. You’re flushed for a thousand reasons, all of which you refuse to name. 

His eyebrow arches higher. Nodding at the pan on the stove, he adds, “I think something’s burning.”

“Shit.” Rushing to turn off the burner, you pull the pan off the heat, setting it aside. “Sorry,” you mumble, sheeping. “I was trying to make breakfast.”

Jay’s lips twitch. “It’s the thought that counts,” he tells you. “Here, let me—”

You shake your head. “No, no, it’s okay. Just let me— I can handle eggs.” 

For a moment, you think he’s going to tease you about it. But then he sees the defensive glint in your gaze. The way this suddenly feels like it’s about more than just eggs. You’ve had far more of your own self-sufficiency stripped from you than you’re comfortable with. 

It wouldn’t be an act of kindness to assume you can’t handle this task—it would be belittling. A reminder of just how much your life has changed in recent weeks. 

So Jay is just quiet for a moment longer. Then, he nods. Moving to join you, he doesn’t interfere with the eggs. Instead, he says, “I’ll start the coffee.” 

Thankfully, your second attempt is much more successful. 

With your eggs cooked to perfection this time and Jay’s freshly brewed coffee, the two of you find your seats at the dining table again. After a few bites, Jay asks for your opinion on his itinerary for the day. 

He hasn’t planned much, just a dinner at a nearby restaurant this evening, which leaves your morning and afternoon free. He has suggestions of course — heading back down to the beach, going for another ride in the convertible, sitting in the garden and just enjoying the view. 

Your indecision must play out across your features, because a beat later, he suggests starting the day close to home. You’re glad for it. 

You’re starting to feel like a broken record, but the garden really is beautiful. Two adjacent lounge chairs serve as your resting place for this pocket of time. 

Minutes slip into hours easily, the occasional lulls in conversation filled by the sound of waves and nearby sea birds. 

He mentions something about Professor Jung’s class, and a crease forms between your eyebrows. Jay notices, because of course he does, and so you tell him about the letter from Doctor Kim, your mother’s insistence that you take an official academic leave of absence for the rest of the semester. 

Jay schools his features into something carefully neutral. “How do you feel about that?” 

You sigh. “I mean, of course it’s not what I want. We’re almost to midterms already, and the thought of sacrificing all that work really sucks.” You exhale, something calm in your voice now that you’ve had time to think about it. “But it’s not the end of the world. I’ve kept up my scholarship this long, and I know I’ll be able to do it again. I suppose it’s better to focus on recovery now and then return to things when I can give it my all again. Even if it feels a little bit like failure right now.”

Jay stares at you for a moment, almost as if he expects a second head to pop out from between your shoulders. “That might be the most reasonable thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“I will reach over and smack that grin off your face,” you threaten. 

“I know.” He just relaxes further into his seat, grin still spread wide across his lips. 

You roll your eyes. The conversation continues, veers towards lighter topics. It takes you all the way to early afternoon, when Jay suggests heading back to the beach. 

“C’mon,” he urges, “We can actually put our feet in the ocean this time.”

You don’t need any more convincing than that. 

It’s still slightly humiliating, the way you have to walk slowly, the way your legs don’t always seem to want to cooperate with your mind. Jay takes it all in stride. He slows even before you do, patient as he walks by your side. 

Still a few yards from the water, you lose your balance on the edge of a sand bank, teetering dangerously as you try to right yourself. Jay doesn’t let you fall. Reaching out, he steadies you with one hand on your waist and the other around your wrist. 

Even after you’ve centered yourself again, he doesn’t let go. 

“You alright?” His brow creases deep in concern. 

“I’m fine,” you nod, not quite able to look him in the eye. Not when his open palm still rests against your hip. 

Slowly, Jay releases you. But the hand around your wrist doesn't leave your skin entirely. Instead, he slides it down, all the way until his long fingers are interlaced with yours. HIs touch is warm, steadying. Has your pulse thrumming in your ears. 

“Here,” he says. “To help you balance.”

“Right.” You nod. “For balance.”

After a few more steps, the two of you are at the water’s edge. Jay helps you slide off your shoes before removing his own. Then, he takes your hand again. This time, he doesn’t bother with excuses. 

Instead, he turns to you, eyes glittering like the sunlit sea, and asks, “Are you ready?”

Are you? You’re not sure. The ocean is one of many things in your life that you never bothered to dream too hard about, mostly because it always felt out of reach. Something frivolous not worth dedicating too much attention to. 

You’re not sure how to tell him that, so instead, you nod. 

Jay smiles, gently guiding you forward until the first waves can just reach you, barely brushing your toes as water trickles up the beach. 

A gasp escapes your lips. It’s colder than you expect, almost shockingly so. 

“You okay?” Jay asks.

You nod. “Just cold.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s warmer in the summer. We’ll have to come back.” There are a lot of assumptions wrapped up in his response, ones you don’t dare to correct now. 

Instead, you follow him a few more steps forward, all the way until water pools around your feet, now ankle-deep.

It’s still cold, but you’re getting used to it now. The sand feels different here, thicker maybe, more solid. You spread your toes and giggle as it pushes between them. 

Jay zeroes in on the noise, carefully tracking your expression as you venture deeper. Now it’s him that trails you, happy to be led by his hand still intertwined with yours. 

The first time you splash him is entirely by accident. You swear you see a fish swimming near your toes and it startles you so bad you nearly fall over. Thankfully, you manage to stay upright, but your flailing sends a smattering of droplets right towards the front of Jay’s shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, but it’s wrapped in laughter. “It was an accident. I thought I saw a—”

The words die on your lips as Jay returns the favor by splashing water back towards you, this time entirely on purpose. 

“No worries,” he grins. Nodding towards the wet hem of your shirt, he adds, “We’re even now, anyway.”

Your jaw drops at his audacity. “You little shit.” It’s the only warning he gets before your next splash comes, this one wreaking far more havoc than the first as sea water soaks through nearly the entirety of his rolled left pant leg. 

You try to run before he can have his revenge, but he catches up to you easily, fingers circling around your wrist before he slides it back towards your hand, interlacing your fingers once again. Then he bends at the waist, other hand dipping dangerously towards the water as he sends droplets flying towards your jeans. 

It’s funny — even though the water swirling around your ankles, being flung at your skin, is entirely novel, something you’ve been dreaming of experiencing for years, when you look back on your memory of this moment later, you’ll realize that nearly all of your focus was not on the beach or the your soaked clothes or the even ocean itself. 

No, it was locked on the steady, warm feeling of Jay’s hand in yours. 

…..

The sun tracks a steady path across the sky, and before you know it, it’s time to get ready for your dinner with Jay.

Despite your questioning, he hasn’t divulged many details. You’re not sure exactly where you’re going, nor what kind of attire is expected. Eyeing your small overnight bag, you’re suddenly worried that everything you’ve brought will be too casual. 

Then again, maybe he’s bringing you to something a little more quaint. He said it himself — most of the businesses around here are seasonal. You doubt that the truly fine dining establishments are even open this time of year. 

Before you can make up your mind on if you should just go across the hall and ask him again, a knock sounds on your bedroom door. 

Opening it, Jay stands on the other side, a large box in hand. 

You look at it, frowning. “What’s that?”

“For you,” Jay outstretches his arms, passing the box to you. “For tonight.”

“Jay…” you trail off. Gifts from him are nothing new at this point, but something in your pride still withers with every lavish present he lays at your feet. 

“Don’t even,” he shakes his head, silencing your protest before you can put words to it. “Besides,” he adds, nodding towards the box. “This was already yours.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Already m—” Realization dawns across your features. You remove the lid from the box, confirming your suspicions. 

Inside is the gown, the one you selected from Sunghoon’s shop.

“I thought we were going to dinner,” you breathe. 

It’s Jay’s turn to be puzzled. “We are,” he confirms. 

“There’s a restaurant around here where this is standard attire?” You arch an eyebrow. “Are you sure?” Quieter, you add, “I don’t feel like getting stared at all night.”

Jay’s expression softens at your confession. “You won’t be. I promise. A dress that pretty deserves to be worn, don’t you think? Besides,” he adds, a gleam entering his gaze, “I’ll be the only one staring at you.”

“Jay,” you whine. 

“Okay, okay,” he puts his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll only stare when you’re not looking.”

“I’ll still be able to tell,” you frown. 

“You haven’t so far,” he points out. 

He grins when your cheeks warm. 

And to that, you have nothing to say. Instead you ask, “What time are we leaving?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Jay says. “There’s no rush. Take your time.”

The door closes, and you’re once again alone with your thoughts. You glance down at the box in your hands before setting it on the foot of the bed. 

You sigh. You really weren’t prepared for anything so formal. Glancing at your small makeup bag, you decide you’ll have to make do. 

Thirty minutes later, it’s apparent that you weren’t born with the talent of a makeup artist, but it’ll do. You give yourself another once-over in the mirror, assessing your handiwork. The work you’ve done on your makeup and hair might be simple, but it highlights the features you like most. Makes your reflection something that shimmers a little more than usual. Despite it all, you feel pretty. 

Which leaves only one step left before you meet Jay downstairs: the dress still sitting on your bed. Padding over towards it quietly, you take a deep breath before reaching into the box and retrieving it with gentle fingers. 

It unfurls as you pull it out, skirt falling down towards the floor in an elegant wave. Here in the evening glow of your borrowed bedroom, it’s even more spectacular than you remember. 

Quietly, you step into the skirt, pulling the top of the dress up over your body and securing the straps into place. 

Reaching behind you, you fumble blindly for the zipper. It takes a moment for you to find it, fingers closing around the cool metal. You tug, but the zipper hardly makes it an inch before your own dexterity fails you. 

Frowning, you try again. This attempt is no better. No matter how many times you try, you can’t get the zipper past the base of your spine. 

That’s right, you remember, hardly stopping yourself from cursing out loud, the store attendant helped you that day at Sunghoon’s store. 

A flicker of doubt sweeps through your mind. Is it even possible to close the zipper on your own? 

It has to be. Because if you can’t get it zipped on your own, the only other viable option is—

No. 

That’s not happening. 

Grimacing, you pull again, this time with far more force, fueled by your sudden desperation. But it’s to no avail. The angle simply won’t work. 

Head lolling forward, you groan aloud to the empty room. 

And then, gathering whatever fragmented remnants of dignity you have left, you call out quietly, “Jay?”

You wait for a heartbeat. Another. No response comes. 

Walking towards your door, you crack it open slightly.

Louder this time, you call again, “Jay?”

“Yeah?” You hear him respond, from downstairs you think. “Are you okay?” There’s an undertone of urgency in his voice that you would have more time to ponder if you weren’t panicking yourself. 

“I’m fine,” you assure. “But can you…” You trail off for a moment, losing your confidence. “Can you come here?”

He doesn’t say anything, but you hear the sound of his feet padding against the stairs. It takes him less than thirty seconds to reach the top, eyes locking on yours where you still brace yourself behind the door like it’s a shield. 

His brow furrows. “What’s wrong?”

You can barely hold his eye. “Nothing, I just…” Biting the inside of your lip, you manage to get out, “I need help with the zipper.”

“Oh.” It’s quiet for a moment. You watch as realization sets in, his eyes widening before he remembers to regain control of his expression. “Oh,” he repeats, softer this time. 

Then, he swallows. Once, roughly. You watch the way his throat works, jaw tightening, eyes sharpening before they soften again. He sets his resolve, pace steady as he walks towards you. 

You take a step back when he reaches you, silently pulling the door open wider, allowing him into your space. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, eyes on his feet. “I forgot that I needed help. I didn’t think I—”

“Don’t apologize,” Jay interrupts, voice rawer than it was before. “It’s okay,” he assures. “I don’t mind. Just…” He flails for a moment, words stuck in his throat. Then he whispers, “Turn around for me.”

You do. Quietly, steadily, all the way until you’re facing the bed. Jay’s presence behind you is an impossible thing to miss, especially when you hear the deep, shuddering inhale he takes. 

And then you feel it, the warmth of his hands as he wraps his fingers around the zipper. Your breath is shallow in your chest, heart pounding in your throat. 

You can feel his knuckles skimming the notches of your spine. A slow, deliberate pace as he drags them upwards. 

It’s agonizingly slow. It's over entirely too soon.

You feel his fingers reach the top, hesitating for only a moment before he retracts them. You release the exhale you hadn’t quite realized you were holding. 

Turning back halfway, you meet his eye.

“Thanks,” you manage, more breath than sound. 

“Of course,” he returns, and you don’t think you’re imagining the strain. He recovers quickly, though. Extending his arm, he offers, “Shall we?”

Only then do your eyes rake over him. Jay, it seems, has not made you dress up on your own this evening. 

Dressed in a suit so impossibly well-tailored you’re sure it must have been made with only him in mind, Jay is a vision. Dark hair falls into his eyes, loose across his forehead, flattering the angular set of his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw. 

Under any other circumstances, the sight would serve as a reminder of the distance between the two of you, all the ways in which Jay will always exist just outside your reach. 

But his outstretched arm is an offering, an invitation. He’s not pulling away, not stepping back. He’s meeting you halfway, like he’s already decided that wherever you are is a place worth being. 

So you wrap your fingers around his forearm and let him lead the way down the stairs. You let him carry your purse and open your car door and smile at you from the driver’s seat. 

For a moment, it’s all too easy to pretend. That this, whatever is blossoming between the two of you, was never because of a deal. 

That you’re not dying and he’s not doing everything in his power to stop it. 

For a moment, just in the most secret parts of your mind, you’re just you and he’s just him. Two people that realized, somewhere between butting heads in lecture halls and always vying for first place, that you had more in common than you realized. That your differences were actually quite complimentary when you stacked them side by side. 

You pretend that it’s all natural to you, that you belong in the passenger seat of convertibles, wearing an average person’s monthly salary on your body and being treated like a princess. 

In your fantasy, no one feels sorry for you. No one pities you. If anything, they’re all jealous. That you’re the one on the receiving end of the ever-formidable Park Jongseong’s equally fierce affections. 

Sunoo has what he needs to follow his dreams all on his own, and your family was never wrecked by circumstances out of their control. 

You have room in your mind for yourself, for your own desires and hopes and goals. You have time for things outside of studying. There’s space in your life for friends and flings and maybe, you think, glancing over at Jay where he keeps his eyes trained on the road, maybe even enough room for love. 

It might just be a fantasy, but you decide that you don’t want to ruminate tonight. You’re tired of wallowing in your own misery and always worrying about what comes next. 

Is it so wrong? you wonder, to pretend, just for tonight, that this is nothing more than dinner with a boy?

Jay’s pulling into the parking lot before you can fully make up your mind. Taking a tentative glance at the dark building, you frown slightly. 

“Are you sure it’s open?” you ask. “It looks dark.”

“It’s open,” Jay nods. Glancing at you, he amends, “Well, it is for us.”

You balk. “What do you mean, for us?”

He shrugs. “I pulled a few strings. C’mon,” he smiles at you, “you’ll like it. I promise.”

The truth you already suspected becomes more apparent as he leads you inside. The restaurant has an understated kind of beauty. The rich colors and shimmering decor of quiet luxury. It reminds you faintly of spaces like the luxury department store, Sunghoon’s shop. Made to suit the tastes of the elite. 

Like the beach house, the far wall is almost entirely windows. With an hour until sunset, the view is breathtaking. The stretch of beach it faces must not be private, because you see figures in the distance. Couples walking along the shoreline, families splashing at the edge of the water. 

The cool weather keeps the beach from being crowded, but the sight makes you think that it’s probably never truly empty, even when winter sinks its ice-cold claws into the world. 

The restaurant, however, is strikingly empty. 

A waiter, dressed head-to-toe in a sleek black uniform greets you upon your arrival. He leads you past an array of empty tables, bare even from silverware, until he comes to stop at a small, round table pressed close to the window. 

Nodding gently, he smiles as Jay pulls out your chair for you. Once you’re both seated, he lays two menus down with a smile and instructs you to let him know if you have any questions. 

Jay thanks him, and you take a small sip from your water glass, throat suddenly feeling rather dry. 

“Jay,” you start, once the waiter is out of earshot, “why is no one else here?”

Jay shrugs, not bothering to glance up from the menu. “Must be a slow evening.”

“Jay.”

He sighs, setting it down. “Fine. You caught me. Everyone insisted this was the best dining anywhere on the coast, but when I called, they said they’d already shut down for the season. So I…” he trails off, trying to find the best words, “made a few requests.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you tell him, no real edge to your words. “I would have been happy cooking at home again, or even at that fast food restaurant we saw down the street.”

Jay’s brow furrows, something in his expression falling slightly. “You don’t like it?”

You shake your head immediately. That wasn’t the conclusion you intended him to land on. “Of course I like it,” you tell him truthfully. Something relaxes in his shoulders. “It’s incredible. How could I not? I just meant that… I don't want you to feel like you have to do all these things for me just because I’m—”

“I don’t.” He shakes his head, cutting you off. “I don’t feel like I have to. I like doing things for you. I want you to feel important and special and valued. Not because….” he trails off for a moment. “Not because of circumstances.” Meeting your eye, his gaze is imploring. “Just because you are.”

To that, you suddenly have nothing to say. 

“Jay…” You’re not sure if you’re warning him or something else entirely. 

He shakes his head, as if he can sense your internal struggle. “Let’s decide on food.”

There, you let him take the lead. Mostly because you haven’t heard of half of the menu items before. Jay is patient as he explains them to you. When your mind is made up, he waves the waiter over with a raised hand.

The sun falls a little further towards the horizon, the end of another day. Beneath you, families begin to pack up for the evening. Couples return to their cards, hand-in-hand as they make their way back up the beach. 

Distantly, you wonder what you and Jay look like from the outside. You must seem like a couple, especially now. Dressed to the nines and sat opposite from each other at the nicest restaurant in town. It wouldn’t be a stretch to assume; it would only be natural. 

You can’t quite decide how that makes you feel. Suddenly, you’re rather glad there are no other patrons tonight. The only witness is your waiter. 

Dinner is a rather quiet affair. Conversation lulls before it starts again, both of you skirting around delicate topics. It’s there, though—something that simmers just beneath the surface. A truth that the two of you are too afraid to touch. 

The food is delicious, and dessert even more so. 

When the bill has been settled, Jay guides you back to his car with a hand on the small of your back. His touch is gentle, present without demand. 

Once you arrive back at the beach house, he opens your door for you, falls into place beside you as the two of you make a path towards the entrance. 

Halfway to the front door, your footsteps falter. Jay turns to you with a question in his gaze. 

The sun has already settled beneath the skyline. It’s dusk now. Everything is covered in the hazy dark glow of evening. 

“It’s our last night,” you tell him, words barely a whisper. “Can we go down to the beach?”

He passes a questioning look over the dress you still wear, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods. 

This time, it’s you that initiates contact. Quietly, traces of your hesitation plain as day in the way you bite at your bottom lip, you reach your hand towards his. 

For a moment, you just wrap your hand around his three longest fingers, holding them loosely as your thumb strokes over his pointer finger. 

Your eyes follow the motion. His are locked on you. Above you, the moon begins to glow. 

Jay sighs but makes no effort to move. He remains motionless, pliant under your gentle touch. After another moment, you slide your hand further into his, lacing your fingers together. 

Glancing up, you find him already looking at you, lips parted, eyes lidded, a distinct sense of longing in his gaze, raw and steady. 

“Let’s go,” you whisper. 

Jay makes no attempt to move. He only nods. 

This time, it’s him that trails behind you, led by the firm grip you have on his hand and you follow the path back down to the water. Your pace is slow, but now it doesn’t feel like it’s due to the limits of your abilities. 

It just feels like a moment that the two of you want to savor a little longer. 

When you do finally reach the shoreline, you release your grip reluctantly. Only because it allows you to lift the skirt of your dress up past your ankles, watching quietly as the water swirls around your feet. 

Next to you, Jay does the same. He rolls his pant legs, slightly unevenly, and you’d tease him about it under any other circumstances. 

Now, though, there’s no laughter in your throat. Only a deep sense of calm as you look up at the sky, eyes tracing the stars that have started to shine against the inky black expanse. 

The moon casts a silver reflection on the water, rippling slightly with every ebb and flow of the current. 

After another long beat of stillness, Jay turns to you, eyes tracing your profile. He asks, “Should we sit?”

You look at him, considering. “We don’t have the blanket.” The evening chill is the least of your concerns. You hardly feel it at all. But the thought of letting your dress fill with sand is enough to give you pause. 

Jay nods, then begins to shrug off his suit jacket. Even in the low light, you can see the way his dress shirt follows the motion of his body, the way it sits against his skin. “We can use this,” he suggests. 

It’s impractical and might render the jacket ruined, but if he doesn't mind, you suppose you won’t either. Nodding, you follow him a bit further up the beach, until you’re out of the reach of the gentle waves. 

He spreads it against the sand, settling down on one side. Then he looks up at you, patting the space next to him. 

You hesitate, suddenly unsure. It’s far smaller than the blanket from yesterday. There’s no room for distance, no way for you to maintain space. 

If Jay notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he reaches his hand towards you. You take it, because of course you do. Even with sudden doubt flashing through your mind, his outstretched fingers will always be something you accept. 

Gently, he guides you down next to him, helps arrange your dress so that the fabric doesn’t spill over onto the sand. 

You were right to be wary. No matter how close to the edge of his jacket you sit, your knee brushes against his. You can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin layer of his shirt. 

For a moment, the two of you watch the waves. 

Then he asks, voice low, “Your beach trip, the convertible, were they as good as you hoped for?”

At his side, you nod, a small smile tugging on your lips. “Even better.” Turning your head, your chin nearly brushes his shoulder. You look up at him, lips parting at the sudden proximity as his gaze falls down towards you. Your voice carries a bit more weight now, the lightness from earlier swallowed by your sincerity. “Thank you, Jay.” His eyes are heavy, laden with something indecipherable. “For everything.”

For a moment, he says nothing, quiet as his eyes search yours. The longer he looks, the warmer your cheeks begin to feel. But you can’t bring yourself to look away, can hardly dare to blink. 

Slowly, he brings a hand to your temple, brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen across your forehead. 

He doesn’t remove his touch. Instead, he traces a steady path, fingers light as he ghosts them across the shell of your ear, all the way until they come to curve just beneath your jaw. 

“Jay,” you whisper, voice nearly swallowed by the breeze. 

His eyes follow the motion, falling to your parted lips before he finds your gaze again. 

He leans closer, just a fraction of an inch, like the motion is involuntary. Like he can’t quite help himself. 

“This was on your bucket list, too,” he murmurs, breath washing over your heated cheekbones. 

“You’re not a stranger,” you point out, voice more breath than sound. 

“Mm,” he hums. “Do you want me to go find one for you?” But he’s even closer now, his nose brushing against yours. 

You call his bluff. “You’d do that?”

“No,” he admits, thumb stroking along your jawline, angling you slightly. “Probably not.”

“Probably?” you echo.

“Definitely,” he decides, lips brushing against your own. 

You’re touching now, lips brushing, moving against each other with every shallow breath. His fingers splay against your overly warm skin. Stroking, soothing, coaxing like he can't quite stop himself. 

But he doesn’t move further. Even here, even now, he won’t take what you haven’t asked him for. 

“Jay,” you breathe, and he nearly groans at the sound of his name, a low breathy thing. 

“Mm,” he hums again, fingers flexing, nose brushing. 

“Kiss me,” you tell him. 

He releases an exhale, long, deep, desperate, and then he’s finally pressing forward. His hand beneath your jaw serves as an anchor as he finally increases the pressure, lips parted against yours like he wants to breathe you in. 

Your eyes flutter shut, sighing as he takes your bottom lip between his. His lips part against yours, and you do your best to follow the motion, moving with him. 

The pace he sets is gentle, tentative, searching. As if he has all the time in the world and plans to spend it with his mouth on yours. 

There’s nothing demanding in his touch, even as his breath begins to quicken, as his sighs start to sound more strangled, lower in his chest. 

It’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s gentle and sweet and so impossibly slow. 

His hands, however, can’t seem to decide where to land. Once they’ve had their fill of your jaw, they fall to your neck, the pulse point that jumps in your throat. The skin of your shoulders, the length of your spine. Eventually, they settle at the small of your back, pulling gently as he encourages you further into his space. 

You release a breathy exhale, head full of stars and sighs and him.

Above you, the moon glows. The ocean laps against the shore. Jay moves his affections from your swollen lips to the angle of your jaw, trailing downwards below your ear until he finds a place that makes you shudder. 

But when his hand comes to your arm, he feels the goosebumps that have started to rise. 

Lips still on yours, you feel him frown. “You’re cold.”

You shake your head, mind spinning as you try to catch your breath. “I’m fine.”

It’s no use. Jay presses one more kiss against your lips before moving to your cheekbone. He lays a gentle kiss there too. One last kiss finds the tip of your nose before he leans back.

“Come on,” he urges, “Let’s go.”

“But—” you start to protest, words dying on your lips. You’re afraid to move, afraid that leaving your place on the right side of his suit jacket will shatter the illusion, will send you plummeting back to a reality you’re not ready to face. 

“I know,” Jay whispers, like he understands, like he feels it, too. “It’s okay.”

He helps you stand, and then he brushes off the sand from his jacket before settling it over your shoulder. The kiss he presses against your lips after securing it into place surprises you. He smiles at your wide eyes, something unbearably fond in his gaze as he catches your hand in his own. 

The walk back to the house is quiet, save for the sound of your breath. Once you’re both inside, Jay turns back to you, cradling your head as you look up at him in surprise before kissing you again. Once, twice, three times before he finally pulls his lips away, resting his forehead against yours.

“Sorry,” he says. “I like doing that.”

“Don’t apologize,” you shake your head. “I…” Even with his admission laid bare, it’s hard to find the courage, the honesty to do the same. For him, you manage, “I do, too.”

Jay smiles at that, leaning back as his eyes trace over you. They catch for a moment on the unmistakable flush, on your slightly swollen lips. 

He swallows, shakes his head. 

He tells you, “It’s late. We should probably get some sleep.”

You nod at the suggestion. It is late, after all, and you’ll have to drive back tomorrow. 

Tomorrow. The thought of a new day has sudden dread curling deep in your gut. 

Jay takes your hand in his again as he leads you up the stairs. At the top, he hesitates for a moment before dropping it. Eyes on yours, he tells you quietly, “Good night.”

You return the sentiment. Your words are done, but both of you hover a moment longer. Night, this night, feels like a bubble that the sunrise will inevitably burst. Neither of you are quite ready to let it go. 

Jay nods gently towards your bedroom door behind you. “Go,” he urges, even if you can see his unwillingness written across his features. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

You know he will be, but that’s not what you’re worried about, not what has you hesitating. 

Still, you nod, hoping your thoughts don’t play out as openly across your features as you fear they might. Then, you turn, walking towards your bedroom. Hand hovering on the handle, you turn back only once. 

“Good night, Jay,” you tell him again. 

He nods, expression full of something you can only call longing. “Sleep well.”

The water from your shower falls relentlessly against your skin, sharpens the events of the day into something sobering. 

You kissed Jay. You kissed him. Your thoughts swirl just as surely as the water that circles the drain, but no matter how long you search them, you can’t find anything that stings like regret. 

Even as you step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around your body before drying your hair. Even as you pull a pair of worn pajamas over your body, you can’t bring yourself to wish it hadn’t happened. 

You don’t regret it, you realize, pulling back the covers as you sink into your bed. It may complicate things, it will surely make them more difficult, but even if given the chance to relive the evening, you wouldn’t change anything. 

In fact, the only thing you’d do is—

No. Even in the privacy of your own mind, the thought swims like a bad idea. 

Still… 

Your eyes fall on the door across from you. You debate internally for a moment, logical parts of yourself warring with the ones fueled by self-serving desire. 

“Oh, fuck it,” you whisper out loud to your empty bedroom. And then you stand up from your bed. 

The distance from your bedroom to his feels even shorter now. Fueled by a sudden stroke of bravery, you knock three times against his door before you can talk yourself out of it. 

You’re being ridiculous. You already said goodnight. He’s probably asleep, anyway—

In front of you, Jay’s door opens, just enough to reveal him. Hair messy like he’s been tossing and turning, Jay’s eyes are wide when he looks down at you. 

“Are you okay?” is the first thing he asks. You’re reminded of the list you found, of hospitals and pharmacies and emergency contact information. Of just how prepared he was to take care of you. “Is something wrong? We can go—”

“Jay,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “I’m fine.” But there, your words die. You hadn’t planned this far ahead. Haven't decided what to say now that he’s in front of you. “I just…” you try. Deciding that beating around the bush will get you nowhere, you ask, “Can I sleep with you?”

Jay’s eyes widen even further at that, lips parting as your request sinks in. 

Immediately, your cheeks flame as you realize the connotation. “I don’t—” Your words die on your lips, embarrassment making you struggle through speech as you try to remedy the institution. “I didn’t mean—I’m not ready for… that.” You wince internally, then outwardly. “I just,” you sigh, fingers finding the hem of your sleep shirt. “It would be nice, I think. To be close.”

For a moment, Jay says nothing. And then he opens his door further, stepping aside to let you in. 

His room is similar to yours in both layout and appearance. He hasn’t drawn his curtains shut, though. You can see the moon shining outside, casting a silver glow across the space. 

You aren’t particularly concerned with the window, though. Your attention falls to his bed. There’s enough space for you to both fit comfortably, but there are no illusions to be had here. No pretence of maintaining distance. 

Jay walks to the bed, pulling back the blanket as he looks back at you. “Here,” he nods. Considering for a moment, he adds, “Unless you prefer the other side.”

You shake your head. “This side is good.”

Slowly, you crawl into the space between the blanket and the sheets. Jay walks around to the other side of the bed, pulling back the blanket there as he does the same. 

It’s dark. Laying down against his pillows, you turn to face him. You can make out his features — the angles of his cheekbones, the curve of his lips — but only just. 

For a moment, the two of you just lie like that. Motionless, looking at one another. 

Then, Jay reaches for you. Hand settling around your hip, he pulls you closer, all the way until you’re nestled against his chest. 

He looks down at you, the faint trace of a smile on his lips. “Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi,” you return. 

Then, slowly, he’s leaning down. All the way until his lips meet yours. 

Like the beach, it’s slow, searching. Careful, like you’re something precious. 

Night settles around you quietly, steadily. The moon climbs higher into the sky while the two of you trade giggles and whispers. And between it all, kisses. 

Eventually, the pull of sleep becomes too strong to ignore. Your eyelids flutter shut, breath evening out while your head rests against his chest. 

You’re still not sure what tomorrow will bring, what the morning light will do to whatever fragile thing has just taken flight. But tonight, wrapped in Jay’s arms with evidence of his affection on your swollen lips and flushed cheeks and somewhere deep within your heart, happiness feels like it might not be so terribly out of reach as you once thought. 

….. 

You wake to sunlight. Beneath your cheek, Jay’s heartbeat is steady, even. 

He feels you stir, arm adjusting as you come to. 

“Good morning,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss against the crown of your head. 

“Mm,” you hum, still trying to shake the lingering sleepiness from your mind. The events of the previous night come back to you. The restaurant, the beach. Kissing Jay, falling asleep next to him, in his arms. 

You wait for the wave of regret to crash over you like a tidal wave. But it never comes. Instead, you squint at the sunlight streaming in through the window. 

“What time is it?” you ask. 

“Almost noon,” Jay tells you. That surprises you. You can’t remember the last time you slept past eight. It also affirms your dread. “We’ll have to leave soon.”

You nod, pulling yourself up to a sitting position. 

The coming week is not one you’re rushing to get back to. Your next round of treatment starts tomorrow, which means Sunoo and your mother will be on their way back as well. You’re excited to see them, of course, but…

Glancing down at where Jay is still splayed across the sheets, you sigh. You’re not ready to leave this behind you. 

Again, you decide gratitude is in order. “Thank you, Jay,” you tell him again. “For everything. I can’t believe I actually got to come here.” Looking around, it still feels too good to be true. “I never thought I’d actually get to see the beach, to do all those things on my bucket list.”

Jay smiles up at you, a soft warm thing. “All that’s left now is the northern lights.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “That’s not going to happen. It’s okay, though. I crossed it off the same night I wrote it. It’s not an actual part of the list.”

“Mm,” Jay hums, but something in his expression tells you he’s not going to let it go so easily. 

“Besides,” you argue, changing the subject. “I also haven’t technically kissed a stranger.”

At that, Jay’s lips pull into a flat line. “I’m a stranger enough,” he grumbles. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, something sly in your gaze. It’s fun to tease him like this, you think. There’s something horribly endearing about watching him get sulky. “I don’t think it would be very safe or responsible of me to agree to spend the night in a new city with a stranger—”

Jay’s movement is so sudden it nearly has your heart jumping out of your throat. In one sweeping motion, he rises from his position against the pillows, hands on your shoulders until you’re the one beneath him.

Flat on your back, head on the pillows, he hovers above you. 

“Hi,” he breathes, gaze falling from your eyes to your lips. “My name is Jay. Nice to meet you.”

“Jay, what are you—”

“Shh,” he shushes above you. “I’m a stranger.” 

There’s a gleam in his eyes, a giggle on your lips from the absurdity of it all that dies as he lowers himself. Slowly, but with intention.

All the way until his lips find yours. Like the night before, it’s slow at first. Gentle, searching, like he’s afraid you'll evaporate beneath him.

Under him, you sigh. He swallows the sound. For a moment, his lips are slack against yours. Just there, breathing. 

Then, he renews his efforts. Jay is more insistent this time as his lips find yours with a renowned fervence. 

You do your best to keep up, breath becoming more shallow with every passing second. You're having a hard time catching it until Jay decides he finds the space just beneath your ear fascinating and redirects his attention there.

Your heart beats traitorously in your chest. Sighing, singing, yearning even though you promised yourself yesterday that you would maintain distance. 

You sigh, out loud this time, hands splaying against his chest as his mouth works against your throat, fingers coming to your jaw as he angles you to his liking. 

Moments bleed to minutes until enough sense comes back to you to remember that a world does exist outside the two of you. That the time is only getting later. 

“Jay,” you sigh, just as reluctant to let go as he is. When the sound of his name seems to do nothing but encourage him further, you try again. “Jay.”

This time, he pulls back from you, only slightly. Just enough to meet your reluctant gaze.

Lips swollen, hair messy where your fingers ran through it, you have half a mind to just pull him back down to you. 

“It’s almost noon,” you remind him. By now, the hour has probably arrived.

“Yeah,” he agrees, breath ragged where he looks down at you. “Yeah,” he repeats, closing his eyes. “You’re right.”

But Jay seems to feel the same reluctance plaguing you. His movement is just as slow as yours as he begins to pack up his belongings, just as hesitant as you feel when he tells you the car is ready. 

When you slide down into the passenger seat next to him this time, he waits for a moment before starting the engine. 

Glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, he hesitates for a moment. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was nervous. After everything, it seems almost laughable. 

 But his voice shakes a little when he finally says, “I have something for you.”

Another gift? You almost want to refuse, just based on the principle of it all.

“It’s nothing big,” he adds. “Just…” His words trail off as he reaches into his pocket, retrieving a small heart-shaped stone. “Here,” he holds it out to you. “For your collection,” he explains. 

A confused furrow builds between your brows. Taking it, you ask, “My collection?”

Jay nods. “Didn’t you say you used to collect rocks when you were younger?” Pausing, a flicker of doubt crosses his features. “I swear you mentioned it on the drive over.”

You did. But it was such a minute detail, such an offhanded comment that you hardly remember it. You certainly never expected him to. 

And you might not have added any rocks to your collection since you were seven years old, might not even know where any of your tiny treasures ended up, but that’s not the point. 

The point is that he cared enough to listen. To remember. To think of you while he walked down the beach and stumbled across a rock shaped like a heart. To pick it up and slide it into his pocket thinking that you might like it, that it might feed that same youthful delight that made you start your collection in the first place. 

If the last two days are nothing but an illusion, Jay has just made it a million times harder to let go of. 

You run your finger around the worn edges of the rock. It really does look like a heart. Then, you set it down on your lap, your smile holding steady as he pulls out of the driveway. 

Even later, once you’re back on the road, this still feels a little bit like a world that belongs to only the two of you. That neither of you are quite ready to say goodbye to. 

The illusion holds steady on backroads and down highways, all the way until you’re nearly back to the hospital when the buzzing of your phone breaks through the quiet. 

Pulling it out, you glance at the called ID. 

“Who is it?” Jay asks. 

“Sunoo,” you tell him before answering. “Hello?” you say into the receiver. 

“____.” Sunoo says your name on the other end. “Where are you?”

In your sudden scramble to answer, you don’t realize how strange of a question it is for him to be asking in the first place. 

Immediately, you suppose the most believable response is—

“Just at the hospital,” you tell him, trying to disguise the telltale lilt to your voice that always comes out when you lie. 

Jay turns to you, a question in his gaze. You shrug in response. 

“Really?” Even through the phone, your brother’s voice has a strange edge to it.

“Yes, really,” you tell him, trying not to let the speaker pick up on too much of your nervous laughter. “Where else would I be?” 

“I don’t know,” Sunoo says, “But I’m at the hospital right now.” The ice cold shock of dread that pools in your stomach is immediate. “I managed to get an extra day off, so I came early. I wanted to surprise you,” he adds, every new word making you feel like you’ve suddenly been submerged in ice.

“But when I got here,” he continues, “Hana said you weren’t here. She said you left for a couple of days.”

Your pulse spikes. You have no idea how you’re going to justify this, what excuse you could possibly come up with—

Sunoo deals his last card. “With your boyfriend.”

…..

The scene in front of you would be comical if Sunoo’s scrutinizing glare wasn’t also pointed in your direction. 

Thankfully, it’s now focused, and rather intensely at that, on Jay, who sits at your side. He shifts uncomfortably and the tiny motion has his arm brushing against yours. Just barely, but it’s enough.

Sunoo tracks the movement with a frown.

“So, you’re not dating?” He asks again, eyes narrowed like he still doesn’t believe you. 

“No,” you shake your head.

Unbidden, you remember the feel of his arms around you this morning when you woke to sunlight. The press of his lips against—

No. This is hardly the time and certainly not the place. 

“Then why did Hana say you are?” Sunoo asks.

Hana. Of course. That stupid assumption neither of you ever bothered to correct, all the way back before any of this really started. Before you made your deal, before you understood the consequences of it.

You shrug, doing your best to feign nonchalance. “She must have misunderstood. Jay is my…” you trail off, suddenly unsure how to finish the sentence. After another beat of silence, you settle on, “friend. We’re in the same major, and we have some classes together.”

I owe him more than I can even begin to describe. The words remain unsaid, but they hang distractingly in the air between you and the boy at your side. 

“You never mentioned him.” Sunoo frowns. 

“It’s new,” Jay says, finally breaking his silence. “We ended up sitting next to each other in class this semester.”

At that, Sunoo’s brow only arches higher. “New,” he echoes, “but you went on an overnight trip together somewhere hours away?”

“I mean, these aren’t exactly normal circumstances,” you point out. “Yes, I suppose most people would wait longer, but…” Your words trail off, the obvious implication lingering in the air.

“Right.” Sunoo nods, lips suddenly tight. He tilts his head for a moment, considering. Then, a moment later, he turns to the man at your side. “Jay, was it?”

Jay nods, eyes widening slightly from the direct address. “Yeah.”

“I suppose it’s a little late for introductions, but I’m Sunoo.”

“I know.” Jay nods. “She’s told me about you.”

“Mm,” Sunoo hums. You don’t think you’re imagining the way he sits up a bit straighter. It’d be funny if it weren’t so embarrassing—the sight of your brother, sweet, gentle Sunoo, trying to look intimidating. Turning back to you, he says, “Well, I was about to see if you wanted to get lunch. Somewhere other than the hospital cafeteria this time.” He pauses, glancing at the clock. “Although I suppose it’s closer to dinner time now.” You think you must be hearing things when he looks at Jay again and asks, “Would you like to join us?”

If he’s as surprised as you are, Jay hides it well. You only catch a flicker of it, some unnamed emotion that crosses his features, before he nods. Once, slowly.

Then, once the idea has a moment to settle, he tells Sunoo, “I’d like that.”

Dinner is a quiet affair at first. 

Sunoo’s probing questions get one word answers at best, and you and Jay make a mission of avoiding as much eye contact as possible. 

“Okay,” Sunoo finally says after another ten minutes of uncomfortable silence. “I believe you. You’re not dating. Actually I’m starting to wonder if the two of you even like each other.”

An assumption that’s probably safer, even if the sudden memory of Jay’s bed this morning begs to differ. 

You sigh. “Sorry, Sunoo,” you apologize. “It’s just…” you glance at Jay then back to your brother. “It’s awkward.” 

“Right,” Sunoo nods. “Which is why we’re at dinner. To get to know each other. To make it less awkward.”

But between the three of you, Sunoo seems to be the only one blessed with the gift of easy conversation and small talk. 

To his credit, Jay tries. He answers Sunoo’s questions about his classes and his hobbies and his interests outside of school.

But when the food comes, he winces slightly when he bites into the steak he ordered. A minuscule movement that's gone as quick as it comes, but Sunoo notices.

“What’s wrong?” He asks. “It’s not good?”

“No,” Jay shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

“Fine?” Sunoo raises a brow. 

“Good,” Jay clarifies. “It tastes good.”

“You winced.”

“I didn’t,” Jay lies. “I just…”

“Winced,” Sunoo supplies again. 

Jay hesitates for a moment. Then he admits, “It is good. Really. It’s just a little dry.”

To both of your surprise, Sunoo nods enthusiastically. “Right?” He agrees. “I thought so, too. I’ve been researching common restaurant steak preparation methods lately. I feel like this was probably pan seared, but the heat was too high. That’s why—“

“It’s so dry,” Jay finishes for him, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah, you have to be careful when you’re searing. It’s always better to go low and slow, but the dinner rush doesn’t always leave enough time for the perfect sear.”

Watching their conversation unfold, you’d roll your eyes if you didn’t feel such a strong flash of unadulterated relief surge through you.

It would seem that the two of them have found common ground. From there, the awkward silence is anything but.

And it seems Jay was afflicted with false modesty when he told you his mom only taught him a little bit in the kitchen. Sunoo spends the rest of the evening picking Jay’s brain about different recipes and cooking techniques, all of which he seems to be intimately familiar with. 

You’d be surprised if you didn’t know him better, if you weren’t already aware of how obsessive he is about things that interest him. 

So instead, you breathe a sigh of relief. Suddenly, all the effort you put into keeping them from each other feels a little silly. Of course you still have no intention of letting your brother know about the deal you made, but watching the two of them talk together, you wonder if your fear of letting your family get to know more about your life was misplaced.

Jay, despite the rather unorthodox start of your friendship, seems to fit in just fine.  

Even if cooking is the only common denominator they’ve established so far, there’s something heartwarming about it. 

Something that makes you smile as you watch them go back and forth, debating spices and wine pairing and the merits of various cooking oils. 

Not for the first time, you wish things were different. That the circumstances that brought the three of you together today weren’t shrouded in secrecy. In that terrible, looming weight of your illness. 

You wonder what it would be like, under normal circumstances, to introduce the two of them. 

Maybe, you think, in this fantasy world, Sunoo’s assumption would have been correct. Maybe there wouldn't have been anything holding you back from saying yes to good things that come your way and returning affection like it’s second nature. 

Maybe, just maybe, Jay would be fighting for a different kind of approval from your brother. 

Not as your friend, not as your classmate. 

Maybe he’d be fidgeting in his seat for a different reason entirely. Trying to earn the respect and good faith of your family as your boyfriend instead of one half of a bargain you made in secret.

At first, the thought makes you smile.

Then, it makes your heart clench, sends a deep, resonant ache scattering through your bones. Then, it makes you feel a little bit like crying.

…..

Your second round of treatment begins the same morning dew freezes on the leaves just outside the window of your hospital room. 

It’s winter now. The unmistakable chill in the air is evidence enough.

Sunoo and your mother visit again, both of your hands enclosed in theirs while Doctor Kim settles the IV into place. You know what to expect now. You understand the fatigue that will follow, the wide array of symptoms that you’ll be likely to experience for the next week.

It doesn’t make it easier, not exactly, but there is a small sense of comfort in facing the known. In familiary, even if it isn’t pleasant.

And this time, Jay didn’t make himself scarce upon the arrival of your family. Instead, he greeted Sunoo with a nod and looked into your mother’s eyes while he shook her hand and introduced himself. 

When he turns to say hello to Hana, your mother mouths at you behind her hand with wide eyes and an approving smile, “He’s handsome.”

You wave her off with a glare. Sunoo just laughs, feigning some lie about a joke he suddenly remembered when Jay asks him what’s funny. 

It feels good to have them all here with you, even if it’s only for now. Your mother and Sunoo will have to return home for a few days, but until then, you’ll cherish your time together. 

Life passes similar to the way it did with your first treatment cycle. You sleep. You eat. You talk with your family, with Jay. You try reading and abandon it when your head starts to throb. Try knitting and set the needles to the side when your beginner’s mistakes make you feel more frustrated than entertained. 

Then, one afternoon, you’re disturbed from a light, restless sleep with a knock at your door.

You know it’s not your family, who left this morning with teary eyes and promises to return this coming weekend. You know it’s not Jay, who’s currently sitting in his least favorite lecture, if the string of angry emojis he sent you fifteen minutes ago are anything to go by.

Hana told you she would check on you this evening around dinner, which a glance at the clock confirms is still hours away. 

A frown creases your brow. Besides them, you haven’t had any other visitors. 

Despite your confusion, you manage a weak, “Come in.”

Then, the door to your room opens slowly, and through it, enters a man.

Tall, polished, and clean with an undeniable aura of refinement, you’re sure you’ve never seen him before. Although, the longer you look, the more he starts to bear a certain resemblance to…

The breath that passes your lips in a shaky exhale is involuntary.

If the boy you know were older, sharper, crueler, then the man making his way towards you would be nearly identical to Jay.

“Miss ___,” he breaks the silence as he comes to stand at the foot of your bed. His voice is cold, even. “I’ve been hoping to make your acquaintance.”

Your position, lying flat against your pillows, suddenly feels like humiliation. A stark contrast of the differences between you and him. As if his gaze is an assessment you’re failing horribly. Gritting your teeth through the exertion, you push yourself up into a sitting position.

“Forgive me,” you manage, voice more strained than you hoped. “Have we met before?”

The man just shakes his head. A smile crosses his lips, but there’s no warmth in it. No reassurance. Instead, it makes the temperature of the room suddenly feel ten degrees cooler. 

You suppress a shiver.

“No, I don’t believe we have. Forgive my lack of manners. I won’t waste your time, Miss ____. I can see that you’re rather…” He trails off, eyes flickering between the IV bag attached to your arm and vitals monitor at your side, “occupied,” he finishes.

Then, meeting your eye again, he confirms your worst suspicions. “I’m Park Jongseong’s father.”

Immediately, your head swims. Why is he here? What does he want with you?

True to his word, at least, he doesn’t leave you in the dark for long. 

“Tell me,” he says, voice slippery as it weaves around your ears. “What exactly is the nature of your relationship with my son?”

Your lips press together. You haven’t learned much about Jay’s father, but nearly everything you know paints him in a rather unfavorable light. This current interaction included.

The contrast between him and his son is stark, you think. They both have a certain air to them, a brand of untouchableness that comes with money and practiced grace. But where Jay has learned to bend the unbreakable until it soothes like something soft, his father has only become more rigid.

In your hospital bed, you feel all of two feet tall. It pains something deep within you to admit it, but you’re suddenly terrified. 

Steeling your resolve, you do your best to keep your fear from becoming too apparent. 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” you tell him, with far more self-assurance than you feel. 

A shadow crosses his features. “I suppose it’s not,” he drawls, “but I think you’ll agree I’m well within my right to question my own family’s financials.”

Slowly, he walks closer to you, all the way until he stands just in front of your bedside table. From his suit pocket, he pulls a small stack of papers. One by one, he lays them on the surface, tongue clicking in disapproval.

The sound of paper brushing the table top is no louder than a pin drop. In the silence of your hospital room, it’s deafening. 

“What are those?” you ask.

“Bills.” He returns his stare to you, eyes even colder than before. “Settled by the trust fund my son shouldn’t even have access to yet. Tell me, have your professors ever covered the potential consequences of forgery in your courses?”

You don’t understand what this is. You don’t understand how he even found you, how he knows that you and Jay are classmates. Why he’s asking all these questions. 

“I didn’t forge anything,” you defend.

“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t. I suppose that’s a conversation to be had with my son. Forgery, however, was done on your behalf. I’d like to know why.”

You press your lips together tighter. 

Jay’s father sighs, like he expected your refusal. “Then again, I don’t really need to know, I suppose. I could just as easily sue for misuse of funds. I’d be more than happy to pass the invoices along to you and your mother. Or your brother, if you prefer. Sunoo, was it?”

At the sound of your brother’s name, your blood runs cold. 

You can’t help yourself then. “How do you—”

“I’m well-versed in due diligence, Miss ___. I know everything I need to know about you and your family. They’ve worked themselves into quite a bit of debt, haven’t they? Medical, mostly. Tell me, how are profits at the restaurant these days?”

At that, you look down, eyes suddenly stinging. It’s one of your least favorite things, the way your frustration so easily builds to tears. You won’t let them fall now, though. Even if every word is like a knife on skin. And you certainly won’t let him see. 

“So, you see, Miss ____,” he starts again, voice deceptively soft. “I know everything I need to know about you. Except, of course, the nature of your relationship with my son.”

“We’re classmates,” you work out through gritted teeth. 

He shakes his head. “Classmates don’t cover hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of medical debt with their personal trust funds. They don’t forge their father’s signature to gain access to it prematurely. Do you have something on him? Did he do something to you—”

It nearly makes you shake with rage, the casual insinuation that Jay would in some way hurt you, that he would use money to shut you up. The cold, clinical detachment with which his father discusses the conclusion he finds most logical. The obvious way with which he so easily misjudges his own son’s character.

“No,” you shake your head. You can’t let anyone, even him, follow that train of thought for even a second longer. “Nothing like that.”

He sighs again. “Very well. If you won’t be forthcoming, then I’ll cut to the chase. How much money did he offer you?”

You shake your head, “He didn—”

“Whatever it is, I’ll triple it.” His words slice through the air like a knife, send a shock of cold careening down the length of your spine. “I can change your life, Miss ___. The restaurant debt, the medical bills, they can all disappear. Just like,” he snaps his fingers, “that.”

At that, your lips part, exhale shaky like your gasping for breath. Your heart is suddenly in your throat. 

“And in return,” he continues, “you’ll agree to never contact my son again. You won’t speak to him. You won’t see him in person. You won’t communicate with him in any way, shape, or form. You’ll also need to sign a nondisclosure agreement, in regards to this conversation, my offer, and any previous relationship you held with my son.”

Immediately, your blood runs cold. It’s as if you’ve been submerged in water, hearing everything in distorted, distant waves. 

Money. Enough money. So much fucking money that everything you’ve been desperately clinging onto by your fingertips is suddenly within reach. 

Your mother could finally rest. Sunoo could quit all of his part-time jobs and commit to becoming the restaurant owner of his dreams. Every tragedy that’s ever befallen you and your family could fade to a tiny, inconsequential blip. An unvisited memory instead of a knife over your head. 

And Jay…

It’s hard to summarize your feelings, hard to put a name to things that have just begun to bloom, difficult to label wings that have never truly taken flight. 

But what was your relationship with him if not a deal? A mutual agreement that benefits both sides. 

He’ll understand, you tell yourself. He studies the same principles that you’ve dedicated your undergraduate career to. He knows that when you’re presented with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, you’d be a fool not to take it. 

He’ll forgive you. He will. 

Still, something in you hesitates. The decision, even if obvious, is not one you’re ready to commit to just yet. 

Quietly, you tell him, “I need time.”

It’s stupid, you think. Even dirty money, misplaced hush money, whatever the hell you want to call this, has the power to change your life. To change Sunoo’s. Your family’s. 

For them, you can do it. You can ignore the discomfort gnawing at your gut, the guilt that’s begun to swirl with fervence. 

He sighs, the deepest breath yet, and then nods one. “You have twenty-four hours, Miss, ___. I’ll be back at the same time tomorrow. I hope you’ll consider your options carefully. Your resume is impressive, truly. You can have a bright future ahead of you, if you act accordingly. I trust you’ll make the correct decision.”

The correct decision. It’s so obvious. It has to be. 

Still, as soon as the door clicks shut behind him, the most prominent of your emotions is doubt. 

It’s like you’re spitting on it, part of you pleads. All those years of effort, everything you sacrificed. Are you really willing to bury it all ten feet under just to take the easy way out?

But another part of you can already see the future, painted with previously unreachable possibilities. Why should you have to struggle? Why shouldn’t you take the easy way out?

Is it a moral failing or simply, as Jay’s father called it, the correct decision?

The headache that begins to build at the base of your skull doesn’t ebb in slowly. The onset is sudden, but it spreads with a vengeance, all the way through to your temple. 

Wincing, you reach for the water on your bedside table, pointedly ignoring the stack of bills still laying there like an accusation. 

Maybe, you think, through the haze that’s beginning to cloud your mind, maybe Jay will be grateful not to have you as his responsibility anymore. 

The argument sounds weak even to your own ears. It’s been a long time since you felt like a burden to Jay. Mostly because he spends every second of his time with you insisting on the opposite. 

Still, he’s not immune to rose colored glasses of his own. Maybe this is for the best. A clean break. 

He can stop worrying about you and use his trust fund to add another car to his collection instead. He’ll move on quickly, you’re sure. People like him always do. With a plethora of distractions at his fingertips, it won’t take him long to find a new source of entertainment. 

But even that train of thought will have to wait for later. 

Wincing again, your eyes shutter closed as another throbbing wave of pain circulates your skull. This one feels different from before. Sharper. Glancing at the call button next to the IV stand, you consider it for a moment. 

Hana did tell you to call her if you felt any unusual discomfort after all. 

Biting at your bottom lip, you can’t quite commit to it. She’s probably busy, you reason. Besides, this will pass. Your headaches always do. 

But as another wave of intense, narrowed pain vibrates between your ears, a tiny whimper escapes your lips. 

This time, your vision starts to swim with it, black spots crowding in at the edges. You feel dizzy all of a sudden, disoriented. Forcing air in between your teeth, even that action feels labored.

Reaching towards the call button again, you decide that this is worth Hana’s attention. But before your fingers can close around in, the dark spots in your vision become wider, as if they’re searching for light to swallow.

You feel your head loll forward. Once, twice, until the darkness feels less like a threat and more like an invitation. 

With your fingers halfway between you and the call button, a stack of bills on your bedside table, and an unmade decision waging war in your mind, the world around you goes dark. 

…..

There is no sensation in unconsciousness. 

You don’t feel Hana’s fingers on your pulse nearly an hour later, don’t hear Doctor Kim’s urgent instructions as a team of nurses check your vitals. 

You don’t feel the warmth of Sunoo’s hand against yours as he keeps vigil at your bedside, praying to whoever might be listening that you’ll wake up. 

You don’t feel the damp impact of your mother’s tears as she leans over you, don’t hear the quiet, choked sobs she releases in the somber silence of your hospital room. 

And you certainly don’t hear Jay enter quietly, hands tucked behind his back like a child attempting a surprise. You don’t see the ways his eyebrows furrow when he takes you in, don’t see the way panic claws at his throat, plays across his features when he sees how pale, how fragile you look. 

You don’t hear the way he exhales roughly when Hana finds him there, motionless. When she explains that you’ve been asleep, unconscious, for the better part of a day now. 

Don’t hear his panicked questions or her carefully controlled but undoubtedly sorrowful answers. 

You don’t see the way the two pieces of paper he’d been holding behind his back slip from his fingers, don’t hear the muted impact as they brush against the linoleum floor. 

Don’t see the way he picks them up again silently, tucking them into his pocket with all the composure he has left. 

Don’t feel his hands against your forehead, smoothing hair out of your face as his expression breaks, angry, hot tears rolling down his cheeks in the silence. 

You don’t see the way Sunoo finds him like that, pausing for a moment before he lays a palm against his shoulder, a silent consolation. 

“Jay,” he finally says, breaking the silence after a long moment. “I know this isn’t the time, but…”

Jay turns to your brother, eyes shadowed, face still crumpled. Next to him, Sunoo is equally hollow. The worry plays out across his features plain as day as he glances at you.

“But what?” Jay echoes, voice as hollow as he feels. 

Sunoo sighs. “These were on her bedside, when Hana called us here. After she found her…” he trails off. The sight of you unconscious is enough to fill in the blanks. Jay doesn’t need to hear him call a spade a spade. 

Lips dry, Jay’s mouth parts with more effort that it should. He frowns at the stack of papers in Sunoo’s hands, still half hidden between his fingers. “What are those?”

“Hospital bills.” He casts a look at Jay. Weighted, meaningful. Not accusatory, but leaden with something that carries a similar connotation. “Settled ones. In your name.”

Jay’s lips part, preparing for an explanation that his mind still hasn’t managed to conjure. 

Sunoo sighs. “Look, I don’t know exactly what’s going on. Here,” he nods to the bills, “or between the two of you. But my mom was told that expenses were being covered under a special university fund. If something else is happening, then…”

“It’s hard to explain,” Jay mumbles. 

“Right.” Sunoo’s gaze is a bit more pointed now. “But you’re going to have to. You’ve given me no reason not to like you, but this amount of money doesn’t come for free. If my sister is being pressured into anything, then—”

“No,” Jay shakes his head. “No, it’s nothing like that.” He takes a breath. “We… we made a deal.”

“A deal,” Sunoo echoes flatly. 

Jay nods. “My family has money. I found out by chance that she was sick. And connected enough dots to realize she wasn’t planning to tell anyone about it, that she wasn’t planning to get treatment.”

“What?” Sunoo’s expression falls, brows slack. “Why?”

“It’s not my place to say, but I think she was scared. She didn’t want to be a burden.”

“She’s not a burden.”

“I know.” Jay nods. “Which is why I offered.”

“That’s still…” He looks uncertain. “You said you made a deal,” Sunoo reminds him. “What did she give you?”

“First rank in our class,” Jay admits. He laughs, a humorless thing. “Not that it matters. I could come dead last for all I care, but it was the only way I could think of to get her to agree.” He casts a glance down at you, as if he expects to find anything other than your expressionless face. “To let me handle it.”

Sunoo is quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, he looks directly at Jay. “And the two of you are…”

Jay shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “We never talked about it. I think she’d bite my head off if I tried to ask her.” He smiles, a distinct edge of sorrow to it. “But I care about her. More than I could ever say.”

“Then why did you bring these here?” Sunoo gestures towards the bills still tucked between his fingers. 

“I didn’t.” Jay shakes his head. “I would never—” He sighs, letting the declaration fade. His anger is misplaced. Sunoo is hurting too and doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of it. “Those aren’t from me.”

Sunoo’s brow furrows. “Then who did?”

Jay isn’t sure. Not entirely. But he has a suspicion that’s starting to form. That has his vision going redder with every passing second, fingers curling into fists at his sides. 

His lips pull into a thin line, jaw setting in determination. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

Jay’s childhood home is hardly deserving of the name. 

Full of more carefully curated art pieces than family photos, it feels more like a museum than a home. 

He’s lived in his own apartment since he started undergrad for a variety of reasons. It’s closer to campus, it gives him the space he needs to study effectively, it’s taught him valuable lessons about the responsibilities of home ownership. But more than anything, it’s given him space away from this—the oppressive perfection expected in every corner and crevice of this house. 

Jay doesn’t stop to reminisce on his childhood as he storms through the foyer, footsteps even but heavy. There’s not much fondness to be had, anyway. He spent more time with his nannies and tutors than he ever did with his father. 

His mother tried, but even the most noble of efforts are often strangled under the crushing weight of reality. She had her own responsibilities and appearances to upkeep. And Jay, although loved, was often left in the dust. 

His father was a different story. He didn’t call upon his son or pay him any attention unless he thought there was a lesson to be learned. He was relieved when Jay was born. A son meant he had an heir. They weren’t royalty, but corporations like the one he heads value blood and tradition in the same way. 

He had his legacy, and that was that. It didn’t matter that his wife had always dreamed of a big family. It didn’t matter that Jay was all alone in a room full of toys with no one to share them with. 

His father made it clear from before he took his first steps. Jay was, first and foremost, the heir to the company. Business would always come first. Always. 

Jay didn’t get to choose his own clothes or friends or hobbies. Children can’t be trusted to make decisions, and his father knew best. 

He wasn’t allowed to finish second in anything or misspeak or do anything that could potentially tarnish the last name he was born with. He didn’t get to decide if he was competitive or self-motivated or ambitious. He was expected to be; he had to be, to survive. Jay’s entire life was a construction of someone else’s making. 

And even when he did well, rose to every expectation and impossible standard, even when he surpassed them, the most he ever got from his father was a mildly pleased nod.

Never a thank you. Never a congratulations. Never a well done. 

Just the same lack of admonition he watched his father use with his least hated subordinates. 

Of course Jay escaped his golden cage the second he could. Even if the responsibilities and expectations remained, at least now he had a place to curse them in peace. 

Jay hasn’t been back to his father’s house since his presence was required at the last family dinner, and that was nearly three months ago. Still, he walks the hallways with certainty. He remembers where everything is. He has a feeling he always will, no matter how much time passes. 

He turns past the second-floor kitchen and follows the curve of the hallway all the way to the end where he knows his father’s home office stands just as solitary as ever. A home office, because the actual office he already spent nearly every waking hour in apparently wasn’t enough. 

Jay wraps his hand around the handle, and without any fanfare or announcement, barges right in. 

Across from the rich, mahogany desk, his father quirks an eyebrow at him. 

“Surely you haven’t been out of good society long enough to forget all of your manners,” he drawls, voice even. “You were raised to knock.”

Jay ignores him. Instead, he steps forward, slamming the stack of bills from your hospital room on his father’s desk. The force sends them scattering across the surface, one falling to the floor in his rage. 

Neither man bothers to pick it up. 

“What the fuck is this?” Jay fumes. 

At that, his father’s expression turns sharp. “I don’t know what you came here intending to do, but you are my son, and you will remember yourself. You will not come into my home, into my office, and curse at me.”

Jay’s eyebrows pinch together. Again, without the profanity, he repeats, “What is this?”

His father casts the bills a scathing glance, as if they’re little more than a buzzing fly. An annoyance he’d rather be rid of. “I should be asking the same to you.”

Jay’s lips part, shoulders tense as he tries to piece it together. “Why did you— How did you even—”

“Again,” his father interrupts, with the same cold detachment of a dictator, “I should be asking you. Luckily, our investment firm has quite good security cameras. Tell me,” he drawls, “how long did it take you to learn to forge my signature?”

Even standing above him, Jay suddenly feels like a child again. All of four feet tall. Begging for scraps of his father’s approval, his attention. 

But even caught red handed, he won’t back down. “It’s my money,” Jay argues.

His father shakes his head. “It’s not, actually. Not in any sense of the law. Not until you’re twenty-five. And even that’s operating under the assumption that you’ve been formally initiated into the company. Something that I fear is becoming less likely with every… questionable decision you make.”

Jay does his best to keep his expression blank, even as the fury threatens to boil over in his chest. “Saving a life is questionable?”

His father all but rolls his eyes. “There are charities if you’ve suddenly developed a bleeding heart. Reputable ones. Take your pick, and I’ll have our publicist set up a photo opportunity—”

“I know her.” Jay’s breath is erratic now, even as he tries to control it. He sounds like he’s run a marathon. “She’s my… she’s my classmate. And she was going to die.”

In the stillness of his father’s office, the truth feels unbearable. Jay hates it, resents the way even something as tragic as death can’t seem to shake his father into something resembling empathy. 

“That’s precisely the problem,” he says, with all the cold calculation of a businessman looking to cut his losses. “It’s personal. And you didn’t even take proper precautions. No contract, no non-disclosure agreement… You’ve made yourself into a liability.”

Jay shakes his head. There have to be exceptions, even to the best kept rules. “She’s not going to tell anyone. She’s the one who begged me to keep it a secret—”

“For now,” his father interrupts again, voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “But what happens when she realizes just how easy it is to extort money from you? When she threatens to take her story, real or fabricated, to the press unless you cough up another thousand? Another ten thousand? Another million?  When she posts something incriminating on social media and we lose half of our shareholders for it?” His eyes hold nothing but disdain when he reminds, “All from your carelessness.”

Jay realizes then that he can argue until he’s blue in the face. He can search for shreds of his father’s humanity for as long as he wants. He won’t find them here.

He asks the question that’s been dangling at his fingertips since the beginning. “So I should have let her die?”

His father sighs. “You should have spoken with me first—”

“You would have said no.”

He doesn’t deny it. “I would have acted in the best interest of this family.”

Jay scoffs, no humor in it. “This company, you mean.”

“One day you’ll understand that the line between them is not so strong as you thought.” When he looks at Jay now, his gaze is evaluative. Disappointed, as if he’s failed some test. “For now, you don’t. Which is why you aren’t yet burdened with decisions regarding our philanthropy.”

“So I’ll ask you again.” Jay won’t let it go so easily. Won’t let him wrap cruelty in niceties. “I should have just let her die?”

But his response is even crueler. “From the looks of it, she’s going to anyway. How long has she been unresponsive now? A day?”

The quiet, mangled sound that escapes Jay’s throat is involuntary. The reminder of your current state, the thought of his father keeping tabs on you, makes him feel ill. “How do you—”

“Don’t act surprised,” he scoffs. “You decided to involve our name. I have to stay informed now to clean up any potential fallout from the mess you’ve made.”

“And this was how you did it?” Jay gestures towards the scattered pile of bills. “Threatening her with medical bills you knew she could never pay?”

“I merely made her aware of the reality of the situation. Made my offer one she couldn’t refuse. I’m sure when,” he pauses, “if she wakes up,” he amends, “she’ll confirm our deal.”

Jay feels his blood run cold. “What fucking deal.” It’s not a question.

His fathers eyes turn sharp. “Watch your mouth. I won’t tell you again.”

“What,” Jay repeats, voice low, “deal.”

“Money, of course. What else?” He waves his hand flippantly. “It’s all people like that ever want.”

Jay flounders for a moment, scrambling to make sense of it. “You just berated me for giving money. How is this any different?”

“Because mine,” his father enunciates, “comes with stipulations. Protection.”

Jay can feel his heart starting to sink in his chest. He has his suspicions, but he has to be sure. “What are you talking about?”

“She’d have to sign a non-disclosure agreement, of course. She wouldn’t be allowed to speak of our agreement or any members of our family or company in private or public.” His eyes turn to his son. Assessing. “And you.”

“What about me?” Jay holds his breath. 

“She agreed to cut all contact with you. Any form of communication would immediately negate the contract.”

Jay falters, for just a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. “She agreed to that?”

His father watches the way his expression falls, lips tightening like he’s just confirmed a terrible suspicion. “I gave her a day to think it over. She lost consciousness before she could sign anything.”

But still. You’d considered it. You were willing to cut Jay completely from your life for whatever amount of money his father had offered you. 

The sudden punch to the gut must play out across Jay’s features. Across from him, his father scoffs. 

“Let this be a lesson,” he advises. “It’s always money. Always. No one can resist the way it glitters. Whatever… affections,” his voice wraps around the word like a sneer, “you hold for her clearly aren’t returned. Cut your losses, and move on. I’ll handle it from here.”

“Like hell—”

“You’re lucky you haven’t been stripped from your titles completely,” his voice is sharper now. More reprimand than conversation. “That I’m still giving you the opportunity for shareholder initiation at all. Let me be very clear, Park Jongseong, when I tell you that you’re very lucky you haven’t been disowned. I’d have done it already if your mother wouldn’t put up such a fight.”

Jay’s shoulders slump, fight draining from his body as reality begins to sink in around him. 

“You want to save that girl?” his father goads, “Then stay as far away from that hospital as you can. Focus on your studies.” And then, more mockery than reminder, “I expect great things from you.”

It’s his way of ending the conversation. Of reasserting their relative positions, his control over everything. 

Jay’s footsteps feel like defeat on the way out. A coward’s retreat. He feels as if he’s been backed into a corner with no way out. 

With fingers wrapped so tight around the steering wheel his knuckles have turned white, he thinks that the worst of all is that you’d agreed. Or had at least been close to it. Enough to not refuse his father outright. 

You were going to do it. To take the money. To cut Jay out of your life like none of this ever happened, like he was nothing to you. 

Like the time you spent together in lecture halls and hospital rooms and the passenger seat of his car was disposable. Worthless. 

Like the moments you shared in the secrecy of a beach house were easy to let go of. To move on from without so much as a goodbye. 

Despite his father’s assumptions, Jay is intimately aware of what money does to people. The way it warps them, the way it eats at every moral and standard and principle until they’ve rotted down to the bone. 

He knows it’s hardly fair for him to pass judgement. He’s never known the struggle of missed meals or eviction notices or irregular paychecks. 

He tries to understand why. And he lands on the only conclusion he can think of. You’re doing it for them, for your family. 

You haven’t told him everything, but you’ve told him enough. He can guess what it would mean to you—to them—to have all those worries disappear overnight. 

But it still…

It still fucking hurts. 

The thought that you’d so easily agree to just cutting him out of your life completely. He knows that whatever is building between the two or you is soon, it’s sudden. He doesn’t expect to be a priority, for the connection between you to supersede your dedication to your family. 

It makes him want to shout, to scream until his ears bleed. He’d give you the world if you’d let him. But you won’t. The most you’ll do is take reluctant fragments and feel guilty all the while. 

And now, with his father’s iron claws embedded into everything, Jay can’t so much as see you without jeopardizing the future you’ve abandoned him to ensure. 

But even those fears feel small in the face of reality. You’re unconscious. For over a day now. The doctors have you under constant monitoring. They’ve done everything they can think of, but you’re not waking up. 

You didn’t even get the three months you were promised.

Jay’s never studied medicine, but he knew what the look on Doctor Kim’s face meant when he saw him speaking to your mother in the hallway, understood that deep, resigned gaze when he stood over your hospital bed, adjusting the IV dripping into your arm. 

It was the face of a man who recognized what he saw. Who was looking at nothing more than a possibility he expected. Doctor Kim wasn’t surprised when you became unresponsive. Just sighed like he was worried it might come to this. 

But Jay can’t… he can’t quite wrap his head around it. 

There are so many things he wants to say to you, do with you. He wants to make some snide comment and watch you roll your eyes. He wants to take you out for coffee and suppress a smile when you let him hold your hand. 

He wants to hold you, wants to kiss you till you’re breathless. Wants to get caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella and laugh while both of your clothes get soaked through. Wants to wrap you in a blanket afterwards and fuss over drying your hair so you don’t catch a cold.

He wants to bring you to his apartment and cook you dinner. Wants to wake up with your head on his chest and his arm around your shoulders as he scatters tiny kisses against your hairline. 

He wants to watch you graduate, to earn that degree you worked so hard for. He wants to obnoxiously scream your name as you walk across the stage to accept your diploma, laughing at the way your cheeks flush red in embarrassment. 

He wants to watch you realize every last one of your dreams, wants to remind you how much you’re cared for, how capable you truly are, even on the days they seem impossible.

He wants, more than anything, to be given the chance to fall in love with you.

Mostly because he knows he’s already started to. 

He thinks of that night, back in his car, when you agreed to get treatment. When he watched the beginnings of hope bleed back into your eyes when you thought he wasn’t looking. 

When he realized it was never never altruism that made you hesitate. When he saw for himself that with every fiber of your being, you want to live. 

You have to live, he thinks. You have to. 

All of it, his father’s threats, your agreement to cut him out of your life, he can face it. He can. He can find a way for it to all be okay. 

You just have to live. 

Minutes later, alone in his bedroom with no one to bear witness but the expanse of his own four walls, Jay lets loose the tears that have been threatening his lash line the entire drive home. 

He cries, he sobs, deep, gut-wrenching, gasping. 

And when he reaches into his pocket, he finds it— the surprise he planned to give to you at the hospital earlier today. The two pieces of paper he’d picked back up off the hospital floor. It already feels like a lifetime ago.

Tickets. Plane tickets to Iceland. First class on a flight leaving in three weeks, right when the northern lights are projected to reach peak visibility. 

Helpless, he crumples them between his fingers, squeezing as tight as he can until they form an unidentifiable mass of jumbled letters and misplaced hope. 

Still sobbing, he hurls it at the wall across from him with enough force to put a hole in it.

But empty dreams are still empty. And paper is still paper.

The mangled plane tickets bounce harmlessly off his bedroom wall and fall to the ground in a silent heap.

…..

Life moves in patterns, cycles. 

And despite the unpredictability of it all, it always moves forward.

Days pass. Then weeks. Months. 

Jay knows better than to anger his father, but he also knows that nothing has been signed yet. There’s no agreement to violate. 

Winter sharpens its icy grip on the world, and he spends most days at your bedside. He talks to you, tells you about his day, about all the little things he wishes you could have seen too. 

He holds your hand, pulls your blanket a little more snug around your body whenever your fingers feel cold. Does his best to ignore the way they always feel cold. 

He talks to Sunoo, too. To your mother. Learns about their lives, about your place in them and their place in yours. He likes seeing you from their eyes, loves learning just how fiercely adored you are.

Sunoo rolls his eyes at an old memory, complaining but only half-heartedly, “She always babied me.” 

Reminiscing makes them laugh until it makes them cry. But whatever it is, it beats the hollow, empty feeling Jay goes home with most nights. 

December breaches the horizon, and the semester ends. Jay finishes first in the class, although most of it is due to the work he completed at the beginning of the semester. He’s been on the receiving end of more than a few conversations conveying concern for his more recent academic progress.

Your official leave of absence is given to the university, and one afternoon in early December, Professor Jung makes a visit to the hospital. When she finds Jay already sitting at your bedside, fingers interlaced together, all she does is raise an eyebrow. 

“Jay,” she greets, like she’s not entirely surprised. 

“Professor,” he returns, voice hoarse from overuse. 

The flowers she leaves are beautiful, truly to your taste. Jay tells her as much, and all she does is offer a knowing smile. 

“Take care of yourself,” she tells him. 

Jay spends Christmas with your family, eating food served from the hospital cafeteria. There have been three family dinners that he’s missed since the last conversation he had with his father, but his absence for the holiday is the most egregious of all. 

His mother calls him, and after staring at her name on his screen for several long seconds, he finally picks up on the sixth ring.

“Jay,” she tells him, voice full of admonishment and worry in the way only mothers can manage. “Come home. It’s Christmas.”

But Jay refuses to step foot in that house, refuses to look his father in the eye. To sit across from him like this holiday is some sort of celebration. To pretend that the blood that connects them is anything other than a formality. 

“Merry Christmas, Mom,” he whispers into the receiver, guilt rolling when he swears he hears her stifle a sob on the other end. But his mother is used to masking her emotions, and the sound is gone as quickly as it came. 

New Year’s passes, and Jay feels nothing. It doesn’t matter if the date’s last digit has changed. His life feels frozen, stuck in this hospital room. Watching you cling to the last fragments of life left in your body. Hoping against all odds, that today will be the day everyone’s agony can finally end. 

After all, hope is the only thing that’s left. Some days it feels like a bird with wings, ready to soar and fly and sing at the first sight of morning light. Some days it feels frayed around the edges. A torn, tattered thing threatening to dissolve at a moment’s notice. 

But it’s always there. Steady, constant. Alive. 

Slowly, winter begins to loosen its grip on the world. 

Scattered snowstorms turn to rain showers. Spring starts to take root. Jay sees flowers now, on his drive to the hospital. Sees some of the green returning to the trees that line the highway. 

Sunoo and him exchange recipes. Your mother notices the way he fidgets with his hands whenever he’s been sitting at your side for two long and teaches him how to crochet one quiet afternoon. 

Classes start again, and Jay’s mind is anywhere but textbooks. This is his last semester, and it should be a celebration. The end of a chapter, the segue to new beginnings. 

He’s been promised a place in his father’s company upon graduation for as long as he can remember. After their last conversation and his blatant dismissal of his father’s wishes, he’s not sure if the offer still stands, and he doesn’t care to ask. 

When he hounds Doctor Kim for updates, he just looks at Jay with that same resigned expression he’s come to resent. Like he’s seeing probabilities instead of you. “The same,” he always says, voice carefully controlled like he’s been practicing empathy all his life. “We’ll tell you if anything develops.”

Life continues like that, an endless cycle of days that feel repeated, until one Tuesday afternoon in early April. 

Jay is sitting in the library, waiting for his next class to start, when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Retrieving it, he checks the caller ID only briefly before answering. 

“Sunoo,” he breathes into the receiver. 

“Jay,” he hears the younger boy say. “She…” his voice trails off for a moment. “Her finger twitched.”

“What?” Jay asks, even though he’s already sitting up straighter in his seat. Already shoving his laptop into his bag. 

“I was holding her hand earlier, and I squeezed her fingers, and she…” he pauses again. “I mean, it was weak, but I swear,” he emphasizes. “She squeezed back.”

Jay feels it then, for the first time in a long time, the kind of hope that feels like wings instead of a cage. 

“I’m on my way.”

You don’t wake up that afternoon, even with Jay, Sunoo, your mother, along with Doctor Kim and Hana, all practically sitting vigil around you. 

But nearly a week and a half later, you do. 

The light makes you squint. It’s too bright, and your eyes have been closed for… You’re not entirely sure.

Frowning, you reach for a memory, something to center yourself. Breakfast this morning, maybe. Dinner last night. A conversation with Sunoo or Jay or maybe Hana. 

Sunoo. Eyes squeezed shut, you search your mind for pieces of the familiar name. Your brother, you think. Sweet, gentle, younger than you. 

And Jay is a bit more disorienting. The emotions that surge at the sound of his name are more complicated, more difficult to sift through. There’s annoyance, frustration, emerald green envy, all tangled together with a strange, budding sense of affection. A deep, poignant gratitude. Bashfulness. Like a schoolgirl with a crush, you think. 

And Hana. She’s… she’s your nurse. Your nurse because you’re at the hospital. Because there’s a malignant tumor sitting just behind your heart. 

Suddenly, the gaps in memory feel terrifying. Why don’t you remember breakfast this morning? Why do you have the strangest, dizziest sense that time has passed without your permission?

Scanning your body, you try to make sense of it. There’s a distinct heaviness in your limbs. They feel exhausted, but not the kind that comes with exertion. No, it’s the kind that comes with disuse. 

Your throat feels as if someone has taken sandpaper to it. Almost painfully dry like it’s been months since you had a sip of water. 

And your head — the ache is dull, throbbing. Persistent against the front of your skull. Like someone is knocking from the inside, begging to be let out.

You don’t hear anything but the steady beep of something mechanical. The faint rush of blood from your own pulse in your ears. 

Slowly, you try to open your eyes again. It’s still bright, but if you squint, you can manage. 

To your left, the beeping becomes frantic for a moment before it evens out again. But it’s enough to draw attention. 

You hear it then, the quiet, desperate sound of your name. The scattered scuffle of footsteps against linoleum as multiple people rush to your bedside. 

A hand against both of yours, a palm against your forehead. 

“Call Hana,” you hear, intelligible even through the surge of emotion in the voice. “And Doctor Kim. Tell them she’s…” The voice trails off, a sob, a choked sound of elated disbelief breaking the sentence in two. “Tell them she’s awake.”

…..

Your memories return slowly, in disjointed fragments. 

Doctor Kim explains that it’s normal, that you’re lucky to be recovering your memories at all. 

There’s no accurate description for the kind of disorientation that comes with missing months of your own life, but you’re grateful to have people at your side who’ve made it their mission to do their best at filling in the gaps. 

For days, it’s enough to just listen. To your brother’s enthusiastic stories and your mother’s fond memories and Jay’s gentle retellings. It helps you to hear their perspective, to stack it against the reconstructions being built within your own mind. 

If your memories return slowly, then strength comes at a snail’s pace. It takes you nearly two days to sit up again, almost a week to walk. 

But you do. 

The flowers are blooming outside of your window, and even on cloudy days, sunlight slants across the linoleum floor in a way that’s almost beautiful.

One afternoon, nearly three weeks after you wake up, Doctor Kim comes with a clipboard and something that almost looks like a smile. 

“It’s working,” he tells you. “Better than before. You’ll be strong enough for surgery soon.” The final step in his treatment plan. Removing the tumor that sits just behind your heart. 

At your bedside, your mother and Sunoo all but collapse into one another, tears streaming as smiles overtake their features. 

Next to you, Jay interlaces your fingers with his, strokes gently with his thumb against the back of your hand. His eyes shine too, and when he looks down at you, you see hope in his smile. 

It’s rare these days for the two of you to find yourselves alone. But one spring morning, nearly five weeks after you regain consciousness, your mother and Sunoo have stepped out for a moment. 

And the last of your scattered memories have clicked back into place. 

“Jay,” you call gently, startling him from his handiwork. In the chair next to your bed, he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he works his crochet needles around a particularly difficult pattern. You haven’t told him yet how terribly endearing you find his new hobby. “What are you making?”

“Just a coaster.” He holds up the half-finished work so you can have a better look at it. “Your mom says I’m getting pretty good, though. She’s going to show me how to do dishcloths next.”

“Mm,” you hum, smiling. But there’s still something sitting heavy in your chest. After a moment, you ask, “Can we go for a walk?”

Jay’s eyes widen in surprise. “Are you up for that”

“I think so,” you nod. “We might have to go slow.”

It’s how you do everything these days, with a body that’s still learning to work again. 

Jay doesn’t mind. You have a feeling he’d crawl if you asked him to. “Slow is perfect,” he tells you.

The small garden just outside the hospital is bright with fresh blooms and morning sunlight. It reminds you of a beach house months ago. Of the time the two of you spent there, of everything that happened between you. 

It makes the beginnings of this conversation feel even more difficult to work out. 

“Jay,” you tell him, drawing in a long breath of fresh air. You hesitate for a moment, reluctant to break the peace between you. 

Jay just waits, patient as ever. 

“Last winter,” you continue, “right before I lost consciousness.” You pause. Inhale. “Your father came here, to the hospital. To see me.”

At your side, Jay’s exhale is audible. Then, he tells you, “I know.”

You turn to him, eyes wide. “You do? You never said…”

“Is it terrible if I say I was hoping you’d forget?” He smiles, but there’s no joy in it. “I was afraid if you remembered, then…”

Even as his words trail off, you an fill in the blanks well enough. “You know what he told me, then,” you say. “What he offered me.”

“Not specifically,” Jay shakes his head. “But enough.”

There’s no use hiding it then. No use prolonging it any further. Breathing deep, you gather the last of your courage, your honesty.

“I was going to tell him yes,” you say. At your side, Jay’s footsteps falter. Stopping, you turn back to face him. Eye contact is suddenly difficult to maintain, but you owe him that, at least. “For a moment, I was going to accept his offer. I told myself it was for the best. That you’d forgive me.”

Jay takes half a step closer to you. He shakes his head, hair loose across his forehead, scattering with the motion. “I wouldn’t,” he vows lowly. “I wouldn’t forgive you.”

“I know.” You nod. You do look down then, if only to admit, “I don’t think I could have forgiven myself either.” You meet his eye again, gaze glassy. “Not just because of you, although I’d be lying if I said that didn’t play a part.” 

You sigh, glancing at the flowers before you begin again. 

“My whole life, money has felt like a knife over my head,” you explain. “LIke sand between my fingers. There was never enough of it. I learned how to stop wanting things, to stop asking for things, to stop thinking I deserved things, because it made the truth a little easier to bear.”

You look at him again, trying to regain control over the emotions that threaten to rise. “But I’ve always wanted things. I wanted a better life for my family, of course, but there were so many other things, too. Stupid things, frivolous things. I wanted nicer bedsheets that didn’t feel so scratchy when I slept. I wanted a new computer that didn’t crash every time I had too many open tabs. I wanted nice clothes and pretty jewelry and to finally feel like I belonged in the world I worked so hard to fit into. When I looked at you, all I saw was everything I never had. I resented you for it. I was so horribly jealous of you for it.”

Jay’s eyes are shining now, too. But he doesn’t say anything. He just listens.

“And then,” you continue, “you swooped in with this deal like some knight in shining armor, and I think I hated that most of all. That I couldn’t just save myself. That I needed you, at least in some capacity, if I wanted to live. I never wanted someone to save me, and I certainly never wanted to depend on anyone else. It felt like debt. Like owing you something I could never repay. I was scared, too. Accepting help meant accepting the possibility that it could be taken away, and then I’d be right back where I started. Maybe even worse off. Losing hope is worse than never having it at all, I think.”

You pause for a moment to breathe, to gather your thoughts.

“And then your father visited me, and he promised me all this money. It felt… I don’t know. Safer, somehow. Because it felt like I was losing something, too. But then I thought about it and if I took that money from him… what would that make me? I’ve made it this far without it, haven’t I? I can do it.”

You nod, resolve steeling as you voice your thoughts out loud. “I almost died. But I’m not a victim. My life isn't some tragedy. It’s just my life. There are hard things and good things and everything in between. But if I took that money from him, I’d become a victim. One of my own making. Someone that abandons people they care about and has to resort to underhanded deals just for the easy way out. That’s not me. It never has been.”

You look down at your sleeve, tugging at the hemline as doubts start to take shape in your mind. “I don’t know if it’s stupid. I don’t know if I’ll regret it. But I know that if I took that money, I wouldn’t be able to look Sunoo in the eye even if I gave him the restaurant of his dreams. I wouldn’t be able to tell my mother to rest without the words tasting bitter in my mouth. And,” you look back up at him. “I would miss you. So much. More than I even think I understand.”

You bite at your bottom lip, as if the slight, sharp pain will distract from the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes.

“I can struggle. I can. I have and I will again. But I can’t lose myself. I refuse to change everything about me. Although,” you consider voice losing its edge as something lighter seeps into it, “there are a few changes I have been thinking of making.”

“Really?” Jay asks. His voice is rough as he breaks his silence, scraped raw. “Like what?”

“Well,” you tilt your head, a quivering smile crossing your lips. “For starters, I think it might be nice to have a friend.”

“A friend?” He echoes.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Who knows?” you shrug. “Maybe I’ll even get really crazy and get two friends.”

Jay wants to press the conversation further, wants to go back to the all of the admissions you’ve just laid at his feet and dissect them one by one. But he knows you. He can tell that your sudden shift in topic, in tone, is intentional. 

Admitting it once was enough. For right now, at least, you want to move on. And Jay can do that for you.

So instead of demanding answers, he just gasps playfully. “I never thought I’d see the day.” A moment passes. Still, he can’t help but press his luck a little. Something in his gaze shifts, becomes heavier. “Is a friend the only thing you’re looking for?”

At that, your teeth find your bottom lip again, eyes falling down to the flowers at your feet. It’s spring. If there was ever a time to breathe life into something fragile that’s just begun to blossom, it’s now. 

“I’m still deciding,” is what you tell him. But even as you look at him now, you can feel the ghost of his lips against yours, months ago in the sanctuary of a beach house he chose just for you. 

It burns like a reminder, sings like a promise. 

Between the two of you, at least, you’re certain of this. Things have just begun. 

…..

epilogue

When your phone starts working again, the first notification that comes through is from your brother. 

It’s a selfie of him and the new set of cookware he special ordered last week. As it turns out, years of saving every last penny from every part-time job added up all on their own. Without any of your help, Sunoo has nearly saved enough to turn his dream into a reality. 

All on his own. 

The idea still resonates somewhere deep in you, still tastes a bit bittersweet. For as long as you can remember, a huge part of your identity has come from supporting your family. You’ve prided yourself on helping Sunoo, on easing his struggles. On making his dreams come true.

But your brother has been growing up, too. He’s not a fragile little kid anymore that needs you to shield him from the world. He understands responsibility and disappointment and hard work just as well as you. He’s survived difficult things and come out the other side stronger. He’s not crumbling under the weight of life’s challenges. 

 Like you, like everyone, he’s learning how to live with them and get through them and thrive all the while. 

The restaurant is still a long way from being profitable, and there is still work to be done. Work that you’re happy to do your share of. But the burden doesn’t feel like it falls solely on your shoulders anymore. The responsibility that you decided was your alone has been divided, shared. 

It feels like a collective effort now, and somehow, that’s even more gratifying.

Trying new recipes! he writes beneath the picture, along with a ridiculously long string of smiley faces. 

Beneath it, he tells you, 

Have the best time ever! I want to hear about all of it when you get back. And send pictures!!

You smile at the message. From the seat next to you, Jay leans over into your space, shoulder brushing yours. “What is it?” he asks. 

“Just a message from Sunoo,” you tell him. “He wants me to send pictures.”

“Mm,” he agrees. “Good.” With gentle fingers, he reaches for the phone tucked between your hands. 

Confusion creases your brow as he takes it from you. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a picture,” he says like it’s obvious. Turning the camera towards you, he instructs, “Smile.”

“Jay,” you whine, covering your face with your hands. “I haven’t slept since the layover, and I didn’t put on any makeup this morning. I look gross,” you protest.

But he’s not having any of it. “You look beautiful,” he tells you. “Now and always.” Gently, he wraps his fingers around one of your wrists. Not forcing, just urging. “Move your hands, pretty girl.”

Peeking from between your fingers, you don’t dare to lower them completely. “You can take my picture after I’ve showered,” you bargain. 

He won’t give in so easily. You should have known better than to think he ever would, even now. “C’mon,” he urges. “It’s a memory. Your first international flight.” Pausing for a moment, he adds, “You don’t have to send it to Sunoo if you don’t want to. It can just be for you. For us,” he amends. 

You sigh. “Fine,” you agree, dropping your hands. “But you have to be in it, too.” 

“Deal,” Jay grins. Next to you, he switches your phone to the front-facing camera. Then, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as he smiles for the picture. Leaning into him, you do the same. 

You suppose it really doesn’t matter. Whether you’ve showered, whether your makeup is done, whether it’s been thirty minutes or twenty-four hours since your last full night of rest. Whether the plane lighting washes you out or makes your dark circles look a million times worse.

You’ve just touched down in Reykjavik, after all. Over a year since you first wrote it, the last piece of your bucket list is becoming a reality. 

Looking back at it now, it’s almost hard to believe how much time has passed. 

So many things have changed — your energy is still low, even on good days. Sometimes, your memories feel harder to access than they should. You’ll be returning to school for your final semester after winter vacation, and you’re already preparing for extra difficulties due to the brain fog you can never seem to fully shake. 

Doctor Kim assures you that it’s normal at every check-up you have. Promises that it will get better with time, that your body is still recovering from losing so many healthy blood cells, from the surgery you underwent. That it’s natural to feel more tired than you did before, both physically and mentally. 

That there is plenty to celebrate, too. Namely, the fact that months after your first clean bill of health was given, there are no signs of any new malignant cells forming. That the tumor behind your heart was removed successfully. Completely. 

That the three months he estimated have come and gone. That your life is, once again, yours to live. 

And other things, stranger yet, have remained exactly the same. 

For starters, you still feel uncomfortable whenever Jay gets a little too outlandish with his gift ideas. You made him promise you that he wouldn’t get you anything for your birthday or the next three Christmases before you begrudgingly accepted the first class plane ticket to Iceland that brought you here now. 

He broke it, of course, but he at least had the decency to look sheepish.

You have gotten a bit better at it, though. At letting him love you the way he wants to, at letting things go. 

Like when the gate agent apologized for difficulty sorting out the rebooking fee, and you looked at him with a question in your gaze. Jay waved it off, rattling off some excuse about inclement weather that hardly made any sense. More suspicious yet, you swore his cheekbones were dusted with a sudden rosy pink that hadn’t been there before. 

Still, you let it go. The sudden avoidance of his gaze, along with the tension in his shoulders, made you think it perhaps wasn’t a memory he was quite ready to revisit. 

Besides, you know that he’ll tell you in his own time, when he’s ready. That’s the way things are between the two of you now. Affection, fondness, and even something that shimmers a whole lot like love, it’s all built on a solid foundation of trust. 

It’s why you didn’t press the issue in the airport. Why you didn’t hound him for updates on his status in his father’s company post-graduation, even though you saw his updated resume when he accidentally left it open on his laptop one evening. 

Why you waited, until he was ready to tell you himself, that he accepted a different position, one in a much smaller company, one that he got on merit alone instead of the weight of his family name. 

It’s changed things for him, you know. His mother’s smile still sometimes doesn’t quite reach her eyes when she looks at him. He still hasn’t spoken to his father since the day he threatened you in the hospital. 

It took time, it’s taking time, but Jay is happier, too, you think. He’s more sure of himself these days. Trusts his decisions, his instincts, more than he did before. 

It’s not perfect, not by a long shot, but the beginning of his career is something that belongs to him and no one else. He smiles when he talks about it, even the difficult parts, like he’s proud of it, like it means the world to him that he gets to call it his. 

And you, even now, as the dust settles and leaves a million possibilities in its wake, you can’t find yourself to regret any of it. Not the decisions you made, nor the reasons you made them. 

If you could go back in time and choose a different career path, a different field of study, you’re not sure what choice you would make. Without the tragedy of Sunoo’s childhood, if business would still be the path you followed. 

But you can’t go back in time. You can’t erase the past, and you can’t change what happened. You can’t conjure wealth from thin air, and you can’t erase all of your family’s struggles or pain with a snap of your fingers. 

All you can do is move forward, give every past version of yourself grace for making the decisions she thought were best at the time. Trust the version of you that exists now to make decisions going forward. 

At the very least, the future isn’t something you look at with trepidation anymore. After everything, failure doesn’t feel quite so terrifying, after all. 

You’re a miracle now, too. Someone that’s been through hell and back and has come out with the scars to prove it. 

You don’t need perfection. Your life doesn’t have to be something that you wrap into a bow and hand deliver to someone else on a silver platter. 

You’re allowed to take care of your family, and you’re allowed to want things for yourself, too. It doesn’t make you greedy or selfish or ungrateful. You’re learning, too. There are times when it’s hard, but you’re doing your best. Especially when it comes to accepting things from others.

When Jay told you he wanted to bring you to Iceland to see the northern lights, it wasn’t because he wanted to watch you squirm uncomfortably at the differences in your finances. It wasn’t because he wanted you to feel like you owe him or because he felt pity for everything you’ve been through. 

No, it was because he could see it all in his head — you, eyes turned towards the stars in the night sky, a wide, barely controlled smile breaking across your lips as the first rays of light began to dance across the universe above you. 

He told you already once before. Love isn’t some transaction you pass back and forth. 

When you brought him a coffee and a photo of the two of you to christen his new office, he wasn’t totalling up the amount you spent on the frame. He was thinking about how lucky he is to have someone that cares enough to think of him at all, how much it means to him to have a picture of you to glance at and smile whenever his meetings start to run too long. 

Even now, as the plane draws to a stop on the tarmac, he takes both your bag and his, sliding it over his shoulder like the effort means nothing to him. Like it’s as natural as breathing. Not because you’re weak. Not because you’re fragile. Just because he likes doing things for you. 

And as you stand to disembark, your gaze lands, not for the first time, right on the back of his head. Hair slightly mussed from the hours you just spent in the air, the sight makes you smile. 

Biting at your bottom lip, you have a sudden memory of hours spent in lecture halls, staring at the back of his head, cursing the way it always seemed so out of reach, so effortlessly perfect. How desperately you wished you could have been like that too. 

Reality, you think, no matter how messy, strained, and imperfect it may be, will always be so much better. You’re grateful for every day you’ve been given, for all the ways in which you’ve been able to see through the facade and your own misconceptions. For all the ways that you’ve gotten to know him, for all the ways you’ve let him get to know you, the real you.

Reaching up, you brush a few misplaced strands back into place with your fingers.

Jay turns back to face you, a soft smile on his lips, a question in his eyes. “What was that for?” he asks.

“No reason,” you tell him, returning his smile like it’s a secret just between the two of you. 

[caratchronicles]

This was beautiful, truly, so fkn beautiful. I've read a million fics by now and I would say this is by far my favorite fic of all time. So tender, raw and gentle. I think you've done an amazing job at capturing all the emotions and nuances in the story. I love it, thank you so much for writing this

[suga-kookiemonster]

ctrl alt del | jjk

summary⇢ you graduated bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but, to your extreme disappointment, your big girl job isn't turning out to be nearly as exciting as you thought it would be. still, you're holding out hope that your talents will soon be recognized and your coworkers will stop trying to include you in their gossip sessions. enter jungkook, the quiet IT guy who's gradually making your days more bearable. (and if you find him easy on the eyes, that's nobody's business but yours.) pairing⇢ jungkook/reader word count⇢ 19.8k 🤭 genre⇢ smut | humor | office!au warnings⇢ sexual content, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, corporate nonsense, jk is a nerd but he's also really hot 😩 a/n⇢ omg, she's finally here 😭 this fic has been sitting in my drafts partially finished for literal YEARS lmfaoo. as in, jungkook didn't even have tattoos yet years ☠️ in fact, the whole plot for this was spawned from that time namjoon was on a live in his studio and jk visited in this yellow buttonup looking like a hot nerd and namjoon said he looked like he had an interview. it had to be 2018ish...i know my OGs know exactly what i'm talking about, but i'll put it below the cut for reference. ANYWAYS this was fun to imagine, but it's also entirely fiction so please don't attempt anything that happens in this fic lmao. mood for this fic is this. hope you enjoy~ 💜

When you graduated top of your class with a marketing degree and a job already lined up, you weren’t big-headed to assume you would be given a lot in the beginning. No, you knew that you were the new kid on the block and needed to prove yourself first, needed to work your way up from the bottom. But what you definitely didn’t anticipate was working up from thefigurative trenches, almost exclusively doing busywork—constantly making coffee runs, catering business lunches, printing out endless spreadsheets.

Eighty-thousand dollars in debt, and you are a glorified intern.

While you’re positively itching to hit the ground running and get your hands dirty, your job isn’t too bad. The people there are all nice and welcoming, the complimentary coffee in the break room is decent enough for your dwindling bank account, and every quarter the company sponsors an employee barbecue where everyone can fraternize and enjoy free food.

“Apparently it fosters unity and teamwork,” your coworker Joy informs you as you both stand in the food line. “Seokjin—that’s our CEO—is really big on unity and teamwork.”

Joy is also a member of your marketing team. Though friendly, she has zero filter and thus always has a lot to say about everything—which has helped you when it comes to learning the ropes about the company, but has also had you clutching your imaginary pearls in certain situations where you found her topic of choice inappropriate. 

Despite only being a year older than you, her title of Marketing Associate instead of your measly Assistant means that she technically outranks you, though she doesn’t usually enforce that fact (unless there was something that needed to be copied or filed, of course). Still, she immediately took you under her wing when you first started and is the closest person to a friend you have at work (even though her daily coffee order is always so ridiculous, you are convinced that she has to be fucking with you—or at least engaging in some form of mild hazing).

“I think it’s nice,” you reply truthfully. “I’ll never say no to free food, and they let us out early and everything.”

“I mean, pretty sure you can get the hotdogs twelve in a pack at the dollar store,” Joy quips, raising her eyebrows at you pointedly. “But sometimes the boys from Sales take their shirts off and play soccer, so there’s that.”

Your eyes dart to said Sales Boys against your will, gaze drawn to Jung Hoseok as he chats animatedly with his teammates by the tables. You’ve only spoken to him once or twice, but his fiery red hair and even brighter smile caught your attention immediately, your heart rate accelerating at the sight of him in hallways mere days into starting your new position. Who better to have a mild work crush on than a sweet-talking salesman who winks at you sometimes in passing?

An appreciative noise has you turning back around, embarrassed at being caught ogling how shapely Hoseok’s butt looks in his dress pants today, but it’s just Wendy from Accounting, Joy’s best friend and thus a harmless, familiar face. Wendy has cut in front of a few editors to join you and Joy, and the way that she smiles at you lets you know she’s up to no good. “He’s cute, huh?” she asks, leaning towards you conspiratorially. “I would definitely give him the good ol’ suck behind the dumpsters over there, if you catch my drift.”

“Err…yeah, I do,” you reply awkwardly. She had been explicitly clear—keyword explicit—so there definitely isn’t any room for misunderstandings. Is this truly appropriate work function conversation? From the way the editors behind you are politely clearing their throats, you think not.

“Behind the dumpster?” Joy asks curiously. “That sounds unnecessarily smelly. He’s standing right next to some sturdy tables that I, for one, would take great advantage of—”

“I’m gonna go get us some drinks,” you announce loudly, your neck heating up. “Can you grab me a hot dog, Joy?”

“Sure,” she says dismissively, already distracted by her sudden debate with Wendy about the most convenient place to suck off salesman Jung.

The whole conversation is making you uncomfortable. You are not a prude—far from it—but there is a time and place for everything, and your coworkers’ blasé attitude towards inappropriate topics at company functions on company time rattles you a bit. So instead of engaging in the risqué discussion further, you make your way to the cluster of brightly-colored coolers that presumably hold beverages, sidling up to the only other person lingering the area.

“Anything good?” you ask cordially, making your coworker, who had apparently been deep in thought while considering his beverage options, startle a bit.

He’s tall, his large frame covered in the appropriate business casual attire of nice jeans and a powder-blue button-up. When he turns his head to look at you, you’re met with large, dark eyes blinking in surprise from behind wire-rimmed glasses. Said eyes dart around for a moment before determining that you were, in fact, speaking to him.

The man clears his throat. “Just the usual,” he says, voice soft. Timid.

“The usual?” you repeat. There are little hoops dangling from his earlobes, and you brush off your surprise at seeing them, returning your gaze to the coolers. Water, a clear soda, a cola. “The basics, you mean. Well, can’t really complain, right? Seeing as it’s all free. I think it’s really nice of them.”

Your companion seems surprised at your words. “It is,” he agrees softly, eyes meeting yours for a second before dropping back down to the cooler. “Um, are you...are you new?”

“Damn, I guess my cover’s blown.” You shoot him a wry smile. “Yeah, I just started a couple of weeks ago. What gave it away?”

“It’s just—no one else here really cares about these barbecues anymore,” he admits, looking at you, but not quite. More like, in your direction. “Everyone has forgotten to appreciate the little things.”

“Nothing is a given,” you shrug. “So you need to appreciate things when you can. And besides, those lots of little things can really add up without you realizing it.”

He finally seems to look at you properly, and the weight of his large, gentle brown eyes throws you off for a second. “They can,” he agrees, lips slowly drifting up. 

“What do we have over here?” a loud voice interrupts, a hand falling to your shoulder. You look up, and are met with the brightness of salesman Jung.

“Ah,” Hoseok says with a wink, reaching into the cooler. “I love Sprite.”

“Me too,” you reply automatically, and then immediately want to smack yourself. Because you don’t—carbonated beverages make you break out. But your mouth had formed the lie without your permission.

Embarrassed, you reach into the cooler, grabbing three water bottles. “See you later,” you squeak, avoiding eye contact as you make your escape.

Joy and Wendy are already watching you when you return to where they have procured a table, and when you hand them their waters, Joy raises an eyebrow. “I was wondering how long you were going to talk to that IT guy.”

“Yeah, and why did you leave when Hoseok showed up?” Wendy pouted. “_____, the universe is only going to give you so many opportunities. If you don’t want the ball, then pass it to me! Goddamn.”

“IT guy?” you prompt, hoping to slide past that last remark.

“Yeah. His name is Jungkook, I think? Mostly works with the printers, started a couple months ago.” Joy shrugs, obviously disinterested by the topic. She reaches for the ketchup bottle in the center of the table and squirts some on her hot dog. “This is the first time I’ve seen him at a barbecue, though. Honestly, I’m surprised he even came out, because the IT dudes generally keep to themselves. They rarely leave their little tower,” she adds with a dismissive wave.

Wendy scoffs in disinterest. “Who cares about Jeremy! Hurry up and eat, I’m sure Sales is gonna start their soccer game soon.”

“Soccer game?” you ask distractedly. A glance back to the coolers shows Jungkook is gone, and you don’t see him in the immediate vicinity.

“The sales department likes to play soccer during these things,” Joy reminds you. Her expression brightens. “Hey, maybe Hoseok will take his shirt off again! Let us pray.”

To your coworkers’ disappointment, Hoseok did not take his shirt off. But they certainly had a good time watching his athletic display across the grass anyway.

Monday morning—the start of the workweek, but also, rather depressingly, the end of the weekend. Everyone tends to be more tired and grumpy on Mondays (yourself included), and this is why your team considers it essential that you always stop by their preferred coffeeshop and bring in their drinks for a morning pick-me-up. You’re the lowest on the ladder, so you weren’t exactly sure how to refuse when you were asked one day if you would mind picking up some drinks for everyone, and then, after that, people kept sending you their orders like it was expected of you. The café is technically on your way to work and everyone always pays you back, but it’s still pretty irritating to have to forgo those extra precious minutes of sleep just so you can beat the long lines and get to work on time.

Today, you’re lucky enough to get ahead of the morning rush, but that means that you end up trudging into the building much earlier than you anticipated. You hope the coffee’s insulated cups do their job properly, because you really don’t have the energy to listen to Joy huff and puff about having to reheat hers.

Your trek to your cubicle slows when you realize that someone is already there, sitting in your chair and typing away on your keyboard. Their back is to you, swathed in an olive button-up, and it’s not until you get close enough to curiously crane your head to see their face that you recognize him. The guy from the barbecue last week—the one by the coolers.

He startles a bit when he sees you approach in his peripheral vision, eyes darting up at you in surprise.

“Hi.” You raise the tray you’re holding in an awkward greeting. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to creep up on you.”

“That’s okay, _____,” he replies softly, wide eyes blinking a little from behind his round glasses. “I can get kind of spacey when I’m focused on something. I was just doing some updates on your machine and didn’t see you.”

“You…” Your head tilts curiously. “You know my name?” 

A small smile touches his lips as he points to your computer. “I’m updating your machine,” he reminds you.

Not to mention the fact that he’s literally sitting in your cubicle, you name tag clearly posted on the frosted glass that separates your space from Joy’s. An embarrassed chuckle leaves you when you realize your dumbass mistake. “Oh. Duh. Wow, that was a stupid question. Let me just get out of your way.”

“No, no, I’m clearly the one in the way!” His head shakes apologetically. “I couldn’t do this update remotely and I thought you didn’t clock in for another half hour—sorry about that.”

“I don’t,” you confirm. “But I tend to get here a little early so I can sort out everyone’s coffee order.”

A brow raises in surprise. “Do they really have you making coffee runs?” he asks incredulously.

You hmm in confirmation, moving to set the coffee on everyone’s desks. “Rite of passage, I guess,” you call over the divider as you work. Joy’s order today isn’t as over the top as you know she can be, but you were still rather embarrassed to order it (vanilla latte with oatmilk—one and a half pumps cinnamon, one pump hazelnut, an extra espresso shot and extra foam with honey drizzle). The barista had looked at you tiredly but hadn’t voiced her obvious judgement when she rung you up. 

“I guess,” you hear him say, but he doesn’t sound too convinced. 

Coffee distributed and hands finally free, you return to lean against your cubicle, hovering as he continues to quickly type and click. You look at him pointedly, a small smile creeping across your face. “Speaking of grunt work, I hear you’re the printer guy.”

His lips quirk. “I’m also the expert at updating Microsoft Word, just so you know.”

You laugh, and his eyes crinkle in amused response. “Oh, well excuse me, sir.”

“I’ll let it slide this once. Since you’re new.”

“And so are you. That’s why you’re the printer guy.”

He just lets out a puff of air that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. This close, you can now see the tiny holes that are trailing up his earlobe—he clearly has multiple ear piercings, not just the ones you saw at the barbecue. There is no jewelry in them now, though. 

“Jungkook, right?”

It’s his turn to look surprised, and you find yourself satisfied by the flush creeping up the back of his neck when he ducks his head in confirmation. 

“Us newbies gotta stick together,” you stage whisper behind a conspiratorial hand before leaning decidedly away. “Anyway, let me stop bothering you and go make some coffee.”

His eyebrows scrunch in clear confusion. “Didn’t you just bring some?”

“…Yeah, I am only just now recognizing just how bizarre this must seem,” you say sheepishly. “But none of those were for me—fancy specialty drinks aren’t really in my budget, so I tend to just brew a cup here.” 

“Did you say drinks?” a voice croaks, and when you turn your head, there’s Joy, walking towards the two of you. If her body’s sluggish movements weren’t enough to clue you in to the fact that she’s exhausted and possibly hungover, the designer sunglasses she’s wearing to tactfully hide half her face certainly do.

“On your desk,” you chirp as she walks past you without another glance. “Good morning!”

There is no response from the other side of the cubicle wall, and Jungkook frowns a bit, but you just give him a small shrug that translates to what can you do? before pushing off the wall to continue your trek to the kitchen. “You want one?” you offer. “I make a mean cafeteria coffee. Trial and error has taught me the exact temperature of tap water to use to make it taste less like sludge.”

His mouth smoothes back out at your joke, and though you wait for him to call you out on your ridiculous declaration, his gaze is already back on your computer. “No thank you,” comes his soft reply.

With a nod to yourself, you move to complete your task and leave Jungkook to work on his. When you return minutes later, newly-filled mug in hand, he’s already gone.

Today starts out pretty typically. After bringing everyone’s coffee, you settle into monitoring the company’s social media accounts. (When Joy first delegated this task to you, you were a bit confused, as social media is so vital to brands nowadays that handling it is technically a whole other full-time job. But it turns out you don’t have to do much above the intern level anyway—just answer customer questions and escalate issues if need be.)

Your manager has been out traveling for a week, but today she finally comes back to the office, and it makes for a nice change of pace when she hands you all of her scattered, hurriedly-scribbled notes and asks you to please transcribe them into something more cohesive and legible. Well, not nice, exactly (because at the end of the day, this is still busywork), but if you have to reply to one more Facebook comment with instructions that are clearly already on the product packaging, there is a pretty likely possibility you will scream. 

This is at least slightly less mind-numbing. Instead of copy-pasting things from a prewritten script, you get to try to make sense of what your boss had been trying to say when she wrote turkey club in the corner of a page filled with random numbers and dates. Was this important? Was it simply her plans for lunch that day? You and your fancy college degree have the pleasure of trying to figure that out while Joy and Alan, the web manager, get to actually do important things that are in their job descriptions.

Still, like every day, you try to dampen your frustration, try to keep a positive attitude. Because ultimately, this is an opportunity to grow your boss’s confidence in you, and that’s exactly what you want. Though you’re a little disheartened by all the busywork, you remind yourself it will all be worth it in the end. Your hope is that if you put in the time, you’ll eventually be trusted with more of the nitty gritty stuff. 

(You know…the stuff you actually got your degree for.)

But no matter how positive you are, things of course don’t go as smoothly as they should. After you’ve done a pretty fantastic job (if you say so yourself) of organizing and typing everything up, you send your manager the digital version. And, because you know the email may accidentally get buried in her inbox, you decide to print a physical copy for good measure.

You give the printer pretty simple, straightforward directions. One copy, double-sided (to do your part to save Mother Earth), the whole document typed in plain old black and white. But when you walk over, there’s nothing waiting for you in the printing tray. No humming to clue you in to the fact that the printer was working on your job. Nope. Instead, the admittedly ancient machine is quiet and still, and it stays that way for long enough for you to walk back to your computer to press the print button again, just in case you forgot to do so the first time. Still no dice. You frown, opening the paper tray to make sure it was full, then opening every other compartment that can possibly be opened to make sure there isn’t a paper jam somewhere.

Nothing.

Irritated, you stalk back to your desk, your first inclination to check with Joy and see if she has been having any of the same issues, but you find her chair empty. Probably got pulled into a meeting that they don’t find it necessary to loop you in on, even though it will ultimately be you who does all the grunt work for any action items the meeting produces.

Positive, you remind yourself, falling back into your chair and drumming your fingertips against your desk in thought. Maybe it’s not the printer at all. Maybe it’s your computer. You search your desk drawer for the introductory employee contact sheet HR had given you when you first started, and there he is—Jeon, Jungkook.

For a second, you consider sending him an email, but the green dot that displays he’s online has you shooting him a message instead. Much less formal, but likely quicker for the both of you.

You Hey Jungkook! Sorry to bother you, but I can’t print for some reason You The printer over here is ignoring me, and I don’t think I’m set up to print by the art directors

Despite what you originally assumed, he doesn’t answer immediately, obviously focused on something else. Still, you only have to wait a few minutes before you hear the soft ding you were waiting for. 

Jungkook Jeon Hi, _____. You mean the large printer by the marketing department, correct?   You Yes! I tried a couple times, but I don’t think the job even went through You Thought it best to just ask the printer guy 🙂

There’s a pause, one long enough that you worry that he’s forgotten about your lighthearted exchange from this morning. Shit. That was stupid of you. You’ve probably offended him. Fuck.

But if Jungkook is upset with you, he’s professional enough that it doesn’t come across at all in his next message. If anything, he just seems a little preoccupied. 

Jungkook Jeon Hmmm, let me check it out for you. Mabel can be a little uncooperative. You Mabel? 

Silence again, this time for a good five minutes. You answer some emails so you’re not just sitting there twiddling your thumbs. 

Jungkook Jeon Sorry, was running some diagnostics in the background to see if I could find the problem  IT kinda calls that printer Mabel because we’re pretty sure she’s worked for the company for longer than all of us combined. Seems fitting

You can’t help but snort at that. Cute, and likely not inaccurate. Mabel, it is.   

Jungkook Jeon One of these days Mabel’ll finally retire, but it won’t be today—looks like she’s running fine. Do you mind checking for me and seeing if you can access the marketing server? 

A few clicks, and when double clicking on the server icon doesn’t bring up the same list of folders it usually does, it confirms the conclusion the both of you have already come to—your computer is the problem, not Mabel.

You No dice 😕 Jungkook Jeon Got it. I think something went weird with your network connection after I updated your machine this morning. I can fix that for you! You Awesome! I appreciate it! Jungkook Jeon Of course! Can’t have my sparkling reputation as the Printer Guy tarnished so easily 😉 You LOL

You allow him remote access to your computer when a pop-up prompts you to, and he gets you up and running before your manager’s meeting is even over.

Lunch has always been an interesting—albeit potentially exhausting—part of your day. You learned early on that attempting to take the break you were legally entitled to at your desk did not stop anyone from continuing to ask you for things. Unfortunately, there weren’t many solutions to this problem—you didn’t get paid enough to be able to consistently eat your lunches out, and you lived too far away from the office to go home for lunch instead. So, you started taking your lunch break a little earlier than most of your other coworkers did, ensuring that the cafeteria was pretty empty and allowing you the space to decompress and eat your bagged lunch in peace. 

And as things usually went with this company, it didn’t take long for that peace to be interrupted. Once she noticed you disappearing from your desk, curiosity had Joy tagging along one day, and after that, it only took a couple weeks before both she and Wendy joined you. 

(Later, you would have the great idea to simply enjoy your bagged lunch in the park a few blocks away, but the weather wasn’t always great and at that point, the other two started to expect you to eat with them.)

So that’s exactly how you’re spending your lunch now—scarfing down the soup you made a few days ago that you’ll eat until it’s completely gone, while Joy and Wendy giggle and gossip to each other. As much as they apparently want to eat lunch with you, they tend to be pretty nonplussed by how you never contribute much to their inane conversations. 

And you’re fine with that. In the time it’s taken them to get comfortable invading your zen time, you’ve learned how to properly tune their tittering out. You’re good at nodding at the right times, at throwing in perfectly placed hums that indicate you’re listening, even when you’re not.

Today, it’s a sudden, uncharacteristic pause in their chatter that prickles against your diverted attention.   “That’s weird,” you hear Wendy mutter, and that officially throws you out of you mentally making your grocery list. The intrigued way she’s looking behind you makes you reflexively turn, and that’s when your eyes set on Jungkook.

He hadn’t been there when you first sat down for lunch, but he is now, sitting alone a couple tables away. He’s the only other person in the cafeteria, but from the AirPods in his ears and the way his eyes are focused on his phone screen, you doubt he’s even noticed this fact.  

Joy’s lips downturn slightly into a puzzled frown. “Hmm. IT guys never come down voluntarily from their tower.” 

Your head tilts as you mull over that. That isn’t exactly true. You have only seen Jungkook in passing a few times over the last couple weeks, but those few times prove IT aren’t exactly the antisocial specters the two women in front of you keep painting them as. You have even exchanged the short pleasantries with him that are socially expected when crossing paths at the coffeepot.  

“Wonder what he’s doing here?” Wendy says, not nearly quietly enough in your opinion. Embarrassment  flashes hot through you, inwardly chastising yourself for continuing to associate with such casually judgmental people. You’re already mentally preparing to apologize for your lunch mates when a covert glance out of the corner of your eye shows that Jungkook’s still paying your group no attention, taking distracted bites from his sandwich as his head bobs slightly to whatever is playing through his headphones.

“Whatever,” Joy says with a dismissive shrug, and then just that easily, the two are back gossiping about Cindy in HR.

From then on, you notice that Jungkook continues to eat lunch in the cafeteria at the same time as you. Sometimes, he beats you there, already at his designated table and munching on whatever he brought that day. If your eyes meet, he’ll send you a small smile in greeting before immediately dropping his focus back to his phone. If you’re there first and throw him a wave of acknowledgment, he always returns it, as is polite and expected of two coworkers who don’t know each other beyond their forced proximity.

And you think nothing of it, too busy being your department’s errand girl, the person who gets assigned all the tasks no one else wants to do. The amount of interaction you and Jungkook have is only marginally higher than what you have with Namjoon in Finance, who periodically reaches out to you for any missing receipts for charges on the Marketing department’s credit card.

This slowly starts changing as you begin to have more and more technical problems. You being assigned to put together multiple PowerPoints and research whatever market trends tickles your boss’s fancy means you constantly have an ungodly amount of tabs and applications open. This means you’re not really surprised when your computer—an older model that is definitely on its last leg—starts freezing and giving you pop up errors. A force restart seems to fix the problem, but a new one emerges—now, no matter how many times you hit the print button and walk over to your designated printer, nothing awaits for you to pick up. Even scrolling through the printer’s print history shows no record of your jobs being in the queue. It’s bizarre—you even make sure to confirm you’re connected to the servers, and that doesn’t seem to be the issue this time.

Frowning, you make your way back to your desk and scroll down your chat messages until a familiar face appears.

You  Hey Jungkook! I can’t seem to print—think something weird is going on with my computer today

A soft sigh of frustration escapes your lips, fingers drumming irritably against your desk. It isn’t even noon, but the day is already looking to be a long one.

Resigned, you settle in to wait for him to answer you in the chat, but the little bubbles that indicate he’s typing never pop up. Instead, you’re surprised when movement in your peripheral produces Jungkook himself, slowing in approach of your desk, though his focus is still on his phone screen. He must have gotten your message in the midst of doing something else. 

“Oh! Hi,” you greet him eagerly. “Just the person I was looking to see.”

He looks up at you from beneath the curtain of his bangs, a small smile touching his lips as he stuffs his phone back into the pocket of his slacks. “Just the person I was looking for,” he returns. “What seems to be the problem?” 

“Mabel is being a bitch again,” you say with an irritated sigh. “Every time I try to print, nothing is happening.” 

Jungkook snorts, amused, and it’s only then that your brain registers exactly what you just said. Swearing at work is unprofessional so you make it a point not do it, but that one slipped out so casually. “Oh—sorry.”

But if Jungkook is offended, it certainly doesn’t show in the responding chuckle he lets out. “That’s definitely on brand. I can fix that—let me take a look.”

You move to relinquish your seat, but he’s already leaning over you before you can do more than shift your weight. So you just let go of your mouse so he can control it instead, scooting to the side a bit and trying your best not to think too hard about how he’s close enough for your clothes to brush. Christ does he smell good.

Jungkook clicks around a bit, no doubt checking to make sure your computer is up to date and connected to everything it’s supposed to. “Is this what you’ve been trying to print?” he finally asks, brows furrowed in concentration.

You blink at the question, realizing with dawning horror that you were accidentally distracted by his proximity. You clear your throat, shaking your head a little at yourself in an attempt to clear it of all thoughts that aren’t solidly on the task at hand. “Yeah.” 

He clicks the print button, just as you have done for the past ten minutes, then straightens with a shrug. “Let’s give our old girl a visit and see what her deal is.”

You stand, following him around the corner to the copy room, where Mabel has proudly taken residence for who knows how many years. The fact that you can already see she’s humming with activity as the two of you approach has your eyebrows knitting in confusion.

Jungkook seems equally confused, reaching in the tray for the stack of paper that was just spit out and turning it over to confirm both of your suspicions. The report you’ve been trying to print for the last twenty minutes sits in his hand, likely still warm from how quickly and easily Mabel completed Jungkook’s request. He holds it up for you to see, his big doe eyes peering at you quizzically through his glasses. “This printer was the one that wouldn’t work for you?” he asks.

“Yeah, I definitely sent it to this one. Repeatedly,” you insist. Embarrassment prickles across your skin. “I swear it wasn’t working two seconds ago!”

Jungkook smiles when he hands you the papers, and it somehow softens his naturally cherubic face even more. “You just wanted to say hi to me, huh?” 

“Clearly Mabel likes you more than me,” you sniff at his teasing. “Sorry for wasting your time.”

“You didn’t,” he says simply. He hovers for a few more moments as you check to make sure all the pages are there. “Let me know if you have any more issues, okay?”

“Will do,” you agree, mind already back on your work as you both turn to part ways. “Thank you so much for your help!”

“Anytime.”

“Didn’t you have a date last night?” Joy asks. 

It’s lunchtime again, early enough that the three of you are still the only ones in the cafeteria. While both Joy and Wendy are munching on some overpriced salads they had delivered from a restaurant a couple blocks away, you’re eating a boring ham and cheese sandwich that you haphazardly slapped together in your rush to get out the door this morning. Vaguely, you do remember Wendy mentioning something about an upcoming hot date, but she was always rambling about a hot date, and frankly, you don’t care enough to keep up with any details. Everything you know about her love life—and her, in all honesty—has been dumped onto you without you having any say in the matter. 

“I did,” Wendy squeals, excited as always to have the opportunity to talk about herself. “His name was Miles. We’ve been talking on Tinder for the past week—he was really sweet and seemed to want to get to know me. Last night he took me to a nice restaurant, really wined and dined me.”

“Wow,” Joy says, eyebrows raised. “That sounds promising. When are you gonna see him again?”

“I’m not,” Wendy scoffed. “He was nice and all, but he’s only 5’7. It’ll never work out.”

“True.”

You’ve been trying your hardest to zone them out, but the longer Wendy prattles on, each sentence more baffling than the last, you can’t help but interject, “Doesn’t the app let you filter out height preferences?”

Wendy pauses, a raise of an eyebrow betraying her surprise at you finally participating in her lunchtime shenanigans. “Not on the free version.”

“So why did you even entertain him if you knew you would never consider him seriously?” 

“..because I wanted to go to dinner?” Wendy replies flatly, the look on her face doing nothing to hide how stupid she thinks your question is. “Besides, he got what he wanted out of the deal. After dinner I took him home and let him fuck.” 

The flippantly casual way she throws out the vulgar word feels like a record scratch, especially since the three of you are, in fact, still very much on company premises. Wendy doesn’t seem to notice just how much she’s scandalized you, continuing to prattle on at full volume about how the sex was pretty good for a Tinder date, even though he refused to eat her out. 

At this point, you’ve long slowed in your chewing, now entirely too incredulous by the absurdity of the situation you’ve found yourself in to eat. 

“You didn’t suck him, did you?” Joy asks.

Wendy scoffs. “Of course not! I’m not giving head to some random anyway, especially if he’s not gonna give me mine first.”

“Can we not talk about this?” you mumble.

They both turn to stare at you, judgement plain on their faces. Wendy snorts. “Wow, _____. I never took you to be a prude.”

“I did,” Joy slides in under her breath.

You let out an agitated huff. This is ridiculous. “I’m not a prude.”

The two of them share a look. After a pause, Wendy finally asks in a way that indicates that it doesn’t really matter what you say because her mind is already made up, “Then what’s the problem?”  

Aside from this conversation being a massive HR violation?

Wendy continues smugly, as if she’s figured you out, “Talking about oral hit a nerve…interesting.”

Yes, Wendy! you think sarcastically, fighting the intense urge to roll your eyes. The whole rest of the convo was good and dandy—oral was definitely the line, though! 

Joy just looks at you, her eyes narrowing the longer she does. Her scrutiny makes your skin prickle in irritation. “You have gotten head before, right?”

“Okay!” you say sharply, stuffing the uneaten half of your sandwich back into the bag. “One, that’s neither of your business, and two, this conversation is completely inappropriate. Let’s change the subject, please.” 

It’s quiet for a moment, both of them visibly surprised by your response. Joy actually looks a tiny bit proud that you stood up for yourself, but Wendy just sniffs and mutters, “That obviously means no.” Ultimately, they both back off, choosing instead to chatter about the newest design of Joy’s nails.

You exhale a tiny sigh of relief. Wendy was hitting the nail too close to the head and you truly didn’t feel like explaining your life story to a nosy coworker who was nothing more than your acquaintance, at best. Now that they’ve finally let you out of the hot seat, you’re fully planning to spend the rest of your lunch hour zoning out in relative peace. 

But before you can properly dissociate, you hear someone cough behind you. 

Your blood runs cold. You already know who it is—no one else tends to eat lunch this early.

“How long has he been sitting there?” you whisper, already dreading the answer.

Joy waves an unbothered hand. “I don’t know, like five minutes?”

Five minutes. Long enough to have heard… 

You’re immediately mortified, and it must show on your face, because Wendy just snorts and says way too loudly for your comfort, “Oh, relax, this is probably the most action he’s gotten in months. I’m doing him a favor.”

What the fuck. WHAT THE FUCK. “Are you serious right now?”

“Calm down,” Joy says, rolling her eyes. “Look, he’s not even listening to us.”

And a slow, discrete turn of your head confirms what she says—Jungkook, in an ugly salmon button-up today, has his earbuds in, eyes downcast to his phone screen, lips soundlessly forming the words to whatever song he’s listening to. You feel a tiny bit of relief, but embarrassment still roils deep in your belly, suddenly making your half-eaten sandwich completely unappetizing.

You stand, grabbing the brown paper bag that contains the remnants of your lunch and hoping against hope that you’ll be able to bolt without him noticing.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that,” Wendy sighs, annoyance bleeding into her tone. “I told you I didn’t realize you were a prude. We can talk about something else.”

You bristle, but tamp down the urge to defend yourself and point out again that you aren’t a prude, you just don’t want to be the office harlot either. “It’s not that,” you lie. The judgmental look in Joy’s eye only softens when you say, “I just remembered I forgot to print the printouts for the meeting this afternoon. I’ll see you guys later?”

“Sure,” Joy says dismissively, and Wendy says nothing at all. They’ve already moved on, no longer interested in your swift escape, attention eagerly back on the details of Wendy’s weekend. That’s works perfectly fine for you—you’ve had enough of being the center of attention for the day.

Blessedly, Jungkook doesn’t even look up when slink past him and out the door.

 It’s hot.

Third quarter is well underway, which means that it’s time again for the quarterly company barbecue. That also means it’s hot as balls. 

You suffer quietly, trying not to add to the stank atmosphere Joy and Wendy are already creating due to the heat. It’s an ambitious goal, especially since you’re already sweltering beneath your blouse—which was reasonable to wear within the chilled walls of the office, but feels rather ridiculous now, under the relentless beat of the sun. Despite being grateful for the free food and break from your maddeningly boring work, you can’t help but mentally yearn for the indoors, where there’s proper shade and air conditioning and decidedly less bitching. 

“I don’t know why they don’t just cater something for us to eat inside,” Joy mopes, dabbing at her brow with what you already know from experience to be a cheap, scratchy napkin. “How is anyone supposed to enjoy themselves if we’re melting?”

“It’s probably a ploy,” Wendy quips. “The more uncomfortable we are, the more likely we are to get back to work.”

“The date’s been on the calendar for months,” you point out wearily. “They had no way of knowing there’d be a heat wave today. Besides, the company’s already paid for the food. I doubt they intended to purposely waste that money.”

Joy scoffs in retort. “The company also knows throwing an outdoor event in July is the same as throwing one in Satan’s asshole.”

Wendy sniggers, but you don’t answer, biting back your response that outdoor barbecues are common during summer, and at least they don’t have you out here in the snow. Because honestly? This is only your second quarter with the company, and who knows what the fourth quarter barbecue looks like. 

All you can do is free some of the buttons on your blouse, undoing as many as you can while still being office-appropriate. As it is, you now have a little cleavage peeking out, but with how hot it is, you figure no one will say anything.

“Look,” Wendy says with an unsubtle tip of her head. “Looks like the soccer game is still on, at least.”

Fluttering the hem of your blouse in an attempt to get some circulation, you reflexively respond to her prompting, eyes following her line of sight. A few tables down, the Sales team has finished their meal and appears to be actively gauging coworker interest in joining their game. From the decently-sized group that’s starting to form by the open field, you think they’re pretty successful, despite the heat. 

Joy groans, lifting her long hair with a hand in an effort to cool off the back of her neck. “I don’t know how they’re doing all that when it feels too hot to breathe.”

Inwardly, you agree with her, but Wendy just gives a lazy shrug and says, “Hey, if we’re gonna roast to death, at least we’ll be properly entertained.”

“True,” Joy muses. “And they’re gonna be sweatier than usual.”

Wendy’s eyes glaze over a bit at the thought. You grimace, amazed that these two always seem to have their heads in the gutter. That’s my cue. “I’ll be right back,” you say, brushing off the back of your slacks as you stand, but they pay you no mind when you walk away.

You’ve already finished your meal, but it can’t hurt to take another look at the coolers. It’s so hot that you’ve already downed your first beverage, so a new one is in order. When you arrive to the area, two people from Customer Service pass, nodding at you in acknowledgment as they make their way back to their table. You’ve only just started to reach for a cooler lid when you hear someone address you again. 

“Hey,” a familiar voice says timidly behind you. “How’s it going?”

You reflexively turn your head, simultaneously surprised and not at all to find Jungkook standing there. He’s got on a long-sleeved button-up despite the heat—grey, checkered with a red and navy plaid—and you can’t help but wonder how he’s not sweltering. Though, the noticeable sheen on his face and the way his damp bangs are starting clump together tells you he just might be. 

“I’ve had better days,” you answer honestly, swiping the back of your hand across your forehead. Before you can catch yourself, that same hand is vaguely gesturing at him, head to toe. “How are you not melting?”

His lips twitch, amused. “I definitely am,” he admits. “I actually hoped no one was over here so I could stuff some of the ice from these coolers down my shirt without being judged.”

You snort. “Hey, who’s judging? Certainly not me. Knock yourself out; just make sure you leave me some.” 

He taps his chin, jokingly in thought, but to be honest, he does mildly look as if he’s actually considering it. “Well, we wouldn’t want the beverages to get cold…”

“Eh, there’s probably not that many in here anyway. They could probably consolidate coolers.” To prove your point, you bend over, cracking open one of the red ones next to you and peering inside. The expected assortment of generic sodas greets you, looking admittedly very refreshing floating in their ice bath. “See, this one isn’t even full.”

You angle your torso a bit so you can meet his eye properly over your shoulder, but as soon as you look up at him, his gaze hurriedly skirts away, color crawling up the back of his neck. You stand with a frown, confused by this, but ultimately brush off his weird behavior when you notice Namjoon from Accounting sidling up to the two of you. 

"Hey guys,"  he greets you, a friendly smile dimpling his cheeks. "We're getting some people together for a soccer game. I know it's really hot, but would either of you want to join?"

You’ve often seen Namjoon chatting with Hoseok in passing, and twice have even seen them leave the building for lunch together, so it doesn’t surprise you that the accountant is helping recruit for the Sales team's traditional barbecue pastime. What does surprise you, however, is that when he casually claps a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder, the younger man first responds by blinking owlishly at him behind his glasses, and then, a few seconds later, giving him a nod of assent. 

Obviously you don't know Jungkook very well—not at all, really, outside of your ongoing feud with Mabel. But you didn't take him to be the type to be into playing outdoor sports, particularly in this weather, and you certainly didn't expect him to agree so easily. A smile from Namjoon and suddenly all thoughts of stealing cooler ice are gone. 

Namjoon turns back to you, but you're already shaking your head. "Nope, no thank you! Y'all have fun. I'll just supervise from over there in the shade."

"Fair enough," he chuckles, and then he's leading Jungkook across the open field to meet up with the others.

Mildly more interested in the game now, you take this as your cue to grab the beverage you came for—a can of a Lipton knockoff and a bottle of water for good measure—and return to your table.

Joy and Wendy are still yapping when you approach, though in your absence, Joy has apparently decided to move to Wendy’s side of the table. It only takes you following their line of sight to quickly recognize why—that side of the table has an unobstructed view of the upcoming soccer game. Well, unobstructed, so long as you change your seat too. Awkward about intentionally getting in the way, you pause for only a moment before ultimately reaching for the end seat perpendicular to them instead. 

When you lean over a little to pull your chair out from under the table, Joy finally deigns to acknowledge you, ticking an eyebrow. “I can see down your shirt,” she tells you offhandedly. 

Your head snaps down, and you realize she’s right—undoing those few extra buttons has made the billowy fabric more susceptible to gravity, particularly when you leaned over. You yourself could see your whole chest and the basic bra that supported it, and at this angle, you doubt your blouse covered much of that from Joy’s gaze. A hand immediately snaps up to press the material back in place, but before you can even get properly embarrassed, her attention is ripped from you, eyes wide at something behind you.

“Holy—”

Wendy's jaw drops. Your head reflexively turns in the direction they're gawking at.

And before you can stop it, your jaw drops too.

Your tablemates have been known to be dramatic, and are certainly the type to stretch a fact or two. But it’s only now that you fully understand their fixation on these Sales soccer games, because yes, sometimes they do indeed take their shirts off. Like now.

Other than one girl from Compliance, all of the game’s recruits appear to be men, and as such, the group has chosen to distinguish teams by shirts vs. skins. And while the sudden appearance of skin naturally draws most people’s attention, your attention only gravitates towards one person. Cause what the fuck.

You almost don't recognize him, your brain rapidly shuffling through the information it's collected about him over the past few months and struggling to reconcile with what your eyes are actually seeing. Because the Jungkook you know wears glasses and long sleeves and has an unassuming hairstyle that looks suspiciously like a bowl may have been involved at some point. 

But the person you're looking at now? Glasses have been discarded, apparently no longer needing optical assistance, and he’s ditched the button-up, sweat making the white sleeveless tank he has on underneath spottily transparent and divulging the dusk of his nipples. Now that you can properly see the taper of his slim waist, his shoulders are proportionally more broad than you realized. And, since he clearly has no regard for your rapidly rising blood pressure, Jungkook decides now is the perfect time to reach over said shoulders, grab fistfuls of damp fabric, and pull. The sight of him slipping the shirt over his head—the ink of his hair sinfully mussed, the muscles of his back rippling with the movement—has you reflexively swallowing, mouth dry.

He's absolutely ripped. 

There's no other way to say it. A superior specimen, built and honed in a way that's only possible through years of hard work and discipline. He's still lean enough that you can rationalize how you’ve never picked up on that amount of muscle hiding beneath his unassuming dress shirts, but you're still gobsmacked. 

Your mind spins, struggling to come to terms with the near impossible fact Jungkook actually pulled a Clark Kent on you. Well, pulled a Clark Kent if Clark Kent was also covered in gorgeous ink, pigment swirling up his right arm from wrist to shoulder. From this distance you can’t see the exact designs that make up his intricate sleeve, but you can tell it was composed with a purposeful eye. 

Jungkook is absolutely ripped and tattooed. Jungkook. Printer guy Jungkook.

Flustered and trying not to be, you quickly look away, clanking your jaw shut and trying to focus on the plastic tabletop instead. Dear god, this is embarrassing. You really just gawked at your coworker! He was minding his own business and your jaw just reflexively unhinged like a degenerate. God, you hoped he didn't see that.

But any mortification you have is apparently not shared by the other two at your table.

“Is that Justin?!” Wendy demands rather shrilly, eyes wide, and the volume of her question would embarrass you even more if your brain could process any other reaction right now other than straight static. “Justin from IT?!”

You swallow thickly, your responding correction weak and delayed. “Jungkook.” 

“Finally,” Joy groans, pushing her plate away dramatically. “Some good fucking food!”           

You can’t help it then—your eyes drift back up, lured to the soccer players once more and zeroing in on him immediately. Seemingly unable to stray from his form, the heat already producing a sheen over his golden skin even though the game hasn’t started yet.

Surrounded by a few surprised male coworkers, Jungkook’s slightly hunched into himself, shy at the sudden attention. Even with the distance, you can see how Hoseok claps Jungkook on the back, just as animated over his newly revealed physique as the members of your table. But while everyone else is excited by this revelation…

Across the field, Jungkook innocuously turns his head in your direction. Like magnets, his eyes hone in on yours, your gaze locked for a few seconds until another loud What the fuck?! from Wendy frees you from the spell and you hurriedly look away again, a completely different kind of heat washing over you.

Jesus, you need to get ahold of yourself. There’s no way he was actually looking at you—it’s too sunny, and he’s not even wearing his glasses! He probably can’t even see that far.

But when you brave another peek in that direction and realize you can literally count his abs from here—

What the fuck, indeed.

Mutely, you watch the game unfold, not as self-conscious when it becomes clear that the whole office is doing the same. Though Joy and Wendy have been very salacious in their excitement for it, the soccer game is evidently a company barbecue highlight for others as well. And you’re sure Jungkook joining the fray has only added to the interest, as he’s a completely new addition to the equation.

And to your continued astonishment, Jungkook is good. He’s fast and lithe and brazen. He proves to you, again and again, that he can kick the ball with such ferocious accuracy that the other team’s goalie eventually stops trying to get in his way and simply resorts to trying to protect their vulnerable body parts instead. His intensity only entices reciprocal energy from everyone else, and what has traditionally been a lighthearted game between coworkers has now transformed into a group of competitive men who feel they now have something to prove. 

Joy and Wendy are delighted by this development, squealing and cheering and tittering amongst themselves. You sit quietly, still trying to mentally process this new development, but when you start to feel embarrassed by just how much you’re staring, you decide to call it a day. No one really notices when you stand and gather your trash, and luckily the distraction of the game means you’re able to slip out without any fanfare.

This quarter’s barbecue being on a Friday means you’re blessed with a weekend to decompress and regroup. Unfortunately for you, the office doesn’t just…move on from the event like it has in the past. Instead, this particular barbecue was apparently such a success that you continue to hear chatter about it for the next week, mostly in passing. But while everyone else makes small talk about how much fun they had, Joy and Wendy choose to hone in on the only thing they truly consider worthy of discussion—Jungkook. 

Today, just as they have every day for the past few months, they join your table when you take your early lunch. However, to their increasing irritation, the object of their current fixation isn’t here. In fact, Jungkook hasn’t showed up to the cafeteria during your lunch time since before the barbecue, and you inwardly have to admit it’s a little strange without him. You sat at different tables and the two of you never really said much to each other beyond the expected niceties, but you’ve gotten used to his presence all the same. 

You actually have barely seen him at all, with Mabel on her best behavior this week and Jungkook seemingly busy with something that has kept him mostly out of common areas. Still, with your embarrassingly strong reaction to him at the barbecue, it’s probably for the best. You’re a little wary of what your first proper interaction is going to be like, and you’ve been mentally preparing yourself to be as normal as possible. 

Your female lunchmates don’t seem to have that same mindset.

“Does he just not eat anymore?” Joy huffs. “I literally haven’t seen him all week!”

Wendy picks at her salad, lips twisted in a displeased grimace. “I actually saw him yesterday.”

Joy’s head snaps to her. “What?! You didn’t tell me that. What happened?”

“Since casually running into him doesn’t seem to be working, I figured I’d try getting him to come to me. So I unplugged my keyboard and messaged him, but he didn’t show up for like 40 minutes,” Wendy sighs irritably. “And when he did, he looked at me like I was a moron.”

Your lips twitch in amusement before you can stop them. Joy immediately says exactly what you’re thinking. “Well, you are a moron. You sat there for 40 minutes with your keyboard unplugged!”

Wendy soldiers on like she didn't hear her, undeterred from her gossiping. “So he came over in his ugly button-up and judged me! Plugged the keyboard back in and walked away without even saying anything.”

Despite not properly running into him all week, you actually did see Jungkook’s shirt in passing yesterday as he was turning down a hallway at the far end of the office. Wendy’s right—it had been an ugly puce. You found it endearing.

“He didn’t even roll up his sleeves,” Wendy mourned. “The least Jamal could have done was give me that.”

You pause in the chewing of the tuna sandwich you brought from home, exasperated. “Jamal,” you repeat flatly. “Really?”

Wendy waves her hand at you dismissively. “You know who I mean!”

“I mean, he’ll probably be more willing to talk to you if you treat him like an actual person.” Your quip is reflexive and indignant, and it kind of throws all three of you off guard. Joy raises an eyebrow at you and your sudden vexation, but you still add, though more subdued, “You know. Making an effort to remember his name is a good start.”

“Damn, who pissed in your Cheerios?” Wendy sniffs, though she doesn’t seem very offended by your callout. Over the months you’ve superficially gotten to know her, you’ve come to notice that she doesn’t really take much seriously—a simultaneously admirable and frustrating trait. “If you wanted dibs, you could have just said that.”

You feel heat flush up your neck, denial attempting to sputter from your lips, but true to form, Wendy has already moved on, tittering about how it’s about time the office had some proper excitement that wasn’t just meetings and spreadsheets.

“And speaking of meetings,” Joy pipes up, passing you a nonchalant look, “don’t forget to order those sandwiches for the client meeting tomorrow.”

“Sandwiches?” Your mind blanks. You knew your boss was hosting some clients in the office—had even been working on a lot of grunt work to prepare for it—but no one had mentioned anything to you about any sandwiches. “I thought she was wining and dining them?”

Joy let out a mildly irritated huff. “No, they have to catch an early flight home, so the plan has changed to a working lunch. Weren’t you listening in Monday’s meeting?”

No, you hadn’t been listening, because you weren’t invited to the Monday’s meeting. So it looks like a plan had been made and tasks assigned to you…without anyone bothering to communicate that. Typical.

You close your eyes for a second, jaw working as you attempt to tamp down your ever-brewing frustration. If they intend on you ordering from the usual place, it may be too late to cater for delivery, which means you’ll probably be stuck figuring out how to transport multiple giant platters from a restaurant five blocks away. 

“Do you mind forwarding me the request you sent? I must have missed it,” you respond neutrally, knowing full well the original email had never been sent to you. You stand to leave, the rest of your lunch break instantly soured by the revelation that you apparently have time-sensitive action items that are encroaching dangerous territory. “Just want to make sure I get the order correct.”

Joy nods, attention already back on Wendy and only half-listening. In the meantime, you’ll have to research alternatives, just in case.

While you’re lucky enough to find an acceptable last-minute catering option that will also, blessedly, deliver, that doesn’t mean you’re free to take a breather. 

It’s now the end of the day, and one by one, you see everyone around you log out and head for the elevator. Even Joy, who leaves right on time, despite knowing just how many tasks your small team still needs to complete for the big meeting tomorrow. What’s left is mostly grunt work, and while you are undoubtedly a grunt, it’s been clear for a while now that Joy no longer sees herself to be included in that category. So even though having more hands on deck would speed things along considerably, she still gathers her purse and gives you a cheeky finger wave on her way out.

At some point, the cleaning lady makes her rounds, scooting past you with a murmured apology to empty your trash can, but eventually even she disappears. Hell, even the sun abandons you, the soft glow fading from all the windows and stranding you with the cold fluorescent lighting that only remains on in your part of the office, because the lights have motion detectors. 

And so it’s just you, kneeling on the carpet and surrounded by a gazillion binders. Ensuring relevant reports and Powerpoint presentations are accurate and sending digital copies to your boss for her to have on-hand. Attempting to print physical copies and assemble them into binder portfolios your clients will be able to follow along with during the meeting. 

Attempting, because Mabel is, of course, choosing now to live up to her bitchy reputation. She won’t print on the right-sized paper. She won’t collate. She won’t be cooperative at all, and you’re too exhausted for this shit. Physically and mentally exhausted, trying your hardest to rein in the frustration that’s slowly expanding in your chest, crawling up your throat and triggering a familiar burning behind your eyes. It’s not fair. 

An exasperated noise escapes you without thinking, a loud, guttural thing. None of this is fair.

“_____?”

Your head snaps over your shoulder in surprise, not at all expecting anyone else to still be in the building. It’s Jungkook, because of course it is. Brows knitted in confusion, a black leather jacket thrown over his marigold button-up for some reason. He’s standing near the doors that exit into the lobby, evidently about to begin his trek home before you unwittingly paused his endeavor.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, but before you can even deign to answer, he’s already taken a few steps towards you and followed up with a clearly concerned, “Are you okay?”

You take a breath, struggling to calm the storm within you. None of this is his fault, nor his problem, and you should just force a smile on your face so he can be on his way and leave you to your self-pity. But you’re tired, so tired, and simply don’t have the capacity to pretend anymore. You swallow around the lump in your throat, and when you do speak, the thickness of your voice betrays the tears that you’re fighting to keep at bay. “No.”

This only seems to alarm him more. He’s standing next to you now, as close as he can get with the array of binders and papers you have scattered on the floor around you like a fortress not meant to keep anyone out, but rather, to keep you inside.

“What’s the matter?” he asks gently.

“Oh, nothing,” you snort derisively, blinking rapidly at the ceiling in an effort to try to stop the inevitable. “Nothing. It’s just well past 7pm and I’m still here in this godforsaken building attempting to print out and hole punch and assemble twenty copies of this presentation. I can’t even get the printer to do what I’m asking it to! And there’s no fucking reason I should still be here because the could have been done last week if my boss didn’t keep making nonsensical changes based solely on vibes. And tell me why there are six people on my team but no one thought to help me or take any sort of ownership of this at all—as per usual—or even buy me a fucking coffee for once! I haven’t eaten a proper meal all day but everybody just assumes they can go home because things will magically get done like they always do because they will! I will always make sure that they will! Every day it becomes increasingly clear that nobody in this fucking company gives a flying FUCK about me or my free time or my sanity—”

If he’s put off by your potty mouth, Jungkook certainly doesn’t show it. He just manages to catch your gaze from behind his glasses and simply replies, “I do.” 

Your never-ending rant rapidly dissipates on your tongue, brain struggling to comprehend what he just said. “…What?”

“I care,” he repeats softly. “How can I help?”

The sincerity in his tone renders you mute, too stunned to do anything more than watch as Jungkook drops the backpack he’s had slung over a shoulder onto the floor, tossing his newly removed jacket on top of it without much thought. He’s unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves, the reemergence of an ink-covered forearm making your brain stutter even more. Now that there’s much less distance between you, you can more accurately make out the shape of a delicate tiger lily, the languid form of a snake.

Jungkook clears his throat, the noise snapping you out of your stupor and making you realize you were just staring at him in silence, for who knows how long. Dammit. “What do you need?” he tries again. 

“Um, first we can start with Mabel,” you croak, mouth now embarrassingly dry. “No matter what I do, she refuses to collate.”

Jungkook shoots you a smile that softens his whole face. “Lucky for you, I’m the printer expert, remember? Don’t worry. We’ll get this fixed and be out of here in no time.”

He holds out a hand and you reflexively grab it, allowing him to guide you to your feet. Together, you make your way to the copy room, where Mabel has stubbornly been giving you hell all night. Jungkook gets right to work pushing buttons while you stand to the side, awkwardly shifting your weight a little from foot to foot.

“So why are you still here?” you ask, curiosity finally forcing you to voice the question that’s been looping in your mind since he first appeared. “It’s late.”

“It is,” he agrees, focus still on the printer. He kneels down, opening the paper tray. “There’s this huge system update that’s set to roll out next week. My whole team has been hunkering down and pulling late nights.”

Oh. That explains why you haven’t seen him around much since the barbecue. “That’s tough.”

“We’re finally almost done,” he shrugs. “And I’m clearly not the only one working overtime.”

You don’t say anything when he looks up at you pointedly, so he turns back to the printer, pulling a stack of paper out of one of the trays.

“I think this may be part of the problem. Someone put the wrong-sized paper in here. Or, at least, Mabel thinks it’s wrong. She’s confused.”

“Well, she can join the club,” you mutter, and he puffs out a laugh, shutting the drawer and pressing some more buttons.

“Come on, let’s try again.”

Something touches your elbow, and though it shocks through you like he electrocuted you, you have the good sense suppress any embarrassing reaction to what you quickly realize is just his hand. Instead, you let him guide you back to your desk, trying not to focus too intently on the heat of his skin on yours. 

Jungkook waits for you to login to your computer, clicking around and changing some settings once you step back and allow him free rein. Then, you can hear a distant hum coming from the copier room, and you know immediately that he’s succeeded. Dutifully, he goes to check anyway, returning to you with a stack of perfectly collated paper.

“Thank god,” you groan. “Now let me just print fifty more of those so I can start organizing these binders.”

With the crisis averted and his job done, you fully expect him to gather his pile of stuff and hustle to the elevator before you can trap him into doing anything else. Instead, Jungkook goes to pick up the additional copies from the printer for you, and he actually gets down on the floor next to you to start putting everything together. He watches you assemble one binder for reference, but then he’s easily doing the same and doubling your completion speed. 

And slowly, gradually, your nervous system calms. The two of you work like a well-oiled machine in what would be comfortable silence, if your brain wasn’t so loud. Now that you’re not actively panicking, a completely different feeling starts to seep into you—embarrassment.  You can’t believe that Jungkook actually caught you on the cusp of a breakdown, during which you looked so pitiful, he felt morally obligated to stop what he was doing and help you.

“I’m sure you have somewhere to be,” you say after a while with a grimace. He’s way too nice and you’re way too pathetic. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night—I promise you don’t have to stay with me. Now that everything’s printed and organized, most of the work’s done. I should be out of here in no time.”

“Well, I promise you didn’t ruin anything. And with two of us, you can be out of here in less time than that.” He looks up with a soft smile from where he’s hole punching a stack of paper, the muffled ka-chunk of the device punctuating his point. “I don’t mind, _____. Really.”

“But I do,” you murmur, looking away. Unable to meet his eyes. “I really appreciate your help, but I feel bad taking up so much of your time.”

“Well, don’t. I didn’t really have plans tonight anyway, and I’ve been working so much that it’s probably better that I get in some socializing time.”

“Not that I’m very good company,” you snort derisively.

There’s a pause, one long enough that you wonder if he heard you. But then he’s moving a little closer to you, tipping slightly sideways to tap his shoulder against yours. Reflexively, you turn back to him, finding his eyes kind.  

“We all have our off days, and that’s okay. But they’ll dull your shine if you let them. Don’t.” He bumps your shoulder again. “Besides, you and I have to stick together, remember? Or did you not really mean it when you told me that?”

You did tell him that, didn’t you? Months and months ago. You're surprised that he even remembers that.

There's an amused quirk to his lip, one that you can't help but feel yourself soften to, even as his focus turns back to the task at hand. And all at once, you feel yourself flooded with gratitude. You've been thankful for his help this whole time, of course, but now you almost sag with it, the relief at knowing someone is finally in your corner, the sudden sense of security and support visceral and a little overwhelming.

Before you fully realize what you're doing, it's you who leans closer, aiming to give a him a grateful kiss on the cheek. But your lips don't quite land on their intended target, because just before you succeed, Jungkook unconsciously senses your increasing proximity and reflexively turns his head back to you.

It's his lips yours coincidentally brush against, the accidental kiss timid due to his surprise and your chaste intentions. But the kiss is also soft, his lips plush and rather easily yielding to yours. 

Quickly realizing your mistake, you pull back, eyes as big as saucers. You stare at him in stunned silence and he stares back, eyes all pupil.

A horrified apology is immediately crowding the back of your throat, but right before you set it free, Jungkook's Adam's apple bobs, an errant tongue absently swiping across his lips. 

Huh. This isn’t exactly the reaction of someone repulsed by an unwanted kiss. He still hasn't said anything, but he hasn't moved away from you either. He's just watching you. Waiting. 

...Waiting?

With caution but with clear intent, you lean back in, and to your surprise, he meets you halfway, noses bumping a little before he tilts his head and your lips slot perfectly together. 

This kiss is immediately different from the last. Jungkook mindlessly drops he binder he's holding, body angling more solidly towards you so he can properly meet the rapidly rising intensity. Well, meet may be the wrong word, because he's the one whose hand quickly reaches up to cradle your chin, gentle pressure a silent request to  for you to tilt your head a bit more. And when you comply with the change in angle, it's him who deepens the kiss, the slow lave of his tongue coaxing your lips to part, open and wet.

You pant hot into his mouth and he breathes you in, offering no resistance when you push even closer, hands wandering across his shoulders, fingers ghosting up the back of his neck before drifting to idly toy with the hair at his nape. He hums contentedly, not unlike a purring cat, and does it again when your tongue joins his in a slow glide. 

You lose yourself in the sensation of it all, unable to notice anything beyond the heat that is rapidly building between you like fireworks ready to explode. Your head spins, swimming with endorphins and high off the smell of him. The taste.

A playful nibble of your lip unexpectedly has a rather desperate keen escaping your throat. You pause, making to pull back in your embarrassment, but the sound only seems to activate Jungkook, who follows you in your attempted retreat, mouth chasing yours in its reluctance to part. It's only when your back finally touches the floor that you realize he's slowly guided you there. You've been in a haze, too swept into the plot of the movie you've somehow found yourself in to do anything but be pulled along.  

As naturally as breathing, your find your knees have parted, and Jungkook easily slips into the space you've created for him, almost trancelike. As if he doesn't even realize he's doing it, too focused on exploring the fever of your mouth. He's leaning most of his weight on the hands he has posted on either side of your head; even still, every single millimeter of you that does touch him is sparking like live wires, euphoric goosebumps rippling across your skin. You let out a shaky breath that fogs his glasses, but even that doesn't stop him, just makes him pull back from you just enough to be able to whip them off and toss them somewhere, wholly unconcerned.

Emboldened by this, you sling a leg over his hip, and he eagerly accepts your invitation, settling on you properly. You're covered in him now, pelvises properly flush, and now that he's caged you in, Jungkook takes the opportunity to glide his lips away from yours and trail across your jawline instead. You shiver, every atom of you buzzing at his touch, and his mouth continues its trek, sucking hot down the column of your throat with just enough pressure that you know color will bloom there later. 

Your hips reflexively jump at his ministrations, your skirt riding further up your thighs, and the hard press of him against your panties has you swallowing down a moan. He freezes for a fraction of a second, but then his hips respond to the lure of yours with a more intentional roll. A contented sound rumbles in the back of his throat, tongue dipping to meander across your collarbone.

This is crazy. This is crazy. But you can't quite find it in yourself to care much as the two of you rut against each other on the office floor, your hand gliding up his back to root in the hair at his nape. 

Your hips undulate restlessly, eager to meet the crest of his wave, and Jungkook matches your intensity, catching your earlobe between his teeth. Your shared grind is measured but deliberate, and even through his pants you can feel the hard shape of him pressing right against your aching core. A particularly pointed roll has Jungkook shuddering hot into the shell of your ear, and that is what finally tamps down the last of your restraint and triggers something much more primal.

Dizzy with want, your hands scrabble between you and aim for the button of his slacks, eager to be properly introduced to what’s underneath. But to your slow horror, Jungkook freezes at the touch, motionless for a few breathless seconds before he actually starts lifting off of you and pulling back. It’s only when he’s completely sat up and is staring at you that the full weight of what you’ve just done hits you like a freight train.

Holy shit. Holy shit. 

You really were just dry humping. A coworker. And you were doing it on the premises of the place that pays your fucking bills! Making out, dry humping, and you were actively aiming to do much more if he hadn't stopped you. 

What the fuck has gotten into you? 

You scrabble upright, dizzy with the mortification rapidly seeping deep into your bones. Stupidly, you blink at him, paralyzed with embarrassment but unable to look away. A deer in headlights.

Jungkook stares right back, eyes dark and all pupil. Dazedly, you wonder if you look as fucked out as he does—there’s a smattering of red across his cheeks, and his hair has been thoroughly mussed by your own hands. A tongue dips out to swipe over kiss-swollen lips, stealing your attention away from the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

And suddenly, you’re able to kickstart into gear.

“I am so sorry,” you burst out, panic nearly choking you. “That was highly inappropriate and I seriously don’t know what came over me—”

It takes you a few moments to register that he’s moved back in, and that it’s the returned press of his lips that interrupts your babbling apology before it can properly catch its stride. You’re almost too afraid to respond in kind, as if you’ll somehow scare him away again, but the insistence in his kiss practically knocks the breath from your lungs. Patiently, he coaxes your rigid lips back pliant. And only when it’s clear you won’t try to run away does he lean back a second time, but only enough to see your eyes properly.

“No,” he murmurs, breath fanning hot over you. “That was very much appropriate.” 

You’re not quite sure how to respond to that, too shell-shocked by this turn of events and actively battling your triggered fight or flight response. “Um. Then…then why did you…”

Jungkook’s eyes flutter closed, as if he’s gathering himself. “I want to,” he mumbles, seemingly to himself, but then he’s looking right at you again, gaze heavy with resolve. “It’s just…do you mind if I try something first?”

That throws you for a loop. Your jaw opens then shuts again while you contemplate his question, as well as your answer. “I mean, I guess? It depends on what it is.”

That you don't instantly reject him visibly unwinds a tension in his body that you only now realize was there. A rather feral look crosses his face, immediately inciting goosebumps to ripple across your skin in anticipation. But then the intensity of his expression dims, edged with something more contemplative. Jungkook gives you a pensive nod then stands, looking around curiously. “Hey, where does that viper sit?”

You blink, bewildered. “…The who?”

“The one who’s always with you at lunch.” He locks eyes with you, tongue poking through his cheek. “You know. The one who’s on your team but still had no second thoughts about leaving you here tonight by yourself.”

Joy. He’s talking about Joy. 

The question makes you pause in suspicion, but you still hook a thumb towards the cubicle next to yours, on the other side of your shared wall. “There. Why?”

“No reason,” he says with a sly grin, holding out a hand to you. You take it without question and he easily helps you to your feet. But then before you can process it, he’s slid both hands around your waist and easily lifted you off the ground, already in route to the exact cubicle you called out. You yelp in surprise, your arms reflexively circling his neck—your legs, his middle—in your body’s scramble for balance. But Jungkook’s hold on you is secure, grip moving down to the back of your thighs instead, and now that your chests are once again flush, you can actually feel his chuckle. His amusement provokes yours, and you can’t help but giggle as he carries you over to Joy’s cube as easily as if you weigh nothing.

Clearly, his exercise routine is working out for him.

After using a hand to sweep some objects out of the way, Jungkook carefully sets you down on Joy’s desk, right next to her monitor. Your mirth only grows at the feeling of whatever printouts she left for later review crinkling under your weight, at the sight of displaced pens rolling off the edge and disappearing to the ether that is the floor.

Jungkook has set you down, but he doesn’t pull away, just leans down and recaptures your eager lips. He’s tall enough that he’s kind of hunching over to kiss you, neck really craned, but he doesn’t seem to care much about that, kissing you with the same ferocity as moments before, when the two of you were entangled on the carpet. And you can’t help but match his fervor, hands reaching to guide his slim hips even closer, into the widening gap you naturally create for him between your legs. 

Time constricts and expands, an endless and meaningless concept. Because all that matters now is the tongue he slips past your lips to slide against yours, slowly, like he’s savoring the taste of you. All that matters is how fucking great he smells—like clean laundry and smoke and warm skin speckled with sweat—something you’ve always caught whiffs of, but now completely surrounds you, invading all your senses and sending your lust into overdrive. 

“Is this what you wanted to try?” you pant hotly when your lips finally separate for a moment in your quest for air. “Defiling Joy’s desk?”

He’s leaning his forehead against yours while he also attempts to catch his breath, and he’s so close that it would be hard for you to miss his amused flash of teeth. “Sort of. I’d like to defile it more thoroughly, though. Starting with this.” 

Jungkook leans in for one last kiss, one that starts at your mouth, moves to your neck, and to your surprise, continues down the line of your body. Over your collarbone, careful hands popping open a few buttons of your blouse so he can nestle more surely into the curve of your breasts, warm lips skating across eager skin. For a few moments, he actually nuzzles his face into your middle, a gesture you find rather sweet before he incites a shiver through your body by licking against your clothed navel. And before you can fully realize what’s happening, he’s slipped to his knees.

You look down at him in surprise, body still slotted between your legs, but this time more eye-level with the secret, needy part of you that has been thrumming excitedly with every beat of your heart. “What are you…”

“You’re always doing everything for everyone else,” comes his murmured reply. “Will you allow me to do something for you?”

Your brain is still so hazy from the spell of his mouth that it takes you a moment to recognize what’s happening. What he’s asking for. But when his large palms are hot against the naked skin of your thighs, gentle pressure urging them to part even more, it all hits you like a truck. Your eyes dart around, paranoid. “Jungkook,” you hiss. “…Here?”

“They’re too cheap to put cameras anywhere other than the lobby.” He turns his head, lips pressing reassurance into the side of your knee. “And no one’s here.” His reminder as gentle as the kisses he continues to adorn you with. “Just you.” Kiss. “And me.”

He’s right, you know. No one else is here to witness the series of bad decisions you’ve just made—to witness the ones you’re still seriously considering. 

Still, you hesitate.

Jungkook’s staring intently at you, doe-eyed and cherry-lipped and deceptively innocent despite what he’s requesting of you. “Please?” he asks again, oh-so-sweetly. Reverently prostrating before your altar, praying for the blessing of an ambivalent goddess. You. “I just…I really want to. Ever since that day, I can’t stop thinking about it and I—please?”

Your brows furrow as you try to make sense of what he’s saying, still scrambling to keep up with this current turn of events. What day? Your mind whirrs, jumping around before finally settling on an embarrassing memory you’ve willed yourself to forget. 

Lunch, where Wendy somehow got you to admit you’ve never gotten head, and Jungkook, purportedly oblivious, too busy on his phone to ever pay your table any attention. 

…Except from what he’s saying right now, he had heard every word. Heard, and filed it away for safekeeping, only revealing to you now, when he can possibly do something about it.

Absently, your tongue dips out to swipe across your lips, and Jungkook’s attention visibly strays towards the action, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your thighs and sending electricity straight to your core. God, do you want to say yes. Even though you’ve never done this before, your inexperience is not at all the reason for your reluctance. It’s the optics. You’re at work.

Your head tilts as you try to accurately take stock of the situation. You’re at work. But technically, you should have clocked out hours ago. Technically, this job has been stealing a lot of time that should have been yours to choose what to do with. Case in point—you’re the only person on your team still within a five-mile radius of this godforsaken building. Because everyone else deserted you without a second thought, designating you to be the one who struggles to print presentations for a meeting that has been on the calendar for literal months.

But. 

While it’s easy to assume they forced this fate upon you, Fate is not one easily compelled to do another’s bidding. And, trapped in the gaze of the sweet man still patiently awaiting permission to ruin you, you can’t help but wonder if this has been Her plan all along. 

For months you’ve been doing everything for everyone else, so unhappy and stressed that each day in this place only wound you tighter and tighter. So…what if you finally just let yourself snap? Did what you wanted for once? Stopped following the rules that nobody else ever seemed to and just let go? 

You exhale. Fuck it.

“Okay.”

Jungkook grins, boyishly innocuous at first, but rapidly morphing into something much more devilish as you watch. He turns to kiss your knee again, and you startle a little at the action, newly on edge. “Don’t be nervous,” he says, still holding your gaze. Making sure you can see his resolve. “I got you.” 

“Okay,” you say again, but that’s easier said than done, especially when he takes the opportunity to gently push your knees even further apart. Naturally, your skirt rides further up, and you can’t help the apprehension that washes over you at your increasing lack of modesty. Still, you hold true to your word, aggressively tamping down the urge to scramble off the desk and pretend this all never happened. But though you brace yourself for what comes next…

Jungkook doesn’t move.

Long moments pass before you can’t help but say something. “Are you just gonna look?” Because that’s all he seems to be doing, laser-focused on the juncture of your thighs.

He visibly stirs at the sound of your voice, but still doesn’t do much more than tsk at you. “Don’t rush me,” comes his light reprimand, eyes still locked on what you’re sure at this point is a growing dark spot on your panties. “I don’t half-ass things and I definitely won’t rush this. No one’s here, so just relax and enjoy the ride.”

Your jittery nerves have you reflexively mouthy, but your retort swiftly dies on your tongue when his hand finally moves further up your skirt—further inward—and two fingers pointedly press right against that dark spot and glide over your clothed lips. You gasp, fighting against the urge to snap your legs shut when he slowly circles your clit and sends sparks dancing down your legs. 

“Better?” he murmurs.

“Much,” you squeak.

“Good,” he says, eyebrows knitted in thought as he circles and circles. Your thighs twitch, and he leans forward like he can’t help himself, nose pressing solidly against you with a long, audible inhale.

A fascinated oh falls from your lips, heartbeat accelerating excitedly in your ears, but Jungkook only responds by nestling further against your pussy, tracing the length of your lips with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue through the fabric. He breathes hot against your clit and you inadvertently buck at the stimulation, only inciting the wicked curl of his lips. He looks up at you darkly through the curtain of his bangs, and something unexpected and primal simmers beneath your skin.

“Can I have these?” he asks huskily, lightly snapping the elastic of your panties against your skin. 

You clear your throat, suddenly wishing you had the foresight to put on something more interesting today than your unassuming cotton undies. “Have as in you won’t give them back?”

He lets out an amused puff of air, tilts his head. “I haven’t decided yet.”

You nod your assent. You’re now impossibly invested in where he plans to take this, and it’s not like you don’t have more pairs at home. “Knock yourself out.”

Immediately, his hands are up your skirt. They’re big, but they’re also gentle, caressing your thighs and even taking a slight detour to the meat of your ass before continuing their mission to the band of your underwear. When he starts to pull, you help him, shifting your weight so he can slip the fabric over your hips and down your legs.

Jungkook’s Adam’s apple dips when his eyes are finally able to feast on you without a barrier. “So fucking hot,” he mutters, almost to himself, and then without further warning, his mouth seals around your sex.

You whimper in surprise, not at all used to the sensation of someone kissing you there. And kiss you he does, carefully at first, judging your reaction. But when you do nothing but grip the edge of the desk, biting your lip in an attempt to stifle the rather desperate sounds crawling up your throat, he swiftly devolves into kissing you with the same passion as he had the lips on your face. His tongue laps at you with sure, even strokes, dragging across the seam of you and then through it, making sure to slide along your clit on every upstroke. 

Your breath quickens, jaw falling slack. You weren’t sure what you imagined oral sex to be like before this, but you never expected how easily your body submits to his ministrations. Almost without you realizing it, your thighs part even more, hips automatically canting down to meet his eager mouth. A hand reaches for him, fingers winding through his hair and rooting there, and Jungkook hums in approval, his own hands wrapping securely around your thighs, your ass. His fingers sinking into the yielding softness of you, gently holding you steady against his face while you start to gyrate and moan.

God, does he look good down there. He’s always looked good, even before you knew what he was hiding behind those shy smiles and nerdy glasses, but something about the sight of him, jaw working as he sucks on you, lashes fluttering in pleasure in his quest to please you—

Without warning, he detaches with an audible pop, and a disgruntled sound reflexively leaves you. Breathless, you start to ask him why he stopped, but the words die on your tongue when you realize he’s staring at you again. That he pulled back for a moment just so he can get a good look at the mess he’s making of you. So he can properly see how your pussy aches and drools for him.

“Good?” he asks, voice deep and thick.

“So fucking good,” you sigh. What you know he wants to hear, but also 1000% the truth. You’re starting to understand what Wendy has been blathering about, but is it always like this? Or is it Jungkook in particular who is making you so unbelievably aroused? Is your rapidly snowballing crush on him that strong, or does pussy eating simply rank high on his skillset?

As if he can hear your thoughts, Jungkook moves to slip a finger into you, and you can’t help but moan when he breaches you, the digit sliding in so easily that he quickly adds another, thumb pressing surely into your clit as he starts a slow drag in and out. 

“Shit,” you shudder, eyes rolling back into your head. Hips sliding further off the desk, reflexively seeking the delicious stimulation. One of your hands scrabbles across the desk, unconsciously trying to root you, and you’re much too preoccupied with how good he’s making you feel to notice when you accidentally knock over a mug full of pens. A stapler clanks to the ground. “Fuck.” 

“Look, baby,” he breathes, moaning along with you when the pet name immediately makes your pussy flutter. “Look.”

At his encouragement, you do. You watch the flex of his tattooed arm as his fingers continue to disappear within you, a lewd squelch coinciding with his movements. You watch as he adds another finger, the additional stretch immediately noticeable but even more delicious. You watch him watch you, eyes all pupil, lips swollen and slick with your desire.

“More,” you whine, frenzied and greedy. And Jungkook immediately heeds your call, leaning back in. He sucks on your clit with three fingers sunk in you, expertly crooked towards your pelvic bone, and you jolt, accidentally knocking something else off the desk. Neither of you pays the resulting clattering any attention, too wrapped up in the way you writhe at his ministrations. He hums in approval, the vibrations only intensifying your ecstasy. He flattens his tongue as your hips desperately circle, letting you control the stimulation. And when it’s clear you still need more, he changes tactics and rapidly laps at you instead, as if you’re a melting ice cream cone, while he beckons, beckons. 

Your blood is volcanic, hot pressure bubbling beneath the prison of your skin, building and building within your core. The higher he takes you, the more the grip you have on his hair unintentionally tightens, but that only seems to urge him on, locking eyes with you as the thrust of his fingers turns harder and more calculated. Giving you no other choice but to finally erupt.    

You cum with a loud groan, gasping through it while your cunt rhythmically clamps down on his digits, hard. Jungkook talks you through it, murmuring encouraging words your buzzing brain has trouble deciphering because his hand still doesn’t stop, pounding right into your g-spot and making your eyes cross and toes curl with the force of it. And when you finally can’t take anymore, jerking with oversensitivity, you grab him by the wrist in a wordless plea for mercy.

And Jungkook grants it. You can tell that he wants to play with you more—wants to guide you over and over to the precipice just see the look on your face when he shoves you off—but ever the gentleman, he reins in his enthusiasm and obediently slips his fingers out of you. He takes a few seconds to admire his handiwork, eyes shining with in reverence as he marvels in the dripping, throbbing, panting aftermath that is you.

“Wow,” you say, still dizzy with endorphins. Never in a million years did you think it would feel like that.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice thick. “Wow.” He lifts his hand, remnants of you visibly slicking his fingers and webbing between the digits, and without a second thought, sticks them in his mouth and sucks. The resulting slurping of his errant tongue is nothing short of obscene, but your cunt flutters again anyway, interest clear despite being thoroughly satisfied only moments before. And when line of your essence starts to drip down your thigh, Jungkook makes sure to lean in and catch it with his tongue.

You shiver with the feeling of him on you again, mouth hot and wet, thighs still trembling. He’s taking his time, tongue dragging a slow path back up to the source, determined to feast upon the rewards of his efforts. But you can’t take it anymore. God, he’s so hot. He’s so fucking hot and you want him so fucking bad.

You need him. Biblically. 

Near delirious, you reach for him, hands scrabbling across his shoulders, fingers trailing the back of his neck and guiding him to stand. Arms circling his waist and pulling him closer to you—close, close—Jungkook easily slotting into spread of your thighs.

He follows your unspoken commands easily and without question, looking down at you with a rather pleased smile that crinkles his eyes in the corners. Determined to steal the breath from his lungs, just as he just did to you, you lean in to lick that smile pliant and open. There’s a curious taste on his tongue that it doesn’t take long to deduce is you, and that’s only even more of an aphrodisiac, revving you up further. 

Your hands continue to roam, sliding down a little to grope his backside, startling a laugh out of him. But when your fingers tease the waistband of his slacks, his delight visibly shutters away into something else entirely.

“You don’t have to do that,” he breathes, even as he reflexively bucks into the hand you’re using to palm him over his pants. “This was about you.”

“Then let it be about me,” you counter, a mischievous smile curling your lips. Even through his pants you can tell he's hard. That he wants this just as badly as you do.  Still, when he gasps out a wait, you obediently stop your ministrations and move to take your hand back. 

He doesn't let you get far, lacing his fingers through yours and visibly considering his next words for a few moments before settling on, “What do you need?” 

It’s a simple enough question, but you can't help but be immediately reminded of him saying these exact words to you, a little over an hour ago. Now, however, they sit heavy on his tongue, heady and syrupy in hushed invitations. 

The revelation hits you all at once, heart pounding excitedly in your ears.

You need only ask. You’ve only ever needed to ask.

And since all caution was thrown to the wind the moment you agreed to let him suck your soul out through your pussy...

“You said you’ve been thinking about me? Well, I’ve been thinking about you too. For a while, even though I’ve been trying not to.” 

You’ve had his attention this whole time, but the way Jungkook's regarding you now, now that you’ve said that? He's hanging onto every word, so hyper-focused that it would unnerve you if this wasn’t exactly what you were looking for. 

“So…” Adrenaline has your fingers restless against his, but you still dive headfirst. “What I need is for you to fuck me and finish what you started.”

A beat. One where he holds your gaze, the space between you so electrified that you’re surprised you don’t see sparks. But then he’s on you again, mouth meeting yours in a frenzied clash of lips and teeth, and this time he doesn’t stop you when your hands scrabble for his fly.

Jungkook wastes no time, smoothing his hands up your legs and pushing your skirt out of the way. He lets out a shuddered breath when you stroke him through his underwear, when you reach down the waistband and grip him properly.

He’s warm and thick in your hand, and the thought of him finally in your guts damn near has you vibrating. Just like you thought before, he’s already nice and hard, but you still pump him a few times just to revel in the proof of what you’ve done to him. Velvet over stone.

And despite having all the time in the world when the foreplay is for you, Jungkook doesn’t seem to have any patience for himself. You’re only able to enjoy the weight of him in your grip for a few passes before he’s surging into action. Strategically, he grabs you by the knees and lifts, maneuvering your legs into the crooks of his elbows. The move opens you up to him further and forces you more horizontal, leaning back on your forearms, nearly pressed against the cubicle wall.  

The way he ate you out moments before ensured you’d be primed for him, your pussy soft and slick and just begging to be filled. When he finally lines himself up and begins the slow press in, your jaw immediately falls open, tongue going lax at the intense pleasure. “Oh my god,” you manage to whine, eyes threatening to roll shut.

The unhurried way he’s sinking into you is likely in effort not to unintentionally hurt you. Because after everything else, why not add another thing to the ever growing list of surprises you’re learning about your unassuming coworker—not only has he been tatted and muscular this whole time, but his dick is also fucking huge. Without even realizing it, you’ve stopped breathing, the pressure of him nudging your walls apart too much stimulation for your body to continue even subconscious functioning. 

As if he can tell your brain is actively short-circuiting, Jungkook’s hands circle your thighs, thumbs kneading the flesh in mild distraction for when he finally bottoms out. It’s only now that you can properly notice the effect you’re having on him—hair starting to stick to his forehead from perspiration, teeth grit as he struggles to stay still for you.  But you don’t want him to be still.

“Fuck me,” you whimper, wiggling in your impatience and making him suck in a breath. “Please. Give it to me.”

The resulting roll of his hips has him swearing and you seeing stars. “Fuck. You can have whatever you want,” he says, already making good on his promise with a slow grid. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

It’s good, so good, especially because Jungkook uses his grip on your thighs as leverage to ramp up his thrusts, easily maneuvering you over his cock in a way that has your toes curling. By the time he’s really fucking you—jaw set, brows furrowed in concentration—you’re crosseyed and mewling incoherently. You should be embarrassed by the sounds he’s pounding out of you, but you’re so focused on the overwhelming pleasure that you can’t find it in yourself to care very much. 

Chasing the high you already feel him leading you towards, you lift one of your legs to change the angle, and he catches on immediately, helping guide your ankle to hook over his shoulder with a distracted kiss against the bone. And it’s deeper this way, the angle ensuring he brushes against your spongy nerves with every stroke, only making you spiral faster. 

He notices, of course. Notices how quickly he’s taking you to your end and revels in it, sliding a hand inward and he thumbing your clit, fast and hard.

You jolt at the extra stimulation, gasping and overwhelmed. “Oh my goddd…”  

“Come on,” he croons, his dulcet tone at odds with the wickedness of his hand. His dick. “Don’t you want to cum for me?”

“I…” you choke out, struggling to form any sort of coherent thought as you feel everything get tighter. “I…”

You see his lips moving as he presumably says something else. But you can’t understand anything other than your own moaning when your pussy finally locks down. This orgasm is somehow more intense than the last one, your thighs rippling with the force of it, your hands desperately scrabbling over the desk in an effort to find something to ground you. 

And Jungkook fucks you through it, still talking, and it’s only when the whooshing in your ears starts to subside that you can finally decipher what he’s saying in between his own moaning. “There you go. Being so good for me. So good.”

Your only reply is your gasping breath as your orgasm slowly fades, replaced with oversensitivity. But you don’t want him to stop. You don’t want this to stop, reveling in the feel of him on you, in you. And Jungkook doesn’t, instead sliding your leg off his shoulder so he can grab you by the waist with both hands and properly yank you forward, moving you over his cock to his liking. 

The desk creaks with your effort, a rhythmic cacophony with the harsh smacking of his balls against your ass. You mewl, needing him closer still, and curl your legs around his hips, locking your ankles. He’s now trapped against you, but he groans like that’s exactly what he wanted, both hands gliding up the length of your body to grasp the back of your neck instead, giving him even better leverage to plunge into you, deep, deep. He leans down and rests his forehead against yours, licks into your panting mouth. 

At this point, his thrusts are turning manic, but you’re meeting every one of them, deliriously following him in his descent into madness. But when he catches your lower lip with his teeth, your breath hollows, and then, quicker than you can register it’s happening, you cum again, spasming around him with a long, high-pitched whine.

Jungkook lets you ride it out, but this time, his thrusts slow while you thrash. And it’s not until your soul finally floats back into your body that you realize he’s already pulled out of you and is bucking into his own fist instead.  

You almost took him over the edge with you, you realize. Though he clearly has incredible stamina, you have finally brought him to his limit, and everything inside you glows at the knowledge that he’s here, roughly pumping himself, moans falling freely from his lips because of you. 

Entranced, you reach for him, delighting in the whimper he lets out when your fingers wrap around his base. His own hand immediately falls to grip the edge of the desk instead, and you glide your fist up, finding his cock sticky with your juices. Jungkook just rests his head in the crook of your neck and lets you jack him off, whining through it when you match his previously punishing pace. And it doesn’t take long before he finally, finally splashes hot over your hand. Against your thigh. 

Your hand slows, twisting your wrist and milking him for every drop. Intent on extending his pleasure, just like he made sure to do for you. And you only stop when he flinches away from your touch, twitchy and shivering as he leans against you. 

Reluctantly, you let go. The two of you share the same balmy breath, struggling to calm your racing hearts. And when Jungkook finally backs away from you, unhurried in the way he gathers himself back into his slacks, there is a wildly satisfied grin on his face.

You’re satisfied too, though you try to have some sense of propriety and use a tissue from the box next to Joy’s monitor to wipe off the sticky evidence of his pleasure. Throwing away the evidence, you hop off the desk, locating your long-discarded panties and slipping them back on, smoothing down your skirt.

“So,” you tease lightly. Your head swims a little with the knowledge of what you just did, but you’re surprised to realize you feel zero guilt about it. “Is your plan to stick it to everyone who’s wronged me? If so, we should do it on Mabel next. That’ll show her.”

Jungkook laughs, a giddy, giggly thing. He’s now doing his best to pick up and replace everything that fell from Joy’s desk during your romp. “Nah, I could never disrespect her like that. That ol’ girl’s been such a great wingman these past few months.”

That’s a rather curious statement to make. You frown a little, shoot him an inquisitive sound.

“You always call me when Mabel’s not working,” he shrugs. “So when I wanted to see you, she was nice enough help.” 

You can’t help it—a smile creeps across your face, equally bashful and flattered. He wanted to see you! For months, by his open admission. “And the printer knew exactly when you wanted to see me?" you joke. “Sounds like dark magic to me.”

Jungkook’s valiantly trying to straighten and smooth out some of the papers the two of you disturbed. “Deleted some print jobs,” he replies offhandedly, clearly distracted by the task at hand. 

Record scratch. 

There’s an extended silence as your brain shuffles through different iterations of his sentence, trying to decipher exactly he meant by that. Because there's no way he just admitted to what you think he just did. “Did…did you just say you've been deleting my print jobs?” you ask incredulously. Because there’s no way.

There’s no way, yet at your words, Jungkook immediately stiffens. His lips part, but he doesn't defend himself. Doesn't say anything at all—just drops the pen he’s holding and stares at you with wide eyes.

Holy shit. Holy shit. He really has been doing it! He obviously hadn't meant to tell you that, but the relaxation of afterglow has clearly removed the filter between his brain and his mouth. 

The weight of his revelation hits you, seemingly happenstance events connecting in your mind and starting to fall into place. All the hassle and irritation that stupid printer has been giving you, and it turns out Mabel has been working just fine?! 

“Please don't be mad,” he pleads, finally finding his voice.  

“Are you seriously saying that all this time—”   

“No! No, I only did it a few times,” he sheepishly rushes to correct you. “And I promise, I haven’t done it in weeks.”

“Seriously?” 

“I just...wanted an excuse to talk to you!”

“Jungkook, you literally talk to me all the time!”

“About work! Not—” he averts his eyes, lets out an irritated breath. “It’s just. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask you out.”

You blink, gaping slightly as your whirring mind tries to process what he’s just told you. “Ask me…out?” 

“I didn’t mean to do…all this.” He waves a hand over the mess the two of you are still cleaning up, clearly embarrassed. “I mean, at least not before buying you dinner first.”

Moments pass as you stare at him in stunned, disbelieving silence. Then, like a volcano erupting, laughter bursts from you, loud and sudden. Because what the fuck? You can’t believe all of this is actually happening to you. In real life. “You jackass,” you cackle. “Do you have any idea how much grief that printer has been giving me? I’m over here stressed and you’ve been gaslighting me and doing it on purpose?”

“Just a few times,” he repeats, visibly confused by the juxtaposition of the mirth in your voice and the actual words you’re saying. 

“And that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still a jackass,” you laugh. “But…” You clear your throat, suddenly somehow shy, despite everything that has occurred and been said. “…I suppose you can still take me out to dinner.”  

“Yeah?” His lips stretch into a slow, hopeful smile.

“Yeah. Now, if you want. I think we’re pretty much done here.” You smile back, quickly taking stock of the binders still scattered across the floor. Most of them are completed, but whatever else you need to do can be done tomorrow morning. “Besides, I seem to have worked up an appetite.” 

Jungkook looks nothing short of smug, but you suppose you can’t fault him that. “Well then,” he practically purrs, “Let’s hurry up and feed you.” 

Moving in comfortable silence, the two of you finish putting everything you’ve disturbed back in their original spots, gathering the last of the binders and stacking them neatly on your desk. You reach for your purse while Jungkook goes to collect his hastily discarded belongings.

“So,” you start. “Where are you taking me? It’s kind of late.” This late on a weeknight, kitchens would be shutting down soon.

He pauses in sliding his leather jacket back on, frowning a little as he realizes you’re right. “Shit,” he mutters. “I wanted to take you somewhere nice.”

“You can,” you say with an unbothered wave of your hand. “That can be next time. Let’s just find something quick now.”

“So you’re saying I get a second date?” he grins.

Oh. That is what you just implied, isn’t it? You would be embarrassed by how forward you were being if Jungkook wasn’t visibly delighted by it. Wow, he really does like you. And since the feeling is mutual, you just look away coyly and say, “If you play your cards right.”

Jungkook hoists his backpack over a shoulder, and it’s only then that you see what else he happened to be carrying in his hands when he dropped everything for you. A helmet.

You gesture towards the object with a curious incline of your head. “What’s that for?”

“My bike,” comes his easy answer, but that’s not the kind of helmet that one wears for bicycle rides. No, this one is made for something much faster. 

Now that you think about it, you’ve seen the motorcycle in the parking lot before—you’ve just never really given it a second thought. And now you can’t stop thinking about it, because the unassuming vehicle you’ve often passed on your way into the building has been Jungkook’s the whole time. Your mind is blown. How many more times is he going to surprise you tonight?  

“…Do you always drive a motorcycle?” you ask incredulously.

“Depends on the day,” he shrugs with grin. “Sometimes I take the bus, but I like to ride my bike when the weather’s nice.” His eyes are bright with pride, visibly happy to have impressed you. 

Your mouth opens and closes, thoughts racing so fast your tongue struggles to hold onto any of them. Before you realize you’re doing it, you blurt, “Alright. Are you even real?”

Jungkook blinks owlishly at you, clearly not expecting that question. “What?” 

“I thought I’ve known you for months. But was any of that real?” you repeat. “Hell, do you even need glasses?”

“Of course,” he rushes to say. “It’s all me. I can just be a little shy, is all.” Wow, he actually said shy with a straight face, as if he didn’t just finish ravaging you over multiple surfaces. “And I like to be professional, so this place doesn’t get to have all facets of me. I know you can relate.”

You can. Your constant struggle to not complain? To be professional and work hard and hope you’ll be rewarded for your efforts? Obviously that’s a reason why the two of you ended up in this situation in the first place.

He ducks his head a little, tapping the glasses he picked up off the floor in petition for their validity. “And these really are prescription. I mean, I can mostly see without them, but since I stare at computer screens all day, it’s less strain on my eyes.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, feeling silly to have even asked. But who knew the quiet IT guy who kept mostly to himself was also this? Buff and tatted with a wicked tongue that you’re now intimately acquainted with. 

Shyly, he holds his helmet out to you. He hesitates before speaking again, almost like he’s afraid of spooking you. “Wanna go for a ride?” And from the way color lightly blooms across his cheeks, you get the sense that he’s offering you more than just protective gear.

You take it without second thought.

The next day you and Jungkook get off the elevator together, a respectable distance between you, but arms still brushing too often to be casual. When you come to the hallway that will force you in separate directions, you pause.

“Have a good day,” you say. Jungkook grins, the delighted brightness of it baring too much teeth and crinkling his eyes in the corners.

“You too,” he winks. “Let me know if Mabel gives you any more issues.”

You snort at his brazenness, biting down a smile as you head to your cubicle. Your whole body buzzes, glowing from inside out.

You’re technically right on time, but you’ve definitely arrived later than usual, and that’s obvious when you head over to your department and find Joy already there waiting for you. She frowns as you approach, no doubt clocking your empty hands and wondering how she’s going to make it through the morning without her expected syrupy caffeine fix. 

To her credit, she doesn’t call you out on it, but you don’t really care if she does. You’re done playing errand boy. From now on, everyone else will have to stop before work and get their own shit, if they want it so bad.

Because it’s all so clear to you now. You’re here, and you’re going to do your best, but you’re not going to let this place wear you down to jaded slivers. You’re going to work hard and learn all that you can, but you refuse to be anyone’s lapdog. 

They will respect you. And your value will be recognized and rewarded—or you’ll simply find somewhere else where it will. 

Joy must sense your new resolve, because she simply hovers by your desk and chirps, “Good morning.”

“Morning.” 

“Did you have a good night?”

Your lips quirk. “You could say that. What about you?”

“Eh, it was okay,” she sighs. “Met a guy for dinner, but I don’t think that’s going anywhere.” 

So while you were stuck here last night, having a grade-A meltdown, she was on a date. That tracks.

Joy chatters on while you put your things away, not seeming to notice or care that you’re not particularly interested in what she’s saying. And while this would normally irritate the living shit out of you, today, it doesn’t. 

Today, your eyes can’t help but glaze over as your mind drifts back to how your night went. Today, you just hum agreeably until she gets bored with you and decides to go back to her own cubicle.

And when you hear her ask over the wall if you’ve seen her stapler, you just smile and smile.   

⇢ my masterlist

[caratchronicles]

so so so good, the tension was so well written, loved it!!

[suga-kookiemonster]

ctrl alt del | jjk

summary⇢ you graduated bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but, to your extreme disappointment, your big girl job isn't turning out to be nearly as exciting as you thought it would be. still, you're holding out hope that your talents will soon be recognized and your coworkers will stop trying to include you in their gossip sessions. enter jungkook, the quiet IT guy who's gradually making your days more bearable. (and if you find him easy on the eyes, that's nobody's business but yours.) pairing⇢ jungkook/reader word count⇢ 19.8k 🤭 genre⇢ smut | humor | office!au warnings⇢ sexual content, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), fingering, corporate nonsense, jk is a nerd but he's also really hot 😩 a/n⇢ omg, she's finally here 😭 this fic has been sitting in my drafts partially finished for literal YEARS lmfaoo. as in, jungkook didn't even have tattoos yet years ☠️ in fact, the whole plot for this was spawned from that time namjoon was on a live in his studio and jk visited in this yellow buttonup looking like a hot nerd and namjoon said he looked like he had an interview. it had to be 2018ish...i know my OGs know exactly what i'm talking about, but i'll put it below the cut for reference. ANYWAYS this was fun to imagine, but it's also entirely fiction so please don't attempt anything that happens in this fic lmao. mood for this fic is this. hope you enjoy~ 💜

When you graduated top of your class with a marketing degree and a job already lined up, you weren’t big-headed to assume you would be given a lot in the beginning. No, you knew that you were the new kid on the block and needed to prove yourself first, needed to work your way up from the bottom. But what you definitely didn’t anticipate was working up from thefigurative trenches, almost exclusively doing busywork—constantly making coffee runs, catering business lunches, printing out endless spreadsheets.

Eighty-thousand dollars in debt, and you are a glorified intern.

While you’re positively itching to hit the ground running and get your hands dirty, your job isn’t too bad. The people there are all nice and welcoming, the complimentary coffee in the break room is decent enough for your dwindling bank account, and every quarter the company sponsors an employee barbecue where everyone can fraternize and enjoy free food.

“Apparently it fosters unity and teamwork,” your coworker Joy informs you as you both stand in the food line. “Seokjin—that’s our CEO—is really big on unity and teamwork.”

Joy is also a member of your marketing team. Though friendly, she has zero filter and thus always has a lot to say about everything—which has helped you when it comes to learning the ropes about the company, but has also had you clutching your imaginary pearls in certain situations where you found her topic of choice inappropriate. 

Despite only being a year older than you, her title of Marketing Associate instead of your measly Assistant means that she technically outranks you, though she doesn’t usually enforce that fact (unless there was something that needed to be copied or filed, of course). Still, she immediately took you under her wing when you first started and is the closest person to a friend you have at work (even though her daily coffee order is always so ridiculous, you are convinced that she has to be fucking with you—or at least engaging in some form of mild hazing).

“I think it’s nice,” you reply truthfully. “I’ll never say no to free food, and they let us out early and everything.”

“I mean, pretty sure you can get the hotdogs twelve in a pack at the dollar store,” Joy quips, raising her eyebrows at you pointedly. “But sometimes the boys from Sales take their shirts off and play soccer, so there’s that.”

Your eyes dart to said Sales Boys against your will, gaze drawn to Jung Hoseok as he chats animatedly with his teammates by the tables. You’ve only spoken to him once or twice, but his fiery red hair and even brighter smile caught your attention immediately, your heart rate accelerating at the sight of him in hallways mere days into starting your new position. Who better to have a mild work crush on than a sweet-talking salesman who winks at you sometimes in passing?

An appreciative noise has you turning back around, embarrassed at being caught ogling how shapely Hoseok’s butt looks in his dress pants today, but it’s just Wendy from Accounting, Joy’s best friend and thus a harmless, familiar face. Wendy has cut in front of a few editors to join you and Joy, and the way that she smiles at you lets you know she’s up to no good. “He’s cute, huh?” she asks, leaning towards you conspiratorially. “I would definitely give him the good ol’ suck behind the dumpsters over there, if you catch my drift.”

“Err…yeah, I do,” you reply awkwardly. She had been explicitly clear—keyword explicit—so there definitely isn’t any room for misunderstandings. Is this truly appropriate work function conversation? From the way the editors behind you are politely clearing their throats, you think not.

“Behind the dumpster?” Joy asks curiously. “That sounds unnecessarily smelly. He’s standing right next to some sturdy tables that I, for one, would take great advantage of—”

“I’m gonna go get us some drinks,” you announce loudly, your neck heating up. “Can you grab me a hot dog, Joy?”

“Sure,” she says dismissively, already distracted by her sudden debate with Wendy about the most convenient place to suck off salesman Jung.

The whole conversation is making you uncomfortable. You are not a prude—far from it—but there is a time and place for everything, and your coworkers’ blasé attitude towards inappropriate topics at company functions on company time rattles you a bit. So instead of engaging in the risqué discussion further, you make your way to the cluster of brightly-colored coolers that presumably hold beverages, sidling up to the only other person lingering the area.

“Anything good?” you ask cordially, making your coworker, who had apparently been deep in thought while considering his beverage options, startle a bit.

He’s tall, his large frame covered in the appropriate business casual attire of nice jeans and a powder-blue button-up. When he turns his head to look at you, you’re met with large, dark eyes blinking in surprise from behind wire-rimmed glasses. Said eyes dart around for a moment before determining that you were, in fact, speaking to him.

The man clears his throat. “Just the usual,” he says, voice soft. Timid.

“The usual?” you repeat. There are little hoops dangling from his earlobes, and you brush off your surprise at seeing them, returning your gaze to the coolers. Water, a clear soda, a cola. “The basics, you mean. Well, can’t really complain, right? Seeing as it’s all free. I think it’s really nice of them.”

Your companion seems surprised at your words. “It is,” he agrees softly, eyes meeting yours for a second before dropping back down to the cooler. “Um, are you...are you new?”

“Damn, I guess my cover’s blown.” You shoot him a wry smile. “Yeah, I just started a couple of weeks ago. What gave it away?”

“It’s just—no one else here really cares about these barbecues anymore,” he admits, looking at you, but not quite. More like, in your direction. “Everyone has forgotten to appreciate the little things.”

“Nothing is a given,” you shrug. “So you need to appreciate things when you can. And besides, those lots of little things can really add up without you realizing it.”

He finally seems to look at you properly, and the weight of his large, gentle brown eyes throws you off for a second. “They can,” he agrees, lips slowly drifting up. 

“What do we have over here?” a loud voice interrupts, a hand falling to your shoulder. You look up, and are met with the brightness of salesman Jung.

“Ah,” Hoseok says with a wink, reaching into the cooler. “I love Sprite.”

“Me too,” you reply automatically, and then immediately want to smack yourself. Because you don’t—carbonated beverages make you break out. But your mouth had formed the lie without your permission.

Embarrassed, you reach into the cooler, grabbing three water bottles. “See you later,” you squeak, avoiding eye contact as you make your escape.

Joy and Wendy are already watching you when you return to where they have procured a table, and when you hand them their waters, Joy raises an eyebrow. “I was wondering how long you were going to talk to that IT guy.”

“Yeah, and why did you leave when Hoseok showed up?” Wendy pouted. “_____, the universe is only going to give you so many opportunities. If you don’t want the ball, then pass it to me! Goddamn.”

“IT guy?” you prompt, hoping to slide past that last remark.

“Yeah. His name is Jungkook, I think? Mostly works with the printers, started a couple months ago.” Joy shrugs, obviously disinterested by the topic. She reaches for the ketchup bottle in the center of the table and squirts some on her hot dog. “This is the first time I’ve seen him at a barbecue, though. Honestly, I’m surprised he even came out, because the IT dudes generally keep to themselves. They rarely leave their little tower,” she adds with a dismissive wave.

Wendy scoffs in disinterest. “Who cares about Jeremy! Hurry up and eat, I’m sure Sales is gonna start their soccer game soon.”

“Soccer game?” you ask distractedly. A glance back to the coolers shows Jungkook is gone, and you don’t see him in the immediate vicinity.

“The sales department likes to play soccer during these things,” Joy reminds you. Her expression brightens. “Hey, maybe Hoseok will take his shirt off again! Let us pray.”

To your coworkers’ disappointment, Hoseok did not take his shirt off. But they certainly had a good time watching his athletic display across the grass anyway.

Monday morning—the start of the workweek, but also, rather depressingly, the end of the weekend. Everyone tends to be more tired and grumpy on Mondays (yourself included), and this is why your team considers it essential that you always stop by their preferred coffeeshop and bring in their drinks for a morning pick-me-up. You’re the lowest on the ladder, so you weren’t exactly sure how to refuse when you were asked one day if you would mind picking up some drinks for everyone, and then, after that, people kept sending you their orders like it was expected of you. The café is technically on your way to work and everyone always pays you back, but it’s still pretty irritating to have to forgo those extra precious minutes of sleep just so you can beat the long lines and get to work on time.

Today, you’re lucky enough to get ahead of the morning rush, but that means that you end up trudging into the building much earlier than you anticipated. You hope the coffee’s insulated cups do their job properly, because you really don’t have the energy to listen to Joy huff and puff about having to reheat hers.

Your trek to your cubicle slows when you realize that someone is already there, sitting in your chair and typing away on your keyboard. Their back is to you, swathed in an olive button-up, and it’s not until you get close enough to curiously crane your head to see their face that you recognize him. The guy from the barbecue last week—the one by the coolers.

He startles a bit when he sees you approach in his peripheral vision, eyes darting up at you in surprise.

“Hi.” You raise the tray you’re holding in an awkward greeting. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to creep up on you.”

“That’s okay, _____,” he replies softly, wide eyes blinking a little from behind his round glasses. “I can get kind of spacey when I’m focused on something. I was just doing some updates on your machine and didn’t see you.”

“You…” Your head tilts curiously. “You know my name?” 

A small smile touches his lips as he points to your computer. “I’m updating your machine,” he reminds you.

Not to mention the fact that he’s literally sitting in your cubicle, you name tag clearly posted on the frosted glass that separates your space from Joy’s. An embarrassed chuckle leaves you when you realize your dumbass mistake. “Oh. Duh. Wow, that was a stupid question. Let me just get out of your way.”

“No, no, I’m clearly the one in the way!” His head shakes apologetically. “I couldn’t do this update remotely and I thought you didn’t clock in for another half hour—sorry about that.”

“I don’t,” you confirm. “But I tend to get here a little early so I can sort out everyone’s coffee order.”

A brow raises in surprise. “Do they really have you making coffee runs?” he asks incredulously.

You hmm in confirmation, moving to set the coffee on everyone’s desks. “Rite of passage, I guess,” you call over the divider as you work. Joy’s order today isn’t as over the top as you know she can be, but you were still rather embarrassed to order it (vanilla latte with oatmilk—one and a half pumps cinnamon, one pump hazelnut, an extra espresso shot and extra foam with honey drizzle). The barista had looked at you tiredly but hadn’t voiced her obvious judgement when she rung you up. 

“I guess,” you hear him say, but he doesn’t sound too convinced. 

Coffee distributed and hands finally free, you return to lean against your cubicle, hovering as he continues to quickly type and click. You look at him pointedly, a small smile creeping across your face. “Speaking of grunt work, I hear you’re the printer guy.”

His lips quirk. “I’m also the expert at updating Microsoft Word, just so you know.”

You laugh, and his eyes crinkle in amused response. “Oh, well excuse me, sir.”

“I’ll let it slide this once. Since you’re new.”

“And so are you. That’s why you’re the printer guy.”

He just lets out a puff of air that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. This close, you can now see the tiny holes that are trailing up his earlobe—he clearly has multiple ear piercings, not just the ones you saw at the barbecue. There is no jewelry in them now, though. 

“Jungkook, right?”

It’s his turn to look surprised, and you find yourself satisfied by the flush creeping up the back of his neck when he ducks his head in confirmation. 

“Us newbies gotta stick together,” you stage whisper behind a conspiratorial hand before leaning decidedly away. “Anyway, let me stop bothering you and go make some coffee.”

His eyebrows scrunch in clear confusion. “Didn’t you just bring some?”

“…Yeah, I am only just now recognizing just how bizarre this must seem,” you say sheepishly. “But none of those were for me—fancy specialty drinks aren’t really in my budget, so I tend to just brew a cup here.” 

“Did you say drinks?” a voice croaks, and when you turn your head, there’s Joy, walking towards the two of you. If her body’s sluggish movements weren’t enough to clue you in to the fact that she’s exhausted and possibly hungover, the designer sunglasses she’s wearing to tactfully hide half her face certainly do.

“On your desk,” you chirp as she walks past you without another glance. “Good morning!”

There is no response from the other side of the cubicle wall, and Jungkook frowns a bit, but you just give him a small shrug that translates to what can you do? before pushing off the wall to continue your trek to the kitchen. “You want one?” you offer. “I make a mean cafeteria coffee. Trial and error has taught me the exact temperature of tap water to use to make it taste less like sludge.”

His mouth smoothes back out at your joke, and though you wait for him to call you out on your ridiculous declaration, his gaze is already back on your computer. “No thank you,” comes his soft reply.

With a nod to yourself, you move to complete your task and leave Jungkook to work on his. When you return minutes later, newly-filled mug in hand, he’s already gone.

Today starts out pretty typically. After bringing everyone’s coffee, you settle into monitoring the company’s social media accounts. (When Joy first delegated this task to you, you were a bit confused, as social media is so vital to brands nowadays that handling it is technically a whole other full-time job. But it turns out you don’t have to do much above the intern level anyway—just answer customer questions and escalate issues if need be.)

Your manager has been out traveling for a week, but today she finally comes back to the office, and it makes for a nice change of pace when she hands you all of her scattered, hurriedly-scribbled notes and asks you to please transcribe them into something more cohesive and legible. Well, not nice, exactly (because at the end of the day, this is still busywork), but if you have to reply to one more Facebook comment with instructions that are clearly already on the product packaging, there is a pretty likely possibility you will scream. 

This is at least slightly less mind-numbing. Instead of copy-pasting things from a prewritten script, you get to try to make sense of what your boss had been trying to say when she wrote turkey club in the corner of a page filled with random numbers and dates. Was this important? Was it simply her plans for lunch that day? You and your fancy college degree have the pleasure of trying to figure that out while Joy and Alan, the web manager, get to actually do important things that are in their job descriptions.

Still, like every day, you try to dampen your frustration, try to keep a positive attitude. Because ultimately, this is an opportunity to grow your boss’s confidence in you, and that’s exactly what you want. Though you’re a little disheartened by all the busywork, you remind yourself it will all be worth it in the end. Your hope is that if you put in the time, you’ll eventually be trusted with more of the nitty gritty stuff. 

(You know…the stuff you actually got your degree for.)

But no matter how positive you are, things of course don’t go as smoothly as they should. After you’ve done a pretty fantastic job (if you say so yourself) of organizing and typing everything up, you send your manager the digital version. And, because you know the email may accidentally get buried in her inbox, you decide to print a physical copy for good measure.

You give the printer pretty simple, straightforward directions. One copy, double-sided (to do your part to save Mother Earth), the whole document typed in plain old black and white. But when you walk over, there’s nothing waiting for you in the printing tray. No humming to clue you in to the fact that the printer was working on your job. Nope. Instead, the admittedly ancient machine is quiet and still, and it stays that way for long enough for you to walk back to your computer to press the print button again, just in case you forgot to do so the first time. Still no dice. You frown, opening the paper tray to make sure it was full, then opening every other compartment that can possibly be opened to make sure there isn’t a paper jam somewhere.

Nothing.

Irritated, you stalk back to your desk, your first inclination to check with Joy and see if she has been having any of the same issues, but you find her chair empty. Probably got pulled into a meeting that they don’t find it necessary to loop you in on, even though it will ultimately be you who does all the grunt work for any action items the meeting produces.

Positive, you remind yourself, falling back into your chair and drumming your fingertips against your desk in thought. Maybe it’s not the printer at all. Maybe it’s your computer. You search your desk drawer for the introductory employee contact sheet HR had given you when you first started, and there he is—Jeon, Jungkook.

For a second, you consider sending him an email, but the green dot that displays he’s online has you shooting him a message instead. Much less formal, but likely quicker for the both of you.

You Hey Jungkook! Sorry to bother you, but I can’t print for some reason You The printer over here is ignoring me, and I don’t think I’m set up to print by the art directors

Despite what you originally assumed, he doesn’t answer immediately, obviously focused on something else. Still, you only have to wait a few minutes before you hear the soft ding you were waiting for. 

Jungkook Jeon Hi, _____. You mean the large printer by the marketing department, correct?   You Yes! I tried a couple times, but I don’t think the job even went through You Thought it best to just ask the printer guy 🙂

There’s a pause, one long enough that you worry that he’s forgotten about your lighthearted exchange from this morning. Shit. That was stupid of you. You’ve probably offended him. Fuck.

But if Jungkook is upset with you, he’s professional enough that it doesn’t come across at all in his next message. If anything, he just seems a little preoccupied. 

Jungkook Jeon Hmmm, let me check it out for you. Mabel can be a little uncooperative. You Mabel? 

Silence again, this time for a good five minutes. You answer some emails so you’re not just sitting there twiddling your thumbs. 

Jungkook Jeon Sorry, was running some diagnostics in the background to see if I could find the problem  IT kinda calls that printer Mabel because we’re pretty sure she’s worked for the company for longer than all of us combined. Seems fitting

You can’t help but snort at that. Cute, and likely not inaccurate. Mabel, it is.   

Jungkook Jeon One of these days Mabel’ll finally retire, but it won’t be today—looks like she’s running fine. Do you mind checking for me and seeing if you can access the marketing server? 

A few clicks, and when double clicking on the server icon doesn’t bring up the same list of folders it usually does, it confirms the conclusion the both of you have already come to—your computer is the problem, not Mabel.

You No dice 😕 Jungkook Jeon Got it. I think something went weird with your network connection after I updated your machine this morning. I can fix that for you! You Awesome! I appreciate it! Jungkook Jeon Of course! Can’t have my sparkling reputation as the Printer Guy tarnished so easily 😉 You LOL

You allow him remote access to your computer when a pop-up prompts you to, and he gets you up and running before your manager’s meeting is even over.

Lunch has always been an interesting—albeit potentially exhausting—part of your day. You learned early on that attempting to take the break you were legally entitled to at your desk did not stop anyone from continuing to ask you for things. Unfortunately, there weren’t many solutions to this problem—you didn’t get paid enough to be able to consistently eat your lunches out, and you lived too far away from the office to go home for lunch instead. So, you started taking your lunch break a little earlier than most of your other coworkers did, ensuring that the cafeteria was pretty empty and allowing you the space to decompress and eat your bagged lunch in peace. 

And as things usually went with this company, it didn’t take long for that peace to be interrupted. Once she noticed you disappearing from your desk, curiosity had Joy tagging along one day, and after that, it only took a couple weeks before both she and Wendy joined you. 

(Later, you would have the great idea to simply enjoy your bagged lunch in the park a few blocks away, but the weather wasn’t always great and at that point, the other two started to expect you to eat with them.)

So that’s exactly how you’re spending your lunch now—scarfing down the soup you made a few days ago that you’ll eat until it’s completely gone, while Joy and Wendy giggle and gossip to each other. As much as they apparently want to eat lunch with you, they tend to be pretty nonplussed by how you never contribute much to their inane conversations. 

And you’re fine with that. In the time it’s taken them to get comfortable invading your zen time, you’ve learned how to properly tune their tittering out. You’re good at nodding at the right times, at throwing in perfectly placed hums that indicate you’re listening, even when you’re not.

Today, it’s a sudden, uncharacteristic pause in their chatter that prickles against your diverted attention.   “That’s weird,” you hear Wendy mutter, and that officially throws you out of you mentally making your grocery list. The intrigued way she’s looking behind you makes you reflexively turn, and that’s when your eyes set on Jungkook.

He hadn’t been there when you first sat down for lunch, but he is now, sitting alone a couple tables away. He’s the only other person in the cafeteria, but from the AirPods in his ears and the way his eyes are focused on his phone screen, you doubt he’s even noticed this fact.  

Joy’s lips downturn slightly into a puzzled frown. “Hmm. IT guys never come down voluntarily from their tower.” 

Your head tilts as you mull over that. That isn’t exactly true. You have only seen Jungkook in passing a few times over the last couple weeks, but those few times prove IT aren’t exactly the antisocial specters the two women in front of you keep painting them as. You have even exchanged the short pleasantries with him that are socially expected when crossing paths at the coffeepot.  

“Wonder what he’s doing here?” Wendy says, not nearly quietly enough in your opinion. Embarrassment  flashes hot through you, inwardly chastising yourself for continuing to associate with such casually judgmental people. You’re already mentally preparing to apologize for your lunch mates when a covert glance out of the corner of your eye shows that Jungkook’s still paying your group no attention, taking distracted bites from his sandwich as his head bobs slightly to whatever is playing through his headphones.

“Whatever,” Joy says with a dismissive shrug, and then just that easily, the two are back gossiping about Cindy in HR.

From then on, you notice that Jungkook continues to eat lunch in the cafeteria at the same time as you. Sometimes, he beats you there, already at his designated table and munching on whatever he brought that day. If your eyes meet, he’ll send you a small smile in greeting before immediately dropping his focus back to his phone. If you’re there first and throw him a wave of acknowledgment, he always returns it, as is polite and expected of two coworkers who don’t know each other beyond their forced proximity.

And you think nothing of it, too busy being your department’s errand girl, the person who gets assigned all the tasks no one else wants to do. The amount of interaction you and Jungkook have is only marginally higher than what you have with Namjoon in Finance, who periodically reaches out to you for any missing receipts for charges on the Marketing department’s credit card.

This slowly starts changing as you begin to have more and more technical problems. You being assigned to put together multiple PowerPoints and research whatever market trends tickles your boss’s fancy means you constantly have an ungodly amount of tabs and applications open. This means you’re not really surprised when your computer—an older model that is definitely on its last leg—starts freezing and giving you pop up errors. A force restart seems to fix the problem, but a new one emerges—now, no matter how many times you hit the print button and walk over to your designated printer, nothing awaits for you to pick up. Even scrolling through the printer’s print history shows no record of your jobs being in the queue. It’s bizarre—you even make sure to confirm you’re connected to the servers, and that doesn’t seem to be the issue this time.

Frowning, you make your way back to your desk and scroll down your chat messages until a familiar face appears.

You  Hey Jungkook! I can’t seem to print—think something weird is going on with my computer today

A soft sigh of frustration escapes your lips, fingers drumming irritably against your desk. It isn’t even noon, but the day is already looking to be a long one.

Resigned, you settle in to wait for him to answer you in the chat, but the little bubbles that indicate he’s typing never pop up. Instead, you’re surprised when movement in your peripheral produces Jungkook himself, slowing in approach of your desk, though his focus is still on his phone screen. He must have gotten your message in the midst of doing something else. 

“Oh! Hi,” you greet him eagerly. “Just the person I was looking to see.”

He looks up at you from beneath the curtain of his bangs, a small smile touching his lips as he stuffs his phone back into the pocket of his slacks. “Just the person I was looking for,” he returns. “What seems to be the problem?” 

“Mabel is being a bitch again,” you say with an irritated sigh. “Every time I try to print, nothing is happening.” 

Jungkook snorts, amused, and it’s only then that your brain registers exactly what you just said. Swearing at work is unprofessional so you make it a point not do it, but that one slipped out so casually. “Oh—sorry.”

But if Jungkook is offended, it certainly doesn’t show in the responding chuckle he lets out. “That’s definitely on brand. I can fix that—let me take a look.”

You move to relinquish your seat, but he’s already leaning over you before you can do more than shift your weight. So you just let go of your mouse so he can control it instead, scooting to the side a bit and trying your best not to think too hard about how he’s close enough for your clothes to brush. Christ does he smell good.

Jungkook clicks around a bit, no doubt checking to make sure your computer is up to date and connected to everything it’s supposed to. “Is this what you’ve been trying to print?” he finally asks, brows furrowed in concentration.

You blink at the question, realizing with dawning horror that you were accidentally distracted by his proximity. You clear your throat, shaking your head a little at yourself in an attempt to clear it of all thoughts that aren’t solidly on the task at hand. “Yeah.” 

He clicks the print button, just as you have done for the past ten minutes, then straightens with a shrug. “Let’s give our old girl a visit and see what her deal is.”

You stand, following him around the corner to the copy room, where Mabel has proudly taken residence for who knows how many years. The fact that you can already see she’s humming with activity as the two of you approach has your eyebrows knitting in confusion.

Jungkook seems equally confused, reaching in the tray for the stack of paper that was just spit out and turning it over to confirm both of your suspicions. The report you’ve been trying to print for the last twenty minutes sits in his hand, likely still warm from how quickly and easily Mabel completed Jungkook’s request. He holds it up for you to see, his big doe eyes peering at you quizzically through his glasses. “This printer was the one that wouldn’t work for you?” he asks.

“Yeah, I definitely sent it to this one. Repeatedly,” you insist. Embarrassment prickles across your skin. “I swear it wasn’t working two seconds ago!”

Jungkook smiles when he hands you the papers, and it somehow softens his naturally cherubic face even more. “You just wanted to say hi to me, huh?” 

“Clearly Mabel likes you more than me,” you sniff at his teasing. “Sorry for wasting your time.”

“You didn’t,” he says simply. He hovers for a few more moments as you check to make sure all the pages are there. “Let me know if you have any more issues, okay?”

“Will do,” you agree, mind already back on your work as you both turn to part ways. “Thank you so much for your help!”

“Anytime.”

“Didn’t you have a date last night?” Joy asks. 

It’s lunchtime again, early enough that the three of you are still the only ones in the cafeteria. While both Joy and Wendy are munching on some overpriced salads they had delivered from a restaurant a couple blocks away, you’re eating a boring ham and cheese sandwich that you haphazardly slapped together in your rush to get out the door this morning. Vaguely, you do remember Wendy mentioning something about an upcoming hot date, but she was always rambling about a hot date, and frankly, you don’t care enough to keep up with any details. Everything you know about her love life—and her, in all honesty—has been dumped onto you without you having any say in the matter. 

“I did,” Wendy squeals, excited as always to have the opportunity to talk about herself. “His name was Miles. We’ve been talking on Tinder for the past week—he was really sweet and seemed to want to get to know me. Last night he took me to a nice restaurant, really wined and dined me.”

“Wow,” Joy says, eyebrows raised. “That sounds promising. When are you gonna see him again?”

“I’m not,” Wendy scoffed. “He was nice and all, but he’s only 5’7. It’ll never work out.”

“True.”

You’ve been trying your hardest to zone them out, but the longer Wendy prattles on, each sentence more baffling than the last, you can’t help but interject, “Doesn’t the app let you filter out height preferences?”

Wendy pauses, a raise of an eyebrow betraying her surprise at you finally participating in her lunchtime shenanigans. “Not on the free version.”

“So why did you even entertain him if you knew you would never consider him seriously?” 

“..because I wanted to go to dinner?” Wendy replies flatly, the look on her face doing nothing to hide how stupid she thinks your question is. “Besides, he got what he wanted out of the deal. After dinner I took him home and let him fuck.” 

The flippantly casual way she throws out the vulgar word feels like a record scratch, especially since the three of you are, in fact, still very much on company premises. Wendy doesn’t seem to notice just how much she’s scandalized you, continuing to prattle on at full volume about how the sex was pretty good for a Tinder date, even though he refused to eat her out. 

At this point, you’ve long slowed in your chewing, now entirely too incredulous by the absurdity of the situation you’ve found yourself in to eat. 

“You didn’t suck him, did you?” Joy asks.

Wendy scoffs. “Of course not! I’m not giving head to some random anyway, especially if he’s not gonna give me mine first.”

“Can we not talk about this?” you mumble.

They both turn to stare at you, judgement plain on their faces. Wendy snorts. “Wow, _____. I never took you to be a prude.”

“I did,” Joy slides in under her breath.

You let out an agitated huff. This is ridiculous. “I’m not a prude.”

The two of them share a look. After a pause, Wendy finally asks in a way that indicates that it doesn’t really matter what you say because her mind is already made up, “Then what’s the problem?”  

Aside from this conversation being a massive HR violation?

Wendy continues smugly, as if she’s figured you out, “Talking about oral hit a nerve…interesting.”

Yes, Wendy! you think sarcastically, fighting the intense urge to roll your eyes. The whole rest of the convo was good and dandy—oral was definitely the line, though! 

Joy just looks at you, her eyes narrowing the longer she does. Her scrutiny makes your skin prickle in irritation. “You have gotten head before, right?”

“Okay!” you say sharply, stuffing the uneaten half of your sandwich back into the bag. “One, that’s neither of your business, and two, this conversation is completely inappropriate. Let’s change the subject, please.” 

It’s quiet for a moment, both of them visibly surprised by your response. Joy actually looks a tiny bit proud that you stood up for yourself, but Wendy just sniffs and mutters, “That obviously means no.” Ultimately, they both back off, choosing instead to chatter about the newest design of Joy’s nails.

You exhale a tiny sigh of relief. Wendy was hitting the nail too close to the head and you truly didn’t feel like explaining your life story to a nosy coworker who was nothing more than your acquaintance, at best. Now that they’ve finally let you out of the hot seat, you’re fully planning to spend the rest of your lunch hour zoning out in relative peace. 

But before you can properly dissociate, you hear someone cough behind you. 

Your blood runs cold. You already know who it is—no one else tends to eat lunch this early.

“How long has he been sitting there?” you whisper, already dreading the answer.

Joy waves an unbothered hand. “I don’t know, like five minutes?”

Five minutes. Long enough to have heard… 

You’re immediately mortified, and it must show on your face, because Wendy just snorts and says way too loudly for your comfort, “Oh, relax, this is probably the most action he’s gotten in months. I’m doing him a favor.”

What the fuck. WHAT THE FUCK. “Are you serious right now?”

“Calm down,” Joy says, rolling her eyes. “Look, he’s not even listening to us.”

And a slow, discrete turn of your head confirms what she says—Jungkook, in an ugly salmon button-up today, has his earbuds in, eyes downcast to his phone screen, lips soundlessly forming the words to whatever song he’s listening to. You feel a tiny bit of relief, but embarrassment still roils deep in your belly, suddenly making your half-eaten sandwich completely unappetizing.

You stand, grabbing the brown paper bag that contains the remnants of your lunch and hoping against hope that you’ll be able to bolt without him noticing.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that,” Wendy sighs, annoyance bleeding into her tone. “I told you I didn’t realize you were a prude. We can talk about something else.”

You bristle, but tamp down the urge to defend yourself and point out again that you aren’t a prude, you just don’t want to be the office harlot either. “It’s not that,” you lie. The judgmental look in Joy’s eye only softens when you say, “I just remembered I forgot to print the printouts for the meeting this afternoon. I’ll see you guys later?”

“Sure,” Joy says dismissively, and Wendy says nothing at all. They’ve already moved on, no longer interested in your swift escape, attention eagerly back on the details of Wendy’s weekend. That’s works perfectly fine for you—you’ve had enough of being the center of attention for the day.

Blessedly, Jungkook doesn’t even look up when slink past him and out the door.

 It’s hot.

Third quarter is well underway, which means that it’s time again for the quarterly company barbecue. That also means it’s hot as balls. 

You suffer quietly, trying not to add to the stank atmosphere Joy and Wendy are already creating due to the heat. It’s an ambitious goal, especially since you’re already sweltering beneath your blouse—which was reasonable to wear within the chilled walls of the office, but feels rather ridiculous now, under the relentless beat of the sun. Despite being grateful for the free food and break from your maddeningly boring work, you can’t help but mentally yearn for the indoors, where there’s proper shade and air conditioning and decidedly less bitching. 

“I don’t know why they don’t just cater something for us to eat inside,” Joy mopes, dabbing at her brow with what you already know from experience to be a cheap, scratchy napkin. “How is anyone supposed to enjoy themselves if we’re melting?”

“It’s probably a ploy,” Wendy quips. “The more uncomfortable we are, the more likely we are to get back to work.”

“The date’s been on the calendar for months,” you point out wearily. “They had no way of knowing there’d be a heat wave today. Besides, the company’s already paid for the food. I doubt they intended to purposely waste that money.”

Joy scoffs in retort. “The company also knows throwing an outdoor event in July is the same as throwing one in Satan’s asshole.”

Wendy sniggers, but you don’t answer, biting back your response that outdoor barbecues are common during summer, and at least they don’t have you out here in the snow. Because honestly? This is only your second quarter with the company, and who knows what the fourth quarter barbecue looks like. 

All you can do is free some of the buttons on your blouse, undoing as many as you can while still being office-appropriate. As it is, you now have a little cleavage peeking out, but with how hot it is, you figure no one will say anything.

“Look,” Wendy says with an unsubtle tip of her head. “Looks like the soccer game is still on, at least.”

Fluttering the hem of your blouse in an attempt to get some circulation, you reflexively respond to her prompting, eyes following her line of sight. A few tables down, the Sales team has finished their meal and appears to be actively gauging coworker interest in joining their game. From the decently-sized group that’s starting to form by the open field, you think they’re pretty successful, despite the heat. 

Joy groans, lifting her long hair with a hand in an effort to cool off the back of her neck. “I don’t know how they’re doing all that when it feels too hot to breathe.”

Inwardly, you agree with her, but Wendy just gives a lazy shrug and says, “Hey, if we’re gonna roast to death, at least we’ll be properly entertained.”

“True,” Joy muses. “And they’re gonna be sweatier than usual.”

Wendy’s eyes glaze over a bit at the thought. You grimace, amazed that these two always seem to have their heads in the gutter. That’s my cue. “I’ll be right back,” you say, brushing off the back of your slacks as you stand, but they pay you no mind when you walk away.

You’ve already finished your meal, but it can’t hurt to take another look at the coolers. It’s so hot that you’ve already downed your first beverage, so a new one is in order. When you arrive to the area, two people from Customer Service pass, nodding at you in acknowledgment as they make their way back to their table. You’ve only just started to reach for a cooler lid when you hear someone address you again. 

“Hey,” a familiar voice says timidly behind you. “How’s it going?”

You reflexively turn your head, simultaneously surprised and not at all to find Jungkook standing there. He’s got on a long-sleeved button-up despite the heat—grey, checkered with a red and navy plaid—and you can’t help but wonder how he’s not sweltering. Though, the noticeable sheen on his face and the way his damp bangs are starting clump together tells you he just might be. 

“I’ve had better days,” you answer honestly, swiping the back of your hand across your forehead. Before you can catch yourself, that same hand is vaguely gesturing at him, head to toe. “How are you not melting?”

His lips twitch, amused. “I definitely am,” he admits. “I actually hoped no one was over here so I could stuff some of the ice from these coolers down my shirt without being judged.”

You snort. “Hey, who’s judging? Certainly not me. Knock yourself out; just make sure you leave me some.” 

He taps his chin, jokingly in thought, but to be honest, he does mildly look as if he’s actually considering it. “Well, we wouldn’t want the beverages to get cold…”

“Eh, there’s probably not that many in here anyway. They could probably consolidate coolers.” To prove your point, you bend over, cracking open one of the red ones next to you and peering inside. The expected assortment of generic sodas greets you, looking admittedly very refreshing floating in their ice bath. “See, this one isn’t even full.”

You angle your torso a bit so you can meet his eye properly over your shoulder, but as soon as you look up at him, his gaze hurriedly skirts away, color crawling up the back of his neck. You stand with a frown, confused by this, but ultimately brush off his weird behavior when you notice Namjoon from Accounting sidling up to the two of you. 

"Hey guys,"  he greets you, a friendly smile dimpling his cheeks. "We're getting some people together for a soccer game. I know it's really hot, but would either of you want to join?"

You’ve often seen Namjoon chatting with Hoseok in passing, and twice have even seen them leave the building for lunch together, so it doesn’t surprise you that the accountant is helping recruit for the Sales team's traditional barbecue pastime. What does surprise you, however, is that when he casually claps a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder, the younger man first responds by blinking owlishly at him behind his glasses, and then, a few seconds later, giving him a nod of assent. 

Obviously you don't know Jungkook very well—not at all, really, outside of your ongoing feud with Mabel. But you didn't take him to be the type to be into playing outdoor sports, particularly in this weather, and you certainly didn't expect him to agree so easily. A smile from Namjoon and suddenly all thoughts of stealing cooler ice are gone. 

Namjoon turns back to you, but you're already shaking your head. "Nope, no thank you! Y'all have fun. I'll just supervise from over there in the shade."

"Fair enough," he chuckles, and then he's leading Jungkook across the open field to meet up with the others.

Mildly more interested in the game now, you take this as your cue to grab the beverage you came for—a can of a Lipton knockoff and a bottle of water for good measure—and return to your table.

Joy and Wendy are still yapping when you approach, though in your absence, Joy has apparently decided to move to Wendy’s side of the table. It only takes you following their line of sight to quickly recognize why—that side of the table has an unobstructed view of the upcoming soccer game. Well, unobstructed, so long as you change your seat too. Awkward about intentionally getting in the way, you pause for only a moment before ultimately reaching for the end seat perpendicular to them instead. 

When you lean over a little to pull your chair out from under the table, Joy finally deigns to acknowledge you, ticking an eyebrow. “I can see down your shirt,” she tells you offhandedly. 

Your head snaps down, and you realize she’s right—undoing those few extra buttons has made the billowy fabric more susceptible to gravity, particularly when you leaned over. You yourself could see your whole chest and the basic bra that supported it, and at this angle, you doubt your blouse covered much of that from Joy’s gaze. A hand immediately snaps up to press the material back in place, but before you can even get properly embarrassed, her attention is ripped from you, eyes wide at something behind you.

“Holy—”

Wendy's jaw drops. Your head reflexively turns in the direction they're gawking at.

And before you can stop it, your jaw drops too.

Your tablemates have been known to be dramatic, and are certainly the type to stretch a fact or two. But it’s only now that you fully understand their fixation on these Sales soccer games, because yes, sometimes they do indeed take their shirts off. Like now.

Other than one girl from Compliance, all of the game’s recruits appear to be men, and as such, the group has chosen to distinguish teams by shirts vs. skins. And while the sudden appearance of skin naturally draws most people’s attention, your attention only gravitates towards one person. Cause what the fuck.

You almost don't recognize him, your brain rapidly shuffling through the information it's collected about him over the past few months and struggling to reconcile with what your eyes are actually seeing. Because the Jungkook you know wears glasses and long sleeves and has an unassuming hairstyle that looks suspiciously like a bowl may have been involved at some point. 

But the person you're looking at now? Glasses have been discarded, apparently no longer needing optical assistance, and he’s ditched the button-up, sweat making the white sleeveless tank he has on underneath spottily transparent and divulging the dusk of his nipples. Now that you can properly see the taper of his slim waist, his shoulders are proportionally more broad than you realized. And, since he clearly has no regard for your rapidly rising blood pressure, Jungkook decides now is the perfect time to reach over said shoulders, grab fistfuls of damp fabric, and pull. The sight of him slipping the shirt over his head—the ink of his hair sinfully mussed, the muscles of his back rippling with the movement—has you reflexively swallowing, mouth dry.

He's absolutely ripped. 

There's no other way to say it. A superior specimen, built and honed in a way that's only possible through years of hard work and discipline. He's still lean enough that you can rationalize how you’ve never picked up on that amount of muscle hiding beneath his unassuming dress shirts, but you're still gobsmacked. 

Your mind spins, struggling to come to terms with the near impossible fact Jungkook actually pulled a Clark Kent on you. Well, pulled a Clark Kent if Clark Kent was also covered in gorgeous ink, pigment swirling up his right arm from wrist to shoulder. From this distance you can’t see the exact designs that make up his intricate sleeve, but you can tell it was composed with a purposeful eye. 

Jungkook is absolutely ripped and tattooed. Jungkook. Printer guy Jungkook.

Flustered and trying not to be, you quickly look away, clanking your jaw shut and trying to focus on the plastic tabletop instead. Dear god, this is embarrassing. You really just gawked at your coworker! He was minding his own business and your jaw just reflexively unhinged like a degenerate. God, you hoped he didn't see that.

But any mortification you have is apparently not shared by the other two at your table.

“Is that Justin?!” Wendy demands rather shrilly, eyes wide, and the volume of her question would embarrass you even more if your brain could process any other reaction right now other than straight static. “Justin from IT?!”

You swallow thickly, your responding correction weak and delayed. “Jungkook.” 

“Finally,” Joy groans, pushing her plate away dramatically. “Some good fucking food!”           

You can’t help it then—your eyes drift back up, lured to the soccer players once more and zeroing in on him immediately. Seemingly unable to stray from his form, the heat already producing a sheen over his golden skin even though the game hasn’t started yet.

Surrounded by a few surprised male coworkers, Jungkook’s slightly hunched into himself, shy at the sudden attention. Even with the distance, you can see how Hoseok claps Jungkook on the back, just as animated over his newly revealed physique as the members of your table. But while everyone else is excited by this revelation…

Across the field, Jungkook innocuously turns his head in your direction. Like magnets, his eyes hone in on yours, your gaze locked for a few seconds until another loud What the fuck?! from Wendy frees you from the spell and you hurriedly look away again, a completely different kind of heat washing over you.

Jesus, you need to get ahold of yourself. There’s no way he was actually looking at you—it’s too sunny, and he’s not even wearing his glasses! He probably can’t even see that far.

But when you brave another peek in that direction and realize you can literally count his abs from here—

What the fuck, indeed.

Mutely, you watch the game unfold, not as self-conscious when it becomes clear that the whole office is doing the same. Though Joy and Wendy have been very salacious in their excitement for it, the soccer game is evidently a company barbecue highlight for others as well. And you’re sure Jungkook joining the fray has only added to the interest, as he’s a completely new addition to the equation.

And to your continued astonishment, Jungkook is good. He’s fast and lithe and brazen. He proves to you, again and again, that he can kick the ball with such ferocious accuracy that the other team’s goalie eventually stops trying to get in his way and simply resorts to trying to protect their vulnerable body parts instead. His intensity only entices reciprocal energy from everyone else, and what has traditionally been a lighthearted game between coworkers has now transformed into a group of competitive men who feel they now have something to prove. 

Joy and Wendy are delighted by this development, squealing and cheering and tittering amongst themselves. You sit quietly, still trying to mentally process this new development, but when you start to feel embarrassed by just how much you’re staring, you decide to call it a day. No one really notices when you stand and gather your trash, and luckily the distraction of the game means you’re able to slip out without any fanfare.

This quarter’s barbecue being on a Friday means you’re blessed with a weekend to decompress and regroup. Unfortunately for you, the office doesn’t just…move on from the event like it has in the past. Instead, this particular barbecue was apparently such a success that you continue to hear chatter about it for the next week, mostly in passing. But while everyone else makes small talk about how much fun they had, Joy and Wendy choose to hone in on the only thing they truly consider worthy of discussion—Jungkook. 

Today, just as they have every day for the past few months, they join your table when you take your early lunch. However, to their increasing irritation, the object of their current fixation isn’t here. In fact, Jungkook hasn’t showed up to the cafeteria during your lunch time since before the barbecue, and you inwardly have to admit it’s a little strange without him. You sat at different tables and the two of you never really said much to each other beyond the expected niceties, but you’ve gotten used to his presence all the same. 

You actually have barely seen him at all, with Mabel on her best behavior this week and Jungkook seemingly busy with something that has kept him mostly out of common areas. Still, with your embarrassingly strong reaction to him at the barbecue, it’s probably for the best. You’re a little wary of what your first proper interaction is going to be like, and you’ve been mentally preparing yourself to be as normal as possible. 

Your female lunchmates don’t seem to have that same mindset.

“Does he just not eat anymore?” Joy huffs. “I literally haven’t seen him all week!”

Wendy picks at her salad, lips twisted in a displeased grimace. “I actually saw him yesterday.”

Joy’s head snaps to her. “What?! You didn’t tell me that. What happened?”

“Since casually running into him doesn’t seem to be working, I figured I’d try getting him to come to me. So I unplugged my keyboard and messaged him, but he didn’t show up for like 40 minutes,” Wendy sighs irritably. “And when he did, he looked at me like I was a moron.”

Your lips twitch in amusement before you can stop them. Joy immediately says exactly what you’re thinking. “Well, you are a moron. You sat there for 40 minutes with your keyboard unplugged!”

Wendy soldiers on like she didn't hear her, undeterred from her gossiping. “So he came over in his ugly button-up and judged me! Plugged the keyboard back in and walked away without even saying anything.”

Despite not properly running into him all week, you actually did see Jungkook’s shirt in passing yesterday as he was turning down a hallway at the far end of the office. Wendy’s right—it had been an ugly puce. You found it endearing.

“He didn’t even roll up his sleeves,” Wendy mourned. “The least Jamal could have done was give me that.”

You pause in the chewing of the tuna sandwich you brought from home, exasperated. “Jamal,” you repeat flatly. “Really?”

Wendy waves her hand at you dismissively. “You know who I mean!”

“I mean, he’ll probably be more willing to talk to you if you treat him like an actual person.” Your quip is reflexive and indignant, and it kind of throws all three of you off guard. Joy raises an eyebrow at you and your sudden vexation, but you still add, though more subdued, “You know. Making an effort to remember his name is a good start.”

“Damn, who pissed in your Cheerios?” Wendy sniffs, though she doesn’t seem very offended by your callout. Over the months you’ve superficially gotten to know her, you’ve come to notice that she doesn’t really take much seriously—a simultaneously admirable and frustrating trait. “If you wanted dibs, you could have just said that.”

You feel heat flush up your neck, denial attempting to sputter from your lips, but true to form, Wendy has already moved on, tittering about how it’s about time the office had some proper excitement that wasn’t just meetings and spreadsheets.

“And speaking of meetings,” Joy pipes up, passing you a nonchalant look, “don’t forget to order those sandwiches for the client meeting tomorrow.”

“Sandwiches?” Your mind blanks. You knew your boss was hosting some clients in the office—had even been working on a lot of grunt work to prepare for it—but no one had mentioned anything to you about any sandwiches. “I thought she was wining and dining them?”

Joy let out a mildly irritated huff. “No, they have to catch an early flight home, so the plan has changed to a working lunch. Weren’t you listening in Monday’s meeting?”

No, you hadn’t been listening, because you weren’t invited to the Monday’s meeting. So it looks like a plan had been made and tasks assigned to you…without anyone bothering to communicate that. Typical.

You close your eyes for a second, jaw working as you attempt to tamp down your ever-brewing frustration. If they intend on you ordering from the usual place, it may be too late to cater for delivery, which means you’ll probably be stuck figuring out how to transport multiple giant platters from a restaurant five blocks away. 

“Do you mind forwarding me the request you sent? I must have missed it,” you respond neutrally, knowing full well the original email had never been sent to you. You stand to leave, the rest of your lunch break instantly soured by the revelation that you apparently have time-sensitive action items that are encroaching dangerous territory. “Just want to make sure I get the order correct.”

Joy nods, attention already back on Wendy and only half-listening. In the meantime, you’ll have to research alternatives, just in case.

While you’re lucky enough to find an acceptable last-minute catering option that will also, blessedly, deliver, that doesn’t mean you’re free to take a breather. 

It’s now the end of the day, and one by one, you see everyone around you log out and head for the elevator. Even Joy, who leaves right on time, despite knowing just how many tasks your small team still needs to complete for the big meeting tomorrow. What’s left is mostly grunt work, and while you are undoubtedly a grunt, it’s been clear for a while now that Joy no longer sees herself to be included in that category. So even though having more hands on deck would speed things along considerably, she still gathers her purse and gives you a cheeky finger wave on her way out.

At some point, the cleaning lady makes her rounds, scooting past you with a murmured apology to empty your trash can, but eventually even she disappears. Hell, even the sun abandons you, the soft glow fading from all the windows and stranding you with the cold fluorescent lighting that only remains on in your part of the office, because the lights have motion detectors. 

And so it’s just you, kneeling on the carpet and surrounded by a gazillion binders. Ensuring relevant reports and Powerpoint presentations are accurate and sending digital copies to your boss for her to have on-hand. Attempting to print physical copies and assemble them into binder portfolios your clients will be able to follow along with during the meeting. 

Attempting, because Mabel is, of course, choosing now to live up to her bitchy reputation. She won’t print on the right-sized paper. She won’t collate. She won’t be cooperative at all, and you’re too exhausted for this shit. Physically and mentally exhausted, trying your hardest to rein in the frustration that’s slowly expanding in your chest, crawling up your throat and triggering a familiar burning behind your eyes. It’s not fair. 

An exasperated noise escapes you without thinking, a loud, guttural thing. None of this is fair.

“_____?”

Your head snaps over your shoulder in surprise, not at all expecting anyone else to still be in the building. It’s Jungkook, because of course it is. Brows knitted in confusion, a black leather jacket thrown over his marigold button-up for some reason. He’s standing near the doors that exit into the lobby, evidently about to begin his trek home before you unwittingly paused his endeavor.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, but before you can even deign to answer, he’s already taken a few steps towards you and followed up with a clearly concerned, “Are you okay?”

You take a breath, struggling to calm the storm within you. None of this is his fault, nor his problem, and you should just force a smile on your face so he can be on his way and leave you to your self-pity. But you’re tired, so tired, and simply don’t have the capacity to pretend anymore. You swallow around the lump in your throat, and when you do speak, the thickness of your voice betrays the tears that you’re fighting to keep at bay. “No.”

This only seems to alarm him more. He’s standing next to you now, as close as he can get with the array of binders and papers you have scattered on the floor around you like a fortress not meant to keep anyone out, but rather, to keep you inside.

“What’s the matter?” he asks gently.

“Oh, nothing,” you snort derisively, blinking rapidly at the ceiling in an effort to try to stop the inevitable. “Nothing. It’s just well past 7pm and I’m still here in this godforsaken building attempting to print out and hole punch and assemble twenty copies of this presentation. I can’t even get the printer to do what I’m asking it to! And there’s no fucking reason I should still be here because the could have been done last week if my boss didn’t keep making nonsensical changes based solely on vibes. And tell me why there are six people on my team but no one thought to help me or take any sort of ownership of this at all—as per usual—or even buy me a fucking coffee for once! I haven’t eaten a proper meal all day but everybody just assumes they can go home because things will magically get done like they always do because they will! I will always make sure that they will! Every day it becomes increasingly clear that nobody in this fucking company gives a flying FUCK about me or my free time or my sanity—”

If he’s put off by your potty mouth, Jungkook certainly doesn’t show it. He just manages to catch your gaze from behind his glasses and simply replies, “I do.” 

Your never-ending rant rapidly dissipates on your tongue, brain struggling to comprehend what he just said. “…What?”

“I care,” he repeats softly. “How can I help?”

The sincerity in his tone renders you mute, too stunned to do anything more than watch as Jungkook drops the backpack he’s had slung over a shoulder onto the floor, tossing his newly removed jacket on top of it without much thought. He’s unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves, the reemergence of an ink-covered forearm making your brain stutter even more. Now that there’s much less distance between you, you can more accurately make out the shape of a delicate tiger lily, the languid form of a snake.

Jungkook clears his throat, the noise snapping you out of your stupor and making you realize you were just staring at him in silence, for who knows how long. Dammit. “What do you need?” he tries again. 

“Um, first we can start with Mabel,” you croak, mouth now embarrassingly dry. “No matter what I do, she refuses to collate.”

Jungkook shoots you a smile that softens his whole face. “Lucky for you, I’m the printer expert, remember? Don’t worry. We’ll get this fixed and be out of here in no time.”

He holds out a hand and you reflexively grab it, allowing him to guide you to your feet. Together, you make your way to the copy room, where Mabel has stubbornly been giving you hell all night. Jungkook gets right to work pushing buttons while you stand to the side, awkwardly shifting your weight a little from foot to foot.

“So why are you still here?” you ask, curiosity finally forcing you to voice the question that’s been looping in your mind since he first appeared. “It’s late.”

“It is,” he agrees, focus still on the printer. He kneels down, opening the paper tray. “There’s this huge system update that’s set to roll out next week. My whole team has been hunkering down and pulling late nights.”

Oh. That explains why you haven’t seen him around much since the barbecue. “That’s tough.”

“We’re finally almost done,” he shrugs. “And I’m clearly not the only one working overtime.”

You don’t say anything when he looks up at you pointedly, so he turns back to the printer, pulling a stack of paper out of one of the trays.

“I think this may be part of the problem. Someone put the wrong-sized paper in here. Or, at least, Mabel thinks it’s wrong. She’s confused.”

“Well, she can join the club,” you mutter, and he puffs out a laugh, shutting the drawer and pressing some more buttons.

“Come on, let’s try again.”

Something touches your elbow, and though it shocks through you like he electrocuted you, you have the good sense suppress any embarrassing reaction to what you quickly realize is just his hand. Instead, you let him guide you back to your desk, trying not to focus too intently on the heat of his skin on yours. 

Jungkook waits for you to login to your computer, clicking around and changing some settings once you step back and allow him free rein. Then, you can hear a distant hum coming from the copier room, and you know immediately that he’s succeeded. Dutifully, he goes to check anyway, returning to you with a stack of perfectly collated paper.

“Thank god,” you groan. “Now let me just print fifty more of those so I can start organizing these binders.”

With the crisis averted and his job done, you fully expect him to gather his pile of stuff and hustle to the elevator before you can trap him into doing anything else. Instead, Jungkook goes to pick up the additional copies from the printer for you, and he actually gets down on the floor next to you to start putting everything together. He watches you assemble one binder for reference, but then he’s easily doing the same and doubling your completion speed. 

And slowly, gradually, your nervous system calms. The two of you work like a well-oiled machine in what would be comfortable silence, if your brain wasn’t so loud. Now that you’re not actively panicking, a completely different feeling starts to seep into you—embarrassment.  You can’t believe that Jungkook actually caught you on the cusp of a breakdown, during which you looked so pitiful, he felt morally obligated to stop what he was doing and help you.

“I’m sure you have somewhere to be,” you say after a while with a grimace. He’s way too nice and you’re way too pathetic. “I didn’t mean to ruin your night—I promise you don’t have to stay with me. Now that everything’s printed and organized, most of the work’s done. I should be out of here in no time.”

“Well, I promise you didn’t ruin anything. And with two of us, you can be out of here in less time than that.” He looks up with a soft smile from where he’s hole punching a stack of paper, the muffled ka-chunk of the device punctuating his point. “I don’t mind, _____. Really.”

“But I do,” you murmur, looking away. Unable to meet his eyes. “I really appreciate your help, but I feel bad taking up so much of your time.”

“Well, don’t. I didn’t really have plans tonight anyway, and I’ve been working so much that it’s probably better that I get in some socializing time.”

“Not that I’m very good company,” you snort derisively.

There’s a pause, one long enough that you wonder if he heard you. But then he’s moving a little closer to you, tipping slightly sideways to tap his shoulder against yours. Reflexively, you turn back to him, finding his eyes kind.  

“We all have our off days, and that’s okay. But they’ll dull your shine if you let them. Don’t.” He bumps your shoulder again. “Besides, you and I have to stick together, remember? Or did you not really mean it when you told me that?”

You did tell him that, didn’t you? Months and months ago. You're surprised that he even remembers that.

There's an amused quirk to his lip, one that you can't help but feel yourself soften to, even as his focus turns back to the task at hand. And all at once, you feel yourself flooded with gratitude. You've been thankful for his help this whole time, of course, but now you almost sag with it, the relief at knowing someone is finally in your corner, the sudden sense of security and support visceral and a little overwhelming.

Before you fully realize what you're doing, it's you who leans closer, aiming to give a him a grateful kiss on the cheek. But your lips don't quite land on their intended target, because just before you succeed, Jungkook unconsciously senses your increasing proximity and reflexively turns his head back to you.

It's his lips yours coincidentally brush against, the accidental kiss timid due to his surprise and your chaste intentions. But the kiss is also soft, his lips plush and rather easily yielding to yours. 

Quickly realizing your mistake, you pull back, eyes as big as saucers. You stare at him in stunned silence and he stares back, eyes all pupil.

A horrified apology is immediately crowding the back of your throat, but right before you set it free, Jungkook's Adam's apple bobs, an errant tongue absently swiping across his lips. 

Huh. This isn’t exactly the reaction of someone repulsed by an unwanted kiss. He still hasn't said anything, but he hasn't moved away from you either. He's just watching you. Waiting. 

...Waiting?

With caution but with clear intent, you lean back in, and to your surprise, he meets you halfway, noses bumping a little before he tilts his head and your lips slot perfectly together. 

This kiss is immediately different from the last. Jungkook mindlessly drops he binder he's holding, body angling more solidly towards you so he can properly meet the rapidly rising intensity. Well, meet may be the wrong word, because he's the one whose hand quickly reaches up to cradle your chin, gentle pressure a silent request to  for you to tilt your head a bit more. And when you comply with the change in angle, it's him who deepens the kiss, the slow lave of his tongue coaxing your lips to part, open and wet.

You pant hot into his mouth and he breathes you in, offering no resistance when you push even closer, hands wandering across his shoulders, fingers ghosting up the back of his neck before drifting to idly toy with the hair at his nape. He hums contentedly, not unlike a purring cat, and does it again when your tongue joins his in a slow glide. 

You lose yourself in the sensation of it all, unable to notice anything beyond the heat that is rapidly building between you like fireworks ready to explode. Your head spins, swimming with endorphins and high off the smell of him. The taste.

A playful nibble of your lip unexpectedly has a rather desperate keen escaping your throat. You pause, making to pull back in your embarrassment, but the sound only seems to activate Jungkook, who follows you in your attempted retreat, mouth chasing yours in its reluctance to part. It's only when your back finally touches the floor that you realize he's slowly guided you there. You've been in a haze, too swept into the plot of the movie you've somehow found yourself in to do anything but be pulled along.  

As naturally as breathing, your find your knees have parted, and Jungkook easily slips into the space you've created for him, almost trancelike. As if he doesn't even realize he's doing it, too focused on exploring the fever of your mouth. He's leaning most of his weight on the hands he has posted on either side of your head; even still, every single millimeter of you that does touch him is sparking like live wires, euphoric goosebumps rippling across your skin. You let out a shaky breath that fogs his glasses, but even that doesn't stop him, just makes him pull back from you just enough to be able to whip them off and toss them somewhere, wholly unconcerned.

Emboldened by this, you sling a leg over his hip, and he eagerly accepts your invitation, settling on you properly. You're covered in him now, pelvises properly flush, and now that he's caged you in, Jungkook takes the opportunity to glide his lips away from yours and trail across your jawline instead. You shiver, every atom of you buzzing at his touch, and his mouth continues its trek, sucking hot down the column of your throat with just enough pressure that you know color will bloom there later. 

Your hips reflexively jump at his ministrations, your skirt riding further up your thighs, and the hard press of him against your panties has you swallowing down a moan. He freezes for a fraction of a second, but then his hips respond to the lure of yours with a more intentional roll. A contented sound rumbles in the back of his throat, tongue dipping to meander across your collarbone.

This is crazy. This is crazy. But you can't quite find it in yourself to care much as the two of you rut against each other on the office floor, your hand gliding up his back to root in the hair at his nape. 

Your hips undulate restlessly, eager to meet the crest of his wave, and Jungkook matches your intensity, catching your earlobe between his teeth. Your shared grind is measured but deliberate, and even through his pants you can feel the hard shape of him pressing right against your aching core. A particularly pointed roll has Jungkook shuddering hot into the shell of your ear, and that is what finally tamps down the last of your restraint and triggers something much more primal.

Dizzy with want, your hands scrabble between you and aim for the button of his slacks, eager to be properly introduced to what’s underneath. But to your slow horror, Jungkook freezes at the touch, motionless for a few breathless seconds before he actually starts lifting off of you and pulling back. It’s only when he’s completely sat up and is staring at you that the full weight of what you’ve just done hits you like a freight train.

Holy shit. Holy shit. 

You really were just dry humping. A coworker. And you were doing it on the premises of the place that pays your fucking bills! Making out, dry humping, and you were actively aiming to do much more if he hadn't stopped you. 

What the fuck has gotten into you? 

You scrabble upright, dizzy with the mortification rapidly seeping deep into your bones. Stupidly, you blink at him, paralyzed with embarrassment but unable to look away. A deer in headlights.

Jungkook stares right back, eyes dark and all pupil. Dazedly, you wonder if you look as fucked out as he does—there’s a smattering of red across his cheeks, and his hair has been thoroughly mussed by your own hands. A tongue dips out to swipe over kiss-swollen lips, stealing your attention away from the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

And suddenly, you’re able to kickstart into gear.

“I am so sorry,” you burst out, panic nearly choking you. “That was highly inappropriate and I seriously don’t know what came over me—”

It takes you a few moments to register that he’s moved back in, and that it’s the returned press of his lips that interrupts your babbling apology before it can properly catch its stride. You’re almost too afraid to respond in kind, as if you’ll somehow scare him away again, but the insistence in his kiss practically knocks the breath from your lungs. Patiently, he coaxes your rigid lips back pliant. And only when it’s clear you won’t try to run away does he lean back a second time, but only enough to see your eyes properly.

“No,” he murmurs, breath fanning hot over you. “That was very much appropriate.” 

You’re not quite sure how to respond to that, too shell-shocked by this turn of events and actively battling your triggered fight or flight response. “Um. Then…then why did you…”

Jungkook’s eyes flutter closed, as if he’s gathering himself. “I want to,” he mumbles, seemingly to himself, but then he’s looking right at you again, gaze heavy with resolve. “It’s just…do you mind if I try something first?”

That throws you for a loop. Your jaw opens then shuts again while you contemplate his question, as well as your answer. “I mean, I guess? It depends on what it is.”

That you don't instantly reject him visibly unwinds a tension in his body that you only now realize was there. A rather feral look crosses his face, immediately inciting goosebumps to ripple across your skin in anticipation. But then the intensity of his expression dims, edged with something more contemplative. Jungkook gives you a pensive nod then stands, looking around curiously. “Hey, where does that viper sit?”

You blink, bewildered. “…The who?”

“The one who’s always with you at lunch.” He locks eyes with you, tongue poking through his cheek. “You know. The one who’s on your team but still had no second thoughts about leaving you here tonight by yourself.”

Joy. He’s talking about Joy. 

The question makes you pause in suspicion, but you still hook a thumb towards the cubicle next to yours, on the other side of your shared wall. “There. Why?”

“No reason,” he says with a sly grin, holding out a hand to you. You take it without question and he easily helps you to your feet. But then before you can process it, he’s slid both hands around your waist and easily lifted you off the ground, already in route to the exact cubicle you called out. You yelp in surprise, your arms reflexively circling his neck—your legs, his middle—in your body’s scramble for balance. But Jungkook’s hold on you is secure, grip moving down to the back of your thighs instead, and now that your chests are once again flush, you can actually feel his chuckle. His amusement provokes yours, and you can’t help but giggle as he carries you over to Joy’s cube as easily as if you weigh nothing.

Clearly, his exercise routine is working out for him.

After using a hand to sweep some objects out of the way, Jungkook carefully sets you down on Joy’s desk, right next to her monitor. Your mirth only grows at the feeling of whatever printouts she left for later review crinkling under your weight, at the sight of displaced pens rolling off the edge and disappearing to the ether that is the floor.

Jungkook has set you down, but he doesn’t pull away, just leans down and recaptures your eager lips. He’s tall enough that he’s kind of hunching over to kiss you, neck really craned, but he doesn’t seem to care much about that, kissing you with the same ferocity as moments before, when the two of you were entangled on the carpet. And you can’t help but match his fervor, hands reaching to guide his slim hips even closer, into the widening gap you naturally create for him between your legs. 

Time constricts and expands, an endless and meaningless concept. Because all that matters now is the tongue he slips past your lips to slide against yours, slowly, like he’s savoring the taste of you. All that matters is how fucking great he smells—like clean laundry and smoke and warm skin speckled with sweat—something you’ve always caught whiffs of, but now completely surrounds you, invading all your senses and sending your lust into overdrive. 

“Is this what you wanted to try?” you pant hotly when your lips finally separate for a moment in your quest for air. “Defiling Joy’s desk?”

He’s leaning his forehead against yours while he also attempts to catch his breath, and he’s so close that it would be hard for you to miss his amused flash of teeth. “Sort of. I’d like to defile it more thoroughly, though. Starting with this.” 

Jungkook leans in for one last kiss, one that starts at your mouth, moves to your neck, and to your surprise, continues down the line of your body. Over your collarbone, careful hands popping open a few buttons of your blouse so he can nestle more surely into the curve of your breasts, warm lips skating across eager skin. For a few moments, he actually nuzzles his face into your middle, a gesture you find rather sweet before he incites a shiver through your body by licking against your clothed navel. And before you can fully realize what’s happening, he’s slipped to his knees.

You look down at him in surprise, body still slotted between your legs, but this time more eye-level with the secret, needy part of you that has been thrumming excitedly with every beat of your heart. “What are you…”

“You’re always doing everything for everyone else,” comes his murmured reply. “Will you allow me to do something for you?”

Your brain is still so hazy from the spell of his mouth that it takes you a moment to recognize what’s happening. What he’s asking for. But when his large palms are hot against the naked skin of your thighs, gentle pressure urging them to part even more, it all hits you like a truck. Your eyes dart around, paranoid. “Jungkook,” you hiss. “…Here?”

“They’re too cheap to put cameras anywhere other than the lobby.” He turns his head, lips pressing reassurance into the side of your knee. “And no one’s here.” His reminder as gentle as the kisses he continues to adorn you with. “Just you.” Kiss. “And me.”

He’s right, you know. No one else is here to witness the series of bad decisions you’ve just made—to witness the ones you’re still seriously considering. 

Still, you hesitate.

Jungkook’s staring intently at you, doe-eyed and cherry-lipped and deceptively innocent despite what he’s requesting of you. “Please?” he asks again, oh-so-sweetly. Reverently prostrating before your altar, praying for the blessing of an ambivalent goddess. You. “I just…I really want to. Ever since that day, I can’t stop thinking about it and I—please?”

Your brows furrow as you try to make sense of what he’s saying, still scrambling to keep up with this current turn of events. What day? Your mind whirrs, jumping around before finally settling on an embarrassing memory you’ve willed yourself to forget. 

Lunch, where Wendy somehow got you to admit you’ve never gotten head, and Jungkook, purportedly oblivious, too busy on his phone to ever pay your table any attention. 

…Except from what he’s saying right now, he had heard every word. Heard, and filed it away for safekeeping, only revealing to you now, when he can possibly do something about it.

Absently, your tongue dips out to swipe across your lips, and Jungkook’s attention visibly strays towards the action, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your thighs and sending electricity straight to your core. God, do you want to say yes. Even though you’ve never done this before, your inexperience is not at all the reason for your reluctance. It’s the optics. You’re at work.

Your head tilts as you try to accurately take stock of the situation. You’re at work. But technically, you should have clocked out hours ago. Technically, this job has been stealing a lot of time that should have been yours to choose what to do with. Case in point—you’re the only person on your team still within a five-mile radius of this godforsaken building. Because everyone else deserted you without a second thought, designating you to be the one who struggles to print presentations for a meeting that has been on the calendar for literal months.

But. 

While it’s easy to assume they forced this fate upon you, Fate is not one easily compelled to do another’s bidding. And, trapped in the gaze of the sweet man still patiently awaiting permission to ruin you, you can’t help but wonder if this has been Her plan all along. 

For months you’ve been doing everything for everyone else, so unhappy and stressed that each day in this place only wound you tighter and tighter. So…what if you finally just let yourself snap? Did what you wanted for once? Stopped following the rules that nobody else ever seemed to and just let go? 

You exhale. Fuck it.

“Okay.”

Jungkook grins, boyishly innocuous at first, but rapidly morphing into something much more devilish as you watch. He turns to kiss your knee again, and you startle a little at the action, newly on edge. “Don’t be nervous,” he says, still holding your gaze. Making sure you can see his resolve. “I got you.” 

“Okay,” you say again, but that’s easier said than done, especially when he takes the opportunity to gently push your knees even further apart. Naturally, your skirt rides further up, and you can’t help the apprehension that washes over you at your increasing lack of modesty. Still, you hold true to your word, aggressively tamping down the urge to scramble off the desk and pretend this all never happened. But though you brace yourself for what comes next…

Jungkook doesn’t move.

Long moments pass before you can’t help but say something. “Are you just gonna look?” Because that’s all he seems to be doing, laser-focused on the juncture of your thighs.

He visibly stirs at the sound of your voice, but still doesn’t do much more than tsk at you. “Don’t rush me,” comes his light reprimand, eyes still locked on what you’re sure at this point is a growing dark spot on your panties. “I don’t half-ass things and I definitely won’t rush this. No one’s here, so just relax and enjoy the ride.”

Your jittery nerves have you reflexively mouthy, but your retort swiftly dies on your tongue when his hand finally moves further up your skirt—further inward—and two fingers pointedly press right against that dark spot and glide over your clothed lips. You gasp, fighting against the urge to snap your legs shut when he slowly circles your clit and sends sparks dancing down your legs. 

“Better?” he murmurs.

“Much,” you squeak.

“Good,” he says, eyebrows knitted in thought as he circles and circles. Your thighs twitch, and he leans forward like he can’t help himself, nose pressing solidly against you with a long, audible inhale.

A fascinated oh falls from your lips, heartbeat accelerating excitedly in your ears, but Jungkook only responds by nestling further against your pussy, tracing the length of your lips with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue through the fabric. He breathes hot against your clit and you inadvertently buck at the stimulation, only inciting the wicked curl of his lips. He looks up at you darkly through the curtain of his bangs, and something unexpected and primal simmers beneath your skin.

“Can I have these?” he asks huskily, lightly snapping the elastic of your panties against your skin. 

You clear your throat, suddenly wishing you had the foresight to put on something more interesting today than your unassuming cotton undies. “Have as in you won’t give them back?”

He lets out an amused puff of air, tilts his head. “I haven’t decided yet.”

You nod your assent. You’re now impossibly invested in where he plans to take this, and it’s not like you don’t have more pairs at home. “Knock yourself out.”

Immediately, his hands are up your skirt. They’re big, but they’re also gentle, caressing your thighs and even taking a slight detour to the meat of your ass before continuing their mission to the band of your underwear. When he starts to pull, you help him, shifting your weight so he can slip the fabric over your hips and down your legs.

Jungkook’s Adam’s apple dips when his eyes are finally able to feast on you without a barrier. “So fucking hot,” he mutters, almost to himself, and then without further warning, his mouth seals around your sex.

You whimper in surprise, not at all used to the sensation of someone kissing you there. And kiss you he does, carefully at first, judging your reaction. But when you do nothing but grip the edge of the desk, biting your lip in an attempt to stifle the rather desperate sounds crawling up your throat, he swiftly devolves into kissing you with the same passion as he had the lips on your face. His tongue laps at you with sure, even strokes, dragging across the seam of you and then through it, making sure to slide along your clit on every upstroke. 

Your breath quickens, jaw falling slack. You weren’t sure what you imagined oral sex to be like before this, but you never expected how easily your body submits to his ministrations. Almost without you realizing it, your thighs part even more, hips automatically canting down to meet his eager mouth. A hand reaches for him, fingers winding through his hair and rooting there, and Jungkook hums in approval, his own hands wrapping securely around your thighs, your ass. His fingers sinking into the yielding softness of you, gently holding you steady against his face while you start to gyrate and moan.

God, does he look good down there. He’s always looked good, even before you knew what he was hiding behind those shy smiles and nerdy glasses, but something about the sight of him, jaw working as he sucks on you, lashes fluttering in pleasure in his quest to please you—

Without warning, he detaches with an audible pop, and a disgruntled sound reflexively leaves you. Breathless, you start to ask him why he stopped, but the words die on your tongue when you realize he’s staring at you again. That he pulled back for a moment just so he can get a good look at the mess he’s making of you. So he can properly see how your pussy aches and drools for him.

“Good?” he asks, voice deep and thick.

“So fucking good,” you sigh. What you know he wants to hear, but also 1000% the truth. You’re starting to understand what Wendy has been blathering about, but is it always like this? Or is it Jungkook in particular who is making you so unbelievably aroused? Is your rapidly snowballing crush on him that strong, or does pussy eating simply rank high on his skillset?

As if he can hear your thoughts, Jungkook moves to slip a finger into you, and you can’t help but moan when he breaches you, the digit sliding in so easily that he quickly adds another, thumb pressing surely into your clit as he starts a slow drag in and out. 

“Shit,” you shudder, eyes rolling back into your head. Hips sliding further off the desk, reflexively seeking the delicious stimulation. One of your hands scrabbles across the desk, unconsciously trying to root you, and you’re much too preoccupied with how good he’s making you feel to notice when you accidentally knock over a mug full of pens. A stapler clanks to the ground. “Fuck.” 

“Look, baby,” he breathes, moaning along with you when the pet name immediately makes your pussy flutter. “Look.”

At his encouragement, you do. You watch the flex of his tattooed arm as his fingers continue to disappear within you, a lewd squelch coinciding with his movements. You watch as he adds another finger, the additional stretch immediately noticeable but even more delicious. You watch him watch you, eyes all pupil, lips swollen and slick with your desire.

“More,” you whine, frenzied and greedy. And Jungkook immediately heeds your call, leaning back in. He sucks on your clit with three fingers sunk in you, expertly crooked towards your pelvic bone, and you jolt, accidentally knocking something else off the desk. Neither of you pays the resulting clattering any attention, too wrapped up in the way you writhe at his ministrations. He hums in approval, the vibrations only intensifying your ecstasy. He flattens his tongue as your hips desperately circle, letting you control the stimulation. And when it’s clear you still need more, he changes tactics and rapidly laps at you instead, as if you’re a melting ice cream cone, while he beckons, beckons. 

Your blood is volcanic, hot pressure bubbling beneath the prison of your skin, building and building within your core. The higher he takes you, the more the grip you have on his hair unintentionally tightens, but that only seems to urge him on, locking eyes with you as the thrust of his fingers turns harder and more calculated. Giving you no other choice but to finally erupt.    

You cum with a loud groan, gasping through it while your cunt rhythmically clamps down on his digits, hard. Jungkook talks you through it, murmuring encouraging words your buzzing brain has trouble deciphering because his hand still doesn’t stop, pounding right into your g-spot and making your eyes cross and toes curl with the force of it. And when you finally can’t take anymore, jerking with oversensitivity, you grab him by the wrist in a wordless plea for mercy.

And Jungkook grants it. You can tell that he wants to play with you more—wants to guide you over and over to the precipice just see the look on your face when he shoves you off—but ever the gentleman, he reins in his enthusiasm and obediently slips his fingers out of you. He takes a few seconds to admire his handiwork, eyes shining with in reverence as he marvels in the dripping, throbbing, panting aftermath that is you.

“Wow,” you say, still dizzy with endorphins. Never in a million years did you think it would feel like that.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice thick. “Wow.” He lifts his hand, remnants of you visibly slicking his fingers and webbing between the digits, and without a second thought, sticks them in his mouth and sucks. The resulting slurping of his errant tongue is nothing short of obscene, but your cunt flutters again anyway, interest clear despite being thoroughly satisfied only moments before. And when line of your essence starts to drip down your thigh, Jungkook makes sure to lean in and catch it with his tongue.

You shiver with the feeling of him on you again, mouth hot and wet, thighs still trembling. He’s taking his time, tongue dragging a slow path back up to the source, determined to feast upon the rewards of his efforts. But you can’t take it anymore. God, he’s so hot. He’s so fucking hot and you want him so fucking bad.

You need him. Biblically. 

Near delirious, you reach for him, hands scrabbling across his shoulders, fingers trailing the back of his neck and guiding him to stand. Arms circling his waist and pulling him closer to you—close, close—Jungkook easily slotting into spread of your thighs.

He follows your unspoken commands easily and without question, looking down at you with a rather pleased smile that crinkles his eyes in the corners. Determined to steal the breath from his lungs, just as he just did to you, you lean in to lick that smile pliant and open. There’s a curious taste on his tongue that it doesn’t take long to deduce is you, and that’s only even more of an aphrodisiac, revving you up further. 

Your hands continue to roam, sliding down a little to grope his backside, startling a laugh out of him. But when your fingers tease the waistband of his slacks, his delight visibly shutters away into something else entirely.

“You don’t have to do that,” he breathes, even as he reflexively bucks into the hand you’re using to palm him over his pants. “This was about you.”

“Then let it be about me,” you counter, a mischievous smile curling your lips. Even through his pants you can tell he's hard. That he wants this just as badly as you do.  Still, when he gasps out a wait, you obediently stop your ministrations and move to take your hand back. 

He doesn't let you get far, lacing his fingers through yours and visibly considering his next words for a few moments before settling on, “What do you need?” 

It’s a simple enough question, but you can't help but be immediately reminded of him saying these exact words to you, a little over an hour ago. Now, however, they sit heavy on his tongue, heady and syrupy in hushed invitations. 

The revelation hits you all at once, heart pounding excitedly in your ears.

You need only ask. You’ve only ever needed to ask.

And since all caution was thrown to the wind the moment you agreed to let him suck your soul out through your pussy...

“You said you’ve been thinking about me? Well, I’ve been thinking about you too. For a while, even though I’ve been trying not to.” 

You’ve had his attention this whole time, but the way Jungkook's regarding you now, now that you’ve said that? He's hanging onto every word, so hyper-focused that it would unnerve you if this wasn’t exactly what you were looking for. 

“So…” Adrenaline has your fingers restless against his, but you still dive headfirst. “What I need is for you to fuck me and finish what you started.”

A beat. One where he holds your gaze, the space between you so electrified that you’re surprised you don’t see sparks. But then he’s on you again, mouth meeting yours in a frenzied clash of lips and teeth, and this time he doesn’t stop you when your hands scrabble for his fly.

Jungkook wastes no time, smoothing his hands up your legs and pushing your skirt out of the way. He lets out a shuddered breath when you stroke him through his underwear, when you reach down the waistband and grip him properly.

He’s warm and thick in your hand, and the thought of him finally in your guts damn near has you vibrating. Just like you thought before, he’s already nice and hard, but you still pump him a few times just to revel in the proof of what you’ve done to him. Velvet over stone.

And despite having all the time in the world when the foreplay is for you, Jungkook doesn’t seem to have any patience for himself. You’re only able to enjoy the weight of him in your grip for a few passes before he’s surging into action. Strategically, he grabs you by the knees and lifts, maneuvering your legs into the crooks of his elbows. The move opens you up to him further and forces you more horizontal, leaning back on your forearms, nearly pressed against the cubicle wall.  

The way he ate you out moments before ensured you’d be primed for him, your pussy soft and slick and just begging to be filled. When he finally lines himself up and begins the slow press in, your jaw immediately falls open, tongue going lax at the intense pleasure. “Oh my god,” you manage to whine, eyes threatening to roll shut.

The unhurried way he’s sinking into you is likely in effort not to unintentionally hurt you. Because after everything else, why not add another thing to the ever growing list of surprises you’re learning about your unassuming coworker—not only has he been tatted and muscular this whole time, but his dick is also fucking huge. Without even realizing it, you’ve stopped breathing, the pressure of him nudging your walls apart too much stimulation for your body to continue even subconscious functioning. 

As if he can tell your brain is actively short-circuiting, Jungkook’s hands circle your thighs, thumbs kneading the flesh in mild distraction for when he finally bottoms out. It’s only now that you can properly notice the effect you’re having on him—hair starting to stick to his forehead from perspiration, teeth grit as he struggles to stay still for you.  But you don’t want him to be still.

“Fuck me,” you whimper, wiggling in your impatience and making him suck in a breath. “Please. Give it to me.”

The resulting roll of his hips has him swearing and you seeing stars. “Fuck. You can have whatever you want,” he says, already making good on his promise with a slow grid. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

It’s good, so good, especially because Jungkook uses his grip on your thighs as leverage to ramp up his thrusts, easily maneuvering you over his cock in a way that has your toes curling. By the time he’s really fucking you—jaw set, brows furrowed in concentration—you’re crosseyed and mewling incoherently. You should be embarrassed by the sounds he’s pounding out of you, but you’re so focused on the overwhelming pleasure that you can’t find it in yourself to care very much. 

Chasing the high you already feel him leading you towards, you lift one of your legs to change the angle, and he catches on immediately, helping guide your ankle to hook over his shoulder with a distracted kiss against the bone. And it’s deeper this way, the angle ensuring he brushes against your spongy nerves with every stroke, only making you spiral faster. 

He notices, of course. Notices how quickly he’s taking you to your end and revels in it, sliding a hand inward and he thumbing your clit, fast and hard.

You jolt at the extra stimulation, gasping and overwhelmed. “Oh my goddd…”  

“Come on,” he croons, his dulcet tone at odds with the wickedness of his hand. His dick. “Don’t you want to cum for me?”

“I…” you choke out, struggling to form any sort of coherent thought as you feel everything get tighter. “I…”

You see his lips moving as he presumably says something else. But you can’t understand anything other than your own moaning when your pussy finally locks down. This orgasm is somehow more intense than the last one, your thighs rippling with the force of it, your hands desperately scrabbling over the desk in an effort to find something to ground you. 

And Jungkook fucks you through it, still talking, and it’s only when the whooshing in your ears starts to subside that you can finally decipher what he’s saying in between his own moaning. “There you go. Being so good for me. So good.”

Your only reply is your gasping breath as your orgasm slowly fades, replaced with oversensitivity. But you don’t want him to stop. You don’t want this to stop, reveling in the feel of him on you, in you. And Jungkook doesn’t, instead sliding your leg off his shoulder so he can grab you by the waist with both hands and properly yank you forward, moving you over his cock to his liking. 

The desk creaks with your effort, a rhythmic cacophony with the harsh smacking of his balls against your ass. You mewl, needing him closer still, and curl your legs around his hips, locking your ankles. He’s now trapped against you, but he groans like that’s exactly what he wanted, both hands gliding up the length of your body to grasp the back of your neck instead, giving him even better leverage to plunge into you, deep, deep. He leans down and rests his forehead against yours, licks into your panting mouth. 

At this point, his thrusts are turning manic, but you’re meeting every one of them, deliriously following him in his descent into madness. But when he catches your lower lip with his teeth, your breath hollows, and then, quicker than you can register it’s happening, you cum again, spasming around him with a long, high-pitched whine.

Jungkook lets you ride it out, but this time, his thrusts slow while you thrash. And it’s not until your soul finally floats back into your body that you realize he’s already pulled out of you and is bucking into his own fist instead.  

You almost took him over the edge with you, you realize. Though he clearly has incredible stamina, you have finally brought him to his limit, and everything inside you glows at the knowledge that he’s here, roughly pumping himself, moans falling freely from his lips because of you. 

Entranced, you reach for him, delighting in the whimper he lets out when your fingers wrap around his base. His own hand immediately falls to grip the edge of the desk instead, and you glide your fist up, finding his cock sticky with your juices. Jungkook just rests his head in the crook of your neck and lets you jack him off, whining through it when you match his previously punishing pace. And it doesn’t take long before he finally, finally splashes hot over your hand. Against your thigh. 

Your hand slows, twisting your wrist and milking him for every drop. Intent on extending his pleasure, just like he made sure to do for you. And you only stop when he flinches away from your touch, twitchy and shivering as he leans against you. 

Reluctantly, you let go. The two of you share the same balmy breath, struggling to calm your racing hearts. And when Jungkook finally backs away from you, unhurried in the way he gathers himself back into his slacks, there is a wildly satisfied grin on his face.

You’re satisfied too, though you try to have some sense of propriety and use a tissue from the box next to Joy’s monitor to wipe off the sticky evidence of his pleasure. Throwing away the evidence, you hop off the desk, locating your long-discarded panties and slipping them back on, smoothing down your skirt.

“So,” you tease lightly. Your head swims a little with the knowledge of what you just did, but you’re surprised to realize you feel zero guilt about it. “Is your plan to stick it to everyone who’s wronged me? If so, we should do it on Mabel next. That’ll show her.”

Jungkook laughs, a giddy, giggly thing. He’s now doing his best to pick up and replace everything that fell from Joy’s desk during your romp. “Nah, I could never disrespect her like that. That ol’ girl’s been such a great wingman these past few months.”

That’s a rather curious statement to make. You frown a little, shoot him an inquisitive sound.

“You always call me when Mabel’s not working,” he shrugs. “So when I wanted to see you, she was nice enough help.” 

You can’t help it—a smile creeps across your face, equally bashful and flattered. He wanted to see you! For months, by his open admission. “And the printer knew exactly when you wanted to see me?" you joke. “Sounds like dark magic to me.”

Jungkook’s valiantly trying to straighten and smooth out some of the papers the two of you disturbed. “Deleted some print jobs,” he replies offhandedly, clearly distracted by the task at hand. 

Record scratch. 

There’s an extended silence as your brain shuffles through different iterations of his sentence, trying to decipher exactly he meant by that. Because there's no way he just admitted to what you think he just did. “Did…did you just say you've been deleting my print jobs?” you ask incredulously. Because there’s no way.

There’s no way, yet at your words, Jungkook immediately stiffens. His lips part, but he doesn't defend himself. Doesn't say anything at all—just drops the pen he’s holding and stares at you with wide eyes.

Holy shit. Holy shit. He really has been doing it! He obviously hadn't meant to tell you that, but the relaxation of afterglow has clearly removed the filter between his brain and his mouth. 

The weight of his revelation hits you, seemingly happenstance events connecting in your mind and starting to fall into place. All the hassle and irritation that stupid printer has been giving you, and it turns out Mabel has been working just fine?! 

“Please don't be mad,” he pleads, finally finding his voice.  

“Are you seriously saying that all this time—”   

“No! No, I only did it a few times,” he sheepishly rushes to correct you. “And I promise, I haven’t done it in weeks.”

“Seriously?” 

“I just...wanted an excuse to talk to you!”

“Jungkook, you literally talk to me all the time!”

“About work! Not—” he averts his eyes, lets out an irritated breath. “It’s just. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to ask you out.”

You blink, gaping slightly as your whirring mind tries to process what he’s just told you. “Ask me…out?” 

“I didn’t mean to do…all this.” He waves a hand over the mess the two of you are still cleaning up, clearly embarrassed. “I mean, at least not before buying you dinner first.”

Moments pass as you stare at him in stunned, disbelieving silence. Then, like a volcano erupting, laughter bursts from you, loud and sudden. Because what the fuck? You can’t believe all of this is actually happening to you. In real life. “You jackass,” you cackle. “Do you have any idea how much grief that printer has been giving me? I’m over here stressed and you’ve been gaslighting me and doing it on purpose?”

“Just a few times,” he repeats, visibly confused by the juxtaposition of the mirth in your voice and the actual words you’re saying. 

“And that doesn’t change the fact that you’re still a jackass,” you laugh. “But…” You clear your throat, suddenly somehow shy, despite everything that has occurred and been said. “…I suppose you can still take me out to dinner.”  

“Yeah?” His lips stretch into a slow, hopeful smile.

“Yeah. Now, if you want. I think we’re pretty much done here.” You smile back, quickly taking stock of the binders still scattered across the floor. Most of them are completed, but whatever else you need to do can be done tomorrow morning. “Besides, I seem to have worked up an appetite.” 

Jungkook looks nothing short of smug, but you suppose you can’t fault him that. “Well then,” he practically purrs, “Let’s hurry up and feed you.” 

Moving in comfortable silence, the two of you finish putting everything you’ve disturbed back in their original spots, gathering the last of the binders and stacking them neatly on your desk. You reach for your purse while Jungkook goes to collect his hastily discarded belongings.

“So,” you start. “Where are you taking me? It’s kind of late.” This late on a weeknight, kitchens would be shutting down soon.

He pauses in sliding his leather jacket back on, frowning a little as he realizes you’re right. “Shit,” he mutters. “I wanted to take you somewhere nice.”

“You can,” you say with an unbothered wave of your hand. “That can be next time. Let’s just find something quick now.”

“So you’re saying I get a second date?” he grins.

Oh. That is what you just implied, isn’t it? You would be embarrassed by how forward you were being if Jungkook wasn’t visibly delighted by it. Wow, he really does like you. And since the feeling is mutual, you just look away coyly and say, “If you play your cards right.”

Jungkook hoists his backpack over a shoulder, and it’s only then that you see what else he happened to be carrying in his hands when he dropped everything for you. A helmet.

You gesture towards the object with a curious incline of your head. “What’s that for?”

“My bike,” comes his easy answer, but that’s not the kind of helmet that one wears for bicycle rides. No, this one is made for something much faster. 

Now that you think about it, you’ve seen the motorcycle in the parking lot before—you’ve just never really given it a second thought. And now you can’t stop thinking about it, because the unassuming vehicle you’ve often passed on your way into the building has been Jungkook’s the whole time. Your mind is blown. How many more times is he going to surprise you tonight?  

“…Do you always drive a motorcycle?” you ask incredulously.

“Depends on the day,” he shrugs with grin. “Sometimes I take the bus, but I like to ride my bike when the weather’s nice.” His eyes are bright with pride, visibly happy to have impressed you. 

Your mouth opens and closes, thoughts racing so fast your tongue struggles to hold onto any of them. Before you realize you’re doing it, you blurt, “Alright. Are you even real?”

Jungkook blinks owlishly at you, clearly not expecting that question. “What?” 

“I thought I’ve known you for months. But was any of that real?” you repeat. “Hell, do you even need glasses?”

“Of course,” he rushes to say. “It’s all me. I can just be a little shy, is all.” Wow, he actually said shy with a straight face, as if he didn’t just finish ravaging you over multiple surfaces. “And I like to be professional, so this place doesn’t get to have all facets of me. I know you can relate.”

You can. Your constant struggle to not complain? To be professional and work hard and hope you’ll be rewarded for your efforts? Obviously that’s a reason why the two of you ended up in this situation in the first place.

He ducks his head a little, tapping the glasses he picked up off the floor in petition for their validity. “And these really are prescription. I mean, I can mostly see without them, but since I stare at computer screens all day, it’s less strain on my eyes.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, feeling silly to have even asked. But who knew the quiet IT guy who kept mostly to himself was also this? Buff and tatted with a wicked tongue that you’re now intimately acquainted with. 

Shyly, he holds his helmet out to you. He hesitates before speaking again, almost like he’s afraid of spooking you. “Wanna go for a ride?” And from the way color lightly blooms across his cheeks, you get the sense that he’s offering you more than just protective gear.

You take it without second thought.

The next day you and Jungkook get off the elevator together, a respectable distance between you, but arms still brushing too often to be casual. When you come to the hallway that will force you in separate directions, you pause.

“Have a good day,” you say. Jungkook grins, the delighted brightness of it baring too much teeth and crinkling his eyes in the corners.

“You too,” he winks. “Let me know if Mabel gives you any more issues.”

You snort at his brazenness, biting down a smile as you head to your cubicle. Your whole body buzzes, glowing from inside out.

You’re technically right on time, but you’ve definitely arrived later than usual, and that’s obvious when you head over to your department and find Joy already there waiting for you. She frowns as you approach, no doubt clocking your empty hands and wondering how she’s going to make it through the morning without her expected syrupy caffeine fix. 

To her credit, she doesn’t call you out on it, but you don’t really care if she does. You’re done playing errand boy. From now on, everyone else will have to stop before work and get their own shit, if they want it so bad.

Because it’s all so clear to you now. You’re here, and you’re going to do your best, but you’re not going to let this place wear you down to jaded slivers. You’re going to work hard and learn all that you can, but you refuse to be anyone’s lapdog. 

They will respect you. And your value will be recognized and rewarded—or you’ll simply find somewhere else where it will. 

Joy must sense your new resolve, because she simply hovers by your desk and chirps, “Good morning.”

“Morning.” 

“Did you have a good night?”

Your lips quirk. “You could say that. What about you?”

“Eh, it was okay,” she sighs. “Met a guy for dinner, but I don’t think that’s going anywhere.” 

So while you were stuck here last night, having a grade-A meltdown, she was on a date. That tracks.

Joy chatters on while you put your things away, not seeming to notice or care that you’re not particularly interested in what she’s saying. And while this would normally irritate the living shit out of you, today, it doesn’t. 

Today, your eyes can’t help but glaze over as your mind drifts back to how your night went. Today, you just hum agreeably until she gets bored with you and decides to go back to her own cubicle.

And when you hear her ask over the wall if you’ve seen her stapler, you just smile and smile.   

⇢ my masterlist

[caratchronicles]

so so so good, the tension was so well written, loved it!!

[cherrymayz]

'Cause this is love || choi seungcheol

Pairing: girl!dad!scoups x fem!reader

genre: fluff

warnings: none? just tooth rotting fluff(girl dad cheol should be a warning though)

wc: 1.6k

a/n: so… this is just a very soft very cute very indulgent fic that came into existence because of this one post where someone said cheol would be the type of girl dad who would put bows in his daughter's hair. a huge huge huge thank you to my love @mellowgyu for helping me find pictures for the banner and coming up with the name (Seolah) and for reading this (your reaction gave me the confidence to post it). hope yall enjoy this little drabble!

You're sitting in front of your vanity getting ready when you hear a little squeal from the hall. Knowing who it is, you just shake your head, waiting for their dramatic entrance. You finish clipping on your earrings when you see your husband coming in holding your daughter, Seolah, in his arms as she giggles at whatever he said to her (knowing him, he probably told her she can get ice cream later). Looking at him through the mirror, you smile, amused as you watch the father and daughter so absorbed in their little plans. It never ceases to amaze you when you see how much Cheol indulges your daughter. Shaking your head, you think to yourself, no wonder she's turning into a little version of him, although maybe the being spoiled part resembles you too considering how much your husband pampers you.

Seungcheol sees you smiling at him and your daughter so beautifully that he almost melts into the floor—falling for you all over again—before he remembers he's still carrying his little bundle of joy. He knows you saw him glitch because the next second you're laughing with Seolah, who's still happy thinking about getting ice cream for dessert. God, your daughter is a replica of you and he couldn't be more grateful, he loves you both so much that he would do anything to keep you both laughing like you are right now.

"You look beautiful, my love."

He tells you, just as he always does but you know he means it every time, you can see it in his eyes. If there's one thing about Cheol—it's that his eyes always give him away. Just like now, where you can see the genuine happiness in his eyes as he admires you, good god, I love this man.

"And you look absolutely ravishing." He hears you say and gasps, covering Seolah's ears as he looks scandalised while you burst into giggles. His ears are red as he whisper-yells your name, "You cannot say that in front of her, what if she learns from you and says that to a boy? No, absolutely not."

Hearing him rant as you expected, your laughter gets louder as you relish in teasing your husband. Bless his sweet nature, he cannot bear the thought of your daughter growing up, he especially hates it when she talks to boys even though they are 3 year olds. Soon, they will be 13, he argues, then gets all emotional thinking about it.

As you watch his entire face go red, you decide to end his torment as you take you daughter from him, assuring him that you won't do that again(you certainly will). Seolah smiles at you, "Mama looks pretty."

The compliment makes you grin wider, "Thank you, baby. You look the prettiest, of course." She smiles at that before frowning and shaking her head. Confused, you tilt your head, about to ask her what's wrong when she says, "Papa is the prettiest."

You see cheol physically melt at the words, feeling warm yourself. You love that your daughter loves her father so much, it's all thanks to cheol being the best dad and of course, the best husband. You know he is, he immediately coos at Seolah thanking her before saying, "Mama will always be the prettier one, baby, but of course, like Mama said, you're the prettiest. You know why? because you look just like Mama and you're our daughter."

Not one to back down, "You have Papa's eyes too baby, that's why you're the prettiest." Your daughter smiles while you and cheol adore her when cheol feels something poke his foot. He looks down to see kkuma pawing at him as she glares at him as if to say, how dare you forget me? He panics as he immediately reaches to hold her in his arms, trying to console his sulky puppy. He looks to you for help, but you and your daughter are busy chuckling at his predicament.

"Kkuma, you know I would never forget you. I promise, I didn't." You coo as you watch him ramble to appease his eldest daughter. Deciding to help him, you look at Seolah and she understands your signal as she asks you to put her down and reaches for kkuma. Kkuma, that stubborn little puppy, loves your daughter just as much as you do, immediately giving her paw to Seolah's tiny hand(something she would never do for cheol or you). Cheol finally relaxes, smiling at the heartwarming scene in front of him.

"Shall we go?" You ask, when your daughter says no, opening her palm to show you the little bow hairpins she likes as well as kkuma's.

"Come here, baby, let me put it on for you." She moves towards you as cheol takes it upon him to put it on for kkuma when she turns her head away, not forgiving him yet. Seeing his pleading expression, you take the pin from him, putting it on kkuma as your husband clips your daughter's hair.

"God, you look so adorable baby." You hear him say as you turn around to see Seolah's hair now adorned with tiny little bows and your heart melts, she really does. Not wanting kkuma to sulk, you compliment her too, "You look cute too, baby." Kkuma wags her tail, happy as she glares at Seungcheol for not saying it.

Sighing, cheol decides he needs to appease kkuma by the end of dinner. "Alright, shall we go now?" cheol goes to pick up Seolah in his arms when she shakes her head again, this time, pointing at you and cheol. Perplexed, Seungcheol asks, "What is it baby?" You daughter points to the bow clips in your hairclip box and then back at you both. It dawns on you that she wants you to wear them too, matching with her. Chuckling, you shake your head as you reach for the clips, knowing cheol understood her too.

You pick out a few clips when you spot a big ribbon from the corner of your eye and you get an idea. You take the ribbon and turn to to your husband and he immdeiately knows you're upto something with the way your eyes sparkle with mischief, it's endearing but it also means you're going to make him do something ridiculous.

He narrows his eyes at the pink-blue ribbon in your hands, "What are you doing?" You don't answer as you reach for his hair and he understands what you plan to do. "My love, Jeonghan may have pullled it off at Caratland but I can't. Besides, we're going for dinner." You knew this would happen, so you turn to your daughter and say, "You want to see Papa in a ribbon bow, right baby?" As if on cue, Seolah nods and pouts at her father and cheol feels his will weaken immediately.

"This is not fair, you know I can't say no to her." You laugh, a menace, he thinks, although he knows, it's not like he can say no to you either. Shaking his head, "Alright fine, we can take a picture and then I'll take it off okay?"

You giggle, happy that your scheme worked, "Don't worry cheol, I wouldn't make you go out in it."

Seungcheol sits on the bed as you carefully thread through his hair, tying the ribbon into a bow just like Jeonghan had. You lean back as you admire your husband looking absolutely adorable with his hair in a ribbon. Unable to resist, you reach out to pinch his cheek as he continues to pout before he sees the delight on your face and breaks into a smile himself.

Seeing him like this, even kkuma seems to melt as she paws at him to pick her up. Your daughter just says, "Papa does look the prettiest," making cheol blush as he relishes in the feeling of being so loved by his family.

You settle beside him, taking Seolah into your lap as you open your phone's camera to click a cute family picture. Posing, you take a few, scrolling through them as you smile at how happy you all look. Turning to cheol, you take the ribbon off and smooth his hair down.

You move to take the little bow clips to put in your hair when cheol takes them from you, "Let me put them on for you." You raise your brow, amused as you just let him do what he wants to. He takes him time, slowly and carefully clipping the bows into your hair and you find his thoroughness endearing. Once he's done, he looks satisfied and proud, you look adorable, he thinks to himself.

"Okay, let's go now." Just as he says that, you look at him, "Now come on cheol, you need to match with us too." Confused, he just stares at you with his eyebrows furrowed when you bring out more of the teeny tiny bow clips, "Come here." Resigning to your whims, he just walks over to you and lets you put them on him.

When you're done, you look at your husband as if it's the first time you're seeing him, he looks so pretty it's unfair. Seolah squeals because she got what she wanted, all of you matching and kkuma just paws at cheol as if endeared by him. Seeing all three of you so happy, cheol smiles, he's happy too.

"Now, shall we go?" Laughing as you think of how many times this question was asked tonight, you reply, "Yeah, let's go my love." You walk out of the door, holding kkuma in your arms, as cheol holds your daughter and locks the door. You just know this night is going to be amazing, no, it already is.

[caratchronicles]

this is teeth rotting fluff🥹🥹

[azaablue]

the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.

[gyuswhore]

the discontentment with dino's album is truly appalling bc i'm failing to see where this is even a fraction of the problem some of these people are making it out to be. everyone wants fresh and fun till it breaks the norm in a very non intrusive way, this is not the first time an alter ego has been used in music, or in Kpop. in fact I think its a really clever way around the uneven pairings and it's putting a genuinely refreshing twist that isn't manufactured just for this album.

also. I don't wanna hear JACK shit bc the way Wait was done dirty is something I'll never forget. people want something to be mad at and it shows bc it's anarchy anytime someone steps outside of the box. and again, HES BARELY TOEING OUT OF IT IN THE FIRST PLACE!!!!!! future of Kpop this future of Kpop that please do not speak if you can't handle the change being the future brings

[sailorsoons]

Until Death (x.mh)

PAIRING: Minghao x f. reader SUMMARY: As the second daughter to one of the most powerful businesses under the Choi Syndicate, you’ve always lived your life free of responsibility - until your sister dies and you become the heir. So when your family announces one of your new responsibilities as heir is an engagement to the son of a powerful shipping conglomerate, it comes should come as no shock. Minghao, however, is full of surprises, each one of them more deadly than the last. WC: 33,779 AU: Mafiaverse, Cyberpunk, Arranged Marriage GENRE: 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: Graphic violence and assassination attempts, descriptions of blood and on screen murder (two with a knife, one with a garrote), mentions of off page deaths of a sibling and a parent (one via suicide), references to organized crime/syndicates with political marriages, power plays, and illegal activities, references to physical abuse from a family member but honestly very vague and ambiguous, hemes of grief, trauma, deception, and identity secrets, some power imbalances throughout, lots of showcasing of disparity of wealth throughout, some angst and a lot of lying, reader is kidnapped, explicit language, explicit sexual content featuring oral (f. receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected penetrative sex, multiple orgasms/positions, uhhhhh I think that's it. It's a Syndicates fic y'all, as always read with caution. A/N: I have been working on this chapter since November 2025 and it is finally here. I'm going to apologize in advanced if the plot seems a bit twisty turny or if the motives are a bit weak - taking that long between the first 15k I wrote for this fic and the second 15k I wrote for this resulted in me writing a completely different story than what I started with. Also - reader was supposed to be a lot more mystical but it's just sort of vague in this. She is not literally magical in a fantasy sense, but rather the same way that there are mysteries of the universe and energies etc. i really hope this makes sense - thank you for being patient with me as I put this chapter out. I think I like this one... maybe. Also, we are introduced to three new characters who are relevant in the rest of the series - especially Kero :) This fic takes place during the events of Baby for your timeline purposes. A/N 2: It is recommend you read the other works of the Syndicates collection before you read this fic - specifically Baby. You don't have to read the others to understand the fic as I try to sum up the world and plot well, but I'm not perfect so ready this totally separate of the other stories might not be as easy as I crack it up to be! A/N 3: This is un-beta'd we die like men.

COLLECTION | ASK | NOW PLAYING: UNTIL DEATH | SYNDICATES WORLD GUIDE

THE EVENING OF YOUR SISTER'S DEATH, YOU HAD DRAWN THE WORLD, REVERSED FROM YOUR TAROT DECK. You remember staring at it, unsettled, tracing the details as if the lines themselves could tell you what was coming.

It was one of those rare, hand-crafted decks, a fragment of the old world, tangible and delicate. In a world with so little physical art and so little understanding of the universe, you'd cherished the deck, a small luxury in a world where most people wouldn't have understood.

You remember knowing the card was a warning. The only trouble was you didn't know what for. You left the card face up on the desk and blew out your candles, your mother's voice calling through the estate's intercom again, impatient and angry because you were late.

Again.

To her, being late was a condition, not a habit. To you on that rainy November evening, it had been a kind of salvation, though perhaps salvation wasn't the right word. You didn't believe in gods or higher beings, but you did believe in the strange, quiet ways of the universe.

Strange, like how lingering over a single tarot reading could keep you from stepping into the restaurant when the gas explosion tore through the back of the block - when your sister, waiting at your usual table, became the first member of your family to die.

Gone in a moment, the entire direction of your life rearranged.

The world, reversed.

-

The rain over the Upper District is thin and metallic. It sheets off the glass buildings in vertical lines, turning each tower into a waterfall of neon and water. You watch the rain from the back of the car, forehead pressed to the cold window. The city slides past, a smudge of light.

Nexus Capital rises ahead of you, a monolith of glass punch through the low cloud ceiling. You stare at the building that's a feat of architecture with a list of awards and features in architectural magazines. You don't understand why a banking building needs to be an architectural work of art.

You don't find it to be very artistic anyway. Nexus Capital is one hundred and twelve floors of smoked glass and carbon fiber, no logos and no name, but a solid black tower threaded with light that everyone knows when they see it glow against the horizon.

Most nights, it turns invisible, like a trick of the light. If it weren't for the purple LEDs pulsing through the building's framework now, lighting it up to make air travel safe, you wouldn't even see it, though you know exactly where to look.

The car turns into the private ramp beneath the plaza, the security gates opening slowly. The car pauses as the driver cracks the window to state your business and clearance information. You wait, staring dully out the window as the scanners read the car for weapons and trace the plates. When it clears, the driver pulls through, continuing down the spiraling ramp toward the sub-level reserved for people who don't use the public lobby.

People like you.

You step out into a cold, concrete garage. Security guards are waiting on either side of the elevator for you, their charcoal suites pristine. They nod politely as you approach, heels clicking. One presses his palm to the panel, the lift doors opening with a soft hiss.

Your ride is eighty-nine floors, no stops. You breathe slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Four counts in, hold for four, exhale eight. Even numbers. Good numbers. Your pulse steadies.

The reflection in the glass wall of the elevator is jarring: black dress, black blazer, hair tamed, heels, minimal jewelry. The girl who used to sneak out of charity galas to stare up at the moon and fill jars of water to collect its energy is nowhere in sight.

A chime indicates your arrival and you stiffen. The lift opens directly into an executive corridor of basalt floors and recessed lightly. It smells faintly of cedar in the hall, no doubt pumped in by an unseen air filtration system, meant to give the offices an old, serious feel.

The eighty-ninth floor is nothing but meeting rooms and executive spaces. You walk along the network of empty rooms now, knowing the way by heart - you'd practiced the route a million times. Normally, even after hours, the meeting rooms would be full of people. This evening's meeting is high profile though, so the entire floor has been reserved and dismissed.

Double doors greet you as you turn a corner. A security guard is outside, tipping his head to greet you before opening the door to let you in. Inside is a massive board room full of people.

One entire wall is made up of glass, Hyperion glittering on the other side: neon arteries, ribbons of traffic, the distant strobe of a casino in the Pearl District. The table in the center of the room is a massive rectangle of smoked quartz, lit from beneath so it looks frozen.

You go straight to your side of the table where your father and board members sit. There's a single, high-back chair for you next to your father - it used to be your mother's, but after she'd killed herself a few months ago, she bequeathed the chair to you.

Her ghost clings to you every time you sit in the chair, a coolness sticking to your skin. You grit your teeth. This room needs sage and perhaps some selenite. It has neither, so you ignore the way a shiver slides up your spine, phantom fingers reminding you of the heaviness of her absence. Ghosts don't like to be ignored, but no one else in this room can feel the way spirit lingers, the way memories have a way of clinging to a place.

Today is not a day for fear and superstition. Today is the kind of day where you have to ignore all of your instincts in favor of being practical and analytical - the kind of girl your sister would have been, instead of you, the strange one who believed in the energies of the universe and its strange higher powers.

Lifting your eyes, you peer across the table as your father clears his throat to settle the room. Xu Minghao is seated directly across from you, the polished surface of the crystal table stretching like eons between you. He's narrower than the file photos, dressed in a suit so dark that it seems to eat the light around him. His hair is longer too, styled neatly around his ears to rest against his collar bones. It suits him, you think.

He's prettier than you realized, too. His face is exquisitely balanced between sharp and soft, his eyes fierce and burning as he stares at you, his mouth soft and supple. His equally sharp jawline is offset by a gentle nose, a blend of contrasts that make him breathtaking to look at.

And extremely intimidating.

"Shall we begin?" Your father asks. He's using his calm voice, the one he likes to use to show he isn't intimidated.

The Xu side inclines heads in near-perfect synchrony. Minghao's father, Xu Jian, sits at the center opposite your father, his hair dark and long like his son, threading with silver at the temples. Odd, you think. In a world where showing age is so rare, you find it fascinating that the Xu family's patriarch has deliberately decided to show his age. A powerplay, perhaps, that he does not fear how fast the world around him is moving, nor is he influenced by the trends of appearing young.

Xu Luli is the opposite. Minghao's mother is a radiance of youth, dressed in immaculate dove silk with a single jade pendant the size of a small egg pinned to her blazer. Her face has no obvious lines, full and flushed with color like she's still in her twenties. It's unsettling, and when your eyes flick to Minghao, you realize how much he looks like her with his full lips and sharp eyes. He's nearly her mirror, save for his eyes are dark and near-black where hers are uncanny stormy grey.

Across the table, Minghao sits perfectly upright, his hands folded loosely on the table. No rings, no watch, no jewelry at all. There's just a faint scare across the first knuckle of his right hand, pale against otherwise flawless skin.

Your father gestures to the lead counsel on your side to begin. She taps the table and a holo screen blooms above the quartz, rotating for all to see. It's a splitting of proposed assets, tallied net and financial worth, assets both tangible and liquid, and everything else about you both true and not splayed for everyone to see.

"Xu Worldwide Logistics currently moves forty-three percent of all container freight through Hyperion's docks in the Civ District," the lead counsel begins. "Post-marraige, joint control of the merged entity will be split sixty-forty in favor of Xu Worldwide Logistics, with veto rights retained by Nexus Capital."

Xu Jian smiles. "Forty-three percent is a conservative assessment of our business. Perhaps seventy-thirty would be more appropriate."

"Sixty-five," your father answers, smiling. "Thirty-five. That feels more appropriate. Our assumptions of your capital are conservative, as you say."

Jian bows his head and agrees.

You watch in silence as your assets are debated for you - assets you didn't have until a year ago, when your sister had been blown apart in a freak accident. Your hands sweat looking at the figures and numbers that shouldn't belong to you, the endless amount of credits, properties, offshore accounts and liquid assets you don't even understand.

Swallowing past a dry patch in your throat, you glance at Minghao. He doesn't look at the rotating holograms of your entire net worth reflected for a room full of suits - he looks directly at you. He's not staring, exactly, but you fight the urge to shiver anyway. His gaze is intense and cataloging, like he's reading every tiny expression on your face.

In fact, he probably is. Minghao's family isn't from Hyperion, but they've clawed their way to the top with the money and empire they've built in Hyperion, which means they know how to play the game. After all, if they didn't know how to play, they wouldn't be sitting at this table negotiating a political marriage to gain access to the one of the city's most powerful Syndicates.

"Along with the marriage comes guarantees," your father says, catching your attention. "Of additional security for shipments."

No one says Choi Syndicate. No one has to. This entire marriage is for the Choi Syndicate, who are seeking an advantage in the Yong Syndicate-owned shipping yards in the Civ District. While the Xu family has remained neutral thus far, the fact that you're all sitting in a room discussing your legal marriage to the heir of their business is an aggressive move for the Xu family.

"Additionally," your father adds, as though sensing the unsaid danger in the room, "Nexus Capital is partnered with Aegis Security Corp. They're a long-standing client of ours, and are happy to provide additional support, both personal and professional to the Xu family and clients."

You can't help the way you start to roll your eyes. Aegis Security Corporation is a legitimate business portfolio pledged to Nexus Capital, but that certainly isn't the security your father is promising. He's promising the Xu family Choi Syndicate protection, a silent acknowledgement that by being here in this room, they are agreeing to the risk of being targeted by other Syndicates but will be offered the protections of guns, money and blood that the Choi Syndicate can offer.

The smile the Xu patriarch gives assures you that he is right where he wants to be, though his son remains expressionless, eyes unreadable.

Minghao's mother leans forward, her jade pendant catching the light. "And the personal union? We understand the principal heirs will co-own the new holding company directly. We would like the details of residence, public representation, and succession details clarified."

This time, you do cringe. You can't help it. The word succession details crawls inside of your ribcage and threatens to start corroding. She means where will you live, who gets to be the press's shining star, and who inherits if someone dies inconveniently.

Or conveniently, depending on if you die and all your assets default to the man across the table. Which is a real threat that you've talked about with your father, knowing that he could be signing you over for someone to assassinate you and claim rights to all that you own. It is exactly why the proposal keeps the shipping assets in favor of the Xu family and the banking assets in favor of your family, a shared split but a majority of both residing with the original shareholder.

Your father looks to you to answer Minghao's mother. The message is clear: you’re the woman of the family. Speak to your counterpart.

"Residence will be the penthouse at the Observatory," you answer. "It's at the edge of the Upper District near the Estate District."

"The Observatory?"

"A starter home for us to settle. When we decide to have a family, there is a private residence left to me in the Estate District as dictated by my mother's will." She leans back, pleased. Your eyes drift to Minghao. "I assume Mr. Xu has no objection to living above the clouds to start."

"Height has never bothered me," he answers. His voice is soft, but the way he says it makes the hair on your arms raise. "It's a generous gift."

You learn forward, resting your forearms on the cold table top. The sleeves of your dress ride up just enough to show the faint bruise on your left wrist, fingermarks from last week when your father decided punctuality required emphasis. You adjust the sleeve, but when you look up, you see Minghao's eyes latched to the spot.

"Public representation," you continue quickly, trying to keep him engaged, "will be joint. Galas, council meetings, the usual. We smile, we shake hands, we let the photographers snap pictures. Public image is a joint effort and a joint success."

Both of his parents nod, pleased. Minghao is still staring at your covered wrist. "As far as succession, if one of us dies, the surviving spouse inherits full voting control of the merged entity for a minimum of five years. After that, it reverts to the strongest board proxy. Standard widow's clause."

"What is your security like?"

Minghao's question catches you offguard. You're unsure if he means the traditional security you use as the heir to one of the city's richest families, or the Choi Syndicate security you use to ward people away from you. You're sure he doesn't mean the spell jars hidden in the drawers of your room or the spell oils you tinker with.

"Standard," you offer. It seems like a safe answer.

"Standard." He frowns. "I find that the standard rarely does the job."

His father starts to speak, but Minghao lifts a finger, barely a centimeter. You watch in shock as it silences his father. It's so subtle you're unsure if anyone else notices it. Strange, for a son to dictate what a father does. You file that bit of information away for later.

"Do you have a recommendation, then?" You ask. "Feel free to propose something less standard."

His mouth twitches, a ghost of amusement. "Security protocols should be put in place. Travel routes, choices of driver, general schedules, should all have a shared veto. If one of us believes a risk is unacceptable, the other yields. No appeal."

Your father makes an angry sound. "You're asking for the right to countermand my daughter's security detail? That's entirely too controlling and rather convenient if you wanted her assets."

The accusation ruffles the feathers on the other side of the table, but Minghao remains nonplussed, eyes flicking to your father. His expression has barely shifted, but there's something subtle there, something sharp.

"I'm asking," he corrects, voice soft, "That neither of us dies stupidly because the other was too proud to listen. I find that joint decisions on matters of travel and security are often best, especially considering that this marriage will be highly publicized."

"Fine," you answer before your father can object. "Shard veto, with the amendment that our security teams are jointly chosen. You may not employ any member of security who has not been vetted and agreed upon by me personally."

Minghao inclines his head. "Agreed."

Above the table, a redline version of the agreement drafts as you trade amendments. Your eyes drop down to the scar on his knuckle again. It's thin and precise, the kind of mark left by a wire garotte or a very sharp knife. Not the sort of scar you get from yachting around the world like you've been told he does frequently.

Strange. In just a short manner of time, the list of strange things about Minghao grows longer. Something about him tugs at your tuition, a feeling of premonition you can't place. 

When you look back up, Minghao is watching you. His mouth twitches and your skin burns like you've been caught. You try to work out the expression on his face, but as his mother brings up the section regarding children, it's like dunking your head into ice cold water.

"Two," she says smoothly, fixing you with a pointed stare. "Minimum. More is fine. Bloodline continuity is non-negotiable. Two is safe, should the other-"

She cuts herself off, face going white. No one speaks. Your father is stiff next to you - you don't even think he's even breathing. Luli looks like she doesn't know what to do, caught between needing to apologize and the terrible of making such a bad social faux pas.

It's a reminder that the Xu family isn't from here. Arkos isn't a city that far away, but it's foreign enough in social structure, political makeup and culture that you're reminded how hard the Xu family must have worked to adapt to Hyperion's complex pecking order and social norms, and Luli has just made a terrible mistake. Were she in a room of Hyperion socialites or Syndicate women, she'd probably never recover.

"Should the other die," you finish for her. "Yes, we're quite familiar with the concept. Two minimum makes sense. Do you have a preference on gender?"

The silence in the room is so complete you can hear the faint echo of the city outside. You wait, staring across the table, trying to do anything but think about how intimately familiar you are with parents needing an heir and a spare, especially in a city like Hyperion. Luli's lips part, then close, surprised at how quickly you've addressed her concern and moved on.

"So do you?" You ask again, eyes flicking between Minghao and his mother who glance at one another. "I'm only asking because some families still care about sons carrying the name. Saves awkward paperwork later."

"Gender is irrelevant," Minghao answers. "Healthy heirs are all that matters."

"Yes," his mother agrees. "Healthy. And timing?"

You lean back in a dead woman's chair. Not for the first time, you wonder if this is what your sister had to sit through. Though you were only a few years apart, your sister is alien to you. Unfamiliar. Did she have to sit through board rooms and negotiate terms and rights to her womb? She did have to pledge herself to a total stranger and promise to pop out heirs?"

Of course she did. You wonder if she was any good at it. You never asked her. You'd been too busy hiding away from your family in the gardens, watching butterflies land on the water lilies while the house keeper told you about craft and how certain herbs had metaphysical properties. You’d been fascinated by her and her practice, an ancient, earthy belief that most people thought was nonsense.

"Five years," you tell her. "Minimum. Our data shows that the city's current climate is not ideal for infants." You pause as the lead counsel shows the data in question. "After that, we can revisit timelines. Medical oversight may be split eighty-twenty, with my priorities and preferences emphasized."

"I would prefer-"

"Accepted," Minghao says softly, cutting off his mother. She leans back, pursing her lips. You don't know much about Xu Luli, but she looks like someone who would prefer far more control over the birth of her grandchildren. Minghao's eyes slide back to you. "A final item, if you will."

Your father gestures for him to continue. Minghao reaches inside of his pocket and produces a matte-black rectangle no larger than one of your tarot cards. There's no logo or text, so dark that it drinks the light in like his suit does. He sets it on the table and flicks it with a finger, sliding it across the table like oil slick.

You blink in surprise when you realize it's a comm device, thin enough to slice paper with the faintest holo-sheen on it. You've never seen its make before, and you look back up at him, questioning.

"A private channel," Minghao says, addressing you. "Encrypted. Off-grid. Not monitored by family, counsel, or security. For discussions that do not belong in the meeting minutes."

Next to you, your father's scoff is immediate and sharp. "She doesn't need-"

"Voluntary, of course," Minghao assures. "Either party may choose never to use it. It exists, though. Personal devices will be the main point of contact."

Xu Jian's smile is thin. "A gesture of good faith and a family tradition. The Xu family places emphasis on having direct contact with our partners in times of turmoil."

"And what turmoil do you predict to befall this city?"

Minghao's father spreads his hands. "The world is ever-changing. It is not a reactionary practice, but perhaps a proactive one."

Your father's fingers drum on the table. The rhythm is familiar - you've heard it in the back of cars, against the arm of the couch, on the top of a desk. It's the telltale sign of his increasing irritation, the need to do something with his fingers before he strikes.

After a long beat, your father nods. "Voluntary."

Minghao dips his head. "We have no other amendments."

The lead counsel taps the table. The contract above ripples, red lines bleeding into final black. A soft chime confirms transmission, and you look down to see the new draft appearing in the table's interface in front of you. Your name is already glowing in the signature line, waiting for your official sign off.

Swallowing hurts. Your throat is desert-dry as you pick up the stylus, hating the way it shakes in your hand. You grip it tighter, fighting off the tremor as you glance up instinctively.

Minghao is no longer watching you. His head is bowed, stylus moving in a single, fluid stroke that ends in a flourish. He sets the stylus down with deliberate care, aligning it parallel to the edge of the table before he looks up at you again, expectant.

You look down and sign, a nervous trickle of fear cutting through you. Once executed, the documents appear across the interface in rotation, allowing for the room to sign as witnesses. You keep your gaze fixed to the document rather than him, but you can feel the eight of his stare settle on you like a blade pressed to the hollow of your throat.

"Ajourned," your father says as soon as the final signature is to document.

Chairs roll back in a sudden rush of sound. Quiet chatter rises, the polite and rehearsed gratitude backtracking the soft shaking of hands. A side door you hadn't noticed opens and two white-gloved staff glide in with trays of chilled plum-infused water, coffee, and tiny plates of yuzu macarons dusted with gold leaf.

You cringe. The refreshments are small but you know they cost more per bite than most people in the Lower District make in a week, the display of wealth so suddenly unfamiliar to you that you feel your stomach flip.

People begin to mingle. Your father is already shaking Xu Jian's hand, voice pitched politely again. Luli is laughing at something one of the lead counsel members is saying bright and lilting.

You stand, knees shaking. The air feels a little too thick for you, your pulse a frantic bird trapped inside your ribcade. You don't bother excusing yourself verbally - no one in the room notices you. They never do. So no one stops you when you slip through the door into the corridor.

Outside the boardroom the air is cooler. You breathe in the cedar-scent, walking away from the room. Your heels are too loud and you soften your steps, making it feel like you're sneaking off. And you kind of are, honestly. You need a break, a breather from the formality and the cage of formality.

You find a smaller meeting room, windowless and lit only by a single strip of amber light along the ceiling. There's a narrow table with four chairs and nothing else. You lean back against the door for a moment, letting out the breath you'd been holding the entire meeting.

Reaching into the pocket of your blazer, you produce a silk-wrapped bundle. The cards are warm from your body heat, the silk falling away as you unwrap the tarot set. You walk toward the table, shuffling the cards. You feel your anxiety ease with the familiar weight of them in your hand, the soft schk as they shift in your fingers.

You don't even ask the deck a question. You just need the feel of them, need something familiar in this strange building with these strange people. The cards speak anyway, three cards slipping from the deck to clatter on the table, face-up.

The Tower, upright. The Moon, reversed. Death, upright.

It feels cold in the room. You stare at them, teeth working your bottom lip as you process, your eyes dragging over each guard. Lightning splitting stone. Lies and illusion dissolvering. And ending that's a beginning. It's the usual trio that's been haunting you since you drew the World, reversed a year ago.

You don't hear the door open as you look over them. It isn't until you see a shadow fall over them that you flinch, whirling around with your hand flying to your chest.

Minghao stands just inside the threshold, one hand still on the handle, the other loose at his side. He closes the door without a sound, tilting his head to peer around you at the table of cards. You step to block his line of sight, vision pounding.

"Oh, it's you-" You break off, unsure what to say. He probably has no concept of tarot cards anyway. "It's a… hobby of mine."

Minghao says nothing. He approaches with deliberate, lithe steps until he's standing next to you but with a respectable distance between you. You catch the faint scent of pine and cold air clinging to his jacket, refreshing.

"What do they mean?" He asks, voice soft. "When they fall like this? What do you see?"

"You know what they are?"

"I know it's strange that you have them. You don't strike me as a wicked woman." You frown at the term wicked woman. It's slang for the women who work backdoor craft and ritual practices - you're curious how someone of his status knows the word at all. He points to the cards on the table. "Tell me, please."

You step forward, fingers tightening around the deck. "The Tower means sudden change. The collapse of something that was supposed to be stable. Violence, sometimes."

"The Tower like the rulers of the Syndicates?"

"Yes."

He hums. "Keep going."

"The Moon reversed is lies coming undone. Secrets dragging into the light whether one wants them to or not."

"I see. And Death?"

"Death isn't always literal." You don't know why you feel the need to clarify, but you do. "It's transformation. The end of one thing so another can begin. You can fight it or you can walk through it, but you never stay the same."

Minghao is quiet for a long moment. The light bathes him half in shadow, half in light, like a dark angel. He's so beautiful it's hard to think straight for a moment, hard to realize this is the man you're going to marry.

"You're practiced at reading these, then?"

"Very. I trust very few things, but these have never lied to me."

"You're too honest," Minghao's gaze lingers on the Death card before he turns to leave, not sparing you a glance. "It will hurt you one day."

—

The night of your engagement part, the party planning committee led by Xu Luli outdoes itself. The Sky Venue at The Elysian is an architectural wonder - one hundred and thirty-three floors up, the entire top level has been gutted and rebuilt into a single floating garden suspended beneath a retractable dome of smart glass.

Tonight, the dome is open to the stars. The air is warm despite the cooling season, the climate controlled by tiny micro-drones flying around the open dome, naked to the eye. The air tastes faintly of night-blooming jasmine, and guests wander through the garden with glasses of champagne.

Waterfalls pour from above into man-made koi ponds, night lilies floating on the rippling surfaces. Servers in white silk glide past, careful to avoid the ponds as they serve golf leaf canapes and cocktails served in what you think might be diamonds. In the corner, a string quartet plays on a platform of transparent glass suspended thirty meters above the ground, music cascading down and over the crowd.

Spared no expense, someone mutters as you walk by. Of course you didn't. This is the night that your family alongside the Xu's are selling you to the city and showing off their wealth.

A statement night, really.

You stand near one of the koi pongs in a gown of liquid obsidian. There are thousands of microscopic diamonds hand-stitched into the dress, making it look like you bend the light the same way as your fiancée's suit. Your neckline plunges just enough to be daring, and the back is open to the base of your spine.

A single strand of black tourmaline beads is loped around your wrist. To anyone not paying attention, it looks like diamonds. To you, it's grounding, steadying you against the thousand eyes currently cataloguing you.

Minghao finds you before you find him. He appears at your left shoulder without a sound, a flute of champagne in his hand. You flinch when you see him - over the last two months, you've been entirely unable to adjust to the way he materializes out of thin air.

"You look like a dark priestess," he murmurs. "Very on-brand, wicked woman."

You turn to him, trying to control your pointed smile. "Call me that again and I'll make your mornings quite unpleasant. I will hide hex bags where you will never find them."

His mouth twitches. He doesn't look at you, his eyes scanning the crowd, sharp as ever. He hands you the glass and you take it, knowing better than to dismiss him in public.

"Threats already," he observes. "We're not even married yet."

"I'm not a wicked woman," you say. "It's rude to call me one. I'm a practitioner. Kind of. I wanted to be. I don't sell phony fixalls from behind a Rose Room in the Lower District."

"And what is it you practice?"

"None of your business."

He hums. "You smell of incense and herbs, wicked woman. It's nice."

"If you're trying to upset me-"

"I'm trying to distract you." He glances at you, dark eyes glittering. "You have an angry resting face. It makes people think you're unhappy to be here."

"I am unhappy."

He lets out a small sound. You realize it's amusement and you feel an odd twitch behind your ribs. "I told you already, you are too honest."

In the last two months since your engagement, your interactions with Minghao have been minimal. He is doggedly polite, formal, and stiff, saying all the right things and smiling at all the right times, but none of it is real. He's so practiced and rehearsed that at first, you thought it might be real. But the more you watch him, the more you realize that Minghao is the perfect imitator.

Except now. His poking and prodding seems in jest, though you know there's certainly something more to it, something important that you're missing. This light banter is new to you, and you dislike that he asks questions about your practice. The elite don't often take kindly to those who believe in powers beyond money and Syndicates, but Minghao seems more amused than disturbed.

You glance beyond Minghao, eyes settling on the Tower of the Choi Syndicate. You feel your mouth go dry at the sight of Choi Moojin. He stands a distance away with his wife, dressed in a bespoke midnight suit, the mountain emblem embroidered in a threat of silver at his cuff.

The Tower of the Syndicate is the single most powerful person in the room, if not the city. Though there are two other Syndicates in the city, the Choi Syndicate has been strong the last few years, gaining a slight power foothold both politically and economically.

Not territorially, though. Their loss of the Port of Hyperion being located in the Choi-dominated Warehouse District to the Yong family had been a blow, and was the entire reason that your wedding to Minghao was happening at all.

As long standing patrons dedicated to the Choi family, your union to Minghao guarantees better assurances for Choi-owned shipping freight and better sway and management with the shipping authority.

A smart match. A political one. All dictated because the Tower of the Choi Syndicate needed it. Strange, that your entire life has shifted at the command of a man you've never personally met because he needs something from you that he'll never pay you back for.

A little ways away from the Tower and his wife, their children argue. At least, that's what it looks like they're doing. Seungcheol leans against a pillar nearby, murmuring something to his sister, expression heated. She ignores him, staring out into the crowd as though she can't hear him at all.

The Choi heiress is the kind of beauty that commands the attention of the entire room, even now as her brother mutters urgently to her. Recently engaged herself, you're surprised you don't see her fiancée lurking about. You're sure that Kim Yijun was on the guest list. Instead, she ignores Seungcheol, a haunted look on her face, a beautiful dove with a broken wing. She'd looked like that the last time you'd seen her too, an empty shell of the girl you'd gone to etiquette school with.

"Strange," Minghao murmurs, drawing your attention back to him. "To see them in person."

"Why?"

"They seem normal."

"They are."

Minghao hums but doesn't answer. Perhaps he has a point - they do seem normal. But why shouldn't they? They're two of the most privileged people in the room, growing up under a banner of Syndicate peace and prosperity. Had he expected obvious criminality? Knives and guns, threats of violence?

The way he observes them with his mouth slightly downturned tells you he might have expected exactly that. He's unfamiliar with the Syndicates, and you think belatedly of the scar on his knuckles, the one you often wonder after.

You drain your champagne in one swallow. "They're here to make sure this is a union they support, not cause violence."

"The union was their idea." You cut a glance at Minghao. It's a truth that no one says outloud, least of all here. He returns your stare, his eyes inky and unreadable. "They wouldn't suggest it if they didn't support it."

"You told me being too honest would get me hurt one day. Maybe you should consider that as well."

"Should a husband not be honest with his wife?"

A passing server offers caviar on mother-of-pearl spoons. You ignore him, your eyes on the Choi heiress who turns to her brother and says something that shuts him up. Minghao gives the server a single look and sends him scurrying away, your fiancée sliding a step closer to you.

"You strike me as someone who uses truths to hide other truths," you note, looking him up and down. "You'll tell me one honest thing to make me confident while you hide six others."

Something flickers behind Minghao's eyes. It's that same flare of something like that first day you met him. Maybe surprise or recognition. You're not entirely sure, but it does something to you that you can't name, a little tug right behind your ribcage.

"Observant."

"I have to be."

"What have your cards told you about tonight?" You give Minghao a sharp look. He doesn't look at you but he sighs. "It wasn't a barb. I'm not sparring with you- not anymore, anyway. I’m trying to get to know you."

He laces his hands behind his back, waiting. Minghao is good at waiting, you've noticed. He doesn't ask for things twice, and he never clarifies himself - save for you. There is power in silence and waiting others out, and Minghao maneuvers that silence like a carefully sharpened blade that he's intimately familiar with.

"The same three cards," you tell him eventually. "The Tower. The Moon, reversed. Death."

Minghao hums. "Violent change. Illusions stripped away. Transformation."

"You don't have to pretend to believe in it for my sake."

"I don't know what I believe in. Perhaps there is some truth to your tarot and the spell jars you keep hidden in your pockets. Who is to say?"

Before you can answer, a ripple moves through the crowd. You watch as heads turn and you find the source. The Tower is moving, slow and inevitable toward you. Your heart lurches and you glance around, looking for your father, who should be here to receive this conversation, but he's nowhere to be found.

Minghao's hand settles at the small of your back, making you swallow thickly. The heat of his palm against your skin is an inferno, but it grounds you as the Tower approaches with his wife, children and Wisdom in tow.

You glance at Yoon Minji, the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate. You hadn't noticed her at first, the woman a near imperceptible shadow lurking behind the Tower's wife. She's dressed in a blue so dark that it's almost black, hair pulled back and slick as oil. Her son is at her side, a twin shadow that you have heard is her image in more than just physical likeness.

Choi Moojin stops an arm's length away. Up close, he's larger than you remember, the kind of presence that fills up a room and makes you feel small. His eyes are fathomless, but surprisingly warm, a weird offset to the danger you know he poses.

"You look beautiful," he says, voice soft. "Congratulations on your engagement. Your families must be proud, you're an exquisite couple with good taste."

You dip at the knees and lower your head, bowing as deep as decorum for the moment demands. "Thank you, Tower. Your blessing is appreciated."

Seungcheol steps around his father, offering his hand to Minghao while his sister lingers behind him, a strange look on her face as she watches you, almost like panic. Her brother shakes Minghao's hand firmly before he takes yours and kisses the top politely. "Congratulations."

Minghao's fingers flex against your spine, the tiniest pressure before you drop Seungcheol's hand and the Choi's drift away. You feel yourself exhale as they do, relief flooding your system at their obvious approval. The Mountain will stand behind your marriage, which is as good as signing the paper and saying your vows.

The Wisdom goes with the Choi's, dipping her head toward you with a small smile that unsettles you, but her son lingers, drifting closer with a lazy grin.

Jeonghan offers a hand to Minghao. "A union of banking and shipping. Tell me, does love come standard with the merger, or is that an optional upgrade?

It's crass. From what you know of Yoon Jeonghan, it isn't surprising that he likes to see you squirm. Though he's next in line to be the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate when his mother steps down from the title, you're unsure if he's suited for it if he can't help but make inappropriate barbs at an engagement party.

You have half the mind to tell him so, but it's Minghao who answers, a sharp smile on his face as he shakes Jeonghan's hand. "We prefer equity over love."

Jeonghan laughs, delighted. "Enjoy the party. Congratulations on your union."

With a final wink, Jeonghan drifts away, chasing after Seungcheol who is arguing with his sister again. The Tower ignores his children, clapping someone on the back from Nexus Capital's board of directors.

Minghao's hand slides from your back to your wrist, thumb brushing the tourmaline bracelet once before he drops his hand entirely. You don't dare look at him. The touch is intimate and softer than you expect. It unsettles you that it’s the softest bit of warmth anyone has shown you in years.

Your fiancée waves to a group of people familiar to him but not to you. You expect him to lead you over and introduce you, but he doesn't, drifting away from you with a final look that you can't read. You watch him go, the place where his hand rested burning like a brand.

-

Your new penthouse is too large for two people. You knew that before you moved in, but with someone as quiet and absent as Minghao, it feels like you're on your own most days.

The penthouse occupies the entire crown of the residences at The Observatory in the northeast corner of the Upper District. Your new home is four thousand square feet of smoked glass, matte black steel, and pale ash wood that leaves the home cold.

The main living space is a single open expanse, the kitchen bleeding into the dining room and lounger. Floor to ceiling windows frame the open space on three sides, letting in the spill of city flights on a clear night. Tonight, it's cloudy, the fog on the glass pressing close and obscuring the world. It makes you feel like you're in your own dimension far away from Hyperion.

Your bedroom is in the east wing of the apartment, Minghao's is in the west. Two totally opposite ends of the space you're supposed to share together. Live in together. Be married in together. He'd requested your rooms remain separate, and though it hadn't bothered you at first, it does now.

It doesn't matter what bothers you, though. There's no one around to complain to. Your days have settled into a brittle sort of rhythm: you get up at seven to go to the gym to find him already gone. You never see him leave but when you make your mugwort and lemon tea, the kettle is always warm. He returns sometime between nine and noon, hair damp, expression icy. He gives you a polite nod, then vanishes to his wing of the apartment.

No words. Nothing.

You spend the hours alone learning the layout of your home. It's different from the rolling estate of your family. Smaller and bigger all at once, lacking the intricacies and oddities of a home that has been in a family for generations.

The windows never open - you suppose that makes sense, this high up. The air is triple-filtered and scent-neutralised, making the rooms feel dead and clinical. You decide to combat this every Wednesday after the cleaners have gone.

As soon as they're gone, you begin your work. The routine is simple, nothing extravagant. You take a small bundle of palo santo from the tin you keep with your tea and light one end, letting the sweet smoke rise. With the woody smoke drifting from the lit end, you walk the apartment slowly, clockwise while thinking on your intentions.

You trail the smoke along the windows, under the sofa, around the legs of the stools at the island. You grow hesitant when you near Minghao's room, but you let the smoke drift toward his door anyway. You don't open it, but your hands trace the doorframe, a small peace offering.

As you work, your mind empties save for your little intentions: peace, protection, harmony. You're kneeling in the middle of the living room, passing the palo santo beneath the low coffee table one last time when the front door opens without warning. You sit rod straight, turning to see Minghao come into the apartment. Your eyes flick to the clock and you frown. He's early today.

He's dressed in black workout clothes, hair damp, a bottle of water dangling in one hand. He stops the moment he sees you.

Smoke curls between you. He says nothing and neither do you. You half expect a question, a raised brow, anything. He looks at the palo santo in your hand, the thin ribbon of smoke, and then back to you. Something shifts in his expression that you can't place, but he doesn't say anything.

Instead, he steps carefully to the kitchen, giving you a wide berth despite the physical distance already between you, and opens the fridge. He takes out a second bottle of water, and sets it on the island counter top toward you.

"You look dehydrated," is all he says before he tips his head and walks back to his wing.

You remain on your knees, staring at him, lips parted a little. His bedroom door shuts with a distant click, leaving you in the silence and the curling smoke.

Eventually, you get up, knees cracking as you do. You feel a little dizzy and realize you are thirsty. You have no idea how he was able to clock that you're dehydrated by simply looking at you, but you file it away as one of Minghao's oddities, a neverending list that points to him not being the arrogant rich kid you expected.

Heading to the counter, you grab the water, the condensation on the bottle cold and exactly what you needed. As you drink it, Minghao surprises you by coming back out, a bag over his shoulder. You frown, eyes dropping to the bag.

"I'll be gone for three days," he tells you. "I'll see you on the morning of the third day."

"Where are you going?"

"Business." You don't like the ambiguity, but he's already halfway out the door. He hesitates and turns to you, mouth opening and closing as he chooses his next words carefully. "This is your home. Practice how you'd like."

"Pardon?"

"Your… practice. You don't need to hide it from me, Wicked."

You scowl. "I told you not to call me a wicked woman."

His mouth tilts. "I'm not. Simply wicked, is all. Not quite a wicked woman, not quite a practitioner, hmm?"

You glare through his logic and he shrugs, heading for the door and slipping through like smoke.

-

"Here," you say softly, shoving a bundle into Minghao's hand. He raises his brows, eyes skirting the crowd around you. "This is for you."

It's not the best time to give him the gift, but Minghao is never at the penthouse and keeps hours strange enough that you almost never see him despite living with him. The charity auction for the Archaeology Restoration Fund swells around you under the floating sky of the Lumina Tower, but as a moment of quiet opens up while you're standing next to the orchid walls, you take your change.

His dark eyes flick to your face, then back to the offering. He unwraps the silk with careful fingers, revealing the bracelet nestled inside. It is a deep blood-red cord, braided deliberately by your own hands over several quiet nights in the penthouse. Woven into the threads are three fine strands of your own hair, unmistakeable. At the center hangs a small, polished azabache charm, a piece of jet stone you sourced a few days ago. The stone is smooth and cool, carved with subtle protective sigils only visible under the right light.

He stares at it for a long moment, thumb brushing over the braided cord and the jet stone. Something unreadable flickers across his features before he quickly schools it away.

“You made this?” His voice is low, almost cautious.

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"The red is for strength and safety. The azabache is for warding off the evil eye. The hair binds my intention."

"It's not a curse?" You scowl and his mouth twitches. "You threatened to hex me, forgive my hesitation."

Minghao turns the bracelet slowly in his fingers, the azabache catching the soft light. He runs his thumb over the braided strands of your hair, expression softening by the smallest degree. "You continue to surprise me."

"Yeah, well. You don't have to wear it if you don't want to."

Minghao is quiet for another long beat. Then, without a word, he slips the red bracelet onto his right wrist. The contrast of the vivid red cord against his black suit and pale skin is striking. He flexes his hand once, as if testing how it feels, then looks back at you.

"Thank you." There's no mockery or deflection as he lowers his hand. "I'll wear it."

"Don't read too much into it."

"Hm. Too late. Thank you, Wicked."

For a moment, the nickname sounds fond instead of teasing, and the noise of the gala fades. The glowing orchids, the drifting lanterns, the murmur of high society - all of it recedes and leaves the two of you standing in this small pocket of quiet among the spectacle.

-

When you were a little girl, you always imagined that your wedding might be somewhere in a forest, somewhere where forests still legitimately existed. You'd be barefoot, feet planted firmly on a mossy ground, and your hands would be bound in red ribbon to your lover, covered binding oil distilled from flowers and herbs over your wrists until the ribbons were saturated and heavy with the smell of herbs.

This wedding is not that.

The air in the bridal suite is scented heavily with orchids and warm vanilla, the florals spilling over their vases and decorating every surface even here when no one can see them. You stand motionless before the towering mirror, the weight of your gown weighing you down as attendants move around you, adjusting the train of your dress and the butterfly-delicate gossamer of your veil.

Thankfully, the gown is a little like what you imagined. Forgoing the traditional white, it's made of layers of midnight silk, covered in thousands of hand-stitched obsidian beats and microscopic diamonds that fracture in the recessed lighting, turning it into layers of constellations. It spills dramatically into a trail of inky fabric.

You'd commissioned the dress six weeks ago, requesting the design to echo the deep, light-devouring suits Minghao favored. It was a deliberate statement of unity, power, and ultimately, ownership. You'd done it on purpose, and your father had approved when he'd seen it for the first time this morning.

A small win.

Your fingers drift beneath the long sleeve on your left wrist, tracing the black tourmaline and jasper cord hidden against your skin. The cord feels warm, a quiet tether to something older and more certain than the spectacle awaiting you. You breathe deliberately - four counts in, four out. It calms the frantic bird trapped behind your ribs, but only barely.

The reflection in the mirror is alien to you. You've never seen yourself look more elegant and composed, but inside you still feel like the little girl who collected moon water in jars and whispered secrets into manifestation journals.

Beyond the heavy double doors, the ceremony garden waits. The Garden of Eden is one of the city's finest venues, a floral dream suspended three hundred floors above Hyperion's rain-slicked streets. Real, living soil fills massive engineered beds through the space with towering tropical ferns planted, their glossy fronds glinting with dew. Multiple water falls cascade from tiered rock formations into koi ponds, the splash audible even from behind closed doors.

You'd chosen the venue because it was the closest thing you could get to the living earth in Hyperion. Minghao's mother had chosen it because it was the most luxurious venue she'd ever had access to up until now, a haven reserved for the elite. The commonfolk of Hyperion didn't have access to house plants, much less the night-blooming jasmine climbing up trellises and arches or the deep blood-red roses and exotic orchids dotting the aisles.

Hundreds of guests are already seated under the domed ceiling with an engineered twilight sky. Hidden audio systems weave strings and the resonant hum of crystal bowls through the space, frequencies chosen to evoke harmony and solemnity. You can hear the din of the crowd over the sounds, the Upper District elites shimmering in jewels and silks worth more than entire city blocks.

A soft knock interrupts your thoughts. Mina, your lead attendant, slips inside. She's only a few years older than you, but she's sharp-eyed and had years of service with your family, previously working with your sister. You don't mind her - she's not a friend, but she's also not unfriendly, which you'll take.

“It’s time, miss," she informs you. "The Tower and his family are seated and the Xu family is positioned. The garden is ready."

You nod once, throat tight and dry. There is no escape. The contracts were signed in that cold boardroom months ago. You'd known since the moment your sister died that this is what your life was now - the Tower upright, sudden change. The moon reversed, lies coming undone. Death, upright, great transformation. You'd been pulling the same cards for months, each the same thing.

It was the universe's way of telling you that this was your fate, as inescapable as any hard law or scientific rule.

Fragrant air greets you in the corridor. The staircase is full of flowers and dripping in vines, the steps covered in moss and trailing ivy that release sweet smells with every step. Swallowing, you walk down the stairs carefully, attendants behind you and ensuring you don't trip until you're at the bottom of the staircase behind a private screen, preparing to turn the corner and walk down the aisle.

Taking a breath, you turn the corner. Your heart pounds in rhythm with the distant music as the aisle comes into full view. The aisle stretches in front of you, a pathway edge with living white orchids. The ceremony cuts right through the heart of a lush garden, mist curling around the guests feet as they rise, hundreds of them moving in a wave of silk and murmurs.

Eyes track you from every angle - envy, calculation, hunger, approval, curiosity - but you keep your gaze fixed forward, suddenly latching to the man waiting beneath the grand arch of vines and cascading blooms.

Minghao is a shadow given form. He's dressed in black on black, the fabric so absolutely it seems to absorb the light and color from the greenery. His hair is styled longer, framing the exquisite balance of his face. His eyes find yours instantly, intense and unreadable, a stillness that calls to you.

Your pulse thunders as you start the walk. The train trails behind, gently managed by two young attendants as mist from the nearest waterfall kisses your skin, cooling the heat rising in your cheeks. Anxiety coils tight in your stomach, a living serpent, but you move with the trained grace of someone who has practiced this exact path in rehearsals. Future matriarch. Bride. Pawn in a larger game of shipping lanes, banking power, and Syndicate alliances. You wonder if your sister felt this same suffocating weight on her own path or if it was cut too short to ever consider it.

When you reach the altar platform, Minghao extends his hand. You offer him yours, hating the way your hands shake. He grips your hand firmly, and the contact sends a subtle spark up your arm, grounding amid the overwhelming sensory storm of the garden. For a single heartbeat, the hundreds of eyes, the cameras, and everything else recedes, leaving only you and Minghao.

His eyes are fathomless, easy to lose yourself in. His hand tightens a fraction around yours, his eyes only for you. "Temperance upright," he murmurs, only to you. "Patience. Balance. You embody those qualities. I appreciate them."

You blink in surprise when you realize he's talking about the tarot cards. You don't know what to say, the compliment stunning you, but Minghao doesn't wait for you to respond. His eyes flick to the officiant, a respected and neutral legal arbiter provided by Hyperion's council for this special occasion. She's dressed formally, her face perfect and impassive, making it impossible to tell how old she is.

Her voice is solemn but commanding as she urges the guests to sit, the ceremony beginning. Your hand remains in Minghao's, dropped between your waists as you stare ahead with unseeing eyes. You hear the officiant's voice, but you barely hear the words, your pulse loud in your ears as your heart hammers, each word spoken another piece of your sealed fate.

Ahead, the officiant speaks of alliance between houses and the merging of love and families. When you exchange rings, your hands are shaking again, stilled only by Minghao's gentle fingers as he clasps your hand to steady you, helping you slide the plain obsidian band onto his fingers, his sleeve pulling up just slightly to reveal his red bracelet.

Your ring is just as dark, inlaid with gold leaf and precious black stones that make it glimmer and flash dangerously. It feels heavy. Permanent. You watch as his nimble fingers slide it onto your hand, the single scar on his finger catching the light.

"Say the vows," the officiant instructs softly.

"I take you as my husband," you start, nearly whispering. You glance up at him and he nods a fraction, urging you to continue. You continue, voice clearer. "I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until this union is dissolved by law or by death."

Minghao doesn't miss a beat. "I take you as my wife. I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until death."

"It's-"

He cuts off the officiant's correction. "I know the words."

Your heart flutters, Minghao's choice to skip until this union is dissolved by law or by death a deliberate choice. Somehow it feels more powerful the way he's said it, like he's promising only death can tear you away from him. You think perhaps it's just the last bits of you clinging to the idea of romance, the idea of love that makes you feel that way.

The officiant pronounces you husband and wife and thunderous applause erupts, mixing with the hush of the waterfalls. Minghao lifts your face toward his with careful fingers, his touch lingering at your jaw, fingers gentle as they tilt your face upward. His eyes flicker with something so quickly you don't catch the emotion, and then he's leaning forward, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to your lips. He tastes faintly of wine, the touch lingering as he pulls away quickly.

Husband and wife. The words sink deep, heavy as the rings now on your fingers.

-

The reception is an ode to extravagance that most people cannot fathom. Spanning across three floors, each level opens into cascading terraces of real gardens with multi-tiered waterfalls feeding into glowing pools where rare bioluminescent koi swirl and swim. Walls of ferns, flowering vines, and fruit-bearing trees create alcoves with glass benches and trickling fountains. Each table is overflowing with food that won't be eaten, servers passing by with platters of rare chocolates dusted in edible gold and endless flutes of vintage wines and champagnes.

You navigate the crowd at Minghao’s side, his hand a near-constant presence at the small of your back. The contact is grounding for you but probably possessive in the eyes of your onlookers - and there are many. But only a single onlooker matters tonight, and as Choi Moojin approaches with his wife, you feel your spine go rigid until he offers his formal congratulations and blessing. As always, his daughter lingers nearby with that familiar haunted expression, her brother behind her like a shadowed gargoyle.

You smile until your cheeks ache. You exchange pleasantries with board members, accept compliments on the dress, the venue, the fabricated love story fed to the press. The floral scents grow heavier, the constant murmur of voices and music pressing against your temples. The bird in your chest flutters more desperately with every passing minute, and after nearly an hour and a half of relentless performance, you need a break.

"I need a moment," you murmur to him. "I'm just going to go to the upper powder room terrace. I'll be brief."

He studies your face carefully, then nods. “Take Mina and let security know where you're going."

You slip away with your attendant after telling security where you're going and getting their nod of affirmation before they mutter instructions into an earpiece. Mist from a nearby waterfall cools you off as you walk up the stairs, Mina helping with the heavy train. When you're finally alone on a private terrace, security just outside, you let yourself relax against a stone fountain, drawing in deep breaths of the mineral-rich air.

For the first time since the ceremony began, your practiced smile slips. Your feet hurt, your neck and shoulders ache, and you're starving, wishing you could stop the pleasantries for a moment to just eat. 

A small, wet gasp cuts through the peaceful trickle of the fountain and you spin around, startled. Time fractures as you try to put the pieces together of the image in front of you. A man dressed as a server with the lower half of his face obscured by a mask stands directly behind Mina, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth while she screams into his palm. He draws a sharp blade across the softness of her throat, scarlet spraying.

Mina's eyes widen in terror, locking onto yours for a single, agonizing heartbeat before they glaze over, her body convulsing once before she goes limp. Blood pours down the attacker's arm and down the front of her uniform, spilling red onto the terrace floor.

A scream rips from your throat, raw and primal, echoing off the stone walls. "Security!"

No footsteps thunder toward you. No shouts of alarm. The doors remain closed. The posted guards don't answer your call, and the music and laughter from the reception floors below continue uninterrupted, as if the universe itself has muted you.

Terror floods your system like ice water. Your heart slams against your ribs so violently you feel it in your throat. Adrenaline surges, sharpening every sense while simultaneously making your limbs feel distant and heavy.

Your right hand dives into the hidden slit of your gown, fingers closing around the small, discreet knife you've kept on your person since your sister's death. You yank it free, gripping the handle with enough force that your knuckles hurt as you pivot from the fountain, putting it at your back for a sliver of protection.

The attacker releases Mina’s collapsing body and he crumples to the ground in a heap of blood-soaked fabric, her eyes open and staring. The masked figure turns toward you with predatory calm.

"Security!" You scream again, the sound of your voice bouncing off the terrace walls.

No one answers, and a single, horrifying realization crashes over you - either the guards have been compromised or they're dead, and this attack was timed with terrifying precision.

There's no time to think as the attacker lunges.

You twist desperately to the side, the blade whistling past your ribs by inches. The movement throws you off balance on the wet stone, but you slash out wildly with your own knife, catching the attacker’s sleeve and drawing a thin line of blood. He grunts angrily and pivots, his knife slashing at you again. You duck and stumble backward, the fountain’s stone foundation scraping painfully against your hip as you use it to keep distance.

Fear is a living thing inside you now, clawing at your lungs, making every breath sharp and ragged. I’m going to die here. On my wedding night. In front of a fucking fountain while people drink and celebrate without knowing. The thought fuels a desperate surge of fury and you lunge at him this time, catching him off guard as you stab upward.

You manage to nick him, but you don't know how to fight and his retaliation of your anger is brutal as his knife flashes against and slices across your forearm, cutting through silk and skin in a burning line of pure agony. Blood pours instantly, hot and slick down your wrist and hand, making your grip on your own knife slippery and you scream out in pain.

A second strike follows before you can recover, a deep gash opening up across your upper left arm as you turn away from him. The pain is white-hot and blinding, and you let out another choked, animal sound as your vision narrows, blood roaring in your ear.

Every heartbeat sends fresh agony through the gashes, but terror keeps you moving. You kick out hard, your heel connecting with the attacker’s knee and he staggers but recovers easily, closing the distance to kill.

And then Minghao is there, exploding onto the terrace like a force of nature. One moment he's at the door, the next he's a blur of controlled violence as the killer turns to face the more immediate threat. Minghao is fast, stepping inside the man's guard, hand shooting out to grip his wrist and twist with bone-cracking force. A sickening crunch echoes and the man screams, the blade clattering to the ground.

The man swings with his free hand, but Minghao ducks under the wild punch with fluid precision, driving his elbow upward into the man’s throat in a devastating strike. The sound is wet and choked, the cartilage shattering under Minghao's elbow.

You stumble backward against the fountain’s stone foundation, left arm hanging useless and burning, blood streaming down your fingers in hot rivulets. Your own small knife trembles in your right hand, slick with blood. Fear still claws at your throat, tight and awful as Minghao - your husband for less than two hours - moves like something trained for this exact kind of violence. The polished, soft-spoken heir from the boardroom is gone. In his place is something sharper, darker, and far more dangerous.

The attacker tries to recover, lashing out with a desperate kick, but Minghao catches the leg, yanks it forward, and slams his knee into the man’s inner thigh with brutal force, dropping him to one knee. Then Minghao is behind him, a single arm snaking around the attacker's neck. For a second, your eyes meet Minghao's, his gaze ice and fire all at once. Then, he snaps the man's neck hard, the crack loud and final.

The attacker’s body goes limp instantly, collapsing in a heap beside Mina’s body. Blood pools beneath both bodies, mixing with the water from the fountain and staining the delicate white orchids that edge the stone paving.

Minghao is heaving, catching his breath as he stares at you across the violent terrace. He takes a single step toward you before chaos erupts in the doorway, heavy footsteps thundering across the stone as members of the Choi Syndicate flood the space. Seungcheol is in the room first, face like thunder and gun in hand. Jeonghan is behind him, the lazy smirk gone and replaced with deadly focus, armed and gun raised over Seungcheol's shoulder.

Seeing Soonyoung surprises you - you hadn't realized the Sword of the Choi family was here. You'd heard he'd been unpredictable and unhinged as of late, but from what little you knew of him, he was Seungcheol's first line of defense and probably went everywhere the Tower's son did.

Behind him, you vaguely recognize another Sword of the Choi family speaking into a comm at his wrist. You've met Joshua several times at galas and parties, his family high up enough in the Choi Syndicate to run in the elite circles - you even remember them being disappointed he'd become a Sword instead of a socialite or something less violent.

More personnel pour in behind them, your father’s security, Nexus Capital executives, event staff in panicked disarray. The peaceful mist of the terrace turns thick with the metallic stench of blood and the overlapping shouts of orders while you lean against the fountain, light-headed and bleeding.

Your father’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. “Shut it down! Shut the entire fucking wedding down! Seal the floors now!" He pushes through the growing crowd, face flushed with fury. “I want this building locked. Find out how the hell this happened under our security! Someone’s head will roll for this!”

The chaos swells. Guests from the lower levels begin to murmur and push upward as rumors spread like wildfire. Security teams from both families clash in their attempts to take control, voices rising in overlapping commands. Someone is already photographing the bodies. Another is calling for medical extraction.

Through it all, Minghao moves straight to you.

“Everyone back!” he barks, voice sharp as Nexus Capital security moves toward you. "I will handle my wife. Get away from her."

Minghao sits you on the edge of the fountain, the water spraying your back and soaking through your dress. He drops to his knees in front of you, shrugging off his jacket in one fluid motion and pressing the expensive fabric hard against the deep gashes on your left arm. The pressure sends fresh waves of white-hot pain radiating through your shoulder and chest, but you bite back a cry.

“Breathe," he instructs, voice soft. "In for four, out for four."

You look at him sharply. "How do you know that?"

"You did it the entire time we were at the altar, Wicked. Where are you hurt?"

"Cuts on my arms."

"Deep? Tell me ba-"

Your father pushes closer, still shouting as he interupts whatever Minghao was about to say. “Minghao, let my people handle this. We need to get her to a secure-"

“No,” Minghao snaps, rising to his full height while pulling you to his side, hands pressed against your wounds to staunch the bleeding. “No one touches her except me right now. This is my wife. My responsibility.”

The possessiveness in his tone sends a strange shiver through you, mixing with the adrenaline and pain. He begins guiding you slowly away from the fountain, toward the far side of the terrace where the chaos is slightly less suffocating, his hands never leaving the wounds, applying constant, firm pressure.

Joshua separates himself from the Syndicate group and approaches carefully, hands raised in a clear non-threatening gesture. Minghao pulls you away but you squeeze his arm and whisper, "Syndicate. High up. Don't offend him."

"I don't care-"

"I can help," Joshua cuts in, earnest and gentle. "My fiancée is here tonight. She’s an ER nurse and is always prepared because I'm a bit of a disaster. She has supplies in her bag. Let her patch your wife quickly and privately. We can move to the adjacent private lounge. It’s secure.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens and his eyes flick to you, assessing the amount of blood still soaking through his jacket and the way your legs are beginning to tremble. For a long second, he seems ready to refuse. Then he gives a single, curt nod. “Briefly. Privately. No one else comes near her.”

Joshua signals quickly. A moment later, a woman in an elegant deep emerald gown slips through the crowd, escorted by a man you don't know. Her expression is focused and professional, despite the surrounding chaos. She doesn't waste time with introductions, marching toward the small, adjoining private lounge just off the terrace.

Inside, the space is quiet, dimly lit with warm amber lighting, furnished with low couches and lush potted plants. She works with swift efficiency, focused on helping instead of introducing herself. She orders Minghao to keep pressure on your wounds while she cuts away parts of your dress to clean the gashes with antiseptic. The sting makes you hiss through your teeth, fresh tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Minghao’s free hand finds yours, squeezing gently, surprising you.

"Cuts are deep but clean," she says, voice clinical. "No major vessels hit. You’ll need proper stitches and antibiotics soon, but this will hold for now."

She applies quick-acting clotting powder, then wraps your forearm and upper arm in tight bandages. The pressure is firm, immediate relief against the constant bleeding. Throughout it all, Minghao stays close, one hand on your back, the other assisting where needed.

Your mind spins. Mina’s lifeless eyes flash behind your eyelids every time you blink. The wet sound of her gasp. The way the attacker moved, professional, silent, deadly. This wasn’t random. This was targeted. On your wedding night. In the middle of the most public spectacle Hyperion has seen in years with some of the heaviest security you've ever been around.

You glance up at Minghao. His face is a mask of controlled fury, but his touch on you remains careful, almost tender as the woman finishes securing the last bandage.

"That'll hold until you get her to her own private care."

“Thank you,” you manage, voice hoarse and shaky. The pain is still there, a deep, throbbing burn, but it is no longer actively bleeding you out.

Minghao helps you to your feet, keeping his arm securely around your waist. He nods once at Joshua and his fiancée. "We're leaving."

Joshua nods and opens the door, letting you back into the chaos.

Outside, your father is still shouting orders to shut everything down, demanding answers, threatening careers. Syndicate members move through the growing crowd like shadows, securing perimeters. Soonyoung and Seungcheol stand guard near the doors, expressions grim while Jeonghan leans against a wall, watching everything with those sharp, unreadable eyes.

Minghao keeps you tucked firmly against his side as he guides you out of the private lounge and through the swelling chaos of the upper terrace. His arm around your waist is unyielding, taking most of your weight while his other hand maintains relentless pressure on your bandaged left arm.

Every step sends fresh throbs of pain radiating through the deep gashes, but the clotting powder and tight wraps are holding. Still, warm blood seeps slowly through the bandages, staining the sleeve of your ruined obsidian gown. The once-beautiful dress now hangs heavy and ruined, torn silk clinging wetly to your skin.

“Clear a path,” Minghao growls, cutting through the crowd.

Syndicate members fall in around you without question, creating a protective bubble as he steers you toward a discreet service corridor hidden behind a wall of flowering vines. The lush greenery brushes against your shoulders, leaving faint pollen and the sweet scent of jasmine on your skin. Mist from the waterfalls still clings to the air, now carrying the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.

Your head spins. The adrenaline that kept you upright during the fight is crashing hard, leaving your legs unsteady and your vision edged with black spots. You lean heavier into Minghao’s side, inhaling the faint pine and rain scent that always seems to cling to him. He doesn’t falter. His grip only tightens, steady and sure.

The private exit corridor is dimly lit with recessed amber lighting, two armed guards stationed at the end snapping to attention when they see Minghao, stepping aside instantly. A reinforced service elevator waits. Inside, the space feels claustrophobic, the mirrored walls reflecting your bloodied, disheveled appearance back to you.

Minghao says nothing. He simply helps you out when the elevator doors open directly into an underground private garage reserved for the highest tier of guests. . An armored black car idles, its engine humming. The driver steps out briefly to open the rear door and Minghao helps you inside first, easing you onto the leather seat with surprising care before sliding in beside you. The door seals with a heavy, reassuring thunk, and the car pulls away smoothly.

Minghao leans forward toward the driver and speaks in a fluid, melodic language you have never heard before, making you frown. It doesn’t sound like any of the common trade tongues used in Hyperion or Arkos, but the syllables roll off his tongue with effortless familiarity, carrying the weight of something old. One of the dead languages, you think. The driver responds in the same tongue, short and affirmative, before accelerating.

You stare at Minghao, startled. He settles back against the seat. His suit is ruined with your blood, the dark black of his shirt somehow darker. His hair is slightly disheveled for the first time since you met him, a few strands falling across his forehead. His eyes are sharp and unblinking, fixed entirely on you. He hasn’t relaxed. Not even slightly. His posture remains coiled, ready, one hand resting on his knee while the other occasionally flexes as if wanting to reach for a weapon.

You swallow hard, meeting his gaze head-on. “Was that your people? Did your family arrange this? To test me? To test the alliance?”

Minghao doesn’t look away. His expression remains unreadable, but something flickers behind his dark eyes. “I’m not sure."

The honesty lands like a stone in still water. No deflection. No smooth corporate reassurance. Just the stark truth that unsettles you more than any lie could have. In a world built on calculated performances and half-truths, his directness feels dangerous and alien.

You let out a shaky breath, leaning your head back against the cool leather. The city lights streak across his face in shifting patterns of neon violet and electric blue.

“Thank you,” you whisper after a long moment. “For saving me."

Minghao’s jaw tightens. "You’re no use to my family dead.”

The words aren't kind or romantic. They carry no warmth, no reassurance. Still, they're true. In this transactional marriage of power, your survival is an asset. The bluntness stings a little, and it unsettles you. He's repeatedly told you that honesty would get you killed, and hear he is being honest himself.

Well. Honest to hide other truths, you're sure, as is his way.

You study him in the shifting light. The scar on his right knuckle stands out pale against the dried blood on his hands and you're reminded of the way he dismantled the attacker. It wasn't a survival reflex like your clumsy attempt had been - it was the training of someone who practiced and who fought efficiently, someone professional.

"Who are you?" You ask, narrowing your eyes. The car glides through a tunnel, plunging you both into momentary shadow before neon lights wash over you again. “You’re not who my family was led to believe. That wasn’t the fighting style of a logistics prince. You killed him like you’ve done it before.”

Minghao’s gaze hardens. He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching you with that intense, cataloguing stare that makes your skin prickle. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

The warning hangs between you and you can feel the weight of his hidden truths again. None of it makes sense - the scar, the ancient-sounding language, the way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch in that boardroom. Something isn't right with Xu Minghao, but you don't know what.

"I think I deserve to know who I just married," you say evenly. You ignore the warning, the throbbing in your arm. "My family thought they were allying with a neutral shipping empire from Arkos but you fight like someone who was trained to kill. You played into being an idiot party boy. You are not."

Minghao exhales slowly through his nose. For the first time, you see a flicker of something almost like weariness cross his features. He leans back again, eyes never leaving yours.

“This marriage is transactional,” he says evenly. “You don’t need to know everything about me. You only need to know that you're my wife and I would go through great pains to keep you alive. It has to be enough.”

The finality in his tone closes the subject like a door slamming shut. You want to argue, to demand more, but the pain in your arm is sharpening as adrenaline fully ebbs, and exhaustion is pulling at the fraying edges of your patience.

Minghao continues watching you, tense and alert, as if expecting another threat to emerge from the shadows at any moment. His hands, still stained red, rest on his thighs as the armored car glides through the upper levels of Hyperion’s streets, the neon sprawl of the city reduced to blurred streaks of violet, crimson, and electric blue beyond the tinted windows.

The car eventually slows and turns into a private underground entrance beneath a sleek, unmarked residential spire in the Upper District. Not the Observatory penthouse you selected as your starter home, but something else. A contingency location, you realize. One of the secure safehouses that must have been part of the joint security protocols you both negotiated and approved during those long, tense meetings.

When the vehicle comes to a stop, Minghao exits first, then reaches in to help you out with careful hands. His arm slides around your waist again, supporting your weight as your legs threaten to buckle on the polished concrete. Two figures step forward immediately from the shadows of the garage, security personnel you recognize from the joint vetting process you and Minghao conducted weeks ago.

A woman named Elara with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor, and a man named Kai, broad-shouldered and quiet. They were among the handful both of you had personally approved after rigorous background checks and interviews. Neutral. Capable. Unaligned with either family’s deeper entanglements.

“Status?” Minghao asks them.

“All clear, sir,” Elara replies. “The building is locked down. Three additional teams on the perimeter. No unauthorized movement.”

Minghao nods once, satisfied, and guides you toward the private elevator. The ride upward is silent except for the soft hum of machinery. When the doors open, you step into a spacious, fortified apartment that is elegant but deliberately understated compared to the Observatory penthouse.

Minghao leads you straight to a wide, low couch in the main living area, easing you down with surprising gentleness. Elara and Kai take up positions near the entrance, professional and unobtrusive. A medical attendant has already been prepared in an adjoining room, but Minghao waves off immediate further treatment for now.

He kneels in front of you, his bloodstained hands resting lightly on your knees as he studies your face. For a long moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the building’s air filtration system and the distant murmur of the city far below.

“I need one of your little wicked jars,” he says quietly. “The one you’re still hiding on yourself.”

You blink, startled despite the fog of pain and exhaustion. "Why? And how do you even know I have one?”

Minghao’s mouth twitches, the faintest bit of amusement. “I’m observant.” He glances meaningfully at the torn sleeve of your gown where the bandages peek through, then back to your eyes. “And considering you’re still alive after what just happened, they must work. I would like to keep one with me for what I’m about to go do.”

"What are you about to go do?"

"Something very violent."

The request hangs between you and you hesitate before you lift your trembling fingers to reach into the hidden inner pocket sewn deep into the bodice of your dress. The small glass jar is still there, warm from your body heat. Black salt, rosemary, hematite, sealed with wax and a drop of your blood. You press it into his waiting palm. The glass looks small against his bloodstained fingers.

Minghao closes his hand around it carefully before tucking it into the inner pocket of his ruined suit jacket. "Thank you."

He rises to his feet, but doesn’t step away immediately. Instead, he looks down at you with that intense, unreadable gaze. “Do not leave this safehouse until I return. Elara and Kai have their orders and they answer to us both. Doctor Tzintzun is here - I understand she is your family doctor."

You nod. "Be careful. Please."

Minghao lingers one final second. His thumb brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead in a gesture so unexpectedly gentle it contrasts sharply with the violence you witnessed barely an hour ago. It makes your heart skip, the breath getting stuck in your lungs for a moment. Then the mask slips back into place, the familiar cool and controlled calm you know.

He lifts his wrist, flashing the bracelet you gave him. "You’re protecting me, right? I'll be fine. I’ll return before dawn. Rest. Let the doctor fix your arm, Wicked."

He turns and walks toward the entrance without another word. Elara and Kai acknowledge him with respectful nods as he passes, and the door seals behind him with a solid, final sound.

The silence that follows feels immense. You lean back against the couch, staring out the windows where the city’s distant lights glitter like cold stars. Your left arm pulses with deep, aching fire, but the bandages hold. Mina’s face flashes behind your eyes again, her wet gasp and spray of blood, the way her body crumbled. You swallow hard against the rising nausea.

Doctor Tzintzun sticks her head out of the adjoining room. "Ma'am? Whenever you're ready."

You nod and allow her to come out and help you to your feet. She guides you toward the adjoining room to clean, stitch and re-bandage you again. As she does, your mind drifts back to the car ride and specifically, your new husband.

None of it makes sense. The ancient language. The brutal efficiency with which Minghao ended the attacker. His unflinching honesty when you asked if it was his people. The blunt truth about your value to his family. And now, the small spell jar resting against his chest as he walks into whatever shadows he’s about to confront.

You close your eyes as fresh antiseptic stings the wounds, tourmaline cord still warm around your wrist. The universe had warned you with its cards. The Tower falling. Illusions stripped bare. Death and transformation. Tonight, it delivered all three in blood and violence, but a steady sense of foreboding had been building all night, like the cards aren't done with you yet.

You wonder, as the pain dulls under medication and exhaustion finally pulls you under, what exactly Minghao is doing out there and what background taught him to be this way. As you fall asleep, you hope the small jar of salt, herb and intention will be enough to bring him back so you can find out.

-

Minghao moves through the rain-slicked unverbelly of the Civ District like a shadow. The neon glow from distant shipping cranes reflects off puddles stained with oil and blood, turning the narrow alley into a fractured mirror of Hyperion’s endless hunger. He's swapped the ruined wedding suit out for something more form fitting and breathable - and more importantly, free of your blood.

He'd scrubbed his hands free of your blood a few hours ago, but now someone else taints his knuckles as he presses his hand to his chest, ensuring the small spell jar that is tucked there is undamaged. It's a strange talisman, this jar that you've given him. He doesn't think they work, exactly, but it's a fascinating little practice, this stuff of yours. He's since looked into practitioners and the culture of women who practice craft, but he still can't understand how or why you came to it.

Still, he likes to wear the bracelet you gave him, often looking at it before going into a room to add another body to his list or before he has to do something he needs strength for. He's never thought much about luck, fate, or the universe, but now he carries the jar and bracelet on him like personal tokens of faith and protection.

Of all the things that Minghao finds most surprising, how often he thinks of you now is number one on the list. This marriage between you is purely transactional, a bridge between Nexus Capital's banking power and the Xu family's growing logistics empire. A calculated move to secure favor with the Choi Syndicate as instructed by the Virate to expand foothold in Hyperion.

But, strangely enough, he is fascinated by you. He's not fascinated by much, but when he'd seen you in that board room hiding bruises beneath your sleeves and drawing your peculiar tarot cards in secret, he felt a slight crack in his plan to use you and push you to the side. You were not the sheltered, obedient heiress they described. You were something sharper. Something that watched the universe with quiet, stubborn belief.

And tonight, someone tried to kill you.

He'd been shocked to find you with a knife in your hand despite the terror in your face. He'd heard you scream - he still doesn't know how, considering how far he had to run to get to you. The universe, perhaps. It impressed him to see that you'd fought back despite how bad you were at it, and the steadiness in your voice when you asked him point-blank in the car, whether his people had tried to kill you had nearly cowed him.

Most heirs in this city would have crumbled. You fought. You pushed. You handed him the spell jar without fully understanding why he wanted it, just that he did. He doesn't know what he wanted either, but it's warm against his chest and it's nice to have. Perhaps if a little jar of rocks and dirt and blood can save you from an assassination attempt, it can save him from whatever plot is unraveling in the shadows.

Minghao’s jaw tightens as he reaches the service door of the nondescript warehouse. The man inside - Strakos - is a mid-level fixer who'd coordinated the attacker's movement tonight. He'd been sloppy, though, and Minghao was incredibly good at finding out information in a city that didn't understand the nuances of the Virate.

He slips inside without sound. The interior is dimly lit by hanging work lamps, the air thick with the smell of rust, seawater, and cheap synth-cigarettes. Strakos sits at table, back to the door, reviewing holo-feeds of some shitty porno that makes Minghao's blood boil. This man had helped plan your death, and he's sitting in the middle of a warehouse, fully clothed watching someone get fucked over a couch.

Minghao strikes before Strakos has time to react.

One hand clamps over Strakos's mouth, yanking his head back while the other loops a thin wire garrote around his throat. Strakos thrashes, hands scrabbling at the wire as Minghao gathers it in his hand and pulls, his mouth brushing against Strakos's ears.

"You ruined my wedding," he murmurs.

The wire cuts through flesh and blood wells instantly, hot and dark. Strakos bucks wildly, knocking over the table as he gurgles, hands clawing at his throat. Minghao holds firm, knees braced against the chair as he pulls, gritting his teeth. Strakos's struggle is ugly and desperate, his feet kicking as the chair legs scrape against concrete, wet chokes escaping despite the crushing pressure.

Minghao’s mind remains clear, detached. This is not rage. This is correction. The Virate taught him long ago that hesitation kills empires.

He thinks of your face in the car, exhausted but determined, eyes wide with pain as you demanded the truth anyway. He thinks of the way you pressed the spell jar into his palm without hesitation. Of the faint scent of incense and herbs that always clings to you, the quiet rebellion of your tarot cards and hidden rituals. You are not soft. You are not simple.

You are as unexpected to him as he is to you, he thinks. And he's been very sloppy around you, unguarded and far too honest in the way that he keeps thinking will get you killed.

The wire sinks deeper. Strakos's struggles weaken, then cease entirely. Minghao holds the tension a few seconds longer, ensuring Strakos is dead before he finally releases, the body slumping forward onto the table with a dull thud. Blood drips onto the concrete floor, and Minghao smashes the phone to stop the crude holo from playing.

Minghao wipes the garrote clean on the dead man’s sleeve and tucks it away. He scans the room quickly, deleting the holo-feeds and pocketing a small data chip that might contain further connections. Only then does he pull out his encrypted comm device - the same matte-black rectangle he gave you all those months ago - and dials his father.

Xu Jian answers on the second ring. "Son."

“It’s done,” Minghao says quietly. He stares at the corpse, expression impassive. "Now to trace the loose threads of the web to the spider."

A long exhale on the other end. “Be careful. Your little display at the reception has the Choi’ curious.”

Minghao’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Let them wonder. The message is clear: she is under my protection now."

"They don't know we're Virate. You could have exposed us."

"I made a calculated decision and you'll say nothing more of it. The Choi Syndicate has other things to worry about than wondering if we're Virate. I want you to look into who hired these scum. If it was Virate, we have a problem."

"It will be done."

In Arkos, under the old laws of the Virate - a loose but iron-bound confederation of family lineages bound by blood oaths far older than the Syndicates - Minghao isn't the quiet heir he is in Hyperion. He's the patriarch, the lead of his family, raised from childhood within the Virate's hidden ranks and trained in their shadows, a hidden member loyal to the Triptych.

Jian might appear to be the head of the family in Hyperion, but Minghao's elevation through blood and merit in the Virate is where the Xu family truly gets their power. While his father played the public face of Xu Worldwide Logistics here in Hyperion, planting seeds and building legitimate fronts, Minghao had been the blade ensuring those seeds took root. The true power behind the throne.

Of course what he did tonight was a risk. He knows that. Honestly, if he was doing what the Virate asked of him, he would have let them kill you. You weren't actually a necessary piece to the puzzle, but he knows that with you alive, he has a better narrative with the Choi Syndicate and it's annoyingly perceptive Wisdom and her son.

Minghao grimaces at the thought of Jeonghan and his eyes that see far too much. He knows that tonight will be a grave error and that the Wisdom's son will dig his teeth into Minghao and ask questions and prod, but it can't be helped now. What's done is done and Minghao had taken a calculated risk that he could keep the Choi's away from the Virate ties in favor of saving your life.

His father sighs on the other end like he can hear Minghao's thoughts. "This marriage is already more complicated than we anticipated."

"She is not what we expected,” Minghao admits. "She fought tonight, though she doesn't know how. Most heirs would have just screamed and died."

"You sound fond."

Minghao exhales slowly. Fond. The word feels too small, which unsettles him. From the first boardroom meeting, something had shifted. What was meant to be a strategic union already matters more than it should, and just meeting you has complicated Minghao's world when Minghao has never had complications before.

He killed for you tonight without hesitation. Not just because you are a valuable asset, but because the sight of your blood on the terrace floor had ignited something cold and possessive in his chest. He's unused to the feeling.

"I protect what belongs to me," Minghao says eventually. "She is Virate now, though she doesn't know it. I'm committed to her safety as I would be for you or mother."

His father chuckles softly. “You always did prefer the old ways. Be careful, son. You cannot lean on the Virate. We're in the shadows.”

"I know the rules. I was forged by them.”

Minghao ends the call and slips the comm back into his pocket. For a long moment he stands over the body, rain drumming steadily against the warehouse roof. His thoughts return to you again and again, like a current he cannot escape.

You, sitting across from him in the car, shaken and unflinching as you asked whether his people had tried to kill you. The quiet strength in your voice when you thanked him even after his blunt reply. The way you fought with that small knife, desperate and untrained.

This marriage was never supposed to matter beyond its utility. Yet tonight, watching your blood spill, something fundamental had shifted. You're no longer simply the Nexus heiress - you're his wife, and in the old customs of the Virate, that bond carries weight far heavier than any corporate contract.

Minghao straightens his jacket and leaves the warehouse the same way he entered. The rain washes away the last traces of blood from his hands as he walks toward the car, ready to shower and sleep.

He'll return before dawn, as promised. And later, he'll find the remaining threads of tonight's violence and cut them clean. And perhaps, in the quiet of whatever time he finds, he'll decide how exactly he's going to be a husband to a woman who believes in tarot cards and moon water in a city that only worships power, violence and credit.

For now, the head of the Xu family has done his honor bound duty to his wife, and somewhere across the glowing city, you're probably sleeping. Bandaged but alive, carrying the barest hints and pieces of Minghao's secrets and your strange, annoying charm with you.

Minghao touches the small jar in his pocket once more, feeling its faint warmth against his chest, and allows himself the smallest ghost of a smile in the darkness.

-

Minghao steps out of the armored car into the private underground garage of the safehouse, the rain from the Civ District still clinging to him like second skin. The neon glow of the city filters down in muted streaks, casting long, fractured shadows across the concrete.

He moves on autopilot, muscles aching from the night's violence. His mind is still razor sharp though, cycling through every detail of the kill, every loose thread he'd severed tonight.

Elara and Kai materialize from their posts near the elevator, postures alert. They relax when they see Minghao and bow respectfully, straightening as he approaches. They're among the few personnel both you and Minghao jointly vetted, neutral enough to serve the new union without picking sides.

“Report,” he asks, walking into the kitchen.

“All secure, sir,” Elara replies immediately. "Doctor Tzintzun treated her and gave her something for the pain and to sleep. She’s resting in the east wing suite. She did ask about you."

Minghao’s chest tightens at the words. She asked about you. Of course you did. Even bleeding and exhausted, you pushed for answers, for truth. He nods once.

"No one comes in or out. Not even her father or anyone from Nexus Capital."

Kai inclines his head. “Understood. The Choi Syndicate has sent discreet inquiries. Mr. Kwon personally. They’re offering additional support.”

“Let them offer,” Minghao replies. “We accept the appearance of cooperation, nothing more."

Minghao dismisses them with a wave and heads toward the east wing, leaving them back at their posts. He finds you in the master suite, tucked beneath dark sheets. Your face is relaxed in sleep, but tension still lingers in between your brows and your jaw as you frown. The black tourmaline cord peeks from beneath the edge of the bandages on your wrist. Minghao stands in the doorway for a long time, simply watching the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Something unfamiliar and dangerous twists behind his ribs. He had not anticipated this complication. The scales feel tipped out of balance, like something new has taken root, and he doesn't know what to do about it.

Minghao finally turns away and moves to the bedroom across the hall to strip off his tactical gear with mechanical, practiced movements in the bathroom. He's careful with your little spell jar, setting it down gingerly on the counter where the low bathroom light catches the glass.

He lets the scalding water melt everything but his thoughts away. He stands under the spray, watching the water swirl around his fink and fade from pink to clear. The heat feels good, unwinding his muscles and burning him to the point that the only thing left are thoughts of you and this new predicament he's in.

When he can't take the heat anymore, he steps out and changes into something soft and comfortable before settling in the middle of his bed with his computer in front of him. With the tap of a key, the screen projects holograms around him in a circle, broken only by his arm as he inserts the data chip from Strakos' warehouse into the computer.

He finds limited information on it - remnants of someone referencing the union of Nexus Capital and Xu Worldwide Logistics. He taps his fingers on his knees. The enemies in Hyperion are endless, but few of them have killing power. Most of the people in the city who hate his family are business competitors, minor patrons of various Syndicates in Hyperion. None of them have the power to send a Syndicate-sanctioned attack on his wife, which means this hit is higher up than simple city corporations.

It could be Syndicate, he supposes. He's still learning about the nuances of the three powerhouses that sit at the top of the food chain in Hyperion, but he's not convinced the Kim or Yong family would be moved enough by the marriage to do something so public about it - especially not with Choi Moojin's daughter engaged to Kim Yijun as a sign of union.

A sour feeling settles in Minghao's stomach. The easiest conclusion to make is that the threat is from the Virate. A finger of dread traces his spine at the thought. In a way, families of the Virate were similar to families of the Syndicate - they vied for power, it was always at war, and the most powerful family was always the one that was ten steps ahead. Unlike the Syndicates of Hyperion though, the families of the Virate collectively answered to the three heads of the Virate, the Triptych.

Except members of the Virate didn't know the Xu families were members. Outside of the Triptych, the Virate didn't even know Minghao existed. To them, Xu Jian was a retired member who had moved to Hyperion when he was seventeen after being honorably discharged and given the blessing of the Virate. Even with their blessing, Jian had given up all ties, powers, assets and favors from the Virate for life. That was the way it worked. His wife Luli, who had tried to leave the Virate once before, had joined him.

They'd left a key part of them there, though. Their son. The Triptych was in need of a family with old ties to be removed and relocated elsewhere, someone they could trust and that could believably sever ties with the Virate. The Xu family had been just that, and they'd given their only son to the Triptych to raise in the shadows, nameless and unclaimed as a Shade, forged in the Triptych's perfect image of an assassin before sending him to do the single thing he'd been created for: win over a Syndicate in Hyperion.

He sighs. He's tired - he's always tired these days, even more so than when he was a teenager learning how to become a shadowed killer. The lying and scheming is often harder than the killing, and trying to uncover his enemy hiding in the dark without access to real Virate influence and pull is a challenge.

An email to his personal catches his attention. It's one of the Trustees of Nexus Capital with more of Minghao's access to his new assets - your assets that are now his. It's overwhelming. Nexus Capital’s vast banking networks, offshore accounts, silent partnerships, voting proxies. Pages of sensitive data scroll past full of liquidity reports, hidden holdings in Syndicate-adjacent ventures, influence maps.

Minghao swallows. It's exactly what he wanted. With this level of access, the family can begin weaving influence deeper into Hyperion's financial arteries, and through the Choi alliance, they can steer shipping lanes and capital flows without the Syndicates ever realizing a new, quieter power is embedding itself beneath their foundations. The Choi's believe this is nothing more than a political marriage for port advantages. They have no idea what the Virate is capable of.

Minghao should feel satisfied. This is entirely the reason he was given to the Triptych and raised as a Shade, a nameless member in the shadows, someone without influence and without a name, but one of the most valuable members of their society. Everything is proceeding according to plan, and yet for the first time in his life, he feels sharp, unwelcome conflict like the edge of an enemy's blade.

His gaze drifts again toward the door where you sleep just across the hall. You were never part of the equation. You were meant to be kept at a distance, polite and useful, a spoiled brat who would go to parties and be the socialite Minghao was told you were. Instead, you have lodged yourself under his skin and you haven't even done anything - you'd simply looked at him after he'd killed the attacker tonight not in fear, but wary recognition that Minghao was also not what he seemed.

Protecting you tonight had felt instinctive. Necessary. The thought of you lying dead beside Mina had ignited a cold fury he rarely permits himself. And that realization terrifies him.

Loyalty to the family and to the old ways has defined Minghao's entire life - every choice he has ever made. It gave him purpose when his father focused on building the legitimate Hyperion front, it forged him into steel when he was being wiped and cut and tested. Attachments were always meant to be managed, never indulged, and yet here he is sitting in a safehouse, conflicted over a wife he doesn't really know.

If future objectives ever require sacrificing your safety, or keeping truths from you that could destroy the fragile trust beginning to form - what then? A few months ago, Minghao would have said he'd cut you away no problem. Now, he thinks he might need to cut you out like cancer, nearly killing himself in the process to sever the tie.

How unsettling. He isn't sure how he's gotten here, but as always, it's up to him to figure it out. Right now is not the time, though, so he rolls his shoulders and continues working through the remaining hours of darkness, mapping pressure points within Nexus Capital, noting which Choi figures might be influenced over time. Every new door opened by the marriage is another step into Hyperion's core, his entire purpose.

The first hints of dawn begin to lighten the sky beyond the glass of the bedroom. He glances up and realizes his current work has no business being done in the light of day, so he powers down the computer, the cyan numbers and screens vanishing. He stands and shuffles across the hall to check on you, opening the door as quietly as he can.

You're still asleep, breathing steadily in the same position he left you in. Sighing, he sits down in one of the chairs, leaning so his elbows are on his knees and his chin rests in his elbows, staring at you as you sleep.

For the first time in his life, the sharp edge of his purpose feels negotiable. Not abandoned or broken, but rather complicated by the strange, stubborn woman sleeping in front of him.

Perhaps you are wicked, but rather for the things you do to him instead of your actual deeds.

-

The last place you want to be tonight is the Eternal Bloom Gala at the Celestial Atrium in the Pearl District. The atrium is a floating marvel suspended between three interconnected spirals, gardens far more exquisite than even your wedding dominating every space. Though it looks nothing like your wedding, it's close enough to make your stomach turn, your fingers brushing across the closed wounds, still healing since the attack three weeks prior.

Massive domed ceilings of smart glass reveal the night sky above Hyperion, projected stars mingling with the real ones when the clouds part. Tiered terraces overflow with tropical foliage and cascading waterfuls that tumble into artificially glowing pools full of night-blooming lilies the size of dinner plates.

Crystal lanterns drift lazily overhead like captive moons, casting warm golden light that softens every sharp edge of wealth on display as women glide through the gardens in gowns of liquid silk and embroidered starlight. Servants in white move like ghosts, offering flutes of shimmering vintage and tiny edible sculptures dusted with real gold leaf.

Tonight, you're playing the part of socialite perfectly despite the bone-deep exhaustion that clings to you even now. Your gown is a deep forest green this evening, chosen to complement the venue’s living opulence and because it has sleeves that high the healing scars on your arm. Minghao stands a few paces away, devastating in a green so dark that it's almost black, his presence a dark anchor amid the glittering crowd.

Your husband is a startlingly good date. He's attentive in public, close enough for appearances, but never quite warm. He speaks to you more than he used to, small observations about the room, quiet comments on people passing by, but the deeper questions you ask still meet that same polite, impenetrable wall.

Despite asking multiple times, he still won't tell you who trained him to kill with such clinical efficiency. Won't explain the ancient language he used with the drive that night. It doesn't matter how much he dances around your questions - you still probe, willing to chip away at his armor with every conversation if you have to.

You turn your attention back to the circle of high society ladies surrounding you. As much as you hate it, they're the gatekeepers of Hyperion's upper echelons, wives and daughters of banking dynasties, shipping magnates, and Syndicate families. Their gowns shimmer in jewel tones, their smiles sharp as broken glass.

Though exhausted, you have spent the last hour slowly weaving Minghao into their world, dropping careful mentions of his insights on logistics and neutral trade routes, painting him as a valuable new addition to the delicate balance of power.

Lin stands at the center, as she usually does. She's always been a ring-leader, now married to a mid-level Sword whose name you forget. She carries herself with the confidence of someone whose family has hovered near the inner circle for generations. You've known her since you were teens, your circles overlapping heavily enough that she feels almost like an old yet complicated acquaintance.

Tonight, she's in deep crimson silk that catches the lantern lights like fresh blood, her smile sweet on the surface but sharp underneath You don't miss the way her eyes linger on Yoon Jeonghan as he glides by, bowing politely to the women and giving them all his dashing smile. You don't think it's dashing at all, feeling your spine stiffen as the Wisdom's son winks at you and Minghao before vanishing into the crowd.

Suianne is next to her, and you're surprised to see her. She'd married into the Yong family and though the Syndicate's were currently at peace, the Yong family and the Choi family had been fighting at the docks which was the entire reason you got married to Minghao. Neither of you speak of business tonight, instead focusing on her pretty, navy gown that flowers like water.

Eva stands to Lin’s other side, beautiful and brittle in shimmering silver, still nursing the very public sting of being discarded by Kwon Soonyoung after she let him into her bed. From what you'd heard, he's not spoken to her since and as you watch her eyes flick around the gala, you can see the humiliation that still clings to her.

The three of them form a petty but influential ring, always watching and always trading secrets. They're not your favorite women to spend time with, but you don't have friends. Not really. Your sister had always been the one to establish the relationships, and you'd only started after she'd died, making for awkward conversations and learning social queues clumsily.

Lin leans in slightly, lowering her voice as a drift of jasmine-scented mist curls toward you. "You have to tell us - honestly. How are you really finding married life with your mysterious Xu heir? The whole city is still rumbling about your wedding. I'm so glad you're alright."

You offer a measured, slightly tired smile, letting them see the exhaustion beneath the polish to make the performance more authentic. "Minghao is quieter than most men, but there's a steadiness to him I enjoy. He remembers small details."

"He certainly watches you closely," Suianne notes, tilting her head. "A man in love, I suppose."

You glance across the garden where Minghao stands speaking with a small cluster of neutral businessmen. His dark eyes find yours almost instantly, holding for a heartbeat too long. He tilts his head as if to ask are you okay and you nod back. He seems appeased, eyes flicking back to the men he's speaking to.

The two of you have moved back into the Observatory penthouse full time. The space no longer feels quite so vast and empty now that he joins you for breakfast some mornings. He even is willing to sit in the living room while you light palo santo, watching you warily. He still deflects every real question about his past, but the silence between you has grown less brittle.

"He's attentative," you agree, turning back to them. "Last week he remembered I prefer lemon-mugwort tea in the mornings without me saying anything. We’ve settled back into the penthouse, just the two of us above the clouds. It’s peaceful. We're still learning."

Eva lets out a soft, bitter laugh, swirling the liquid in her glass. “At least he comes home to you. Kwon Soonyoung fucked me senseless for three weeks straight and now pretends I don’t exist when we’re in the same room. The man is a ghost after he gets what he wants.”

Lina's smile turns knowing. "That's what you get for fucking the mad dog and thinking you could mend him after she left him."

Eva looks put out by Lin's comment, but Suianne drops her voice to a whisper. "Speaking of her - no one has seen her in weeks. Not since her engagement party. You used to be close with her, weren't you Lin?"

"We're still close," Lin sniffs. "She's simply busy with her fiancée. Kim Yijun is a demanding man." She waves a hand and turns to you. "Enough about Baby. Tell us more about your husband. Is he as intense in the bedroom as he looks in public?"

Eva shouts Lin's name as the question lands like spark on dry tinder. Heat floods your face instantly and your mouth opens and closes. For a moment, all your carefully practiced poise deserts you and you're left staring at Lin who looks rather smug, like she's caught you in a lie.

"Um," you manage. The women burst into delighted laughter, clearly pleased to have cracked your composure. “He is considerate. But that's not something I'm going to discuss in detail."

A smooth voice interrupts from just behind you. “Oh, Lin, you terrible thing. Must you scandalize the poor girl in public?”

You turn, grateful for the interruption, as a woman you don’t recognize steps into the circle with effortless confidence. She's utterly striking, tall and elegant in midnight blue silk that pools around her like shadows, her dark hair swept up with silver pins.

“Minael,” Lin says warmly, reaching out to clasp the woman’s hand. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. And with your husband, no less.”

Minael’s husband steps forward beside her, a tall, well-built man in impeccably cut black. His features are sharp, with cool grey eyes that seem to take in everything at once.

"Sato Ken," he introduces himself, offering his hand with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You extend your hand to shake his, and the moment your palms meet, your gaze drops down involuntarily to his hand. There, across the first knuckle, is a thin, precise scar, nearly identical to the one on Minghao’s hand. Pale, deliberate, the kind left by wire or a very sharp blade. Not the sort of mark one expects on a society husband.

A chill slides down your spine. Ken's grip is firm, lingering just a fraction too long, and when you meet his eyes again, he's studying you with an intensity that feels uncomfortably familiar, As if he is cataloguing you the same way Minghao does.

Something in your gut turns rotten. A chill settles over you as you stare at Ken. Beyond him, something catches your eye. Near the top of the trees, a black bird lands, shuffling its wings. It's so black it's almost blue, oil-slick feathers shining in the light as it shuffles, craning its head until it blinks two beady eyes at you. You stare at it for a moment - you don't think you've ever seen a crow in the city before.

And then it flutters its wings and flies away through the open roof, vanishing into the inky sky like it was never there at all.

“Pleasure to finally meet you,” Ken says smoothly, bringing your attention back to him. “We’ve heard much about the new Xu-Nexus union.”

Minael laughs lightly, linking her arm with Lin’s. “Darling, you must tell me everything later. I’ve been dying to hear how the mysterious Arkos heir is settling into our little ecosystem.”

The conversation shifts around you, but you remain hyper-aware of Ken. He stands slightly behind his wife, eyes occasionally drifting back to you with that same probing focus. Something isn't right about Sato Ken. His wife seems perfectly well and good at socializing and you can tell Lira and the others are doting on her, but her husband is bad at this, his presence a palpable edge to the softness of his wife.

A tingle prods at the back of your neck, and instinct tells you to be wary of him. You engage with him little, ensuring that his wife is positioned between the two of you at all times. Your finger brushes against your bracelet, warm from your skin and grounding.

Thankfully, Minael and Ken don't linger long. After a few minutes of polite exchange, they drift away toward another group, the eerie man casting one final, lingering glance over his shoulder at you before disappearing into the foliage.

Moments later, Minghao appears at your side, moving with that silent grace you have come to expect. His hand settles lightly at the small of your back, warm through the silk. You suck in a breath, glancing at him, a little startled by his nearness.

“Are you ready to go home?” he asks quietly, voice pitched so the others can hear. “We were supposed to stay another hour, but you look exhausted.”

“Yes,” you murmur. “Please.”

He nods once and excuses you both from the group with polished grace, and guides you through the gardens toward a private exit. As you walk, you glance back one final time to see Ken watching you from across the atrium, half hidden behind a curtain of jasmine vines. An odd, unsettled feeling twists in your stomach and you turn away, leaning slightly into Minghao.

The armored car waits in the secure bay below. Once inside, the doors close behind you and the vehicle glides smoothly onto the road. You don't hesitate, getting onto your knees and reaching into your dress for the wrapped tarot deck you'd hidden in your pocket.

Minghao watches you from across the seat, eyebrow slightly raised. “Now?”

"Hush."

You shuffle the cards, the soft shck of the cards familiar. You don’t ask a specific question out loud. You rarely need to anymore. The deck knows, and three cards slip from the deck and fall face up onto the seat as you shuffle.

The Devil, upright. Ace of Swords, reversed. Nine of Wands, upright.

You stare at them, heart sinking. Chains and bondage. Blocked clarity. A wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant. The message feels heavy, layered with warning. Something binding. Something obscured. Something that requires continued vigilance despite deep fatigue.

Minghao leans forward slightly, studying the cards with open curiosity. “What do they mean?”

You don’t answer immediately, tracing the edges of The Devil with one fingertip. The image of chained figures stares back at you. Your mind drifts to Ken's scar, to the way he studied you.

"Well?" Minghao asks again.

You glance at him. "Do you know Sato Ken?"

"Who?"

You frown. "The man I just met at the party. He had a scar like yours, and grey eyes."

Minghao goes unnaturally still. "What scar?"

"You have a scar on your finger." You reach out and grab his hands. He lets you, frowning as you lift his hand to the light and point to the faint scar on his knuckle, thin as can be. His hands are warm in yours, the fingers rough against your skin. "This one."

Minghao stares at where your hands are linked. "That scar specifically?"

"Yes."

A vein in his temple twitches before he shrugs a shoulder. "I don't know a Sato Ken."

Not for the first time, it sounds like Minghao is telling the truth. But you think about the way he uses truth to hide other things, and as you drop his hands and look back to the cards, you wonder which card is Minghao. The man in chains or the wounded warrior still standing guard. Maybe both.

-

Being in the Lower District alone is a bad idea. You have no choice, though. Hours in the library in the Legal District have led you here, an impossible lead buried in nonsense files. It hadn't been easy to find - Sato Ken hadn't brought up any solid leads, nor had his wife. But your search had revealed a Sato Rhia who had died in a car crash a decade ago with her husband and adopted son, a young boy who was named Zhi Yuan, not Sato Ken, but who had the same uncanny grey eyes and the beginnings of a face like the man you remember from the gala.

Pulling your coat hood up against the drizzle, you begin walking toward the nearest transit hub that will take you down to the Lower District where your research indicated the shelter was. If Zhi Yuan passed through the system, someone might remember him. Someone might know how a boy with grey eyes and a future scar ended up.

You get lost twice trying to find the train to take you to the Lower District. You've never been there without security personnel, and when you finally board the train, you feel a sense of apprehension as the car rocks back and forth, neon smearing by on the windows before it shoots underground.

Sitting near the head of the car, you settle with your hand tucked inside your coat, finger brushing the hilt of your small knife. The other rests against the tiny vial of protective oil in your inner pocket, its glass warm and grounding.

Through the scratched windows, the city becomes visible briefly as the train dives in and out of subterranean tracks. People huddle under leaking overhangs, begging for credits or hovering near fires for warmth. When the train stops, you step out and cringe, the smell of too many bodies living close together hitting you all at once.

Climbing the stairs is dangerous, the grime and rain making the ascent slippery. You hesitate to touch the rail when you see the rusted filth, and instead ask the universe to keep you from busting your ass.

The streets here are narrow and chaotic, slick with oily rain that reflects stuttering neon signs in iridescent puddles. Real rain falls harder at this level, drumming against rusted metal awnings and corroded pipes. Gang tags in glowing spray-paint pulse on every wall, though above them are the looming symbols of the Syndicates.

Street vendors hawk bootleg data pads, hacked implants, and vials of questionable stims from flickering stalls. The air grows thicker, heavier, carrying the unmistakable smells of unfiltered rain, and fried street meat. You feel painfully exposed, your coat too clean and posture too refined for this district.

Eyes follow you - some curious, some calculating. You keep your head down but your sens sharp, hand never far from your knife as you navigate the rain-slicked streets.

The shelter squats at the end of a dimly lit side street, a squat brutalist building reinforced with bolted steel plates and outdated security cams that flicker with static. Faded holographic signage above the entrance flickers with the building name, though it's broken and half on so none of the letters seem to make sense.

Rain drips steadily from the overhang as you push open the reinforced door. Inside, the air is warm and stale. You curl your nose, immediately missing the freshness of recycled air. You hadn't realized what a privilege it was until now.

Rows of cramped cots line the main hall. A few residents glancing at you curiously. A man mopping the floor with water that doesn't look any cleaner than the sticky tile nods politely at you. You approach the front desk where a middle-aged woman in a worn uniform flicks through data on a tablet under the weak glow of a buzzing fluorescent bar.

“Excuse me,” you say, keeping your voice low. “I’m looking for information about someone who might have stayed here as a child. His name was Zhi Yuan. This would have been around twenty to twenty-five years ago. I think he was adopted by Sato Rhia and her husband Amar.”

The woman studies your face, noting how obviously out of place you are before she ignores you and goes back to reading whatever is on her tablet. You grit your teeth and pull out your phone, tapping the small tile on the desk to transfer credits.

"Try again," you say through your teeth.

She glances at the credits and stiffens, rolling her shoulders as she begins typing. "Zhi Yuan?" She repeats, voice raspy. "Might not have the records that far back."

"That far? It was only twenty something years ago."

She huffs. "Listen lady, we don't got fancy storage here. We delete shit."

"Are you going to do the search or not?"

She grumbles and hits a few keys. "All I've got is some random kid from Arkos here for a few weeks. That's it."

"That's it?"

"You can transfer me more credits, but it won't do shit."

You think about leaving a handful of rusty nails, but you force a sharp smile. "Thank you so much for your help."

As you reach the door, the older man in stained janitorial coveralls pauses his mopping. He's weathered with deep lines around his eyes and hands scarred from years of hard labor. He glances at you, then at the woman behind the desk.

"You shouldn't be chasing ghosts down, miss," he whispers. "Not that one."

You pause, turning back. “What do you mean?”

"The boy. Let him stay dead. Virate operates that way."

The word lands like cold steel against your spine. Virate.

It's an unfamiliar word to you, but it tugs at your gut, like something is telling you it's important. “What is the Virate?”

The man’s expression shutters immediately. He looks over his shoulder toward the back rooms, then back at you. For a moment, genuine concern flickers across his weathered face.

Better that you don’t know,” he says quietly, almost urgently. “Go home, miss. The Lower District isn't for you."

He returns to mopping without another word, the wet slap of the mop against cracked tile the only sound between you. You stand frozen for a long second, heart hammering, before pushing open the door and stepping back into the relentless rain.

-

Minghao sits across the table from his mother in the private tearoom of the Xu family residence in the Upper District. The space is deliberately designed, a copy of old Arkos interior design and architecture. Low tables of dark lacquered wood rest on mats woven from rare fibers imported at great expense, and the walls are paneled in warm cedar that release a faint, woody smell.

Soft paper lanterns hang at varying heights from the ceiling, their golden light diffused and flickering gently, mimicking the old-world illumination of ancestral estates back in Arkos. Outside the reinforced floor-to-ceiling windows, Hyperion sprawls in an endless, restless web of neon arteries, flickering holograms, and rain-streaked towers piercing the low cloud ceiling.

Rain taps steadily against the glass, a metallic percussion that Minghao has long since learned to tune out since moving here. Inside, the air is warm and fragrant with the steam rising from the teapot and the subtle notes of jasmine.

It should feel peaceful. Instead, it feels like the calm before a storm he himself is about to unleash.

Xu Luli pours the tea with the same graceful precision she has always possessed, her movements fluid, the delicate porcelain cup gliding silently across the surface of the table as she pushes it toward him. Her grey eyes catch the lantern light as she lifts her cup, sipping.

Luli looks eternally young. It's always unsettling to Minghao that his mother doesn't look like she ages, while his father lets himself age freely. He knows it's a status and power play, but he hates the way he looks at his mother and sees someone frozen in time, someone he will eventually surpass because augmentation and longevity is not for him.

Minghao watches her hands. Elegant. Steady. The same hands that once ran through his hair when he was a young boy, before the Virate claimed the rest of his childhood and turned him into a trained weapon, a blade at their beck and call.

He takes a slow sip of the tea, letting the rare Arkos blend warm his chest and ground him. The flavor is complex, floral and slightly bitter, with an underlying earthiness that reminds him of the herbs you roll into handles and distill into oils that you like to spray across doors and clothes and objects.

"You look well," Minghao offers, sipping his tea.

Luli smiles at him softly, the kind of smile she reserves only for him. "You look tired. The marriage has been… eventful."

“Eventful,” Minghao echoes, a dry note threading through his voice. He studies her face in the golden lantern light, noting every micro-expression. "My wife and I have not had an easy start."

"All marriages are complicated. Your father and I were not always easy, either."

“Now that you've mentioned it, I’ve been thinking about your life before Father. Before the Xu name became yours.”

Her fingers pause for the briefest moment on the teapot handle. Minghao catches it, the tiny tightening at the corner of her mouth, the way her stormy grey eyes flicker once toward the reinforced window overlooking the glowing, rain-streaked city below. The lanterns cast shifting golden patterns across her flawless face, highlighting the elegant line of her jaw.

“It was a difficult time,” she says lightly. "Your father and I found each other at the right time."

"You were out of the public eye for a while. Why was that?"

"Youthful rebellion," she snorts. "I thought I could escape the expectations placed on me. Your wife has done a better job at hers, I will admit."

"And yet you think she's wicked."

"I never said wicked. She's just strange."

Minghao tilts his head, watching her with the same intense, cataloguing focus he once used on targets in shadowed rooms. The lantern light plays across her features, softening nothing.

"Was there someone before my father?" The question catches her off guard and her cup clinks sharply against the plate when she sets it down. "I always wondered. I never could figure out what made you leave."

"Minghao-"

"The Triptych always told me you wanted to leave," Minghao continues, nodding. He puts his chin in his palm, watching his mother keenly. "And that's why they were willing to part ways publically, that you'd asked for it. But your first departure from the Virate wasn't after you received permission. So what was it?"

"Son…"

"I'm not angry. I'm just looking for some answers."

Luli is quiet for a long moment. She lifts her own cup, takes a slow sip as if buying time, and sets it down with deliberate grace. The soft clink of porcelain against lacquer sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Outside, the rain intensifies, drumming harder against the glass.

“Yes,” she admits at last. “I ran away with a lover.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air between them. Minghao nods, mind racing ahead. His eyes drop down to the red bracelet you'd given him, the azabache charm cool against his skin.

"Who was he?" He asks.

"Someone unsuitable. From outside the Virate. He was very charismatic, brillitan in his own way. I thought I could disappear and live outside the rules."

“And then?” he prompts when his mother falls silent again.

“I became pregnant.”

The words land like a blade between his ribs. Minghao goes very still. The lantern light suddenly feels too warm, the cedar scent too heavy. His mother continues, her voice trembling only slightly now, each word pulled from somewhere deep and painful she has clearly tried to bury for decades.

“I carried the child to term. A boy. We lived happily for a year before he decided that the child and I were too much. So I went back." She swallows. "The child wasn't Virate, though. So they took him and offered to place him somewhere safe and give me a new start, a single offer of mercy.”

"A safe start," Minghao echoes. "They offered to let you part with the Virate publicly if you did favors for them privately, didn't they?"

She chews her lip and nods. "I married your father and then we had you. You know the rest from there. We had you until you were five. Then we moved and you were theirs."

Minghao’s mind races, pieces clicking together with brutal, crystalline clarity. Grey eyes. The thin, precise scar. The way Sato Ken had studied you at the gala. You'd been unsettled by Ken, though Minghao had neither seen the man nor heard of him. None of his contacts knew of the name Sato Ken, and a quick online search had simply told the story of a businessman who married into a wealthy family.

In any other circumstance, Minghao might have disregarded it. But you'd been unsettled more than usual, insisting that the man with grey eyes - a Lin family trait from his mother's side - had the same scar as him. He trusted your instincts.

It was the same scar the initiated members of the Virate had, one where a finger had been severed during interrogation only to be later surgically added back on. The scar was always a reminder that members had passed, that they'd like the Virate take a part of them during an interrogation that felt realer than anything else Minghao has ever gone through, and that they could take it just as easily again.

He rubs his finger now, fingers brushing over the scar, remembering the snap of the bone and the way he'd nearly bit through his tongue. He'd not given up the information, though, and that had been enough to pass and earn the digit back.

If you were unsettled by a man with grey eyes and the same scar… well, Minghao didn't believe coincidences. Not since he had started watching you read your tarot and scribble into dream journals when you thought he wasn't paying attention.

“Does father know?” he asks eventually, voice low and tightly controlled.

“No. No one does. Only the Triptych."

Minghao exhales slowly, mind already spinning through the implications. If this Sato Ken was Minghao's brother - either by blood or initiation - he existed only in the dark. Which meant he was a Shade, and no one but the Triptych knew he existed. It unsettles Minghao more than he would like, mind scrambling to find a motive. Jealousy? Resentment? A move within a move by the Virate? It could be anything.

As a Shade himself, Ken shouldn't know Minghao existed. Not even the most coveted of the assassins belonging to the Virate knew the identity of one another, which was why Minghao thought nothing of Ken at the gala - hadn't even seen him. It makes him feel shaken, a ghost slipping by him that Minghao was trained to find, to see.

Worse was that Ken had seen you. Approached you. Shaken your hand. He'd done all that and Minghao simply hadn't noticed him. Years of Virate training had failed him, and he'd let something as dangerous as a Shade get close to you. It not only wounds his pride, but it wounds him.

Minghao feels the red bracelet you gave him shift against his wrist again. The azabache charm feels heavier suddenly, a small weight of your strange faith pressing against his skin.

He stands abruptly, the low table creaking as his knees push against it. Rain continues to lash the windows, the sound growing louder as the storm intensifies outside.

"I have to handle this," he mutters.

"What?" She asks, slipping into Zhenwen, a language dead to the world for generations but kept alive by the oldest families of Arkos. "What's happening?"

"Your illegitimate son tried to kill my wife."

"No," Luli shakes her head. "He was adopted into a family, outside of the Virate."

Minghao tsks. "You think the Virate gave away your child without training him? The Shade is born in darkness and has no name. I would know."

Luli closes her eyes, a single tear slipping down her eternal face. Minghao turns away before the sight can soften him. He cannot afford softness right now. Not when the delicate balance he has spent years maintaining is suddenly threatening to shatter around him for a haphazardly protected secret.

"I will do what I must for my family," Minghao tells her, steeling himself. "Blood for blood."

"Blood for blood," she agrees.

As he walks out of the room, he touches the red bracelet on his wrist, thumb brushing over the braided strands of your hair woven into the cord. The small protective charm you made for him feels both absurd and strangely vital at this moment. He wonders what you would say if you knew the truth, that the man you married carries blood older and darker than anything you have imagined. That the secrets he keeps are not just his own.

Whatever game is being played either by this half-brother of his or by the Triptych, Minghao will end it.

But for the first time, the thought of collateral damage makes his stomach turn because now, the collateral has a name, and she sleeps in the east wing of his penthouse and sticks her nose where it doesn't belong because she's too smart for her own good.

-

Thick, metallic air swallows you the moment you step into the bar. Sweet smoke chokes the room, the neon bleed of alternate reality systems flickering from behind closed doors. A few patrons sit slumped over table tops, nursing drinks lazily as though they're half in a dream. Most of the doors are shut, the private alternate reality rooms cutting them off from the bar and everything else in the real world.

Energy shifts immediately. Your skin prickles, and you scan the room, sensing the way energy here is a vacuum, like these rooms that offer everything but reality suck the essence of the soul out of the body.

The rain from outside clings to your coat in silver beads, but the oppressive warmth in the bar immediately makes your back and neck start to sweat. You step into the bar further, letting the door shut close behind you, cutting off the sound from the Pearl District. Neon from the district streets leaks through frosted windows in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the high wooden beams in shifting colors.

A few figures who move with the careful grace of people who have stepped between realities one too many times. You scan them all without making it obvious, your fingers brushing the black tourmaline cord hidden beneath your sleeve. The small knife in the hidden slit of your coat presses reassuringly against your ribs as your gaze settles on the woman behind the bar.

She's pretty, pouring someone a drink as she laughs at something the customer says. A simple black tank top shows toned arms covered in faint tattoos that seem to shift when the light hits them at the right angle. Her features are difficult to hold onto, like she's someone you might forget the moment you turn away while being strangely magnetic.

You drive toward the bar, hyperaware of the way the bartender notices you. Based on the description, you think she's who the Tower's daughter told you to find.

Kero, she'd said, eyeing you warily. Kero is good at information. Are you okay, though? I can help if you're in danger, you know that, right?

It had been a kind offer whispered at a gala last week, a rare moment where the two of you had been in the powder room and you'd been insane enough to ask her for a good source of information in the Syndicate.

Your heart pounds thinking about it again, remember the way she'd raised her brows and urge you to tell her if there was something wrong. Her kindness was a rarity in the Syndicate, and though you were somewhat familiar with her, facing her full on had been nearly overwhelming.

The bartender turns toward you as you slide onto a stool, her lips curving into a grin as she leans one hip against the bar.

"Hi," he drawls, eyes flicking up and down as she drinks you in. "New face. You look very expensive, sweetheart. What can I pour you?"

“I’m not here for a drink,” you say evenly. “I’m looking for Kero.”

Her smile doesn’t falter, but something sharp flickers behind her eyes. She tilts her head, studying you more carefully now, as if reassessing the woman standing in front of her.

"Kero is around. What do you need?" She asks eventually, fingers tapping the top of the bar.

"The Tower's daughter told me Kero might be able to help me with some information."

The words land with weight. She straightens slightly, the playful curve of her mouth diminishing. Mentioning the Tower’s daughter commands absolute authority here, you realize. She gives you a long, measured look, dark eyes tracing over your face, your coat, the way you hold yourself, drinking in every detail.

"I'm nothing if not a humble servant to the Tower and his children," she says eventually. "I'm Kero. You can come with me, sweetheart. Keep your pretty hands where I can see them, yeah? Baby is a good friend of mine, but I don't know you."

She slips out from behind the bar fluidly, exchanging a quick, wordless nod with the burly bartender who steps in to cover her station seamlessly. You follow, weaving between tables. No one notices you as you walk by, each customer staring off into nothingness with a glazed over expression that makes you shiver.

Kero leads you to a narrow hallway, the walls covered in flickering frames of alternate reality landscapes. You glance at them as you walk by, looking into lush forests, empty beaches, and night skies. At the end of the hall, she stops and presses her balm to a hidden scanner, a heavy wooden door hissing open after her clearance passes. She gestures for you to enter first, grinning and winking as you pass by her.

The private room beyond is small but surprisingly comfortable, a storage space turned lounger. Dim amber sconces cast warm, flickering light across two worn leather armchairs and a low table. A plush couch sits against one wall, and shelves hold bottles of rare liquor, scattered data pads, and a few precious paper books.

Kero closes the door behind you, engages the lock with a soft click, then turns with that same half-smile. She gestures to one of the armchairs, leaning casually against the table’s edge. You sit gracefully, unwilling to let her know that she makes you feel off keel.

Something about her unsettles you. In the dimmer room, her features are even harder to latch on to, like her eyes change everytime you look away or her hair is a shade adjusted. She watches you like a cat watches a mouse as you sit, and though you know mentioning the Tower's daughter has awarded you some power, you're not sure it's given you immunity here.

“So,” she says lightly. "What kind of trouble are you in, hmm?"

"Who says I'm in trouble?"

"It's written all over your face. You're tense as shit."

You give a small, knowing smile. “I’m not used to the Pearl District. That doesn’t mean I’m lost.”

Kero cocks her head. “Damn, no VR for you, huh? You rich types don’t really need to escape reality. You have everything you could ever want.”

“Not everything.”

"Unless you're trying to escape that fancy marriage."

"So you know who I am?"

Kero pushes off the table and walks over to a chair, dropping into it unceremoniously before pivoting sideways to hook the backs of her knees over the arm.

“Of course I do,” she snorts, dropping into the opposite chair and hooking her knees over the arm. “Big wedding. I wasn’t invited. Not high enough up the ladder, you know what I mean?”

"No."

"You're very honest, Mrs. Xu."

You meet her eyes without hesitation. “I’m very honest, yes.”

The name Mrs. Xu still feels foreign, but you no longer flinch. You so rarely hear people use your new legal name - most people still often see you as the heiress to Nexus Capital, content to use your family name because in this city, Minghao has married into your family, not the other way around.

"I met a man a few days ago at a gala and he left me with questions," you start slowly. Kero raises her brows. "No one really seems to know who he is, which isn't common among the elite."

She snorts. "You came here because someone isn't as well known as you?"

You ignore the barb, continuing, "He gave me the name Sato Ken. He doesn't seem to be much - just a mid-level businessman who married the daughter of a Patron of the Choi Syndicate. I think he might have a second name, though. Do you know anyone by the name of Zhi Yuan?"

Kero shakes her head. "Should I?"

"I don't know. Do you know what the Virate is?”

Kero’s entire posture changes in an instant. The lazy sprawl vanishes. She unhooks her legs and plants her boots on the floor with a quiet thud, leaning forward sharply and the playful glint in her eyes hardens into something guarded and alert.

“Virate,” she repeats, voice low and sharp. “What are you doing with the Virate?”

"I don't know what the Virate is."

"Of course you don't." She stands in one fluid motion, pacing a tight circle behind her chair, one hand dragging through her hair. “Tell me how you came across the Virate. Explain in detail."

You do. You tell her about the man from the gala, how something about his energy felt misaligned, your instincts screaming. How your research led you to the foster home in the Lower District where the cleaner had given you the strange, ominous warning about the Virate. About how you think Sato Ken and Zhi Yuan might be the same person.

Kero stops pacing. She steps closer, extending her right hand under the nearest sconce, palm down. You're not sure what you're supposed to be looking at until your eyes catch the smallest little scar, silver and right over the knuckle. Just like Sato Ken. Just like Minghao.

"Did he have a scar like this? Do you know?" She asks.

"Yes."

Kero pulls her hand back, flexing it once before sinking into her chair with heavier grace. The leather creaks as she rubs her temple, staring at the low table for a long beat while distant bass throbs from the bar’s VR rooms and rain drums steadily against the outer walls.

“Alright,” she says at last, voice quieter. "The Virate isn’t some street gang or Syndicate. They're like the Syndicate's here in the city but the structure is very different and they're a lot more complex. Think generations of bloodlines that build a shadow confederation that works in the cracks most people never see. They pull kids through foster systems, adoptions, quiet placements. Forge them. Shades, they call the ones with no names. Ghosts trained from blood and bone to serve the Triptych - the three who sit at the top.”

"Okay," you say slowly. "So you're saying maybe Sato Ken was Zhi Yuan previously, and now he's Sato Ken and he's a member of the Virate."

She shows her hand again, the silver scar making you shiver. "Virate initiation. They take the same finger during interrogation to see if you break. If you don't, they give you the finger back. If you break, you die."

You sit frozen, the weight of her words pressing down like cold rain. Minghao has that scar. You think of Minghao’s brutal efficiency on the terrace, the dead language in the car, the way he always deflects with half-truths. Your heart beats hard, frantic.

"If Sato Ken isn't a real name, you might be dealing with a Shade. It's hard to say. Shades are hard to find and are usually found only if they want to be… being uncovered for them is like death. They're the hidden assassins the Triptych likes to raise. Not even standard members of the Virate know who they are." Kero leans back. "Did he make any threats or have you seen him before?"

"No," you tell her. Your mind is on Minghao and not Ken - Yuan, whatever his name is. "Just met him at a party. My gut tells me he's important."

"If your gut managed to find an assassin for the Virate, that's a pretty good stomach."

You hum, noncommittal. "So you're a member of the Virate?"

"Was," she corrects. "Left when I was thirteen."

Both of you sit in silence as your mind races through fragments that feel too sharp to ignore. The scar on Kero’s knuckle. The identical mark on Sato Ken - Zhi Yuan. And Minghao. That thin, precise line across his first knuckle that you’d noticed from the very first boardroom meeting. The way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch. The ancient language he spoke in the car after the wedding attack. The effortless violence on the terrace. The way he knew about your practice without you ever showing him.

The realization settles heavy in your chest. Your husband - the man who pressed his jacket to your bleeding arm, who wears the red bracelet you braided with your own hair - is not who anyone thinks he is.

Kero doesn’t mention the Xu family once. Doesn’t connect Minghao to any of this. Her ignorance of your husband’s involvement is louder than any confirmation could be- Minghao is an unknown member of the Virate. A Shade, Kero had called it. A ghost wearing the face of a logistics heir, planted here for purposes far beyond shipping contracts and political marriages. You keep your expression neutral, swallowing the storm of questions and fears that you can't let consume you - not here, not with this stranger.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. "This helps."

You reach into the inner pocket of your coat and pull out two things: the sleek, matte-black digital card and a small silk pouch you’d prepared weeks ago during one of your quiet Wednesday rituals. You set the card on the low table first, then slide the pouch toward her with careful fingers.

“If you ever want a new private account set up, use this," you tell her. "It's completely clean and untraceable, with access to resources most people here only dream about in these AR rooms you run." You point at the pouch. "This is for protection. Black salt, rosemary, a bit of hematite. I made it myself. It’s nothing fancy, but… it's my way of showing gratitude."

Kero stares at the offerings, genuine surprise flickering across her face. She picks up the silk pouch, turning it over in her scarred hand. “You made this?” Her eyes lift to yours, sharper now. “Are you a practitioner?”

“I dabble. It was something I started as a kid to pass time. I.. didn’t have much of a childhood and some of the housemaids practiced.”

Kero’s lips curve into a faint, knowing smile, but she doesn’t press. She tucks the pouch into her pocket with surprising care. “If you ever want to apprentice with real practitioners, go to the Silver Thorn Apothecary in the Lower District, near the old canal bridge. Tell them Kero sent you. They don’t take just anyone, but they might make an exception.”

“I appreciate it.”

Kero leans back, studying you for a long moment. The amber light softens the edges of her shifting features. “Watch yourself with the Virate. They don’t play by Syndicate rules. They bind blood, erase names, and turn children into weapons. Once you’re in their sights, it’s hard to get out.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Still… there’s something about your energy. Stubborn. Grounded. I like it."

A small grin tugs at your lips. “I’m trying. I should go. Thank you again, Kero. For everything."

You stand and she rises with you, holding the digital card in her hand. "Don't be a stranger, Mrs. Xu. Try to stay alive."

Rain hisses down on you as you leave, your boots splashing softly in the shallow puddles pooling in the concrete. The Pearl District is alive with partygoers, tourists and socialites heading to clubs, casinos and more, their laughter harsh against the churning of your mind.

Minghao is a Shade. You know with utter certainty, somehow. He's a ghost - a weapon, and you have no idea what it means that he married you or what he wants. He'd told you that you were no use to his family dead and you still believe that, but now you want to know for what.

In an alley between buildings, you dig around in your pocket for your cards. You shuffle them quickly, rain beading on their glossy surface as you do. Three cards slip out one by one, catching on your wet hands until you pull them out of the deck and flip them over.

The Tower. The Moon reversed. Death.

Thoughts of the cards haunt you all the way to the train. Your hood is pulled low, the black fabric of your coat blending into the sea of weary commuters. The bracelet on your wrist feels heavier than usual, a quiet anchor against the unease crawling up your spine.

Pressed between a businessman muttering into his phone and a woman clutching a synthetic flower bouquet, a sense of unease creeps up on you. Eyes on you. Not the casual glances of strangers, but something deliberate and predatory.

The doors hiss shut and the train lurches forward, accelerating into the tunnel with a low whine that vibrates through your bones. You keep your gaze fixed on the scratched window, watching the blur of service lights streak past like dying stars. Your hand slips into your coat pocket, fingers brushing the matte-black comm device Minghao gave you months ago. The private channel. Encrypted. Off-grid. You haven’t used it yet, but it feels good to have in your hand.

You shift your weight, scanning the car without turning your head. Faces blur in peripheral vision, a sea of tired eyes, downturned mouths, and people asleep in seats. No one stands out. No one meets your eyes for too long. Yet the sensation builds, a slow pressure like storm clouds gathering before lightning splits the Tower.

Two stops pass and your pulse quickens with each one. At the third, you make a split-second decision to get off that's nowhere near your intended route toward the Observatory. You elbow your way toward the doors as they open, stepping onto the platform and into the sub-level station, ait thick with the scent of damp rot and the distant rumble of freight loaders. Neon signs flicker overhead, advertising cheap stim-packs and off-grid betting dens.

You don’t look back. Not immediately. You weave through the sparse crowd, heels clicking against cracked concrete, and take the exit stairs two at a time. The streets above are narrower, hemmed in by crooked buildings and powerlines that spark intermittently in the thin rain. You turn left, then right, cutting through a market alley where vendors hawk sticky buns and meat skewers, fat sizzling.

Still, the feeling follows.

Your breath comes sharper now and you pause at a corner stall, pretending to examine a rack of knockoff jade pendants while your eyes flick across reflections in a rain-streaked metal panel. Nothing. A shadow shifts two stalls down, but it's gone when you focus. Your instincts, honed by years of the universe’s subtle nudges, scream a single name.

Sato Ken.

The thought lands like a cold blade between your ribs. The scar on his knuckle flashes in your memory. So does his polished smile and the way his gaze had lingered too long at the last charity function, heavy with something unreadable. You’d felt it then too. The Devil.

You quicken your pace, ducking down a narrower side street. The rain intensifies, sheeting off overhangs and turning the ground into a slick mirror of fractured neon. Your coat clings to your skin, heavy and cold. Heart hammering, you slip into a shadowed alley between two derelict storage units where it smells of rust and urine.

Crates are stacked haphazardly against one wall, providing meager cover where you press your back to the damp brick, breathing through your mouth to stay quiet. Water drips from a rusted pipe overhead, steady as a metronome. For a moment, only the distant train rumbles and your own pulse fills the space.

A splash confirms you're being followed and you don't hesitate. Your fingers close around the comm device, pulling it free with trembling hands. The surface is cool, almost alive under your touch, drinking in the faint alley light. You activate it with a press of your thumb, the faint holo-sheen blooming like starlight in the dark. The private channel connects with a soft chime that feels too loud in the confined space.

It rings once. Twice.

“Come on,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the rain.

Your free hand grips the small knife in your other pocket, though the blade feels inadequate against whatever waits in the shadows. The universe had warned you. The cards had warned you. Death upright. Transformation through violence.

The line clicks open and Minghao's voice comes through, low and immediate. "What's wrong?"

You've never been happier to hear his voice. The sound of his calm and controlled voice nearly buckles your knees. You lean harder into the wall, eyes darting to the alley mouth where a silhouette might appear any second. Rain sluices down your face, mixing with the cold sweat on your skin. The feeling of being watched intensifies, a prickling heat at your nape like fingers hovering just above your spine.

"I need you to find me," you tell him, voice barely audible. "I'm about to get taken or killed."

"Wicked-"

"You have access to my medical records," you interrupt. "You should have been emailed how to access. I have a subcutaneous tracking chip. Activate the emergency beacon with the password given to you - it pings your private network. Do it now."

Footsteps again, deliberate now, closing in from the alley’s entrance. A shadow detaches from the gloom, tall and masked.

“I know you’re a Shade,” you whisper. “Maybe I mean nothing to you at all, but you saved me on our wedding night and if I’m still important to your family, you need to find me. Or at least my body."

Minghao says your name - not wicked woman, not wicked - just your name. You say nothing else, swallowing as you drop the comm in the rain and crush it under your heel, the sharp crack lost to the sound of increasing downpour.

When the figure steps out of the shadows, all you can see are the grey eyes. You stare at him head on, refusing to show him fear despite the way your hands tremble in the cold rain.

"Is your husband coming?"

"Yes."

He nods. "Good."

-

Thunder shakes the penthouse. It's not loud enough to drown out the hammering of Minghao's heart as he gets dressed frantically. For once, Minghao feels like he might be panicking. He's not entirely sure - panic is a foreign concept to him. As a Shade of the Virate, he doesn't operate in adrenaline and panic - he simply exists in the detachment of calm and deliberate decision making.

This doesn't feel like that. He has no idea when he started caring about you so much - can't even really figure out when it happened. He supposes between the random late night dinners, the rare instances of breakfast, and the weekends when he watched you sit at the coffee table with your little herbs and candles muttering to yourself, he decided he liked you.

Had you been the elitist, snobby socialite he assumed you were going to be, he wouldn't be in this situation. Yet fate - because he's starting to believe in fate - had put you into your position - unprepared and woefully unjaded - through the violence of your sister's death, and put you directly into Minghao's path. He doesn't know what else to call it, because only destiny could be this specific.

Rain crawls in silver streaks down the windows, turning Hyperion into a smeared galaxy beneath the clouds. Minghao stands in front of the open wardrobe in a black compression shirt and tactical trousers, fingers gone motionless around the clasp of his chest holder as the information he'd requested through your instructions appears across the retinal display he'd put over his right eye.

PATIENT STATUS: ELEVATED STRESS RESPONSE WARNING: HEART RATE EXCEEDING SAFE BASELINE WARNING: ADRENALINE EXCEEDING SAFE BASELINE WARNING: CONCUSSION DETECTED LOCATION PING: ACTIVE LOCATION: 908 LOWER WATER STREET, WAREHOUSE DISTRICT, HYPERION 3094304

Minghao watches as your biometrics spike violently across the lens. Oxygen levels unstable, cortisol flooding yourself, neutral activity elevated. Nothing in your current vitals tells him that you're dying, which is the single positive news he has while he finishes buckling the holster before he opens another hidden compartment in his room, revealing weapons.

He takes the knives and two guns. They charge at his touch, the pulse letting him know they're primed as he holsters them. The red cord around his wrist slides with his hand movement, the azabache charm clicks against the gun as he removes his hand.

You'd looked so serious when you handed it to him, like you were testing him. He hadn't seen it then for what it was - a leap of faith to see if he was serious about you practicing your little customs without fear from him. Now he knows that he'd passed the test, because you'd start being more open around him. Not hiding things. Calling him and telling him you needed his help.

Minghao yanks a jacket over the holsters and accesses the medical feed again with a blink of his eyes. Nothing has changed, and your location still pings in an abandoned shipping corridor near Pier Nine. It's in Xu territory, a dock that belongs exclusively to Minghao's father, and by extension, Choi Moojin.

The hours Minghao has spent trying to track down his half brother have gone to waste. It appears that his brother has the jump on him, and why shouldn't he? Zhi Yuan or whatever the name he goes by now has known Minghao existed for far longer than Minghao has known he had a sibling, and it's clear that you've been in his sights for a while as an obvious attempt to get to Minghao.

Minghao is going to kill him. He made the decision long before you'd called him. He had decided before his mother even finished telling him about Yuan, about the first born son she naively thought the Virate gave away. It doesn't matter if Yuan is blood, though. He'd spilled the blood of those under the protection of the Xu family, and Minghao was bound by honor to pay him back.

Blood for blood.

It's not an easy situation. Minghao doesn't know if his brother is here by authorization of the Virate, or if he's gone rogue. The right thing to do would be to contact the Triptych, but Minghao has no plans of doing that. It's too much of a risk if they've sanctioned whatever attack this is, so he's decided to do what he wants. He knows it'll have consequences - he has carried out the punishment for this kind of thing plenty of times.

"Fuck," Minghao sighs, running a hand over his face.

As much as he wants to do this alone, he knows that the odds will be better if he has leverage. Everything with the Virate and the Triptych especially is above leverage and moves within moves, and Minghao doesn't have any right now. So he picks up the phone and dials a number he's never called before, heart hammering as the phone rings.

"Xu Minghao," Jeonghan answers softly. "What can I do for our favorite shipping heir on a rainy Thursday evening?"

Minghao slips a knife into the sheath at the base of his spine as he speaks. “I need a deal.”

Jeonghan pauses. "Oh?"

"In exchange for leverage and information on the Virate."

"I'm listening."

"I need protection and support from the Choi Syndicate if the Virate comes knocking at my door."

Jeonghan's no longer amused or joking when he says, "And why would they do that?"

"Agree to it before I say anything."

Jeonghan pauses. "Why'd you call me?"

"You're the heir to the Wisdom and you're smart. You'll know whether I'm lying or you'll figure it out yourself. Now I want a deal before I say anything."

The Observatory feels too high, too isolated tonight, suspended above the storm like a fragile glass cage. Neon from the distant Pearl District bleeds through the fog in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the matte black steel beams in shifting hues that do nothing to calm the unfamiliar knot twisting in his chest.

The line is silent for a beat too long. Jeonghan’s voice returns, stripped of its usual lazy amusement. “A deal, how bold. Alright - I, Yoon Jeonghan, Second to the Wisdom, affirm that the verbally negotiated agreement between us is valid and binding, and will be upheld by the Choi Syndicate under penalty of death or exile. Talk."

“The Virate,” Minghao starts, running a hand through his hair. "I'm a member. They raised me as a Shade. Nameless. Trained for killing and secret work. My family’s move to Hyperion, the logistics empire, this marriage - it isn't just business moves, it’s for the Virate. They wanted someone nameless but loyal to sow seeds and gain influence with one of the Syndicates of the city, ideally the Choi Syndicate."

A soft whistle from the other end. “And here I thought you were just another pretty Arkos heir playing at power. Continue.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens. He moves to the bedroom door, glancing once toward the east wing where you should be safe. The biometric feed in his retinal display pulses steadily, your location fixed, stress elevated but alive. For now.

“I have an unexpected target on my back,” he says, already striding toward the private elevator. “A Shade operative. One I didn’t know existed until recently. He orchestrated the wedding attack. Tonight, he has her. I’m on my way to eliminate him. It might blow back. If the Virate decides I’ve gone rogue or exposed too much, they’ll come for cleanup. I need Choi Syndicate support if that happens - protection, resources, a buffer. In exchange, I’ll give you information useful for leveraging a partnership with the Virate in Arkos. Real leverage. Names. Structures. Weak points the Triptych would rather keep buried.”

The elevator doors hiss open. Minghao steps inside, the mirrored walls reflecting a man dressed for violence. His hair is still damp from the earlier rain, eyes sharp and unblinking. Jeonghan is quiet again, but Minghao can hear the calculation in the silence, the Wisdom's son weighing angles, risks, opportunities.

"Hm," Jeonghan hums. "Interesting. You know this verbal agreement could be void based on your intent to threaten the safety of the Syndicate, right?" Minghao doesn't answer as the elevator plunges downward. "Why trust me with this?"

“Because you’re useful,” Minghao answers flatly. “And because my wife is bleeding time in a warehouse while we talk. Agree or don’t. But if I walk into this alone and don’t come back, you lose the chance at whatever game you’re playing with the docks.”

“You’re more interesting than I gave you credit for, Minghao. Fine. Deal. Choi support if the Virate comes calling. You deliver on the information. And try not to die, Baby would be devastated if the lead she gave your wife ended up with her dying."

Minghao pauses. "We'll discuss what you mean later."

"Sure."

Minghao pockets the phone. His mind cycles through possibilities of Yuan’s training, the scar, the grey eyes that matched his mother’s. Blood for blood. The old laws demanded it, but something sharper cuts beneath the duty now. Your voice on the comm, steady even in terror. The way you’d crushed the device rather than let it lead danger straight back here. Stubborn. Honest. Wicked in ways that had nothing to do with tarot cards.

The doors open into the cold concrete expanse. Elara and Kai snap to attention near the armored car, but Minghao waves them off with a sharp gesture. “Stay here. Guard the penthouse. No one in or out. If I’m not back by dawn, call Yoon Jeonghan."

“Understood, sir.”

Minghao slides into the driver’s seat himself, the engine humming to life. Rain hammers the garage ramp as he accelerates upward, the city’s neon arteries blurring past. His grip on the wheel is steady, but the red cord around his wrist catches the dashboard light.

His hands tighten on the wheel. He's ending this game of shadows tonight.

-

Your head throbs with a deep, nauseating pulse that radiates from the back of your skull down through your jaw. The world tilts when you try to lift it, the edges of the dim warehouse blurring like wet ink on parchment. The concussion is surely courtesy of the desperate headbutt you'd delivered when Zhi Yuan had grabbed you in that alley. The satisfying crunch of his nose breaking still echoes faintly in your memory, a small, defiant victory amid the terror.

Thick ropes bite into your wrists and ankles, securing you to a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor. The warehouse is vast and derelict, one of the many abandoned husks along the Lower Water Street docks where Xu shipping containers sit in rows.

Rain hammers on the corrugated roof overhead, leaking in thin streams through gaps in the panels to form oily puddles on the concrete. Dim emergency lights cast long, sickly yellow shadows across stacked crates and rusted forklift skeletons.

You test the ropes around you subtly, keeping your movements small, but there's no give. Your small knife is long gone, though the black tourmaline bracelet is still there, warm against your skin, a fragile tether.

Across from you, Zhi Yuan is seated casually on an overturned crate. Blood has dried in dark rivulets from his broken nose down over his mouth and chin, staining the collar of his shirt. The injury makes his sharp, balanced features turn grotesque, his grey eyes eery in the low light. He holds a stained cloth in his hand, dabbing occasionally at the swelling in his face.

"You're not what I expected," he admits. "Though I suppose any woman associated with the Choi family fights back."

You lift your chin, ignoring the way the motion sends fresh dizziness spiraling through you. Fear coils tight in your gut, but you refuse to let it show. You meet his gaze evenly, challenging every boardroom lesson your father ever drilled into you since your sister's death.

"Headbutting you was worth the headache," you mutter. "Though I imagine it hurts worse on your end."

His mouth twitches into something like a smile. "I've endured worse. You know, most heiresses would be sobbing by now. Begging. Offering credits or Syndicate favors."

"I'm not worried."

"You think your husband is coming?"

"I know so."

He leans back and sighs. "I know so too." His eyes watch you carefully. "I saw the way you looked at my scar at the gala. Same as his. You don't miss much, do you?"

“Enough to know you're a threat. What do you want, Zhi Yuan? Or is it Ken? Does the Virate let you keep any name at all?"

His grey eyes narrow slightly, but the amusement doesn't fade. "Names are fluid for us. Tools. Zhi Yuan was the boy the system forgot. Sato Ken was the man who married well and smiled at galas. Neither is real. But you can call me Yuan. It's... familiar."

“Familiar because of whatever connection you have to my husband.”

Yuan stops dabbing his nose and watches you for a long moment. He rises slowly, pacing a few steps through the puddle-streaked space. His boots splash softly. Yuan drags another crate closer and sits across from you again, legs stretched out casually.

“Tell me,” he drawls. “How does it feel to be married to a man who was never meant to have a wife? A real one, anyway.”

“It feels like he's going to kill you." You stare at him. "And if he doesn't, the Choi Syndicate will. I'm not some random woman you can steal away in the middle of the night. Your turn - why me if this is about him or the Virate?"

"I was at your wedding, you know?" He cocks his head. "You made a beautiful bride. The intent was to kill you and turn the Choi Syndicate against him, but once I saw that he cared, I knew that wouldn't work. They would see his honestly. So now you're just bait. My brother owes me a conversation."

The revelation hits you like a physical blow. Your breath catches sharply in your throat. Brother. You look into Yuan's eyes and don't know how you missed it - Luli looks right back at you, the cool grey, the calm eye of the storm.

Yuan watches your reaction with dark satisfaction, leaning back slowly. “Yes. Luli’s firstborn. The one she tried to hide. I found out about him by accident, you know? There he was, golden second son, raised by our mother and Jian in relative comfort, given a public name and legit empire to inherit while being a Shade for the Virate. All while I rotted in foster homes and training cells, learning how to kill before I could read properly. It wasn’t fair. He got life, the light, the illusion of choice. I got the shadows and the scars."

The Devil upright. A man in chains, who cannot escape what he is bound to. The tarot cards make sense, suddenly. You're looking at the devil, a man who cannot or will not escape the fate he thinks he's tethered to. You think of the Nine of Wands upright - a wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant - and realize it's Minghao. Someone stuck between two worlds.

"I don't care where you're from or who you're related to," you spit out. "Only a weak man pities himself to this degree."

It hits a nerve. Yuan stands, violence written all over his face, but a device on the table a few feet away chimes and shows a hologram of a map, a red dot pinging as it approaches. Your heart lurches when you realize it's Minghao, throat tightening as the dot speeds through the roads of the Warehouse District.

"Finally," Yuan sighs. "I get to meet my brother."

Thunder rolls in the distance. Your heart hammers in your chest as you watch the entrance door, hearing the hiss of tires and the slamming of a car door. You can barely breath until the heavy metal door is being ripped open, rain pouring in as a dark silhouette slips through. Minghao shuts the door behind him, water streaming off of his black jacket, hair plastered to his forehead and neck. His eyes are unreadable, scanning the room before they fall on you.

Minghao strides forward, ignoring Yuan entirely. Your heart stutters, the violence in his eyes like nothing you've seen.

"Are you okay?" His voice cuts through the rain, low and steady.

You manage a nod, the motion sending fresh spikes of pain through your skull. The ropes bite deeper as you shift, but you hold his gaze. “I’m alive.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering along his cheek. For a heartbeat, the polished heir you met in the boardroom vanishes completely. This is the man who snapped an assassin’s neck on your wedding night. This is the Shade.

"Good. I'll be just a moment, okay?"

You nod and only then does he turn to his brother. Yuan is standing, clearly annoyed. The resemblance is unmistakable now that you know to look for it - the same sharp-soft balance in their features, the same predatory grace. But where Minghao carries a coiled stillness, Yuan vibrates with resentment, grey eyes burning with untapped rage.

“Brother,” Yuan greets. “Took you long enough.”

Minghao doesn’t waste words on pleasantries. “You’re no family of mine. We cull men weak enough to be driven by petty jealousies.” Minghao gestures to him. “Knives only. Old way. No guns. No tricks. You and me."

Yuan’s smile widens, splitting the dried blood on his lip. “You still cling to the old customs? You're a little princeling here - you aren't Virate.”

“I honor what I am,” Minghao replies. He shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall to the wet floor. Beneath it, the compression shirt clings to his frame, revealing the holster straps and the faint outline of the small spell jar you gave him, still tucked against his chest. The red bracelet on his wrist stands out like a slash of blood against pale skin. “Do you?”

Yuan laughs, low and bitter and strips down to a similar compression shirt as Minghao. Two blades appear in his hands, thin, wickedly curved karambits that catch the light. “I was forged in the same dark you were. Let’s see which of us the Triptych favored more.”

Minghao draws his own knives. No flourish. Just efficient, practiced motion. One in each hand, shorter than Yuan’s but perfectly balanced. He rolls his shoulders once, eyes never leaving his brother’s face as the rain hammers the roof in relentless sheets and water drips from cracks overhead, plinking into puddles that spread across the concrete like spilled ink.

You test the ropes again, heart hammering against your ribs. The black tourmaline bracelet feels warm against your skin, a small circle of your own intention. You close your eyes, sucking in a short breath as you center yourself and focus on the single intention you have: Minghao living.

The fight begins without warning and you flinch. Yuan lunges first, a blur of motion across the wet floor, his karambit slashing in a wide arc meant to open Minghao’s throat. Minghao twists inside the reach, blades flashing up to parry. Metal screams against metal and sparks fly, tiny and bright in the dimness. They separate, circling each other like lions.

Yuan attacks again, faster this time, feinting low before slicing high. Minghao ducks, but not quite fast enough as the blade catches his shoulder, opening a shallow line of red. Blood wells immediately, mixing with rainwater. Minghao doesn’t flinch. He counters with a vicious upward thrust that forces Yuan to leap back, boots splashing.

Each collision is brutal, knives cutting air. Feet slide on the slick concrete, searching for purchase. Yuan is slightly taller, leveraging reach, but Minghao is faster and more economical with his movements, his efficiency brutal as he slashes Yuan across the rib, tearing fabric and flesh.

Minghao presses the advantage, driving Yuan backward with a series of rapid strikes. Their blades lock, faces inches apart, and for a moment, they strain against each other, muscles corded, breath visible in the damp air. Yuan’s grey eyes gleam with something like joy.

"I knew you liked the girl," Yuan goads. "This isn't business for you. This is emotional."

Minghao headbutts him hard and Yuan's face explodes in blood again, the damage you'd done earlier doubling. He stumps and Minghao follows, his knives dancing in a pattern too fast for you to track as he cuts open Yuan's shoulder, his forearm, his thigh. Minghao moves like pain is irrelevant, cutting Yuan until the man is screaming and kicking at Minghao for distance.

Yuan feints left, then spins, driving a blade toward Minghao’s kidney. You suck in a sharp breath but Minghao pivots and catches Yuan's wrist, twisting violently with a sickening pop. Yuan roars, dropping one karambit while swinging wildly with the other. Minghao takes a cut across the chest for it, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he yanks Yuan forward and drives his own knife upward where it sinks into Yuan's side, just under his ribs.

Yuan gasps, eyes widening. He tries to pull away, but Minghao holds him close, almost intimate. Their faces are inches apart, rain dripping from Minghao's hair onto Yuan's cheek.

"Blood for blood," he says, voice hard. He says something to Yuan in that same language you don't understand before he twists the knife.

Yuan’s mouth opens in a silent scream while his free hand claws at Minghao’s shoulder, leaving bloody streaks. His grey eyes lock onto Minghao’s for one long, terrible second. Then the light in them gutters out. Minghao yanks the blade free and Yuan collapses to the wet concrete with a heavy splash. Blood spreads beneath him, dark and final, mixing with rainwater and oil. The body twitches once, twice, then stills.

Minghao stands over his brother for a long moment, chest heaving, blood running down his arms and torso. Then he turns to you. The shift in him is immediate and devastating as the killer melts away into something soft. He crosses the distance in three strides, dropping to his knees in the puddle before your chair

His hands are trembling as he unties the ropes at your wrist, careful as he cuts through them with the knife slicked in his brother's blood. His dark eyes search your face frantically, cataloguing every bruise, the swelling at your temple, the way you’re favoring your head.

"Are you hurt?" He murmurs. "Tell me where. Please."

Please. You don't think you've ever heard him say that. Not to you. The way he says it is devastatingly soft, his sharp eyes round as he looks up at you, hands hovering like he doesn't know what to do.

“I’m okay," you whisper.

Minghao cuts away at the ropes around your ankle before tossing the knife and pulling you forward, careful not to press against any injuries. His embrace is fierce and gentle at once, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other spanning your back. You can feel his heart hammering against yours, fast and terrified in a way his face never shows.

It's the first time he's touched you - honestly touched you - since your brief kiss at the altar and the night you were almost killed. His touch is grounding and warm, the smell of him comforting but laced with the metallic tang of blood. You pull away, your hands hovering as you look at all the places he's bleeding.

“You’re bleeding-"

“It doesn’t matter.” He pulls you back in, his voice muffled by your hair. "You are nosey and you are stubborn and you are fascinating. Thank you for calling me."

"Minghao, you need stitches."

“Later.” He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed. Rain drips from his lashes. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters right now.”

The spell jar is still pressed between you, warm against his chest. You can feel its faint outline. The red bracelet on his wrist brushes your skin as he cups your face again. Something inside your chest cracks open, relief, fear, the strange blooming warmth you’ve been trying to ignore for months.

“I knew you’d come,” you whisper.

“I will always come for you.” The words are quiet, almost reverent. He kisses your forehead, then your temple, avoiding the bruise, then the corner of your mouth. Not possessive. Just desperate reassurance. “I’m sorry you had to face him alone."

“I headbutted him. Broke his nose.”

A soft, startled laugh escapes him. “Of course you did.” His thumb traces your jaw. “My wicked, impossible wife.”

He helps you stand, supporting most of your weight when your legs threaten to buckle. The warehouse spins for a moment, but his arm around your waist anchors you. He keeps you turned away from Yuan’s body, shielding you with his own as he guides you toward the broken door.

Outside, the rain is still falling in torrents. Minghao’s car idles just beyond the entrance, lights off, engine humming low. He helps you into the passenger seat with painstaking care, buckling you in, checking the angle of your head, murmuring soft instructions to breathe slowly. Then he rounds the car and slides behind the wheel.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Rain lashes the windshield. Minghao’s hands grip the wheel, knuckles white. Blood still trickles from the cut on his chest, but he ignores it, eyes fixed on you.

“I killed my brother tonight,” he says eventually, voice hollow. “For you. I need you to know I would do it again. I understand I have not been forthcoming or warm, but I care for you.”

You reach across the console and take his hand. His fingers curl around yours immediately, tight enough to hurt. The red bracelet shifts between you.

“I know,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, eyes closing again. When they open, the intensity is back, but softer now. Protective. Possessive in a way that feels like safety rather than the chains you'd felt that first meeting in the boardroom.

“Let’s go home,” he says. 

You nod, exhaustion crashing over you like the rain outside.

-

Doctor Tzintzun finally steps back, wiping her hands on a sterile cloth. The Observatory penthouse is quiet except for the low hum of the air filtration system and the distant patter of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Fog presses close outside, turning Hyperion into a muted glow far below

The doctor packs her kit with efficient movements, glancing between you and Minghao. “The stitches on your arm will hold, but keep them dry. Concussion protocol is in place - rest, dim lights, no screens. As for you, Mr. Xu, those cuts were deep. Change the dressings in six hours. Pain management is on the bedside table. Call if anything worsens.”

Minghao nods once, voice low. “Thank you. Elara will see you out.”

The door seals behind them with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the low-lit living room. Your body aches in new and old places, your temple tender from the concussion. But you’re alive. He’s alive.

Minghao sits on the wide, low couch beside you, closer than he’s ever been in this space. The black silk robe he wears hangs open at the chest, revealing the edge of white bandages and the hard planes of muscle beneath. His hair is damp, falling across his forehead in dark strands. The red bracelet you made him still circles his right wrist, the azabache charm catching the soft amber light from the single lamp. He hasn’t taken it off.

You shift slightly, the oversized shirt you wear - his, you realize - riding up your thighs. The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid. The fight. The blood. The truth of what he is. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the faint scar on his knuckle, the way his chest rises and falls with careful, controlled breaths.

He turns toward you, dark eyes intense in the dimness. For once, there’s no polished mask, no deflection. Just raw, unguarded focus on your face.

“I don’t know why you get under my skin,” he says quietly. "I was trained not to let anyone close. Attachments were liabilities. You were supposed to be a transaction - a bridge that was useful and controllable."

He reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with surprising gentleness. The touch lingers, callused fingertips tracing your jaw. “But you fight back when you should crumble. You read the universe in cards and smoke and believe in it so stubbornly it makes me question everything I was forged to be. You called me when you were terrified and trusted me to come.”

His thumb strokes your lower lip, eyes dropping to watch the motion. The air between you crackles, charged like the moments before lightning. Your pulse quickens, heat blooming low in your belly despite the exhaustion and pain. You can smell him, clean skin, faint pine.

“I don’t understand it,” he murmurs, leaning closer. "You affect me. You make me want things I was never meant to have.”

"So have them," you murmur.

He laughs and kisses you. It’s not the chaste brush from your wedding. This is real and hungry, months of restrained tension exploding between you. His mouth claims yours, tongue sweeping in to taste you deeply. You moan softly into him, hands fisting in the front of his robe, pulling him closer. He tastes like mint and rain and something darker, needier. His hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, the other sliding down your side to grip your hip.

The world narrows to the wet slide of tongues, the soft sounds of breath and need, the heat of his body pressing you back against the couch cushions. Your bandages pull slightly but the pain is distant, drowned in sensation. His scent envelops you. The low groan vibrating from his chest makes your pussy clench.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse point. “Tell me to stop,” he rasps against your skin, voice wrecked. “If this is too much after I lied-"

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper, threading fingers through his damp hair and tugging him back up for another searing kiss.

Minghao makes a low sound and shifts you both, pulling you into his lap so you straddle him. The robe falls open completely, revealing his bandaged torso and the hard length of him pressing against you through thin fabric. Your shirt rides up, bare thighs against his hips. He’s already hard, thick and hot, and the realization sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you.

He kisses you like a man starving, hands roaming under your shirt to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble tight and you let out a shaky sound, overwhelmed.

“So fucking perfect,” he growls, breaking the kiss to yank the shirt over your head.

Cool air kisses your skin, then his hot mouth is on you, sucking one nipple deep while his fingers pinch and roll the other. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth, the suction - all of it pulls desperate whimpers from your throat. You arch into him, grinding down against his cock, feeling the thick ridge slide against your dampening folds through your panties.

“Minghao-" His name breaks off on a moan.

He switches sides, lavishing the other breast with the same filthy attention, sucking hard enough to leave imprints of his teeth on your skin. One hand slides down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers finding you soaked.

“This wet for me already?” he murmurs. “My wicked wife.”

Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling deep. You cry out, hips rocking instinctively as he starts to pump them slowly at first, then faster, thumb finding your clit and circling with devastating pressure. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers working in and out of your pussy fill the room, mixing with your gasps and his low groans. He kisses you again, swallowing your moans as he finger-fucks you harder, scissoring and curling until you’re trembling on the edge.

“Come for me, baby,” he demands against your mouth. “Let me feel it.”

The orgasm crashes over you, sharp and sudden, and you clamp down hard around his fingers, thighs shaking as it rips through you. He doesn’t stop, working you through it with deep, steady strokes until you’re whimpering his name.

He pulls his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with a groan. “Taste so good. Need more.”

Before you can catch your breath, he lifts you effortlessly, ignoring the way you yelp, hands hovering near his injuries. He lays you back against the wide couch and kneels between your spread thighs, peeling your soaked panties down your legs and tossing them aside. The cool air hits your exposed, dripping pussy, making you shiver. Minghao stares like a man possessed, eyes dark, lips parted.

He spreads your thighs wider, hooking your legs over his shoulders, and buries his face between them. The first long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit draws a broken cry from you, his tongue parting you like velvet.

“Fuck, you’re dripping for me,” he mutters, voice muffled.

He sucks your clit between his lips, tongue flicking rapidly while two fingers plunge back inside you, fucking you in time with his mouth. It makes you suck in a sharp gasp, lost to the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers. You fist his hair, hips grinding against his face as another orgasm builds fast and brutal. He curls his fingers against that perfect spot inside you, sucking hard on your clit, and you shatter again with a sharp scream, thighs clamping around his head as you come again.

He laps you through it, gentler now, until you’re twitching and oversensitive. Only then does he rise, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. His cock strains against his pants, a wet spot forming at the front that makes you eager. You reach for him, tugging the fabric down, freeing his thick, heavy length to reveal a flushed dark head slick with precum. You wrap your hand around him, stroking once, and he hisses, hips jerking.

“Need to be inside you,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Now.”

He sits back on the couch, pulling you into his lap again so you can straddle him with your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. His cock slides hot and bare against your soaked folds as you grind down, coating him in your arousal.

“Fuck me,” you whisper lips dragging against his. "Like you mean it. Like I'm yours. Like you should have on our wedding night"

Minghao grips your hips, eyes locked on yours, and pulls you down onto him in one smooth, relentless thrust that has you gasping into his mouth, your hands cradling his face.

The stretch is exquisite, burning pleasure as he fills you completely, bottoming out with a shared groan. You’re so wet he slides in easily, but the fullness makes your breath hitch. You can feel every ridge, every throb of his cock buried deep enough to make you shiver.

"Fuck," he hisses. His hands knead your ass, guiding you to rock on him. “So fucking hot and wet around me.”

You start moving, riding him slow at first, savoring the drag of his thick cock against your walls. He floods your senses - his scent, the taste of him still on your lips from earlier kisses, the sight of his bandaged, muscled torso flexing beneath you, the feel of his hands guiding you harder, faster.

He surges up, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss as he thrusts up to meet you. The angle hits deep, grinding against that spot inside of you that has you twitching. Sweat slicks your bodies where they press together, his heart pounding against yours.

“Ride me harder,” he growls, one hand pressing your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock inside you. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”

You do, grinding down with fluid rolls of your hips until the pressure builds again. He sucks harshly against your neck then lower, biting and licking his way toward your chest. The feeling of his teeth scraping against you sends you over, coming around him as you hide your face in his neck, crying his name.

Minghao curses, flipping you onto your side gently with your back to his chest. He's careful as he lifts one of your thighs and hooks it over his, and he slowly thrusts back into you from behind in a single, fluid stroke. His arm wraps around you, hand cupping your breast, pinching the nipple as he fucks you with long, drawn out thrusts that have you panting.

"My pretty wife," he pants against the shell of your ear, nipping lightly. "Fate brought you to me. I know it. I never believed before until you."

You moan helplessly, pushing back to meet every thrust. Another orgasm crashes over you, vision whitening as your walls flutter and squeeze him. Minghao groans deeply, pace faltering until he buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking as he spills inside you.

You stay locked together, panting, bodies slick with sweat. His cock softens slowly inside you but he doesn’t pull out, holding you close. His hand strokes lazily over your stomach, down to where you’re still joined, feeling the mess of your combined release leaking out.

After long minutes, he presses soft kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your jaw. Turning your head, he kisses you properly again.

“I never intended this,” he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss. “I was supposed to use this marriage, keep my distance, and fulfill the Virate’s purpose. But you deserve better. You deserve a real husband. Protection, honesty, partnership. I promise you that - until death, like I said. No more shadows between us."

"I would like that," you whisper, looking up into his eyes - open and honest for the first time. "Thank you."

Rain taps against the window as you lay there, tired and safe in his arms. For once, you don't worry about anything - there is nothing to worry about. The Tower has already fallen. The illusions are gone. All that remains is what you choose to build from the wreckage.

- The wedding you always imagined is better than your first one. Late afternoon light filters through the canopy of trees in soft, dappled gold, catching on the mist that clings to ferns and low-hanging moss. The air carries the scent of damp earth, pine resin, crushed herbs, and night-blooming jasmine. For once, the rain has paused, like the earth is letting you have this brief moment among the trees.

This is nothing like the extravagent wedding suspended three hundred floors above the city. No cameras. No political theater. Just earth. Just intention. Just truth.

You're barefoot on a small clearing of soft moss and fallen petals, wearing a simple slip of midnight silk that brushes your ankles. Minghao stands across from you, barefoot and dressed in loose black linen that makes him look less like a Shade and something softer. More solid. Something yours.

A length of hand-dyed red silk binds your hands together, soaked through with oils, saturated with the smell of rose and mugwart and something bitter. Baby stands a respectful distance away beside Seungcheol, her haunted expression gentler today, almost peaceful. Jeonghan leans against a tree with his usual lazy smirk while Kero grins, all teeth.

“This is the one that matters,” Minghao murmurs. "Until death."

You smile. "Until death, Xu Minghao."

[caratchronicles]

And the plot thickenssss, I’m so excited to see where the syndicate series goes from here. Very nicely written once again Hali, I love it!!!

[choco-scoups]

Love, Intertwined | l.ch (Part II)

Summary : When a series of unfortunate circumstances leaves the stranger you fell in love with, holding a bad impression of you, you decide that maybe love wasn't in your cards yet and try to move on. But what happens when your path keeps intertwining, taunting you to cross the line? Will you dare again? Or will you not?

Pairing : Lee Chan x Fem! Reader

AU : Business Proposal AU

Word count : 17, 100 (part two)

Genre : Romcom, Fluff, Slow Burn, Angst, Smut

Warnings : Emotional breakdowns, Stalker (not chan), Reader works through her trauma later, they both are idiots in love, slow burn, reader has severe daddy issues.

Smut Warnings : Breast play, Nipple play, Praise kink, Choking, Doggy style, p in v penetration, cunnilingus, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it, people) I'm probably forgetting something. It's my first time writing smut, so i hope you'll treat me kind.

Author's Note : This fic has been written as part of blockbusters collab hosted by the amazing @nerdycheol, @jakedustry and @belovedgyu. Go and check out works of the other wonderful writers!! And absolutely grateful to meet wonderful humans and writers, @livmarauder, @hopecutie, @caratchronicles, @cherrymayz, @chogiwaw, @paradiseonthemoon, @onionhassayyo, @cxffecoupx, @pomegranate-teardrop, @mellowamour, @gentleisa, @luvrung through this collab. It was the best thing that happened to me and I could not thank everybody enough for supporting me, helping me throughout.

I never actually thought I'd write long fics and my first one being for a collab was such a fun way to start. This has been such a wonderful journey and I am going to miss these characters a lot, Thank you to everyone who has been on this journey with me, I love you loads!!!

Part one | Playlist | Character Mood Boards | Main Masterlist |

Your excitement about moving into your own apartment was about to run out. You're holding onto the last box of clothes you left in your car—the furniture already delivered by a moving company—you did not trust anyone with your clothes. They needed to be treated gently and you were afraid those men would not know how to do that.

You walk towards the elevator in the parking lot, the soft breeze of early morning wind brushing your hair. Any other day you'd have closed your eyes feeling the breeze on your skin but not today, you were sweating through your clothes and anything that was not a bath was not helping. But you are not going to let it get to you, you are gonna get through this and spend the entire day locked in your room taking an hour long bath and catching wonderful sleep or maybe watch a movie with Jieun.

A plan definitely devised with ulterior motives, as you started the moving in process yesterday evening. The furniture started coming in first, you were busy putting everything together when the night has fallen. You fell asleep on the couch for a while before your best friend came over at the crack of dawn to help you unpack.

The elevator dings and you get in laying down the box to catch a breath.

"Wait!" You hear a loud thump and a shoe stopping the doors as they halt.

You look up to see the person and are startled watching Chan panting trying to catch his breath as the doors open up for him.

He was wearing casual clothes, his hair messy and unkept, sweat on his forehead indicating he was either working out or doing a strenous activity. You did not want to know what it was.

Wait, what was he doing here?

As if he finally took in his surroundings, Chan gets into the elevator. But the shock on his face as he sees you is palpable, it crosses his features for a second before changing into a blank expression. Nobody would've known about it.

You do though, unfortunately.

The entire ride neither of you talk, while you were itching to talk something you didn't know if he wanted to.

Soon, the elevator stops at your floor and he gets out first reminding you that he never actually pressed a button to his floor and got down at yours. You follow him your mind racing with possibilities like you are connecting dots at a crime scene and that's when it happens, the sound of electronic lock beeping and you swear you hear your heart beating so loud it feels like it might fall out of your chest.

He lives right next door to you. He is your neighbor.

As if the realization dawned him as you open up your door he looks at you with a look you can't pinpoint to be exact and goes in shutting it behind him loudly.

Okay, rude.

As soon as your door is closed you lean against it falling onto the floor. Your heart doesn't help neither does your body. You were going to move on from him. You were going to go on a date on your own accord and get over him.

It has been 13 days since you last saw him and you were sure that your plan was working. And now, he is here? Living right next door? You did not know if you were supposed to be happy or sad.

"Are you good?" Jieun asks looking at you from the living room, the show she was watching paused on the laptop.

"No?" You were honestly confused. So you do the best thing to get rid of your stuffy chest. You cry it out.

Chan crushes the paper in his hands aiming it towards Seungcheol's head, who was currently sleeping on his couch like a fucking baby.

It has been a few days since he ran into you. And as if that wasn't enough, he heard you cry the sound so loud it broke something in him. He brushed it off thinking it wasn't because of him, that maybe you were just crying because the moving in — he guessed by the box in your hand and the empty apartment beside his which you went into — was stressful, but his hand that almost reached your door bell with worry said otherwise.

And now, watching Seungcheol on his couch, in his apartment, sleeping on his favorite pillow and Chan did not know what else to do other than find a way to get rid of his frustration than finding an escape.

He did not hate you, but he did not know what he felt either. And if he ever tried to confront himself, all he could do was remember that your actions hurt Seungcheol—which sometimes felt like an excuse he was trying to make up if he was being honest. So, he never tried to wonder what exactly he was feeling.

But now you were his neighbor, and if not now when else would he be confronting himself? Because having you so close and yet so far away every single day, Chan was losing his fucking mind around you. He so desperately wanted to talk to you, or was he just feeling guilty for hurting you the last time you saw each other? What exactly was he feeling?

Yeah, he had to figure out his shit.

The paper ball Chan threw, fell far away from his aim and Seungcheol just stirred in his place, no sign of waking up. There was one more option left, that would help him relieve whatever is going on in his mind —something that always helped him clear his mind — so he woke Seungcheol up with an offer the grumpy man could not refuse.

The sound of grunts fill the air, sweat permeating through as Seungcheol did not stop holding back, a wicked gleam on his face as he threw another punch.

Chan huffs out a laugh dodging him, and hits him right across his jaw making him lose his balance for a second before throwing another hit. Seungcheol, who spits out some blood just goes ahead smiling like a maniac—which he was—and takes down Chan with a punch to his ribs.

This was their getaway. Boxing.

Their shared love for a fight to relieve some muscles and clear the mind never reduced over the years. In fact, they were sure the amount of injuries they had along the years somehow made them more stronger.

Mingyu blows a whistle, signaling them to take a break. Chan and Seungcheol just fall on their backs in middle of the ring, groaning because of the pain while also laughing, because it has certainly been a while since they did this.

"You beasts," Mingyu curses throwing water bottles at both of them while taking a seat in the ring.

Kim Mingyu was the doctor they befriended after Chan 'accidentally' broke 2 of Seungcheol's ribs. Their grandfather was furious at them for fighting in general, and since then they found a secret place for their little activity so the old man would not get a whiff of it. He would just get mad again, and they did not want to lose this.

Mingyu figured out stuff quickly, and wanted in on it for reasons unknown and Seungcheol welcomed him immediately because he was always ready to prove to anyone who watched, that he was the best at this.

"So, what's your trouble this time?" He asks looking at Seungcheol who just shrugs.

"I am fine, this kid on the other hand—" He throws an hand over Chan's shoulders pulling him ruffling his hair while the younger tries to get out of his hold, Seungcheol just glares at him making Chan stay and not try to get out.

"I am fine. Just work stress and this old man—" Chan continues to lie while Seungcheol rolls his eyes.

"He's not telling the truth," Seungcheol cuts him off looking at Mingyu.

"I can see that." Mingyu answers, his gaze unwavering on Chan.

Silence passes for a few minutes and Chan sighs telling them everything on his mind. He thought he would just figure this out by himself, but seems like he was going to get help.

Nobody says a damn thing as Chan continues speaking, while Seungcheol sometimes just scoffs or laughs he doesn't say anything much either.

"—And I started to give up on the idea of pursuing her because it felt wrong to go after a woman who hurt you." He looks at Seungcheol, who just raises a brow at him.

"That's just bullshit," Seungcheol scoffs, catching him off guard.

"If you wanted to pursue a girl, go for it. If I have any issues, fight me about it. Fight for her. You are just making up excuses because the last time you opened up your heart it got crushed." Seungcheol just outright scolds him, looking at him like he had the audacity to get a batshit crazy excuse.

"Yes, she did hurt me. But it is was just a lie to get out of that damn sham of blind date, I was just mad I never had the Idea of sending someone instead of me to the dates," Seungcheol continues.

"Wait, then why are you still 'dating' her friend?" Chan was confused. Seungcheol was the last one who would say things like fighting for love, brushing of someone who betrayed him and everything. What was he on?

"That's our business to take care of,"

"I never thought I'd say this but Seungcheol is right. He just could've phrased that a lot better," Mingyu looks at Seungcheol who gets defensive immediately and picks a fight with the doctor. Their fight looked like two ducks blabbering to each other, while the sight made Chan laugh their statements did not leave his mind.

Seungcheol was all about tough love, while what he said was harsh and confusing, Chan felt like that was what he needed to hear. And considering that Seungcheol didn't really have any qualms about the person Chan had a crush on—it being you, but was just mad about how his methods to approach it cleared a lot of stuff on his mind.

It has been 2 weeks since he saw you, while it seemed for the best of everyone's sanity. Chan did not know any kind of rest since then. He was worried he lost you, while that was what he was trying to do, he still felt like an asshole to miss your presence and hoped he would run into you at some point because you were living in the same place as him.

And that day seeing you move in made his heart feel lighter than it did in weeks, because you were here. Right beside him. He would be a fool to not go after you — even after Seungcheol wanted him to go— after almost losing sleep every night wondering if pushing you away was right or wrong.

Work took away lot of your sanity leaving you nothing but a shell of a person. No one in your team survived the new product line launch. After what seemed like a whole lifetime, the crucial period was over and it has been almost 2 months since your last team dinner. Despite the work being a bit easier than before in the recent few weeks, nobody was into the idea of a dinner so soon.

But you still suggested the idea and this time everyone agreed that they really need a break. The smiles and carefree attitude from everyone after a long while filled your heart to the brim, even though you would never admit it to them—because Yunjin will hold that moment of cheesiness over your head till you were six feet deep in ground—they were people you really cared about a lot. Having a boss who was around their age was something new, but they respected you and gave you the benefit of doubt when you became the head despite whatever people had to say about it. Those days in the beginning when you started, they even defended you to people. It always motivated you to work harder to prove that their trust in you was never going to fail them.

"How are you going to get home, Boss?" Seungkwan asks, the only sober one tonight. Apparently, he needed to get home sober because his girlfriend was done with his drunk antics, which intrigued everyone but he didn't spill the beans when asked why. So you became his black knight downing the drinks in games he lost. Safe to say, you shouldn't have done that.

"I live a block away, I will just walk." Seungkwan looks conflicted but lets you go on the premise of you texting him immediately after you reach. You wave to everyone and leave while he takes care of getting them into cabs.

Your place—where you were starting to realize you needed to start being smart about your money, where you were often staying awake at nights with Jieun working together and falling asleep in the living room, where you daily run into the one person you did not want to—was near to your work and the regular restaurant your team frequented.

Including that damn convenience store that you keep trying to forget.

That day after your burst of emotions against your door you realized that everything in your life was weighing on you. Especially Lee Chan.

While your friend convinced you that he is a good person, which she knew because of her "dates" with Seungcheol, you did not want to feel like a goddamn child again. Waiting for love that closed doors on you long ago while you were just a fool to not see it.

Despite seeing him almost daily while going to work, you never spared more than a glance or never talked to him either.

You're plan to move on still going on solid.

How were you going to do that? No idea. But, since work finally let you take a breath without making you feel like you were going to die, you were going to get on those damn dating apps or maybe hop bars? How does someone even find a person to date? You were a bit rusted in the area since it has been a while since you went on a date, willingly. You were going to get your friend's help and figure out a way.

You sigh walking into your gated community, the walk tiring you out because of your drunken state. The giggles of kids who were playing in the park welcomes you, a sense of relief that your decision to move out wasn't a bad one fills you whenever you hear those giggles.

Your block comes into view, you were skipping on your feet now. Glad to finally be home after an exhausting day, ready to hit the bed and not wake up till Monday.

But when did anything ever go your way?

Just when you reach the elevator, your ankle twists. Your reflexes save you as you end up catching onto something for control, but then you hear a loud rip of fabric and gasp looking at what you did. You ripped someone's tote bag, their files falling onto the floor.

"I'm so sorry." You repetitively chant the apology, scooping up everything you can.

"Its okay. I was about to catch you, glad you didn't fall." You hand them their files and finally get a proper look. It was a man who was smiling at you, while he looked your age he had some kind of air surrounding him that you couldn't pinpoint.

"I'm Kyumin," You exchange greetings and promise to pay him back for his bag, to which completely refuses.

"That's completely fine it wasn't intentional. Just let's greet each other when our paths cross. I am new here and I don't really know anybody yet." He whispers the last part making you smile.

"Me neither."

"You sure you can get home safe?"

"I will be fine, thank you for the help. I am so sorry about your bag." He just waves you off and tells you he got some work and leaves.

Feeling a bit dazed you get onto the elevator the encounter making you smile that you finally made an acquaintance. You go trying to press your floor just to see that it's already taken care of and look back to see none other than Chan looking at you with his hands crossed. You jump back with a yelp.

"I'm sorry, I didn't notice you." You tell him, your voice slurring, you were not a lightweight but the alcohol took its sweet time to make you feel like you were one. It found the perfect time to make you dazed, because now you needed to rush to your place before you could vomit.

"I did," He mutters, his eyes just straight up glaring at you.

"Did you say something?" He shrugs when you ask, just looking at his watch as you narrow your eyes at him.

What was his deal?

The elevator halts to a stop, the ground beneath you shaking as you fall to hold onto the ledge.

"Fuck," You hear him curse as he holds you, taking you in to see if you were fine. It reminds you of the day he saved you from a car, he looked just as worried.

"I'm fine," you brush him off finding your footing, he looks at you but doesn't say anything before moving to press on the emergency button. A female voice filters in, she and Chan exchange a few words about getting the elevator to run soon. But you tune them out, not really feeling so good.

The sudden jolt of the elevator and the ankle that almost got twisted had your body shaken and now you are so close to puking your guts out. You really shouldn't have lifted your alcohol ban you had since a few months, but you got your own place and everything felt nice you wanted to celebrate.

You sink on your knees resting your head low as you try breathe slowly.

You are going to be fine. You will be fine.

"Are you okay?" Chan is again beside you, bellowing out a few curses and calling the emergency people to get to opening up the elevator soon.

Why was he so worried about you?

"I feel sick," you mumble out.

"Do you have water with you?" You nod at him. He searches through your bag handing you the bottle, helping you take small sips nothing big.

You feel it then. The warmth.

He had you in his arms, asking you if it was okay as he rubbed your back gently in a soothing manner.

You slowly nod, and look up at him.

His hair was a bit longer than the last time you've properly seen him, his eyes those chocolate swirls had you enchanted just as the day you first saw him. And his brows were furrowed in worry, you brush them out with your fingers before you know it.

"Don't frown much, it'll ruin your pretty face." You tell him and a little smile spreads on his face.

The same smile that knocked wind out of your chest. Fuck, moving on from him is going to be quite hard if he smiled at you like that.

"Don't frown much, it'll ruin your pretty face." You tell him and a little smile spreads on his face.

The same smile that knocked wind out of your chest. Fuck, moving on from him is going to be quite hard if he smiled at you like that.

"Don't frown much, it'll ruin your pretty face." You say, a silly smile on your face as you push away the frown on his face. Chan smells the alcohol from your breathe and realizes your drunk. No wonder you were sick.

The emergency team responded that earliest they can get to work would take about an hour so, so he had to make sure you weren't going to get sick again in meanwhile.

"Your smile looks so pretty," your voice drops an octave, it sounds so sad yet you still have that silly smile on your face. It just doesn't reach your eyes anymore.

"Thank you," Chan replies.

The lavender scent of yours embraces him pulling him in but the hazel eyes of yours were just filled with sadness.

Why were you so sad?

"I'm sorry," you mumble. Before he can ask why, you sit up straight and he moves away giving you space as he watches you shake your head leaning against the wall of the elevator just looking ahead before falling asleep. He doesn't wake you up, just makes sure that you won't fall if you shift.

He lifts you up as the rescue team comes and soon both of you get out of the place, an entire hour he spent playing games on his phone while holding your head so you wouldn't fall.

The jerk of being picked up must've woken you, you look up at him and smile before nuzzling into his neck, his body warming up at the action. He almost loses his grip on you, but holds you tight.

Reaching your door, he lets you down. You tell him to look away and type in the code as he does and drag him in holding his hand.

"Look at my house, is not so pretty?" You look back at him with an expectant face and he nods walking in making sure to not get further than the shoe area.

You go around showing him your furniture, giggling to yourself about some jokes and almost trip but catch yourself before walking into another room.

And when you don't come out for a while, he walks in to make sure you didn't fall or hit yourself only to find you on your bed holding onto a shirt of yours he recognized as the one you wore when he first met you at the convenience store.

"Why is this so hard?" You mumble to yourself as you let your tears fall, he wonders what was making you feel this way and just slowly rubs circles on your palm.

He shouldn't be staying in here for this long. With one look at you he walks out into the kitchen and writes down a note to remind you to take care of yourself when you wake up and gets out of your apartment, the lock clicking in place making him sigh in relief.

It was a sight to watch you sound so excited about furniture, your eyes shining —the sadness he saw before nowhere to be found— that almost resembled the stars and your hands moving around as you spoke.

But seeing you look just as sad and exhausted worried him to say nonetheless.

After talking to his friends the other day, Chan since then tried to make a move, or even strike up a conversation with you. But you were always busy, and actively ignoring him. He didn't think he'd ever get the chance again. He thought that maybe the chance was gone and he went out of his way to not cross paths with you again, not make you uncomfortable anymore by being in the same space as you. It was hard because you were his neighbor, but who was Chan if he was not just a guy trying to make sure the person he liked was comfortable. He found out a way to do that.

But today, it got so late and he could not walk around the entire place before catching another elevator, so he took the one at the parking lot, and then you got in at the upper ground floor smiling to yourself and looking a bit drunk.

He didn't want to disturb you but the situation kept escalating and all he wanted to do was make sure you were okay and safe. That was how he ended up taking care of you. And the fact that you unconsciously felt safe with him to talk or act the way you did made him feel bittersweet.

Because if you were indeed comfortable as you did, why were you ignoring him?

That was a question he had to ask the sober you.

Chan was an hopeless romantic. Finding love in the tiniest things but what he wasn't was someone who believed in miracles, or even coincidences. But maybe it was a miracle that you both found your way to each other again. Maybe it was a second chance that he was being given.

But what if you did not feel the same way? What was he going to do then?

You groan your limbs aching as you stretch on your bed, the silk sheets feeling odd under you.

Silk sheets?

You wake up quickly making your head spin because of the force as you take in the room. It was indeed your room, the pictures hanging on the walls and the stupid band poster says so.

You look down and see that the silk sheet was just a shirt you hugged to sleep.

You get out of your room and find a mess of a living room, everything thrown around cursing yourself to not drink again.

You remember being drunk, you remember almost tearing up someone's bag but after that you had no memory of the night. This was also why you really didn't drink much, you were crazy when the alcohol hit you. It was slower to kick in than it did to others but god, did it have long lasting effects.

You see a paper folded into a triangle in the kitchen and walk up to it. And find a note written for you.

Do not forget to take medications for sobering up.

-Lee Chan : )

What in the ever loving fuck does that mean? Was Chan the one who dropped you at your place? How did that even happen?

You remember absolutely nothing else from last night and it is starting to kill you.

Why did he leave a smiley face? What have you done?

"So, you remember nothing?" Seungkwan asks as he moves around to play. The racket in his hand seemed like it was part of his body with the way he moved it so flawlessly. You were an average player, but a player nonetheless.

Seungkwan wanted to meet you over for coffee, a treat because of you drinking instead of him last night. His girlfriend dropped him off, whom you met and realized she is someone from your company itself and Seungkwan just laughed awkwardly. You didn't pry anymore.

After coffee, Seungkwan suggested that to wake your mind it'd be fun to go play badminton for a while so you wouldn't feel so tired, but it just feels the opposite now.

The sound of the rackets hitting the shuttlecock fills the area, and you try so hard to match up with his pace but you end up losing. Again.

"Yeah, nothing." You tell him as he helps you up from the floor, both of you walking together to take a seat on a bench for a breather. You were talking to Kwan about problems from last night, while he definitely wasn't the best guy around to talk about secrets, he had honest answers which you always welcomed.

"Did you see him again?"

"No, I'll probably run into him soon."

"How do you feel about it? You must have some kind of gut feeling or sixth sense about it, right?" One more reason why you were talking to Seungkwan of all people. He had many women in his life making him experienced in giving advice in some things you couldn't possibly ask someone who was not a woman. But because you didn't really have many friends or acquaintances, except for Tzuyu, Yunjin who were busy today. And Jieun, who was out of town on a "date" with her boss.

At this point you wonder if she did fall in love with him with the way she never stops mentioning his name.

"There was nothing alarming about the incident, I feel warm at the mention of it? I'm guessing it's a good sign?" Kwan gets into thinking as you continue, and soon he asks you a question throwing you off into deeper thinking.

"Do you still like him?"

"I'm trying to move o—"

"Do you still like him?"

"I feel dumb remembering the incidents—"

"Do. You. Still. Like. Him? It's a yes or no question, boss."

You didn't admit this to yourself either, admitting it felt like you were going to manifest it into reality. A reality where he was just kind to you, but also where he saw you as someone who lied, you had your own reasons for doing so and you did not regret that. But that didn't matter anymore, because you were going to run into him daily even if you try to avoid him and you are going to get tensed and feel sad trying to move on. Because—

"I do, I like him so much it physically hurts not to talk to him."

"Well, there's your answer and from everything that you told me—." He holds your shoulders making you look at him, "—It seems like you have to stop running away, even if running away seems like the best thing to do at present, it wouldn't give you any kind of peace later."

You just stare at him, his words sinking into you. He was honest about it, telling you something you didn't dare look in the face as if it was a demon you were scared to look at. But even if it scared you, you realize you had to do something about your feelings towards Chan.

Most importantly start talking to him, make it a normal thing so your heart would stop jumping at the mention of him.

Chan was exhausted to say the least. He could not feel his legs even though his body moved on auto-pilot. He had packages to take upstairs and mail to grab but he didn't know if he'd make it to his apartment without collapsing.

Seungcheol started acting weird since morning, while it was just the usual, the air around him felt so otherwise. It just did not feel right, whatever he was doing. And worst of all, he 'fired' his girlfriend for reasons he wouldn't tell Chan about and the younger was just glad the fake relationship was just finally over because the acting whenever he saw their grandfather was getting on his nerves. The blow out of it hanging at the back of his head and nightmares of him going to Switzerland for Seungcheol's blind date, if their grandfather finds it was fake all along haunted him.

A laugh cuts his thoughts as he reaches his floor, and sees you standing outside your apartment looking at a guy and laughing.

Who the fuck was this guy?

"Thank you," You stop when you find Chan looking at you, and the stranger in front of you looks over too.

"I should get going," He bows leaving. Chan makes a note to figure out who this guy was and looks back at you.

To say you were beaming would be less of a statement, and seeing you finally smile at him after what seemed like a lifetime Chan feels his heart race. He wondered if you knew the power you had over him, he wondered if you knew that your smile could wipe out darkness so vast it would be light all over.

"How are you?" You look surprised as if you really asked that, a habit he realized you had when you were nervous —You would blurt out things and get shock, your eyes widening. He just nods at you, thanking the heavens that whatever bought you back to the way you were before you began avoiding him, and that you were speaking with him, in sober state of mind.

"How is your hangover? Did you rest well?" You nod the smile never going away. And he sees it then, the dimple he had the blessing of seeing the other day when you were drunk, it shows again.

He was going to die at this state. He had to calm down.

"I apologize for inconveniencing you the other day, I usually never drink and that day it was just one accident after another—"

"Accident? Were you hurt anywhere?" Chan didn't mean to, but his voice came out strained at the thought of you getting hurt.

"Oh, no. No, not that way. Accident in the sense where I seemed to have just slipped once."

"Were. You. Hurt?"

Your cheeks go red the blush spreading across your face, despite being concerned over you he could not stop smiling as he sees the affect he has over you. Is this really happening?

He takes a step back from when he came into your space few seconds ago, and clears his throat.

"I am fine, thanks for being concerned." You tell him and you do something that Chan never in his lifetime would've thought would get to see. You wink at him shocking yourself doing so, and you just wave your hand before excusing yourself and getting inside your place.

Chan could not move an inch from where he stood at your door, his heart thundering against his chest as he felt his own body get hot.

It seems you were also attracted to him, just the way he did.

Despite having your own place to go now, Jieun's parents wanted you to come over and stay for a day because they missed you. While your own father did not even bother to call, not that you expected anything from him anyway.

As you drive back home, after many attempts by Jieun's mother to make you stay for one more day, you feel your heart full looking over to see bags of side dishes she prepared for you and the amount of concern she had when she got to know you were losing weight because of stress from work. You tried so hard not to cry, and hugged her tight making a promise to take good care of yourself and she kissed your cheek.

A mother's love was always wonderful, despite it being taken away from you quite early in your life, you were glad to have found two people who cared for you like one. You make a note to check on Mrs. Chae and call her frequently during weekdays to make sure your father would not find out about it.

Locking your car you grab onto the bags from Jieun's mom, which were quite heavy now that you hold them, and walk towards the elevator slowly and put them down waiting for it to show up when you feel a tap on your shoulder.

"Good Morning," Kyumin, the guy whose tote bag you tore accidentally the other day was smiling at you widely. You would've returned it, hell you would've even given him a box of a side dish from your bag but since the other day when he somehow found the exact flat you lived in made you a little wary of him.

Maybe he just saw your name on the mail that got mixed up in his and found your flat or he stalked you, was a question you had no answers to. You could not go around accusing someone of something. But the smile he gave when he greeted you, never seemed to have reached his eyes, just like at this moment, where they looked odd.

"Hello," you reply curtly and watch his smile fall.

"Do you need help carrying these bags?" Before you could say anything he already had a bag in his hand and when you tried to protest he almost took the other one before his hand was swatted away. You wish you did that.

The bags are taken away from him and you look up to see a very mad Lee Chan who is just outright glaring at Kyumin, his jaw clenched. His face was neutral but his eyes held something akin to rage and that somehow soothed you.

Maybe because you were just as angry but were holding yourself back from making a scene.

"I got them," He replies to the man behind you, who you watch nod and walk away without a complaint. You turn to your neighbor who now looked at you with an intensity that made you warm and smiled.

"You good?" You were a puddle was what you were.

"Do you know him?" He asks you.

"Not really," Chan hums as he looks over to where Kyumin ran off once again.

"Thanks for saving me, again.—" The elevator dings and both of you enter, "—at this point I should just call you my knight in shinning armor with the amount of times you swooped in and rescued me," you joked.

You saw from your front door camera the other day when Chan came to see you after your drunken shenanigans and you closed the door with an involuntary wink at him—he blushed so much he resembled a tomato and smiled walking away unbuttoning his jacket.

Since the beginning, you had a hunch or maybe a gut feeling that the attraction you felt towards him was mutual. Maybe that was why moving on seemed so hard. And now, since the universe intertwined your fates as neighbors, and he smiled at you every time he saw you making you nothing but a puddle or warm you realized you were not going to lose this chance.

So, shooting your shot it was. Even if it meant finding the cheesiest line you could throw at him just to make him laugh at the silliness of it. You were actually a natural flirt when you weren't being melted like ice because of someone's gaze on you.

His lips twitch before he shakes his head, "Knight in shining armor," he mutters to himself before looking at you with a smirk.

You reach your floor and get out first and he quietly follows you not saying a word as he watches you fumble with the password twice and enter your place. You welcome him in, ignoring the mess as if he hadn't seen it before in a state far worse and guide him to leave the bags in your kitchen counter.

"Thank you for carrying these," you hold out two boxes of side dishes as a sign of gratitude but he lays them on the counter behind you before caging you between his arms.

"If I am your knight in shining armor,—" he leans in being so close yet so far away as he speaks in whispers, "— does that make you my princess?"

"I believe so,"

And for what feels like hours he just stays there right in front of you, his eyes taking you in and you do the same. His darkened eyes and the little freckles on his face that you almost wouldn't have seen unless you were this close to him. And his lips? They look so plump that makes you want to bite them, and you really might.

"You should do it then sometime," He says and you realize you said the last part out loud.

God, you wish the earth would just swallow you now.

But his eyes never leave your lips as he says before coming back to your eyes.

"Will do," you answer trying so hard to hold your ground and not blush. And with a smile that tickles you everywhere making you smile too, he leaves. Already out the door but not before he says something that has you falling on to your floor holding your chest so tightly.

"See you soon, Princess."

Oh, he was playing back the tricks. He was flirting back.

Sweet heavens, you are going to fall hard and heavy with this man. Because not only does he have a personality and the smile you admire and adore, he knew how to flirt just the way you liked it, like he was made for you.

Seeing that man in front of your place and making you laugh so heartily ticked Chan off that he almost kissed you right infront of him. It was bullshit and he knew, but he somehow did know you were not going to push him away. If he understood anything since the last few days of spending maybe a few minutes with you, those accidental brushing off hands, those shy glances and most importantly the way your breath hitched when he came close to you, he knew you liked him back.

But after that day Chan had no way to talk to you as he was stuck at work since two days reaching home at odd timings because of some mood swings Seungcheol was going through. The intense wave of emotions from his boss was something he had never seen.

Angry, rule following and maybe a tad bit obssessed with himself was his usual but not where he was so emotional coming towards making his research team work their ass off on making a dish he was not taking a likening towards.

Especially an researcher named Kang Jieun.

Chan did not know the beef between them but he hoped that his brother stoped being an asshole towards her because she made the dish right on her 1st try.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because they need to know the consequences of lying to someone," Seungcheol said looking out the window. The sun set a few minutes ago and it looks like he was going to make her stay for a while. Again, something he never saw Seungcheol do. Even talking in riddles like he was doing now.

He was on edge since his breakup with his "girlfriend" but his attitude was just not it.

"St—"

"Go home, Chan."

"Bu—"

"Go. Home."

"Alright, lay off of her though."

"You brat," Chan was out of his cabin before Seungcheol threw the ball on his desk at him not before he ran into the one and only Kang Jieun who looked so exhausted bringing over another set of dish for taste testing.

"Good luck," She freezes hearing Chan and says nothing before rushing inside.

"What is with this people today?" He mutters to himself before shaking his head to let it go just go home.

It was a bit late than usual when he usually runs into you after work, so Chan rushes as soon as he can after getting to his car only to find you in front of the apartment block wearing a coat larger than your size clutching it tight to yourself.

He leaves his car to a side running towards you, to see you literally shaking despite the sweat on your forehead.

"Hey, Is everything alright?"

You choke out something but shake your head, your eyes were filled with tears and you were biting your cheeks.

"Someone tried to open my door, I.. I chalked it up to them finding wrong apartment—" A tear slips from your eyes, he wipes it away, "—But they tried to do it again and again," he watches your throat tighten and you take a gulp of water he hands over to you making you sit on a bench nearby before you can continue.

"Did you see who it was?" Chan was holding himself back from running out to find who it was and smash them against a wall for scaring you this much.

"Kyumin, the guy who tried to take my bags the other day," He saw your eyes now burn with the kind of anger that reflected his own. You looked hurt, sad and also so angry you were crushing the bottle in your grip. It must be your fight or flight response, rushing you through both.

"Do you know where he is?" Despite knowing you were just as angry and mad to take down that man, Chan softened his tone towards you, to make you feel safe and comfortable talking to him.

You shake your head at him, telling him that when you saw that it was Kyumin from your front door camera and tried to open the door holding onto your baseball bat, that bastard ran away. And you came down to the play area immediately because you did not feel safe staying there anymore.

"I know a way to find him,—" Chan stands up holding out his hand towards you, "— Do you want to do this?"

You look at him, the simmering rage in your eyes reminding him of the moment when he thought that if you committed a murder he would've gotten behind it.

He still would make sure you get away with it if it meant you were going to not shiver and not be scared again because of that bastard.

You were sitting in the police station giving the detective a statement of the incident that happened two hours ago.

Your hands were still shivering and you could not talk properly because of the tears lodged at the back of your throat. The fear does not seem to leave you and you were scared. You did not know what was going through your mind when you ran downstairs taking steps instead of elevator and stood near the guards, the sounds of children giggling and playing around gave you a bit of calm but you could not stop crying at all.

And then Chan found you. He held you as you were breaking. Just as he promised, Chan found Kyumin from the security footage of your community hiding not so far away and he took you along letting you kick the man as long as you pleased before calling the cops. He didn't let Kyumin get to you at all before he punched his nose. You were grateful for Chan about this.

You hear your name being called and turn to see Jieun running towards you with a very angry looking Seungcheol walking in behind her.

What the fuck?

Jieun just sighs and doesn't say anything about her cover being blown as she scoops you into a hug immediately. The familiar scent of your best friend tips off everything for you. The very exhausting and tiring evening wearing down on you as you cry on her shoulder and she holds you through it.

After what seems to be another long hour of collecting statements from you—through out which Jieun holds your hand—and Chan regarding Kyumin, the cops finally let everyone go.

You had so many questions you wanted to ask Jieun about how Seungcheol found out about her, you wanted to thank Chan for swooping in and saving you again. But exhaustion makes your body ache, and darkness consumes you before you know it.

"She will stay with me," Jieun who was none other than the Jiwon aka the fake girlfriend of Seungcheol now stands before Chan and Seungcheol as she looks over to you sleeping inside Chan's car after you passed out.

"I will take care of everything," Seungcheol tells her, no sign of being mad at her for hiding her identity in his eyes as he promises her. Jieun must've found it confusing too but she didn't say anything as Chan hands his car keys to her.

"Take my car. Hyung will give me a ride back home after we are done." Chan tells her and Jieun just gives him an appreciating smile before taking the keys. He watches as they drive away, a bit of relief spreading through him that you were in his car with a person you knew very well to be your emergency contact.

"What do you want to do?" Seungcheol asks his eyes not off of Chan's car.

"Put this bastard behind bars,"

"This is my area of expertise,—"Seungcheol cracks his knuckles before smiling at Chan,"— that fuck is going to rot behind the bars."

Seungcheol wasn't called "The Devil" for a reason, and Chan wasn't his right hand man if they weren't very well known to be dangerous since the moment they became adults. Seungcheol walks away laughing making Chan smile at that. He was going to have fun torturing that guy for everything he had done.

It has been two weeks since the incident at your place and you got know from Jieun the next day, that Kyumin was being booked under so many cases that there would be no way he was going to get out of prison unless he was dead. You wished everyone who went through this psychological torture because of him finally get to have the relief of him being behind the bars. You had to go in for testifying once and that was it you were done, you did not want to hear anymore about him unless if the news was that he was in prison.

The moments were not that noticeable and you blamed yourself for not noticing the signs that he was a stalker with the way he acted.

Knowing he was going to rot with the amount of cases someone dig up to keep him down in prison for the rest of his life gave you a semblance of relief. Yet, going back to your place scared you more than you liked to admit. But the longer you stayed with your best friend, the more she would start treating you with fragility and you didn't want that, you didn't want to worry her that she called you at any moment she was free to see if you were feeling okay or if you were eating well.

So after a week you told her everything was fine and got back to your place, it reminding you of everything no less than an house of horrors.

You would get through this, you can't make everyone worry sick because you did not want to see that sympathy in their eyes when they looked at you. No, you were not going to be weak.

Throwing yourself in work seemed like the best option, while you felt the need to face a few things, you just did not have the heart to go out and meet people only for them to see your hands shiver and —

"Boss, the reports regarding—"

"Yeah, leave it here." You cut Seungkwan off who just nods, the air in the room off. You sense it and see that everyone is staring at you, worried about you. Fuck.

"It's pretty late, you guys should leave."

"What about y—"

"I'll be fine," They hesitate for a while but when you glare at them they immediately move. The sounds of chairs being pushed back and computers being shut with hurry as everyone tries to pack up makes you huff out a laugh making everyone freeze.

"We love you, boss!" All of them yell at once, the people passing through watch it and it makes you laugh so hard you give them a thumbs up as they leave.

The laugh builds up and up for a moment before you burst out into tears on your desk.

Why weren't you strong enough to move on? Why were you still scared of going home? Fuck, you were supposed to be strong, but it hurts you so much to try and act like you can get through this. Why was this haunting you even in waking hours?

Fuck!

You pack up and get out of your office, the traffic not helping your mood a bit nor does the sound of your stomach rumbling that echoes in your car as you park. You check the time and groan seeing its almost 9'O clock. Instead of going back to your place you get out and decide to walk to the nearby restaurant, hoping that maybe the evening walk would help.

The cool evening air embraces you softly as you make your way out of the apartment blocks, kids playing around soothing you like it always does. You liked kids, until a certain decibels maybe. Walking into a lane full of restaurants, you see a line of people waiting to get into one of them that looks new. You decide to skip the wait to get to the one beside it, a hole in the wall place that you knew would have the best food and service.

To prove you right, it was completely filled with chatter, hearty laughs from students and adults. You needed normality to forget everything, to move on. And you couldn't breakdown again, you have to hold yourself together like you always do.

"Alone?" An old lady asks you as you walk in, you nod and she just smiles pointing you towards a spot that is just perfect. Against the window you can look outside as people cross the place and most importantly the fan overhead along with pretty lights.

After giving her your order and her pinching your cheeks for reason unknown but making you smile like a child, you walk towards your place and take a seat.

"Had a good day?" You almost tumble out of your chair when you hear the voice as you curse out loud.

"Fuck, you scared me." Chan just laughs at you, his hand on yours to make sure you weren't actually falling out of your chair.

It has been two weeks since you last saw him and it somehow feels like a lifetime. His hair grew a bit resembling a mullet, strands of it falling on his face, his eyes looked a bit tired but shined as they took you in. He was wearing a his usual suit the jacket thrown over his chair, his black shirt stretched over his chest and you immediately look away.

"How are you?" His voice was softer now, gentle just the way Jieun talked to you nowadays, you were sick of it.

"I'm perfectly fine," you reply curtly, the tone being more cold than you initially tried to convey. You did not want one more person to treat you like you were made of glass. It was getting tiring and you so badly wanted people to treat you like they usually did.

"Okay," And the rest of the night he doesn't say anything, except pouring water into your glass from the pitcher, sliding over a pair of chopsticks. Giving you tissues when the food almost makes you cry when it gets so spicy.

He was silently present, making sure you could lean on him despite your little cold answer just now and it hurts you. Seeing Chan again was not supposed to go this way. You were supposed to thank him for listening to you that day. For letting you kick that bastard without getting a scratch on yourself. For making sure you were safe the entire time. But instead you were acting the wrong way. Like he was the one who wronged you.

You did not like this at all. Why were you making a mess of things when they were perfectly fine? Why were you crying at everything?

"I think that's a lot," Chan's voice jerks you out of your thoughts, his hand on yours as he stops you from downing another glass of soju. You look around to see almost 4 empty of bottles of it, the restaurant you were in now almost empty and your bowls of foods were cleaned thoroughly by you.

Your limit was 1 bottle, but you drank 4? Oh fuck you were going to be a mess. You had to call Jieun. You try to get your phone out and call her but it slips from your hand and clatters on the ground with your screen getting cracked.

"Oh god," you feel water droplets on your hand, and realize you are crying. No, not again. You were getting tired of crying for everything. You sit down, closing your eyes to hold them back and do so successfully but it all goes to vain when you open your eyes to see Chan kneeling in front of you on the floor, his eyes filled with concern and hand holding out tissues for you.

Chan did not know what he did that made you act so curtly, but that did not hold him back from helping you throughout the night. Your act of drinking did concern him, but when you started blabbering words that made no sense, he decided it was time to step in even of you did not want him too.

The signs were there, you were hurting and pushing anyone away if they showed you slight concern. He knew it well, he acted the same way when people talked shit about him poaching off of Seungcheol's family as if that was true in any way. Seungcheol had his back glaring at people whenever he was around and heard shit like that but Chan could not say anything without it back firing again. It broke him just like you were breaking right now.

He shakes his head and sees you on the floor holding your phone that was cracked and crying. You stop a second later though, biting your cheeks to stop crying. That breaks his heart so much that he wishs he could get back into that holding cell to break that bastard's bones again.

The day after he was apprehended, Seungcheol helped him pull out all the previous crimes he committed and got away with, many of his victims were ready to get that bastard in if it meant he would stop torturing them the way they did to you too, and because of Seungcheol's little connections Chan would go in to that holding cell every night and take out every ounce of his stress on him.

Was it right? No.

Would that change anything? A little.

Would that make Chan see red a little less than he was seeing? Absolutely.

So he did not stop until Seungcheol stepped in and told him that prison was not going to be fun for that fucker and Chan should lay off if he did not want to kill him.

While the idea was entertaining to Chan, it was messy. So, he left the rest of it to Seungcheol who took his sweet time to make sure that idiot was stuck in prison for the rest of his life.

"I'm sorry," you were talking pretty calmly for a person who was blabbering just a moment ago, Chan did not know if he had to be concerned or relieved about it though.

"There is nothing to be sorry about," he helps you up, grabbing your bag and his jacket to walk you home. You do not protest, trying your best to walk in your heels but you do almost trip twice.

"Hold on a second," he leans you against a wall before making you wear his jacket and throwing your bag onto his neck before sliding his arms under your knees and head to lift you up.

"Woah," you react, your hands around his neck holding tight at that moment before you relax against him.

"You good?" You just nod and stay like that, having you in his arms giving him a sense of calmness he did not have since the day you left to stay at your friend's. Jieun was kind enough to fill Chan in on details on how you were doing whenever their paths crossed at work, but she never asked why he was interested in knowing though. Even if she suspected anything, she did not say.

That was how he knew you came back to your place a week ago, but he somehow never ran into you. You moved in shadows and when he did see you once and tried to approach you, you were gone in a split second

The guards just smile at Chan as he walks in, your breathes become a bit shallow as you fall asleep in his arms. He moves slowly not to wake you up but also mostly not to lose the feeling of you in his arms too quickly. He liked the warmth you gave him, the lavender scent of yours that became a part of relaxing him too.

Getting to your door he slowly lays you down on your feet, you stumble for a moment but just stand there against your door not going in and just looking at him, your head tilted a sign of you drunk making him laugh like a silly man.

"Thank you for saving me that day,"

"I would've done anything if you asked me, princess—" he says trying to lighten your mood, "—It is my job as your knight, is it not?" You smile at him as he says that. A giddy smile and it strikes his heart as those dimples pop out.

"Anything?" Chan nods and you take a step towards him, looking up at him with those hazel eyes.

"Kiss me." You whisper, his heart racing as he realizes what you just said.

"You're drunk,"

"You said you'd do anything I ask," you pout. Chan almost scoffs at you for pouting, weakening his stance every second just by standing so close to him and asking him to kiss you.

"Well, I guess I should ask someone els—"

He bends closer to you, your eyes go wide as your words drop out of your mouth.

"You will not." Chan says, his eyes not leaving yours.

"And who are you to tell me what to do?"

"You're testing me,"

"Yes, so?"

You just stare at him, defiance in your stance making him wonder if you were actually sober. While he knows if he doesn't kiss you, you would not ask anyone else, but who was he to not play your game.

But then in a split second you drop to your knees, holding your head in your hands as you take heavy breaths.

"I might be getting sick."

"What's your door code?" He asks as you stand up to enter it yourself but fumble it twice before shaking your head. You must not be able to see well.

"Can I take you to my place?" You were now covering your mouth, and nod.

He holds you, taking you to his place guiding you to the washroom. He comes in to hold your hair, but your short hair keeps slipping from his loose grip that he ends up keeping a shower cap on your head so it won't fall out as you puke your guts out.

"Are you feeling better?" You nod and then you just lay against the wall making Chan sigh. He helps you up and laying you down on his couch, worrying you would not like to fall asleep in his bed.

"You think I'll be okay?" You try to talk to him. There were tears in your eyes as you look at Chan from the couch. He brushes the hair falling on your face back as he nods.

"Yes, I do."

"Even if I'm not strong?"

"You are the strongest person I know,"

"I missed you, my knight in shining armor," you give him a tired smile, making him smile too. What would he not do to just see you smile everyday, he was whipped and he did not know if he would find this kind of peace anywhere else other than when he was beside you.

"I missed you too, my princess."

Listen, you weren't the best at holding your alcohol but you did not think you would get yourself embarrassed, twice in front of the man you were actively crushing on. When you woke up you almost screamed taking on the unfamiliar surroundings. The photo frame on the table beside the couch told you that this was Chan's place.

Oh boy.

And as if it could not get any worse with your head blasting, you realize you remember nothing from last night except one thing. You asked him to kiss you. But you do not know if he did indeed. You were going to stop drinking now from now on.

Waking up on his house, Where he put you to sleep on his couch, with a blanket draped over you, you think he might have not kissed you. But you did not trust yourself.

"Good morning," Chan greets you walking in to the living room from what you guess must be where he slept. He is also wearing nothing but sweatpants that hang low on his hips. He is killing you first thing in morning.

"Breakfast?"

"Yes," you slowly get out of the couch trudging yourself over to the kitchen. His apartment had the same layout as yours, and he decorated it so well. You were glad to be here in his own space, because you would have otherwise never guessed Chan was into musicals unless you saw the posters hanging in his bedroom.

Yes, you peeked a little in to what looked like his bedroom before he could catch you.

He doesn't say anything as you take a seat at the table pouring yourself a glass of water. He moves around the kitchen with an expertise of someone who cooked their whole life and was always known to make the best dishes.

"How's your head?" He grabs plates and lays them on the table before getting the eggs he made to place in front of you, you help him grab glasses on the other side of the table along with spoons and forks. It felt domestic, the way both of you moved around together.

"Exploding." You watch his lips twitch at your description.

"Look, I am so sorry I keep bothering you all the time, it is not what it looks—"

"You are never a bother to me," he says it so easily as if it was breathing. And he doesn't even look up from serving the breakfast on to your plate as he does.

"Yes, the situations we end up in are often crazy but I never regretted being in them—" His gaze comes to yours now, warmth rushing over your body, "—especially if it means I get to spend it with you."

Wow. Flirting was not new to you, it was just a game of push and pull until someone ended up in others bed. But when you flirted with Chan, you knew it wasn't just attraction, you wanted to always see his eyes that comforted you and that laugh that rushed through you.

And seeing him admit it out loud changes things. In a good way.

"Did I…. You know… ki—" He interrupts as you look so uncomfortable asking him the question. You weren't new to it, but you were new to everything when it came to him.

"No, I did not. You were drunk and I did not want to take advantage of it."

"What if I was sober?"

"I would've done it." He admits it quickly making you wish you hadn't asked the question.

"Take me out before you do that, Mr. Gentleman." You try to joke but he doesn't laugh.

"Well, since it's Saturday."

"No, I was just joking—"

"Will you go on a date with me."

"Yes," You shock yourself with answering so quickly as if you weren't just trying to convince him that you were joking but he doesn't seem to be shocked nor does he look like he was going to judge you for that.

"Thank you for the breakfast," You make a run towards the couch and grab your things.

"I'll meet you at 5 in the evening, and make sure to dress comfortably!"

You just yell back an "Okay" running out of his place but stop in front of yours listening to his laugh flowing out of his own to the entire floor.

You just slowly hit your head against your apartment door after you get in.

You felt like a schoolgirl reliving her first love and you do not regret feeling that way.

Listen, you weren't the best at holding your alcohol but you did not think you would get yourself embarrassed, twice in front of the man you were actively crushing on. When you woke up you almost screamed taking on the unfamiliar surroundings. The photo frame on the table beside the couch told you that this was Chan's place.

Oh boy.

And as if it could not get any worse with your head blasting, you realize you remember nothing from last night except one thing. You asked him to kiss you. But you do not know if he did indeed. You were going to stop drinking now from now on.

Waking up on his house, Where he put you to sleep on his couch, with a blanket draped over you, you think he might have not kissed you. But you did not trust yourself.

"Good morning," Chan greets you walking in to the living room from what you guess must be where he slept. He is also wearing nothing but sweatpants that hang low on his hips. He is killing you first thing in morning.

"Breakfast?"

"Yes," you slowly get out of the couch trudging yourself over to the kitchen. His apartment had the same layout as yours, and he decorated it so well. You were glad to be here in his own space, because you would have otherwise never guessed Chan was into musicals unless you saw the posters hanging in his bedroom.

Yes, you peeked a little in to what looked like his bedroom before he could catch you.

He doesn't say anything as you take a seat at the table pouring yourself a glass of water. He moves around the kitchen with an expertise of someone who cooked their whole life and was always known to make the best dishes.

"How's your head?" He grabs plates and lays them on the table before getting the eggs he made to place in front of you, you help him grab glasses on the other side of the table along with spoons and forks. It felt domestic, the way both of you moved around together.

"Exploding." You watch his lips twitch at your description.

"Look, I am so sorry I keep bothering you all the time, it is not what it looks—"

"You are never a bother to me," he says it so easily as if it was breathing. And he doesn't even look up from serving the breakfast on to your plate as he does.

"Yes, the situations we end up in are often crazy but I never regretted being in them—" His gaze comes to yours now, warmth rushing over your body, "—especially if it means I get to spend it with you."

Wow. Flirting was not new to you, it was just a game of push and pull until someone ended up in others bed. But when you flirted with Chan, you knew it wasn't just attraction, you wanted to always see his eyes that comforted you and that laugh that rushed through you.

And seeing him admit it out loud changes things. In a good way.

"Did I…. You know… ki—" He interrupts as you look so uncomfortable asking him the question. You weren't new to it, but you were new to everything when it came to him.

"No, I did not. You were drunk and I did not want to take advantage of it."

"What if I was sober?"

"I would've done it." He admits it quickly making you wish you hadn't asked the question.

"Take me out before you do that, Mr. Gentleman." You try to joke but he doesn't laugh.

"Well, since it's Saturday."

"No, I was just joking—"

"Will you go on a date with me."

"Yes," You shock yourself with answering so quickly as if you weren't just trying to convince him that you were joking but he doesn't seem to be shocked nor does he look like he was going to judge you for that.

"Thank you for the breakfast," You make a run towards the couch and grab your things.

"I'll meet you at 5 in the evening, and make sure to dress comfortably!"

You just yell back an "Okay" running out of his place but stop in front of yours listening to his laugh flowing out of his own to the entire floor.

You just slowly hit your head against your apartment door after you get in.

You felt like a schoolgirl reliving her first love and you do not regret feeling that way.

To say you were nervous would be an understatement, you had no idea where he was going to take you and that just meant you had to dress in a way that would suit wherever he did take you.

But you also recognize it as soon as you get back to your place, the fear that drowned you whenever you stepped here was now replaced with an excitement that was not going to let you feel that fear again. You were thankful to Chan for that, and also Jieun who was on the call since last two hours making sure you were safe but not talking to you like you were fragile anymore.

She was back to throwing orders and gushing over you for going on a date with someone you liked for the first time in a while. Because this was all you wanted.

After seeing that it's already 5:00, you tell her you are going to update her on how it goes and cut the call as you look yourself into the mirror checking your outfit.

You were wearing an white off shoulder knit top with low rise jeans, you topped it off with throwing on a printed scarf and a bunch of your regular accessories — your vintage watch and a bracelet along with a few rings. It was comfortable, as he asked you to dress and you felt pretty.

The door bell goes off freezing you for a moment before you take a deep breathe in to calm and remind yourself that the person on the other side of the door was not going to hurt you as you walk to slowly open the door.

"Hey," You greet him locking the door behind you and finally take him in. He is wearing a pair of black shirt and pants, his sleeves rolled up, revealing his veined arms that were crossed as he leaned against the wall waiting for you.

"You look pretty," he says taking you in, you really stop yourself from turning so red as he does.

"You don't look so bad yourself," he just laughs holding out his hand for you to take. You slip yours into his and he squeezes it.

"Where are we going?"

"On a date,"

"So funny,"

"I try to be,"

"Just tell me, Chan." He doesn't say anything after that, no matter all the threats you make to go back home or get out of the car. He just drives pop songs filling the car as you forget about asking him about destination for a minute as you sing along to them but remember again to ask. He doesn't answer no matter what with a wicked smile on his face, and soon drives to a familiar road and then you see it, the movie theater you frequently visited.

"It was Jieun, was it not?" You ask as he parks the car and opens the door for you. He signals for you to hold his hand, and you do.

"Yes, but I guessed the movie. She just gave me the idea."

"Points for you, Mr. Lee."

"Stop taunting me, now."

"What are you going to do?" You tease him and he just squeezes your hand before smirking at you as an answer. And nothing more. You feel your insides getting hot at that.

Chan never thought he would ever love going to watch movies as much as he was doing with you. You were so immersed, your cheeks red whenever you realized he was looking at you instead of watching Ryan Gosling figure out how to talk to an alien being.

You cried a few times, you were in awe during the scenes that were filmed so beautifully, but he was in awe of how beautiful you looked falling in love with the movie.

Jieun told him you loved watching movies. Photography was something you always adored about them and the first thought that crossed Chan's mind was Project Hail Mary that was running in theaters. Jieun visually patted his back at the idea and threatened to take him down if he even made you cry and Chan was just happy you had someone so wonderful like her in your corner.

He had to later cut the call because Seungcheol was glaring at him through the video call, he was always a bit moody in the mornings. His brother was so in love with Jieun that the fact that there was a whole drama about her faking her identity did not matter to him anymore because he was afraid of losing the best thing he ever found. Chan could relate.

"She was never fake, it was just a different name," was what Seungcheol said looking lovesick because apparently at the time he lectured Chan to go and fight for you was around when he fell in love with Jieun.

You were now talking about how good the movie was as you continued eating your food. Each point well made that just made him admire you more and respect you for remembering things about something you loved despite it not being a part of your daily life as you kept saying.

"I really don't get to watch good movies anymore because of work, so this was a breathe of fresh air."

"I'm glad I made a good choice,"

"Yes, you did."

"Did you like the movie?" You asked him.

"I enjoyed it very much too, especially watching Ryan Gosling in glasses."

"He looked good, did he not?"

"He did." Chan answered raising a brow at you and you just turn red again finding the leftover pasta sauce on your plate so interesting, making him laugh at how reactive and open you were about how you felt.

You were headstrong, flirting with him all the time and he got hard whenever you did that, not that he would admit it yet. But when you blushed at everything and smiled so wide, it made him want to fall on his knees for you. Like you were something so precious he would rather die than ever hurt you. He realized he missed that smile the last two weeks.

"Where to now?" You ask, strapping yourself in and giggling like a kid as he drives out of the theater. Chan just looks at you with a smirk and doesn't say anything because he really loved the way you pouted whenever he kept you in the dark. Your lower lip jutted out while your eyes resembled boba, it was the most adorable thing he has ever seen and if to see that he had to be difficult with you, he would. Unfortunately, he cannot for longer periods of time.

Because the second he drives inside the parking lot and sees you looking at him like he is an interesting case you were trying to solve, or try reading into his mind just by staring at him, Chan leans over pecking your nose watching your jaw drop.

And then he runs out, you follow huffing at him because now you were turning red with each passing second and Chan knew he had to make up to the promise he made early in the morning. He tries to make you look at him, but you don't making him hold back his laugh that was bubbling out of him as he sees you look so shy.

"Look at me," He finally holds your hand again and this time you do not slip yours from his. But when he looks at you, he sees you raising a brow, your tongue poking your cheek as you pull him closer. He watches your eyes look at his lips, and then you are pushing him against your door and kissing him stupid.

Chan feels like he is in heaven. Because he knew pushing you to a certain point you were a completely different person, someone who would kiss him stupid like he wanted.

Chan tastes your strawberry lip gloss, the taste being so yourself and he does not hold himself back. Your hands were now holding his shoulders trying to reach his face, while Chan's roam around your waist, drawing maps on your back. You were nothing but an exquisite taste, and he fights with your tongue feeling you smile against his face, as you pull back to catch your breath.

Your face looking totally flushed, and your lips looking so plump from kissing him. You looked like an angel.

Oh, you were going to be the death of him.

It was hot, everything was hot and you did not wait as you nodding as he asked if you wanted to go to your place or his. Yours was a mess, so his it was. Once he opened the door, he had you against it, his hands holding you tight to himself as your tongues danced to a rhythm that moved both of your bodies. It was wonderful and everything you's every dreamed of.

But what you did not dream of was him asking you to jump into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist asking if you really wanted to do this in most softest way. You replied kissing him hard, completely opposite of how he was holding you and treating you.

He walked towards his bedroom holding you like you weighed nothing. Laying you down on his bed and you immediately moved back towards the headboard, your cheeks hurting with the way you could not stop smiling because of him. Within seconds he was on you again, kissing you like he was a dying man and you were the answer to all of his prayers. It was messy, wet and just the way you liked it.

"Just so you know—" you tell him when he pulls back once to look at you, "—I don't sleep with anybody on the first date."

"I am honored to be breaking your rules then, Princess." He smiles against your mouth.

"Up," He taps on your arms and pulls your top over your head as you raise your hands, his eyes darkening as he takes you in. You help him pull out your jeans too, his clothes joining the pile of yours a second later. You were left in nothing but a pair of panties sticking to you the wetness so obvious to him and his hard member aching to be set free against his boxers.

"You are so gorgeous," He whispers before holding your hands above your head, his path of kisses trailing to your neck finding the sweet spot as he sucks over it and kisses on it again making sure to leave a mark before doing the same thing again and again at every place he finds.

But soon his attention gets completely stolen by your breasts, his hands leaving yours to focus on them, his tongue darts out sucking one while his thumb flicks playing with the other. Your hands drift into his long hair tugging them as the sensation gets too much and he responds with curses but doesn't stop and keeps on doing the same thing alternating his mouth and hands on one and the other never leaving them alone.

"Chan, Please." You plead him. To stop or to keep going? You did not know either.

"What do you want, princess?" His asks, his voice raspy as he looks at you. The string of saliva from his lips to your breasts destroying any sense of sanity your mind had left making you nothing but a putty in his arms.

"Want you...." He pinches your nipples making your eyes roll back and you let out a moan your back arching as you come.

Fuck, you were embarrassed to find your release just by being played with your nipples.

"Look here," He holds your chin before you try to look away, his chocolate brown eyes were now nothing just darkness that swallowed you in like it was black hole.

"That was hot," You just give him an awkward smile at that and he smiles at you before leaning and kissing your forehead. He gets down and takes down his boxers immediately, his cock stands up and almost hitting his stomach making you clench your thighs. And you see him, as he sees you do that.

He jumps on you like an animal, kissing you stupid as you feel his hand trail to your thighs, the other one holding them apart.

"I am going to make you cum on my tongue and then on my fingers before I put my cock in. You good with that, Princess?" You nod and he disappears between your thighs. His tongue sucking on your clit while he pushes in a finger.

"Fuck, you're so tight." God, he had such a nasty mouth.

He adds another finger in, his face never looking up even when you tug on his hair hardly, your thighs wrapped around his face almost suffocating him. If anything, he soon adds a third finger and you feel yourself getting closer even though you just came a moment ago. His ministrations make your eyes roll, the moans spilling out of you would have been a big problem to your neighbors but it doesn't look that bad because it was neighbor indeed, who was the cause behind your sounds.

"I'm close, fuck."

"Come on my tongue. You're doing so good," And he looks up, his fingers pushing in and out of you but his gaze never wavering as he makes you come again and again just as he promised. You pull him up, unable to hold on any longer as your hands start stroking his cock and he curses his head falling on your shoulder.

"Stop doing that," He grunts at you but you just smile and keep stroking him, whatever you can fit into your single hand, he was quite big.

"Fuck," He flips you on your stomach, the slap on your ass making you moan and arch your back at him.

"You like that?" He does it again leaning over your shoulder as he whispers in her your ear. You nod unable to form any words anymore, you vocabulary being nothing but sounds and his being nothing but grunts. He pushes his cock into your hole at once, without any warning making you arch your back gasping at the sudden intrusion and he laughs. He goes slow teasing you, your mind becomes a puddle as you want him to go faster and just use you instead.

No one ever made you feel this way in bed and you really liked this.

"Faster. Chan," His slow pace comes to a halt as he looks at you.

"You sure?" You nod pushing your hips against his and he curses before going as you asked.

He picks up his pace, leaning over your shoulder to grunt right into your ears, the sound throwing you off the edge just like everything he does. His hands sneaks up on you catching your throat, the grip tightening just enough and his other finds your clit.

"You like this?"

"Fuck, you are taking me so well."

"Say my name."

He has a dirty mouth thing. He says them as he goes faster, neither of his hands moving nor does he as he continues making noises near your ear.

"I'm coming,"

"Come inside," You plead him, your voice was not something you recognized anymore.

"You are going to be the death of me," he grunts out working his fingers on your clit as he makes sure you both can come together, and then you feel the air whooshing out of your lungs as you come and fall against the pillows, him following you a beat later. He removes the pillow he set under your stomach—which you did not notice him keeping there, and lays you down kissing your forehead before pulling out of you and getting down. You start missing his warmth not even a moment after.

He moves with precise movements as he brings out a wet cloth cleaning you thoroughly as you lay exhausted in his bed. He later joins you, pulling the covers over both of you and tucking you close to his heart, you feel it thumping against his chest so heavily.

"You were wonderful, baby." He kisses your forehead and you sigh smiling and laying on his chest. You feel so full, literally and figuratively, feel so happy and comfortable as he hugs you that you could not make what he was saying anymore as the tiredness consumed you making you fall asleep against the now steady beating of his heart.

When he woke up and saw the bed empty beside him, he thought you left. So, he ran out to the living room just to find you wearing your pajamas, which you must've gone out to your place and came back in. Seeing your hair being wet and looking fresh, he assumed you took a bath.

You look at him from the kitchen, holding bread in one hand and peanut butter in other. You place them on the counter, opening your arms for him and he runs to you, tackling you into a hug.

Kissing you was always the plan, but everything that followed was just him unable to hold back after touching you. He was addicted to you, like a drug that kept him alive. Your moans, the dazed look in your eyes and most importantly the way you trusted him. It made him hard again to think about it.

He pushed you against his kitchen counter kissing you slow, your hands over his neck pulling him closer as he does.

"Good morning," you whisper against his lips, a smile blossoming on yours and it spreads to him.

"Good morning."

"You look cute," He tells you pointing at the cherry pajamas now you were wearing.

"Thank you."

"Breakfast?" He asks ready to cook something but you just pull him back, hugging him tight shaking your head.

"After the marathon last night, you need to eat something that is not bread and peanut butter, princess."

"We could order in instead, lay down on the couch and….." you drawl out.

"And?" Chan tilted his head, liking your idea of a morning after a wonderful night.

"And maybe I'll let you eat me out?" You lean and whisper it in his ear and he immediately picks you up throwing you over his shoulders. You giggle, kicking your feet as he lays you down on the couch and unlocks his phone and gives it to you.

"Order the food, princess." Chan orders you, as he pulls down your pants to find you wear nothing. He smiles diving in as he feels your hands hold and tug his hair, his phone long forgotten as he eats dessert.

He did not know any other way to spend his morning with anything better than eating you out and listening to the sounds you make.

Good Morning to him, indeed.

To say you were insatiable would not be enough because you did not want to be separated from Chan or not have his mouth on you at any given time to the point it was getting concerning.

You lost count of the places he took you against. His place or yours? Did not matter anymore.

The shower, the kitchen counter, right against your door after work when you run into each other, the couches, the dining tables. And especially whenever he came back from running, because you loved how handsome he looked when he was breathless.

And Chan ate you out solely for his pleasure and god, that kind of men were the dangerous of all because he had you wrapped around his fingers, literally every day and night.

It has been three months since your first date and the wonderful events that followed, and life was getting better to say the least.

You were feeling a lot better after everything that happened, thanks to the people around you. You were also regularly having team dinners, your members spirits getting high. The usual banter, karaoke sessions and drunk nights when Chan came to pick you up and Seungkwan just gave you a thumbs up every time he saw the both of you while the others teased you about it.

But also most importantly, you had Chan — who planned such thoughtful dates you pinched yourself every single day to have him as yours. And whenever you planned dates for him, he would always show his gratitude by fucking you so good, that you would see the stars.

And the best part of having Chan as your boyfriend was dancing in the kitchen at midnights, laughing at Seungcheol whenever you and Jieun planned double dates— Seungcheol would just glare at you both or pout shocking you sometimes but he doesn't say anything else and you swear you once saw something akin to happiness in his eyes when he looked at Chan. The both of you were still scared of him though.

It was also nice have someone who would hold you tight after a very long exhausting day and whisper sweet nothings to you.

When you asked Chan about what was the best thing about having you as his girlfriend, he looked you dead in your eyes and said, "I get to see those dimples when you smile so wide," and went on to kiss you on your cheek before driving off to work. Leaving you stunned in front of your work place.

Safe to say, he was just as deep as you in this shit.

As usual, life cannot be rainbows and sunshine for so long because you were standing in front of your home, Chan squeezing your hand as you contemplated meeting your father.

"I can come along if you want," he offers, kissing your hand.

"This is my battle, Chan. I can't have him hurt you when we get inside, I would not let him breathe if he does so."

Chan was the best thing that happened to you. You were not going to let your father take him away from you.

"Okay, My queen—," He kisses you the taste of strawberry lip balm of yours he keeps stealing evident on his lips,"—Give them hell."

You watch as he walks back into his car and signaling you to walk in before he drives away. He called you his queen nowadays, and while you really liked being called princess, queen just hits different.

You look back at the looming door of doom of your house. You did not need to be a mastermind to figure out why your father called you to meet. The tail he put on you—yes, he was capable of doing that shit—must've been giving him information about you living a happy life, and just like the party popper he was, your father did not like it when you were living a happy life without his hand in it. It was some kind of shitty way to control you by holding things over your head if he had a hand in your happiness so you would not act out and since when you did not give him the chance to do so, he would throw a tantrum like a fuckin' child.

"How are you?" Mrs. Chae greets you as you enter in, she starts gushing over you, saying that you were glowing and asking who was it that was behind it.

"I will introduce him when the time is right,"

"Okay, stay mysterious."

"You're here," Your dad breaks the conversation between you and Mrs. Chae as you were talking about life in general, and the mood of the room immediately dampens as he steps in.

"You must really know how to behave with people who are not of your status," He says and you know what and who exactly he was referring to, it just makes your blood boil.

You are going to find exactly who his tail was, because you were not going to let your dad hurt Chan at all.

"You called me to talk about something important, I presume? Or did you want to hear yourself talk?" You ask him with a lethal calmness, your tone sharp.

"You're behavior is not going to be tolerated anymore. Whatever this little rebellion was, put an end to it."

"No." You look at your nails, bored.

"Break up with him," he orders you.

"And if I won't?"

"I will make sure he gets hurt for even looking at something that he does not deserve,"

"I am not an object you own, father. And you dare hurt him, you are going to die without an heir to your legacy."

"How dare you threaten your own father? This is what you become when you whore yourself too people not—"

"Fucking hell, stop talking about status and levels for god's sake. You are going to be buried in the same piece of land they would be buried in."

Your father's face turns red with anger and it makes you smile.

"Stop living in the air castles you keep building, father. When you fall down, there is going to be no one to catch you. Not even me."

"So, you are not going to break up with him?"

"Not a chance."

"Then resign the position you hold in my company." You expected this, he loved his company more than he ever loved you. And if he was going to threaten someone you loved, it was only fair you did the same.

"And people will know you do not have an heir to give your legacy over to—" you lean back in your chair as you continue, "— as a businessman as cruel and cunning as you are, I don't think I need to explain what that means now, do I?"

"Hong—"

"Keep your threats to yourself. If you hurt so much as an hair strand on the man I love, I will break away your empire until there would remain nothing but ash."

You were holding yourself back so much. The tears that were at the back of your throat could not be shown to the monster in front of you. Any sign of weakness and he would call you a child and make you feel small.

"You are sure this man is the one?"

"I swear on your life, I do."

"You are no less than a monster for hurting your own father,"

"I take after you, it would be a shock if I wasn't one." You were done here, you decide you need to get out of this place before the darkness you inherited consumes you whole that you would not see the light on the other side.

You walk out of the place and far away from the estate towards a crowded sidewalk before realizing you were far away from him, from his shadows and it is when you let yourself cry as the feeling of loosing a home finally dawns on you.

This was inevitable. But god, did it not break your heart.

You were sure your father would leave you his legacy, despite him controlling his expressions you saw him looking at you with fear. His clenched jaw a sign of it as something you recognized from his body language, since he never was someone who showed emotions. He considered it to be weak.

That was why you always laughed around with Mrs. Chae, because you were never going to be weak. No matter how much he tried to make you change or lose parts of yourself.

There were moments in your life when everything you dreamed of was your father looking at you with anything but hatred for being the only thing that reminded him of your dead mother. But then you grew up.

Taking away his legacy, the empire he built would not be easy. But being his heir had its perks. And when he decided to be alongside the monsters in hell and leaving you as the heir, you would be ready to make it something you love.

You were going to prove that having a heart does not make anyone weak. And the rest was to be dealt when you crossed that bridge but for now all you wanted to do was go home and hug Chan tightly watching Brooklyn 99 again and laugh together.

Because home is where your heart is, and Chan made a home for you in his.

ONE YEAR LATER

"Do you not like wine anymore?" Seungcheol asked Chan swirling his own glass as he took a sip, tasting it. Chan just looks at him confused.

"I drank wine yesterday?"

"You are not drinking it now,"

"Bullshit," Seungcheol was indeed talking bullshit as Chan suggested because the man was always worried whenever the girls — you and Jieun were out and did not allow him or Chan to tag along. He grew a likening towards you, as someone who always wanted a sister, he wondered if they would be like you if he had one.

It was getting late at night, while he knew Jieun was completely capable of taking care of herself especially with you by her side Seungcheol had no reason to worry but it always slipped through cracks and spread like a virus infecting Chan too.

Now both the men were watching National geography, a specific documentary about animals as they keep stealing glances at their phones on the table in front of them waiting for a call or a text.

"Camels are said to be—" Chan laughs immediately, Seungcheol takes a moment to register but just hits his brother when he realizes what made him laugh.

"It was one time, okay?" Seungcheol tries to defend himself about Jieun saying he looked and ate like a camel once.

"I said nothing," Chan raises his hands.

"You laughed though," Chan looked like he was going to laugh again, but before the oldest could argue his phone rings and he picks it up immediately, clearing his throat before answering.

"Yes,—" he looks at Chan as he answers and after a moment he says, "—we will be there, Thank you."

He cuts the call grabbing his keys and his jacket Chan following him behind as he tosses the keys to the younger.

"It is a rescue call, they are drunk at a restaurant."

Chan huffs out a laugh as he gets into the car to drive and Seungcheol just taps against the dashboard the entire ride. He runs inside as soon as Chan parks the car, making him shake his head at how lovesick the older was. He wasn't any better to be honest.

It has been over an year since they started dating, and not only did Seungcheol's love for Jieun grow exponentially, Chan has seen his grandfather dote on her solely because she made Seungcheol finally want to settle down. While the old man did know about the drama, he brushed it off saying that he did not care about the lengths Jieun went to make sure Seungcheol really loved her or not. It wasn't what it was, but no one wanted to correct him because his believes were completely harmless.

Chan saw you sleeping on the table as Seungcheol tried to wake his girlfriend up but could not to no avail.

Chan gently patted on your shoulder to see you wake up and look at him, the recognition flashing through your eyes as you take him in. Even though it has been over an year, your hazel brown eyes always did a number on his heart. The dimples that pop out when you smile wide too, a common occurrence nowadays and despite you complaining that your cheeks hurt whenever he made you laugh to see those dimples, he never stopped.

He would never.

"Hey," You greet him, voice soft leaving Jieun's hand who was actually a bad drunk just like Seungcheol because Jieun would start crying out of nowhere, but that did not mean the oldest never let her drink. He liked watching her act that way, he liked her in general that was another thing.

You stand up pretty good by yourself for a moment before falling into his arms. He picks you up, and you nuzzle into his neck instinctively just the way you always did before you even got together. The trust you had in him since before that had him wrapped around your fingers.

He lays you down in the backseat beside Jieun who is already asleep. Seungcheol just looks at Jieun and looks ahead the smile on his face never going away. Seungcheol smiling which was a rarity before, was now just something that your friend brought out in him easily. Both of them loving each other whole heartedly. Chan once wondered if his brother would ever find love, he was quite happy seeing them both together now.

You pinch Chan's cheeks before kissing him. "I love you,"

"I love you too," He kisses your forehead as he gets in, followed by Seungcheol. Ready to get back home. He looks at you in the rear view mirror, sleeping so peacefully it warms his heart.

You fought your father for him, who came around a few months later. Chan never knew what exactly happened but that day after you came home, you cried in his arms like you lost someone you loved and he could do nothing but just hold you through it.

And for a woman who fought everything she had to stand beside him and still look at him with so much love, Chan would bring down the world if asked.

Your fates intertwining was the best thing the universe could have done for him. Because without that he never even imagined the alternative of not being by your side, falling in love everyday with all versions of yourself.

You felt the same way too. Looking at your knight who shined like a star, you did not know the alternative of not being by his side, falling in love with him everyday like breathing.

The fate intertwined you two and you couldn't ask for anything better than this love you had. Your love, intertwined like your souls.

Thank you for reading this story and loving this with me!! I'd appreciate to know your thoughts through comments, reblogs. It helps me understand your thoughts and you too.

Taglist : @churrochanie, @coupsalchemy, @chogiwaw

[caratchronicles]

how do you deal with this? like you have a wip which you started when you were in a very burntout stage in your life, now you're not in that place anymore and do not hold the negative emotions that are actually required for the story and you aren't even able to channel them

[notgreatbob]

''i wasted those years'' who cares. you lived the only life you could've lived in those moments

[callmezeemonic]

You did the best you could with all you had and knew. That was then. Here is now

[castaras]

prev tags correct

[caratchronicles]

the only reason you think like this is because you lived through those moments and that particular experience shaped you and taught you

[lynxindisguise]

[avalonjoan]

hey now...

[tundrakatiebean]

[thebibliosphere]

Couldn't have nailed me any harder to the floor if you had a fucking hammer.

[the-wonderer-of-the-web]

YES!! I am a HUGE advocate for the concept of “their are no bad ideas, just bad executions”

[twicemallow]

mostly real i, too, wonder how I've managed to make it this far, but my mom debates I more..... (#loredrop) (do NOT ask further about my mom)

💟 no pressure tags bcs i need to see my moots n their tropes : @woniefication @shyoko @yooniso @myuviis @koiiq @chrrific @blooddlusts @seobluuu @luvmahae etc

[koiiq]

CRAZY IM GAGGEDDDD I'll take it 😻😻

Np tags : @wonsoire @yewwwaaahhh @b4echo @wonroha idk TT

[b4echo]

WAYYY too accurate people on this app srsly need to stop taking shit so serious and stop hating all the time 😭‼️‼️

@hyvnesangel @kirbray04 @satorisoup @quokkaine @channlust @yawwni @stryscribbles @hrtbamgyuuu @hnsbxby @hanjinology @ninisei @gyuzies @moch3rii @kloversung @sugarkiiss @jektaev @skzcodered @strrykais

no pressure !!

[gyuzies]

huzzah???

@izzyy-stuff @nanilis @yawngnab @heedimples more i cant be assed lowk just do it idfk

[izzyy-stuff]

quick everyone, act surprised!

@filmsbyun @livmarauder @nerdycheol @belovedgyu if yall wanna do this <3

[livmarauder]

erm no comment…

no pressure tags: @gentleisa @luvrung @orbitondgtl @dollhoonki @jayflrt

[gentleisa]

EL EM AY OH

tags: @aeristudios @hopecutie @choco-scoups @haologram (no pressure)

[choco-scoups]

CAN'T A GIRL BREATHE FOR A SECOND IN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE AT LEAST!???

its funny tho lol

No pressure tags : @coupsalchemy @caratchronicles @chogiwaw @slut4kwon @hanniehaeo

[caratchronicles]

thanks for the tag jayy<33

lmao what

No pressure tags: @cherrymayz @mellowamour

[caratchronicles]

how does this tumblr snake game work even and why is the snake eating my following list

[cherrymayz]

Every thorn has its twilight (Part 1)

Pairing: Spy!Jihoon x Assassin!Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 16k for this part.

Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence and death, mentions of blood, possession and usage of weapons such as guns and blades, multiple breakdowns(yes, these characters go through a lot), mentions of abandonment of children, mentions of war, murder, threats, betrayal, inaccurate depictions of spy x family characters/plot devices(for plot convenience), mentions of criminal organisations, self-condemnation and self-blame, slow burn, lots and lots of angst (im sorry if i missed anything, please let me know)

Synopsis: You and Jihoon have been living a peaceful married life for the past year. One fine morning, WISE and The Garden assign the two of you with the same mission, unbeknownst to either organisation. What happens when the spy and the assassin end up finding out each other's identities? Will you be able to keep the peace you so desperately long for or will you ruin it with your own hands?

a/n: hi everyone, this is part one of my fic for the blockbuster collab and this if my first long fic? I might as well just call it my first fic and god I'm honestly so nervous. I'm so sorry it took so long and thank you for waiting. First of all, big big big thank you to @belovedgyu, @jakedustry and @nerdycheol for hosting this collab and for having me participate in it(and also for being such sweethearts and extending my deadline). Also a huge thank you to my lovely darling @mellowamour for being there for me throughout this journey and for beta-reading, and my lovely cutie @livmarauder for helping with the banner and the title, like seriously, I could not have finished this without you both(thanks for being there when I was crashing out and quite literally scrapped more than half of my original draft and rewrote the story). Last but not the least, thank you to all my fellow lovelies @choco-scoups, @caratchronicles, @gentleisa, @luvrung, @hopecutie, @pomegranate-teardrop, @onionhassayyo, @chogiwaw, @paradiseonthemoon, @cxffecoupx who were a part of the collab and made me feel so welcomed and excited about this. I got to make so many friends and finally gathered the courage to start writing so yeah, this has been wonderful and i am so immensely proud of everyone. I hope you enjoy reading this!

One Sunday morning, Jihoon wakes up expecting to go through his weekend routine — making breakfast, waking up his daughter, eating together and spending the rest of the day trying to get Anya to study. He freshens up and goes to the kitchen wondering how to make studying better for Anya when he pauses to see his wife awake and trying to cook; he immediately knows that this day was not going to go as usual.

You, his wife as of last year, are panicking over the breakfast you seem to be trying to salvage, desperately. Jihoon sees the hoard of dishes in the sink from your failed attempts, and as always, he goes over to help soothe you while making sure that there's edible food for everyone. He calls your name, seeing you flinch and look at him apologetically. "I'm so sorry, I was just trying to make a simple breakfast since you always cook but I can't seem to get it right. I didn't mean to wake you up or make such a mess." You start apologizing profusely, but he stops you by calling your name softly. "You don't have to cook when I can, you already do so much for this family, it's only right that you don't have to worry about this." He says, and thanks you for trying anyway.

Since he took over the cooking, you go to wake Anya in the meantime. By the time breakfast's ready, Jihoon sets the table to see that the two of you have come out of the room. After a peaceful breakfast, he thinks his day will proceed as expected after he fixed the fiasco this morning. He's interrupted by Becky, Anya's friend, who comes knocking at their door followed by her bodyguard, Martha. "Surprise!!! Anya! Let's go shopping today!" Jihoon sees his daughter eager to escape his nagging and lets her go for today, deciding it beneficial for her to bond with the Blackbell heiress.

Now that his routine of trying to get his daughter to study is out of the sequence, Jihoon thinks it a good thing, maybe I can get some paperwork done. He's interrupted from his thoughts when the phone rings, and he goes to pick it up since you're doing the dishes. "Jihoon, it's an emergency, your presence is required immediately." When he hears The Handler say, he informs you that he has an emergency at the hospital and rushes to meet with her.

Meanwhile, you are in the middle of doing the dishes when the phone rings again. When you pick it up, you realise it's a call from The Garden. A high priority mission, they say, an escort job like the last time on the cruise. Except this time, neither the client nor anyone else can know about your presence since it is going to be at the airport, the client will be departing on a "business trip" to leave the country. The client is reportedly a spy, which confuses you as to why The Garden would try to protect a spy. When you voice your confusion, they tell you, "She may be a spy, but the Red Circus should not get their hands on her as they will use her death as a political instigation to start a war against Westalis." The prospect of a war makes you determined to ensure this mission goes well, after all, the very reason you do this work is to prevent a war from hurting your family. It's different from your previous missions though, it requires you to be in disguise. "Additionally, you will have a team of three with you, all in disguise. It's a very sensitive mission and we cannot compromise our people or the client, so make sure no one recognizes you. No one should know any of you were there. She's leaving tomorrow." Those words keep playing inside your head as you try to figure out how to handle this.

At the WISE hideout, Jihoon is in the middle of a meeting where they are discussing the details of the new mission. "This mission is different from our previous ones, it's an escort mission." What? Jihoon questions if he heard that correctly. As if seeing right through him, The Handler looks right at him as she says, "That's right. An escort mission. The woman you see on the screen is one of our aides, Maya, who has been compromised. By that, I don't mean that she was discovered by the State Security, it is the Red Circus." That revelation catches Jihoon off-guard. "How?" He hears one of his colleagues question, as he wonders the same. "You see, she is an official with a family that no one would have suspected. As it turns out, her husband is part of the Red Circus and the two found out about each other's identities during the recent ruckus caused by the Red Circus, when she warned us about their activity." Once again, Jihoon is baffled. "How is that possible? Did she not see any signs during the time they were together?" The same colleague questions again. "He seems to have been with them since the very beginning and concealed his identity far better than any of us could have expected. We cannot always account for all the variables in life." Everyone seems stunned by The Handler's words, to think that the Red Circus had people that were so capable to fool a WISE aide for that long, it made Jihoon shiver just imagining the kind of damage they could do.

"Your mission is to ensure that she is escorted safely out of Ostalis, we cannot leave our aides to fend for themselves in times of danger like these. Leaving her in the hands of the Red Circus could cause the very war we're trying to prevent. They will use her death as the turning point to achieve their goals, painting it as Westalis' job and destroy this fragile peace between the two countries. You will be a team of four, with Twilight leading the mission. She will be leaving tomorrow for a "business trip", ensure that she boards her flight safely." With that, The Handler dismisses everyone. On the way home, Jihoon's mind is plagued by the weight of the situation, as it dawns on him just how badly the situation could escalate if anything goes wrong tomorrow.

When he gets home, he sees you cooking, again, despite his words this morning. Surprisingly though, his worries vanish when he sees that you managed to make something edible this time. "You look tired, I wanted to lessen your workload since you were called in for an emergency even during the weekend." Hearing your words, he smiles at you, thanking you for doing this for him. By the time you both are done eating, the bell rings and you see Anya in Martha's arms, in deep sleep. When Jihoon sighs at the sight, you just smile, endeared by them. Jihoon apologises to Martha, taking Anya in his arms and puts her to bed. Later, when both of you are in your rooms trying to sleep, you realise that even though the normalcy in your lives distracted you for a bit, the two of you are very much wide awake thinking about the severity of the mission tomorrow.

Monday morning arrives, with the two of you alert and awake. Jihoon goes to make breakfast while you wake up Anya and get her ready for school. Despite the mission ahead, you manage to maintain pleasantries the whole morning. You both send Anya off to school and part ways to get to work yourselves.

Anya, sitting in her school bus, is worried. She couldn't read her parents' minds today, it was a full moon after all. Even though everything seemed normal, both her father and mother seemed distracted. It bothered her that she didn't know the reason. She soon forgets about this once she gets to school and meets her friend, Becky.

You reach the City Hall on time as if you were here on your everyday work. Once inside though, your superior calls you in for an "errand".

"You will be disguised as Kira Blair, an American here on a vacation returning home this afternoon." Says your manager, pointing at the wig, scarf, mask, lenses and clothes.

Once you get changed into your disguise and step out, you are met with the sight of your teammates all in disguise, similar to you. This may be a different mission, but it's nothing you can't handle. You repeat those words in your head as you head to the airport.

Jihoon's team arrives at the airport around the same time your team is queuing up to enter the airport. As you enter, you discreetly look for your client and any possible attackers. Ironically, Jihoon stands a few steps away from you doing the same. When you pass by him at the security, Jihoon pauses, taken aback. Something about you feels so familiar but he cannot put a name on it. Before he can think about this more, you move further down the line while Jihoon finally spots the target. She's on the other side of the security check, alert and cautious of her surroundings.

You finish your security check when you spot Maya, making your way into a clothing store nearby while keeping your eye on her. Once Jihoon finishes his check in, he moves towards a restaurant close to the seating area where Maya is waiting for her flight.

You see your teammates moving around when you spot someone glancing at your client. At the same time, Jihoon spots someone moving towards her. This causes both of you to be on high alert, ready to move when you see the two passengers slip past Maya and head towards the gate open for a flight that is about to take off.

However, the two of you remain on high alert with that incident, keeping an eye on the surroundings while ensuring you don't make it obvious. Just then, Jihoon spots one of your teammates, nothing about him screams danger but to his trained eye, it is obvious that this person is not an ordinary passenger. He immediately straightens up, even more cautious, keeping an eye on him while trying to scope out the area to see if there are any more people like him.

You, on the other hand, spot one of Jihoon's teammates. Your gut screams at you that something is off, and when you look at your surroundings, a chill runs through your spine. Your senses alert, making you realise that the atmosphere is weirdly calm. Almost as if everyone is at complete ease but when you focus, none of them really are.

While you think of what your next course of action can be, Jihoon senses that the entire waiting area seems subtly alert. He couldn't pick up on this earlier, didn't think of this as soon as he walked in. He sharpens when he realises that the people here are far more skilled than he imagined.

You tap into your in ear monitor informing your team about your realisation. "There is a suspicious individual, he's wearing blue and is hovering around the sofa where Maya is seated." Having only identified one suspicious individual, you decide to lure him out to a closed space. "Kai, lure him into the washrooms and try to test him but do not alert anyone, please be careful not to involve anyone else."

Jihoon observes Kai moving towards his teammate, Lar and informs his team. "One suspicious individual identified, he's wearing a pink shirt and is currently moving towards Lar. Everyone, remain alert, we cannot cause a commotion here. Lar, be careful not to involve any civilians, we need to handle this carefully." While both sides trust their teammates to handle this, the teams still remain on high alert. You and Jihoon watch as your colleagues head inside an empty washroom, waiting with bated breath for them to come out safely.

A few minutes pass and when neither of you see your comrade come out, you both immediately spring into action. The moment both of your teams move, is when everyone recognizes there are more people. Apart from you and Jihoon, who are hidden in the restaurant and the clothing store, the rest of your teammates are exposed to each other due to their positions. With the realisation that your teams are exposed, you and Jihoon, as the leaders, take charge to keep your teams safe while keeping your positions in the dark.

Directing your teams to move, you and Jihoon check to see that Maya hasn't caught onto the commotion yet, nor has anyone else, thankfully. With no one having any weapons on their person, it all depends upon their physical combat. However, none can afford to draw attention towards themselves.

As you give instructions to your teammates, you realise that your every move is being countered, as if someone else was watching and instructing them too. Every time someone moves from your side, the enemy is already moving away. This fact has you looking around to find the other person, to see if your intuition was right, yet, you cannot find them.

At the restaurant, Jihoon is in a similar position, having observed how every move they make was countered, he could tell that there must be another person on their opponent's team instructing their teammates. He too, tries to find them to no avail.

Deciding to retreat for now, both teams move discreetly, enough to still keep an eye on the target but away from each other to not raise any suspicion. When your team is safe, you instruct them to lay low, deciding that the safety of the client is more important than eliminating the enemy. Jihoon too, instructs his team to focus on ensuring the target is safe over prioritising the enemy's defeat.

After the bitter withdrawal from the team fight, both teams refocus on their mission—escorting Maya safely out of this country. Still, everyone is extremely cautious, believing the other to be the enemy, all remain in complete awareness of Maya's movements as well as the enemy's movements.

Just as you and Jihoon contemplate how to proceed with the mission, an announcement interrupts you. "The flight to France departing at 14:30, boarding starts in ten minutes." You just have to keep her safe for these ten minutes and ensure she boards the flight safely. With the boarding time about to start, your teams are once again on the lookout for any threats near the target.

Seeing Maya move to get in line, Nora, one of your teammates, and Posie, one of Jihoon's teammtes, move closer to remain in the vicinity to protect her in case of any attacks. While they move, you and Jihoon remain in your spots, concealed from the enemy while trying to search for each other. Boarding starts in two minutes and the mission will soon be over, yet, neither of you can relax knowing that there are so many people here for reasons unknown.

A sound makes you and Jihoon pause, as the both of you turn towards the noise, realising it was just a child crying out loud, you both lock eyes. In that moment, both of you realise that you have found the person you were looking for. No one else would have reacted with that speed, but the fact that you did, gave you away to each other. Now knowing each other's positions, the two of you move to get away, because you cannot afford to confront each other and cause chaos in that critical moment.

"I've been exposed, I'm moving towards a quieter area, keep me updated with the progress of the mission." you say to your team.

"I've been compromised, I'll be farther away, keep me posted with the mission progress." Jihoon relays to his team as he continues to wonder why your eyes keep bugging him, almost as if something on the back of his mind is trying to remind him who you are.

You quietly move towards the restricted area, choosing a quieter place in case you are found again. Jihoon too, swiftly moves to the same area. You both are turning corners from the opposite sides when you, once again, lock eyes with each other. That is when Jihoon realises who you are, the person he saw at the entrance. He thought there was something so familiar about you, looking at you now, he wonders why he still feels that way, maybe because she's the enemy and my instincts recognised that, he reasons. Still, there's something about your eyes that feels so familiar and yet, he cannot tell because it looks like you have colored lenses on.

Knowing you have nowhere to go now, the two of you walk towards each other, sizing each other up, trying to decide how to go about this whole ordeal without airport security catching you. Once you get close enough to attack, you take out your hair pin to strike him while Jihoon tries to knock you out, only for both of your attacks to be useless against the other. When you realise this and change tactics, Jihoon manages to land an attack that has your mask slipping from the tips of your ears and your scarf tumbling down, exposing your face to him. In that moment, he is stunned, completely immobile; while you, despite being confused over his sudden inability to move, take the chance to strike at him, your hairpin accidentally hitting his face. The next moment, his disguise falls apart too, revealing the face of your enemy.

The two of you pause, a million questions running through your minds, confused and shocked beyond words. You think to yourself, what the hell is your husband doing here? All the while Jihoon is trying to understand the situation, because really, what in the world is his wife doing in front of him at this place? You both are brought back to reality when you hear your teammates reporting that Maya has successfully boarded the plane and it took off safely. With your teams urging for you to get back, you turn around, fix your disguises and revert because at that moment, it's all either of you can think of doing.

Getting back to your teams, both you and Jihoon stay silent, not answering your teams' questions. Still in shock, neither of you know how to move forward, but you're both keeping quiet about the whole situation, subconsciously. It is then that the thought hits you, you don't want to expose Jihoon. At the same time, he too realises that he does not wish to reveal your identity. That realisation keeps you both numb through the journey back to report to your organisations.

At WISE hideout, Jihoon and his team are gathered in front of The Handler, running through the course of events. When one of his colleagues mentions the other team discovering his position, Jihoon explains that he took cover in a restricted area and left the premises when his team reported the mission to be complete. On the way back home, he realises the weight of the lie he just told his comrades. If they were to find out what he did, not only would your life be in danger, but his too. After all, he would be suspected of treason. Still, he can't bring himself to expose the information that he, unfortunately, gained today.

At The Garden headquarters, you stand before The Shopkeeper while the rest of the team recaps the incident to him. Your coworkers mention that you were discovered, and The Shopkeeper turns to you to explain further. Your brain autopilots and launches into an explanation where you omit the confrontation altogether. On your way back, you realise that you hid the fact that your husband was the enemy from all of The Garden without hesitation. It dawns on you that your decision to do so could cost you both yours and your husband's lives, with you branded as the very traitor you so desperately tried to avoid being named as.

You reach home earlier than he does, seeing Anya watching her cartoons, your heart aches for her. Your thoughts spiral as you think of who he works for, why he does what he does and what this means for the two of you and for Anya, what happens to this family that you've built. If he truly is part of the Red Circus, why? Is there no way to make him turn away? Just then, the bell rings and your spine straightens as you prepare yourself for what might come. Anya rushes to the door, opening it and welcoming her father with a bright smile. He smiles at her as he walks in, then proceeds to scold her for not studying like she should be.

It feels surreal, the way everything seemed normal at that moment, like nothing happened, as if the two of you did not just discover something life changing about each other a few hours ago. When he looks up and meets your eyes, his gaze lacks the usual warmth, you realise. Of course, that is to be expected and yet, why does it hurt so much? Why does him looking at you like you're a stranger pinch at your heart so bad?

Standing in front of you, Jihoon sees the anger and pain in your eyes. It makes him see his own feelings mirroring yours. He should never have hidden the truth from his team, he should have killed you the moment he realised who you were, the moment you found out who he was. Yet, here he is, standing in front of you, in this place he has called home for the past year, feeling hopeless at the mere thought of you. He questions himself again, because why does the sight of you in front of him like this feel like betrayal? Why does seeing the pain in your eyes make him feel as if his heart has been ripped apart?

Anya sees the expressions on her parents' faces and is frustrated she cannot read their minds, not knowing the reason behind their discomfort makes her upset. Seeing how your daughter seems down, you both do your best to put her to sleep since you both know you can't have this confrontation in her presence. Once Anya's asleep, the two of you step outside her room, turning around immediately, pointing weapons at each other. You smirk to yourself wryly, wondering how you ended up in this position, with a gun to your head while you point one to your husband's.

"Who are you?" Jihoon asks, that question plagued his mind throughout the day, ruining him.

"I could ask you the same." You reply, having had the same thought mess with your mind for the entire day.

Jihoon presses closer, his patience running thin as he thinks of how wrong the mission could have gone. Seeing his aggression, you push against his chest with your gun, just the thought of a possible war making the rage in you explode.

The tension in the room is so thick it could cut through mountains. You stand in place, staring at each other as if it could give you all the answers you seek. It's only when the power suddenly goes off that you realise what you were doing, neither of you pulled the trigger when you both could have done so easily. Instead, you were still, as if time stopped while you desperately search for answers in each other's faces.

With the room now pitch black, you could no longer see each other's faces causing you to be alarmed. Immediately taking a defensive position, since you now know you're enemies, both of you assume this was a situation planned by the other to eliminate you. No longer being able to use your guns without causing a commotion, you abandon them to lunge at each other like you did earlier today. Except this time, he knows you use blades and dodges your attack just as you dodge his arm trying to tackle you. As you and Jihoon continue to attack each other to no avail, you curse in your minds at how difficult it is to even land a single hit.

Right, she's always been abnormally strong, Jihoon thinks to himself. He remembers the first time you two met, no wonder I couldn't sense her presence back then, it was because she's trained to hide it. He berates himself for not questioning it sooner, for not being more cautious while observing how swift and strong you truly are in this moment.

As you continue to attack him, you too realise just how quick he is and how it seems like he can read your moves, it pisses you off more than you already are. A thought pops into your mind, I let my guard down around him to the point I never realised how strong he was. That night where you both rescued Anya from the military forces and he flew a jet saying he once had a part time job that taught him to, you believed him, you believed him. Every single time, you trusted him without hesitation. It hits you how foolish you've been, not identifying any of the signs, letting him play you for a fool and your anger surges again.

When you lunge at him harder this time, Jihoon can feel it, the raw rage behind the attack, and the shock locks him in place as you manage to tackle him to the ground. Falling on his back, Jihoon braces himself for the impact of your blade against his skin but feels none. After what feels like an hour, he opens his eyes and is met with the sight of your trembling hand holding your blade against his neck but not cutting. You had the chance to kill him but didn't, the realisation has him stunned yet again.

You, on the other hand, are struggling with the torment of your conflicting emotions. Your mind says to kill, he is a traitor, the enemy, but your heart aches at the thought of killing your husband. With your mind in turmoil, you struggle to keep your grip on Jihoon. Your body betrays your exhaustion when the blade slips from your grasp and falls to the ground. Once again, you and Jihoon are frozen in place, trying to piece the situation together. It's at that moment when the lights turn back on and you can see each other's expressions clearly. The anger, the pain, the confusion, the shock, they all mix together as you try to figure out your next step.

You both rise to your feet immediately when you hear the door opening, Anya walks out rubbing her eyes. When she sees you both standing there looking all awkward, she frowns and asks, "Mama, Papa, what are you doing here?" As you both fumble to come up with an explanation, she yawns and proceeds to go to the washroom, deciding it's just you two being your weird selves. Seeing her walk away, you both sigh in relief but immediately turn to glare at each other. It's insane how Anya makes you forget your situation, making you realise how deeply involved you both have become in this family.

Knowing Anya will come back out any moment, you both stay in place, not wanting to involve an innocent child in your affairs. Once she comes back, she uncharacteristically asks to sleep with you. Unable to refuse her, you take her to bed giving Jihoon a look that signals this is far from over. Deciding to continue this tomorrow, Jihoon moves back to his room. Anya is in deep sleep while you're wide awake, questioning how your life has turned upside down within the span of twenty four hours. Jihoon too, cannot find it in him to sleep for the second night in a row because you plague his thoughts, refusing to let his guard down.

At this point, neither of you have realised that you have not reported each other to your organisations, both assuming that you did and that your organisations assigned you to eliminate the other.

Morning comes and you are both wide awake, having not slept a wink the previous night. Knowing you have to send Anya to school, you and Jihoon pretend everything is exactly how it was yesterday, using the normalcy of your lives in this family as an excuse to avoid the inevitable. He makes breakfast while you get Anya ready, that's how everyday goes and you both try to keep it that way today too.

Anya wakes up to you gently calling her, she rubs her eyes adjusting to the morning light when she hears you think, because it hits you now, the chaos of yesterday did not allow time for you to think about it but now, looking at Anya, you wonder, what will happen to Anya if you kill Jihoon? She would be devastated, surely. You question how Anya ended up under his care, slowly starting to wonder if anything you've known was ever true. As Anya hears your train of thoughts, she pales. The very thing she's spent a year trying to prevent, her parents finding out each others' identities, has come true. You see Anya's complexion looking haggard and worry, "Anya, are you okay? Do you feel sick? Are you hurt anywhere?" However, Anya cannot hear any of your words right now. She is panicking at the thought of what this could mean to your family, terrified she'll be abandoned again.

When you see her not responding to you despite you calling her name multiple times, your insticts kick in as you yell for Jihoon. "JIHOON!" He, who was in the middle of cooking, startles to hear you cry out for him, but his body moves before his mind can catch up. He runs to the room on reflex, and when he sees Anya, he understands immediately. His daughter looks as if she saw a ghost, you explain to him that she's not responding and he can see you losing your mind over it. You've always been very cautious around Anya, taking care of her like she's made of glass, he's seen you freak out over smaller things before and he realises why you yelled out for him so desperately. You love and adore Anya and seeing her unresponsive sent you into a state of panic that he's never seen you in before. He goes over to Anya, taking her into his arms while you try your best to keep yourself from crying. He tries talking to Anya when she suddenly bursts into tears, and it stuns both of you into silence. She weeps like never before and you have no idea what caused her so much pain but it breaks you heart to see your daughter break down like that.

As she continues to sob, you and Jihoon try your best to placate her the best you can.

"What's wrong, Anya? Why are you crying?" Jihoon tries to ask but receives no reply.

"How about this? I'll make you your favorite hamburger steak tonight, okay?" He tries to calm her with food but unlike every other time, his daughter doesn't react. Seeing this, Jihoon panics because because neither of you know how to make her stop crying. Just as he's racking his brain for a solution, he hears Anya mumble.

"A-Anya's scared."

Her words confuse you, what got her so scared that she's crying so much? Did she have a nightmare? That would explain it.

"W-will you l-leave Anya?"

Her words shock you, and you immediately ask, "Why would you think that?"

"B-because y-you," Anya pauses when she remembers she can't say that she knows your identities.

"Because Mama and Papa are fighting."

You and Jihoon immediately look at each other, wondering if she accidentally saw you battling each other. No, she was asleep and neither of you made a single sound that could have woken her up. Anya watches you two, reading your thoughts as her worries increase with your reactions.

"Why do you think we're fighting?" You ask her.

"You both look so serious and scary."

Hearing her say that, you both berate yourselves for not concealing your emotions better. Even though she is probably more sensitive to the tension between you as she is attuned to living with you, if a child can sense the difference, anyone can. Immediately, Jihoon tries to reassure her that's not the case.

"We're not fighting Anya, and we won't leave you. Don't worry about it, okay?"

Even though she knows he's lying about you not fighting, she wants to trust his words of not leaving her.

She looks at you as if asking you if that's true, and you soften. "He's right Anya, we won't leave you."

It's only then that she decides to trust you both.

"Promise?"

You and Jihoon look at each other and then at her, "Promise."

She reads your thoughts and realises you mean it, she cannot undo the fact that you now know each other's identities and she knows you will probably fight each other but she can tell, neither of you plan to abandon her.

"Do you want to go to school?" You ask, wondering if she can go in this state.

Anya shakes her head, she doesn't want to leave you two alone, scared you might kill each other.

You look at Jihoon, "I can stay and take care of her."

"I want to stay with both of you." You hear Anya say.

Jihoon looks conflicted, both of you staying together and pretending everything is fine is not something either of you wish to do. He sighs, softening when he sees the look on Anya's face.

"Okay, we can stay home today. I'll make your favorite and you can watch cartoons. Will that make you feel better?"

Anya brightens, nodding with a smile when she hears your thoughts, Will we be able to convince her that we're okay? Anya makes it her mission to make you both reconcile by the end of the day.

Now that all of you are going to stay home for the day, you and Jihoon make calls to let your superiors know that you won't be coming in today. They're surprised to say the least, especially when you mention that it is because your daughter is not feeling well.

Meanwhile, Anya tries her best to think of ways to make you and Jihoon reconcile. She finds Jihoon cooking the steak as he promised and rushes over to him. She looks up at him and says the words that make his world stop, "Anya doesn't want Mama and Papa to break up."

At the moment she says these words, you walk in to the hall and pause. Sensing your presence, Jihoon looks at you and sees the conflict in your eyes. He's sure his own eyes reflect the same turmoil. How are you supposed to continue to pretend to be a couple? The betrayal you both feel is impossible to leave behind and continue with your lives.

He must have reported yesterday's incident, if he doesn't kill me, his people will probably show up to do it instead. Anya hears you think, I should have done the same, what was I thinking hiding the fact that my husband was the enemy on the field?

At the same time, Jihoon wonders how long it would take before your people decide to eliminate him if you don't. Trying to think of places where they would probably try to intercept him, he plans to avoid them all. If he is killed, his team would be in danger, not knowing who found out his identity since he did not report the situation.

Anya, having heard both of your thoughts, realises that neither of you have revealed each other's identities to anyone else. It also seems like neither of you plan to do so anytime soon. It makes her overjoyed, even more determined to make you both reconcile.

You both break out of your thoughts when you hear Anya say, "I want to watch cartoons with Mama and Papa."

As you all sit on the sofa watching her favorite cartoon, with the two of you side by side as per Anya's request, you try your best to keep calm. However, the thoughts never subside, keeping you distracted and it shows when Anya looks at you both again. She sees how hard you're trying and failing to pretend all is well.

She makes you both play games with her, eat with her and spend the day as you would before this tension arose. By the end of the day, you both have managed to convince your daughter that you're not going to abandon her but Anya goes to bed disappointed that she could not make you both reconcile. She could hear you both thinking and she knew that your argument was far from over.

Once you made sure Anya was asleep, you turn to each other just like you did the previous night, except this time, neither of you make a move to fight. Having just spent the entire day with Anya, you don't have it in you to continue your argument from last night. You and Jihoon return to your own rooms, deciding to leave it be for now. It's only when you're both lying in bed, exhausted from having not slept for the past two days along with all the emotional stress you felt, that you remember you just turned your back to your enemy. He could have killed me at that moment, I let my guard down again even after knowing what he's capable of, you realise with horror. In his room, Jihoon is struck with the same thought, I've gotten used to this life, to her, I have to be more careful. Yet, neither you nor Jihoon realise that the other did the same, that you're both equally immersed in this family you've built.

It's Wednesday morning, and this time, everything seems normal when you get Anya ready while Jihoon makes breakfast. You eat together and see Anya off, but you don't greet each other like you usually do. You have been trying to ignore each other's presence while also being hyper aware the entire morning. You both get to work, going through the day as usual while trying to fight the thoughts that threaten to plague your minds.

When you get home, you go through the same routine, ignore each other's existence while pretending nothing has changed. That night, you lie awake again, this time, your anger rising again as you think about all the signs that you missed. The time he came dripping with blood to your colleague's party, it was only your second time meeting and yet, you didn't question him. The amount of times he had "emergencies" at the hospital, when he came home with injuries and claimed he had difficult patients, now that you think about it, what psychiatrist faces so many injuries so often? You feel angry at yourself for letting yourself be tricked so easily, he didn't even bother to try to make himself less suspicious. The thought irritates you, to think he thought you so easy to fool.

Jihoon is in a very similar position, thinking of all the times he thought you were suspicious but brushed it off as nothing. The times you came home so late, your unbelievable strength, he wonders how he was so stupid. He has always been two steps ahead, he was the one who fooled others, not the other way round. Yet, you got him this time, seeing you at one of his missions standing opposite to him as an enemy was something he never even imagined could happen. He feels angry at himself for putting his people in danger, it's his fault he didn't see through you. Another thought pops into his mind that makes him sit up straight, your brother, Yuri. He's a State Security Service agent, he always thought you didn't know about his job, but now he wonders, what if you did? If you tell your brother about him, Jihoon and his entire team would be compromised. With this thought, he makes up his mind to disclose your identity to The Handler tomorrow. Not once does it cross his mind that if you truly are a criminal, there is no way you would disclose your identity to a State Security Service agent since it would put you in danger, even if he's your brother.

The next morning proceeds like every other day, but this time, you're both angry again. You go to the City Hall when one of your superiors calls you in for a meeting. You wonder if they know, and the thought makes you more anxious as you realise that you still don't want to reveal your husband's treachery. Just as you're about to ask why you were called, you hear him say, "Our sources say that the people you encountered during your last mission were not from the Red Circus." Those words make you feel relieved, so he's not a criminal. Then that leaves one option, he must work for the State Security Service, it makes sense that they would try to eliminate a spy. Just as you think this, your superior continues, "They're not from the State Security Service either, they wouldn't have bothered disguising themselves." Your confusion must have shown on your face because he clarifies, "They're most likely from WISE, Westalis' intelligence agents."

The revelation leaves you horrified, he's a spy, I married a spy in order to not be suspected as a spy. You realise how ironic the situation is, an assassin and a spy posing as a married couple to hide their identities, even from each other. You school your features, trying your best to not show your emotions in front of your boss. Our marriage was probably the shield he used to secure his identity. The rage in you intensifies, to think that you have been living with a spy, you helped this man avoid suspicion, it disgusts you.

"I'm telling you this because you should be careful, we cannot guarantee what they would do if they found out The Garden is real."

Hearing this, you don't know what to do anymore. Just as you felt relived that your husband was not a criminal, you find out he's a spy. The confirmation that he's still an enemy leaves you devastated. "We still don't know why they were there, although, it is highly likely that they were there for the same reason as we were, to protect their spy." You leave work with many thoughts, confused and horrified more than ever.

When Jihoon goes to see The Handler, he doesn't get the chance to say a thing as he is ushered into a meeting with everyone from the team that went on the last mission. With everyone there, The Handler speaks, "This is about the team you encountered during the mission. Our sources confirm they're not from the Red Circus or the State Security Service."

This statement stirs confusion among all the agents, and one of Jihoon's teammates speaks up, "They can't possibly be some random group of criminals, they were far too observant and well trained for that." Everyone agrees and The Handler continues, "You're right, they're most likely from this organisation called The Garden."

Now, that has every single person in the room stunned, "Weren't they just a myth?" Somebody questions but Jihoon is too far gone to register who it is. The revelation rings in his mind as he realises he's both relieved and utterly horrified at the prospect of his wife being part of an organisation so secretive and dangerous, no one knows any details about them. On his way home, he's dazed and overwhelmed by this new knowledge of how terrifying you truly are.

Standing in front of the door to your house, you hesitate. Unlike all these days, you now know there is a spy on the other side of this door. You know he's home, you took your time returning because you couldn't face him just yet. Just the thought of it sends shivers down your spine. You don't know what to believe anymore, despite having been trained not to trust anyone in this world, you never imagined there would be a day where that person would be your sweet husband. Not so sweet anymore, you think to yourself bitterly at the thought of his cold eyes gazing into yours.

The Red Circus were originally advocating for equality but turned to terrorism after their people were killed, their main goal is to get Ostania to acknowledge their greivances and escape to safety. You were trying to reason with yourself about why your husband would be one of their members, but now? Now you know he's a spy, he was always the enemy. You remember the times everyone around you spoke about how spies are here with no other inention but to cause war. He's going to ruin the peace in this country, he's going to do the very thing I spent my life trying to avoid. You think to yourself as the anger inside you itches to stop him, Tonight, tonight I will kill him, no matter what it takes, for Anya, for Yuri, for every innocent soul in Ostania. Determined, you open the door and walk in.

The sight that greets you has you stopping in your tracks— Anya is laughing as she runs around the house playing with Bond, your dog, and Jihoon, he's watching them with an exasperated expression on his face but you can see the fondness in his eyes that he probably doesn't realise he's showing. It makes you realise that this man, this spy, no matter what his relationship is with Anya, truly cares for her. The sight that was once so normal everyday, now has you filled with emotions so intense you can't remember why you were so angry. You cannot imagine what would happen if Anya didn't have her father around anymore, just the thought of her tears makes you question if this is the only way, you don't want to be the reason for her pain. She's so much like Yuri when we were young, what would Yuri have done if I didn't return from one of my missions? I can't do that to Anya, I just can't, but what about the other kids in this country? What of the innocent people who will lose their lives in the war? Your thoughts spiral as you try to choose between saving your family and saving your country.

Jihoon sees you standing at the door and calls out to you, "Why are you just standing there?" You look at him, the way he's acting like nothing has changed, how, just for a moment, it felt like you were back to the time before this chaos. Hearing him, Anya turns to you and runs into your arms. She seems especially happy today and you cannot help but indulge her. No matter what happens, she will always be your daughter. I love this little girl, I won't let anything happen to her. You decide that you will protect her at all costs, against anyone who dares hurt her, just like you did with Yuri. You just don't know how to protect her from the pain you will inevitably end up causing her when you kill Jihoon.

Unbeknownst to you, Anya was trying her best to make everything seem normal because she wants her parents to go back to how they were. Jihoon was trying his best to keep calm, he didn't know how to deal with this situation now that he knew you weren't a criminal. You were a lot like him, trying to keep the peace within this country, in your own way. That thought made him want to try and work this out, he didn't want to endanger his team but he also wanted to keep his family safe for the sake of his mission, or so he tells himself. He hoped he could talk to you tonight. When Anya heard her father's thoughts, it made her overjoyed and she was hopeful about keeping this family intact. When she heard you think about how much you love this family too, she was over the moon and too distracted to hear you think about killing Jihoon. She goes to sleep content with the progress between you.

Facing Jihoon, you're contemplating everything again, What if he kills me instead? What will happen if we both die? Who would take care of Anya? What about Yuri? Where would Bond go? You know there is a high chance of that happening, he's very skilled, you're both pretty much equally matched. Jihoon calls your name and when you look up at him, something's different. His eyes are not cold anymore, there's that warmth you're so used to, and that confuses you to no end. Why is he looking at me like that? Why does he look like he's not angry anymore?

Jihoon sees the confusion in your eyes, he also felt your murder intent right before he called your name. He wonders, does she know I'm a spy? Does she hate me? She probably does. Why wouldn't she? She married me because she didn't want people to mistake her as a spy. If she found out she married one, she would obviously want to get rid of me. Just as he thinks that, you lunge at him, he dodges on instinct but it pains him. He can tell you know, he can see it on your face, the raw emotions that you no longer supress, much stronger than before.

He continues to dodge your attacks, deciding to let you just take your anger out on him. You continue to strike at him with your hairpin, trying to kick him, punch him, you try everything you can. You hesitated because of Anya but when you saw him looking at you like he did before all this, you lost it. It reminded you of how he lied about everything, you don't see your lovely husband anymore, you see the manipulative monster who was planning to destroy your life and many others with a war. Nothing he can say or do will ever make you forgive him, you will never be able to trust him again. Granted, you lied to him too, but you were trying to protect the very peace he chooses to ruin. You will do whatever it takes to stop this man tonight, even if you die trying.

As time passes, you realize he has no intention of attacking you, all he's doing is dodge you and you cannot begin to comprehend why. Why does it seem like he doesn't want to hurt me? It makes no sense though, there's no way he cares, not now, not after everything that has happened. His attempts at calming you down only fuel your rage further, making you charge at him harder.

When Jihoon sees that you're not going to stop, it looks like she wants to kill me tonight, no matter what, he tries to think of how he can try to get you to hear him out. As he gets distracted by that thought for a split second, you manage to land a hit on his arm, slashing his skin with your blade and blood oozes out of his bicep. Jihoon stiffens for just a second before he just lets you be, he decides that if this is what it takes for you to calm down so you both can talk, then he's just going to let you strike him.

You, on other hand, are completely frozen at the sight of him bleeding, it causes your brain to spiral into a frenzy of thoughts of him hurting because of you. You feel a sharp tinge of pain in your chest at that, you can't hurt him, even if he's a spy, even if he ends up ruining your people, you cannot bring yourself to do it. It dawns on you that you've come to care for this man so deeply that your heart twists painfully at even just the thought of him in pain. You were planning to kill him, but how can you? When you can't even bare the slight scratch you just made on his arm?

Jihoon sees you tremble, on the verge of tears, and he's confused, why are you crying suddenly? You were so full of rage and determination just a few seconds ago, what happened? It's when he follows your gaze to his wound that he realizes why, and his heart aches at the thought of you berating yourself for hurting him.

He calls your name softly, your eyes snap to his and that's when you break, your body fails you as you fall to the ground, the weight of your emotions draining everything from you. Jihoon rushes to catch you, he holds you gently as you cry, trying to make sense of what happened and how he can comfort you.

As you cry, you register that he's holding you, so gently as if you'll break if he holds you any tighter, and you start hitting his chest with no actual strength, trying to convey how unfair this is. He lets you, he understands how you must be feeling, it kills him to know that he's reason for you current state.

After a few minutes, Jihoon hears you murmur, "Why did it have to be you?" He doesn't know how to answer, he wishes so badly that you two never met, if only he could go back in time, you would never have to face this. Taking in his silence, you question him, because you need to know, "Why do you want to start a war? Why can't we just live peacefully?" The word 'war' causes Jihoon to freeze and you feel it, when you look up at him, he looks like he's confused and terrified. You don't understand why but he speaks up before you can voice your confusion, "Who told you that?"

"Huh?"

"Who told you I wanted to start a war?"

"I-I, that's, I just heard people say that spies are here for that reason alone."

He calls your name, "Look at me," and when you look at his face, "I have no intention of starting a war, the only reason I do what I do is to prevent one from ever happening."

His words shock you, "What? How is that possible?"

He looks pained at the accusation, "I would never hurt the people like that, trust me."

Trust me, those words make it more painful for you, because how can you? You convey your thoughts to him, "How can I believe anything you say when everything about you is a lie? How do I know you're not lying to me at this moment too?"

Jihoon feels stuck, he doesn't know how he can convince you that he's not lying, he gets why you cannot trust anything he says. How did our lives come to this? When he doesn't answer, you push him away, and Jihoon just watches you move away from him. "If you can't even answer that, then there's no point in trying, please stop pretending you care." You turn to go back into your room and sleep the day off because you don't have it in you to do anything else right now.

Lying in bed, you force yourself to sleep because your body is too exhausted for you to lie awake thinking about your situation. Jihoon stays awake for yet another night, it's becoming a routine at this rate, one he's not fond of. He cannot stop thinking about your question and the lack of emotion in your eyes when he couldn't answer. He wishes he did, he wishes he could, but he stayed silent because for once, he, Twilight, did not have a plan. He needs to try again tomorrow, he cannot let this affect his mission or let this situation escalate further until his team is compromised because of his carelessness, at least that's how he reasons to himself.

Next morning, you wake up late and immediately go to get Anya ready; when you both emerge in the hall, Jihoon has set the table and is waiting for you both. You continue to ignore him, placing your attention on Anya entirely. Jihoon tries to talk to you but it becomes obvious to him that you have no intention to hear him out. Seeing this, Anya gets sad but then she hears your thoughts, how both of you just want to live your lives like you have been, and decides that this is good enough.

You get to the City Hall for work as usual when you're called in for another mission. Good, I can get my mind off everything else. "This time, the target is a small town artist." You look at your superior, confused. "He's done quite a good job at pretending that's all he is for the last five years. He's one of the leading members of the association that has been trying to stir up trouble recently. It looks like they've been preparing for a long time. We need to eliminate this group before they do any more damage to our country." Hearing that, you are determined to make sure you succeed. Thankfully, this mission manages to make you forget about your situation at home for a while.

At the WISE quarters, Jihoon is being informed of his latest mission. "The target this time is this boy you see on the screen." The Handler says pointing to the photo of a man wearing a red scarf while trying to cover his face. "He's done a good job at hiding but our agents were able to find out his whereabouts as well as capture his features well. He looks like a college student but really, he's in his thirties, that is how he cleverly evaded the authorities. Your job is to ensure that this "boy" can no longer operate his circle of criminals by tomorrow. Eliminate any point of contact he may have had with any of his members. We want them to panic, they'll make it easier for us to get rid of them. Be careful though, we don't want to risk the safety of innocent citizens." Nodding his head, Jihoon plans exactly how he's going to execute this mission.

Back home, both you and Jihoon are too occupied with the thoughts of your missions looming over your heads that Anya wonders if everything is back to normal. It feels just like before but when she senses the odd tension between you, she realises it's not, not yet at least. She can tell though, it's all going to be fine, she's seen this happen in her cartoons, so she goes to sleep content that things seem to be going well.

Friday afternoon, Jihoon is disguised and heading towards what seems like an old, narrow street. He stops when he spots him, his target. It's baffling how normal he looks, like a college student on his way home for lunch. Jihoon could just take him out right now and no one would know but the words of The Handler ring in his mind, "Eliminate all points of contact, make sure his death does not trigger his group into action." I need to map his circle, and I should be able to get this done by tonight. Jihoon thinks to himself as he trails his target for the day.

Evening rolls around by the time Jihoon has his target exactly where he wants, away from prying eyes and easy to get rid of, in an old alleyway. Just as his target takes a turn around the corner, Jihoon prepares himself to attack when he finds no one upon turning. It hits him then that this mission has been sabotaged, and these people were far more terrifying than he originally imagined. Just then, he senses a presence from behind and turn just in time to block the knife lunging at him. When he looks up, he finds the same man he followed looking at him with a murderous intent so strong, it suffocates him. Immediately, the man launches into a series of attacks that Jihoon manages to defend easily while questioning how this could have happened. There's no way he sensed me trailing him, Jihoon's eyes widen when he realises that there's only one other possibility, there is someone else who has been watching him. I let my guard down, I did not think of the possibility that there could have been another person, but the fact that I did not sense them proves that they're more skilled than we anticipated. As he berates himself for not discovering this sooner, Jihoon tries to locate the person who's helping this man in front of him. It's at that moment when Jihoon hears a shot fired and he instinctively ducks, dodging the bullet meant for him by a narrow shot. The shooter must have thought they could take him out while he was distracted with the attacks he was dealing with, Jihoon smirks to himself, how unfortunate for them, now I know where they are. Having had enough with the man's petty attacks, Jihoon swiftly knocks him out and runs into the building beside him, using the unconcious man as his shield.

Once inside, Jihoon refocuses, his mission was to eliminate this man and his circle, how convenient that the man's teammate decided to make it easier for him by showing up. Jihoon quickly disposes the man's body along with his disguise and moves to locate his partner. He identified that the shooter was seated at the rooftop of the building right opposite to the one he's currently in. Of course, he must have moved after realising he was caught, Jihoon commends them for trying but it's far too easy for him to recognise the pattern. As he rushes to get to the corner of the building where he assumes the shooter is, Jihoon stops in his tracks when he hears commotion nearby. Nobody else should be here at this time, unless, it's more of their teammates. Jihoon cannot tell if it's good or bad that he managed to encounter so many of the group at once. Deciding to deal with them later, he moves towards the shooter when he sees something flash by from the back of his eye. It stuns him in place, a blade, your blade, to be specific.

What the hell are you doing here? Jihoon realises that it really is you when he sees the shine of your blade again. He got so caught up in his thoughts that the shooter has moved again, and this time, when Jihoon sees the pattern again, he's horrified, because the shooter is moving to a position to shoot you. Jihoon cannot get there in time to stop the shooter, so he turns and runs towards where you are. It's his mission to get rid of this group but at that moment, all he can think of is you, the thought of you getting hurt is unbearable and he sprints just in time to see you finishing up with your target.

You had just eliminated your target when you see Jihoon running towards you like a madman, his sudden appearance leaves you still as you question why he's here. Why does he look like he just saw a ghost? Why is he running like that? As you stand there wondering, you both hear it, the gunshot. It hits you too late that the bullet was aimed at you, you brace yourself for the impact when you feel something push you aside and into the corner where the shooter could no longer aim. Frozen from the impact, it takes you a few seconds to process what just happened and when you look up, you find yourself in Jihoon's arms as he looks like he's also trying to compose himself after the entire fiasco. He saved me, he ran like that and pushed me aside to save me, but why? You look at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend the situation for it all happened too quickly.

Jihoon feels like his heart is going to explode, it was pumping so loud when he was running to get to you in time and it stopped for a second when he thought he was too late, and now, it's racing again but with relief, relief that you're alive. He scans your form to see if you're okay when he spots blood and panics; the bullet had managed to scrape your arm, "You're hurt", he says as he finally sees the look on your face. He can see that you're confused and shocked, but the haze behind your eyes worries him. He calls your name, "Look at me, please."

While trying to understand what happened, you feel your head spin, but when you hear his desperate plea, you look up at him, trying to let him know that you're okay. You can feel the symptoms, the bullet was laced with toxins, probably to make the person weak and take longer to recover. You convey this to Jihoon, "I'll be fine, it was just a graze, I just feel a little dizzy, it's not going to do anything to me." Even as you assure him, you cannot stop thinking of why he saved you or why he is so concerned at this moment, even if he didn't want to kill me himself, there was no need for him to save me, more so by running like that, and so desperately.

Jihoon, not so convinced by your words, opens his mouth to argue when you both sense it, someone is coming. Right, the shooter is still out there, but wait, there's no way they would make a move like this, so direct. It hits Jihoon that this is someone else, shit, there are more of them. Why now? While he's thankful he gets to eliminate this group at once, the situation is different now, you're injured and he cannot focus with you like this.

You can see Jihoon's train of thoughts on his face, how have I never realised he wears his emotions so obviously? Or maybe it is just because he's distracted right now. "Focus, Jihoon." Hearing your words, his eyes sharpen, and the Twilight everyone heard about was back. Without another sound, he moves you towards the small alley nearby, "Don't move, please just stay safe." You're about to retort that you can take care of yourself just fine when your head spins again, reminding you of your current state. When you stay silent, Jihoon takes it as you agreeing with him and turns to go deal with these criminals.

You watch as he puts on another mask and walks into the building, hidden from your place where no one can see you. You see Jihoon swiftly deal with the man who was trying to sneak up on the two of you earlier. Even thought you knew he was a spy, watching him in action makes it all surreal, he is scarily calm and unnervingly smart. His cunningness showing when he tricks one of the other men into leaving his safe position by pretending to be his teammate. A shiver runs down your spine, this is the man you've been married to for a year, the man you've been living with, this man who is eliminating a group of armed men with an ease that only comes with experience, the same man who looked rattled at the thought of you bleeding from a graze. Your heart is filled with mixed emotions as you realise this is far more complicated than it should be.

Just then, you spot the shooter again, only this time, you see another one, opposite to where the one who shot you is positioned. Jihoon knows about only one of them, this second one has just arrived from the looks of it and the thought terrifies you, Jihoon does not know. He doesn't know there's another shooter, he's dealing with multiple criminals— he's vulnerable, you can't even scream for him to hear you because he's too far. Desperate and full of adrenaline, you run towards him when you see this shooter aim. There are no other thoughts in your mind except saving Jihoon as you sprint with all your might and this brings everyone's attention to you.

You cannot reach him fast enough due to the toxins slowing your body so you scream, "There's another shooter to the far left on the opposite side, run!" Just as you finish your sentence, it all explodes, bullets start raining from both sides with the targets being you and Jihoon. Thanks to your warning, Jihoon manages to avoid them and runs into the next street while you hide in the building nearby. With the two of you now separated, Jihoon curses himself for not being able to protect you. You left your safe position to warn him because he did not see the other shooter, it was because of him. You put yourself in danger for him. He cannot just stand there and keep pretending to be okay when he knows you clearly aren't.

He feels his rage grow, towards himself for missing so many signs, at you for putting yourself in danger when you were already injured and at these idiots for trying to hurt you, he moves with more aggression this time, and puts everyone who's in his way down as he searches for you desperately. One of them lunges at him with a knife, stupid, Jihoon thinks to himself, he can see the gun attached at the man's waist, he should have used that instead, oh well, let me teach you before you die. Jihoon blocks the man's pathetic attempt at stabbing him and twists the knife out his opponent's hand, breaking the man's wrist in the process. Jihoon kicks him in the stomach and pulls out the gun he saw earlier and shoots the man in the forehead. He proceeds to use that body as his shield from the shooters while using the gun he acquired to take the others out.

On the other side, you feel your body sway but still better than before and decide to look for Jihoon. You're about to step out of the building when you hear a menacing laugh and you turn around to see a woman looking at you like you're stupid to even try. "Well, well, well, what a damsel in distress we have here. What do you think you can do out there, hm? Oh, is that man your partner?" When you don't reply, she continues, "Or is he your lover? You did run to save him, hm, how stupid. Do you really think you both can leave this place alive? That dumb lanky man is probably already dead by now. Didn't you hear the rain of bullets and screams?" Hearing those words, you glare at her and she smirks, "That hit a nerve, huh? Interesting, but oh well, unfortunately for you, you'll never see your man again, you'll die here now." She snickers, "You both will die here in our hands, maybe you'll see each other in the after life. How romantic, isn't it?" As she finishes, she aims her pistol at you, ready to shoot when a blade hits her palm that is holding the gun and a loud scream echoes in the walls of this abandoned building. She was so busy mocking you that she didn't see you taking your blade out to strike her. Watching her crumble to her knees holding her bleeding palm, it's your turn to walk to her as you speak, "The number one rule when fighting is to never, and I mean never, take your eyes off the opponent. Overconfidence like yours will get you killed within seconds, like now." You end your sentence as you slit her throat with your blade. Blood splatters all over the floor as you turn, determined to bury these criminals underground.

Stepping out, you're immediately attacked by two more people, one lunging at you with with his bare fists while the other was holding a knife. Having anticipated this, you swiftly slide across them in a narrow second making them hit each other instead. Without giving them a chance to recover, you take your blades and slash their throats in one go. This has gotten a lot more bloody than I was expecting, you look at the blood splashed everywhere from all the bloodshed, cleaning up is going to be quite tedious, you sigh, moving onto the next enemy who's charging at you from behind.

Jihoon, on the opposite side of the building you took shelter in, is barging his way through the hoard of bullets by shielding himself with the same man's body when a certain thought makes his blood go cold, why and how are so many of them here? It's like a planned ambush with the way they're positioned, his senses sharpen when he realises there's only one possibility, there's a mole, either from your side or mine. He moves faster, determined to get to you, he refuses to think of the possibility that you're dead, no, she's strong, she can handle these pests, but wait, she's poisoned, a groan resonates from his throat, she'll be okay, she has to be. He keeps repeating those words in his mind as he fight off more of these pests.

You have moved further enough to be in the shooters' line of sight again and this time, you're prepared—you turn to their positions and glare, challenging them to try. Knowing that you've just hurt their egos, you sprint down the alley to get to those shooters, skillfully avoiding their rage of bullets. You step inside the building they're in and look around to see what looks like an old warehouse. You can sense that there are about five of them around, waiting like hyenas for you to step into their trap. They don't seem to realise that you can sense them, I was so distracted that I didn't even sense these people when I first got here, no wonder they have such confidence, well, good for me. You decide to play into their game, let them think they have the upper hand and that you don't know they're waiting, it's going to be easier to deal with them one by one anyway.

Unbeknownst to you, Jihoon has also entered the same warehouse from the other side, there's no one around, but that makes no sense, there's no way they wouldn't have stationed people to protect the shooters. After thoroughly checking and confirming that there really is no one, Jihoon strides towards the stairs to head up to his targets. He hears footsteps rushing down the stairs like they're in a hurry, confused but alert nonetheless, Jihoon takes a defensive position before deeming it better to attack first instead. He waits for the first person to come down before tackling them down with his arm, he swiftly gets rid of them one by one before making his upwards.

Reaching the rooftop, Jihoon can sense the ominous atmosphere—the fact that they have remained here waiting for me proves that they're good with close combat and prepared for it. Taking his own gun out this time, he moves carefully, trying to locate his enemies. He makes eye contact with one of them and in the next moment, bullets fly all over the place while he engages in a battle with the woman. She cannot land a single hit on Jihoon but he's just as frustrated since he hasn't been able to take her down either. Jihoon and the shooter both run out of ammunition and the place is eerily silent when Jihoon remembers that the other shooter hasn't made their presence known but is still very much present. Alert and momentarily unarmed, Jihoon loads his gun quickly while continuously looking over his shoulder for any attacks.

Just as he turns to continue the fight, he hears footsteps, it is you, he can tell from the corner of his eye that your blade is targeting the other shooter, who is now busy trying to fend you off. Relieved that you're okay but horrified that you're fighting a man with a gun with just your blades, Jihoon refocuses on defeating this shooter first so he can get to you in time. He just hopes you don't get hurt until then. Thankfully, the woman he was fighting was distracted with reloading her own gun to attack him while he was distracted by your sudden appearance. She launches into her previous position, determined to shoot him this time but Jihoon had figured out her pattern by now—she moves quick, he'll give her that but the pattern is too obvious to his trained eye, he can tell exactly which position she'll take next and that is enough for him to land a shot straight to her heart, leaving her bleeding to death.

Jihoon confirms her death before whipping around to see you slicing throught the man's chest and he watches as the shooter falls to the ground clutching his bleeding chest before his breath stops. For a moment, there's nothing but silence as you both take in the fact that it's over, and when your eyes meet, it's like your feet have their own mind—Jihoon's legs move of their accord as he rushes towards while and you do the same. You crash into Jihoon's chest as he holds you like he never wishes to let go. You just stay like that for a few moments before moving just enough to look at his face. Jihoon brings his hand up to your face, holding you so gently and the look on his face so fond, "Thank goodness, you're safe." He leans forward until your foreheads touch and it is in that moment that you feel it, he never lied about caring, he always did. The next second, the words are flying out of your mouth before you even realise what you're saying, "I trust you, Jihoon." Jihoon freezes, looking up at you with wide eyes as if he cannot believe what you just said. Realising how abrupt that was, you're about to explain when Jihoon responds, "Thank you for trusting me," he calls your name making you look into his eyes, "I'll explain everything to you, I promise, I don't want to hide from you anymore." Hearing his words, you nod, "I don't wish to hide from you either."

The sound of a dog barking brings you both back to your senses, realising where you are, you look around at the bloody scene before making eye contact and you both shake you heads as a small smile takes up your faces. Despite the circumstances, at least you both now know that things are going to be okay, that you can work this out together.

After ensuring that you eliminated all the members of the group, you and Jihoon split up to go report the unforeseen massacre that occurred. With both of you choosing to conceal the fact that you met on the field, you inform your organisation about the entire incident, mentioning that there was someone else but they were also there for the same mission and were skilled enough to escape from you—of course, Jihoon matches you word to word when reporting to The Handler.

You reach home earlier than Jihoon, seeing Anya already asleep because you were late. Did she even eat anything for dinner? You worry before you spot a sticky note with Jihoon's writing, "I might be late tonight so I made some dinner and put it in the fridge, heat it up and eat it if I'm not home on time." That brings a smile to your face, he's always so attentive, you open the fridge to see that Anya has eaten her portion and you hear your stomach protest with hunger. You heat up a plate of food for yourself and sit down at the dining table, as you take a bite, tiredness finally hits your body. You continue to eat while thinking over everything that happened today, and just as you start to feel concerned about why Jihoon is not back yet, the door opens and he's home.

Jihoon opens the door to find you looking up at him in the middle of taking a bite of the casserole he made this morning and the sight has him so endeared that he automatically smiles, relaxing, because this is home. You startle at the sudden smile, he looked so unbelievably fond at that moment that you choke on the food in your mouth. Seeing you cough violently, Jihoon rushes to get you a glass of water, "Here, slow down, please be careful." Embarrassed, your entire face turns red as you chug down the glass of water he gave you. Jihoon just chuckles, finding you utterly adorable.

Setting your glass down, you tell him, "I heat up some for you too, it's in the microwave." Thanking you, Jihoon gets his own dinner and sits down across you as you both eat in comfortable silence. It's funny how so much has changed in just a few hours—here you are, sitting face to face and eating so peacefully when this morning, neither of you could look at each other properly because of the tension between you.

After putting your dishes away, you and Jihoon settle on the sofa with one thought, we need to talk. "Let me start first, I want to clear the misunderstanding you have regarding spies." Jihoon says, looking at you for permission to tell you his side of things. When you nod, Jihoon smiles and continues, "I know what people say and I know that the government makes it seem like we're here to start a war but trust me when I say this, we are not. The last thing I want is a war, I lost my family to one when I was a child and I do what I do to ensure nobody else has to go through that." That sentence breaks your heart, making you feel guilty for accusing him of the very thing that caused him so much pain. "I was young, I was out playing with friends when it happened, both my parents were killed and I had nowhere to go. I became a soldier to survive and years later I met with the friends I thought I lost that day, only for them to be sent on a mission and die in war too. I decided then that I was going to stop this, I have to do whatever it takes to keep this peace because I don't want any more innocent people to die in the aftermath of political issues."

He pauses when he sees your expression and slowly reaches his hand out towards your cheek, it's only after he wipes the tear off your cheek that you realise you were crying. Hearing him talk about his past and his reasons made you think of your own, how all you ever wanted was to protect your family and the thought brought you to tears without realising. "I'm sorry," you hear him say and look up in confusion, because why is he apologising? "I'm sorry I deceived you, I'm sorry you had to find out like that and I'm sorry you suffered so much because of me." God, if he keeps saying things like that, you're only going to feel even more guilty. "It's not your fault, and besides, I deceived you too." Hearing that, something in Jihoon softens, and he just rubs the back of your hand in comfort.

"It's my turn to explain things, I was young when I started this line of work too, it was just Yuri and me so I had to make money to survive. The reason I took up this job and continue to do it is because I want to keep my brother safe, I want him happy and living a comfortable life. I've been doing my best to keep this peaceful life we've built so I hate it when I see someone who wants to destroy that. It's why I was so angry when I thought that you were one of those people." Jihoon understands everything now, the rage in you that wouldn't subside, the despair he saw in your eyes the night he tried to talk to you, it all makes sense now, and his heart aches for you.

"That day, at the airport, why were you there?" When he hears your question, he looks into your eyes so you can see that he's being sincere, "I was there to protect Maya. You were there for the same reason, weren't you?" You nod in answer, relieved that your assumptions were true. "To think I assumed you were part of Red Circus, I hated you at the time. I hated you for being a criminal, I hated you for wanting to cause harm to citizens and I hated that it was you." Your words hit him like a knife to the heart but he knows it cannot be helped, after all, he thought the same. "I thought the same, although I could not figure out why in the world you would be part of something like that." This time, you look at Jihoon with earnestly, "I don't anymore though, hate you, I mean." You can see the man physically melt at your words and it's so endearing.

"I never hated you, I could never, even when I thought you were a criminal, it's like my heart could not bear the thought of hating you, I was just angry at myself. I'm not telling you this because I blame you but because I want you to know that you have occupied so much of my life that I just cannot think straight. So please, don't blame yourself for feeling what you did, I would have hated me too if I were in your place. You married me because you didn't want people to think of you as a spy, so I cannot imagine how you felt when you found out I was one." Tears stream down your face as you take in what he said, even now, he's worried about how I feel. Jihoon stills when you suddenly wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. He can feel your tears drenching his shirt and he just holds you, rubbing your back and patting your head, trying his best to comfort you.

After what feels like an hour, you move away enough to look at him, "So, what now? How do we proceed from here?" Jihoon's eyes suddenly widen and it scares you, "What's wrong?" He remembers now, The Garden, how are you going to deal with them? "How long did your organisation give you to get rid of me? When do you think they'll send other people to do it instead? Wait, would they come after you too if you don't do it?" Seeing him ramble, you interrupt him, "I didn't tell them." It's as if the world stopped the moment you uttered those words, Jihoon turns to you slowly, "What did you say?"

"I said, I didn't tell them."

"What? Why?"

"I couldn't bring myself to."

He knows what that means, he knows what you felt and that is enough to render him speechless.

"What about your people though? Won't they take action too?"

He hears you ask him, "I didn't tell them either."

You look at him surprised and before you can ask him why, he says, "I couldn't bring myself to either."

There's complete silence for a couple of seconds before you both chuckle, "I guess we were both worried for nothing." You shake your head, "So what? Do we just continue our lives like before? Keeping our identities secret?"

Jihoon shrugs, "Well, it's not going to be the same since we know what we do now and I think you too figured out that there'e a mole, but we can try. If you want to, of course."

You smile, "Yeah, I want to, I want to care for you and I want you to care for me."

You remember the last time you fought, "You know, in between, I was so terrified for Anya, I questioned myself if killing you was the only choice because I didn't want to cause her the pain of losing her father. When I think about it now though, I think that was just an excuse, I mean yes, I didn't want to do that to her but I also couldn't bear the thought of losing you. I just didn't want to admit that to myself at that point. I also questioned how she ended up in your care, but then I got home that day to see you looking at her so adoringly that I could tell you cared and that was enough for me."

"You have no idea how grateful I am that you gave me a chance, thank you for trusting me." Jihoon says with a wide smile on his face.

"And thank you for caring and staying." You reply with the same lovesick smile on your own face.

"It's not going to be easy though, if we end up crossing paths like this often, it will get harder to keep this from our teams." You're right, Jihoon gets serious again listening to your concerns.

"It certainly won't but we now that we know, at least we won't be caught off guard." His reasoning makes sense, and it calms you a little.

He calls your name, "I care for you, I want to stay by your side, and I love you. I think I have loved you for a while now, I just didn't realise it until those feelings were put to test like this. These past few days have been hell for me, I don't think I can see you go through such pain ever again so I'll try my best to protect our family. I need you to know this, not because I want you to love me too but because I want you to know that I will always be here, always."

You feel your heart race at his confession, never would you have imagined Jihoon to say something so profoundly emotional and yet, here you are. You think back to all the times you had the chance to end this, to leave him but you didn't, because I couldn't. Your life has always been chaos, you only ever had Yuri and although you love your brother to bits, you never realised how lonely you had been until Jihoon and Anya came into your life. You life is still chaos but there's something special to it now, your adorable daughter brings mischief and adoring husband brings calm that you will never let anyone take from you.

So, when you see Jihoon looking at your intertwined hands and shaking, you know that you love this man as much as he does you. "Jihoon, look at me," his head snaps up so quick you crack a small smile, "You're a fool, a naively annoying fool if you think, for even a second, that I'm not hopelessly in love with you too." Jihoon's eyes water and you squeeze his hand as if to say that you're right there. "I lived a life revolving around my job and when my brother grew up, I would come home to feeling empty because I had nothing to do. Now, I look forward to coming home to you cooking and Anya running around the living room because something that simple brings me immense joy that I cannot even begin to describe. The reason why I felt so betrayed and hurt was because I was already in too deep, you're my family and nothing will change that."

You just barely finished your sentence when you feel Jihoon's hand come up to the back of your head as he crashes his lips onto yours. You can feel the weight of his emotions as he kisses you so deeply yet holds you so gently as if afraid he would hurt you otherwise. You still for a moment before reciprocating his passion as you kiss him back, no longer holding back. You break apart, panting for air as you slowly open your eyes to find Jihoon already looking at you. "I love you." You lean in to gently kiss him, "I love you more."

"Anya loves Mama and Papa." You both startle as you see Anya standing at the door of her bedroom and smiling at you, you were so absorbed in your emotions that neither of you heard her come out. You squeak as you break away from Jihoon, feeling embarrassed that your daughter just saw you kissing and see from the corner of your eye that Jihoon has turned red too. "Anya, why are you up? You should be sleeping." Although he tries to sound stern, his voice gives him away and Anya starts laughing as she runs into your arms. "Anya is so happy that mama and papa are happy."

You're overwhelmed again and when you look at Jihoon, you know he feels the same. Anya jumps up on the couch when she suddenly glares at Jihoon. You see him panic, it's so obvious on his face, "Why is papa not hugging us?" He softens and comes to wrap his arms around both of you as you stay cuddling together until your daughter falls back asleep.

When you hear Anya snoring, Jihoon carefully takes her into his arms and tucks her into bed. You watch him as you think to yourself, he's always been Anya's safe space and he's become mine too, remembering the time you broke down in his arms even when you thought he was the enemy. It wasn't because you were exhausted or let your guard down but because you find sense in his presence. This man, your husband, is the partner you never knew you needed but are grateful to this universe to have brought him to you.

Jihoon turns around to see you staring at him with blatant adoration and something about the way you don't hold back anymore makes him weak in the knees. He walks to you, "Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Seeing you tuck our daughter to sleep just makes me feel so soft and warm, I couldn't help it."

Jihoon stutters for a second before he smiles at you teasingly, "Do you want me to tuck you in too?"

He watches your eyes go wide as you blush and he thinks to himself that you look absolutely breathtaking right now. He tells you as much, "I need to see you like this more often."

Your eyes narrow as you glare at him though he just finds your sulking adorable, he can see you pouting and it makes him chuckle. You cannot possibly let him have all the fun, "You'll need to try harder for that. How about starting with tucking me in like you suggested? Or even better, lay with me and hold me like you did earlier." You don't know what made you feel so bold but the way Jihoon blushes makes it all worth it.

You were joking when you asked him to hold you to sleep but you did not realise how whipped your husband is for you. Jihoon would do anything for you, and so you lay in his arms as he hums softly, content and warm. Sleep hits you slowly as you both fall asleep with the same thought in your heads, We're family, we always will be, and we'll do whatever it takes to protect our home, starting with getting rid of that mole.

[asahicore]

fast forward - pjs

pairing. jay x fem!reader

synopsis. After yet another romantic disappointment in the form of one Jake Sim, you go to the well you’ve always believed to grant wishes and ask for your one and true love to appear. That night, you go to sleep in your bed but wake up in a strange house. When you head downstairs, you find a man washing the dishes and telling you your favorite meal is waiting on the table for you. You’ve spent hours glaring at the back of that head, you could recognize it anywhere—it belongs to none other than Park Jongseong, your high school sworn enemy... and future husband, or so it seems.

genre+warnings. high school au, the type of e2l where they never really hated each other to begin with, they act like they're academic rivals even though they're not particularly academically gifted, jay has a thing about german the language, sunoo and kazuha besties, heeseung is a loser, jake and sunghoon are assholes sorry, ive liz is german, 02z get into a white-boy locker-room fight, attempts at banter etc, they're a little bit silly

word count. 26.6k

a/n. had the idea for this listening to fast forward by somi LAST SUMMER... and only wrote it this summer and only posting it now <3 i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it !!!!! jay is an absolute cutie here pls love him as much as i do.... as always let me know what u think and remember to vote for @zreamy president in the upcoming elections, shes the only one i trust to beta-read and hence to run a country <3 no it doesnt matter that shes scottish put this woman in the white house

There is only one thorn on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life.

Every morning, you wake up feeling refreshed from eight hours of restful sleep. You go downstairs to the kitchen, a boiling cup of milky Earl Grey tea already waiting for you, and eat breakfast with your brother Jinwoo and father. Your mom dashes in, placing a kiss on your and Jinwoo’s foreheads, and on your dad’s lips, saying she’s late for work but will see you in the evening. “Have fun at school,” she bids every morning without fail. Your dad teaches Korean Literature at your school, so the three of you drive there together. He watches amusedly as you and Jinwoo bicker light-heartedly on the way there—even in the pits of his puberty, you and your brother get along like two peas in a pod. He still tells you about everything he learns at school and fills you in on the drama in his class, up-to-date with everything even though he pretends not to be interested.

You’re always one of the first to arrive at school, so you scroll through your feed or finish up some homework as you wait for your classmates to file in. Your friends circle your table and you chat about the last episode of the show you’ve been watching until the bell rings and they leave you for their assigned seat.

Class starts with your teacher handing out the math tests you took last week. “Jay and Y/N, great job, keep it up,” he says as he walks past you and the boy in front of you, and hands you your paper. Relief floods your body as you take in the bright red 82 in the top right-hand corner—not the best of the class, but enough for you to be satisfied. 

Good friends, good grades—nothing extraordinary, but it’s a life you dare say any high school senior would want.

There’s just that one thing. The thorn in your side that won’t stop poking.

You glare at it as it whips around in its seat and takes a peek at the grade on your paper before you get to snatch it away from view. It only gives you three seconds to rejoice over your grade. 

“Aw, Y/N. Good effort! Maybe you’ll do better next time!” Jongseong coos, holding up his test for you to see and glare even harder at. 85. Not that big of a difference, but it makes you want to punch the faux sympathetic pout off of his face. 

You’re about to spit something just as petty back at him, but someone whispers your name, and you turn your head in their direction. Beside you, Jake is smiling at you as he asks what grade you got. Your attention is swiftly taken off of Jongseong, whom you don’t even notice dramatically rolling his eyes, huffing in annoyance, and turning around. 

“82,” you whisper back, holding up your paper for Jake to see. His friendly, absurdly handsome smile makes your ears burn. “You?”

The corners of his lips fall down into a sad pout—the kind that makes your heart melt rather than gets on your nerves like someone else. “68,” he says. Leans in over the gap between your tables. Your heart jumps uncontrollably around your rib cage. “Do you wanna go over it together during the break? I think I need some help.”

One-on-one time with Jake Sim? You don’t need to be asked twice. You nod silently, almost mesmerized by Jake as his grin widens. He leans back in his chair. “Perfect. I’ll see you in the library, then.”

“Library, yeah,” you echo dumbly, but thankfully, your teacher tells you to all quiet down and starts the lesson. 

You’re antsy all throughout the rest of your morning classes and lunch break, so nervous that you barely manage to finish your yogurt. Of course, your friends, Sunoo and Kazuha, have a field day with this, and even you can’t help but laugh along as they jump between reassuring you that it’ll be fine, slapping your shoulders with excitement and making fun of your uncharacteristic quietness.

Jake arrives at the library five minutes after you, looking around the room before he finds you at the big round table in the back of the library. Your brain is too riddled with anxiety for you to make more small talk than “Hey,” “Hey,” “How was your lunch?” “Good, yours?” “Good.” And so you just jump straight into it.

You’ve only had a couple minutes of quiet explanation on your part and heavy nodding on Jake’s when Jay appears at the entrance of the library. He spots you and Jake immediately, and without any hesitation whatsoever heads towards you and sits down at your table, right across from the two of you.

“Hey, Jay,” Jake greets in a friendly manner, but Jay only responds with a nod of his head.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he says when he notices you glaring. “I won’t bother you.”

As if he could be anything other than a bother, you think, but courteously keep to yourself. The childish rivalry you and Jongseong have got going on has no business spoiling a rare hour of alone time you get with Jake. As you go over the exercises he had the most trouble with on the test with you, your eyes often drift over to Jongseong as if to check on him—you’re cautious like he’s a spider in the corner of the room that might spring on you at any moment.

And indeed, the moment your gaze leaves him for more than a minute as you explain an intricate theorem to Jake, he’s out of sight, and panic shoots through you. Where the hell has he suddenly gone off to? you wonder, but not for long.

“There’s a much easier way to do this, really,” says a voice from behind you, and of course, it’s none other than Jongseong himself, quite literally butting his way into your tutoring session. Right between you and Jake, he bends over and rests his elbows on the table, taking Jake’s pencil from him and describing the theorem in a way that isn’t that much simpler. Your eyes shoot bullets into the side of his face while he, unbothered, explains this and that to Jake, who glances at you a couple of times but otherwise does not seem so perturbed by the sudden change of tutor. Either Jongseong doesn’t notice your glare or doesn’t care, because he doesn’t budge.

Just when they’re done with the exercise and you think you’ll get Jake to yourself again, another voice appears from behind, a much higher, girlier one. You notice the hand on Jake’s shoulder first, until slowly, your eyes drift to the face—you recognize Yunjin, head of the cheerleading squad, and she’s smiling at you, a smile that at once tries to cover and betrays her surprise at seeing you and Jake together. She doesn’t acknowledge you any more than that, gaze going back to “Jakey,” asking him if he wants to head to class together. You check the time—five minutes before the first bell rings. What do they need so much time getting to class for? It’s not like any room in this school is more than a three-minute walk away.

But Jake doesn’t even look back at you, just says “Sure!” with far too much enthusiasm for your taste as he packs his stuff. “Thanks, you two,” he says, looking at Jay first, then at you. You think his eyes linger on you for a second, but just like that, he’s gone, him and Yunjin walking side-by-side.

You watch them leave—they look good together, the cheerleading captain and the soccer team’s star. The white Vans she’s wearing have a bunch of red love hearts on them that look drawn on, and you think, Of course, Jake is the type to date someone cute, someone fun, someone who would draw on their shoes. Not someone like you, whose idea of a good Friday night is lighting up a scented candle and reading your favorite novel for the nth time. When they’ve left the library, you slump in your seat, crumpling the sheet of paper you had drawn a bunch of graphs and formulae on to make things clearer for Jake. Jay awkwardly clears his throat and finally returns to his seat, looking at you with his lips pressed in a tight line.

“Y/N?” he asks tentatively, and the sound is too much to bear, so you pack your things and head to your next class early, too. Your mind is racing with a million thoughts a minute—who is that girl to Jake, how come you’ve never seen them together before, how come he was so eager to leave with her, what was that smile she gave you about? In the fifty-five minutes of your biology class, which you uncharacteristically don’t pay any attention to, you’ve convinced yourself that they are crazy in love and that none of Jake’s actions or words towards you had ever meant anything, that you’d liked him so much you’d dreamt up the possibility of his liking you back, too.

Your next lesson starts—the smile Jake gives you as he walks into History is so bright, it dissipates any clouds hanging over your head. You do believe in male-female friendships, but despite yourself, you can’t help but think that anyone in a relationship wouldn’t give someone else such a perfect, warm smile. It just wouldn’t be right. And so, you reason with yourself that simply walking to a class together didn’t mean two people were a couple.

For an hour, you stare at the back of Jake’s head, and although you do eventually come to the more sensible conclusion that a smile may just be a smile, you also think it's unlikely that he and Yunjin would be a thing. If they were, why would they hide it? Jake is so nice, you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d exaggerated his enthusiasm upon seeing her. You’re sure you still have your chances. He even says see you tomorrow when class is over and slips out of the room to go to soccer practice. 

You feel like you’re walking on cloud 9 as you head from History to your next class—but when you remember that the next class is German, your mood drops significantly. Because the universe has it out for you, you and Jay are two of just ten students in your year taking German as your second foreign language option, everyone else having gone for either French, Japanese or Spanish. Your reasoning for it is that your dad has had an obsession with Germany since his year abroad in Bavaria, and twelve-year-old you had wanted to make him happy. Eighteen-year-old you regrets it slightly, but at least now your dad is ecstatic every time you tell him in German that the dinner he made was really tasty. Why Jongseong decided to take it beats you—he’s probably just insane.

But because you don’t really know anyone else in the class, and because it’s your last period of the day, you have no friends to run off with once the lesson is over, and he gets to bother you all the way from the classroom door to the staff parking lot. 

You’ve barely finished bidding Auf Wiedersehen to your teacher and Jongseong is already harassing you. “So, I didn’t take you as the type to be into guys like Jake Sim.” He says Jake’s name with such disdain, like he thinks he’s so much better than him, or like he hates him. It confuses you just as much as it annoys you; Jongseong didn’t seem to have a problem with Jake earlier at the library.

“And that’s your business, because…?”

You don’t look at Jongseong, who’s quickened his pace to keep up with yours, but you can feel the smirk on his face. It’s insufferable. “Oh, it’s none of my business. I’m just surprised, is all. You guys are so… I don’t know, different.”

You scoff. “If you think I’m not good enough for someone like Jake, I’d rather you tell me straight up, Jongseong. Or actually,” you say, looking up at him with a dry smile. “Keep it to yourself and leave me alone.”

He looks offended by your words, and it only adds to your already immense annoyance—he’s the one who just insulted you, so why is he looking at you with those stupid furrowed eyebrows?

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“No, Y/N.” He grabs your wrist and makes you face him, your stomach flipping in surprise that you quickly cover up. When he releases you, you cross your arms over your chest and wait for him to speak, keeping your eyes trained on a spot behind him. “I don’t think he’s too good for you.” 

This makes you look at him. You have to admit, your curiosity is piqued. Not like Jongseong to say anything even vaguely in your favor. “He’s just…” He sighs, searches for the right word. “Well, he’s just a bit of a dick, isn’t he?”

You freeze for a second. You’re so taken aback, your scoff comes out more as a laugh—Park Jongseong, king supreme of all dicks at this school, just called Jake Sim a dick?

“I’m sorry?”

He sighs again, as though you’re the unreasonable one. “He’s so… smug. A wannabe class clown and thinks he’s the shit because he’s on the soccer team. Have you seen the way he swaggers around school?”

You look at him with fake sympathy. “Jong, are you jealous?”

“Pfft. No way. I just think it’s a shame you keep going after these dudes who are not even worth your time, or whatever, so yeah…” he says, voice trailing off and looking down at his feet as he speaks. Hands in pockets and blank expression on his face, you can tell he’s trying to look cool, but the way he’s avoiding your gaze is a dead give-away. Even his ears have turned red. Jongseong is having one of those shy moments he has when he’s trying to be nice to you. Clearly, a simple act of kindness towards you is so hard for him that it radically changes the way he behaves. 

Like when you were fifteen and you just couldn’t get this stupid art project right, so he stayed behind for three hours after school with you, helping you draw and paint and cut and glue. 

Like when you were sixteen and your grandma just passed away, making you miss a week of school, and without a word, barely looking at you, he gave you a stack of handwritten notes of all the lessons you missed. To this day, you’re not sure how he did it—you weren’t in the same class that year.

Like when you were seventeen and Park Sunghoon rejected you in the middle of a crowded hallway. You’d run off to the girls’ bathroom to cry it out, but Jongseong quickly found you and spent the entire period cursing Sunghoon out instead of being in English, like you were both meant to be. He was uncharacteristically nice to you for a few days after that, never starting an argument for no reason or interrupting you when you spoke. When you snapped at him, telling him it only made you feel worse that he treated you differently, he smiled and told you how stupid you looked when you cried. It made you laugh more than it should’ve.

Like now, when he suddenly decides that Jake Sim is also a wrong choice for you. “Him and Sunghoon are good friends, you know that?” he says. “Birds of a feather, and all…”

So you know that Jongseong is not all bad. He has his redeeming qualities. He can even be nice sometimes, when he so wishes. But those moments are so few and far between that when he returns to his usual insufferable self, you wonder if you’d dreamt it all up. Which is why you can’t quite take him seriously right now. You roll your eyes and resume walking towards the parking lot, but of course, he continues to follow you. “Why do you even care who I go after?”

“I don’t-”

“You clearly do, otherwise you wouldn’t be bothering me like this.”

“Well, if all your attention is taken up by that douche, who am I going to go up against?”

“That’s what you’re worried about? That I stop arguing with you?” you say, disbelief clear in your voice.

“I’m offended, Y/N,” he starts, his sarcastic tone making you roll your eyes again. “That our little rivalry matters so little to you.”

“We’re not even the top students of our class, for God’s sake, we’re not fighting over anything.”

“I’ve actually got the best grades in German, thanks very much.”

“Whatever. I wouldn’t call it a rivalry so much as a mutual dislike of each other, because one of us woke up one day and decided to start going against everything the other said.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

The exit to the parking lot now appears to you like the gates of heaven. You don’t even bother replying to him, thinking that he’ll just leave you alone now that you’re here. But as you step outside, he places himself in front of you and blocks your path, arms splayed out, eyes wide like he’s just seen a ghost.

“What are you-”

“Have you done the German homework for tomorrow?”

The sudden change of subject gives you whiplash. “What? No, Miss Schumacher assigned it just now-”

“Well, given your tendency for getting the word order all wrong, I can already tell you you’re not gonna have fun with it-”

You pinch the nose of your bridge, trying to calm yourself down before you lose what’s remaining of your mind. “Jongseong, were you actually dropped on the head as a baby? Go away. My dad’s gonna be here any second.” You try to walk around him, but he steps in front of you again. You peer up at him, undisguised annoyance in your eyes. Where are your dad and brother when you need them?

“I’m just saying, you’ll probably need help with it-”

“I won’t. And if I do, I’ll just use Google. Now get out of my way,” you say, and manage to duck under one of his arms.

Then you see it.

Well, actually, it takes you a second to understand what it is you’re seeing. At first, you think it’s one of those horny couples thinking they’re being really discreet by going to the staff parking lot to make out, when in reality they could be caught by any one at any time. They’re just far enough that when you do a double take, you realize that you do know the back of that head; that fluffy mop of brown hair. You sit behind it every History period, next to it every Maths and English period.

The girl is up against the wall, and you can’t really see her, what with her and Jake’s tongues being down each other’s throat and his body blocking her from your view, his hands on her hips, her arms around his shoulders. All the works. She’s wearing a cheerleader uniform, so she could be any of twenty girls—but you’re pretty sure only one of them wears a pair of white Vans with red love hearts on them.

Your heart sinks to your stomach.

You’re frozen in place when a whistle rings in the distance, and Jake and Yunjin separate, giggling to each other as they jog to wherever the sound came from. The sports field, probably. It’s Monday; the cheerleaders and the soccer team share the field for their practice. 

Jake spots you and Jongseong staring at them. He waves quickly, awkwardly at you, still smiling even when surprise coats his features. Yunjin tugs on his hand and just like that, they’re gone. 

“Y/N-” 

Jay’s voice fades in the background. You want to get away from this situation as quickly as possible—it’s embarrassing enough seeing the guy you like and thought you had a chance with kissing a girl that is arguably much more on his level than you are, but having Jongseong of all people not only witness it, but try to protect you from it, God knows why, makes it impossibly mortifying. You speed-walk to your dad’s car, huffing as you plop in your seat and slamming the door behind you. Your brother is already sitting in the passenger seat, and you don’t even argue with him about it. When you only give single-word replies to his questions, he shrugs and returns to playing Clash of Clans on his phone. 

The moment you get home, you fish a five cent coin from your purse, change into mud boots and grab your dog’s leash. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

After half-an-hour of trudging through leaves and soft ground, muddy from many a rainy November night, you and Pablo, your massive, fluffy airhead of a German Shepherd, find yourselves at the well in the middle of the forest. Ever since you were little, you have attributed magic powers to the well—not that anyone told you any sort of myth about it, but you remember reading a story about a magic well and decided that your well would be magical, too. You’ve never wanted to abuse its powers, so you’ve used your wishes conscientiously: things like getting a certain present at Christmas (when you were nine and the most important thing ever was getting the Monster High doll you wanted) or not stuttering during your presentation in class (when you really didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of Park Sunghoon and his cool friends). Every wish you’ve made has come true. Whenever a faint voice of reason tells you that it’s because you always ask for very realistic things, you squash it and continue to believe in the well.

Because today, you’re not asking for something realistic. 

Today, you’re asking the well to show you the way to love.

You’ve grown up watching The Notebook and Pride & Prejudice. Your parents are high school sweethearts who are still, twenty-five years later, happily married. You devour romance novels and binge-watch Asian dramas, the more unrealistic and romantic, the better. You are convinced that soulmates exist, that love always finds a way, that it is there for anyone to see. That it can take form in a childhood friend, an archnemesis, a total stranger.  

But for some reason, it hasn’t shown itself to you yet, no matter how valiantly you’ve looked. 

You’re absolutely sick and tired of it. It is Jake kissing another girl, it’s Sunghoon leading you on for months and then rejecting you in front of everyone, it’s your ex-boyfriend-who-shall-not-be-named, your first love and first heartbreak, dumping you after a year and getting with the girl he had told you not to worry about a week later. At a party a few months later, he’d said, word for word, “At least I didn’t cheat on you.”

Coin lodged between your hands, you interlace your fingers and press your palms closely together, eyes screwed shut in desperation. “Hey,” you start simply, because you and the well are good friends. “It’s been a while since I’ve asked for anything, so I hope you can indulge me… This is gonna sound so cliché, but I’m really tired of getting fucked over by boys — excuse my French — and I just wanna meet the person who’s right for me, you know? Mom’s always reminding me that I’m only eighteen, and that I’ve got plenty of time to meet someone, but I just feel like if I don’t find someone now, I never will. And if I get fucked over again — sorry — I’ll just lose hope and write off men for the rest of my life. So help a girl out, will you? I’ll leave it to you how you wanna go about it, but… just show me that there’s someone out there. Please.”

When you open your eyes, you need a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. You toss the coin in the well. It doesn’t make a sound as it hits the bottom, as if it has been absorbed within the old brick walls. You know better than to question it—the well works in mysterious ways.

You’re quiet that entire evening, making up an excuse of a tiring day at school when your parents ask. Really, you’re just thinking about your wish, whether it’ll work, what might happen. You half-ass your homework—Jay was right, the German exercises throw you into a bout of despair, so you quickly close your textbook and bury yourself in your sheets, falling asleep hours earlier than you usually would.

--

For some reason, the first thing you notice when you wake up is that it’s still dark outside. It must be the middle of the night, you think. It takes you a few seconds to realize that you’re in a completely strange room.

Instead of your floral-patterned sheets, you find yourself covered by delicate silk sheets that your parents would never agree to buy you, no matter how adamantly you argued for the benefits of silk for your skin. If skincare experts online had convinced you of one thing, it was that silk would do wonders for your obstinate acne. You slide out of bed and find a pair of slippers on the floor, as if waiting for you. Even the pajamas you’re wearing are fancier, more grown up than the ones you have at home, a set composed of a pinstriped button-up and shorts. You look around, for some reason more surprised and curious than panicked. You could’ve been kidnapped, for all you know, but all you care about right now is this room. Rather than the pink and white walls that have surrounded you since childhood, covered with pictures of you and your friends, postcards of artwork bought at museums, and posters of your favorite movies, the walls here are beige and mostly bare, except for a painting of Japanese cherry blossoms above the bed and a family portrait on the opposite wall, above a wooden chest of drawers. 

The family portrait. A woman, a man, and what you can only assume are their children. They look like twins—two girls. Can’t be older than three years old. Out of the four faces, you recognize two of them. You recognize them far too well. One of them is yours, of course. You look slightly older, by a decade, maybe? You’re glad to know that you won’t fall off after twenty-five, like much of social media has led you to believe. 

The other face you recognize immediately, too, but it takes you a few seconds to truly believe it.

It belongs to none other than Park Jongseong.

A dry chuckle falls from your throat, as if someone has just made a very insulting joke at your expense and you have to pretend you find it funny. The well has a very odd sense of humor, you think. It’s probably just a prank, a magic-induced nightmare before the real thing. Except this already feels real, disorientingly so. The fabric on your skin, the picture, the room. It all feels too real, more tangible than any dream you’ve ever had.

You take a step closer towards the picture, as if looking at it harder will make Jongseong’s face fade into that of another man, the real man that will become your husband and father of your children. But alas, his features remain the same, frozen in time by the photographer’s camera. He, too, looks older—and not only does he not fall off after twenty-five, he becomes all the more handsome for it.

Is this how you find out that Jongseong was handsome all along? You stare at it until the familiar face becomes practically unrecognizable, like repeating a word so much it stops feeling like one. The straight nose, the almond-shaped eyes that seem to have softened overtime, whereas his jaw has remained as sharp as ever. Have his eyebrows always framed his face so perfectly? Has that dimple always been there? 

You look around again, and the bright numbers on the bedside alarm clock catches your attention. They read 9:57 p.m., but it’s the date that makes your stomach sink—today is still the 18th of November, but ten years later. You stare at the clock, at the unfamiliar number, a date so far into the future you can’t wrap your head around it. You could barely envision life after high school.

Downstairs, the sudden clang of pots and the sound of a tap running manage to rip your gaze away from the alarm clock. An overwhelming curiosity tells you to follow the noise. This is all a dream, so there are no consequences if you explore a bit more, right? 

You’ve never been in this house before, and you have no idea where your feet are taking you until you find yourself in the kitchen. It’s the only lit room in the house, and you’re creepily standing in the dark under a wide archway that connects the kitchen to what looks like the dining room. A man has his back to you, washing dishes and putting them out to dry on a rack next to the sink. He’s wearing a white cotton sweater, one that you feel you recognise without ever having seen before, and a brown apron is tied around his neck and waist. 

The first thing you think to yourself is Oh, his haircut hasn’t changed. In almost every class you share with him, Jongseong has made it a point to sit either next to you or right in front of you, so you’ve spent a lot of time glaring at the back of his head. You wouldn’t be surprised if he started developing two eye-shaped bald spots there. His hair is still short and spiky at the back and on the sides, longer on the top. When he lets it grow too long, it sometimes covers his eyes, and he obnoxiously keeps having to push it back like a heartthrob in an 80s movie. 

Something like a memory flashes through your mind, blurry like those images you aren’t sure came from a dream or from real life. Your surroundings are unclear, but Jay’s face is nestled against your neck, your hand in his hair. You can feel the softness of the close shave against your palm as clearly as if you were touching it right now. You ask him why he’s always kept it that way, and he replies that it’s simple to maintain. Then in classic Jay fashion, he adds, “And it makes me look awesome.”

Another memory, a clearer one, this time—this definitely happened. It’s halfway through sophomore year, a random Tuesday, and Jay walks in, holding his head high and looking smugly around himself. The bastard got a new haircut. Long gone, his messy, unorganized flop of black hair that looked like it didn’t know what it was doing; hello, sleek undercut. It accentuates all of his best features, which is terrible news for you. You had never even thought of Jongseong as someone having “best” features, but now they’re being thrown in your face. His nose. His jawline. His smile.

It ruins your day, and a few after that. You can’t quite put it into words when your friends ask what’s wrong at lunch—or rather, you don’t wanna face the humiliation of uttering something along the lines of “Park Jongseong looks good with his new haircut, and it’s bothering me.”

Here, it’s a familiar sight in an unfamiliar environment, the back of his head. Without really thinking, you take a step forward. Jongseong starts at the sound of your slippers against the marble floor tiles, but his face relaxes into a smile when he sees you.

“Oh, it’s just you, honey. I thought you were sleeping.”

Just you. As if the two of you being in the same kitchen is normal. You guess it must be, to this version of Jongseong. To him, you’re not the annoying girl he strives to best in every class—you’re honey. 

“I was,” you say, walking around the kitchen island to join him by the sink. Something in you needs to look at him, really look at him, maybe pinch yourself or pinch him to be sure you’re not going crazy. Maybe you caught wafts of some ancient algae that lives in the well and made you hallucinate?

“I left a plate out for you in case you woke up. Made your favorite. The girls weren’t so happy, seeing as it’s the third time this month,” he says with the special kind of smile reserved for parents talking about their children. The girls. A mention so casual, so obvious, your heart hurts. “But I think I got it really right this time,” he continues. “Honestly, it might even be better than the original.”

He goes back to washing the dishes and you watch the sponge in his hands as it scrubs away tomato sauce, the soap as it runs from the plates into the sink. A knot forms in your stomach, something like a deep sadness that overwhelms you all of a sudden, and tears form in your eyes, threatening to fall any second.

When you haven’t budged in almost a minute, Jongseong starts to say, in an intimate, almost worried voice, “Aren’t you going to eat, honey?” but when he sees your wet eyes, the tremble in your lower lip, he shuts the water immediately and dries his hands. With his thumbs, he wipes away the tears that have started falling from your eyes. “What’s wrong?” he whispers.

You can’t reconcile the man in front of you with the image you have of the boy that torments you in every class you share. You can’t reconcile the genuine concern in his voice with the snarky tone you’re met with every day. And yet, they respond to the same name, their features are identical, if not for the years that separate them, the stress of adulthood on one and the carefreeness of youth on the other. 

Your body reacts automatically to the soft touch—never in a million years would you let the Jongseong you know come near you like this, but here, nothing feels more natural than his hands on your face, your shoulders, your hair, as though they’re just as much his as they are yours. You realize the emotion in your stomach is not sadness—tears fall, but you’re not sad. You’ve never felt as home as you do now, and if one thing romantic novels have taught you, is that this must be love.

You look up at the man in front of you, eyebrows furrowed as you search his face for confirmation or some sort of an answer. There’s a tremble in your voice when you speak next. “I just… I think I love you, Jongseong.”

He chuckles. “Well, we established that a while ago, didn’t we? What with getting married and having kids. But I’m glad you still feel that way.”

The mention of marriage and children doesn’t faze you nearly as much as it should. You’ve only got one thing on your mind. “Do you love me too?”

You expect him to laugh—not out of cruelty, but because the answer is so obvious, it almost doesn’t deserve to be answered seriously. Like when your brother asks if he can have one more of your cookies and you tell him you’ll cut his hand off. Sometimes you think it’s easier to be sarcastic than be unabashedly nice to someone. Especially with Jongseong, whom you don’t expect kindness or patience from, you wait for him to stay something like, “No, that’s why I’ve stayed with you these eight years.” 

So when instead, he says, “More than anything on this Earth,” voice low and vulnerable, tears flow even harder. 

“Sorry, it’s probably just my period,” you say through sobs, although you have no idea where in her menstrual cycle this version of you is.

Jongseong chuckles again, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You do get emotional around this time.” And you cry more, because you can’t believe someone other than your mother knows you so well that they know what your period symptoms are.

Rubbing soothing circles against your back and whispering soft words in your ear, he holds you for as long as you need to calm down. When you finally do, he tells you to go sit on the couch, that he’ll finish up the dishes then heat and bring your food for you. You think you’ve got your emotions under control, but the moment you bite the pasta, cooked to perfection with the most succulent tomato sauce you’ve ever had, sweet with a little kick of spice and a generous amount of parmesan cheese, tears start to fall again as if you had an endless stock of water behind your eyes.

“This is so good,” you mumble.

Jongseong smiles, his gaze full of affection miraculously directed at you as he tucks away strands of your hair so they don’t get in your eyes or in your food. “I’m glad, baby.”

You react to the nickname viscerally, words tumbling out of your mouth before you can even understand them. “You haven’t called me that in ages.” You widen your eyes at yourself, wondering how this was something you even knew. But when you look at Jongseong, all he does is smile more.

“You’re right, I haven’t. I guess I was reminded of college. You cried all the time back then. As much as it pained me, I can’t say I wasn’t happy to be the one you always came to for comfort.”

You haven’t been through college yet, so you should be unable to tell whether this truly happened or not—and yet, the memories of the body you’re in all confirm what Jongseong just said. But it feels impossible—going to university with him, letting yourself be vulnerable enough with him to not only cry in front of him but let him comfort you. Whatever could have happened in the years between the present you know and your time at university for things to change so drastically?

But before you can make sense of any of it, Jongseong speaks again. “Why? Do you like it when I call you baby?”

Your stomach flips. Heat rises to your face at his words, the tone with which he said them, the things he was alluding to—you know that having children means you’d popped your cherry at some point, that you’d had sex with Jongseong specifically, but to be confronted with the fact was something else. 

“Maybe,” you mumble, and proceed to stuff your mouth with pasta so that you can’t incriminate yourself further.

He puts on a recent movie, something you should arguably be paying attention to, since you’re literally getting a glimpse into the future of cinema—you could steal the idea, go back to your present and sell it for an outrageous price.

But Jongseong’s presence next to you makes it impossible to concentrate on anything but him. The warmth emanating from him, the scent of his perfume envelop you, give you a sense of just how real this all is—despite how comfortable being with him like this feels, you’re still not convinced you’re not just in an unsettlingly vivid dream. You take one of his hands in yours, examining each finger, turning his hand over, tracing the lines of his palm, smoothing your thumb over his nails—it’s an undeniably human hand. Warm against yours, slightly rough. He’s started using hand cream, you think, all these winters when his dry hands would crack because of the cold coming up to your mind, teenage Jongseong’s hard refusal to wear any sort of cream to protect himself. Memories bob up to the surface: fixing his cracked hands up with a plaster, your tear falling on his hand, the both of you in your school uniforms in what looks like the school infirmary; awkwardly gifting him some hand cream the Christmas of that year, not looking at him as you hand him the small package. Saying, “It’s a waste of plasters for something that could be fixed so easily.” Him treating you to warm, spicy tteokbokki because he felt bad for not having gotten you anything, even though this was the first time either of you had ever given the other one a present.

As your fingers trail up from his hand to his forearm, his shoulder, his jawline, more memories flood your mind. Clumsy first kisses; squabbles of the kind you were already used to; lazy mornings in bed; hours spent in your kitchen or his, before you shared one, cooking dinner together; the way you felt when he proposed, a feeling so intense remembering it is almost unbearable now. Your eyes and fingers examine his face in detail—even though you’ve seen him almost every day since the start of high school, this feels like the first time you really perceive him. The delicate bow of his lips, the strong nose, the softness in his eyes when he looks at you. Your heart beats uncontrollably as you hold each other’s gazes, but you feel inexplicably relaxed at the same time, two nearly opposing realities fighting each other inside of you—one in which you and Jongseong regarding each other with such affection is unthinkable, the other in which it is daily routine.

“Movie not to your taste?” he asks, voice gentle, breaking you out of your stupor.

“Hm?”

He nods towards the TV screen. “I see you’re not paying much attention.”

“No. I have… things on my mind.”

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly growing on his lips. “Yeah?” You think your heart might actually flatline when he brings you in closer to his chest, and, face buried in your hair, says, “You know, I’ve been thinking that the twins might want a younger sibling to play with soon enough…”

You’re not sure whether he actually wants a third child or if this is weird dirty talk that apparently turns parents on—all you know is that this is something future you will deal with, not high school senior you. 

You whip up your head at him, eyes wide in panic that he mirrors immediately. “Or—or not. Later. Later?” You nod fervently, and the worry dissipates from his handsome features. “Okay, later,” he whispers, kissing the top of your head before returning his attention to the movie. 

A couple hours later, you’re laying in bed in the dark together—you can tell Jongseong is falling asleep by the regularity of his breathing and his stillness, but you’re wide awake. You don’t know how you’ve managed to spend all this time with him, acting like the wife he knows and loves, without imploding. But suddenly, the idea of waking up in your childhood bed, surrounded by your pink-and-white walls, going downstairs to be greeted by your brother and parents, sends a wave of panic through you. You haven’t felt this comfortable in a long time—Jongseong’s arm draped over your waist, the fact that you could reach over and feel his skin against your palm if you wanted. You don’t want to go back to a time where you hate him. In fact, you don’t know if you could hate him after this.

“Jongseong?” you say softly, the syllables unfamiliar on your tongue, even though the name rings brusquely through your head for the best part of every day.

It takes a few seconds, but he reacts eventually. “Hm? Did you just call me Jongseong?” he murmurs sleepily, as if you’d just called him Robert or Christopher and not the name his own parents gave him.

“Yeah.”

He chuckles. “Now that’s something you haven’t called me in ages. Makes me feel like you’re mad at me,” he says, turning over and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His hair tickles your skin, and one of your hands comes up reflexively to feel the softness of his close shave.

“...Jong?” you try.

“That’s a step up, but not quite what I want,” he mumbles.

You’re silent for a few moments. “Honey,” you say tentatively, voice a mere whisper.

“That’s better.” You can hear the smile in his voice.

“Will you be here in the morning?”

“Mh-hm. It’s Saturday tomorrow.”

“No,” you say, feeling out of breath. “I mean, will you be here?”

You’re aware you’re not making much sense—and yet, Jongseong needs no further explanation. “Of course, baby,” he starts, voice soothing. “I’ll be here tomorrow, and the day after that, and every day afterwards. ‘Til death do us part, remember?”

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

“I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you, too,” you find yourself saying, and, more importantly, meaning. It’s the last thing either of you says before falling asleep.

--

Tears are streaming down your face when you wake up the next day. When you open your eyes, pink and white obnoxiously stare back at you. The clock reads 7:12, just three minutes before your alarm goes off, and unfortunately for high school you, the night hasn’t given in to Saturday morning—it’s Tuesday, and you have to go to school and act as if you hadn’t just had the weirdest, most realistic dream of your life. You don’t even get a weekend to shake this weird feeling in your stomach off, you’re going to have to face Park Jongseong full force. At least, this will become your friends’ favorite bit for the foreseeable future.

They’re already sitting in the classroom when you get there, animatedly chatting to each other. You plop down in your seat in front of them, and when they see the sullen look on your face, ask you what’s wrong.

“Did you wake up during the night to play Hay Day again?” Kazuha asks, eyebrows knotted with genuine worry.

“I’m not that person anymore,” you reply. “No, I just had a really weird dream. More like a nightmare, really. It feels like I didn’t get any sleep.”

“What was it about?” Sunoo asks.

Your eyes dart back-and-forth between the two of them as you brace yourself for their reactions. Not wanting anyone else to overhear, you lean in conspiratorially. They mirror you. “I was married to Park Jongseong,” you whisper. As expected, they burst into laughter immediately, and you lean back in your seat, crossing your arms in annoyance. “It’s not funny.”

“It’s very funny,” Kazuha retorts. “It’s ironic, even, considering how much you hate the guy.”

“Exactly!”

“But I guess even you know how ridiculous it is that you hate him, if your brain is able to imagine yourself being married to him,” Sunoo adds, shrugging. “It’s a good reminder that you’re literally the only person in this school with a vendetta against him.”

Kazuha nods energetically. “He picked up a pen for me, once. He’s a nice guy.”

You look around the room in panic. “Keep it down, will you?” you hush, despite the fact that no one is paying any attention to the three of you. You sigh, resolving yourself to telling them the entire truth. “But guys, I’m scared. I think this might be a sign.”

Their eyebrows perk up. “A sign that your hatred of him has actually been disguising a crush this entire time?” Sunoo asks, feigning innocence.

“No—what? Where did you get that idea?”

“Nowhere. Go on.”

“Whatever. Come here,” you say, gesturing for them to huddle again. “It’s the well.”

“Oh my God, Y/N, you’ve actually lost it,” Kazuha says, fascinated by your stupidity.

“I’m not going to tolerate any well slander, this is serious. I just wanted it to reassure me that there was someone out there for me. And then I had that stupid dream.”

Kazuha and Sunoo exchange a look like they’re parents trying to announce to their daughter that she’s adopted. “Y/N…” Sunoo starts.

“This is crazy. Like, love philters and writing Park Sunghoon’s name a hundred times are one thing, this is…”

“Crazy,” Sunoo said, nodding along. “This is crazy. There’s no other word for it. Your eighteen years of boyfriendlessness have finally caught up to you.”

“You guys don’t get it. What about that time I asked it to give me a good grade on our Literature exam and I literally came first out of our class? Or when I told it I missed Jung Hae-in and his military discharge announcement came the next day?” you say, aware that the look in your eyes is only confirming their suspicions—but you need someone to believe you, or at the very least understand you.

“One, you’re a good student. Two, that was pure coincidence,” Sunoo explains.

“But girl, if you want to marry Jay, that’s fine. You’ve got our blessing,” Kazuha says, shrugging.

“Yeah. He picked up her pen, once,” Sunoo adds.

“And you know, you guys clearly have some sort of chemistry.”

You scoff. “If you think that him refuting my every word and finding every opportunity to make fun of me, then yeah, I guess you could say we have chemistry.”

“You guys have banter,” Kazuha says as if it’s obvious.

“Oh, please. Banter is cute. I want to kill him every time he opens his mouth.”

Your friends both roll their eyes. “While I understand that most men are better off staying quiet—no offense, Sunoo—”

“None taken.”

“You have to admit Jay is not nearly as insufferable as you make him out to be,” Kazuha says.

“Are you kidding me? He’s always acting like a child. Rubbing it in my face when he gets a better grade, trying to start arguments for no reason, sucking up to teachers, stealing my erasers, for God’s sake, you’d think he’s twelve. I know that I’m not on the majority's side, but I seriously cannot understand how other people tolerate him at all.”

Sunoo sighs. “Because he’s nice to everyone. He never hesitates to help people, he’s even funny, sometimes, and—well, look at him.” He nods his head towards the door, and when you turn around, Jongseong is indeed walking in the classroom. “He’s not a bad-looking boy.”

“Gosh, Sunoo, maybe you should marry him,” Kazuha says, but since you laid your eyes on Jongseong, you’ve stopped listening.

You feel weird. You look at him, and you feel weird. It’s the same feeling you had during your sleep last night, a feeling that paralyzes you from head to toe, that starts in your stomach and spreads to your entire body, weighs you down in your chair. 

“Hey, guys,” he greets simply, and his voice wraps itself around your heart and squeezes. You can’t do anything but watch him as he takes his seat next to you, plopping his bag on the table and taking his notebook out. He looks at you, watches you watching him, then swivels around in his chair.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asks your friends.

“She had a dream that she m—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Zuha, if you want to live to see another day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replies, a satisfied little smile on her lips.

Despite yourself, you’re still staring at Jongseong, trying to figure out what the hell these emotions are that are raging up a storm inside of you. Instead of ignoring you, he turns to face you, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm as he stares back at you, smirking. “What’s up, Y/N? Has it finally dawned on you how devastatingly handsome I am?” he asks, and you frown, because he’s not so far off from the truth.

“Please, kids, it’s 9 a.m., don’t flirt right in front of us,” Sunoo says, despair in his voice.

“She’s the one who started it,” Jongseong replies, still looking at you, his smirk growing.

For some reason, this startles you out of your trance, and you look away from him like you’ve been burned, preoccupying yourself instead with your notes for this class. “In your dreams, Jongseong,” you mumble.

“More like in yours,” Kazuha says, her and Sunoo giggling.

“Zuha!” you exclaim. Jongseong looks at you with raised eyebrows, and with his infuriating capacity to put two and two together, you’re scared he’s figured out what she meant, but you’re literally saved by your teacher who walks in at that moment and starts the class. 

The second the bell rings to signify the end of the class, you hurriedly pack your things and mutter an excuse about needing the bathroom, trying to get as far away as possible from the boy whose all-too familiar scent had messed with your thoughts all class, whose every brush of his arm against yours had made your heart race uncontrollably.

--

It hadn’t just been a dream. It couldn’t have been.

Just like there was no doubt the 28-year-old Jongseong from last night had once been the annoying boy you knew, the 18-year-old Jongseong was sure to one day become the husband of your dreams. A devoted partner and father, his presence comforting, his good looks indeed devastating, unwavering.

There was no mistake to be made. The well had worked its magic.

Whether you liked it or not, you would end up marrying Park Jongseong. You, of all people; him, of all people.

Was there already something of your future husband in the boy that snickered when you mixed up your genders in German class, or would he one day spring out of nowhere? Apparently, you’d be around to find out.

But for now, how to act around him? It felt unfair that you were privy to this knowledge of your shared future while he was ignorant of it. Blissfully, perhaps. You couldn’t imagine that he would rejoice much at this news.

Your mind is somewhere else the entire day. At lunch, your other friends try to get the thing that’s obviously bothering you out of you, but Kazuha and Sunoo are there to tell them not to bother. You’d needed to tell someone about it, but you don’t want the entire school to know about your marital premonitions. The two knuckleheads you call your best friends are already doing a good enough job teasing you about it—”There’s your husband, Y/N,” when Jongseong walks past; “So have you thought of baby names? Kayleigh and Mackayleigh, perhaps?” unsolicited, during Physics. You turn around to check on the culprit — because yes, Jongseong is the culprit here, you, a mere a victim — and when he notices you staring, nods at you as if to say, What’s your problem?, trying to look threatening in his white lab coat that’s three sizes too big and protective goggles.

It doesn’t help that Jongseong has a way of hovering around you. Even in classes in which your teachers assigned the seats for you, he’s never far from your seat. The two of you sit next to each other in German, your last class every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. But today, the seat next to you is empty—what would’ve been a cause for celebration just yesterday is now a source of worry. You’d seen him just two hours ago in your previous class together, so where the hell was he now? He’s lucky that your teacher is an old German lady who always spends the first ten minutes of the lesson rambling about something in dialectal German no one understands but nods along to anyway. When he walks into the room, five minutes late, she just says, “Hallo, Jay,” and continues with her story. It’s about her first school trip to Berlin when she was fifteen and the country was still divided. You think.

He winks at you when he takes his seat and you roll your eyes. You pretend to listen to your teacher for thirty seconds, then hit him gently with your elbow. “Where were you?” you ask without looking at him.

He doesn’t answer immediately, probably surprised you initiated a non-hostile conversation with him for once. “I was just hanging out with my friends, something you clearly wouldn’t understand.”

And your friends wondered why you hated him?

“Still having imaginary friends at eighteen is really concerning, Jongseong. You should see someone about it.”

When you glance at him, he’s already looking right at you, smiling. You’ve never felt so conscious of your side profile. 

“Why? Were you worried?” he whispers, kicking your foot with his.

You look at him, horrified—where the hell had he gotten that idea? How was he so spot-on? You scoff, trying to diffuse the tension inside yourself. “No.”

He kicks your foot again. “I was five minutes late and you started to worry?”

“No. Stop.”

“I didn’t know you cared about me so much, Y/N.”

This time, you give him a harsh look, one that lets him know you really mean your words—“Stop it.” Finally, he relents, getting the assigned homework out now that the teacher has actually started the lesson. Your face softens—he looks hurt. Guilt tugs at your heartstrings.

Despite what you might say, you like the way things are with Jongseong. If some people always need to be crushing on someone, you always need to have someone you perceive as an enemy—it was Na Jaemin in elementary school, because he’d once made fun of your incapability to climb the monkey bars; Shin Ryujin, in middle school, for kissing your crush during a game of spin-the-bottle at your own birthday party; Park Jongseong, since freshman year, for simply existing. Your reasons for disliking him are trivial, you’ll admit. You weren’t sure you could even place a finger on what had first triggered your disdain towards him—one too many awful jokes, one too many times raising his hand in class and rattling off a perfect answer, then looking around himself proudly, one too many roars of laughter heard throughout the entire cafeteria. The fact that no one else seemed to be bothered by him only added to your aggravation. He just got on your nerves, and it seemed that you openly showing your dislike of him — him, who was so used to being loved by everyone around him, pampered by his family, praised by his teachers, popular among his peers — was enough to make him dislike you, too. So, after a few failed attempts at trying to be your friend, because Jongseong was unable to not be friends with everyone he met, he didn’t simply give up. 

If he couldn’t be your friend, then fine, he’d be your enemy.

At least, that’s how it appears to you, still now. It’s never gone dangerously far, but if there’s an opening to tease you or get on your nerves, he’ll do it. Not passing you the ball during soccer, or conversely, only aiming for you during dodgeball, not sharing his textbook with you when you forgot it unless you beg, loudly clearing his throat when you speak in class. And, lately, pouring salt on your wounds in the form of reminding you how impossible you and Jake Sim are. His motto must be if there’s a will, there’s a way. And when it comes to making your life hell, his will is infinite.

Everything is upside-down now. The question of how your relationship can possibly go from this to that obsesses you. It feels like you’re more capable of sharing a funeral, dying at each others’ hands, than a wedding. 

“Jong, your textbook.”

He squints at you. “Funny how I’m Jongseong when you hate me, Jong when you need a textbook,” he says, sliding his book closer to himself.

“It’s not my fault your name is a mouthful,” you retort, trying to pull it back to the middle of the table, but he’s quicker than you.

“Then maybe you should call me Jay, like everyone else on Earth.”

“Where’s the fun in that? Now give it here. Please?” you ask, mustering your best smile. Any other teacher would’ve scolded the two of you by now, but Ms. Schumacher is peacefully going on about the importance of word order and punctuation in the German sentence, oblivious to her two students bickering in the back row. Jongseong usually never sits at the back of the classroom—only here.

He gives in, smiling back, but there’s something behind it, something that tells you nothing good is brewing in his brain. “Only because you’re so pretty.”

Normally, this kind of remark would’ve warranted a slap on the arm or an array of insults, but if today is anything, it is not normal. You look at him like you’ve been stung, visions of your not-dream coming to you in flashes like you’re the titular character on That’s So Raven—the affection in your husband’s eyes, the kindness in his words, the sincerity in his smile. Again, you’re left to wonder if this man is already taking root inside of the boy next to you, if Jongseong’s future capacity to love you presently exists in his heart.

Does your future capacity to love him already exist in your heart?

You watch as his smirk softens into a grin, your flusteredness and lack of a response clearly amusing him, then as he circles the exercises Ms. Schumacher is assigning for the lesson. She seems to have forgotten there was homework due—Jongseong will be sure to remind her of it quickly.

He kicks your foot again, tells you to focus. His ears have turned red.

You wonder if those capacities haven’t existed from the start.

--

As much as you love a good friends-to-lovers story, characters hiding their feelings out of fear of ruining the friendship have never failed to frustrate you — just tell her, you dummy, it’s obvious she likes you too — and yet, you’ve never related more than now.

Whatever it is that you and Jongseong have, you don’t want to lose it. It adds entertainment to your otherwise average life. 

“Good thing she didn’t pick on you while we went over the homework, ‘cause you clearly put zero effort in. And I wouldn’t have helped you, even if you’d asked, by the way.”

You hum absent-mindedly as you put your notebook and pencil holder in your bag. Are you sure that these are even your feelings in the first place? Just because the well put a silly idea in your head doesn’t mean you have to believe it like it’s scripture. If what you saw is real, then it will happen in its own time. Things don’t have to start changing right this instant.

“Gosh, Y/N, what’s up with you today? You’re so boring,” Jongseong continues, following you out of the classroom. 

“Just tired,” you reply. Wouldn’t it be unnatural if you were to radically alter the way you behave with Jongseong? Love should come about organically. Sure, his presence has always provoked some kind of reaction within you, but that’s usually been annoyance. Whether he’s stealing the fifth eraser you’ve bought that month or running on the soccer field, beads of sweat running down his temples, hair sticking out everywhere, victoriously smiling when his team scores—you’re annoyed. Whether he’s sticking up his hand higher than yours or going to the school dance with Ahn Yujin—you’re annoyed. When you learned that she’d been his neighbor since infancy and that she had a boyfriend, who went to another school and only trusted Jongseong to take her to the dance, you were still annoyed—this time at yourself for feeling even the tiniest bit relieved that nothing was going on between them.

And this — his quick steps trying to keep up with yours, his dumb story about yogurt coming out of Heeseung’s nose today at lunch when they were laughing too hard — yes, you’re still annoyed. But you realize you’re not annoyed at him.

You’re annoyed at how he makes you feel.

“Y/N?” he says, but you’re too deep in your thoughts, only vaguely registering the sound until he repeats it, louder this time, and grabs your hand, making you abruptly stop walking. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” he asks with genuine concern in his voice. “You’re barely listening to me. I mean, it’s not like you usually really do, but you’d have told me to get lost, like, five minutes ago now…”

He chuckles self-deprecatingly, but despite his words, you’re focusing on something else yet again. His hand on yours, his loose hold on your fingers. Your brain is yelling at you—hold his hand, hug him. It’s like there are still traces of the 28-year-old version of you you visited yesterday, urging you to behave like her and not 18-year-old you. 

So, the well had let you know that you need not look much further to find what you wanted. Here it is, in the form of a boy you have convinced yourself you hated, and hated you, and yet, he’s holding your hand, asking you if you’re okay, worry knotting his eyebrows together. 

Hold his hand. Hug him. Instead, you retract your hand, let it fall limply by your side. Jongseong’s eyebrows shoot up.

He’s so close, the supposed love of your life. You don’t know how to reach out to him.

For now, you smile. “Get lost, Jong.”

--

you guys how the hell do i act around jongseong now that i know our fates are romantically intertwined

kazuha i think not treating him like the number one public enemy would be a good start

you so what… be nice to him? how do i do that

sunoo oh my god y/n when she has to treat another person like a regular human being

you he’s not just another person!

sunoo okayyyyy i see you little miss repressed feelings

you i hate u

kazuha just don’t roll your eyes at everything he says anymore and don’t start arguments for no reason

you he’s the one who starts them… but okay i’ll try

--

“Let’s pair up for the reading analysis today. You can stay with your deskmate or pick a partner, I don’t mind as long as you get the work done. I’m talking about you, Chaewon and Yuri. This is English class, not a gossip session.”

The second your English teacher has finished speaking, Jongseong swivels in his chair. “Let’s partner up, Y/N?”

“What about me?” Jake asks, eyes darting back-and-forth between the two of you.

“You can partner up with Minju,” Jongseong replies, pointing to the girl he’s usually seated next to. “Look. You guys will be great together. Say hi, Minju.” Minju waves shyly at Jake, braces on display as she smiles ecstatically. It’s not everyday that she gets to talk to one of the most popular guys in school.

Jake reluctantly switches seats with him, glancing back at you and Jongseong who just grins at him, fake friendliness plastered on his lips, until he turns around again. Your new partner’s smile softens and reaches his eyes when he looks at you. “Hi.”

You have to look away—you feel your face burn under his gaze. “Hi, Jong.”

He tilts his head. “What? Do you hate me so much that you can’t even look at me now?” he asks, and you can’t tell whether he’s joking or genuine.

You frown. “I don’t hate you.”

“Oh? That’s a recent development.”

“I guess,” you mumble after a few seconds. Is it really? You suddenly can’t remember if you ever really hated him, or if you’d exaggerated your own feelings.

His smile widens. “Well, good. I mean, you were going to have to realize at some point that I really am funny, smart, endearing, handsome-”

“Back to hating.”

“Let’s start the assignment.”

You agree on reading the passage first, but you realize halfway through that not a single word has been absorbed. “Hey. Why did you switch seats with him?” you ask, whispering so as not to be overheard.

Jongseong shrugs. “I thought you wouldn’t want to work with him, considering…”

“Right.” You’re silent again, but only for a bit. “What’s it to you?” you mumble. 

He scoffs. “Sorry for trying to be considerate.”

“That’s not—”

“Let’s just focus on this.”

His sudden coldness vexes you. You know you should let it go — don’t start arguments for no reason, and all that — and you know it’s childish, but you can’t help yourself. You have certain reflexes you’re not particularly proud of when it comes to one Park Jongseong. “Let’s just focus on this,” you repeat, mocking his grumbling tone of voice and shaking your head like a puppet.

He glares at you. “Can you not act like a toddler for once?”

“Can you not be a dick for once?” you bite back.

“Y/N, Jongseong, I’m sure you’re having a fascinating conversation on the use of chiaroscuro in the text?” your teacher asks, a look of warning on his face.

“Yes, sir,” you reply, embarrassed.

“Yes, so much chiaroscuro,” Jongseong mumbles, resting his cheek on his knuckles. When the teacher has turned away, he kicks your foot. “See, you’re getting us in trouble.”

“Do you even know what chiaroscuro is?” 

He hesitates. “That’s not the problem here. You are.”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t-”

“Y/N, Jay, final warning.”

“Sorry,” you both say at the same time. With one last glare at each other, you finally get to work.

So your plan to start getting along with Jongseong isn’t in full-force yet. On the drive back home that afternoon, you reassure yourself that these things take time. When the moment is right, the two of you will grow closer.

--

But increasingly, it feels as though the right moment will never come.

Two months have passed since your visit to the well, and things between you and Jongseong have not changed. Not really, at least.

You still bicker like cat and dog — it goes without saying that you’re the cute puppy and he’s the heartless cat — and he gets as much on your nerves as ever, especially now that you know that the potential to be nice to you, to love you, even, exists somewhere inside him. Somewhere deeply hidden perhaps, but somewhere nonetheless. Of course, after telling yourself that what must come will come of its own accord, you haven’t done much to change the dynamic between the two of you. But if you used to see your retaliations against him as necessary to your survival, you now find some sort of enjoyment in them—some might call it Stockholm Syndrome, you perceive it as a step in the right direction. You’ve followed one of Kazuha’s pieces of advice: you don’t roll your eyes at him anymore, simply because you don’t feel the need to. You argue with him with a smile on your face, his attempts at insulting or annoying you have started to make you laugh.

He doesn’t say anything but seems to gladly welcome this change. If you get a lower grade than him on a test, he doesn’t try to stick the knife in further, but genuinely offers to go over it with you later. If you give in after two hours of tearing your hair out over a German exercise and text him for help, he doesn’t make fun of you. If he says something particularly arrogant or makes a really bad joke, all you need to do is give him a look, and he’ll mumble an apology. 

Could it have been like this the entire time? you wonder, watching him across the schoolyard as he and Heeseung hunt for Pokémon. Just a couple months ago, you would’ve scrunched your nose at the sight, making fun of him for his childish interests. Now, you notice the way he laughs, audible all the way to where you sit with Kazuha and Sunoo, the way he jumps excitedly and points at things only he and his friend see, and all you feel is endearment.

“Look at you, look at that,” Sunoo says as he hits you on the forehead with his metal spoon, startling you. He tuts. “You’ve got love dripping from your eyes, sweetie.”

“Sunoo, that’s disgusting.”

“Love? I know.”

“No, your spoon. Your saliva’s all over that,” you say, and all he does is eat another mouthful of his yogurt while staring wide-eyed right at you. When you look back at Jongseong, he’s high-fiving Heeseung. You wonder which creature he’s caught now. In the library yesterday, he spent thirty minutes showing you every single one he had captured so far instead of revising for the upcoming Physics test.

“Yeah, we know you’d like someone else’s saliva more,” Kazuha chimes in, and the two of them snort.

“It’s not like that,” you say, biting into an apple slice.

“Oh yeah? What’s it like, then?” Kazuha asks.

“We’re… becoming friends,” you say, but you’re not sure who you’re trying to convince more.

“Y/N, I’ve had to watch the two of you giggling to yourselves in the library one too many times to believe you’re friends. I know your homework’s not that funny,” Sunoo argues.

“Friends can giggle with each other!” you exclaim, but your friends are inflexible.

“I would tell you to get yourself together if you giggled at me like that,” he says.

“I saw you twirl your hair the other day,” Kazuha adds.

“I never—When?!”

She shrugs. “The other day.”

You deflate, crushed under your friends’ accusations. “I wouldn’t twirl my hair…” you mumble. You decide to busy yourself with your apple slices, not even bothering to find out what Kazuha and Sunoo start snickering and elbowing each other about.

“Hey,” a familiar voice greets, making you look up. Jongseong smiles at you and steals an apple slice from your tupperware as he sits down next to you, Heeseung across from him.

“Hi, Jong,” you say, sitting up straighter. You offer a piece of fruit to Heeseung but he declines, saying he doesn’t like apples without peanut butter.

In front of you, your friends exchange a look, and you’re immediately terrified of what they’ll do next. Leaning in, they place their elbows on the table, and Kazuha starts them off. “Jay, you and Y/N know each other pretty well, right?”

Jongseong glances at you, eyes wide. “Uh, sure.”

“Have you ever noticed her, say, twirling her hair?” Sunoo asks, tilting his head innocently at the poor boy by your side.

You’ve never seen him look so confused. “Um, yeah, she does that when she’s concentrating on something, sometimes…”

They lean back. “Huh,” Kazuha says, studying Jongseong’s face.

“Interesting. Very interesting,” Sunoo says, slowly nodding.

You glare at your friends. “See, that’s different,” you tell them. “I was concentrating on something, not doing… whatever you guys had in mind.”

Jongseong looks at you. “What did they have in mind?”

You answer before either of them can dig your grave any deeper. “Nothing. It’s nothing. We were just having a stupid conversation.” You muster your most convincing smile, and the subject is finally dropped.

No one says anything for a few moments, until Heeseung decides to speak up: “You should’ve seen Jay earlier, Y/N. He caught this super rare version of Pikachu earlier, it was awesome.”

“Dude…” Jongseong murmurs.

“What?” Heeseung asks, his enthusiasm quickly dissolving into confusion. Jongseong just shakes his head. Thankfully for all of you, the bell rings then, and you head to class. The three of them walk in front of you while you and Jongseong fall back a step.

“Why were you guys sitting outside? It’s freezing today,” he asks you. Walking side-by-side like this, you can’t help but notice the inches he has over you, the broadness of his shoulders in comparison to yours.

“They turned the heat way too high in the cafeteria, so we came outside for some fresh air,” you explain. He’s right, the air is chilly today—it’s a few days into December, and the temperatures have been accordingly low.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Your heart skips a beat. One of the side effects of not being at each other’s throat anymore was that you got more and more often to be privy to this side of Jongseong—attentive, considerate, kind. What you once thought were his moral attempts at not being so mean to you all the time, you found out was actually his real nature. He wasn’t a prick who was sometimes nice, he was a nice person who turned into a prick with you. Whether the fault lay on him or you was another debate.

“No, I’m alright,” you say, but your body decides to betray you and makes you sneeze three times in a row.

“Bless you,” Jongseong says, laughing. “Here.” You try to stop him, pushing his hands away, but he takes his gloves off and forces them in your palms.

“I’m going to be inside for the next four hours, Jong, I’ll be fine. Keep them.”

“No, it’s okay. Just so you can warm up quicker.”

You eventually give in, putting the gloves over your hands, laughing at the extra fabric that hangs off the tip of your fingers. But when you look at Jongseong’s now-bare hands, something catches your attention. Stopping in the hallway, you grab one of them, examining the cuts on his knuckles. “You need to wear hand cream, Jong, your hands are too chapped.”

He lets you turn his hand over, smooth over his skin, do the same thing with his other hand. “Men don’t wear hand cream,” he says, a grin on his lips.

You burst out laughing. “I think that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Seriously, though, I don’t like the way it feels. Too sticky.”

“You just need to get a quick-absorption one.” Then, you make the terrible mistake of looking up from his hand and meeting his eyes—you gasp silently, his gaze and soft smile transporting you right back to that night, the images of 28-year-old and 18-year-old Jongseong mixing into each other, becoming indistinct from each other. Your gaze drifts down to his lips — chapped, too, when they’re usually plumper, rosier — and his hand, still in yours, balls into a fist. The second bell rings and you both take a step back, eyes meeting again for a brief moment before looking down at the floor. With uncharacteristically shy, embarrassed words of parting, you make your separate ways to your next classes.

“That was beautiful, Y/N,” Sunoo says, waiting for you by the door, and you walk past him without so much as a glance.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

--

sunoo jay and y/n almost kissed earlier

kazuha WHAAAAT

you KIM SUNOO.

kazuha WHEN?????

sunoo right before class after the lunch break y/n was sooo embarrassed afterwards lol

you we did NOT almost kiss you’re talking out of your ass

kazuha i can’t believe i missed this fml

you YOU DIDNT MISS ANYTHING NOTHING HAPPENED

sunoo be serious u guys we’re standing inches apart

you were* and no we weren’t

sunoo oh stfu it was autocorrect i saw it w my own eyes y/n… you WERE literally holding his hand and staring into those beautiful eyes of his

kazuha sunoo…?

sunoo what can’t a man acknowledge another man’s objective attractiveness if i was y/n i would’ve folded the moment i saw him

you literally one of the first times he talked to me was to make fun of my handwriting

sunoo yeah he’s on his tsundere shit i fw it

you …

sunoo anyways zuha you shouldve seen it when the bell rang they practically leaped away from each other and u didnt know what to do w yourselves afterwards likeeee it was so obvi what you both were thinking of

kazuha cuuuute

you i resent these accusations.

sunoo istg if u dont kiss him next time i will

kazuha ???

you SUNOO?

sunoo WHAT

--

Something happens a few days before the start of winter break.

Ms. Schumacher is absent, gone off to Germany to visit her family there—she has enough seniority in the school that they let her abandon her responsibilities as a teacher once in a while. A week is too short a period of time for them to bother finding a substitute. It’s usually your last class of the day, but you have to wait around for your dad to be done working, so while most of your classmates have gone home early, you sit with about six other people in the unsupervised study room, absent-mindedly jotting down tid-bits of dialogue for your new story idea, too preoccupied with Jongseong’s absence to really pay attention to anything else. It’s fifteen minutes after the hour, but he’s nowhere to be found, although you know for a fact that he takes those weird Molecular Gastronomy cooking classes your Chemistry teacher offers for extra credit every Thursday after school, so he should be here. And anyways, if he’d gone home, he would’ve texted you something like, Have fun sitting around for an hour, I’m gonna go do awesome stuff with Heeseung, even if awesome stuff meant playing Mario Kart or drinking Sprite and holding a two-person burping contest.

You’re so engrossed in your own thoughts that you pay no mind to the sudden ding of a phone in the room, followed by some gasps and heated whispers. The exchanged words go through one ear and out the other—There was a fight? In the locker rooms? It must be bad if they were sent to the nurse before the principal… Huh? Over who? So he took both of them on? Damn, I didn’t know Jay got like that. He seems so well-behaved.

Your head whips up at the mention of your friend’s name. “Jay? Did something happen to him?” you ask out loud, the whispers dying down immediately as everybody stares at you. 

Gaeul, who was in your class last year, is the only one who answers you. Holding up and waving her phone, she says, “They say he got into a fight.”

Jongseong? A fight? It sounds like a practical joke. He admitted to you he once started crying watching Heeseung playing Call of Duty, it was so violent. You shake your head. “He-he did? With who?”

Gaeul and the girl next to her exchange a concerned, almost guilty look. “Jake and Sunghoon.” The crease between your eyebrows deepened. You don’t need to ask anything else before she adds, “They’re at the nurse’s station. It sounds pretty bad…”

That’s enough for you to leap out of your chair and run to the nurse’s station. It seems the news has spread impossibly quickly among your year group—even Kazuha and Sunoo are already blowing your phone, asking you if you’ve heard, if you know how Jay is. You ignore them, reminding yourself to text them back later, until one message from Sunoo in particular catches your attention: It apparently started because Sunghoon said something about you, Y/N. They’re saying Jay got angry.

The nurse is busy on the phone when you get there, her back to the entrance, so you’re able to slip in unnoticed. You head to the adjoining room where the beds are, all three of them taken—you walk by Sunghoon first, his arms crossed over his chest and pointedly not looking at you, then by Jake, who calls out your name. You glare at him and pull on the white plastic curtain that separates his bed from Jongseong’s. They’re already going to hear you, you don’t need them seeing you on top of that. 

Jongseong sits up with a grunt when you appear at the end of his bed. The sight of him makes your stomach flip, and not in a good way, for once—his left eye is swollen and circled by a deep purple bruise, shiny with ointment, there’s a cut on his cheek, his lower lip is busted, his right hand is wrapped in bandages. “Oh my God,” you whisper as you help him up, voice breaking. He stares at his hands, jaw locking when you gently place one palm on his good hand, the other on the side of his face, moving it this way and that so you can take a better look at his injuries. He winces, and you let go, resting your hand on his shoulder instead. “What the hell got into you?” you whisper vehemently, unable to decide if you’re worried or angry or both as tears form in your eyes.

He tries to shrug, but even that seems to hurt. “Don’t shrug, Jongseong, tell me what happened.”

“I’m Jongseong again now?” he says, attempting a smile, but only one corner of his lips rises.

You sigh. Even in this state, he has to be a smart-ass. “You’re Jong when I need a textbook, Jongseong when you get into stupid fights,” you reply, and he smiles wider but immediately winces, hand coming up to the cut on his lip. You notice that his hand is still riddled with cracks, and whether they’re due to their dryness or to this fight doesn’t matter—”Wait here,” you say, and go rummage through some drawers for plasters. “She forgot some spots.” You feel Jongseong’s eyes on your face as you patch him up to the best of your abilities.

“I don’t want to tell you what happened. I’ll do the job of hating these idiots for the both of us, so don’t concern yourself with them,” he says, apparently not caring that the idiots in question can hear his every word.

He keeps his promise—you never hear another word from him about the cause of the fight. 

Later, you find out through other means, namely Sunoo’s questionably remarkable ability to unearth any and all gossip, that in the locker rooms after Phys Ed, someone had started Jake on the topic of Yunjin, who had been recently revealed as his girlfriend. They’d apparently kept it secret because it was just fooling around at first, and only later had gotten serious enough for them to parade around the school as the couple. 

It had been an unremarkable conversation until Jake said, “You guys know Y/N from our class? She saw us in the staff parking lot once, and I was sure we’d be busted then. But she didn’t tell anyone.” And just like that, the conversation turned to you, someone who was usually never a topic among these boys, jocks, soccer players, “the kind of people who peak in high school and still have a superiority complex at forty,” as Sunoo describes them. 

He has a harder time explaining what happened next, can’t quite look you in the eye as he recounts what was said. “So, this is what they say, apparently someone said that you used to be obsessed with Sunghoon, then with Jake, and Sunghoon said you… Well, he said you were pathetic, that asshole, and that you had been so easy to lead on, then Jake joined in, saying the same things, basically, how funny it was seeing you so obviously in love with him when he would never give you a chance…” He looks at you worriedly, but you tell him to go on. “And so that’s when Jay got up and just straight-up punched Jake in the face. And while Jake was trying to figure out what happened, Jay punched Sunghoon, and then they both got on him, pushing him, but when he wouldn’t stop throwing punches, they started fighting, too. I think they all got some good ones in before the other boys were able to break them apart and the P.E. teacher arrived…”

But that would be later. Now, sitting with Jongseong in the nurse’s station, tears falling onto the plasters you place on his hand, nothing matters but him. You don’t need the details—he’s hurt, he got hurt over you, you feel as though every cut on his body may well have been done by your own hand. You’ve never felt so guilty for something you didn’t do. Your voice trembles when you speak; you’re unable to look at him, at his busted eye. “I just don’t want you to get hurt for me.”

Without missing a beat, he says, “What else would I get hurt for?”

You can only meet his eyes for a split second. Even like this, he manages to look at you with the same softness that has haunted you since the night you met 28-year-old Jongseong, that has rendered all thoughts of anything other than him meaningless since the day your gaze drifted down to his lips just weeks ago. “Jong…” is all you can mutter as you look down at your hands holding each others’, your lips trembling.

He raises his bandaged hand, still not used to his dominant side being ineffective for now, then lowers it when he realizes. Clumsily, he pats your hair with his left hand. “Don’t cry, please…”

Jake’s head pops out from behind the curtain. “Y/N, I’m really sorry—”

“Not right now, man,” Jay quickly interrupts. Jake pathetically disappears behind the curtain again.

“Just promise me you won’t do this again.”

“Y/N…”

“Promise me,” you say, more demanding this time, sticking out your pinky finger. Jay, hesitant, looks between your outstretched finger and your face a few times, but eventually gives in.

The nurse, upon coming to check on the boys, catches you with Jongseong and chases you out immediately. You sulk back to study hall, where everyone’s head perks up the moment you walk in. “They’re okay,” you reassure vaguely, and unenthusiastically answer their many questions. It’s only a few minutes until the bell rings, and you’re free to go then.

--

jong so… guess who got a five-day suspension

you you idiot what did your parents say?

jong they’re not happy i have to do all the household chores for a month

you boo-hoo

jong not sure why i came here thinking i’d get some comfort…

you … are you feeling better?

jong a little bit the nurse gave us some really strong painkillers but i’m okay because there’s a pretty girl that’s going to drop off the homework for me after school every day :)

you oh did you ask chaewon to do that?

jong um no i was talking about you ..if that’s okay

you haha i know i just wanted you to say it straight up

jong ykw maybe i should just ask chaewon

you i’ll see you tomorrow jong!!

jong :) see you tomorrow pretty 

 --

The months that separate your return to school and graduation come and go in the blink of an eye. Jongseong can’t come to school the last day before the holidays or the first four days after, and he’s grounded in-between. Things change bit by bit with every day you visit him—To give him the homework, you tell his parents, although there isn’t much to do when the semester isn’t in full swing, and you could’ve easily sent him pictures. The first time, you spend more time scouring the pictures and trinkets in his room than actually talking to him, and awkwardly give him a half-hug when he tells you he won’t be able to hang out at all during the break before practically running out of his house, your heart beating a thousand miles a minute from the innocent contact. By the fourth time, you lie together on his bed and talk about your plans for college, your hands sitting centimeters apart on the navy sheets. You haven’t dared touch his hand since that day in the nurse’s station.

You’re window-shopping with Kazuha when you spot the hand cream you had seen yourself gifting Jongseong in your well-given vision. Buying it is one thing, actually giving it to him is another, an awkward, stuttery situation in which the wrapping done by the store employee suddenly seems over-the-top and out-of-place. But Jongseong seems to like it—it’s the last day of his suspension, his black eye is now a yellow-ish color, he can smile without risking splitting his lip in two. He applies it immediately, tells you he’ll make sure to wear it every day until the end of winter. You find yourself wishing there was something you could give him for every season so he wouldn’t go a day without thinking of you. When you leave, he bashfully thanks you for making sure he doesn’t fall behind and says he’s excited to see you at school the next day. You hardly know what to do with yourself, so you squeak out a “me too” and slip out the door.

His first day back is a Friday. It starts with Mathematics, a class in which you sit by each other. You remember the first week of classes when Kazuha and Sunoo had ran to sit with each other, expressly because they knew that if he saw you were sitting alone, he’d take the seat next to you, just to better torment you all year. You’d resented it then; it couldn’t make you happier now. Your body is humming with nervous energy, your foot tapping relentlessly against the tiled floor. When he appears in the doorframe, you wave at him as if he’d forgotten his seat in three weeks of absence. His elbow brushes against yours as he sits down.

Between the two of you, friendship blossoms over these months. To the detriment of everyone around you, you continue to bicker as you always have, but it’s now clearly done out of habit, out of affection, even, than out of actual dislike of each other. He and Heeseung slowly integrate your small group of three, and before you know it, it feels as though there have always been five of you. Together, you welcome spring.

In January, to thank you for helping him to pick out his mom’s birthday present, Jongseong treats you to some tteokbokki, which you said you’d been craving all week. He orders the spiciest one, then has to take a sip of water between every bite. You laugh at his teary eyes and red face while you devour the bright red rice cakes easily. 

In February, he makes a show of giving you and Kazuha and Heeseung and Sunoo some homemade chocolates, saying it’s a friend thing. You find out that evening that the others each have five in their box—there are twenty in yours. It’s one of the things that makes you second guess what sort of feelings he has for you. For years, you’ve been convinced he harbored strong feelings of disdain for you; now, he seems to enjoy your friendship. You’re scared to read too much into anything, because if Jongseong is well-liked throughout school, it’s for a reason: he’s nice. To everyone. Even to you, too, nowadays. But if nice is giving five chocolates, what is giving twenty?

A sudden realization hits you in March—Jongseong appears at your door, drenched from the rain, a bag of your favorite snacks in hand. “You weren’t at school today. I had to find out you were sick from Kazuha,” he says as if she was a random classmate of yours and not your best friend, as if he should be the first to know about these kinds of things. Your mom rushes him in, finds him so charming in the five minutes they converse that she decides he should stay over for dinner, and as you watch him laughing with her, you think, I haven’t thought of 28-year-old Jongseong in ages. I’ve only thought of you. And although you can trace the start of your feelings to that dream-like experience you had, you can now say with confidence that it’s not the only reason for them.

College application results come out in April, right on his birthday. The five of you celebrate together at an American-style diner, gorging yourselves on crispy bacon and chocolate chip pancakes. Kazuha is going back to Japan, almost a decade after moving to South Korea—”I’m gonna miss you guys, but I miss takoyaki and my grandma more right now.” Heeseung has been accepted into the Engineering department at the country’s top university. You, Sunoo and Jongseong are all heading to the same place: you for Screenwriting, which you’ve known since you were one of the winners of the scholarship contest last October, Sunoo for Communications, whatever that is, and Jongseong for European History and Literature with a minor in German, that freak. It’s a good university, and it’s not far from home. The way Jongseong tells you about his acceptance sticks with you: he doesn’t say, They accepted me, too, or, I’m going to the same university as you. He says, We’ll be together.

May is filled with afternoons at the park when you should all be studying for exams. Your mom keeps asking when she’s going to see “that wonderful boy” again. Your friendship with Jongseong has given him new ways of teasing you—after four years of near-kleptomaniac tendencies, he’s finally stopped stealing your erasers and has instead started to let his gaze linger on your face, to call you pretty when you least expect it, to tuck your hair behind your ear. You hate it most when he asks you whether there’s something from your romance novels or movies that you want him to recreate. “Is there a field big enough nearby that I can walk through at the break of dawn, Mister Darcy-style?” he’ll say, or “I’ve always wanted to try that upside-down kiss from Spider-Man. It’s a classic, really.” 

Summer comes early in June. You need to bring a two-liter water bottle and a hand fan to your exams, and you’ve never felt such relief as when it was all over. After endless pictures with your parents and siblings, just your parents, just your siblings, then Kazuha and Sunoo, together, then separately, then with Heeseung and Jongseong as well, Kazuha forces you and Jongseong together, watching with a smile as he shyly wraps an arm around your waist and you awkwardly throw up a peace sign. It’s your first picture of just the two of you.

In July, you and Jongseong unlock a new first: saying goodbye. He’s leaving to stay with his American family as he does every summer. You show up at his house the day before at four p.m. “to help him pack,” you say, but it’s Jongseong, and he finished packing two days ago. So instead, you sit on his desk chair, he on his bed, and you fight back tears. “You’re coming back, right?” you ask, like he’s leaving to go to war and not Seattle. Amusement and affection flicker in his eyes. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t throw four more years of being a pain in your ass away, would I?” he says, and you smile, because you know it’s going to be much more than four years.

But he doesn’t just leave you with a few nice words. Avoiding your gaze, he hands you an envelope. Inside is a single ticket, a two-month membership for your city’s arthouse cinema that you can only go to when they have student deals or when your parents have had enough of your begging. You can’t even begin to imagine how much this must’ve cost. “Jong…” you murmur, in awe at the thin slip of paper between your hands. “This is incredible. Thank you so much.”

Jongseong looks down at his feet, fighting a smile as he kicks the invisible rocks that obviously litter the floor of his bedroom. “I thought you’d get bored without me around, so, that way you can entertain yourself, I guess… And if you run into any film bros next year, you’ll have seen as many pretentious movies as them.”

You burst into laughter then, and, without thinking, wrap your arms around his neck, thanking him over and over again. It takes him a second, but he wraps his arms around your waist and says it’s no big deal.

As you walk down the path from your house, he calls out your name. “Don’t be a stranger,” he says.

You smile. “Never.”

So, he’s not here for summer. Kazuha is working in her parents’ ramen restaurant to make some money before leaving, even Heeseung leaves two weeks into July for Seoul to visit some relatives there and get accustomed to life in the big city. You only get to laze around with Sunoo, but even he eventually leaves for his grandparents’ house by the sea, making you promise you’ll come visit him at some point, otherwise he’ll “die of boredom.” 

It’s August now, and your brain and body alike buzz with restlessness. You go to the cinema almost every day, making the best of your subscription. If you’re not going around your house looking for spider webs with your vacuum cleaner, you’re riding random bus lines and discovering parts of your town you’ve never set foot in before. If you’re not making your way through your never-ending pile of unread books, you’re creating your own stories, finally taking the time to properly outline and draft the one-line ideas you’ve had sitting in your Notes app, preparing yourself for the start of your degree. Your mind is taken up with love stories. From Romeo & Juliet to Dirty Dancing to Book Lovers, you can’t get enough of the genre. You become particularly obsessed with stories involving time travel, rewatching After Time and Lovely Runner like they contain some precious knowledge. By the end of the month, you’ve turned your life into an eight-episode TV series—a desperate girl makes a wish on a star only to discover she is fated to marry the one boy she hates most. You know you’d watch that. You send Sunoo and Kazuha the pilot, and after calling you insane numerous times but also heaping on praises, Sunoo says this: lol your going through jay withdrawals.

It shakes you so much you’re not even compelled to message back you’re*.

But he’s not wrong. The more you let yourself admit it, the more you realize how true it is: you miss Jongseong. You text once in a while, you’ve even stayed up late talking on the phone a couple of times, but you miss him, his corporeal form, having his gaze on you, having the possibility but never the courage to touch him. Every day, there’s something you want to tell him about. The cats huddling around a young neighborhood kid as he pours milk into a bowl, the clearance sale at your local library, most books for one buck only, the actor from an 90s Hong Kong film you swear has the exact same smile as him. You don’t want to bother him, so you write letters instead. Some you send, some you don’t—the ones you keep hidden in your drawer usually hint too obviously at your feelings for him. Some of them don’t just hint and contain lines of your declarations: I miss you, everything I see reminds me of you, I want to check that your bruises have healed completely even though the last trace of them faded months ago. You keep these letters a secret, even from Sunoo and Kazuha, who would never let you live down such woebegone, down bad behavior.

You do it because it feels good, getting all of your feelings out on paper. You’re a romantic at heart, so you’re prone to over-exaggeration when it comes to things like these—but everything that you write remains based in truth. You’d started with a postcard of your hometown, jokingly writing, Don’t forget where you came from. How is it over there? and he’d actually replied with a postcard of his own, filling it from top to bottom. You easily went from these small postcards to multiple pages of stream-of-consciousness-like writing. You think it’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done—although you’re not sure he feels the same way, considering he still writes to the German pen pal Ms. Schumacher had assigned him in your first year of high school. No one else’s correspondence had lasted more than four months because she’d immediately forgotten to make sure you kept in touch regularly.

I ran into Jake Sim at the city library, you write one day. You’ve replied to everything in his latest letter, so you’re now catching him up on your recent adventures. He was checking out some books about Linguistics, of all things—he bought me bubble tea afterwards and told me that the injury he got last April was actually a relief. Did you know his father was a big name in soccer here? Apparently, he never wanted to be a soccer player that badly, and he wants to do Linguistics and Social Anthropology, who would’ve guessed it. He’s like Troy Bolton if High School Musical was about Humanities and not singing. Anyways, you probably don’t want me to go on and on about him, so I won’t, but we did talk about that fight you guys had back in December. He apologized for it, to you and me both, although he didn’t go into much detail — Sunoo is still the only one who’s had the balls to tell me exactly what happened, and he wasn’t even there! — and I was reticent at first, but he seemed genuine. He said he didn’t even hang out with Sunghoon or Yunjin or any of those people anymore, that it was only out of convenience really, and that he hopes starting university will be like turning over a new leaf. Well, he could be full of shit, who knows. As I sat there listening to him I wondered what it was I used to see in him. He’s nice enough, but we only spoke about him for the entire hour. He asked me no questions that weren’t “and you?” so it was a bit exhausting. 

But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you.

You look at your words, smiling to yourself—this is one of the times where you find yourself erring from the topic at hand, instead indulging in sappiness and nostalgia. You write about how your opinion of Jongseong has changed over these months, how it wasn’t seeing him as your husband in all those years that had really shaken things up, but rather that day in the nurse’s station, the frightening colors around his eye, his attitude like it was natural that he would get hurt like this for you. You write, Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?

“I’m going to the Post Office for a package soon, Y/N. Are you done with your letter?” your mom calls from the staircase landing.

“Give me five minutes!” you call back.

You forage through your drawer for a new sheet of paper and re-write your letter, making sure to leave any compromising parts out and fold both letters into neat squares—one that will cross the seas and reach Jongseong, one that will live out its days in the darkness of your crowded drawer. You’ve run out of envelopes, so you go look for one in your parents’ office. Your mom calls out your name again, impatient to leave — if she sends her package off before twelve p.m., it will get to the receiver tomorrow, and she’s hell-bent on getting perfect five-star Vinted reviews — so you hurriedly put your letter in the envelope, close it, stamp it, and write Jongseong’s name and address on the back. The other letter you absent-mindedly throw in your drawer with the dozens of other letters in which you’d crossed the line.

--

A few weeks later, like an apparition, Jongseong stands before you again.

He’s tanner from months under the Washington sun, from afternoons spent at his family’s lake house, on their boat. His hair is slightly shorter and suits him even better; you don’t recognize any of the clothes he wears. He grumbles as his mother goes back-and-forth between hugging him, staring at him worriedly and reminding him to call at least twice a week while his father unpacks the trunk. “I’ll only be a thirty-minute train ride away, Mom,” he says. 

He’s still Jong.

You moved in yesterday, and you’re now waiting for your new roommate, who, after five minutes of deliberating whether she should bring a jacket or not and finally decided against it, changed her mind the minute she stepped outside. 

It’s been two months since you last saw him. Shortly after sending your letter, you’d gone to stay with Sunoo’s grandparents for a week, just a day before he was set to come back from Seattle. Amid packing and other preparations, you haven’t had time to see each other. Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texted you. You replied that it wasn’t a problem, you told him which dorm you’d been assigned and found out his was the one next door.

When he notices you staring, he does a double-take. You wave at him, and even from this distance, you see the blush that creeps up his neck and takes over his face as he shyly waves back. You’ve never seen him like this—he’s always been either arrogant or friendly, never… flustered. He makes a motion as if to say, I’ll text you, and heads inside the building with his parents and all of his luggage.  

Indeed, he texts you some hours later while you’re sharing a piece of strawberry and matcha cake with your roommate Liz, whom you find out is half-German—Jongseong and your dad would probably love her for that simple fact. Some of the first things she’d asked you were what your astrological signs were and whether you wanted her to pull tarot cards for you when she was all done setting up her side of the room. Between that and her dyed blonde hair, you’d felt comfortable telling her all about Jongseong, the well and your dream. Unlike your skeptical and sarcastic friends, she’d nodded along to your every word, a serious expression on her face. “A sign from the universe,” she’d called it, and she gasped in excitement when his name appeared on your screen.

He sends you a link to a freshers’ week event, some potted plant sale happening on the main campus square, and asks if you’re free to go with him tomorrow. I need something to liven up that depressing room, he writes.

So that’s how you find yourselves among green plants of all shapes and sizes, searching for one that’s both low-maintenance and appealing to the eye. You’re glad that you have something to actually do—if you were just sitting at a café and having a conversation, you’re not sure you’d be able to stand the awkwardness. You’d chalked up his behavior on the day of his move-in to nerves, or to surprise upon seeing you so unexpectedly. But apparently, it wasn’t a one-time thing. He keeps clearing his throat as if he were sick with some cold, won’t look into your eyes for more than split seconds at a time, and in complete opposition to his usual confident, deliberate speech, talks in a quick and disorderly manner. And he’s either really caught a cold, or his ears have just permanently turned red. You ask him if something’s wrong a couple times, but he violently shakes his head, says, “No, what could be wrong?” then looks at you as if you might tell him what’s wrong.

When you’re alone again, you wonder what on earth could have happened over the summer that could make him change his behavior with you so radically. Did something happen in Seattle? Maybe he met someone there and doesn’t know how to tell you. Maybe you went overboard with your letters, he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, he wants to let you down easy but doesn’t know how to tell you. Or maybe—maybe you got impossibly pretty during those two months, and absence does make the heart grow fonder, as they say, and every thought you have about him, he has about you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you.

In any case, he’s hiding something.

The theory that he might want to stop being friends soon falls flat—the invitations to other freshers’ events keep coming, be it free wine & pizza taster sessions from the Wine Society, karaoke nights with the Taylor Swift Society or a shark movie marathon with the Bad Film Society, and he never turns you down when you tell him there’s something you want to visit in this new city of yours, even when the thing you want to visit in question is a bakery you have to queue in front of at seven a.m. if you want to get a pain au chocolat. In your defense, they turn out to be the best ones you and Jongseong have ever tried—although, to be fair, neither of you has been to France.

Things progressively return to normal. He’s able to make eye contact for more than three seconds again, he listens carefully and laughs along when you tell him about your week by the sea with Sunoo, he fills you in on what Heeseung’s been up to. One thing remains different, however—when you throw quips at him, he usually would’ve delighted in coming up with a better, wittier response, but now, he’ll roll his eyes at best, look at you amusedly and stay silent at worst. “Won’t you even entertain me?” you ask him once, to which he replies that you’re doing a good job entertaining yourself as is. 

Instead, he becomes more earnest. As per usual you badger him with questions like Aren’t I so pretty right now? or Isn’t my outfit so cute today? to get a reaction out of him, and if during your high school days he’d either fake a puking sound or look you up and down and grumble I guess, he now smiles and simply says Yes, you are, Yes, it is. It seems impossible to keep track of his attitude: one day, he’s one thing, the next, he’s another person entirely. 

It annoys you. You take his changing demeanor to mean that now that he’s a college student, he won’t indulge in your childish squabbles anymore, as though he was above all of that now, when just three months ago he was stalking your parents’ Facebooks to find unfavorable photos of you from when you were thirteen and using them as reaction pictures in your friends’ group chat. You think of your graduation day, of the box he’d given you, all done up in wrapper paper and a bow—he had filled it with every eraser he’d stolen from you over the years, he’d even gone so far as to date every single one of them, from the second of October freshman year to the twenty-eighth of November of your senior year. You didn’t count them, but there had to be at least a hundred. At the time, you’d just thought it was funny—but what if the gesture had meant something deeper than you’d realized? What if he was marking the end of something with that box? No more playing around, we’re adults now. But classes have barely started, you don’t know your way to the off-campus library, you aren’t a different person to who you were just weeks or even months earlier. Why is he acting like he is? You look at him, and you see the boy whose fault it was you had to buy a new eraser every week—who knows how many books you could’ve bought with that money. But when he turns to look at you, too, and your eyes meet, you’re suddenly assailed with the memories of that night, the kind eyes, the soft smile. 

Does his future capacity to love me already exist in his heart?

Your heartbeat speeds up and you have to look away.

--

From your letters, it seems to be much hotter back home than in Seattle—you talk of sunburns, of afternoons spent inside with the fan on maximum speed, of ice melting instantly and watering down your Coke Zeros, whereas Jay can walk around the city pleasantly and needs to bring a jacket if he’ll be out until late after sundown. And yet, as he reads your latest letter, his skin prickles feverishly, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. He’d excitedly torn the envelope open the second it arrived in the mail, heart thumping as he counted the pages, at least three more than usual — he was always happy that you wanted to talk to him at all, so the fact that you had this much to tell him sent him over the moon — but he would have never expected what was awaiting him inside.

With a smile on his face, he read your replies to the questions he’d asked you last time, your reactions to everything he told you about, the live Mariners game, the lake house, the rides on the boat. He imagined you as you sat at your desk in your room he’d only seen once, when you’d held a small party for your birthday and he, having arrived first, was honored with a tour of your house. He imagined your smile, the way you played with your hair when you focused on something, wondered whether you pondered every word before you wrote it down as he did or whether you poured your thoughts out onto the page without hesitation. His smile faltered when Jake Sim’s name appeared in your neat handwriting, but he was relieved to find out your description of him now was miles away from the one at the start of the school year. 

Then you start writing about him. Him, Park Jongseong, and your words startle him so much, it’s like he’d forgotten he was the recipient of this letter in the first place.

But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you. 

He’s been lying comfortably in his bed, but he sits up the moment his eyes take in these words. If there is one topic the two of you have practically never broached, it’s this exactly: your relationship, the changes it’s gone through this past year. Except for a few mentions made in jest here and there, you’ve always conveniently ignored the fact that not so long ago, you were at each other’s throats. At least, you were at his throat, and Jay let you be, let you think the hatred went both ways, when in reality all he wanted was to keep you close one way or another. To him, anything was better than indifference.

But here you are, writing about how you feel about him, not in hints, not in jokes, but actually telling him black and white what goes through your head when you think of him—in other words, everything he’s been dying to know ever since he met you and especially ever since you started warming up to him a few months ago.

I have never told you about that night because I know it’ll just be more fodder for you to endlessly tease me, and I haven’t even mentioned it in these letters that I write and don’t send. Sometimes I debate the ethics of it—if I know something about our futures, isn’t it right that you know, too? But then again, I still hesitate whether what happened was real or not. As with anything, the more time passes, the more I forget about it. What kind of cheese you’d put on the pasta, the movie that played in the background, whether the stairs were carpeted or wooded—these details have evaded me by now. All I clearly remember is your face and how I felt, seeing it then, seeing it the next day at school, ten years younger, the same exact person in what felt like a different universe. As much as I tried to deny it, I know now that it was no coincidence—I was talking about it with Sunoo and he said that sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. He’s not always a dimwit. And he’s right, the kind of love I felt from you in that dream — or not-dream — I’ve yearned for it ever since I first watched Pride & Prejudice, the 2005 film to be precise, when I was ten. But with you? That was what I couldn’t believe at first. I don’t think I need to explain why—you were there, I think you knew how I felt about you for over three years, it’s not like I tried to hide it.

Then you turned up and the sight of you was enough to bring back all the feelings from that dream. You must’ve wondered why my behavior with you switched so suddenly—well, a glimpse into marital bliss is sometimes enough for a girl to make some changes in her life. Yet I valiantly tried to convince myself that any flutter of my heart around you was due to this stupid dream, to a version of you my brain had conjured up because it was starved for affection, and you happened to be at the forefront of my mind, even if not for the right reasons. But it was no use. I had entertained the possibility that this future was really mine, and I couldn’t go back to seeing you as the boy who annoyed the living daylights out of me.

But Jong, if you weren’t you, I would’ve been confused for a week and then I would’ve gotten over it. I stayed confused for a while, and everything you did only served to confuse me further. I started to notice you more, to see you for who you were and not for the idea I had constructed of you in my head, I stopped taking note of only the things that reinforced this idea. And that changed everything.

Let’s get it out of the way: as much as I hate to admit it because it proves you right, I saw that you are indeed devastatingly handsome. It devastates me every time I have to look at that stupid, wonderful face of yours. And if aging is something you’re worried about, don’t be. I’ve seen you at 28, and let’s just say that your jaw somehow only gets more chiseled. I’ve realized that you don’t just participate in class to be a prick — except for when you contradict me in Literature, I know you only do that to piss me off, and yes, it works — but that you actually care about what we learn and that you don’t want the teacher to feel like they’re talking to a classroom full of students made out of bricks. I’ve also realized that you didn’t specifically pick German to be the one subject where you must beat me at all costs, you just actually really like German, even if I’m still undetermined as to why. And I can finally admit to myself—you are funny. Sometimes. There were so many times I had to stop myself from laughing at one of your idiotic puns because I could not bear to give you the satisfaction. That feeling when the worst person you know makes a funny joke, and all that. And as much as I’ve mocked you for it, I do actually like your laugh. I like that you’re only loud when you laugh, or sneeze, or get excited over something. You don’t scream, you don’t get angry, and I think that’s a lot for a boy fresh out of puberty. Or for any boy, really. 

But above all, you’re kind, Jong. I think it’s the best thing about you. I think it’s the best thing anyone can be. I see it in your patience with Heeseung when he starts one of his rants better reserved for Reddit than real life, I see it in the way you took Sunoo and Kazuha in stride, even though they’re a bit rough around the edges sometimes, I see it in the way you guide the freshmen at the start of every year, when all anyone does is complain about them, I see it in the gentleness with which you let down the girls who confess to you, even the more persistent ones. I used to think they were crazy, but I understand them more than ever now. I also used to think that all those kindnesses meant that the ones you occasionally showed me meant nothing more than that—occasional kindnesses. You were just a nice guy, occasionally so to me. But you sort of ratted yourself out when you gave me those twenty chocolates for Valentine’s.

Or, really, what made things clearer was that fight in December. I guess I was wrong—you do get angry. I remember a thought I had at the time: just when I think I know you, you do something to shake it all up. You punched two of the star soccer players of our school in the face because they said some mean, unimportant things about me. Thinking about it now, I still don’t understand it. Was it another one of your acts of kindness? 

And then I thought of those other times you helped me out. Do you remember them—the art project, the handwritten notes after my grandma passed away, you tearing Park Sunghoon a new one in the girls’ bathroom. I’m sure there are many more that I’ve dismissed simply because I did not want to see you in any other light than the one I’d decided to shine on you. 

Maybe I’m rewriting the past here, but I’ve been thinking about something lately. The theme today seems to be honesty, so I’ll lay myself bare and tell you something I haven’t told anyone yet, not even myself. The more I write, the more I become aware of its truth. I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. Maybe that’s why I kept buying erasers.

I don’t have the best memory — I suspect iron deficiency, it runs in my mom’s side of the family — but I do remember this. The first time I saw you. I haven’t noticed your face changing in real time, but I’m sure I’d laugh at how much of a baby you looked back then. Although I didn’t fare much better, I’m sure. Well, you’re the one that has all these embarrassing pictures of me, you freak, so I’m sure you could tell me. Moving on… 

I found you really cute. You were chatting to the person next to you, maybe it was Heeseung, I didn’t look properly—I only looked at you. Don’t laugh at me. It was the first day of high school, there was a nervous energy in the air, but you seemed happy to be there. You know I don’t have hordes of friends like you do, I don’t walk through life with people naturally gravitating towards me. I’m okay with it now, but it was something I struggled with back then. Kazuha, Sunoo and I have had each other since our elementary days, and I never needed more than that—but fifteen is the prime age for comparison, and as the weeks passed and we got used to being high schoolers, I listened to everyone sing your praises, I watched as you talked with all of our classmates, even our teachers, like you were old friends. But we sat next to each other in a couple of classes, and you wouldn't talk to me outside of partnered work. I, who wanted to be easily charmed by you like everyone else was, who thought maybe you’d help me come out of my shell. But it felt like sitting next to me was torture to you, like the boy whom I watched speak with ease to everyone else disappeared when I was around. And so — and I’m not proud of this — every smart remark in class, every joke that had the entire class roaring, every high five you gave out in the hallway, I started to despise them. And by association, I started to despise you. After that, it was easy to find fault in everything you did, my contempt was only enhanced by everyone’s admiration. But I’m not alone here. It went both ways, didn’t it? I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. I don’t blame us for how we acted, only for taking so long to get our heads out of our asses.

(I have to say, I also have a thing for hating people. Remind me to tell you about Na Jaemin and Shin Ryujin one of these days.)

Anyways, I think it’s because I had liked you so much at first that I could then seemingly hate you so much. But I never hated you, Jong, not really. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. Can I take it all back now? 

Now that we’re entering university soon, I can’t help but look back on high school. This is what I want to know, but I’m not sure I’ll ever have the courage to ask you, because if your answer is the one I suspect, I don’t know how I’ll handle all the regret in my heart.

Have I been wrong about you this whole time? I thought you harbored the same negative feelings towards me as I had you since the moment you’d laid eyes on me, but all of a sudden, here you were, bloody, bandaged hand holding mine. Even with your busted eye, you looked like an angel next to all that white in the nurse’s station. I’ll never forget your words that day. Would you really not get hurt for anything else, Jong?

Your letter abruptly ends here, no concluding remarks, no wishing him a fun time in Seattle and looking forward to his next letter, no sign-off. It was as if someone cut you off before you could say everything you wanted, but then why send him this seemingly unfinished letter? It is all the more bizarre since your letters are usually meticulous: you write on every other line, it looks like you take your time with every single letter, the only disturbance in your otherwise perfect handwriting is your going back-and-forth between cursive and script s’s. But this particular letter looks rushed, your lines are sloppy, some words need to be read a few times over to be understood. What kind of state had you been in, writing these words? Jay’s heart swells, thinking that you were as moved writing as he was reading. He even looks through your letter again, wishing to find a tear stain somewhere, but there are none. Maybe he’s been watching too many of these romantic period dramas you always go on about.

He has to pace his room when he’s done reading your letter, but he feels trapped inside these four walls, so he dashes outside, saying that he’s getting some air when his relatives ask him where he’s off to in such a rush, and walks around the block five times. When he’s back in his room, he rereads your letter, eyes taking in each and every word slowly and carefully, making sure he doesn’t misread anything.

You like him. You, Y/N, like him, Jongseong, it’s a fact, it’s real, you said so yourself, you went into quite some detail about it, he can’t believe it, but it’s real, it’s written right there on the page, if anyone dares tell him he’s fooling himself, he can prove them wrong, you’re the one who said it.

The smile doesn’t leave his lips for the rest of the day, he can barely eat, he’s already full of happiness. He reads your words over and over before falling asleep, committing them to memory, dreaming about them, about you.

You. How should he respond to this? Are you even expecting a response? You seem to know he’s not impartial to you, either, although that’s an understatement. 

In the following days, the thought that you hadn’t meant to send him this letter nags at him. The abrupt ending, the absence of your usual Love, Y/N. The fact that this had come out of left field—none of your previous letters had even a romantic undertone, no matter how he tried in his own to hint at his missing you, the most reference to seeing each other again you would give him was It’ll be better to show you this in real life. The act of sending letters itself didn’t feel very platonic, but you never went there, so he didn’t, either. He had secretly yearned to have you this close all these years, he would never forgive himself if he ended up chasing you away now with his over-eagerness.

You had landed on something very real in your letter: I don’t think you liked that I didn’t like you and openly showed it, so used to being everyone’s favorite person you were. I remember how you showily tried to be nice to me after that, maybe you just wanted another friend, but I didn’t let you. He cursed his fifteen-year-old self, that idiot who couldn’t even speak to a girl no matter how much he wanted to, just because she was so pretty, he was afraid of saying something stupid and messing it up before it even had a chance to start.

On days when you’d had particularly nasty or petty arguments — it could get pretty bad, at the start, before you both started maturing and realized how ridiculous you were, especially with your classmates telling you to keep it classy — he’d stay up all night, wondering why you hated him so much in the first place, what on Earth he could’ve done to warrant such vitriol. Now, finally, he knew, and he could only resent the fact that no one had invented time machines yet, so he could nip his useless ego in the bud; so he could tell younger Jay not to take it personally, that you had your reasons for disliking him, that even if you hadn’t, the world won’t end if someone doesn’t like him like everyone usually does. 

Because, he hates to admit, that was what had done it for Jay. He couldn’t stand that someone — not just someone, but one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen, a girl he’d been hyping himself up to talk to every day, but never found the courage to — didn’t immediately fall for his charms. And not just that, but even showed just how much she disliked him. You looked him up-and-down with disdain, made disgusted faces at his jokes, rolled your eyes when he spoke up in class. It made him burn with anger, but he also weirdly enjoyed it—at least, you were paying attention to him. So, he amped it up. Talked louder, laughed louder, hovered around you. He even stole your erasers, wrote the date on which he’d taken them, kept them in a box on his desk that he looked at every time he studied at home. He aimed to beat you in every class you shared, even though neither of you cared that much about grades—the annoyed look on your face when he boasted about the two points he’d gotten over you was enough satisfaction.

All in all, he behaved like a child, and you reciprocated in like.

Until you didn’t.

It was a random Tuesday when something in your attitude towards him shifted. It wasn’t a complete 180, but he noticed everything about you, so even a slight change of your tone was obvious to him. You started using your nickname for him more often than his full name—he never told you, but of course he loved that you didn’t call him Jay like everyone else, that you had your own way of addressing him. It was a sign to him that the two of you had something special, even if it was on the opposite end of the spectrum of what he wanted with you.

He again spent sleepless nights wondering what had caused this change: was it something he had done, or something within you? It was a welcome change, that much was sure, but he was initially too confused to take it in stride. He’d long made peace with the fact that he’d never have you the way he really wanted, so he was fine with whatever this was—but now, you were changing, your interactions were tinged with something like shyness, the distance between you felt greater than ever. He tried to keep up his smart-ass appearances around you, but you only indulged in your old habits once in a while, as though you had grown tired of arguing with him, even of giving him the time of day.

So he resolved himself to adapting his behavior to yours. If you stared at him intently like his face was a puzzle you were trying to solve, he let you, rested his head on his palm and smiled as he stared back at you. Finally, he had an excuse to look at you without you threatening to punch him or saying a picture would last longer. He knew they did, he’d had to resort to scrolling through Sunoo’s and Kazuha’s Instagrams to find any photos of you. Yours was private and at the time, you would’ve probably cursed him out if he’d sent a follow request. If you seemed too annoyed or upset over something, he’d leave you alone, he’d do something nice to let you know you didn’t need to have your guards up at all times around him. If you seemed to silently call for a truce of hostilities, he easily complied.

Then, after a few weeks, your petty arguments resumed, but those too were different—if before they felt filled with real disdain and irritation, they now seemed to be a comfortable habit to fall back on, almost like a fun hobby. Those, too, Jay readily welcomed.

And so things changed in a direction Jay had never thought would one day be possible. You gave him no explanations, nor did he ask for any, and soon he stopped losing sleep over the why’s and the how’s and simply let himself enjoy the fact that you now had the semblance of a friendship, that he could compliment you and pass it off as amical teasing, that he could learn things about you like what you spent your weekends doing, what your relationship with your family was like, whether you were a dog or cat person, whether you wanted to visit his farm in Stardew Valley. 

Unsurprisingly, this only enhanced his already pathetically strong feelings for you. He worried over how to make sure this wasn’t some sort of 30-day friendship trial you had wanted to test out. He reveled in the fact that his top university of choice was the one you had already been accepted to. He now knew what it felt like to have you smile at him, smile because of him, and he never wanted again to live in a world where this was not a daily occurrence. 

He now sort of has an answer—your letter doesn’t make it very clear, it makes him think again that you really had not meant to send it, but you seem to have had a dream. A dream of him, 28-year-old him, to be precise, of your life together—he’s not sure. At this point in time, he doesn’t care much, either. Whether it was a dream or a real vision of the future that you had, all that matters is that it allowed you to see him in a new light, a light which he had hoped for years would one day appear to you, and it had changed things. And now, you liked him.

You said so yourself.

He’s at a loss for words. He can’t concentrate for long enough to put all his thoughts in order, he can’t make himself calm down and write his feelings down. He has to pack to go home, once he’s home, he’ll have to pack for university. But it’s only two weeks from now to the day you meet again, and it’ll be better to say what he wants to say in person, anyway.

Is it okay if I respond to your letter in person? I think I’ll be too busy these two coming weeks, he texts you.

And then those two weeks pass like two seconds and you’re there, a few meters away from him. All the speeches he’d prepared in his head, from grand declarations of love to laid-back admittances of Yeah, I like you too, you’re cool, I guess, they all vanish from his head. For fourteen days he’s been going through scenarios upon scenarios of your reunion, what you’d look like, what he’d say, how you’d react. But now that he can actually see you, now that he would just have to walk a few steps if he wanted to touch you, hug you, kiss you — hoping that was something you wanted to do — he freezes. He forgets how his body works, the part in his brain that’s meant to manage language ability fails him. HIs mom calls him over, urging him into his new dorm building, and all he can do is wave back at you like an idiot.

When finally he musters the courage to text you, what he hopes will be the day that starts your romantic relationship turns into the day Park Jongseong realizes how much of a loser he is. For the first hour, he can’t look at you, he can’t get through a sentence without stuttering out half of his words, he runs out of things to say in record time. All he can think of is how easy it’d be to grab one of your hands, hold it in his and walk around this stupid potted plant sale as if the two of you were two halves of a whole. He doesn’t even want a potted plant, his roommate already has five, he just wanted an excuse to see you. He steals glances at you when you’re looking elsewhere, and he notices everything about you tenfold now that he can, now that caring about you doesn’t need to be in vain any longer. He tells himself that he just needs to calm down a bit, even when you have the confirmation that the person you’re about to confess to already likes you, revealing your feelings to someone is always nerve-wracking, the two of you haven’t seen in each other in a while, he’ll talk to you once his heart gets out of his throat.

But you’re acting normal. Suspiciously so. You’re acting like you never told him you liked him, like nothing has changed between you. He rereads your letter the second he gets back to his dorm. He’s not crazy, it’s written right there, I like you, Jong. I think I have for a long time, longer than either of us thinks. He knows the words by heart now, but he checks them anyway. So why are you acting like you never said anything? Had you really not meant to send that letter? Did Jay actually intrude on your private thoughts by reading words that had never meant to be seen by another soul?

You continue to behave as you usually would around him, but if he couldn’t go back to vicious bickering when things changed the first time, he can’t go back to friendly bickering now that things — for him — have changed a second time. He doesn’t even want friendly to be in your shared vocabulary anymore. 

So he stops giving in. If you make fun of him, he just stands there with an unimpressed if amused look on his face. If you pedantically correct him on something, he just nods his head and accepts it. He can tell you’re bothered by it, but he needs to show you that he doesn’t want to go on being just friends with you—he wants to compliment you without having to pass it off as teasing, he wants to stare at you with hearts in his eyes without having to look away when you catch him, he wants to spend every waking second of every day with you, he wants to hold your hand, hold you. 

He could wait for things to change slowly again, but why wait when he could help things along?

--

It’s nine p.m. on a Saturday and you’re sneaking Jongseong into your dorm. Liz is away for the weekend, gone back home to celebrate her aunt’s birthday, so you have the room to yourselves. It took some convincing to get him to come — What if we get caught coming in, What if your T.A. sees us, What if I get reported to campus police — and so when your verbal reassurances failed to work, you resorted to blinking up at him through your lashes and that did the trick.

Jongseong was in many ways unlike any other man you’d ever met; in some other ways, he was the exact same.

Plastic bag of the tteokbokki you’d asked for in hand, he looks around the deserted hallways like someone might jump out of nowhere and beat him to a pulp at any given moment. At this time of the week, everyone’s out partying or holed up in their dorms, presumably either to rest or because of a lack of friends so early on in the semester. You grab his free hand and hurry him along to the elevator—once inside, it takes you a few seconds before you realize you’re still holding it, and you retract your hand quickly while he just smiles. 

You settle yourselves on the floor—comfort is not worth getting gochujang sauce on your white sheets. You sit criss-cross in front of each other, the food between the two of you, and catch up on your first week of class in-between bites of spicy, gooey rice cakes and fish cakes. You wonder, if one day you and Jongseong are no longer friends, how long you will keep associating tteokbokki with him.

When you tell him that you and Jake share a class, Introduction to Film Studies, he gives you a look. “What’s that face for?” you ask.

“Did you guys sit next to each other?”

You chuckle. “Of course. We only knew each other in that room, it would’ve been weird not to.”

He continues to stare at you. After a while, he muses, “You’re not…?”

You halt in your tracks, rice cake at the end of your plastic fork hanging in the air, halfway between the container and your mouth. “Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.” Still in love with him, interested in him again, you don’t know the exact details of Jongseong’s thought process, all you know is he has nothing to worry about—if it’s something he worries about.

When a smile slowly grows on his lips and he nods, saying, “Okay, good,” you let yourself think it might be.

Later, you’re ten minutes into a senseless blockbuster movie when he suddenly pauses it. It snaps you out of a trance—his hand was awfully close to yours, so is his shoulder, his thigh, his knee, everything, really, and you haven’t been able to concentrate on anything but the warmth radiating off his skin and the intensity with which you crave to feel it intentionally rather than accidentally. When he speaks, there’s something serious in his tone that makes you nervous. “Y/N,” he says as he turns to you, and now his face is awfully close, too. There’s still many centimeters separating you, but in this tiny, barely lit-up room, he feels closer than ever before. “Do you remember when I said I’d reply to your letter in real life?”

You tilt your head. “Yeah, that was ages ago.”

“Well, I thought I’d do it now.”

“Now?”

He takes a deep, shaky breath. “Now.”

And then those safe centimeters suddenly disappear, and Jongseong’s lips are on yours. It’s a brief, chaste kiss, so quick you wonder if it even happened when he leans back again.

“I like you, too,” he says, and your heart stops.

“W-what?” is all you can say back, eyes wide like he’s just admitted to killing someone rather than reciprocating your feelings.

His confident facade quickly crumbles. “God, this was so much cooler in my head, I-I’m sorry.” He pulls something out of his sweatpants pocket, pages folded over and over into a tiny square. As he unfolds them, you recognize your paper, your handwriting—but what do your letters have anything to do with him kissing you, of all things? “I don’t think you meant to send this. But I’m glad you did.”

He hands you the pages and your eyes skim over the words, not detecting anything out of the ordinary, until—But it got me thinking about your fight again. Reflecting on it now, I can say that it was a turning point for me in my perception of you. You remember this line, because you had made sure to strike it and everything that came afterward out when you rewrote the letter that you would actually send Jongseong. So how was he giving you this? 

“I-How do you have this?” you ask, voice trembling. You feel as though your heart overflows with all kinds of emotions, and so your eyes follow, tears staining your lower lashes. 

But Jongseong is not one to let you hide things from him. “Hey, no, it’s okay,” he says, warm hands coming to cup your face. “Look at me.” You have no choice but to oblige—his gaze is somehow both soft and stern, a mix of concern and determination. “Did you mean what you wrote in here?” You nod. “Then everything’s okay. You don’t know how happy I was reading this.”

The tension in your body slowly starts to fade. “Really?”

“Really. I cherish every single word in there.”

“Really?” you repeat, and he chuckles.

“Really.”

Your heartbeat speeds up as you gaze into his eyes, as you let yourself bask in the affection and endearment you find there. You can’t quite comprehend what’s happening. The letter, the kiss, his confession, your inadvertent confession, it’s all a mess in your head; so sudden, but such a long time coming at the same time. You never imagined that things would change so quickly—less than a year ago, you thought Jongseong was the most irritating person on this planet. After meeting his 28-year-old self, you thought it’d take ages for the two of you to be on such good terms. But now, just a week into your first semester of university, belly full of tteokbokki and Sprite, you like each other enough not only to be in the same room without hurling insults at each other but to actually be smiling at each other, willingly at that.

Your eyes drift down to his lips, just like in the hallway all those months ago, and the words slip out before you can stop them. They’re a mere whisper—”Kiss me again.”

Jongseong doesn’t need to be told twice. Still cupping your face, he bridges the gap between the two of you again, and this time, when your lips meet, they don’t come apart so quickly. It’s your first kiss, and it’s nothing short of magical, better than any romance novel could’ve prepared you for. His lips are warm and soft against yours, moving slowly, gingerly; as if he’s scared to take any wrong step, he lets you control the pace, follows every tilt of your head this way and that. It’s a relief that he seems to know as little about this as you do—his hands haven’t moved from your face, yours are on his knees, all you can do is focus on the movement of your lips, to think of anything else at the same time would be overwhelming. 

“I’ve liked you from the start,” he suddenly says, face still so close you can feel his breath on your lips as he speaks. 

“Hm?” you hum, body reeling from the kiss.

“I’ve liked you from the start,” he repeats, grinning—he looks relieved, like he’s been waiting to say these words for a long time. “I can’t believe this is happening after all these years. Or at all, really.”

“I think I did, too.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that in your letter.”

Your eyes widen and you bury your face in your hands as Jongseong laughs. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” you mumble.

He smooths over your hair with one hand, brings your face back up with the other. “Don’t worry. I won’t ever make you regret this.”

Your brain and heart are too all over the place for you to come up with a coherent answer, so you lean in and reconnect your lips to his. It’s already becoming your favorite sensation, feeling him smile into the kiss, threading your fingers in his soft hair.

Time passes delicately like this, the two of you on your single bed, in the sheets that you bought three weeks ago. A lot of it is spent kissing and learning how to fall into each other’s rhythm, but you also spend hours talking, comparing situations and how you’d experienced them. You thought his occasional acts of kindness were done out of guilt, evidence that he did have some morals; he was trying to show he cared about you. He thought you’d despised him from the moment you saw him; you reiterate in more detail than your letter what really happened, you say you wish you knew then what you know now. 

“But I never hated you, Jong. I think I wanted to believe that I did, but I never actually did.”

“You glared at me everytime I walked past like I killed a member of your family.”

You groan, ashamed of yourself. “I did, didn’t I?”

“You did,” he says, chuckling, placing a kiss on your forehead. His arms are around you, your head rests atop his heart—you’ve never felt more comfortable in your life. “But it’s okay. We’re here now, and I don’t want us to have any regrets about high school. We had a good time, didn’t we?”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “I’m sure you did, stealing all my erasers.”

He lets out a hearty laugh. Clearly, he’s very proud of his feat. “Hey, I gave all of them back.”

“And what am I going to do with a hundred erasers, Jong?” you ask, laughing too, pecking his cheek aggressively—your way of punishing him for a grave deed.

“Keep them as a token of my love for you,” he says, and your breath falters at the mention of that word. “In fifty years, it’ll be a sign that I’ve liked you since the beginning, I just had a funny way of showing it.”

“Fifty years, huh?”

He grins. “Fifty, a hundred, whatever. You’re not getting rid of me.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

You’re both smiling so wide, you can barely manage a kiss. He trails kisses from your lips to your ear. Holding you close, he whispers, “It’s always been you, Y/N. Always and only you.”

There may be thorns on the otherwise immaculate rose that is your life, but Park Jongseong was never one of them—all along, he was a bud waiting to bloom.

--

The more time passes, the more you wonder whether that night you had seen in your vision will ever come. There’s been evenings similar to it—crashing the minute you came home from a long day on set, telling yourself you’d take a fifteen-minute power nap only to wake up three hours later and coming downstairs to find your husband cooking dinner, cleaning the kitchen, taking care of your son or simply watching TV, but waiting for you, always waiting for you. He seems as happy now watching you come down the stairs as he was then finding your face among all the students flocking out of lecture halls. 

The details are blurry now, but many small things seem to be different from what you’d seen. He still tries to recreate your favorite meal, but it’s not pasta all'arrabbiata, it’s laksa, because your first date as an official couple was to a Malaysian restaurant, not an Italian one. He’s still the best father you know, but you have one son, not twin girls—although that offer to “give him a younger sibling to play with” is always on the table. Even the house you live in is different from the one in your dream, which has now become nothing more than a funny anecdote you share with people when they ask you the story of how you and Jongseong met.

You think of Sunoo’s words from all those years ago: Sometimes, we want something so badly, we conjure it up for ourselves. Had 18-year-old you been in such denial over her feelings for Jongseong that she’d had to convince herself a magical well had bestowed a crazy dream upon her to admit that, yes, there was something there, something other than childish hatred?

It doesn’t matter anymore. Months pass without you thinking about that well, anyway. 

Tonight, you come home late from work after having had to do last-minute changes to the script for your current project, a movie that starts shooting in a few days. Jongseong texted you that he was going to bed an hour or so again, so you’re greeted by a plate of japchae covered in film paper. The post-it note stuck to it reads, I’m afraid of the repercussions of too much curry consumption on our son, so no laksa tonight my love. Hope you like it. Come to bed quick. You were starving a second ago, but you decide food can wait—other things can’t.

You tiptoe up the stairs and into your son’s room, breathing in the scent of his hair and placing a kiss there. His hair is still worryingly sparse, but if he’s anything like his dad, it’ll come in a bit later than the other kids. You always thought babies with a full head of hair were freaky, anyway. He doesn’t budge a bit, sleeping like a log—his dad is another story, shuffling in bed the moment you step into your shared bedroom. He opens his arms wide, a silent invitation.

“You’re home,” he says as you attach yourself to his body, your leg hiked up over his, your face buried in the crook of his neck, your thumb caressing the start of stubble on his cheeks.

You smile. “I am.”

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[caratchronicles]

oh this was definitely my favorite story of yours like i love the fmc, she's i think similar to me and i just love her. and jay omg he's such a sweetheart gentleman i love him. this story was wonderful thank u so much for writing

[caratchronicles]

highkey wanna participate in another collab!!